Майн Рид
The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales
Story 2, Chapter V
Monsieur Luis De Hauteroche
Following the directions, which I had taken from the hotel-porter, I kept down Saint Charles Street, and crossing the Canal, I entered the Rue Royale into the French quarter or “municipality.”
I was informed that by keeping along the Rue Royale for a half-mile or so, I should find the Rue Dauphin leading out of it; and I had, therefore, nothing more to do than to walk directly onward, and look out for the names upon the corners of the streets.
Though it was daylight, the lamps were still faintly glimmering, their nightly allowance of oil not being quite exhausted. The shops and warehouses were yet closed; though here and there might be seen a cabaret or café, that had opened its trap-like doors to catch the early birds – small traders on their way to the great vegetable market – cotton-rollers in sky-blue linen inexpressibles, with their shining steel hooks laid jauntily along their hips; now and then a citizen – clerk or shopkeeper – hurrying along to his place of business. Only those of very early habits were abroad.
I had proceeded down the Rue Royale about a quarter of a mile, and was beginning to look out for the lettering on the corners of the cross streets, when my attention was drawn to an individual coming in the opposite direction. Though he was still at a considerable distance, and we were on different sides of the street, I fancied I recognised him. Each moment brought us nearer to one another; and as I had kept my eyes upon him from the first, I at length became satisfied of the identity of Monsieur Jacques Despard.
“A fortunate encounter,” thought I. “It will save me the trouble of searching for Number 9, Rue Dauphin.”
The dress was different: it was a blue coat instead of a claret, and the ruffles were less conspicuously displayed; but the size, shape, and countenance were the same – as also the hair, moustache, and complexion. It must be my man.
Crossing diagonally, I placed myself on the banquette to await the gentleman’s approach. My position would have hindered him from passing; and the next moment he halted, and we stood face to face.
“Bon jour, Monsieur!” I began.
He made no answer, but stood with his eyes staring widely upon me, in which the expression was simply that of innocent surprise.
“Well counterfeited,” thought I.
“You are early abroad,” I continued. “May I ask Monsieur, what business has brought him into the streets at such an hour of the morning?”
The thought had struck me that he might be on his way to the Saint Charles, to make some inquiry; and I recalled my conjecture about his having mislaid Casey’s card.
“What business, Monsieur, but that of my profession?” and as he made this reply, his dark eye flashed with a kindling indignation – which, of course, I regarded as counterfeit.
“Oh!” said I, in a sneering tone, “it appears that you pursue your profession at all hours. I thought the night was your favourite time. I should have fancied that at this hour you would scarcely have found victims.”
“Fool! Who are you? What are you talking of? What means this rudeness?”
“Pooh – pooh! Monsieur Despard; you are not going to get off in that way. Your memory appears short. Perhaps this card will refresh it; or do you repudiate that also?”
“Card! – what card?”
“Look there! – perhaps you will deny having given it?”
“I know nothing of it, Monsieur; but you shall have my card; and for this insult I demand yours in return.”
“It seems idle to make the exchange, after what has already passed.”
Curiosity, however, prompted me. I was desirous of ascertaining whether his first address had been a false one, as Casey had suggested. Hastily scratching the address of the hotel, I handed him my card, taking his in return. To my astonishment I read: —
“Luis De Hauteroche,
16, Rue Royale.”
I should have been puzzled, but the solution was evident. The fellow was no doubt well provided with cards – kept a varied “pack” of them, and this was only another sham one.
I was determined, however, that I should not lose sight of him till I had fairly “treed” him.
“Is this your real address?” I inquired, with an incredulous expression.
“Peste! Monsieur, do you still continue your insults? But you shall give me full satisfaction. It is my professional address. See for yourself.”
And as he said this he pointed to the door of a house, only a few yards from the spot where we were standing.
Among other names painted upon the panel I read:
“Monsieur Luis De Hauteroche,
Avocat.”
“I can be found here at all hours,” said he, passing me and stepping inside the doorway. “But you will not need to seek me, Monsieur. I promise it, my friend shall call upon you without delay.”
The door closing behind him put an end to our “interview.”
For some seconds I stood in a kind of “quandary.” I could not doubt but that it was the same man whom we had met in the drinking saloon. The dress was different – of a more sober cut, though equally elegant – but this was nothing: it was a different hour, and that might account for the change of garments. The tout ensemble was the same – the features, complexion, colour of hair, curl and all.
And still I could not exactly identify the bearing of Monsieur Jacques Despard with that of Monsieur Luis De Hauteroche. The evil expression of eye which I had noticed formerly was not visible to-day; and certainly the behaviour of the young man on the present occasion, had been that of an innocent and insulted gentleman.
Was it possible I could have made a mistake, and had, in transatlantic phrase “waked up the wrong passenger?”
I began to feel misgivings. There was a simple means of satisfying myself – at least a probability of doing so. The Rue Dauphin could not be far off, and might soon be reached. If it should prove that Monsieur Despard lived at Number 9, the mystery would be at an end.
I turned on my heel, and proceeded in the direction of the Rue Dauphin.
Story 2, Chapter VI
Monsieur Jacques Despard
A hundred yards brought me to the corner of this famous street, and twenty more to the front of Number 9, a large crazy looking house, that had the appearance of a common hotel, or cheap boarding-house.
The door stood open, and I could see down a long dark hall. But there was no knocker. A brass-handled bell appeared to be the substitute, under which were the words – “Tirez la sonette.”
I climbed the ricketty steps and rang. A slatternly female – a mulatto – half asleep, came slippering along the hall; and, on reaching the door, drawled out: – “Que voulez vous, Mosheu?”
“Does Monsieur Despard live here?”
“Moss’r Despard? Oui – oui.”
“Will you have the goodness to say that a gentleman wishes a word with him?”
The girl had not time to reply, before a side door was heard creaking open, and a head and shoulders were protruded into the hall. They were those of a man.
Though the hair of the head was tossed and frowsy, and the shirt that covered the shoulders looked as if it had passed through the “beggar’s mangle,” I had no difficulty in recognising the wearer. It was Monsieur Despard – Monsieur Despard en deshabille.
The gentleman evidently regretted his imprudence, and would have withdrawn himself from view. The shirt and shoulders had already disappeared behind the screening of the lintel; but, before the head could be backed in, I had stepped over the threshold and “nailed him” to an interview.
“Monsieur Despard, I believe?” was the interrogative style of my salutation.
“Oui, M’sseu. What is your business?”
“Rather a strange question for you to put, Monsieur Despard. Perhaps you do not remember me?”
“Perfectly.”
“And what occurred at our first interview?”
“Equally well – that you were accompanied by a drunken brute who calumniated me.”
“It is not becoming to vilify a gentleman after he has given you his card. Of course you intend to challenge him?”
“Of course I intend nothing of the sort. Parbleu! M’sseu, I should have a busy time of it, were I to notice the babble of every drunken brawler. I can pardon the slang of sling drinkers.”
I had discovered by this time that Monsieur Despard spoke English as fluently as he did French, and also that he was perfectly versed in the slang epithets of our language.
“Come, Monsieur,” said I, “this grandeur will not screen you. It shall be my duty to repeat your elegant phraseology to my friend, who I can promise will not pardon you.”
“That don’t signify.”
“If you are not disposed to send a challenge, you will be compelled to receive one.”
“Oh! that is different. I shall be most happy to accept it.”
“It would save time if you give me the address of your second.”
“Time enough after I have received the challenge.”
“In two hours, then, I shall demand it.”
“Très bien, M’sseu.”
And with a stiff bow the caput of Monsieur Despard disappeared into the dark doorway.
Turning away, I descended the creaking steps, and walked back along the Rue Dauphin.
On reaching the corner of Rue Royale, I paused to reflect. I had ample food for reflection – sufficient almost to bewilder me. Within ten minutes I had succeeded in filling my hands with business enough to last me for the whole of that day and a portion of the next. The object of my halting, therefore, was that I might think over this business, and if possible arrange it into some kind of a definite programme.
An open cabaret close by offered an empty chair and a table. This invited me to enter; and, seating myself inside, I called for some claret and a cigar. These promised to lend a certain perspicuity to my thoughts, that would enable me to set my proceedings in some order.
My first thought was a feeling of regret at having promised Monsieur Despard to call again. I knew that Casey would insist upon a meeting – all the more pertinaciously on hearing what had passed – and I was now more than ever convinced of the absurdity of such a step. What had he to gain by fighting with such a man? Certainly not his watch, and as certainly there was no credit to be derived from such an encounter. What I had just seen and heard, perfectly satisfied me that we were not dealing with a gentleman. The appearance of Monsieur Despard in his morning deshabille – his vulgar behaviour and language – the mise-en-scène in the midst of which I had found him – and above all the nonchalant bravado with which he had treated Casey’s serious charge against him – convinced me that the charge was true; and that instead of a gentleman we had to do with a chevalier d’industrie.
What, then, could Casey gain in measuring weapons with a character of this kind? Certainly nothing to his advantage.
On the other hand he might lose in the encounter, and in all probability he would.
A very painful reflection entered my mind as I dwelt upon this. If the fellow had designed it, he could not have exhibited more skill in bringing circumstances about in his favour; and only now did it occur to me the advantage we had given him. The positions of the parties had become entirely reversed. His adversary now held the citadel: Casey was to be the assailant. If the Frenchman intended to stand up – and under the altered circumstances it was likely he would – I feared for the result. He would have the right of choice; the rapier would unquestionably be the weapon chosen; and from the inexorable laws of the duello there would be no appeal.
As these considerations ran hurriedly through my mind, I began to feel sincerely anxious about the consequences; and blamed myself for permitting my temper – a little frayed by the insulting language – to betray me into, what I now regarded as, a manifest imprudence. “Facile decensus averni, sed revocare gradum.”
There was no retreating from the step I had taken. Casey’s antagonist might be a gambler, a swindler, a suspected thief, but in New Orleans – more especially at the time of which I write – these titles would not rob him of the right to demand the treatment of a gentleman – that is, if he offered to fight as one.
We had gone too far. I knew that we were so compromised that we must carry the thing to an end.
I had but one hope; and this was that Monsieur Despard might after all prove a bavard, and show the white feather.
I must confess, however, that this hope was a very faint one. If the fellow had impressed me with an idea of his vulgarity, he had said or done nothing that could lead me to question his courage.
Up to this time, the tumult of my thoughts had hindered me from dwelling upon my odd encounter with the young avocat. Since it had only happened fifteen minutes before, of course, I had not forgotten it; and the affair of my friend being, in my mind, now arranged, it became necessary to attend to my own.
So ludicrous was the whole contretemps, that I could scarcely restrain laughter when I thought of it; but there was also a serious side to the question, calculated to prevent any free ebullition of mirth.
Already, perhaps, Monsieur De Hauteroche’s messenger was on his way to the Saint Charles Hotel; and, on arriving there, I might find that besides having to play the easy métier of second in a duel, I should be called upon to enact the more serious rôle of a “principal.”
Might find! there was no might in the matter. I was as certain of it as if I already carried the challenge in my pocket.
I could not help reflecting upon the very awkward dilemma, into which a moment of evil indulgence had plunged both my friend and myself, and upon the very threshold of new world life. It seemed that we were to be initiated into its mysteries by a baptism of blood!
I was less uneasy about my own affair. My chief source of regret was, my having given pain and offence to a young gentleman, who appeared to be one of delicate susceptibility. Certainly my strange behaviour must have astonished him, as much as the after finding of his counterpart, and the resemblance between them, astonished me.
The likeness was really remarkable – though less than it would have been, had Monsieur Despard been in full toilette, as I had first viewed him. The scar upon his cheek, moreover, I now observed and remembered. Why had I not thought of it before?
With regard to my affair with Monsieur De Hauteroche, the course was simple and clear: an unqualified apology. I only hesitated as to the when and where to make it.
Should I go on to the hotel and meet his second? That would be a more ceremonious way of proceeding – the most en règle.
But the apology would require an explanation – the embroglio was curious and complicated – and the explanation could only be properly understood by giving the details viva voce.
I resolved, therefore, to waive all ceremony, and, trusting to the generosity of my accidental enemy, to return to him in propria persona.
Quaffing off my claret; and flinging away the stump of my cigar, I walked directly to Number 16, Rue Royale.
To my gratification I found the young avocat in his office; and I was further satisfied by perceiving that I was in good time. No message had yet been sent to the Saint Charles – though I had no doubt that the military-looking gentleman whom I met in the office was upon the eve of such an errand. My appearance must have been as little expected as that of the “man in the moon.”
I shall not trouble the reader by detailing the apology. The explanation is known already. Suffice it to say, that when Monsieur De Hauteroche heard it, he not only acted in the true spirit of a gentleman; but, from an enemy, became transformed into a friend. Perceiving that I was a stranger, he generously invited me to renew my visit; and, with a hearty laugh at the outré style of our introduction, we parted.
Casey’s more serious affair was still upon my mind; and I hurried home to the hotel.
As I expected, Casey would send the challenge; and, as I almost confidently anticipated, the other accepted it. It ended in a duel, and I need hardly add that swords were the weapons.
I refrain from giving a description of this duel, which differed only from about a million of others – minutely described by romance writers – in being one of the very shortest of combats. At the very first passage Casey received (and I esteemed it very fortunate that he did so) his adversary’s sword through the muscles of his right arm – completely disabling him. That was all the satisfaction he ever got for the loss of his repeater!
Of course this rude thrust ended the combat; and Monsieur Jacques Despard marched off the ground without a scratch upon his person or a blemish on his name.
Casey, however, still asserted – though, of course, not publicly – “that the fellow took the watch;” and I afterwards found good reason to believe he did take it.
Story 2, Chapter VII
Hospitable Friends
Casey’s views were commercial, and New Orleans was not the place where a display of spirit would be likely to damage his prospects. It appeared rather to have an opposite effect; for, before his arm was well out of the sling, I had the gratification to learn that he had received an appointment in one of the large cotton commission houses – a calling sufficiently suited to his temperament.
My own object in visiting the Western World was less definite. I was of that age when travel is attractive – young enough to afford a few years of far niente before entering upon the more serious pursuits of life. In short, I had no object beyond idleness and sight-seeing; and in either way, a month or two may be passed in New Orleans without much danger of suffering from ennui.
My stay in the “Crescent City” extended to a period of full three months. A pleasant hospitality induced me to prolong it beyond what I had originally intended: and the dispenser of this hospitality was no other than Monsieur Luis De Hauteroche.
Notwithstanding the bizarrerie of its beginning, our acquaintance soon grew into friendship; for the southern heart is of free and quick expansion, as the flowers of its clime, and its affection as rapidly ripens. There the friendship of a single month is often as strong – ay, and as lasting too – as that which results from years of intercourse under the cold ceremonies of old world life.
In a month De Hauteroche and I were bosom friends; and scarcely a day passed that we did not see each other, scarcely three that we were not companions in some boating or hunting excursion – some fête champêtre among his Creole acquaintances, the hospitable planters of the “coast,” – at the bal-masque, or in the boxes of the “Théatre Français.”
In the morning hours I often visited him at his place of business – for business he did not altogether neglect – in the Rue Royale; but more frequently in the evening at his private residence – the pretty little “cabane,” as he called it, with its glass door windows and vine-loaded verandahs, in the adjoining street of the Rue Bourgogne.
This charming spot had a peculiar attraction for me. Was it the company of De Hauteroche himself or that of Adele, his fair sister, that drew me so often thither? It must have been one or the other – for excepting the dark-skinned domestics, the two were the only inmates of the house. I relished much the conversation of my young Creole friend – perhaps still more, the music which his sister understood how to produce upon her harp and guitar. Especially did the notes of the harp vibrate pleasantly upon my ear; and the picture of a fair maiden seated in front of that noble stringed instrument, soon impressed itself on my spirit, whether awake or dreaming. Adele became the vision of my dreams.
Without designing it, I soon became acquainted with the family history of my new friends. It was but the natural consequence of the confidential intercourse that had sprung up between us.
They were the orphan children of an officer of the Napoleonic army – an ancien-colonel of artillery – who, after the defeat of Waterloo, surrendered up his sword and sought an asylum in the Far West. He was but one of many, who, at that time, deprived of the patronage of their great leader, became emigrés by a sort of voluntary exile, finding in the French settlements of the New World – Louisiana among the rest – a kindred and congenial home.
In the case of Hauteroche, however, the habits of the military man had not fitted him either for a commercial life or that of a planter. His affairs had not prospered – and at his death, which had occurred but the year before – he had left his children little other inheritance than that of an excellent education and a spotless name.
Far otherwise had it been with a comrade who accompanied him in his exile – a brother officer of his regiment and a devoted bosom friend. The latter preferring the cooler climate of Saint Louis, had gone up the river and settled there.
He was a Norman, and his young wife had accompanied him. With the stauncher qualities of this race, he had devoted himself to commercial pursuits; and his perseverance was rewarded by the acquirement of an ample fortune – which, with his wife – also of Norman family – and an only daughter, he was now enjoying in opulent retirement.
The almost fraternal friendship of the two ex-officers was not extinguished by their altered mode of life; but, on the contrary, it continued as warm as ever during the period of their residence in the New World. Annually the “crate” of oranges from the south was sent up to Saint Louis, and as often was the barrel of apples or walnuts – the produce of the more temperate clime – despatched in the opposite direction – a pleasant interchange of presents effected by the medium of the mighty Mississippi.
A personal intercourse, too, was at intervals renewed. Every two or three years the old colonel had indulged himself with a ramble on the prairies which lie contiguous to the settlements of Saint Louis, while his brother officer, at like intervals, reciprocated the visit by a trip to the great southern metropolis, thus in a very convenient manner combining the opportunities of business and pleasure.
Under these circumstances it was natural that the families of De Hauteroche and Dardonville should be affectionately attached to each other, and such was in reality the case. I was constantly hearing of the latter – of the goodness of Madame Dardonville – of the beauty of Olympe.
It was nearly three years since either De Hauteroche or his sister had seen their Saint Louis friends. Olympe, as was alleged, was then but a child; but the fervour with which the young avocat descanted upon her merits, led me to suspect that in his eyes at least, she had reached a very interesting period of her childhood. Now and then the merry badinage of his sister on this point, bringing the colour to his cheeks, confirmed me in the suspicion.
My new acquaintances had admitted me as a link into the chain of their happy circle; and for three months I enjoyed, almost without interruption, its pleasant hospitality.
It became a spell that was hard to break; and when the hour of leave-taking arrived, I looked upon it as a painful necessity – though my absence did not promise to be a prolonged one.
The necessity was one of sufficient urgency. A July sun was glaring from the sky, and the yellow spectre had entered the Crescent City, upon its annual visit of devastation.
Already had it begun its ghastly work, and here and there presented itself in horrid mien. In those Faubourgs where dwelt the less opulent of the population, I observed traces of its presence; that symbol of terrible significance – the red cross upon the closed door – telling too plainly that the destroyer had been there.
It would have been madness for me to have remained amidst a pestilence, from which it was so easy to escape. Twenty hours upon a fast boat, and I should be clear of the danger: and among the up-river towns I might make choice of an asylum.
Four large cities – Pittsburg, Louisville, Cincinatti, and Saint Louis – lay beyond the latitude of the epidemic: all easy of access. In any of these I might find a luxurious home; but I longed to look upon those boundless fields of green, for years the idol of my youthful fancy; and I knew that Saint Louis was the gate that guided to them. Thither, then, was I bound.
With regret I parted from my Creole friends. They had no need to fly or fear the scourge. Acclimatised in the middle of that vast marais, its malaria had for them neither terror nor danger. Immunity from both was their birthright, and New Orleans was their home throughout the year: though during the months of intolerable heat and utter stagnation of business, it was their habit to reside in one of the numerous summer retreats found upon the shores of Lake Pontchartrain.
I was in hopes they would have accompanied me to Saint Louis, and I endeavoured to induce them to do so.
Luis seemed desirous, and yet declined! I knew not the delicate reason that influenced him to this self-denial.
I promised to return with the first frost; for this usually kills “Yellow Jack.”
“Ah! you will not be here so soon?” said Adele, in a tone that pretended to be pensive. “You will like Saint Louis too well to leave it. Perhaps when you have seen Olympe – ”
“And what of Olympe?”
“She is beautiful – she is rich – ”
“Those are qualities that more concern your brother; and if I should make love to Olympe, it will only be as his proxy.”
“Ha! ha! a perilous prospect for poor Luis!”
“Oh, no! Luis need fear no rival; but, jesting apart, I should be glad to enter into a little covenant with him.”
“A covenant?”
“Yes – the terms of which would be, that in Saint Louis I should use all my interest in his favour, while he should here reciprocate, by employing his in mine.”
“In what quarter, Monsieur?”
“Here, at home.”
Adele’s dark brown eyes rolled upon me a moment, as if in innocent astonishment; and then, suddenly changing their expression, they danced and sparkled to a peal of merry laughter, which ended in the words: – “Au revoir! la première gelée, adieu! adieu!” Luis was outside, waiting to accompany me to the boat; and, returning the adieu somewhat confusedly, I hurried up the steps of the verandah, and joined him.
In another hour I was upon the broad bosom of the “Father of Waters,” breasting his mighty current towards its far distant source.
