The family did not like a cafe near their sacred gates,--where had stood only the huts of their retainers.The American would observe that he had not called it "Cafe de Chateau," nor "Cafe de Fontonelles,"--the gold of California would not induce him.Why did he remain there? Naturally, to goad them! It was a principle, one understood.To GOAD them and hold them in check! One kept a cafe,--why not? One had one's principles,--one's conviction,--that was another thing! That was the kind of "'air-pin"--was it not?--that HE, Gustav Ribaud, was like!
Yet for all his truculent socialism, he was quick, obliging, and charmingly attentive to **** and his needs.As to ****'s horse, he should have the best veterinary surgeon--there was an incomparable one in the person of the blacksmith--see to him, and if it were an affair of days, and **** must go, he himself would be glad to purchase the beast, his saddle, and accoutrements.It was an affair of business,--an advertisement for the cafe! He would ride the horse himself before the gates of the park.It would please his customers.Ha! he had learned a trick or two in free America.
****'s first act had been to shave off his characteristic beard and mustache, and even to submit his long curls to the village barber's shears, while a straw hat, which he bought to take the place of his slouched sombrero, completed his transformation.His host saw in the change only the natural preparation of a voyager, but **** had really made the sacrifice, not from fear of detection, for he had recovered his old swaggering audacity, but from a quick distaste he had taken to his resemblance to the portrait.He was too genuine a Westerner, and too vain a man, to feel flattered at his resemblance to an aristocratic bully, as he believed the ancestral De Fontonelles to be.Even his momentary sensation as he faced the Cure in the picture-gallery was more from a vague sense that liberties had been taken with his, ****'s, personality, than that he had borrowed anything from the portrait.
But he was not so clear about the young girl.Her tender, appealing voice, although he knew it had been addressed only to a vision, still thrilled his fancy.The pluck that had made her withstand her fear so long--until he had uttered that dreadful word--still excited his admiration.His curiosity to know what mistake he had made--for he knew it must have been some frightful blunder--was all the more keen, as he had no chance to rectify it.
What a brute she must have thought him--or DID she really think him a brute even then?--for her look was one more of despair and pity!
Yet she would remember him only by that last word, and never know that he had risked insult and ejection from her friends to carry her to her place of safety.He could not bear to go across the seas carrying the pale, unsatisfied face of that gentle girl ever before his eyes! A sense of delicacy--new to ****, but always the accompaniment of deep feeling--kept him from even hinting his story to his host, though he knew--perhaps BECAUSE he knew--that it would gratify his enmity to the family.A sudden thought struck ****.
He knew her house, and her name.He would write her a note.
Somebody would be sure to translate it for her.
He borrowed pen, ink, and paper, and in the clean solitude of his fresh chintz bedroom, indited the following letter:--DEAR MISS FONTONELLES,--Please excuse me for having skeert you.Ihadn't any call to do it, I never reckoned to do it--it was all jest my derned luck; I only reckoned to tell you I was lost--in them blamed woods--don't you remember?--"lost"--PERDOO!--and then you up and fainted! I wouldn't have come into your garden, only, you see, I'd just skeered by accident two of your helps, reg'lar softies, and I wanted to explain.I reckon they allowed I was that man that that picture in the hall was painted after.I reckon they took ME for him--see? But he ain't MY style, nohow, and I never saw the picture at all until after I'd toted you, when you fainted, up to your house, or I'd have made my kalkilations and acted according.I'd have laid low in the woods, and got away without skeerin' you.You see what I mean? It was mighty mean of me, Isuppose, to have tetched you at all, without saying, "Excuse me, miss," and toted you out of the garden and up the steps into your own parlor without asking your leave.But the whole thing tumbled so suddent.And it didn't seem the square thing for me to lite out and leave you lying there on the grass.That's why! I'm sorry Iskeert that old preacher, but he came upon me in the picture hall so suddent, that it was a mighty close call, I tell you, to get off without a shindy.Please forgive me, Miss Fontonelles.When you get this, I shall be going back home to America, but you might write to me at Denver City, saying you're all right.I liked your style; I liked your grit in standing up to me in the garden until you had your say, when you thought I was the Lord knows what--though I never understood a word you got off--not knowing French.
But it's all the same now.Say! I've got your rose!
Yours very respectfully, RICHARD FOUNTAINS.
**** folded the epistle and put it in his pocket.He would post it himself on the morning before he left.When he came downstairs he found his indefatigable host awaiting him, with the report of the veterinary blacksmith.There was nothing seriously wrong with the mustang, but it would be unfit to travel for several days.The landlord repeated his former offer.****, whose money was pretty well exhausted, was fain to accept, reflecting that SHE had never seen the mustang and would not recognize it.But he drew the line at the sombrero, to which his host had taken a great fancy.He had worn it before HER!