“We have come with letters to your father, Monsieur de Saint-Gré, Mademoiselle,” I said, “and I should like very much to see him, if he is at leisure.”
Mademoiselle stared at me in unfeigned astonishment.
“But did you not meet him, Monsieur?” she demanded. “He left an hour ago for New Orleans. You must have met a gentleman riding very fast.”
It was my turn to be astonished.
“But that was not your father!” I exclaimed.
“Et pourquoi non?” she said.
“Is not your father the stout gentleman whom I saw with you on the levee last evening?” I asked.
She laughed.
“You have been observing, Monsieur,” she said. “That was my uncle, Monsieur de Beauséjour. You saw me quarrelling with my brother, Auguste,” she went on a little excitedly. “Oh, I am very much ashamed of it. I was so angry. My cousin, Mademoiselle Hélène de Saint-Gré, has just sent me from France such a beautiful miniature, and Auguste fell in love with it.”
“Fell in love with it!” I exclaimed involuntarily.