And Mr. Clive, a man of fashion, ill content too, and pining
for the life of a capital?"
"Yes," I said eagerly, my voice sinking near to a whisper, "yes--it is
they. And are they here?"
Monsieur Gratiot took another pinch of snuff. It seemed an age before he
answered:--
"It is curious that you should mention them, for I gave them letters to
New Orleans,--amongst others, to Saint-Gre. Mrs. Clive was--what shall
I say?--haunted. Monsieur Clive talked of nothing but Paris, where they
had lived once. And at last she gave in. They have gone there."
"To Paris?" I said, taking breath.
"Yes. It is more than a year ago," he continued, seeming not to notice
my emotion; "they went by way of New Orleans, in one of Chouteau's boats.
Mrs. Clive seemed a woman with a great sorrow."
CHAPTER IX
"CHERCHEZ LA FEMME"
Sunday came with the soft haziness of a June morning, and the dew sucked
a fresh fragrance from the blossoms and the grass. I looked out of our
window at the orchard, all pink and white in the early sun, and across a
patch of clover to the stone kitchen. A pearly, feathery smoke was
wafted from the chimney, a delicious aroma of Creole coffee pervaded the
odor of the blossoms, and a cotton-clad negro a pieds nus came down the
path with two steaming cups and knocked at our door.
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