“You found it? Where? How, Monsieur?”
“At Madame Bouvet's, the house where we stayed.”
“Oh,” she said with a sigh of relief, “he must have dropped it. It is there where he meets his associates, where they talk of the French Louisiane.”
Again I felt Nick pinching me, and I gave a sigh of relief. Mademoiselle was about to continue, but I interrupted her.
“How long will your father be in New Orleans, Mademoiselle?” I asked.
“Until he finds Auguste,” she answered. “It may be days, but he will stay, for he is very angry. But will you not come into the house, Messieurs, and be presented to my mother?” she asked. “I have been very—inhospitable,” she added with a glance at Nick.
We followed her through winding paths bordered by shrubs and flowers, and presently came to a low house surrounded by a wide, cool gallery, and shaded by spreading trees. Behind it were clustered the kitchens and quarters of the house servants. Mademoiselle, picking up her dress, ran up the steps ahead of us and turned to the left in the hall into a darkened parlor. The floor was bare, save for a few mats, and in the corner was a massive escritoire of mahogany with carved feet, and there were tables and chairs of a like pattern. It was a room of more distinction than I had seen since I had been in Charlestown, and reflected the solidity of its owners.
“If you will be so kind as to wait here, Messieurs,” said Mademoiselle, “I will call my mother.”
And she left us.
I sat down, rather uncomfortably, but Nick took a stand and stood staring down at me with folded arms.