“Yaas, I run away. That was the mont' of August, 1789, and we have not then heard in New Orleans that the Bastille is attack. I lan' at La Havre,—it is the en' of Septembre. I go to the Château de St. Gré—great iron gates, long avenue of poplar,—big house all 'round a court, and Monsieur le Marquis is at Versailles. I borrow three louis from the concierge, and I go to Versailles to the hotel of Monsieur le Marquis. There is all dat trouble what you read about going on, and Monsieur le Marquis he not so glad to see me for dat risson. 'Mon cher Auguste,' he cry, 'you want to be officier in gardes du corps? You are not afred?'” (Auguste stiffened.) “'I am a St. Gré, Monsieur le Marquis. I am afred of nothings,' I answered. He tek me to the King, I am made lieutenant, the mob come and the King and Queen are carry off to Paris. The King is prisoner, Monsieur le Marquis goes back to the Château de St. Gré. France is a republic. Monsieur—que voulez-vous?” (The Sieur de St. Gré shrugged his shoulders.) “I, too, become Republican. I become officier in the National Guard,—one must move with the time. Is it not so, Monsieur? I deman' of you if you ever expec' to see a St. Gré a Republican.”
I expressed my astonishment.
“I give up my right, my principle, my family. I come to America—I go to New Orleans where I have influence and I stir up revolution for France, for Liberty. Is it not noble cause?”
I had it on the tip of my tongue to ask Monsieur Auguste why he left France, but the uselessness of it was apparent.
“You see, Monsieur, I am justify before you, before my frien's,—that is all I care,” and he gave another shrug in defiance of the world at large. “What I have done, I have done for principle. If I remain Royalist, I might have marry my cousin, Mademoiselle de St. Gré. Ha, Monsieur, you remember—the miniature you were so kin' as to borrow me four hundred livres?”
“I remember,” I said.
“It is because I have much confidence in you, Monsieur,” he said, “it is because I go—peut-être—to dangere, to death, that I come here and ask you to do me a favor.”
“You honor me too much, Monsieur,” I answered, though I could scarce refrain from smiling.
"It is because of your charactair," Monsieur Auguste was good enough to say. "You are to be repose' in, you are to be rely on. Sometime I think you ver' ole man. And this is why, and sence you laik objects of art, that I bring this and ask you keep it while I am in dangere."
I was mystified. He thrust his hand into his coat and drew forth an oval object wrapped in dirty paper, and then disclosed to my astonished eyes the miniature of Mademoiselle de St. Gré,—the miniature, I say, for the gold back and setting were lacking. Auguste had retained only the ivory,—whether from sentiment or necessity I will not venture. The sight of it gave me a strange sensation, and I can scarcely write of the anger and disgust which surged over me, of the longing to snatch it from his trembling fingers. Suddenly I forgot Auguste in the lady herself. There was something emblematical in the misfortune which had bereft the picture of its setting. Even so the Revolution had taken from her a brilliant life, a king and queen, home and friends. Yet the spirit remained unquenchable, set above its mean surroundings,—ay, and untouched by them. I was filled with a painful curiosity to know what had become of her, which I repressed. Auguste's voice aroused me.