“How is it I can thank you, Monsieur!” he exclaimed in a whisper.
“By saying nothing, Monsieur,” I answered.
“You are noble, you are generous, and—and one day I will give you the money back,” he added with a burst of magniloquence. “You have behave very well, Monsieur, and I mek you my friend. Behol' Auguste de St. Gré, entirely at your service, Monsieur.” He made a sweeping bow that might have been impressive save for the nightrail, and sought my hand, which he grasped in a fold of the mosquito bar.
“I am overcome, Monsieur,” I said.
“Monsieur Reetchie, you are my friend, my intimate” (he put an aspirate on the word). “I go to tell you one leetle secret. I find that I can repose confidence in you. My father does not understan' me, you saw, Monsieur, he does not appreciate—that is the Engleesh. Mon Dieu, you saw it this night. I, who spik to you, am made for a courtier, a noble. I have the gift. La Louisiane—she is not so big enough for me.” He lowered his voice still further, and bent nearer to me. “Monsieur, I run away to France. My cousin the Marquis will help me. You will hear of Auguste de St. Gré at Versailles, at Trianon, at Chantilly, and peut-être—”
“It is a worthy campaign, Monsieur,” I interrupted.
A distant sound broke the stillness, and Auguste was near to dropping the candle on me.
“Adieu, Monsieur,” he whispered; “milles tonneres, I have done one extraordinaire foolish thing when I am come to this house to-night.”
And he disappeared, shading his candle, as he had come.