It
presented to me, for the first time, many aspects that I had not thought
of. For instance, that I should be here now in Louisiana telling it to
one who had been the companion and friend of the Queen of France. Once
in a while the Vicomtesse would look up at me swiftly, when I paused, and
then go on with her work again. I told her of Temple Bow, and how I had
run away; of Polly Ann and Tom, of the Wilderness Trail and how I shot
Cutcheon, of the fight at Crab Orchard, of the life in Kentucky, of Clark
and his campaign. Of my doings since; how I had found Nick and how he
had come to New Orleans with me; of my life as a lawyer in Louisville, of
the conventions I had been to. The morning wore on to midday, and I told
her more than I believed it possible to tell any one. When at last I had
finished a fear grew upon me that I had told her too much. Her fingers
still stitched, her head was bent and I could not see her face,--only the
knot of her hair coiled with an art that struck me suddenly. Then she
spoke, and her voice was very low.
"I love Polly Ann," she said; "I should like to know her."
"I wish that you could know her," I answered, quickening.
She raised her head, and looked at me with an expression that was not a
smile. I could not say what it was, or what it meant.
"I do not think you are stupid," she said, in the same tone, "but I do
not believe you know how remarkable your life has been.
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