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A crisp breeze from the river hinted at the possibility of frost when the night should have become older. The grass at one side of the steps was specked with the white stubs of Grandemont's cigarettes. The cotton-broker's clerk sat in his chair with the smoke spiralling above him. I doubt that he once thought of the little fortune he had so impotently squandered.
On that date the French king had seated a Charles by his side at table; on that date Armand Charles, Marquis de Brassé, landed, like a brilliant meteor, in New Orleans; it was the date of his mother's wedding; of Grandemont's birth. Since Grandemont could remember until the breaking up of the family that anniversary had been the synonym for feasting, hospitality, and proud commemoration.
He allowed Absalom to seat him at Grandemont's right hand with the manner of one thus accustomed to be waited upon. "It grieves me," said Grandemont, "to be obliged to exchange names with a guest. My own name is Charles." "In the mountains," said the wayfarer, "they call me Gringo. Along the roads they call me Jack." "I prefer the latter," said Grandemont. "A glass of wine with you, Mr. Jack."
Rising, Grandemont shook Mr. Jack by the shoulder. The weary guest opened his eyes. Grandemont held the watch. "Look at this picture, Mr. Jack. Have you ever " "My sister Adèle!" The vagrant's voice rang loud and sudden through the room. He started to his feet, but Grandemont's arms were about him, and Grandemont was calling him "Victor! Victor Fauquier! Merci, merci, mon Dieu!"
I know what she would have done. But one thing is clear there was something besides her brother's disappearance between Grandemont's pleadings for her hand and Adèle's "yes." Ten years had passed, and what she had seen during the space of that lightning flash remained an indelible picture.
He rode over to Meade d'Or to talk with him. The two strolled out of the house and grounds, crossed the road, and, mounting the levee, walked its broad path while they conversed. A thunder-cloud was hanging, imminent, above, but, as yet, no rain fell. At Grandemont's disclosure of his interference in the clandestine romance, Victor attacked him, in a wild and sudden fury.
They had looked at the corpse of Charleroi and then at Grandemont's invitations, and, though the puzzle or tasteless hoax or whatever the thing meant left them perplexed, they would not seek its solution by the folly of a visit to that deserted house. The moon was now above the grove, and the yard was pied with deep shadows save where they lightened in the tender glow of outpouring candle light.
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