"By sports like these are all their cares beguiled."

I woke the next morning with a feeling of elation that for a moment I did not understand; then I recognized that it was a feeling that mademoiselle and I would never again be on any but the friendliest of terms. No more fear of merry scoffing or haughty disdain! I had a right to look now for only kindness and friendliness.

But I did not know mademoiselle. The morning was bleak; a fine drizzle of rain, freezing as it fell, was hanging jeweled pendants from every twig and branch. I went down-stairs, to find that morning coffee was being served in the living-room, on a small table drawn up before a blazing fire of logs. Mademoiselle, who did not often come to early coffee, was serving it, in a warm-looking gown of some wool stuff, deep red in color, and I thought it suited well her dark beauty and the bleak morning. I stopped at the threshold to make my low bow, and then went forward, expecting a less formal greeting. But she only looked up from the silver urn, whence she was drawing a cup of coffee for the captain, long enough to say, "Good morning, monsieur," in her iciest tones, and then went on talking gaily to the captain of the ball the night before. I did not understand at all, but I thought it quite possible I had imagined her coldness; and so, without seeming to push myself unduly, I sought to join in the conversation when opportunity offered. I think the captain seconded my efforts out of the courtesy natural to him; but mademoiselle made it so plain that she desired to ignore me that I soon took my cup and withdrew to a corner of the fireplace. I hope I did not do anything so boyish as to sulk there, but of that I am not sure.

When the good doctor came bustling in from his laboratory a few minutes later, half frozen, but burning with enthusiasm over some experiments he was making with quicksilver, he brought his coffee to my warm corner, and I at once simulated the deepest interest in his account of his morning's work—though I confess I have never taken any great interest in science, and from what he seemed to expect the quicksilver to do I did not feel altogether sure that he was not, in truth, dabbling in black art.

There was a long mirror at the other end of the room—one that Madame Saugrain had brought from France, and the pride of her heart. As we talked I could glance in it and see mademoiselle perfectly without seeming to look at her. I observed that she grew more and more distrait, only half listening to the captain, and very evidently trying to overhear our conversation. I had not known that mademoiselle was so interested in science, and I began to make deep and learned speeches (or, at least, I hoped they sounded so) on quicksilver and on every subject allied to it. I did not hesitate to make some remarkable statements, for whose truth I modestly said I could not vouch. The doctor was too courteous to show the surprise I think he must have felt at some of them, but if I had not been so interested in my investigations in the mirror (which, I am sure, is closely allied to quicksilver) I would have noticed without doubt that knowing twinkle of the eye that I had seen at least twice before. My glances in the mirror, however, showed me that my learned speeches had produced their intended effect on mademoiselle, at least, and once more I caught that wondering glance fixed upon me.

I did not see mademoiselle again until the evening supper-hour. After breakfast Dr. Saugrain invited the captain and me to ride with him up to Pierre Chouteau's, and on the ride he told us that mademoiselle had come to him that morning in the laboratory and had told him all about the chevalier. I was much touched that she had acted upon my advice so promptly, and half forgave her for her treatment of me at coffee, though I understood it the less. The doctor did not say so directly, but I judged from one or two little remarks that he and Pelagie had had a thorough clearing up of all their misunderstandings and were once more on the old confidential terms. He spoke especially of her "sweetness," and said his advice had been, like mine, to write the chevalier at once a firm refusal. But the good doctor was greatly troubled.

"I shall never feel quite secure again," he said, "till I have Pelagie safe with her friends in France; so I shall seek the first opportunity of sending her there. 'Tis for that I am going to consult Pierre Chouteau, and I thought you might have some suggestion, one or both of you, as to how to find an escort for her."

I was so eager with my plan that had flashed on me the night before that I could not wait to show the proper courtesy to my captain. He certainly had a right to speak first, but I broke forth, "I have a plan, sir—" and then was abashed and stopped short.

The doctor understood, and nodded to me.

"Yes; let the captain speak first, and then we will hear your plan."

"Nay," said the captain, with his friendliest smile; "let the lad speak. He has a plan that seems to me not wholly unpracticable and may prove the very thing."

Thus encouraged, I rushed ahead:

"I have been talking to Captain Clarke about it, sir, and he thinks it can be done. My last letter from home said that Colonel Livingston was about to join his father in Paris. My family know Colonel Livingston well, and a letter from my father would insure the protection of both Colonel and Mrs. Livingston for mademoiselle on the voyage."

But the good doctor shook his head.

"I could never get Pelagie to New York, I fear; to both Madame Saugrain and myself, such a journey seems an almost impossible undertaking."

"But Captain Clarke has that all arranged," I cried.

The doctor looked at the captain, who answered, smiling:

"It is my good Achates who has arranged it, but I heartily approve of his plans. It is time we were getting back to Kentucky, and he proposes that we take mademoiselle with us to my sister, Mrs. O'Fallon. There she can stay until we can find a suitable escort up the Ohio to Port Duquesne, and across the mountains to New York. There are boats going up the river every week, and always some one going back to the old home to whom we could intrust mademoiselle. I think it a good and feasible plan."

But we had quite reached Pierre Chouteau's before we had persuaded the doctor that our plan was at all a practical one. Not, as he assured us, that he could not trust mademoiselle with us, but the difficulties, dangers, and inconveniences of such a trip, for a young maiden with no woman in the party but her colored maid, seemed to him almost insurmountable. However, he was so nearly convinced by my eloquence and the captain's logic that just as we were turning in at Mr. Chouteau's he said:

"Well, well, my dear friends, it may be possible. We will see! I must take time to consult Madame Saugrain, and, until then, not a word to mademoiselle, I beg of you both."

We both readily promised, though I was so elated at what I considered the already assured success of my plan that I might have found it difficult not to speak to mademoiselle about it if she had not been in the same icy mood to me at supper (though sweet and most charming to the captain and her guardian) as she had been at breakfast.

The next day Dr. Saugrain told us that he and his wife had talked far into the night about Pelagie, and they had come to the conclusion that our plan was the best solution of the difficulties. He said madame had wept much at the thought of parting with Pelagie, and of all the difficulties and dangers she must encounter, before she could become reconciled to the thought of it; but now she was quite resigned, and had already begun to plan what clothes and other conveniences it would be necessary for Pelagie to take with her, and how they could best be got ready.

"And, after the manner of women," the doctor said, "from the moment she began to think about clothes, she began to grow cheerful. And she has such confidence in Clotilde, who will go with her, and who has had entire charge of her since her babyhood, that she thinks she will be as well taken care of as if she were with her herself. But we both think," he added, "that it will be wiser to say nothing to Pelagie about it until it is almost time to make the start. If, for any reason, our plan should fail, her mind will not be unsettled by it, and she will be no worse off than if we had not thought of it. Moreover, the fewer we take into our confidence the better, for I am assured the chevalier has spies and secret emissaries that we do not suspect. We will give him no chance to thwart our plans!"

The good doctor spoke the last words so grimly that it was easy to understand in what esteem he held the villain, and both the captain and I heartily approved his precaution.

There followed busy days for me. The captain, who was much engaged in settling up the business for his brother which had brought him to St. Louis, had little time for aught else, though Governor Delassus, the Chouteaus, and Mr. Gratiot made many demands upon him for counsel and for social festivities, in which last I was courteously included. When these fell upon the evening I was very ready to join in them, but my days were more than full. All the arrangements for mademoiselle's comfort on the boat my captain had intrusted to me, and I was determined that nothing should be left undone to make her voyage on the Great River as comfortable as possible. The cabin, a rough affair at its best, was partitioned into two, and the larger one made as clean as six blacks scrubbing hard on hands and knees could make it. Then I got from Pierre Chouteau a small stove such as he often used on his boat in winter trips up the Missouri, and set it up in the cabin, cutting a hole in the roof to give egress to the stovepipe. From Madame Saugrain I got some strips of warm, bright carpet and some clean warm bedding, and I set Yorke to work, under my careful supervision, to make the two beds for mademoiselle and her maid, to tack down the strips of carpet, to put up some white ruffled curtains (also Madame Saugrain's gift) at the square bit of window, and to polish up the brass handles of the portable locker that was to hold mademoiselle's wardrobe. I thought, when all was done,—the small table covered with a white cloth, and two shining candlesticks on it, and the three comfortable chairs arranged about it,—I thought it cozy and complete enough for a trip to France; and my heart beat high when I thought of the tÊte-À-tÊtes with mademoiselle that must almost necessarily fall to my lot on a voyage of at least a week. But, in the meantime, I was seeing very little of her, between being busy all day and often invited out in the evening—and not getting much satisfaction when I did; for either she was incased in her icy hauteur, or, if she chanced to be kind, I was so brimming over with my secret, so afraid I should let it slip, I was unnaturally constrained with her.

Before I knew it the Jour de l'An was upon us, and the doctor and the captain had both agreed it would be wise to set out on the day before the Jour des Rois. On no account would it do to risk remaining over the Jour des Rois, lest the chevalier should accomplish his purpose in spite of mademoiselle's letter of refusal.

Now, as its name signifies, the Jour de l'An is the greatest of all days to these St. Louis Frenchmen. Preparations had been making for it all the week. The governor himself was to give a grand ball at Government House, and I had heard mademoiselle telling Captain Clarke, as we sat at supper on New Year's eve, how that would be only the beginning of a round of festivities, and that Marguerite Papin, Pelagie Chouteau, and she had been making the bean-cake that afternoon.

"And what is the bean-cake, pray, Mademoiselle?" I inquired, determined to take matters into my own hands and be no longer shut out from conversation as if I were infected.

Mademoiselle looked up in surprise at my audacity, and for a moment was of half a mind not to reply to me; but she thought better of it, and answered coolly and formally:

"'Tis a cake, Monsieur, with four beans baked in it. It will be cut to-morrow night at the governor's ball, and the four maidens who receive the slices with the beans will be the queens of the ball. They will choose four kings, who will then be obliged to get up the ball for the Jour des Rois, and at that these four kings will choose four queens, who will choose four other kings, who must give the next ball. 'Tis an endless chain of balls till Shrove Tuesday arrives, to finish it all up with one grand carnival ball; and so you see, sir, if you stay in St. Louis I can promise you a merry winter."

I almost laughed as I thought how little she dreamed that she would not be here herself. Yet the prospect sounded alluring, and I could have been well pleased to spend the winter in the gay little village, if the fates had ordained. I answered her to that effect, and then I added:

"If you could but give me any hope that I should be chosen a king, I might take fate into my own hands and stay anyway."

"There is much ground for hope, sir," she answered demurely, "since both Pelagie Chouteau and Marguerite Papin are almost certain to be queens."

Then, with a quick beat of the heart, I thought perhaps she had not liked it that they had been friendly and I had been polite. If her manner to me could be so accounted for I was well content, for at least it did not argue indifference.

But before I could reply there was a great noise, outside on the gallery, of shuffling feet and smothered whispers, and mademoiselle clapped her hands and cried:

"La GuignolÉe!" And at the same moment there arose, to the quaintest air, a chorus of men's voices:

Horrified at these last words of the song, I scarcely dared glance at mademoiselle; but when I did dare, to my amazement, she was smiling good-humoredly, and I saw the words meant nothing to her. But the chorus was interrupted at that moment by a single voice which I recognized at once as Josef Papin's, singing a ditty about doves and cuckoos and nightingales, and winding up by declaring that he was dying for the soft eyes of his mistress. I saw that mademoiselle recognized the voice, too, and I was vexed to see the bright color and downcast eyes that betokened she understood these words perfectly.

But the chorus began again immediately:

(I thought this apology most becoming.)

And then the doors were flung open, and there burst in upon us a motley crew of grotesque and hideous masks, each one bearing a basket or bucket or sack, and all singing and shouting in every key and in no time:

Madame Saugrain and mademoiselle sprang up from the table and ran to the kitchen, returning with both hands full, and followed by a procession of servants bringing eggs and sugar and butter and flour and poultry and wine—a goodly donation indeed for the Jour des Rois ball, and for which the maskers showed their thanks by dancing la guenille, a truly Saturnalian performance, somewhat shocking to my Eastern notions of propriety. But evidently neither the doctor nor his wife nor mademoiselle saw any harm in it, for they applauded it greatly, after the French fashion, by clapping of hands and crying "Encore!"

Yorke had come in with the other servants from the kitchen, and it was a sight to see his great eyes rolling in ecstasy and his white teeth displayed from ear to ear as he watched the mummers, and I was not surprised to see him follow them like one bewitched as they went up toward the Rue des Granges to Paschal CerrÉ's house, singing:

"You will be having Yorke dancing la guenille," I said to the captain, "when he gets back to Kentucky."

"An he does," answered the captain, with a grim smile, "I will bastinado him." For I think the captain did not like some of the figures of la guenille any better than did I.