The Rose of Old St. Louis | Page 3

him, thinking it ill befitted a soldier of fortune, as I
intended to be, to be coddled by a valet, and I had not missed him much,
for Yorke had been always ready to lend a helping hand when I needed
it. Now I was of a mind to curse the vanity that had led me to fit myself
out with doeskins that were of so snug a cut they needed much tugging
to get into them, and with endless lacings with which my awkward
fingers, clumsier than ever from the icy water and the trembling the
fever had left me in, fumbled desperately.
But I was ready at last, and seizing my sword-belt in one hand and my
hat in the other, I started with hot haste for the door, fearing I might be,
after all, too late. As I opened it, a sound smote my ears that struck
terror to my heart: the voices and the laughter of young maidens. I
stepped back involuntarily. I had not thought of the possibility of
meeting any one at that early hour but my host and my captain, and I
had not given a thought to my appearance. Now I took an anxious
survey of myself in the small French mirror that hung above the stand. I
was vexed beyond measure at what I saw.
"They will take me for a girl," I muttered between my teeth, "and flout
me accordingly."
It had ever been a source of extreme mortification to me that I should
have rosy cheeks like any maiden's, but now, owing to the hard
scrubbing I had given them, they were all aflame, and their color was
heightened by the pallor my recent illness had given to brow and
temples. My hair, from its wetting, was curling in ringlets all around
my head. I seized a brush and tried desperately to reduce them to
straightness, but the brushing served only to bring out in stronger relief
the glint of gold that I despised, and certainly my eyes had never
looked more blue and shining.
"They will think me a girl or a baby!" I muttered once more, and was in
such disgust with myself I was ready to go back to bed. But bethinking

me that would only leave me the longer in this House of Dames, I
seized my belt once more, buckled it on with a vicious twitch, and
strode boldly to the door.
There I stopped a moment to collect all my courage, soothing myself
with the reflection that I stood a good six feet in my moccasins, and
though I carried no superfluous flesh, my shoulders were as broad as
my captain's and my muscles like whip-cords. Fortified by these
considerations, I strode on boldly to the landing at the head of the wide
staircase leading down to the great hall.
There I stopped again; for while the landing was in gloom, the hall was
brilliantly illuminated by a roaring, blazing lightwood fire, looking
cheery enough in the gray light of the frosty morning, and throwing
into strong relief two groups on either side of the fireplace. On one side
stood my captain, evidently ready for a start, and making his adieus to
his host. I glanced eagerly at Mr. Gratiot and at the elderly man who
stood beside him, who, I thought, was likely to be none other than Mr.
Francis Vigo. I had heard much of these two men from General George
Rogers Clarke, whose lonely retreat on the Ohio I had often visited
during my stay in Kentucky. They had been General Clarke's best
friends and helpers in the early days of the war, when he had made that
daring attack on Vincennes, and I knew Captain Clarke's mission to St.
Louis had something to do with discharging his brother's obligation to
them. They were smaller men than my captain, of a slender, graceful
build, and the hair of both was quite white, but from my post of
observation I could see that they were men of courtly manners, well
used to the ways of the world, and talking now quite eagerly with all
the wealth of gesture and expression natural to Frenchmen.
The firelight played strongly on the face of my captain, whom I had
already begun to adore, as did every one who came into close
companionship with him. I gazed admiringly at his broad, white brow,
clear-cut features, and firmly knit figure, a little square of build, but
looking every inch the frontier soldier in his leathern doublet and
leggings and high-laced moccasins. Over one shoulder he had thrown
his blue military cloak, for the trip across the river promised to be a

cold one, and he carried in his hand a hat with a drooping plume. I
wondered if