“Ah,” said he, “'tis no use tryin' hide from you. However, Monsieur Reetchie, you are the ver' soul of honor. And then your frien'! I know you not betray the Sieur de St. Gré. He is ver' fon' of you.”
“Betray!” I exclaimed; “there is no question of betrayal. As far as I can see, your plans are carried on openly, with a fine contempt for the Federal government.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“'Tis not my doin',” he said, “but I am—what you call it?—a cipher. Sicrecy is what I believe. But drink too much, talk too much—is it not so, Monsieur? And if Monsieur le Baron de Carondelet, ze governor, hear they are in New Orleans, I think they go to Havana or Brazil.” He smiled, but perhaps the expression of my face caused him to sober abruptly. “It is necessair for the cause. We must have good Revolution in Louisiane.”
A suspicion of this man came over me, for a childlike simplicity characterized the other ringleaders in this expedition. Clark had had acumen once, and lost it; St. Gré was a fool; Nick Temple was leading purposely a reckless life; the Citizens Sullivan and Depeau had, to say the least, a limited knowledge of affairs. All of these were responding more or less sincerely to the cry of the people of Kentucky (every day more passionate) that something be done about Louisiana. But Gignoux seemed of a different feather. Moreover, he had been too shrewd to deny what Colonel Clark would have denied in a soberer moment,—that St. Gré and Nick had gone to New Orleans.
“You not spik, Monsieur. You not think they have success. You are not Federalist, no, for I hear you march las' night with your frien',—I hear you wave torch.”
“You make it your business to hear a great deal, Monsieur Gignoux,” I retorted, my temper slipping a little.
He hastened to apologize.
“Mille pardons, Monsieur,” he said; “I see you are Federalist—but drunk. Is it not so? Monsieur, you tink this ver' silly thing—this expedition.”
“Whatever I think, Monsieur,” I answered, “I am a friend of General Clark's.”