“No more he is, Monsieur le Baron,” said the Vicomtesse, “for he speaks the truth.”
His Excellency looked blank. As for me, I held my breath, wondering what coup Madame was meditating.
“Mr. Ritchie brought down from Kentucky a miniature of me by Boze, that was painted in a costume I once wore at Chantilly.”
“Comment! diable,” exclaimed the Baron. “And how did such a thing get into Kentucky, Madame?”
“You have brought me to the point,” she replied, “which is no small triumph for your Excellency. Mr. Ritchie bought the miniature from that most estimable of my relations, Monsieur Auguste de St. Gré.”
The Baron sat down and began to fan himself. He even grew a little purple. He looked at Madame, sputtered, and I began to think that, if he didn't relieve himself, his head might blow off. As for the Vicomtesse, she wore an ingenuous air of detachment, and seemed supremely unconscious of the volcano by her side.
“So, Madame,” cried the Governor at length, after I know not what repressions, “you have come here in behalf of that—of Auguste de St. Gré!”
“So far as I am concerned, Monsieur,” answered the Vicomtesse, calmly, “you may hang Auguste, put him in prison, drown him, or do anything you like with him.”
“God help me,” said the poor man, searching for his handkerchief, and utterly confounded, “why is it you have come to me, then? Why did you wake me up?” he added, so far forgetting himself.
“I came in behalf of the gentleman who had the indiscretion to accompany Auguste to Louisiana,” she continued, “in behalf of Mr. Nicholas Temple, who is a cousin of Mr. Ritchie.”