``To be sure,'' said he.``Au revoir, Monsieur.Au revoir, Mademoiselle.Plus tard, Mademoiselle; nous danserons plus tard.''
``What devil inhabits you?'' I said, when I had got him started on the way to Madame Chouteau's.
``Your own, at present, Davy,'' he answered, laying a hand on my shoulder, ``else I should be on the way to the pon' with Lenoir.But the ball is to come,'' and he executed several steps in anticipation.``Davy, I am sorry for you.''
``Why?'' I demanded, though feeling a little self-commiseration also.
``You will never know how to enjoy yourself,'' said he, with conviction.
Madame Chouteau lived in a stone house, wide and low, surrounded by trees and gardens.It was a pretty tribute of respect her children and grandchildren paid her that day, in accordance with the old French usage of honoring the parent.I should like to linger on the scene, and tell how Nick made them all laugh over the story of Suzanne Lenoir and the yellow birds, and how the children pressed around him and made him imitate all the denizens of wood and field, amid deafening shrieks of delight.
``You have probably delayed Gaspard's wooing another year, Mr.Temple.Suzanne is a sad coquette,'' said Colonel Auguste Chouteau, laughing, as we set out for the ball.
The sun was hanging low over the western hills as we approached the barracks, and out of the open windows came the merry, mad sounds of violin, guitar, and flageolet, the tinkle of a triangle now and then, the shouts of laughter, the shuffle of many feet over the puncheons.
Within the door, smiling and benignant, unmindful of the stifling atmosphere, sat the black-robed village priest talking volubly to an elderly man in a scarlet cap, and several stout ladies ranged along the wall: beyond them, on a platform, Zeron, the baker, fiddled as though his life depended on it, the perspiration dripping from his brow, frowning, gesticulating at them with the flageolet and the triangle.And in a dim, noisy, heated whirl the whole village went round and round and round under the low ceiling in the valse, young and old, rich and poor, high and low, the sound of their laughter and the scraping of their feet cut now and again by an agonized squeak from Zeron's fiddle.From time to time a staggering, panting couple would fling themselves out, help themselves liberally to pink sirop from the bowl on the side table, and then fling themselves in once more, until Zeron stopped from sheer exhaustion, to tune up for a pas de deux.
Across the room, by the sirop bowl, a pair of red ribbons flaunted, a pair of eyes sent a swift challenge, Zeron and his assistants struck up again, and there in a corner was Nick Temple, with characteristic effrontery attempting a pas de deux with Suzanne.Though Nick was ignorant, he was not ungraceful, and the village laughed and admired.
And when Zeron drifted back into a valse he seized Suzanne's plump figure in his arms and bore her, unresisting, like a prize among the dancers, avoiding alike the fat and unwieldy, the clumsy and the spiteful.For a while the tune held its mad pace, and ended with a shriek and a snap on a high note, for Zeron had broken a string.Amid a burst of laughter from the far end of the room I saw Nick stop before an open window in which a prying Indian was framed, swing Suzanne at arm's length, and bow abruptly at the brave with a grunt that startled him into life.
``Va-t'en, mechant!'' shrieked Suzanne, excitedly.
Poor Gaspard! Poor Hippolyte! They would gain Suzanne for a dance only to have her snatched away at the next by the slim and reckless young gentleman in the gray court clothes.Little Nick cared that the affair soon became the amusement of the company.From time to time, as he glided past with Suzanne on his shoulder, he nodded gayly to Colonel Chouteau or made a long face at me, and to save our souls we could not help laughing.
``The girl has met her match, for she has played shuttle-cock with all the hearts in the village,'' said Monsieur Chouteau.``But perhaps it is just as well that Mr.Temple is leaving to-night.I have signed a bon, Mr.Ritchie, by which you can obtain money at New Orleans.And do not forget to present our letter to Monsieur de Saint Gre.
He has a daughter, by the way, who will be more of a match for your friend's fascinations than Suzanne.''
The evening faded into twilight, with no signs of weariness from the dancers.And presently there stood beside us Jean Baptiste Lenoir, the Colonel's miller.
``B'soir, Monsieur le Colonel,'' he said, touching his skull-cap, ``the water is very low.You fren','' he added, turning to me, ``he stay long time in St.Louis?''
``He is going away to-night,--in an hour or so,'' Ianswered, with thanksgiving in my heart.
``I am sorry,'' said Monsieur Lenoir, politely, but his looks belied his words.``He is ver' fond Suzanne.Peut etre he marry her, but I think not.I come away from France to escape the fine gentlemen; long time ago they want to run off with my wife.She was like Suzanne.''
``How long ago did you come from France, Monsieur?''
I asked, to get away from an uncomfortable subject.
``It is twenty years,'' said he, dreamily, in French.``Iwas born in the Quartier Saint Jean, on the harbor of the city of Marseilles near Notre Dame de la Nativite.'' And he told of a tall, uneven house of four stories, with a high pitched roof, and a little barred door and window at the bottom giving out upon the rough cobbles.He spoke of the smell of the sea, of the rollicking sailors who surged through the narrow street to embark on his Majesty's men-of-war, and of the King's white soldiers in ranks of four going to foreign lands.And how he had become a farmer, the tenant of a country family.Excitement grew on him, and he mopped his brow with his blue rumal handkerchief.