ATALANTA IN THE SOUTH.
CHAPTER I.
The time, a December afternoon within the memory of a child of ten; the place, Jackson Square, better known to history as the old Place d'Armes, the centre of all that is most interesting in the French quarter of New Orleans.
The bronze effigy of the hero whose name the square now bears is surrounded by a group of belated rose-bushes full of a sober wintry bloom. Outside of these runs the shell-strewn path, dazzling white, and harsh to tread upon. The flowers are all dead, save the hardy northern roses, but the orange-trees are heavy with their golden fruit. A group of black-skinned children are playing at leap-frog, and their young voices sound cheerfully in the ears of Philip Rondelet as he sits at the window of his modest apartment high up in one of the famous Pontalba buildings. Two sides of the square are flanked by long brick houses of a somewhat imposing character, alike in all particulars to the very monogram of their owner, wrought in fine ironwork above the central windows, where the façade rises to a high peak. The lower floors are now occupied by shops of a more or less unsavory aspect, for fashion, which once was at its height in Jackson Square, has flown to a newer and less attractive part of the city. Among the tenants of the fine old Pontalba buildings there are few to-day who claim any connection with polite society. Rondelet might have been classed with the exceptionals in this respect, as he should be in many others. He certainly was exceptional in his appearance, and no less so in his tastes, if we may judge by the glimpse we catch of him sitting in his small study under the leads, staring dreamily out into the square below. There were very few articles of furniture in the room, and the floor lacked a carpet. A third of the space, that part where the sun lay longest, was devoted to a miniature garden, where the flowers bore all the marks of a careful and loving hand. Rare and splendid orchids hung from the wall, and a superb oriental flower, looking like a vast vegetable butterfly, bloomed serenely forth from the neck of a broken wine-bottle. A row of Japanese dwarf-oaks made a sombre background for a vivid staff of Mexican cactus-flowers. In the midst of all this tropical bloom stood a large aviary, where a dozen birds twittered and trilled and dipped their dainty wings in a tiny fountain playing in the centre of the cage. A bare deal table, a lounge which had lost its cover, a worn horsehair armchair, and a set of unpainted pine shelves laden with books, completed the contents of the apartment, with one notable exception. On the mouldy, unpapered wall hung an unframed picture representing the head and shoulders of a man. At the first glance it might have passed for an ancient copy or original study of a head of Christ. On closer examination it was seen to be only the portrait of a man whose features bore the stamp of the highest intellectual beauty—a long, delicate face, with a broad, unruffled forehead, large eyes of that indefinable gray-blue tint which neither color describes, a thin, delicate nose, and a mouth of rare beauty and sensitiveness. The hair and beard, of a golden brown, fell about the shoulders, and below, folded upon the breast, were the white, nervous hands, with a delicate blue tracery of veins. If any one unsatisfied with this examination should have looked more closely at the picture, he would have been able to make out this inscription: "Philip Rondelet, from his friend Hans Makart." By the fading light of that short winter day let us look into the face of the man who is still gazing out into the sunlight slowly waning from the square below. It is the same face as that in the picture; Hans Makart, friend to Philip Rondelet, having painted the man as he was, with that superficial resemblance to the Master which at a second glance was almost lost. The beauty, the gentleness, the love, are all there; but the power which raises these elements to achieve the salvation of man is lacking.
It is already dark on the stairway, though the last sunbeam is resting for a moment on the golden cross of the cathedral over the way. A sound of stumbling in the passage causes Rondelet to glance rather nervously towards the door. He is not in the mood for visitors, if we may judge from the impatient sigh which escapes him. The sound of voices in altercation reaches him, a silence follows, and from an inner door his black servant enters the apartment.
"Well, Hero?"
"A gentleman to speak with you, sar."
"Say that I am not at home."
"I did, Marse Philip; but he says he knows yer are."
"Tell the gentleman that you have searched the extensive apartment, and that I positively am not to be found."
"Very good, sar."
Hero disappeared. Rondelet listened. There was the sound of a dispute, then a scuffle in the passage, a noise as of a person falling heavily against the wall, an exclamation in Hero's voice; and the door was thrown violently open, a stranger stood upon the threshold bowing civilly, hat in hand.
"Dr. Rondelet?"
"Rondelet is my name, sir."
"I have forced myself into your presence, in spite of your servant's refusal of admittance, because I must speak with you on a matter of the utmost importance."
Rondelet bowed and remained silent. His visitor continued—
"You are a physician?"
"I have my degree as doctor of medicine, but I am not a practising physician."
"I was told that, Doctor, by Mr. Robert Feuardent, at whose instance I have come to ask your services in a matter of the strictest confidence."
The two men had remained standing. At the mention of Feuardent's name, Rondelet motioned his visitor to his solitary arm-chair and took his seat upon the coverless sofa.
"Feuardent assured us of your great skill, especially in a case of this description."
"Surgical?"
"Yes."
"A wound?"
"It is feared a fatal one."
"It is an affair?—"
"Of honor."
"It would be wiser to seek some one of the established physicians here. I have not as yet undertaken any practice since my return from Paris. I am almost a stranger in my native city."
"It is for this reason that you would not be suspected of any connection with the affair, should it come out."
"There is danger, then, of a thorough investigation?"
"Possibly."
"I do not like the business. Besides, I don't see how I can go. I have an engagement at six o'clock which I cannot break."
"A dinner?"
"Yes."
"At Mrs. Darius Harden's?"
Rondelet looked somewhat annoyed at this cross-questioning, but nodded assent.
"Feuardent was to have been of the party. I am to carry his excuses. It is now half past five. At exactly a quarter past six I shall call for you at the Hardens'. A physician is always liable to be called away, and you will be absolved of all blame if you only put in an appearance at six."
The visitor rose, and Rondelet noticed for the first time that he wore evening-dress. His linen was crushed and tumbled, and as he buttoned his over-coat closer across his breast, the doctor's eye caught a dark-red stain on the shirt.
"The affair took place this morning?"
"Yes; I drove out from the ball."
The man was going. Rondelet made a struggle to free himself from this mystery into which he was being forced against his will.
"Monsieur, neither you nor Robert Feuardent have the right to ask this thing of me. Your name I do not even know. I refuse to be accessory to this affair. You must have had some other practitioner upon the field."
"A mere boy, who has lost his nerve and insists upon a consultation with