“An enemy of ze cause?” he put in.
“Monsieur,” I said, “if President Washington and General Wayne do not think it worth while to interfere with your plans, neither do I.”
I left him abruptly, and went back to my long-delayed affairs with a heavy heart. The more I thought, the more criminally foolish Nick's journey seemed to me. However puerile the undertaking, De Lemos at Natchez and Carondelet at New Orleans had not the reputation of sleeping at their posts, and their hatred for Americans was well known. I sought General Clark, but he had gone to Knob Licks, and in my anxiety I lay awake at night, tossing in my bed.
One evening, perhaps four days after Nick's departure, I went into the common room of the tavern, and there I was surprised to see an old friend. His square, saffron face was just the same, his little jet eyes snapped as brightly as ever, his hair—which was swept high above his forehead and tied in an eelskin behind—was as black as when I had seen it at Kaskaskia. I had met Monsieur Vigo many times since, for he was a familiar figure amongst the towns of the Ohio and the Mississippi, and from Vincennes to Anse à la Graisse, and even to New Orleans. His reputation as a financier was greater than ever. He was talking to my friend, Mr. Marshall, but he rose when he saw me, with a beaming smile.
“Ha, it is Davy,” he cried, “but not the sem lil drummer boy who would not come into my store. Reech lawyer now,—I hear you make much money now, Davy.”
“Congress money?” I said.
Monsieur Vigo threw out his hands, and laughed exactly as he had done in his log store at Kaskaskia.
“Congress have never repay me one sou,” said Monsieur Vigo, making a face. “I have try—I have talk—I have represent—it is no good. Davy, it is your fault. You tell me tek dat money. You call dat finance?”
“David,” said Mr. Marshall, sharply, “what the devil is this I hear of your carrying a torch in a Jacobin procession?”
“You may put it down to liquor, Mr. Marshall,” I answered.