The Crossing

by Winston Churchill

  CHAPTER XI. THE STRANGE CITY

  Nick and I stood by the mast on the forward part of the cabin, staringat the distant, low-lying city, while Xavier sought for the entranceto the eddy which here runs along the shore. If you did not gain thisentrance,--so he explained,--you were carried by a swift current belowNew Orleans and might by no means get back save by the hiring of acrew. Xavier, however, was not to be caught thus, and presently we weregliding quietly along the eastern bank, or levee, which held backthe river from the lowlands. Then, as we looked, the levee became anesplanade shaded by rows of willows, and through them we caught sightof the upper galleries and low, curving roofs of the city itself. There,cried Xavier, was the Governor’s house on the corner, where the greatMiro lived, and beyond it the house of the Intendant; and then, glidinginto an open space between the keel boats along the bank, stared at bya score of boatmen and idlers from above, we came to the end of our longjourney. No sooner had we made fast than we were boarded by a shabbycustoms officer who, when he had seen our passports, bowed politely andinvited us to land. We leaped ashore, gained the gravelled walk on thelevee, and looked about us.

  Squalidity first met our eyes. Below us, crowded between the leveeand the row of houses, were dozens of squalid market-stalls tended bycotton-clad negroes. Beyond, across the bare Place d’Armes, a blackenedgap in the line of houses bore witness to the devastation of the yeargone by, while here and there a roof, struck by the setting sun, gleamedfiery red with its new tiles. The levee was deserted save for thenegroes and the river men.

  “Time for siesta, Michié,” said Xavier, joining us; “I will show you zeinn of which I spik. She is kep’ by my fren’, Madame Bouvet.”

  “Xavier,” said Nick, looking at the rolling flood of the river, “supposethis levee should break?”

  “Ah,” said Xavier, “then some Spaniard who never have a bath--he feelwhat water is lak.”

  Followed by Benjy with the saddle-bags, we went down the steps set inthe levee into this strange, foreign city. It was like unto nothingwe had ever seen, nor can I give an adequate notion of how it affectedus,--such a mixture it seemed of dirt and poverty and wealth andromance. The narrow, muddy streets ran with filth, and on each sidealong the houses was a sun-baked walk held up by the curved sides ofbroken flatboats, where two men might scarcely pass. The houses, too,had an odd and foreign look, some of wood, some of upright logs andplaster, and newer ones, Spanish in style, of adobe, with curving roofsof red tiles and strong eaves spreading over the banquette (as thesidewalk was called), casting shadows on lemon-colored walls. Since NewOrleans was in a swamp, the older houses for the most part were liftedsome seven feet above the ground, and many of these houses had widegalleries on the street side. Here and there a shop was set in the wall;a watchmaker was to be seen poring over his work at a tiny window, ashoemaker cross-legged on the floor. Again, at an open wicket, we caughta glimpse through a cool archway into a flowering court-yard. Stalwartnegresses with bright kerchiefs made way for us on the banquette. Handson hips, they swung along erect, with baskets of cakes and sweetmeats ontheir heads, musically crying their wares.

  At length, turning a corner, we came to a white wooden house on the RueRoyale, with a flight of steps leading up to the entrance. In place ofa door a flimsy curtain hung in the doorway, and, pushing this aside,we followed Xavier through a darkened hall to a wide gallery thatoverlooked a court-yard. This court-yard was shaded by several greattrees which grew there; the house and gallery ran down one other side ofit; and the two remaining sides were made up of a series of low cabins,these forming the various outhouses and the kitchen. At the far endof this gallery a sallow, buxom lady sat sewing at a table, and Xaviersaluted her very respectfully.

  “Madame,” he said, “I have brought you from St. Louis with MichiéGratiot’s compliments two young American gentlemen, who are travellingto amuse themselves.”

  The lady rose and beamed upon us.

  “From Monsieur Gratiot,” she said; “you are very welcome, gentlemen, tosuch poor accommodations as I have. It is not unusual to have Americangentlemen in New Orleans, for many come here first and last. And I amhappy to say that two of my best rooms are vacant. Zoey!”

  There was a shrill answer from the court below, and a negro girl in ayellow turban came running up, while Madame Bouvet bustled along thegallery and opened the doors of two darkened rooms. Within I could dimlysee a walnut dresser, a chair, and a walnut bed on which was spread amosquito bar.

  “Voilá! Messieurs,” cried Madame Bouvet, “there is still a littletime for a siesta. No siesta!” cried Madame, eying us aghast; “ah, theAmericans they never rest--never.”

  We bade farewell to the good Xavier, promising to see him soon; andNick, shouting to Benjy to open the saddle-bags, proceeded to arrayhimself in the clothes which had made so much havoc at St. Louis. Iboded no good from this proceeding, but I reflected, as I watched himdress, that I might as well try to turn the Mississippi from its courseas to attempt to keep my cousin from the search for gallant adventure.And I reflected that his indulgence in pleasure-seeking would servethe more to divert any suspicions which might fall upon my own head. Atlast, when the setting sun was flooding the court-yard, he stood arrayedupon the gallery, ready to venture forth to conquest.

  Madame Bouvet’s tavern, or hotel, or whatever she was pleased to callit, was not immaculately clean. Before passing into the street we stoodfor a moment looking into the public room on the left of the hallway,a long saloon, evidently used in the early afternoon for a dining room,and at the back of it a wide, many-paned window, capped by a Spanisharch, looked out on the gallery. Near this window was a gay party ofyoung men engaged at cards, waited on by the yellow-turbaned Zoey, anddrinking what evidently was claret punch. The sounds of their jests andlaughter pursued us out of the house.

  The town was waking from its siesta, the streets filling, and peoplestopped to stare at Nick as we passed. But Nick, who was plainly insearch of something he did not find, hurried on. We soon came to thequarter which had suffered most from the fire, where new houses hadgone up or were in the building beside the blackened logs of many ofBienville’s time. Then we came to a high white wall that surrounded alarge garden, and within it was a long, massive building of some beautyand pretension, with a high, latticed belfry and heavy walls and witharched dormers in the sloping roof. As we stood staring at it throughthe iron grille set in the archway of the lodge, Nick declared that itput him in mind of some of the châteaux he had seen in France, and hecrossed the street to get a better view of the premises. An old man incoarse blue linen came out of the lodge and spoke to me.

  “It is the convent of the good nuns, the Ursulines, Monsieur,” he saidin French, “and it was built long ago in the Sieur de Bienville’s time,when the colony was young. For forty-five years, Monsieur, the youngladies of the city have come here to be educated.”

  “What does he say?” demanded Nick, pricking up his ears as he cameacross the street.

  “That young men have been sent to the mines of Brazil for climbing thewalls,” I answered.

  “Who wants to climb the walls?” said Nick, disgusted.

  “The young ladies of the town go to school here,” I answered; “it is aconvent.”

  “It might serve to pass the time,” said Nick, gazing with a new interestat the latticed windows. “How much would you take, my friend, to let usin at the back way this evening?” he demanded of the porter in French.

  The good man gasped, lifted his hands in horror, and straightway letloose upon Nick a torrent of French invectives that had not the leasteffect except to cause a blacksmith’s apprentice and two negroes to stopand stare at us.

  “Pooh!” exclaimed Nick, when the man had paused for want of breath, “itis no trick to get over that wall.”

  “Bon Dieu!” cried the porter, “you are Kentuckians, yes? I might haveknown that you were Kentuckians, and I shall advise the good sisters toput glass on the wall and keep a watch.”

  “The
young ladies are beautiful, you say?” said Nick.

  At this juncture, with the negroes grinning and the porter near burstingwith rage, there came out of the lodge the fattest woman I have everseen for her size. She seized her husband by the back of his loose frockand pulled him away, crying out that he was losing time by talking tovagabonds, besides disturbing the good sisters. Then we went away, Nickfollowing the convent wall down to the river. Turning southward underthe bank past the huddle of market-stalls, we came suddenly upon a sightthat made us pause and wonder.

  New Orleans was awake. A gay and laughing throng paced the esplanade onthe levee under the willows, with here and there a cavalier on horsebackon the Royal Road below. Across the Place d’Armes the spire of theparish church stood against the fading sky, and to the westward themighty river stretched away like a gilded floor. It was a strangethrong. There were grave Spaniards in long cloaks and feathered beavers;jolly merchants and artisans in short linen jackets, each with histabatière, the wives with bits of finery, the children laughing andshouting and dodging in and out between fathers and mothers beaming withquiet pride and contentment; swarthy boat-men with their worsted belts,gaudy negresses chanting in the soft patois, and here and there ablanketed Indian. Nor was this all. Some occasion (so Madame Bouvet hadtold us) had brought a sprinkling of fashion to town that day, and itwas a fashion to astonish me. There were fine gentlemen with swordsand silk waistcoats and silver shoe-buckles, and ladies in filmy summergowns. Greuze ruled the mode in France then, but New Orleans had notgot beyond Watteau. As for Nick and me, we knew nothing of Greuze andWatteau then, and we could only stare in astonishment. And for once wesaw an officer of the Louisiana Regiment resplendent in a uniform thatmight have served at court.

  Ay, and there was yet another sort. Every flatboatman who returned toKentucky was full of tales of the marvellous beauty of the quadroons andoctoroons, stories which I had taken with a grain of salt; but they hadnot indeed been greatly overdrawn. For here were these ladies in theflesh, their great, opaque, almond eyes consuming us with a swiftglance, and each walking with a languid grace beside her duenna. Theirfaces were like old ivory, their dress the stern Miro himself couldscarce repress. In former times they had been lavish in their finery,and even now earrings still gleamed and color broke out irrepressibly.

  Nick was delighted, but he had not dragged me twice the length of theesplanade ere his eye was caught by a young lady in pink who saunteredbetween an elderly gentleman in black silk and a young man more gaylydressed.

  “Egad,” said Nick, “there is my divinity, and I need not look a stepfarther.”

  I laughed.

  “You have but to choose, I suppose, and all falls your way,” I answered.

  “But look!” he cried, halting me to stare after the girl, “what a face,and what a form! And what a carriage, by Jove! There is breeding foryou! And Davy, did you mark the gentle, rounded arm? Thank heaven theseshort sleeves are the fashion.”

  “You are mad, Nick,” I answered, pulling him on, “these people arenot to be stared at so. And once I present our letters to Monsieur deSaint-Gré, it will not be difficult to know any of them.”

  “Look!” said he, “that young man, lover or husband, is a brute. On mysoul, they are quarrelling.”

  The three had stopped by a bench under a tree. The young man, who woreclaret silk and a sword, had one of those thin faces of dirty complexionwhich show the ravages of dissipation, and he was talking with arapidity and vehemence of which only a Latin tongue will admit. Wecould see, likewise, that the girl was answering with spirit,--indeed, Ishould write a stronger word than spirit,--while the elderly gentleman,who had a good-humored, fleshy face and figure, was plainly doing hisbest to calm them both. People who were passing stared curiously at thethree.

  “Your divinity evidently has a temper,” I remarked.

  “For that scoundel--certainly,” said Nick; “but come, they are movingon.”

  “You mean to follow them?” I exclaimed.

  “Why not?” said he. “We will find out where they live and who they are,at least.”

  “And you have taken a fancy to this girl?”

  “I have looked them all over, and she’s by far the best I’ve seen. I cansay so much honestly.”

  “But she may be married,” I said weakly.

  “Tut, Davy,” he answered, “it’s more than likely, from the violence oftheir quarrel. But if so, we will try again.”

  “We!” I exclaimed.

  “Oh, come on!” he cried, dragging me by the sleeve, “or we shall losethem.”

  I resisted no longer, but followed him down the levee, in my heartthanking heaven that he had not taken a fancy to an octoroon. Twilighthad set in strongly, the gay crowd was beginning to disperse, and inthe distance the three figures could be seen making their way across thePlace d’Armes, the girl hanging on the elderly gentleman’s arm, and theyoung man following with seeming sullenness behind. They turned into oneof the narrower streets, and we quickened our steps. Lights gleamed inthe houses; voices and laughter, and once the tinkle of a guitar cameto us from court-yard and gallery. But Nick, hurrying on, came near tobowling more than one respectable citizen we met on the banquette, intothe ditch. We reached a corner, and the three were nowhere to be seen.

  “Curse the luck!” cried Nick, “we have lost them. The next time I’llstop for no explanations.”

  There was no particular reason why I should have been penitent, but Iventured to say that the house they had entered could not be far off.

  “And how the devil are we to know it?” demanded Nick.

  This puzzled me for a moment, but presently I began to think that thetwo might begin quarrelling again, and said so. Nick laughed and put hisarm around my neck.

  “You have no mean ability for intrigue when you put your mind toit, Davy,” he said; “I vow I believe you are in love with the girlyourself.”

  I disclaimed this with some vehemence. Indeed, I had scarcely seen her.

  “They can’t be far off,” said Nick; “we’ll pitch on a likely house andcamp in front of it until bedtime.”

  “And be flung into a filthy calaboose by a constable,” said I. “No,thank you.”

  We walked on, and halfway down the block we came upon a new house withmore pretensions than its neighbors. It was set back a little from thestreet, and there was a high adobe wall into which a pair of gates wereset, and a wicket opening in one of them. Over the wall hung a darkfringe of magnolia and orange boughs. On each of the gate-posts acrouching lion was outlined dimly against the fainting light, and, bycrossing the street, we could see the upper line of a latticed galleryunder the low roof. We took our stand within the empty doorway of ablackened house, nearly opposite, and there we waited, Nick murmuringall sorts of ridiculous things in my ear. But presently I began toreflect upon the consequences of being taken in such a situation by aconstable and dragged into the light of a public examination. I put thisto Nick as plainly as I could, and was declaring my intention of goingback to Madame Bouvet’s, when the sound of voices arrested me. Thevoices came from the latticed gallery, and they were low at first, butsoon rose to such an angry pitch that I made no doubt we had hit onthe right house after all. What they said was lost to us, but I coulddistinguish the woman’s voice, low-pitched and vibrant as thoughinsisting upon a refusal, and the man’s scarce adult tones, now high asthough with balked passion, now shaken and imploring. I was for leavingthe place at once, but Nick clutched my arm tightly; and suddenly, as Istood undecided, the voices ceased entirely, there were the sounds of ascuffle, and the lattice of the gallery was flung open. In the all butdarkness we saw a figure climb over the railing, hang suspended for aninstant, and drop lightly to the ground. Then came the light relief of awoman’s gown in the opening of the lattice, the cry “Auguste, Auguste!” the wicket in the gate opened and slammed, and a man ran at top speedalong the banquette towards the levee.

  Instinctively I seized Nick by the arm as he started out of t
he doorway.

  “Let me go,” he cried angrily, “let me go, Davy.”

  But I held on.

  “Are you mad?” I said.

  He did not answer, but twisted and struggled, and before I knew what hewas doing he had pushed me off the stone step into a tangle of blackenedbeams behind. I dropped his arm to save myself, and it was mere goodfortune that I did not break an ankle in the fall. When I had gainedthe step again he was gone after the man, and a portly citizen stood infront of me, looking into the doorway.

  “Qu’est-ce-qu’il-y-a la dedans?” he demanded sharply.

  It was a sufficiently embarrassing situation. I put on a bold front,however, and not deigning to answer, pushed past him and walked with asmuch leisure as possible along the banquette in the direction which Nickhad taken. As I turned the corner I glanced over my shoulder, and in thedarkness I could just make out the man standing where I had left him.In great uneasiness I pursued my way, my imagination summing up for Nickall kinds of adventures with disagreeable consequences. I walked forsome time--it may have been half an hour--aimlessly, and finally decidedit would be best to go back to Madame Bouvet’s and await the issue withas much calmness as possible. He might not, after all, have caught thefellow.

  There were few people in the dark streets, but at length I met a man whogave me directions, and presently found my way back to my lodging place.Talk and laughter floated through the latticed windows into the street,and when I had pushed back the curtain and looked into the saloonI found the same gaming party at the end of it, sitting in theirshirt-sleeves amidst the moths and insects that hovered around thecandles.

  “Ah, Monsieur,” said Madame Bouvet’s voice behind me, “you must excusethem. They will come here and play, the young gentlemen, and I cannotfind it in my heart to drive them away, though sometimes I lose arespectable lodger by their noise. But, after all, what would you?” sheadded with a shrug; “I love them, the young men. But, Monsieur,” shecried, “you have had no supper! And where is Monsieur your companion?Comme il est beau garçon!”

  “He will be in presently,” I answered with unwarranted assumption.

  Madame shot at me the swiftest of glances and laughed, and I suspectedthat she divined Nick’s propensity for adventure. However, she saidnothing more than to bid me sit down at the table, and presently Zoeycame in with lights and strange, highly seasoned dishes, which I atewith avidity, notwithstanding my uneasiness of mind, watching the whilethe party at the far end of the room. There were five young gentlemenplaying a game I knew not, with intervals of intense silence, andboisterous laughter and execrations while the cards were being shuffledand the money rang on the board and glasses were being filled from astand at one side. Presently Madame Bouvet returned, and placing beforeme a cup of wondrous coffee, advanced down the room towards them.

  “Ah, Messieurs,” she cried, “you will ruin my poor house.”

  The five rose and bowed with marked profundity. One of them, with apuffy, weak, good-natured face, answered her briskly, and after a littleraillery she came back to me. I had a question not over discreet on mytongue’s tip.

  “There are some fine residences going up here, Madame,” I said.

  “Since the fire, Monsieur, the dreadful fire of Good Friday a year ago.You admire them?”

  “I saw one,” I answered with indifference, “with a wall and lions on thegate-posts--”

  “Mon Dieu, that is a house,” exclaimed Madame; “it belongs to Monsieurde Saint-Gré.”

  “To Monsieur de Saint-Gré!” I repeated.

  She shot a look at me. She had bright little eyes like a bird’s, thatshone in the candlelight.

  “You know him, Monsieur?”

  “I heard of him in St. Louis,” I answered.

  “You will meet him, no doubt,” she continued. “He is a very finegentleman. His grandfather was Commissary-general of the colony, and hehimself is a cousin of the Marquis de Saint-Gré, who has two châteaux, ahouse in Paris, and is a favorite of the King.” She paused, as if to letthis impress itself upon me, and added archly, “Tenez, Monsieur, thereis a daughter--”

  She stopped abruptly.

  I followed her glance, and my first impression--of claret-color--gaveme a shock. My second confirmed it, for in the semi-darkness beyondthe rays of the candle was a thin, eager face, prematurely lined, withcoal-black, lustrous eyes that spoke eloquently of indulgence. In aninstant I knew it to be that of the young man whom I had seen on thelevee.

  “Monsieur Auguste?” stammered Madame.

  “Bon soir, Madame,” he cried gayly, with a bow; “diable, they arealready at it, I see, and the punch in the bowl. I will win backto-night what I have lost by a week of accursed luck.”

  “Monsieur your father has relented, perhaps,” said Madame,deferentially.

  “Relented!” cried the young man, “not a sou. C’est égal! I have themeans here,” and he tapped his pocket, “I have the means here to set meon my feet again, Madame.”

  He spoke with a note of triumph, and Madame took a curious step towardshim.

  “Qu’est-ce-que c’est, Monsieur Auguste?” she inquired.

  He drew something that glittered from his pocket and beckoned to her tofollow him down the room, which she did with alacrity.

  “Ha, Adolphe,” he cried to the young man of the puffy face, “I will havemy revenge to-night. Voilà!” and he held up the shining thing, “thisgoes to the highest bidder, and you will agree that it is worth a prettysum.”

  They rose from their chairs and clustered around him at the table,Madame in their midst, staring with bent heads at the trinket which heheld to the light. It was Madame’s voice I heard first, in a kind offrightened cry.

  “Mon Dieu, Monsieur Auguste, you will not part with that!” sheexclaimed.

  “Why not?” demanded the young man, indifferently. “It was painted byBoze, the back is solid gold, and the Jew in the Rue Toulouse will giveme four hundred livres for it to-morrow morning.”

  There followed immediately such a chorus of questions, exclamations,and shrill protests from Madame Bouvet, that I (being such a laboriousFrench scholar) could distinguish but little of what they said. I lookedin wonderment at the gesticulating figures grouped against the light,Madame imploring, the youthful profile of the newcomer marked with acynical and scornful refusal. More than once I was for rising out ofmy chair to go over and see for myself what the object was, and then,suddenly, I perceived Madame Bouvet coming towards me in evidentagitation. She sank into the chair beside me.

  “If I had four hundred livres,” she said, “if I had four hundredlivres!”

  “And what then?” I asked.

  “Monsieur,” she said, “a terrible thing has happened. Auguste deSaint-Gré--”

  “Auguste de Saint-Gré!” I exclaimed.

  “He is the son of that Monsieur de Saint-Gré of whom we spoke,” sheanswered, “a wild lad, a spendthrift, a gambler, if you like. And yet heis a Saint-Gré, Monsieur, and I cannot refuse him. It is the miniatureof Mademoiselle Hélène de Saint-Gré, the daughter of the Marquis, sentto Mamselle ‘Toinette, his sister, from France. How he has obtained it Iknow not.”

  “Ah!” I exclaimed sharply, the explanation of the scene of which I hadbeen a witness coming to me swiftly. The rascal had wrenched it from herin the gallery and fled.

  “Monsieur,” continued Madame, too excited to notice my interruption,“if I had four hundred livres I would buy it of him, and Monsieur deSaint-Gré père would willingly pay it back in the morning.”

  I reflected. I had a letter in my pocket to Monsieur de Saint-Gré, thesum was not large, and the act of Monsieur Auguste de Saint-Gré in everylight was detestable. A rising anger decided me, and I took a walletfrom my pocket.

  “I will buy the miniature, Madame,” I said.

  She looked at me in astonishment.

  “God bless you, Monsieur,” she cried; “if you could see Mamselle‘Toinette you would pay twice the sum. The whole town loves her.Monsieur Auguste
, Monsieur Auguste!” she shouted, “here is a gentlemanwho will buy your miniature.”

  The six young men stopped talking and stared at me with one accord.Madame arose, and I followed her down the room towards them, and, had itnot been for my indignation, I should have felt sufficiently ridiculous.Young Monsieur de Saint-Gré came forward with the good-natured, easyinsolence to which he had been born, and looked me over.

  “Monsieur is an American,” he said.

  “I understand that you have offered this miniature for four hundredlivres,” I said.

  “It is the Jew’s price,” he answered; “mais pardieu, what will you?” headded with a shrug, “I must have the money. Regardez, Monsieur, you havea bargain. Here is Mademoiselle Hélène de Saint-Gré, daughter of my lordthe Marquis of whom I have the honor to be a cousin,” and he made a bow.“It is by the famous court painter, Joseph Boze, and Mademoiselle deSaint-Gré herself is a favorite of her Majesty.” He held the portraitclose to the candle and regarded it critically. “Mademoiselle HélèneVictoire Marie de Saint-Gré, painted in a costume of Henry the Second’stime, with a ruff, you notice, which she wore at a ball given by hisHighness the Prince of Condé at Chantilly. A trifle haughty, if youlike, Monsieur, but I venture to say you will be hopelessly in love withher within the hour.”

  At this there was a general titter from the young gentlemen at thetable.

  “All of which is neither here nor there, Monsieur,” I answered sharply.“The question is purely a commercial one, and has nothing to do with thelady’s character or position.”

  “It is well said, Monsieur,” Madame Bouvet put in.

  Monsieur Auguste de Saint-Gré shrugged his slim shoulders and laid downthe portrait on the walnut table.

  “Four hundred livres, Monsieur,” he said.

  I counted out the money, scrutinized by the curious eyes of hiscompanions, and pushed it over to him. He bowed carelessly, sat himdown, and began to shuffle the cards, while I picked up the miniatureand walked out of the room. Before I had gone twenty paces I heard themlaughing at their game and shouting out the stakes. Suddenly I bethoughtmyself of Nick. What if he should come in and discover the party at thetable? I stopped short in the hallway, and there Madame Bouvet overtookme.

  “How can I thank you, Monsieur?” she said. And then, “You will returnthe portrait to Monsieur de Saint-Gré?”

  “I have a letter from Monsieur Gratiot to that gentleman, which I shalldeliver in the morning,” I answered. “And now, Madame, I have a favor toask of you.”

  “I am at Monsieur’s service,” she answered simply.

  “When Mr. Temple comes in, he is not to go into that room,” I said,pointing to the door of the saloon; “I have my reasons for requestingit.”

  For answer Madame went to the door, closed it, and turned the key. Thenshe sat down beside a little table with a candlestick and took up herknitting.

  “It will be as Monsieur says,” she answered.

  I smiled.

  “And when Mr. Temple comes in will you kindly say that I am waiting forhim in his room?” I asked.

  “As Monsieur says,” she answered. “I wish Monsieur a good-night andpleasant dreams.”

  She took a candlestick from the table, lighted the candle, and handed itme with a courtesy. I bowed, and made my way along the gallery above thedeserted court-yard. Entering my room and closing the door after me, Idrew the miniature from my pocket and stood gazing at it for I know nothow long.