Historical fiction; Oregon Territory -- History -- Fiction; United States -- History -- 1815-1861 -- Fiction
I turned to him and made some excuse, saying that presently I would join
him again at the hotel. Dreamily as ever, he smiled and took his leave.
For myself, I walked on rapidly after the two figures, then a block or
so ahead of me.
I saw them turn into a street which was familiar to myself. They passed
on, turning from time to time among the old houses of the French
quarter. Presently they entered the short side street which I myself had
seen for the first time the previous night. I pretended to busy myself
with my pipe, as they turned in at the very gate which I knew, and
knocked at the door which I had entered with my mysterious companion!
The door opened without delay; they both entered.
So, then, Helena von Ritz had other visitors! England and Mexico were
indeed conferring here in Montreal. There were matters going forward
here in which my government was concerned. That was evident. I was
almost in touch with them. That also was evident. How, then, might I
gain yet closer touch?
At the moment nothing better occurred to me than to return to my room
and wait for a time. It would serve no purpose for me to disclose
myself, either in or out of the apartments of the baroness, and it would
not aid me to be seen idling about the neighborhood in a city where
there was so much reason to suppose strangers were watched. I resolved
to wait until the next morning, and to take my friend Von Rittenhofen
with me. He need not know all that I knew, yet in case of any accident
to myself or any sudden contretemps, he would serve both as a witness
and as an excuse for disarming any suspicion which might be entertained
regarding myself.
The next day he readily enough fell in with my suggestion of a morning
stroll, and again we sallied forth, at about nine o'clock, having by
that time finished a _déjeûner à la fourchette_ with Jacques Bertillon,
which to my mind compared unfavorably with one certain other I had
shared.
A sense of uneasiness began to oppress me, I knew not why, before I had
gone half way down the little street from the corner where we turned. It
was gloomy and dismal enough at the best, and on this morning an unusual
apathy seemed to sit upon it, for few of the shutters were down,
although the hour was now mid-morning. Here and there a homely habitant
appeared, and bade us good morning; and once in a while we saw the face
of a good wife peering from the window. Thus we passed some dozen houses
or so, in a row, and paused opposite the little gate. I saw that the
shutters were closed, or at least all but one or two, which were partly
ajar. Something said to me that it would be as well for me to turn back.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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