OLD CREOLE DAYS A STORY OF CREOLE LIFE BY GEORGE W. CABLE 1907 CONTENTS MADAME DELPHINECAFÉ DES EXILÉSBELLES DEMOISELLES PLANTATION"POSSON JONE'"JEAN-AH POQUELIN'TITE POULETTE'SIEUR GEORGEMADAME DÉLICIEUSE MADAME DELPHINE. CHAPTER I. AN OLD HOUSE. A few steps from the St. Charles Hotel, in New Orleans, brings you toand across Canal Street, the central avenue of the city, and to thatcorner where the flower-women sit at the inner and outer edges of thearcaded sidewalk, and make the air sweet with their fragrantmerchandise. The crowd--and if it is near the time of the carnival itwill be great--will follow Canal Street. But you turn, instead, into the quiet, narrow way which a lover ofCreole antiquity, in fondness for a romantic past, is still prone tocall the Rue Royale. You will pass a few restaurants, a fewauction-rooms, a few furniture warehouses, and will hardly realize thatyou have left behind you the activity and clatter of a city of merchantsbefore you find yourself in a region of architectural decrepitude, wherean ancient and foreign-seeming domestic life, in second stories, overhangs the ruins of a former commercial prosperity, and upon everything has settled down a long sabbath of decay. The vehicles in thestreet are few in number, and are merely passing through; the stores areshrunken into shops; you see here and there, like a patch of brightmould, the stall of that significant fungus, the Chinaman. Many greatdoors are shut and clamped and grown gray with cobweb; many streetwindows are nailed up; half the balconies are begrimed and rust-eaten, and many of the humid arches and alleys which characterize the olderFranco-Spanish piles of stuccoed brick betray a squalor almost oriental. Yet beauty lingers here. To say nothing of the picturesque, sometimesyou get sight of comfort, sometimes of opulence, through the unlatchedwicket in some _porte-cochère_--red-painted brick pavement, foliage ofdark palm or pale banana, marble or granite masonry and bloomingparterres; or through a chink between some pair of heavy battenwindow-shutters, opened with an almost reptile wariness, your eye gets aglimpse of lace and brocade upholstery, silver and bronze, and muchsimilar rich antiquity. The faces of the inmates are in keeping; of the passengers in the streeta sad proportion are dingy and shabby; but just when these are puttingyou off your guard, there will pass you a woman--more likely two orthree--of patrician beauty. Now, if you will go far enough down this old street, you will see, asyou approach its intersection with ----. Names in that region elude onelike ghosts. However, as you begin to find the way a trifle more open, you will notfail to notice on the right-hand side, about midway of the square, asmall, low, brick house of a story and a half, set out upon thesidewalk, as weather-beaten and mute as an aged beggar fallen asleep. Its corrugated roof of dull red tiles, sloping down toward you with aninward curve, is overgrown with weeds, and in the fall of the year isgay with the yellow plumes of the golden-rod. You can almost touch withyour cane the low edge of the broad, overhanging eaves. The battenshutters at door and window, with hinges like those of a postern, areshut with a grip that makes one's knuckles and nails feel lacerated. Save in the brick-work itself there is not a cranny. You would say thehouse has the lockjaw. There are two doors, and to each a single chippedand battered marble step. Continuing on down the sidewalk, on a linewith the house, is a garden masked from view by a high, closeboard-fence. You may see the tops of its fruit-trees--pomegranate, peach, banana, fig, pear, and particularly one large orange, close bythe fence, that must be very old. The residents over the narrow way, who live in a three-story house, originally of much pretension, but from whose front door hard times haveremoved almost all vestiges of paint, will tell you: "Yass, de 'ouse isin'abit; 'tis live in. " And this is likely to be all the information you get--not that theywould not tell, but they cannot grasp the idea that you wish toknow--until, possibly, just as you are turning to depart, yourinformant, in a single word and with the most evident non-appreciationof its value, drops the simple key to the whole matter: "Dey's quadroons. " He may then be aroused to mention the better appearance of the place informer years, when the houses of this region generally stood fartherapart, and that garden comprised the whole square. Here dwelt, sixty years ago and more, one Delphine Carraze; or, as shewas commonly designated by the few who knew her, Madame Delphine. Thatshe owned her home, and that it had been given her by the then deceasedcompanion of her days of beauty, were facts so generally admitted as tobe, even as far back as that sixty years ago, no longer a subject ofgossip. She was never pointed out by the denizens of the quarter as acharacter, nor her house as a "feature. " It would have passed all Creolepowers of guessing to divine what you could find worthy of inquiryconcerning a retired quadroon woman; and not the least puzzled of allwould have been the timid and restive Madame Delphine herself. CHAPTER II. MADAME DELPHINE. During the first quarter of the present century, the free quadroon casteof New Orleans was in its golden age. Earlier generations--sprung, uponthe one hand, from the merry gallants of a French colonial militaryservice which had grown gross by affiliation with Spanish-Americanfrontier life, and, upon the other hand from comely Ethiopians culledout of the less negroidal types of African live goods, and bought at theship's side with vestiges of quills and cowries and copper wire still intheir head-dresses, --these earlier generations, with scars of battle orprivate rencontre still on the fathers, and of servitude on themanumitted mothers, afforded a mere hint of the splendor that was toresult from a survival of the fairest through seventy-five years devotedto the elimination of the black pigment and the cultivation of hyperianexcellence and nymphean grace and beauty. Nor, if we turn to thepresent, is the evidence much stronger which is offered by the _gens decouleur_ whom you may see in the quadroon quarter this afternoon, with"Ichabod" legible on their murky foreheads through a vain smearing oftoilet powder, dragging their chairs down to the narrow gateway of theirclose-fenced gardens, and staring shrinkingly at you as you pass, like anest of yellow kittens. But as the present century was in its second and third decades, the_quadroones_ (for we must contrive a feminine spelling to define thestrict limits of the caste as then established) came forth in splendor. Old travellers spare no terms to tell their praises, their faultlessnessof feature, their perfection of form, their varied styles ofbeauty, --for there were even pure Caucasian blondes among them, --theirfascinating manners, their sparkling vivacity, their chaste and prettywit, their grace in the dance, their modest propriety, their taste andelegance in dress. In the gentlest and most poetic sense they wereindeed the sirens of this land where it seemed "always afternoon"--amomentary triumph of an Arcadian over a Christian civilization, sobeautiful and so seductive that it became the subject of specialchapters by writers of the day more original than correct as socialphilosophers. The balls that were got up for them by the male _sang-pur_ were to thatday what the carnival is to the present. Society balls given the samenights proved failures through the coincidence. The magnates ofgovernment, --municipal, state, federal, --those of the army, of thelearned professions and of the clubs, --in short, the white malearistocracy in every thing save the ecclesiastical desk, --were there. Tickets were high-priced to insure the exclusion of the vulgar. Nodistinguished stranger was allowed to miss them. They were beautiful!They were clad in silken extenuations from the throat to the feet, andwore, withal, a pathos in their charm that gave them a family likenessto innocence. Madame Delphine, were you not a stranger, could have told you all aboutit; though hardly, I suppose, without tears. But at the time of which we would speak (1821-22) her day of splendorwas set, and her husband--let us call him so for her sake--was longdead. He was an American, and, if we take her word for it, a man ofnoble heart and extremely handsome; but this is knowledge which we cando without. Even in those days the house was always shut, and Madame Delphine'schief occupation and end in life seemed to be to keep well locked upin-doors. She was an excellent person, the neighbors said, --a veryworthy person; and they were, maybe, nearer correct then they knew. Theyrarely saw her save when she went to or returned from church; a small, rather tired-looking, dark quadroone of very good features and a gentlethoughtfulness of expression which would take long to describe: call ita widow's look. In speaking of Madame Delphine's house, mention should have been made ofa gate in the fence on the Royal-street sidewalk. It is gone now, andwas out of use then, being fastened once for all by an iron stapleclasping the cross-bar and driven into the post. Which leads us to speak of another person. CHAPTER III. CAPITAINE LEMAITRE. He was one of those men that might be any age, --thirty, forty, forty-five; there was no telling from his face what was years and whatwas only weather. His countenance was of a grave and quiet, but alsoluminous, sort, which was instantly admired and ever afterwardremembered, as was also the fineness of his hair and the blueness of hiseyes. Those pronounced him youngest who scrutinized his face theclosest. But waiving the discussion of age, he was odd, though not withthe oddness that he who had reared him had striven to produce. He had not been brought up by mother or father. He had lost both ininfancy, and had fallen to the care of a rugged old military grandpa ofthe colonial school, whose unceasing endeavor had been to make "his boy"as savage and ferocious a holder of unimpeachable social rank as itbecame a pure-blooded French Creole to be who would trace his pedigreeback to the god Mars. "Remember, my boy, " was the adjuration received by him as regularly ashis waking cup of black coffee, "that none of your family line ever keptthe laws of any government or creed. " And if it was well that he shouldbear this in mind, it was well to reiterate it persistently, for, fromthe nurse's arms, the boy wore a look, not of docility so much as ofgentle, _judicial_ benevolence. The domestics of the old man's houseused to shed tears of laughter to see that look on the face of a babe. His rude guardian addressed himself to the modification of this facialexpression; it had not enough of majesty in it, for instance, or oflarge dare-deviltry; but with care these could be made to come. And, true enough, at twenty-one (in Ursin Lemaitre), the labors of hisgrandfather were an apparent success. He was not rugged, nor was heloud-spoken, as his venerable trainer would have liked to present him tosociety; but he was as serenely terrible as a well-aimed rifle, and theold man looked upon his results with pride. He had cultivated him up tothat pitch where he scorned to practise any vice, or any virtue, thatdid not include the principle of self-assertion. A few touches only werewanting here and there to achieve perfection, when suddenly the old mandied. Yet it was his proud satisfaction, before he finally lay down, tosee Ursin a favored companion and the peer, both in courtesy and pride, of those polished gentlemen famous in history, the brothers Lafitte. The two Lafittes were, at the time young Lemaitre reached his majority(say 1808 or 1812), only merchant-blacksmiths, so to speak, a termintended to convey the idea of blacksmiths who never soiled their hands, who were men of capital, stood a little higher than the clergy, andmoved in society among its autocrats. But they were full ofpossibilities, men of action, and men, too, of thought, with already apronounced disbelief in the custom-house. In these days of big carnivalsthey would have been patented as the dukes of Little Manchac andBarataria. Young Ursin Lemaitre (in full the name was Lemaitre-Vignevielle) had notonly the hearty friendship of these good people, but also a natural turnfor accounts; and as his two friends were looking about them with anenterprising eye, it easily resulted that he presently connected himselfwith the blacksmithing profession. Not exactly at the forge in theLafittes' famous smithy, among the African Samsons, who, with theirshining black bodies bared to the waist, made the Rue St. Pierre ringwith the stroke of their hammers; but as a--there was no occasion tomince the word in those days--smuggler. Smuggler--patriot--where was the difference? Beyond the ken of acommunity to which the enforcement of the revenue laws had long beenmerely so much out of every man's pocket and dish, into theall-devouring treasury of Spain. At this date they had come under akinder yoke, and to a treasury that at least echoed when the customswere dropped into it; but the change was still new. What could a man bemore than Capitaine Lemaitre was--the soul of honor, the pink ofcourtesy, with the courage of the lion, and the magnanimity of theelephant; frank--the very exchequer of truth! Nay, go higher still: hispaper was good in Toulouse Street. To the gossips in the gaming-clubs hewas the culminating proof that smuggling was one of the sublimervirtues. Years went by. Events transpired which have their place in history. Under a government which the community by and by saw was conducted intheir interest, smuggling began to lose its respectability and to growdisreputable, hazardous, and debased. In certain onslaughts made uponthem by officers of the law, some of the smugglers became murderers. Thebusiness became unprofitable for a time until the enterprisingLafittes--thinkers--bethought them of a corrective--"privateering". Thereupon the United States Government set a price upon their heads. Later yet it became known that these outlawed pirates had been offeredmoney and rank by Great Britain if they would join her standard, thenhovering about the water-approaches to their native city, and that theyhad spurned the bribe; wherefore their heads were ruled out of themarket, and, meeting and treating with Andrew Jackson, they werereceived as lovers of their country, and as compatriots fought in thebattle of New Orleans at the head of their fearless men, and--heretradition takes up the tale--were never seen afterward. Capitaine Lemaitre was not among the killed or wounded, but he was amongthe missing. CHAPTER IV. THREE FRIENDS. The roundest and happiest-looking priest in the city of New Orleans wasa little man fondly known among his people as Père Jerome. He was aCreole and a member of one of the city's leading families. His dwellingwas a little frame cottage, standing on high pillars just inside a tall, close fence, and reached by a narrow out-door stair from the greenbatten gate. It was well surrounded by crape myrtles, and communicatedbehind by a descending stair and a plank-walk with the rear entrance ofthe chapel over whose worshippers he daily spread his hands inbenediction. The name of the street--ah! there is where light iswanting. Save the Cathedral and the Ursulines, there is very little ofrecord concerning churches at that time, though they were springing uphere and there. All there is certainty of is that Père Jerome's framechapel was some little new-born "down-town" thing, that may havesurvived the passage of years, or may have escaped "Paxton's Directory""so as by fire. " His parlor was dingy and carpetless; one could smelldistinctly there the vow of poverty. His bed-chamber was bare and clean, and the bed in it narrow and hard; but between the two was a dining-roomthat would tempt a laugh to the lips of any who looked in. The table wassmall, but stout, and all the furniture of the room substantial, made offine wood, and carved just enough to give the notion of wrinklingpleasantry. His mother's and sister's doing, Père Jerome would explain;they would not permit this apartment--or department--to suffer. Therein, as well as in the parlor, there was odor, but of a more epicurean sort, that explained interestingly the Père Jerome's rotundity and rosy smile. In this room, and about this miniature round table, used sometimes tosit with Père Jerome two friends to whom he was deeply attached--one, Evariste Varrillat, a playmate from early childhood, now his brotherin-law; the other, Jean Thompson, a companion from youngest manhood, andboth, like the little priest himself, the regretful rememberers of afourth comrade who was a comrade no more. Like Père Jerome, they hadcome, through years, to the thick of life's conflicts, --the priest'sbrother-in-law a physician, the other an attorney, and brother-in-law tothe lonely wanderer, --yet they loved to huddle around this small board, and be boys again in heart while men in mind. Neither one nor anotherwas leader. In earlier days they had always yielded to him who no longermet with them a certain chieftainship, and they still thought of him andtalked of him, and, in their conjectures, groped after him, as one ofwhom they continued to expect greater things than of themselves. They sat one day drawn thus close together, sipping and theorizing, speculating upon the nature of things in an easy, bold, sophomoric way, the conversation for the most part being in French, the native tongue ofthe doctor and priest, and spoken with facility by Jean Thompson thelawyer, who was half Américain; but running sometimes into English andsometimes into mild laughter. Mention had been made of the absentee. Père Jerome advanced an idea something like this: "It is impossible for any finite mind to fix the degree of criminalityof any human act or of any human life. The Infinite One alone can knowhow much of our sin is chargeable to us, and how much to our brothers orour fathers. We all participate in one another's sins. There is acommunity of responsibility attaching to every misdeed. No human sinceAdam--nay, nor Adam himself--ever sinned entirely to himself. And so Inever am called upon to contemplate a crime or a criminal but I feel myconscience pointing at me as one of the accessories. " "In a word, " said Evariste Varrillat, the physician, "you think we arepartly to blame for the omission of many of your Paternosters, eh?" Father Jerome smiled. "No; a man cannot plead so in his own defence; our first father triedthat, but the plea was not allowed. But, now, there is our absentfriend. I tell you truly this whole community ought to be recognized aspartners in his moral errors. Among another people, reared under wisercare and with better companions, how different might he not have been!How can we speak of him as a law-breaker who might have saved him fromthat name?" Here the speaker turned to Jean Thompson, and changed hisspeech to English. "A lady sez to me to-day: 'Père Jerome, 'ow dat is adreadfool dat 'e gone at de coas' of Cuba to be one corsair! Ain't it?''Ah, madame, ' I sez, ''tis a terrible! I 'ope de good God will fo'giveme an' you fo' dat!'" Jean Thompson answered quickly: "You should not have let her say that. " "_Mais_, fo' w'y?" "Why, because, if you are partly responsible, you ought so much the moreto do what you can to shield his reputation. You should have said, "--theattorney changed to French, --"'He is no pirate; he has merely taken outletters of marque and reprisal under the flag of the republic ofCarthagena!'" "_Ah, bah_!" exclaimed Doctor Varrillat, and both he and hisbrother-in-law, the priest, laughed. "Why not?" demanded Thompson. "Oh!" said the physician, with a shrug, "say id thad way iv you wand. " Then, suddenly becoming serious, he was about to add something else, when Père Jerome spoke. "I will tell you what I could have said, I could have said: 'Madame, yes; 'tis a terrible fo' him. He stum'le in de dark; but dat good Godwill mek it a _mo' terrible fo'_ dat man oohever he is, w'at put 'atlight out!'" "But how do you know he is a pirate?" demanded Thompson, aggressively. "How do we know?" said the little priest, returning to French. "Ah!there is no other explanation of the ninety-and-nine stories that cometo us, from every port where ships arrive from the north coast of Cuba, of a commander of pirates there who is a marvel of courtesy andgentility"--[1] [Footnote 1: See gazettes of the period. ] "And whose name is Lafitte, " said the obstinate attorney. "And who, nevertheless, is not Lafitte, " insisted Père Jerome. "Daz troo, Jean, " said Doctor Varrillat. "We hall know daz troo. " Père Jerome leaned forward over the board and spoke, with an air ofsecrecy, in French. "You have heard of the ship which came into port here last Monday. Youhave heard that she was boarded by pirates, and that the captain of theship himself drove them off. " "An incredible story, " said Thompson. "But not so incredible as the truth. I have it from a passenger. Therewas on the ship a young girl who was very beautiful. She came on deck, where the corsair stood, about to issue his orders, and, more beautifulthan ever in the desperation of the moment, confronted him with a smallmissal spread open, and her finger on the Apostles' Creed, commanded himto read. He read it, uncovering his head as he read, then stood gazingon her face, which did not quail; and then with a low bow, said: 'Giveme this book and I will do your bidding. ' She gave him the book and badehim leave the ship, and he left it unmolested. " Père Jerome looked from the physician to the attorney and back again, once or twice, with his dimpled smile. "But he speaks English, they say, " said Jean Thompson. "He has, no doubt, learned it since he left us, " said the priest. "But this ship-master, too, says his men called him Lafitte. " "Lafitte? No. Do you not see? It is your brother-in-law, Jean Thompson!It is your wife's brother! Not Lafitte, but" (softly) "Lemaitre!Lemaitre! Capitaine Ursin Lemaitre!" The two guests looked at each other with a growing drollery on eitherface, and presently broke into a laugh. "Ah!" said the doctor, as the three rose up, "you juz kip dadcog-an'-bull fo' yo' negs summon. " Père Jerome's eyes lighted up-- "I goin' to do it!" "I tell you, " said Evariste, turning upon him with sudden gravity, "ivdad is troo, I tell you w'ad is sure-sure! Ursin Lemaitre din kyarenut'n fo' doze creed; _he fall in love!_" Then, with a smile, turning to Jean Thompson, and back again to PèreJerome: "But anny'ow you tell it in dad summon dad 'e hyare fo' dad creed. " Père Jerome sat up late that night, writing a letter. The remarkableeffects upon a certain mind, effects which we shall presently find himattributing solely to the influences of surrounding nature, may find forsome a more sufficient explanation in the fact that this letter was butone of a series, and that in the rover of doubted identity andincredible eccentricity Père Jerome had a regular correspondent. CHAPTER V. THE CAP FITS. About two months after the conversation just given, and thereforesomewhere about the Christmas holidays of the year 1821, Père Jeromedelighted the congregation of his little chapel with the announcementthat he had appointed to preach a sermon in French on the followingsabbath--not there, but in the cathedral. He was much beloved. Notwithstanding that among the clergy there weretwo or three who shook their heads and raised their eyebrows, and saidhe would be at least as orthodox if he did not make quite so much of theBible and quite so little of the dogmas, yet "the common people heardhim gladly. " When told, one day, of the unfavorable whispers, he smileda little and answered his informant, --whom he knew to be one of thewhisperers himself, --laying a hand kindly upon his shoulder: "Father Murphy, "--or whatever the name was, --"your words comfort me. " "How is that?" "Because--_'Voe quum benedixerint mihi homines!'_" [1] [Footnote 1: "Woe unto me when all men speak well of me!"] The appointed morning, when it came, was one of those exquisite days inwhich there is such a universal harmony, that worship rises from theheart like a spring. "Truly, " said Père Jerome to the companion who was to assist him in themass, "this is a sabbath day which we do not have to make holy, but onlyto _keep_ so. " Maybe it was one of the secrets of Père Jerome's success as a preacher, that he took more thought as to how he should feel, than as to what heshould say. The cathedral of those days was called a very plain old pile, boastingneither beauty nor riches; but to Père Jerome it was very lovely; andbefore its homely altar, not homely to him, in the performance of thosesolemn offices, symbols of heaven's mightiest truths, in the hearing ofthe organ's harmonies, and the yet more elegant interunion of humanvoices in the choir, in overlooking the worshipping throng which kneltunder the soft, chromatic lights, and in breathing the sacrificial odorsof the chancel, he found a deep and solemn joy; and yet I guess thefinest thought of his the while was one that came thrice and again: "Be not deceived, Père Jerome, because saintliness of feeling is easyhere; you are the same priest who overslept this morning, and over-ateyesterday, and will, in some way, easily go wrong to-morrow and the dayafter. " He took it with him when--the _Veni Creator_ sung--he went into thepulpit. Of the sermon he preached, tradition has preserved for us only afew brief sayings, but they are strong and sweet. "My friends, " he said, --this was near the beginning, --"the angry wordsof God's book are very merciful--they are meant to drive us home; butthe tender words, my friends, they are sometimes terrible! Notice these, the tenderest words of the tenderest prayer that ever came from the lipsof a blessed martyr--the dying words of the holy Saint Stephen, 'Lord, lay not this sin to their charge. ' Is there nothing dreadful in that?Read it thus: 'Lord, lay not this sin to their charge. ' Not to thecharge of them who stoned him? To whose charge then? Go ask the holySaint Paul. Three years afterward, praying in the temple at Jerusalem, he answered that question: 'I stood by and consented. ' He answered forhimself only; but the Day must come when all that wicked council thatsent Saint Stephen away to be stoned, and all that city of Jerusalem, must hold up the hand and say: 'We, also, Lord--we stood by. ' Ah!friends, under the simpler meaning of that dying saint's prayer for thepardon of his murderers is hidden the terrible truth that we all have ashare in one another's sins. " Thus Père Jerome touched his key-note. All that time has spared usbeside may be given in a few sentences. "Ah!" he cried once, "if it were merely my own sins that I had to answerfor, I might hold up my head before the rest of mankind; but no, no, myfriends--we cannot look each other in the face, for each has helped theother to sin. Oh, where is there any room, in this world of commondisgrace, for pride? Even if we had no common hope, a common despairought to bind us together and forever silence the voice of scorn!" And again, this: "Even in the promise to Noë, not again to destroy the race with a flood, there is a whisper of solemn warning. The moral account of theantediluvians was closed off, and the balance brought down in the yearof the deluge; but the account of those who come after runs on and on, and the blessed bow of promise itself warns us that God will not stop ittill the Judgment Day! O God, I thank thee that that day must come atlast, when thou wilt destroy the world, and stop the interest on myaccount!" It was about at this point that Père Jerome noticed, more particularlythan he had done before, sitting among the worshippers near him, asmall, sad-faced woman, of pleasing features, but dark and faded, whogave him profound attention. With her was another in better dress, seemingly a girl still in her teens, though her face and neck werescrupulously concealed by a heavy veil, and her hands, which were small, by gloves. "Quadroones, " thought he, with a stir of deep pity. Once, as he uttered some stirring word, he saw the mother and daughter(if such they were), while they still bent their gaze upon him, claspeach other's hand fervently in the daughter's lap. It was at thesewords: "My friends, there are thousands of people in this city of New Orleansto whom society gives the ten commandments of God with all the _nots_rubbed out! Ah! good gentlemen! if God sends the poor weakling topurgatory for leaving the right path, where ought some of you to go whostrew it with thorns and briers!" The movement of the pair was only seen because he watched for it. Heglanced that way again as he said: "O God, be very gentle with those children who would be nearer heaventhis day had they never had a father and mother, but had got theirreligious training from such a sky and earth as we have in Louisianathis holy morning! Ah! my friends, nature is a big-print catechism!" The mother and daughter leaned a little farther forward, and exchangedthe same spasmodic hand-pressure as before. The mother's eyes were fullof tears. "I once knew a man, " continued the little priest, glancing to a sideaisle where he had noticed Evariste and Jean sitting against each other, "who was carefully taught, from infancy to manhood, this single onlyprinciple of life: defiance. Not justice, not righteousness, not evengain; but defiance: defiance to God, defiance to man, defiance tonature, defiance to reason; defiance and defiance and defiance. " "He is going to tell it!" murmured Evariste to Jean. "This man, " continued Père Jerome, "became a smuggler and at last apirate in the Gulf of Mexico. Lord, lay not that sin to his chargealone! But a strange thing followed. Being in command of men of a sortthat to control required to be kept at the austerest distance, he nowfound himself separated from the human world and thrown into the solemncompanionship with the sea, with the air, with the storm, the calm theheavens by day, the heavens by night. My friends, that was the firsttime in his life that he ever found himself in really good company. "Now, this man had a great aptness for accounts. He had kept them--hadrendered them. There was beauty, to him, in a correct, balanced, andclosed account. An account unsatisfied was a deformity. The result isplain. That man, looking out night after night upon the grand and holyspectacle of the starry deep above and the watery deep below, was sureto find himself, sooner or later, mastered by the conviction that thegreat Author of this majestic creation keeps account of it; and onenight there came to him, like a spirit walking on the sea, the awful, silent question: 'My account with God--how does it stand?' Ah! friends, that is a question which the book of nature does not answer. "Did I say the book of nature is a catechism? Yes. But, after it answersthe first question with 'God, ' nothing but questions follow; and so, oneday, this man gave a ship full of merchandise for one little book whichanswered those questions. God help him to understand it! and God helpyou, monsieur, and you, madame, sitting here in your _smuggled clothes_, to beat upon the breast with me and cry, 'I, too, Lord--I, too, stood byand consented. '" Père Jerome had not intended these for his closing words; but justthere, straight away before his sight and almost at the farthest door, aman rose slowly from his seat and regarded him steadily with a kind, bronzed, sedate face, and the sermon, as if by a sign of command, wasended. While the Credo was being chanted he was still there; but when, amoment after its close, the eye of Père Jerome returned in thatdirection, his place was empty. As the little priest, his labor done and his vestments changed, wasturning into the Rue Royale and leaving the cathedral out of sight, hejust had time to understand that two women were purposely allowing himto overtake them, when the one nearer him spoke in the Creole _patois, _saying, with some timid haste: "Good-morning, Père--Père Jerome; Père Jerome, we thank the good God forthat sermon. " "Then, so do I, " said the little man. They were the same two that he hadnoticed when he was preaching. The younger one bowed silently; she was abeautiful figure, but the slight effort of Père Jerome's kind eyes tosee through the veil was vain. He would presently have passed on, butthe one who had spoken before said: "I thought you lived in the Rue des Ursulines. " "Yes; but I am going this way to see a sick person. " The woman looked up at him with an expression of mingled confidence andtimidity. "It must be a blessed thing to be so useful as to be needed by the goodGod, " she said. Père Jerome smiled: "God does not need me to look after his sick; but he allows me to do it, just as you let your little boy in frocks carry in chips. " He might haveadded that he loved to do it, quite as much. It was plain the woman had somewhat to ask, and was trying to getcourage to ask it. "You have a little boy?" asked the priest. "No, I have only my daughter;" she indicated the girl at her side. Thenshe began to say something else, stopped, and with much nervousnessasked: "Père Jerome, what was the name of that man?" "His name?" said the priest. "You wish to know his name?" "Yes, Monsieur" (or _Miché_, as she spoke it); "it was such a beautifulstory. " The speaker's companion looked another way. "His name, " said Father Jerome, --"some say one name and some another. Some think it was Jean Lafitte, the famous; you have heard of him? Anddo you go to my church, Madame----?" "No, Miché; not in the past; but from this time, yes. My name"--shechoked a little, and yet it evidently gave her pleasure to offer thismark of confidence--"is Madame Delphine--Delphine Carraze. " CHAPTER VI. A CRY OF DISTRESS. Père Jerome's smile and exclamation, as some days later he entered hisparlor in response to the announcement of a visitor, were indicative ofhearty greeting rather than surprise. "Madame Delphine!" Yet surprise could hardly have been altogether absent, for thoughanother Sunday had not yet come around, the slim, smallish figuresitting in a corner, looking very much alone, and clad in dark attire, which seemed to have been washed a trifle too often, was DelphineCarraze on her second visit. And this, he was confident, was over andabove an attendance in the confessional, where he was sure he hadrecognized her voice. She rose bashfully and gave her hand, then looked to the floor, andbegan a faltering speech, with a swallowing motion in the throat, smiledweakly and commenced again, speaking, as before, in a gentle, low note, frequently lifting up and casting down her eyes while shadows of anxietyand smiles of apology chased each other rapidly across her face. She wastrying to ask his advice. "Sit down, " said he; and when they had taken seats she resumed, withdowncast eyes: "You know, --probably I should have said this in the confessional, but"-- "No matter, Madame Delphine; I understand; you did not want an oracle, perhaps; you want a friend. " She lifted her eyes, shining with tears, and dropped them again. "I"--she ceased. "I have done a"--she dropped her head and shook itdespondingly--"a cruel thing. " The tears rolled from her eyes as sheturned away her face. Père Jerome remained silent, and presently she turned again, with theevident intention of speaking at length. "It began nineteen years ago--by"--her eyes, which she had lifted, felllower than ever, her brow and neck were suffused with blushes, and shemurmured--"I fell in love. " She said no more, and by and by Père Jerome replied: "Well, Madame Delphine, to love is the right of every soul. I believe inlove. If your love was pure and lawful I am sure your angel guardiansmiled upon you; and if it was not, I cannot say you have nothing toanswer for, and yet I think God may have said 'She is a quadroone; allthe rights of her womanhood trampled in the mire, sin made easy toher--almost compulsory, --charge it to account of whom it may concern. '" "No, no!" said Madame Delphine, looking up quickly, "some of it mightfall upon"--Her eyes fell, and she commenced biting her lips andnervously pinching little folds in her skirt. "He was good--as good asthe law would let him be--better, indeed, for he left me property, whichreally the strict law does not allow. He loved our little daughter verymuch. He wrote to his mother and sisters, owning all his error andasking them to take the child and bring her up. I sent her to them whenhe died, which was soon after, and did not see my child for sixteenyears. But we wrote to each other all the time, and she loved me. Andthen--at last"--Madame Delphine ceased speaking, but went on diligentlywith her agitated fingers, turning down foolish hems lengthwise of herlap. "At last your mother-heart conquered, " said Père Jerome. She nodded. "The sisters married, the mother died; I saw that even where she was shedid not escape the reproach of her birth and blood, and when she askedme to let her come"--The speaker's brimming eyes rose an instant. "Iknow it was wicked, but--I said, come. " The tears dripped through her hands upon her dress. "Was it she who was with you last Sunday?" "Yes. " "And now you do not know what to do with her?" "_Ah! c'est ça oui_!--that is it. " "Does she look like you, Madame Delphine?" "Oh, thank God", no! you would never believe she was my daughter, she iswhite and beautiful!" "You thank God for that which is your main difficulty, Madame Delphine. " "Alas! yes. " Père Jerome laid his palms tightly across his knees with his arms bowedout, and fixed his eyes upon the ground, pondering. "I suppose she is a sweet, good daughter?" said he, glancing at MadameDelphine, without changing his attitude. Her answer was to raise her eyes rapturously. "Which gives us the dilemma in its fullest force, " said the priest, speaking as if to the floor. "She has no more place than if she haddropped upon a strange planet. " He suddenly looked up with a brightnesswhich almost as quickly passed away, and then he looked down again. Hishappy thought was the cloister; but he instantly said to himself: "Theycannot have overlooked that choice, except intentionally--which theyhave a right to do. " He could do nothing but shake his head. "And suppose you should suddenly die, " he said; he wanted to get at onceto the worst. The woman made a quick gesture, and buried her head in her handkerchief, with the stifled cry: "Oh, Olive, my daughter!" "Well, Madame Delphine, " said Père Jerome, more buoyantly, "one thing issure: we _must_ find a way out of this trouble. " "Ah!" she exclaimed, looking heavenward, "if it might be!" "But it must be!" said the priest. "But how shall it be?" asked the desponding woman. "Ah!" said Père Jerome, with a shrug, "God knows. " "Yes, " said the quadroone, with a quick sparkle in her gentle eye; "andI know, if God would tell anybody, He would tell you!" The priest smiled and rose. "Do you think so? Well, leave me to think of it. I will ask Him. " "And He will tell you!" she replied. "And He will bless you!" She roseand gave her hand. As she withdrew it she smiled. "I had such a strangedream, " she said, backing toward the door. "Yes?" "Yes. I got my troubles all mixed up with your sermon. I dreamed I madethat pirate the guardian of my daughter. " Père Jerome smiled also, and shrugged. "To you, Madame Delphine, as you are placed, every white man in thiscountry, on land or on water, is a pirate, and of all pirates, I thinkthat one is, without doubt, the best. " "Without doubt, " echoed Madame Delphine, wearily, still withdrawingbackward. Père Jerome stepped forward and opened the door. The shadow of some one approaching it from without fell upon thethreshold, and a man entered, dressed in dark blue cottonade, liftingfrom his head a fine Panama hat, and from a broad, smooth brow, fairwhere the hat had covered it, and dark below, gently stroking back hisvery soft, brown locks. Madame Delphine slightly started aside, whilePère Jerome reached silently, but eagerly, forward, grasped a largerhand than his own, and motioned its owner to a seat. Madame Delphine'seyes ventured no higher than to discover that the shoes of the visitorwere of white duck. "Well, Père Jerome, " she said, in a hurried undertone, "I am just goingto say Hail Marys all the time till you find that out for me!" "Well, I hope that will be soon, Madame Carraze. Good-day, MadameCarraze. " And as she departed, the priest turned to the newcomer and extended bothhands, saying, in the same familiar dialect in which he had beenaddressing the quadroone: "Well-a-day, old playmate! After so many years!" They sat down side by side, like husband and wife, the priest playingwith the other's hand, and talked of times and seasons past, oftenmentioning Evariste and often Jean. Madame Delphine stopped short half-way home and returned to PèreJerome's. His entry door was wide open and the parlor door ajar. Shepassed through the one and with downcast eyes was standing at the other, her hand lifted to knock, when the door was drawn open and the whiteduck shoes passed out. She saw, besides, this time the blue cottonadesuit. "Yes, " the voice of Père Jerome was saying, as his face appeared in thedoor--"Ah! Madame"-- "I lef' my para_sol_, " said Madame Delphine, in English. There was this quiet evidence of a defiant spirit hidden somewhere downunder her general timidity, that, against a fierce conventionalprohibition, she wore a bonnet instead of the turban of her caste, andcarried a parasol. Père Jerome turned and brought it. He made a motion in the direction in which the late visitor haddisappeared. "Madame Delphine, you saw dat man?" "Not his face. " "You couldn' billieve me iv I tell you w'at dat man purpose to do!" "Is dad so, Père Jerome?" "He's goin' to hopen a bank!" "Ah!" said Madame Delphine, seeing she was expected to be astonished. Père Jerome evidently longed to tell something that was best keptsecret; he repressed the impulse, but his heart had to say something. Hethrew forward one hand and looking pleasantly at Madame Delphine, withhis lips dropped apart, clenched his extended hand and thrusting ittoward the ground, said in a solemn undertone: "He is God's own banker, Madame Delphine. " CHAPTER VII. MICHÉ VIGNEVIELLE. Madame Delphine sold one of the corner lots of her property. She hadalmost no revenue, and now and then a piece had to go. As a consequenceof the sale, she had a few large bank-notes sewed up in her petticoat, and one day--maybe a fortnight after her tearful interview with PèreJerome--she found it necessary to get one of these changed into smallmoney. She was in the Rue Toulouse, looking from one side to the otherfor a bank which was not in that street at all, when she noticed a smallsign hanging above a door, bearing the name "Vignevielle. " She lookedin. Père Jerome had told her (when she had gone to him to ask where sheshould apply for change) that if she could only wait a few days, therewould be a new concern opened in Toulouse Street, --it really seemed asif Vignevielle was the name, if she could judge; it looked to be, and itwas, a private banker's, --"U. L. Vignevielle's, " according to a largerinscription which met her eyes as she ventured in. Behind the counter, exchanging some last words with a busy-mannered man outside, who, inwithdrawing, seemed bent on running over Madame Delphine, stood the manin blue cottonade, whom she had met in Père Jerome's doorway. Now, forthe first time, she saw his face, its strong, grave, human kindnessshining softly on each and every bronzed feature. The recognition wasmutual. He took pains to speak first, saying, in a re-assuring tone, andin the language he had last heard her use: "'Ow I kin serve you, Madame?" "Iv you pliz, to mague dad bill change, Miché. " She pulled from her pocket a wad of dark cotton handkerchief, from whichshe began to untie the imprisoned note. Madame Delphine had anuncommonly sweet voice, and it seemed so to strike Monsieur Vignevielle. He spoke to her once or twice more, as he waited on her, each time inEnglish, as though he enjoyed the humble melody of its tone, andpresently, as she turned to go, he said: "Madame Carraze!" She started a little, but bethought herself instantly that he had heardher name in Père Jerome's parlor. The good father might even have said afew words about her after her first departure; he had such anoverflowing heart. "Madame Carraze, " said Monsieur Vignevielle, "dozekine of note wad you '_an_' me juz now is bein' contrefit. You muz tekkyah from doze kine of note. You see"--He drew from his cash-drawer anote resembling the one he had just changed for her, and proceeded topoint out certain tests of genuineness. The counterfeit, he said, was soand so. "Bud, " she exclaimed, with much dismay, "dad was de manner of my bill!Id muz be--led me see dad bill wad I give you, --if you pliz, Miché. " Monsieur Vigneville turned to engage in conversation with an employé anda new visitor, and gave no sign of hearing Madame Delphine's voice. Sheasked a second time, with like result, lingered timidly, and as heturned to give his attention to a third visitor, reiterated: "Miché Vignevielle, I wizh you pliz led"-- "Madame Carraze, " he said, turning so suddenly as to make the frightenedlittle woman start, but extending his palm with a show of frankness, andassuming a look of benignant patience, "'ow I kin fine doze note now, mongs' all de rez? Iv you p'iz nod to mague me doze troub'. " The dimmest shadow of a smile seemed only to give his words a morekindly authoritative import, and as he turned away again with a mannersuggestive of finality, Madame Delphine found no choice but to depart. But she went away loving the ground beneath the feet of Monsieur U. L. Vignevielle. "Oh, Père Jerome!" she exclaimed in the corrupt French of her caste, meeting the little father on the street a few days later, "you told thetruth that day in your parlor. _Mo conné li à c't heure_. I know himnow; he is just what you called him. " "Why do you not make him _your_ banker, also, Madame Delphine?" "I have done so this very day!" she replied, with more happiness in hereyes than Père Jerome had ever before seen there. "Madame Delphine, " he said, his own eyes sparkling, "make _him_ yourdaughter's guardian; for myself, being a priest, it would not be best;but ask him; I believe he will not refuse you. " Madame Delphine's face grew still brighter as he spoke. "It was in my mind, " she said. Yet to the timorous Madame Delphine many trifles became, one afteranother, an impediment to the making of this proposal, and many weekselapsed before further delay was positively without excuse. But atlength, one day in May, 1822, in a small private office behind MonsieurVignevielle's banking-room, --he sitting beside a table, and she, moretimid and demure than ever, having just taken a chair by the door, --shesaid, trying, with a little bashful laugh, to make the matter seemunimportant, and yet with some tremor of voice: "Miché Vignevielle, I bin maguing my will. " (Having commenced theiracquaintance in English, they spoke nothing else. ) "'Tis a good idy, " responded the banker. "I kin mague you de troub' to kib dad will fo' me Miché Vignevielle?" "Yez. " She looked up with grateful re-assurance; but her eyes dropped again asshe said: "Miché Vignevielle"--Here she choked, and began her peculiar motion oflaying folds in the skirt of her dress, with trembling fingers. Shelifted her eyes, and as they met the look of deep and placid kindnessthat was in his face, some courage returned, and she said: "Miché. " "Wad you wand?" asked he, gently. "If it arrive to me to die"-- "Yez?" Her words were scarcely audible: "I wand you teg kyah my lill' girl. " "You 'ave one lill' gal, Madame Carraze?" She nodded with her face down. "An' you godd some mo' chillen?" "No. " "I nevva know dad, Madame Carraze. She's a lill small gal?" Mothers forget their daughters' stature. Madame Delphine said: "Yez. " For a few moments neither spoke, and then Monsieur Vigneviellesaid: "I will do dad. " "Lag she been you' h-own?" asked the mother, suffering from her ownboldness. "She's a good lill' chile, eh?" "Miché, she's a lill' hangel!" exclaimed Madame Delphine, with a look ofdistress. "Yez; I teg kyah 'v 'er, lag my h-own. I mague you dad promise. " "But"--There was something still in the way, Madame Delphine seemed tothink. The banker waited in silence. "I suppose you will want to see my lill' girl?" He smiled; for she looked at him as if she would implore him to decline. "Oh, I tek you' word fo' hall dad, Madame Carraze. It mague no differendwad she loog lag; I don' wan' see 'er. " Madame Delphine's parting smile--she went very shortly--was gratitudebeyond speech. Monsieur Vignevielle returned to the seat he had left, and resumed anewspaper, --the _Louisiana Gazette_ in all probability, --which he hadlaid down upon Madame Delphine's entrance. His eyes fell upon aparagraph which had previously escaped his notice. There they rested. Either he read it over and over unwearyingly, or he was lost in thought. Jean Thompson entered. "Now, " said Mr. Thompson, in a suppressed tone bending a little acrossthe table, and laying one palm upon a package of papers which lay in theother, "it is completed. You could retire, from your business any dayinside of six hours without loss to anybody. " (Both here and elsewhere, let it be understood that where good English is given the words werespoken in good French. ) Monsieur Vignevielle raised his eyes and extended the newspaper to theattorney, who received it and read the paragraph. Its substance was thata certain vessel of the navy had returned from a cruise in the Gulf ofMexico and Straits of Florida, where she had done valuable serviceagainst the pirates--having, for instance, destroyed in one fortnight inJanuary last twelve pirate vessels afloat, two on the stocks, and threeestablishments ashore. "United States brig _Porpoise_" repeated Jean Thompson. "Do you knowher?" "We are acquainted, " said Monsieur Vignevielle. CHAPTER VIII SHE. A quiet footstep, a grave new presence on financial sidewalks, a neatgarb slightly out of date, a gently strong and kindly pensive face, asilent bow, a new sign in the Rue Toulouse, a lone figure with a cane, walking in meditation in the evening light under the willows of CanalMarigny, a long-darkened window re-lighted in the Rue Conti--these wereall; a fall of dew would scarce have been more quiet than was the returnof Ursin Lemaitre-Vignevielle to the precincts of his birth and earlylife. But we hardly give the event its right name. It was Capitaine Lemaìtrewho had disappeared; it was Monsieur Vignevielle who had come back. Thepleasures, the haunts, the companions, that had once held out theircharms to the impetuous youth, offered no enticements to MadameDelphine's banker. There is this to be said even for the pride hisgrandfather had taught him, that it had always hald him above lowindulgences; and though he had dallied with kings, queens, and knavesthrough all the mazes of Faro, Rondeau, and Craps, he had done itloftily; but now he maintained a peaceful estrangement from all. Evariste and Jean, themselves, found him only by seeking. "It is the right way, " he said to Père Jerome, the day we saw him there. "Ursin Lemaìtre is dead. I have buried him. He left a will. I am hisexecutor. " "He is crazy, " said his lawyer brother-in-law, impatiently. "On the contr-y, " replied the little priest, "'e 'as come ad hisse'f. " Evariste spoke. "Look at his face, Jean. Men with that kind of face are the last to gocrazy. " "You have not proved that, " replied Jean, with an attorney's obstinacy. "You should have heard him talk the other day about that newspaperparagraph I have taken Ursin Lemaitre's head; I have it with me; Iclaim the reward, but I desire to commute it to citizenship. ' He iscrazy. " Of course Jean Thompson did not believe what he said; but he said it, and, in his vexation, repeated it, on the _banquettes_ and at the clubs;and presently it took the shape of a sly rumor, that the returned roverwas a trifle snarled in his top-hamper. This whisper was helped into circulation by many trivial eccentricitiesof manner, and by the unaccountable oddness of some of his transactionsin business. "My dear sir!" cried his astounded lawyer, one day, "you are not runninga charitable institution!" "How do you know?" said Monsieur Vignevielle. There the conversationceased. "Why do you not found hospitals and asylums at once, " asked theattorney, at another time, with a vexed laugh, "and get the credit ofit?" "And make the end worse than the beginning, ' said the banker, with agentle smile, turning away to a desk of books. "Bah!" muttered Jean Thompson. Monsieur Vignevielle betrayed one very bad symptom. Wherever he went heseemed looking for somebody. It may have been perceptible only to thosewho were sufficiently interested in him to study his movements; butthose who saw it once saw it always. He never passed an open door orgate but he glanced in; and often, where it stood but slightly ajar, youmight see him give it a gentle push with his hand or cane It was verysingular. He walked much alone after dark. The _gurchinangoes_ (garroters, wemight say), at those times the city's particular terror by night, nevercrossed his path. He was one of those men for whom danger appears tostand aside. One beautiful summer night, when all nature seemed hushed in ecstasy, the last blush gone that told of the sun's parting, MonsieurVignevielle, in the course of one of those contemplative, uncompanionedwalks which it was his habit to take, came slowly along the more openportion of the Rue Royale, with a step which was soft without intention, occasionally touching the end of his stout cane gently to the ground andlooking upward among his old acquaintances, the stars. It was one of those southern nights under whose spell all the sternerenergies of the mind cloak themselves and lie down in bivouac, and thefancy and the imagination, that cannot sleep, slip their fetters andescape, beckoned away from behind every flowering bush andsweet-smelling tree, and every stretch of lonely, half-lighted walk, bythe genius of poetry. The air stirred softly now and then, and was stillagain, as if the breezes lifted their expectant pinions and lowered themonce more, awaiting the rising of the moon in a silence which fell uponthe fields, the roads, the gardens, the walls, and the suburban andhalf-suburban streets, like a pause in worship. And anon she rose. Monsieur Vignevielle's steps were bent toward the more central part ofthe town, and he was presently passing along a high, close, board-fence, on the right hand side of the way, when, just within this enclosure, and almost overhead, in the dark boughs of a large orange-tree, amocking-bird began the first low flute-notes of his all-night song. Itmay have been only the nearness of the songster that attracted thepasser's attention, but he paused and looked up. And then he remarked something more, --that the air where he had stoppedwas filled with the overpowering sweetness of the night-jasmine. Helooked around; it could only be inside the fence. There was a gate justthere. Would he push it, as his wont was? The grass was growing about itin a thick turf, as though the entrance had not been used for years. Aniron staple clasped the cross-bar, and was driven deep into thegate-post. But now an eye that had been in the blacksmithingbusiness--an eye which had later received high training as an eye forfastenings--fell upon that staple, and saw at a glance that the wood hadshrunk from it, and it had sprung from its hold, though without fallingout. The strange habit asserted itself; he laid his large hand upon thecross-bar; the turf at the base yielded, and the tall gate was drawnpartly open. At that moment, as at the moment whenever he drew or pushed a door orgate, or looked in at a window, he was thinking of one, the image ofwhose face and form had never left his inner vision since the day it hadmet him in his life's path and turned him face about from the way ofdestruction. The bird ceased. The cause of the interruption, standing within theopening, saw before him, much obscured by its own numerous shadows, abroad, ill-kept, many-flowered garden, among whose untrimmed rose-treesand tangled vines, and often, also, in its old walks of pounded shell, the coco-grass and crab-grass had spread riotously, and sturdy weedsstood up in bloom. He stepped in and drew the gate to after him. There, very near by, was the clump of jasmine, whose ravishing odor had temptedhim. It stood just beyond a brightly moonlit path, which turned from himin a curve toward the residence, a little distance to the right, andescaped the view at a point where it seemed more than likely a door ofthe house might open upon it. While he still looked, there fell upon hisear, from around that curve, a light footstep on the broken shells--oneonly, and then all was for a moment still again. Had he mistaken? No. The same soft click was repeated nearer by, a pale glimpse of robes camethrough the tangle, and then, plainly to view, appeared an outline--apresence--a form--a spirit--a girl! From throat to instep she was as white as Cynthia. Something above themedium height, slender, lithe, her abundant hair rolling in dark, richwaves back from her brows and down from her crown, and falling in twoheavy plaits beyond her round, broadly girt waist and full to her knees, a few escaping locks eddying lightly on her graceful neck and hertemples, --her arms, half hid in a snowy mist of sleeve, let down toguide her spotless skirts free from the dewy touch of thegrass, --straight down the path she came! Will she stop? Will she turn aside? Will she espy the dark form in thedeep shade of the orange, and, with one piercing scream, wheel andvanish? She draws near. She approaches the jasmine; she raises her arms, the sleeves falling like a vapor down to the shoulders; rises upontiptoe, and plucks a spray. O Memory! Can it be? _Can it be_? Is thishis quest, or is it lunacy? The ground seems to Monsieur Vignevielle theunsteady sea, and he to stand once more on a deck. And she? As she isnow, if she but turn toward the orange, the whole glory of the moon willshine upon her face. His heart stands still; he is waiting for her to dothat. She reaches up again; this time a bunch for her mother. That neckand throat! Now she fastens a spray in her hair. The mockingbird cannotwithhold; he breaks into song--she turns--she turns her face--it is she, it is she! Madame Delphine's daughter is the girl he met on the ship. CHAPTER IX. OLIVE She was just passing seventeen--that beautiful year when the heart ofthe maiden still beats quickly with the surprise of her new dominion, while with gentle dignity her brow accepts the holy coronation ofwomanhood. The forehead and temples beneath her loosely bound hair werefair without paleness, and meek without languor. She had the soft, lack-lustre beauty of the South; no ruddiness of coral, no waxen white, no pink of shell; no heavenly blue in the glance; but a face thatseemed, in all its other beauties, only a tender accompaniment for thelarge, brown, melting eyes, where the openness of child-nature mingleddreamily with the sweet mysteries of maiden thought. We say no color ofshell on face or throat; but this was no deficiency, that which took itsplace being the warm, transparent tint of sculptured ivory. This side doorway which led from Madame Delphine's house into her gardenwas over-arched partly by an old remnant of vine-covered lattice, andpartly by a crape-myrtle, against whose small, polished trunk leaned arustic seat. Here Madame Delphine and Olive loved to sit when thetwilights were balmy or the moon was bright. "_Chérie_, " said Madame Delphine on one of those evenings, "why do youdream so much?" She spoke in the _patois_ most natural to her, and which her daughterhad easily learned. The girl turned her face to her mother, and smiled, then dropped herglance to the hands in her own lap; which were listlessly handling theend of a ribbon. The mother looked at her with fond solicitude. Herdress was white again; this was but one night since that in whichMonsieur Vignevielle had seen her at the bush of night-jasmine. He hadnot been discovered, but had gone away, shutting the gate, and leavingit as he had found it. Her head was uncovered. Its plaited masses, quite black in themoonlight, hung down and coiled upon the bench, by her side. Her chastedrapery was of that revived classic order which the world of fashion wasagain laying aside to re-assume the medaeval bondage of the staylace;for New Orleans was behind the fashionable world, and Madame Delphineand her daughter were behind New Orleans. A delicate scarf, pale blue, of lightly netted worsted, fell from either shoulder down beside herhands. The look that was bent upon her changed perforce to one of gentleadmiration. She seemed the goddess of the garden. Olive glanced up. Madame Delphine was not prepared for the movement, andon that account repeated her question: "What are you thinking about?" The dreamer took the hand that was laid upon hers between her own palms, bowed her head, and gave them a soft kiss. The mother submitted. Wherefore, in the silence which followed, adaughter's conscience felt the burden of having withheld an answer, andOlive presently said, as the pair sat looking up into the sky: "I was thinking of Père Jerome's sermon. " Madame Delphine had feared so. Olive had lived on it ever since the dayit was preached. The poor mother was almost ready to repent having everafforded her the opportunity of hearing it. Meat and drink had become ofsecondary value to her daughter; she fed upon the sermon. Olive felt her mother's thought and knew that her mother knew her own;but now that she had confessed, she would ask a question: "Do you think, _maman_, that Père Jerome knows it was I who gave thatmissal?" "No, " said Madame Delphine, "I am sure he does not. " Another question came more timidly: "Do--do you think he knows _him_?" "Yes, I do. He said in his sermon he did. " Both remained for a long time very still, watching the moon gliding inand through among the small dark-and-white clouds. At last the daughterspoke again. "I wish I was Père--I wish I was as good as Père Jerome. " "My child, " said Madame Delphine, her tone betraying a painful summoningof strength to say what she had lacked the courage to utter, --"my child, I pray the good God you will not let your heart go after one whom youmay never see in this world!" The maiden turned her glance, and their eyes met. She cast her armsabout her mother's neck, laid her cheek upon it for a moment, and then, feeling the maternal tear, lifted her lips, and, kissing her, said: "I will not! I will not!" But the voice was one, not of willing consent, but of desperateresolution. "It would be useless, anyhow, " said the mother, laying her arm aroundher daughter's waist. Olive repeated the kiss, prolonging it passionately. "I have nobody but you, " murmured the girl; "I am a poor quadroone!" She threw back her plaited hair for a third embrace, when a sound in theshrubbery startled them. "_Qui ci pa?_" called Madame Delphine, in a frightened voice, as thetwo stood up, holding to each other. No answer. "It was only the dropping of a twig, " she whispered, after a longholding of the breath. But they went into the house and barred iteverywhere. It was no longer pleasant to sit up. They retired, and in course oftime, but not soon, they fell asleep, holding each other very tight, andfearing, even in their dreams, to hear another twig fall. CHAPTER X. BIRDS. Monsieur Vigneville looked in at no more doors or windows; but if thedisappearance of this symptom was a favorable sign, others came tonotice which were especially bad, --for instance, wakefulness. Atwell-nigh any hour of the night, the city guard, which itself dared notpatrol singly, would meet him on his slow, unmolested, sky-gazing walk. "Seems to enjoy it, " said Jean Thompson; "the worst sort of evidence. Ifhe showed distress of mind, it would not be so bad; but hiscalmness, --ugly feature. " The attorney had held his ground so long that he began really to believeit was tenable. By day, it is true, Monsieur Vignevielle was at his post in his quiet"bank. " Yet here, day by day, he was the source of more and more vividastonishment to those who held preconceived notions of a banker'scalling. As a banker, at least, he was certainly out of balance; whileas a promenader, it seemed to those who watched him that his ruling ideahad now veered about, and that of late he was ever on the quiet alert, not to find, but to evade, somebody. "Olive, my child, " whispered Madame Delphine one morning, as the pairwere kneeling side by side on the tiled floor of the church, "yonder isMiché Vignevielle! If you will only look at once--he is just passing alittle in--Ah, much too slow again; he stepped out by the side door. " The mother thought it a strange providence that Monsieur Vignevielleshould always be disappearing whenever Olive was with her. One early dawn, Madame Delphine, with a small empty basket on her arm, stepped out upon the _banquette_ in front of her house, shut andfastened the door very softly, and stole out in the direction whence youcould faintly catch, in the stillness of the daybreak, the songs of theGascon butchers and the pounding of their meat-axes on the stalls of thedistant market-house. She was going to see if she could find some birdsfor Olive, --the child's appetite was so poor; and, as she was out, shewould drop an early prayer at the cathedral. Faith and works. "One must venture something, sometimes, in the cause of religion, "thought she, as she started timorously on her way. But she had not gonea dozen steps before she repented her temerity. There was some onebehind her. There should not be any thing terrible in a footstep merely because itis masculine; but Madame Delphine's mind was not prepared to considerthat. A terrible secret was haunting her. Yesterday morning she hadfound a shoe-track in the garden. She had not disclosed the discovery toOlive, but she had hardly closed her eyes the whole night. The step behind her now might be the fall of that very shoe. Shequickened her pace, but did not leave the sound behind. She hurriedforward almost at a run; yet it was still there--no farther, no nearer. Two frights were upon her at once--one for herself, another for Olive, left alone in the house; but she had but the one prayer--"God protect mychild!" After a fearful time she reached a place of safety, thecathedral. There, panting, she knelt long enough to know the pursuitwas, at least, suspended, and then arose, hoping and praying all thesaints that she might find the way clear for her return in all haste toOlive. She approached a different door from that by which she had entered, hereyes in all directions and her heart in her throat. "Madame Carraze. " She started wildly and almost screamed, though the voice was soft andmild. Monsieur Vignevielle came slowly forward from the shade of thewall. They met beside a bench, upon which she dropped her basket. "Ah, Miché Vignevielle, I thang de good God to mid you!" "Is dad so, Madame Carraze? Fo' w'y dad is?" "A man was chase me all dad way since my 'ouse!" "Yes, Madame, I sawed him. " "You sawed 'im? Oo it was?" "'Twas only one man wad is a foolizh. De people say he's crezzie. _Mais_, he don' goin' to meg you no 'arm. " "But I was scare' fo' my lill' girl. " "Noboddie don' goin' trouble you' lill' gal, Madame Carraze. " Madame Delphine looked up into the speaker's strangely kind and patienteyes, and drew sweet reassurance from them. "Madame, " said Monsieur Vignevielle, "wad pud you bout so hearly dismorning?" She told him her errand. She asked if he thought she would find anything. "Yez, " he said, "it was possible--a few lill' _bécassines-de-mer_, ousomezin' ligue. But fo' w'y you lill' gal lose doze hapetide?" "Ah, Miché, "--Madame Delphine might have tried a thousand times againwithout ever succeeding half so well in lifting the curtain upon thewhole, sweet, tender, old, old-fashioned truth, --"Ah, Miché, she wonetell me!" "Bud, anny'ow, Madame, wad you thing?" "Miché, " she replied, looking up again with a tear standing in eithereye, and then looking down once more as she began to speak, "I thing--Ithing she's lonesome. " "You thing?" She nodded. "Ah! Madame Carraze, " he said, partly extending his hand, "you see? 'Tisimpossible to mague you' owze shud so tighd to priv-en dad. Madame, Imed one mizteg. " "Ah, _non_, Miché!" "Yez. There har nod one poss'bil'ty fo' me to be dad guardian of you'daughteh!" Madame Delphine started with surprise and alarm. "There is ondly one wad can be, " he continued. "But oo, Miché?" "God. " "Ah, Miché Vignevielle"--She looked at him appealingly. "I don' goin' to dizzerd you, Madame Carraze, " he said. She lifted her eyes. They filled. She shook her head, a tear fell, shebit her lip, smiled, and suddenly dropped her face into both hands, satdown upon the bench and wept until she shook. "You dunno wad I mean, Madame Carraze?" She did not know. "I mean dad guardian of you' daughteh godd to fine 'er now one 'uzban';an' noboddie are hable to do dad egceb de good God 'imsev. But, Madame, I tell you wad I do. " She rose up. He continued: "Go h-open you' owze; I fin' you' daughteh dad uzban'. " Madame Delphine was a helpless, timid thing; but her eyes showed she wasabout to resent this offer. Monsieur Vignevielle put forth his hand--ittouched her shoulder--and said, kindly still, and without eagerness: "One w'ite man, Madame: 'tis prattycabble. I know 'tis prattycabble. Onew'ite jantleman, Madame. You can truz me. I goin' fedge 'im. H-ondly yougo h-open you' owze. " Madame Delphine looked down, twining her handkerchief among her fingers. He repeated his proposition. "You will come firz by you'se'f?" she asked. "Iv you wand. " She lifted up once more her eye of faith. That was her answer. "Come, " he said, gently, "I wan' sen' some bird ad you' lill' gal. " And they went away, Madame Delphine's spirit grown so exaltedly boldthat she said as they went, though a violent blush followed her words: "Miché Vignevielle, I thing Père Jerome mighd be ab'e to tell yousomeboddie. " CHAPTER XI. FACE TO FACE. Madame Delphine found her house neither burned nor rifled. "_Ah! ma, piti sans popa_! Ah I my little fatherless one!" Her fadedbonnet fell back between her shoulders, hanging on by the strings, andher dropped basket, with its "few lill' _bécassines-de-mer_" danglingfrom the handle, rolled out its okra and soup-joint upon the floor. "_Mapiti_! kiss!--kiss!--kiss!" "But is it good news you have, or bad?" cried the girl, a fourth orfifth time. "_Dieu sait, ma cère; mo pas conné!_"--God knows, my darling; I cannottell! The mother dropped into a chair, covered her face with her apron, andburst into tears, then looked up with an effort to smile, and weptafresh. "What have you been doing?" asked the daughter, in a long-drawn, fondling tone. She leaned forward and unfastened her mother'sbonnet-strings. "Why do you cry?" "For nothing at all, my darling; for nothing--I am such a fool. " The girl's eyes filled. The mother looked up into her face and said: "No, it is nothing, nothing, only that"--turning her head from side toside with a slow, emotional emphasis, "Miché Vignevielle is thebest--_best_ man on the good Lord's earth!" Olive drew a chair close to her mother, sat down and took the littleyellow hands into her own white lap, and looked tenderly into her eyes. Madame Delphine felt herself yielding; she must make a show of tellingsomething: "He sent you those birds!" The girl drew her face back a little. The little woman turned away, trying in vain to hide her tearful smile, and they laughed together, Olive mingling a daughter's fond kiss with her laughter. "There is something else, " she said, "and you shall tell me. " "Yes, " replied Madame Delphine, "only let me get composed. " But she did not get so. Later in the morning she came to Olive with thetimid yet startling proposal that they would do what they could tobrighten up the long-neglected front room. Olive was mystified andtroubled, but consented, and thereupon the mother's spirits rose. The work began, and presently ensued all the thumping, the trundling, the lifting and letting down, the raising and swallowing of dust, andthe smells of turpentine, brass, pumice and woollen rags that go tocharacterize a housekeeper's _émeute_; and still, as the workprogressed, Madame Delphine's heart grew light, and her little blackeyes sparkled. "We like a clean parlor, my daughter, even though no one is ever comingto see us, eh?" she said, as entering the apartment she at last satdown, late in the afternoon. She had put on her best attire. Olive was not there to reply. The mother called but got no answer. Sherose with an uneasy heart, and met her a few steps beyond the door thatopened into the garden, in a path which came up from an old latticedbower. Olive was approaching slowly, her face pale and wild. There wasan agony of hostile dismay in the look, and the trembling and appealingtone with which, taking the frightened mother's cheeks between herpalms, she said: "_Ah! ma mère, qui vini 'ci ce soir_?"--Who is coming here this evening? "Why, my dear child, I was just saying, we like a clean"-- But the daughter was desperate: "Oh, tell me, my mother, _who_ is coming?" "My darling, it is our blessed friend, Miché Vignevielle!" "To see me?" cried the girl. "Yes. " "Oh, my mother, what have you done?" "Why, Olive, my child, " exclaimed the little mother, bursting intotears, "do you forget it is Miché Vignevielle who has promised toprotect you when I die?" The daughter had turned away, and entered the door; but she faced aroundagain, and extending her arms toward her mother, cried: "How can--he is a white man--I am a poor"-- "Ah! _chérie_, " replied Madame Delphine, seizing the outstretched hands, "it is there--it is there that he shows himself the best man alive! Hesees that difficulty; he proposes to meet it; he says he will find you asuitor!" Olive freed her hands violently, motioned her mother back, and stoodproudly drawn up, flashing an indignation too great for speech; but thenext moment she had uttered a cry, and was sobbing on the floor. The mother knelt beside her and threw an arm about her shoulders. "Oh, my sweet daughter, you must not cry! I did not want to tell you atall! I did not want to tell you! It isn't fair for you to cry so hard. Miché Vignevielle says you shall have the one you wish, or none at all, Olive, or none at all. " "None at all! none at all! None, none, none!" "No, no, Olive, " said the mother, "none at all. He brings none with himto-night, and shall bring none with him hereafter. " Olive rose suddenly, silently declined her mother's aid, and went aloneto their chamber in the half-story. Madame Delphine wandered drearily from door to window, from window todoor, and presently into the newly-furnished front room which now seemeddismal beyond degree. There was a great Argand lamp in one corner. Howshe had labored that day to prepare it for evening illumination! Alittle beyond it, on the wall, hung a crucifix. She knelt under it, withher eyes fixed upon it, and thus silently remained until its outline wasindistinguishable in the deepening shadows of evening. She arose. A few minutes later, as she was trying to light the lamp, anapproaching step on the sidewalk seemed to pause. Her heart stood still. She softly laid the phosphorus-box out of her hands. A shoe gratedsoftly on the stone step, and Madame Delphine, her heart beating ingreat thuds, without waiting for a knock, opened the door, bowed low, and exclaimed in a soft perturbed voice: "Miché Vignevielle!" He entered, hat in hand, and with that almost noiseless tread which wehave noticed. She gave him a chair and closed the door; then hastened, with words of apology, back to her task of lighting the lamp. But herhands paused in their work again, --Olive's step was on the stairs; thenit came off the stairs; then it was in the next room, and then there wasthe whisper of soft robes, a breath of gentle perfume, and a snowyfigure in the door. She was dressed for the evening. "Maman?" Madame Delphine was struggling desperately with the lamp, and at thatmoment it responded with a tiny bead of light. "I am here, my daughter. " She hastened to the door, and Olive, all unaware of a third presence, lifted her white arms, laid them about her mother's neck, and, ignoringher effort to speak, wrested a fervent kiss from her lips. The crystalof the lamp sent out a faint gleam; it grew; it spread on every side;the ceiling, the walls lighted up; the crucifix, the furniture of theroom came back into shape. "Maman!" cried Olive, with a tremor of consternation. "It is Miché Vignevielle, my daughter"-- The gloom melted swiftly away before the eyes of the startled maiden, adark form stood out against the farther wall, and the light, expandingto the full, shone clearly upon the unmoving figure and quiet face ofCapitaine Lemaitre. CHAPTER XII. THE MOTHER BIRD. One afternoon, some three weeks after Capitaine Lemaitre had called onMadame Delphine, the priest started to make a pastoral call and hadhardly left the gate of his cottage, when a person, overtaking him, plucked his gown: "Père Jerome"-- He turned. The face that met his was so changed with excitement and distress thatfor an instant he did not recognize it. "Why, Madame Delphine"-- "Oh, Père Jerome! I wan' see you so bad, so bad! _Mo oulé ditquiç'ose_, --I godd some' to tell you. " The two languages might be more successful than one, she seemed tothink. "We had better go back to my parlor, " said the priest, in their nativetongue. They returned Madame Delphine's very step was altered, --nervous and inelastic. Sheswung one arm as she walked, and brandished a turkey-tail fan. "I was glad, yass, to kedge you, " she said, as they mounted the front, outdoor stair; following her speech with a slight, unmusical laugh, andfanning herself with unconscious fury. "_Fé chaud_, " she remarked again, taking the chair he offered andcontinuing to ply the fan. Père Jerome laid his hat upon a chest of drawers, sat down opposite her, and said, as he wiped his kindly face: "Well, Madame Carraze?" Gentle as the tone was, she started, ceased fanning, lowered the fan toher knee, and commenced smoothing its feathers. "Père Jerome"--She gnawed her lip and shook her head. "Well?" She burst into tears. The priest rose and loosed the curtain of one of the windows. He did itslowly--as slowly as he could, and, as he came back, she lifted her facewith sudden energy, and exclaimed: "Oh, Père Jerome, de law is brogue! de law is brogue! I brogue it! 'Twasme! 'Twas me!" The tears gushed out again, but she shut her lips very tight, and dumblyturned away her face. Père Jerome waited a little before replying; thenhe said, very gently: "I suppose dad muss 'ave been by accyden', Madame Delphine?" The little father felt a wish--one which he often had when weeping womenwere before him--that he were an angel instead of a man, long enough topress the tearful cheek upon his breast, and assure the weeper God wouldnot let the lawyers and judges hurt her. He allowed a few moments moreto pass, and then asked: "_N'est-ce-pas_, Madame Delphine? Daz ze way, ain't it?' "No, Père Jerome, no. My daughter--oh, Père Jerome, I bethroath my lill'girl--to a w'ite man!" And immediately Madame Delphine commencedsavagely drawing a thread in the fabric of her skirt with one tremblinghand, while she drove the fan with the other. "Dey goin' git marry. " On the priest's face came a look of pained surprise. He slowly said: "Is dad possib', Madame Delphine?" "Yass, " she replied, at first without lifting her eyes; and then again, "Yass, " looking full upon him through her tears, "yaas, 'tis tru'. " He rose and walked once across the room, returned, and said, in theCreole dialect: "Is he a good man--without doubt?" "De bez in God's world!" replied Madame Delphine, with a rapturoussmile. "My poor, dear friend, " said the priest, "I am afraid you are beingdeceived by somebody. " There was the pride of an unswerving faith in the triumphant tone andsmile with which she replied, raising and slowly shaking her head: "Ah-h, no-o-o, Miché! Ah-h, no, no! Not by Ursin Lemaitre-Vignevielle!" Père Jerome was confounded. He turned again, and, with his hands at hisback and his eyes cast down, slowly paced the floor. "He _is_ a good man, " he said, by and by, as if he thought aloud. Atlength he halted before the woman "Madame Delphine"-- The distressed glance with which she had been following his steps waslifted to his eyes. "Suppose dad should be true w'at doze peop' say 'bout Ursin. " "_Qui ci ca_? What is that?" asked the quadroone, stopping her fan. "Some peop' say Ursin is crezzie. " "Ah, Père Jerome!" She leaped to her feet as if he had smitten her, andputting his words away with an outstretched arm and wide-open palm, suddenly lifted hands and eyes to heaven, and cried: "I wizh to God--_Iwizh to God_--de whole worl' was crezzie dad same way!" She sank, trembling, into her chair. "Oh, no, no, " she continued, shaking herhead, "'tis not Miché Vignevielle w'at's crezzie. " Her eyes lighted withsudden fierceness. "'Tis dad _law_! Dad _law_ is crezzie! Dad law is afool!" A priest of less heart-wisdom might have replied that the law is--thelaw; but Père Jerome saw that Madame Delphine was expecting this veryresponse. Wherefore he said, with gentleness: "Madame Delphine, a priest is not a bailiff, but a physician. How can Ihelp you?" A grateful light shone a moment in her eyes, yet there remained apiteous hostility in the tone in which she demanded: "_Mais, pou'quoi yé, fé cette méchanique là?_"--What business had theyto make that contraption? His answer was a shrug with his palms extended and a short, disclamatory"Ah. " He started to resume his walk, but turned to her again and said:"Why did they make that law? Well, they made it to keep the two racesseparate. " Madame Delphine startled the speaker with a loud, harsh, angry laugh. Fire came from her eyes and her lip curled with scorn. "Then they made a lie, Père Jerome! Separate! No-o-o! They do notwant to keep us separated; no, no! But they _do_ want to keep usdespised!" She laid her hand on her heart, and frowned upward withphysical pain. "But, very well! from which race do they want tokeep my daughter separate? She is seven parts white! The law didnot stop her from being that; and now, when she wants to be a whiteman's good and honest wife, shall that law stop her? Oh, no!" Sherose up. "No; I will tell you what that law is made for. It is madeto--punish--my--child--for--not--choosing--her--father! Père Jerome--myGod, what a law!" She dropped back into her seat. The tears came in aflood, which she made no attempt to restrain. "No, " she began again--and here she broke into English--"fo' me I don'kyare; but, Père Jerome, --'tis fo' dat I came to tell you, --dey _shallnot_ punizh my daughter!" She was on her feet again, smiting her heavingbosom with the fan. "She shall marrie oo she want!" Père Jerome had heard her out, not interrupting by so much as a motionof the hand. Now his decision was made, and he touched her softly withthe ends of his fingers. "Madame Delphine, I want you to go at 'ome Go at 'ome. " "Wad you goin' mague?" she asked. "Nottin'. But go at 'ome. Kip quite; don put you'se'f sig. I goin' seeUrsin. We trah to figs dat aw fo' you. " "You kin figs dad!" she cried, with a gleam of joy. "We goin' to try, Madame Delphine. Adieu!" He offered his hand. She seized and kissed it thrice, covering it withtears, at the same time lifting up her eyes to his and murmuring: "De bez man God evva mague!" At the door she turned to offer a more conventional good-by; but he wasfollowing her out, bareheaded. At the gate they paused an instant, andthen parted with a simple adieu, she going home and he returning for hishat, and starting again upon his interrupted business. * * * * * Before he came back to his own house, he stopped at the lodgings ofMonsieur Vignevielle, but did not find him in. "Indeed, " the servant at the door said, "he said he might not return forsome days or weeks. " So Père Jerome, much wondering, made a second detour toward theresidence of one of Monsieur Vignevielle's employés. "Yes, " said the clerk, "his instructions are to hold the business, asfar as practicable, in suspense, during his absence. Every thing is inanother name. " And then he whispered: "Officers of the Government looking for him. Information got from someof the prisoners taken months ago by the United States brig _Porpoise_. But"--a still softer whisper--"have no fear; they will never find him:Jean Thompson and Evariste Varrillat have hid him away too well forthat. " CHAPTER XIII TRIBULATION. The Saturday following was a very beautiful day. In the morning a lightfall of rain had passed across the town, and all the afternoon you couldsee signs, here and there upon the horizon, of other showers. The groundwas dry again, while the breeze was cool and sweet, smelling of wetfoliage and bringing sunshine and shade in frequent and very pleasingalternation. There was a walk in Père Jerome's little garden, of which we have notspoken, off on the right side of the cottage, with his chamber window atone end, a few old and twisted, but blossom-laden, crape-myrtles oneither hand, now and then a rose of some unpretending variety and somebunches of rue, and at the other end a shrine, in whose blue niche stooda small figure of Mary, with folded hands and uplifted eyes. No otherwindow looked down upon the spot, and its seclusion was often a greatcomfort to Père Jerome. Up and down this path, but a few steps in its entire length, the priestwas walking, taking the air for a few moments after a prolonged sittingin the confessional. Penitents had been numerous this afternoon. He wasthinking of Ursin. The officers of the Government had not found him, norhad Père Jerome seen him; yet he believed they had, in a certainindirect way, devised a simple project by which they could at any time"figs dad law, " providing only that these Government officials wouldgive over their search; for, though he had not seen the fugitive, MadameDelphine had seen him, and had been the vehicle of communication betweenthem. There was an orange-tree, where a mocking-bird was wont to singand a girl in white to walk, that the detectives wot not of. The law wasto be "figs" by the departure of the three frequenters of thejasmine-scented garden in one ship to France, where the law offered noobstacles. It seemed moderately certain to those in search of Monsieur Vignevielle(and it was true) that Jean and Evariste were his harborers; but for allthat the hunt, even for clews, was vain. The little bankingestablishment had not been disturbed. Jean Thompson had told thesearchers certain facts about it, and about its gentle proprietor aswell, that persuaded them to make no move against the concern, if thesame relations did not even induce a relaxation of their efforts for hispersonal discovery. Père Jerome was walking to and fro, with his hands behind him, ponderingthese matters. He had paused a moment at the end of the walk farthestfrom his window, and was looking around upon the sky, when, turning, hebeheld a closely veiled female figure standing at the other end, andknew instantly that it was Olive. She came forward quickly and with evident eagerness. "I came to confession, " she said, breathing hurriedly, the excitement inher eyes shining through her veil, "but I find I am too late. " "There is no too late or too early for that; I am always ready, " saidthe priest. "But how is your mother?" "Ah!"-- Her voice failed. "More trouble?" "Ah, sir, I have made trouble. Oh, Père Jerome, I am bringing so muchtrouble upon my poor mother!" Père Jerome moved slowly toward the house, with his eyes cast down, theveiled girl at his side. "It is not your fault, " he presently said. And after another pause: "Ithought it was all arranged. " He looked up and could see, even through the veil, her crimson blush. "Oh, no, " she replied, in a low, despairing voice, dropping her face. "What is the difficulty?" asked the priest, stopping in the angle of thepath, where it turned toward the front of the house. She averted her face, and began picking the thin scales of bark from acrape-myrtle. "Madame Thompson and her husband were at our house this morning. _He_had told Monsieur Thompson all about it. They were very kind to me atfirst, but they tried"--She was weeping. "What did they try to do?" asked the priest. "They tried to make me believe he is insane. " She succeeded in passing her handkerchief up under her veil. "And I suppose then your poor mother grew angry, eh?" "Yes; and they became much more so, and said if we did not write, orsend a writing, to _him_, within twenty-four hours, breaking the"-- "Engagement, " said Père Jerome. "They would give him up to the Government. Oh, Père Jerome, what shall Ido? It is killing my mother!" She bowed her head and sobbed. "Where is your mother now?" "She has gone to see Monsieur Jean Thompson. She says she has a planthat will match them all. I do not know what it is. I begged her not togo; but oh, sir, _she is_ crazy, --and I am no better. " "My poor child, " said Père Jerome, "what you seem to want is notabsolution, but relief from persecution. " "Oh, father, I have committed mortal sin, --I am guilty of pride andanger. " "Nevertheless, " said the priest, starting toward his front gate, "wewill put off your confession. Let it go until to-morrow morning; youwill find me in my box just before mass; I will hear you then. My child, I know that in your heart, now, you begrudge the time it would take; andthat is right. There are moments when we are not in place even onpenitential knees. It is so with you now. We must find your mother Goyou at once to your house; if she is there, comfort her as best you can, and _keep her in, if possible_, until I come. If she is not there, stay;leave me to find her; one of you, at least, must be where I can get wordto you promptly. God comfort and uphold you. I hope you may find her athome; tell her, for me, not to fear, "--he lifted the gate-latch, --"thatshe and her daughter are of more value than many sparrows; that God'spriest sends her that word from Him. Tell her to fix her trust in thegreat Husband of the Church and she shall yet see her child receivingthe grace-giving sacrament of matrimony. Go; I shall, in a few minutes, be on my way to Jean Thompson's, and shall find her, either there orwherever she is. Go; they shall not oppress you. Adieu!" A moment or two later he was in the street himself. CHAPTER XIV. BY AN OATH. Père Jerome, pausing on a street-corner in the last hour of sunlight, had wiped his brow and taken his cane down from under his arm to startagain, when somebody, coming noiselessly from he knew not where, asked, so suddenly as to startle him: "_Miché, commin yé pellé la rie ici_?--how do they call this streethere?" It was by the bonnet and dress, disordered though they were, rather thanby the haggard face which looked distractedly around, that he recognizedthe woman to whom he replied in her own _patois_: "It is the Rue Burgundy. Where are you going, Madame Delphine?" She almost leaped from the ground. "Oh, Père Jerome! _mo pas conné_, --I dunno. You know w'ere's dad 'ouseof Miché Jean Tomkin? _Mo courri 'ci, mo courri là, --mo pas capabe litrouvé_. I go (run) here--there--I cannot find it, " she gesticulated. "I am going there myself, " said he; "but why do you want to see JeanThompson, Madame Delphine?" "I _'blige'_ to see 'im!" she replied, jerking herself half around away, one foot planted forward with an air of excited pre-occupation; "I goddsome' to tell 'im wad I _'blige'_ to tell 'im!" "Madame Delphine"-- "Oh! Père Jerome, fo' de love of de good God, show me dad way to de'ouse of Jean Tomkin!" Her distressed smile implored pardon for her rudeness. "What are you going to tell him?" asked the priest. "Oh, Père Jerome, "--in the Creole _patois_ again, --"I am going to put anend to all this trouble--only I pray you do not ask me about it now;every minute is precious!" He could not withstand her look of entreaty. "Come, " he said, and they went. * * * * * Jean Thompson and Doctor Varrillat lived opposite each other on theBayou road, a little way beyond the town limits as then prescribed. Eachhad his large, white-columned, four-sided house among the magnolias, --his huge live-oak overshadowing either corner of the darkly shadedgarden, his broad, brick walk leading down to the tall, brick-pillaredgate, his square of bright, red pavement on the turf-covered sidewalk, and his railed platform spanning the draining-ditch, with a pair ofgreen benches, one on each edge, facing each other crosswise of thegutter. There, any sunset hour, you were sure to find the householdersitting beside his cool-robed matron, two or three slave nurses in whiteturbans standing at hand, and an excited throng of fair children, nearlyall of a size. Sometimes, at a beckon or call, the parents on one side of the way wouldjoin those on the other, and the children and nurses of both familieswould be given the liberty of the opposite platform and an ice-creamfund! Generally the parents chose the Thompson platform, its outlookbeing more toward the sunset. Such happened to be the arrangement this afternoon. The two husbands saton one bench and their wives on the other, both pairs very quiet, waiting respectfully for the day to die, and exchanging only occasionalcomments on matters of light moment as they passed through the memory. During one term of silence Madame Varrillat, a pale, thin-faced, butcheerful-looking lady, touched Madame Thompson, a person of two and ahalf times her weight, on her extensive and snowy bare elbow, directingher attention obliquely up and across the road. About a hundred yards distant, in the direction of the river, was along, pleasantly shaded green strip of turf, destined in time for asidewalk. It had a deep ditch on the nearer side, and a fence of roughcypress palisades on the farther, and these were overhung, on the onehand, by a row of bitter-orange-trees inside the enclosure, and, on theother, by a line of slanting china-trees along the outer edge of theditch. Down this cool avenue two figures were approaching side by side. They had first attracted Madame Varrillat's notice by the bright play ofsunbeams which, as they walked, fell upon them in soft, golden flashesthrough the chinks between the palisades. Madame Thompson elevated a pair of glasses which were no detraction fromher very good looks, and remarked, with the serenity of a reconnoitringgeneral. "_Père Jerome et cette milatraise_. " All eyes were bent toward them. "She walks like a man, " said Madame Varrillat, in the language withwhich the conversation had opened. "No, " said the physician, "like a woman in a state of high nervousexcitement. " Jean Thompson kept his eyes on the woman, and said: "She must not forget to walk like a woman in the State ofLouisiana, "--as near as the pun can be translated. The company laughed. Jean Thompson looked at his wife, whose applause he prized, and sheanswered by an asseverative toss of the head, leaning back andcontriving, with some effort, to get her arms folded. Her laugh wasmusical and low, but enough to make the folded arms shake gently up anddown. "Père Jerome is talking to her, " said one. The priest was at that momentendeavoring, in the interest of peace, to say a good word for the fourpeople who sat watching his approach. It was in the old strain: "Blame them one part, Madame Delphine, and their fathers, mothers, brothers, and fellow-citizens the other ninety-nine. " But to every thing she had the one amiable answer which Père Jeromeignored: "I am going to arrange it to satisfy everybody, all together. _Tout àfait_. " "They are coming here, " said Madame Varrillat, half articulately. "Well, of course, " murmured another; and the four rose up, smilingcourteously, the doctor and attorney advancing and shaking hands withthe priest. No--Père Jerome thanked them--he could not sit down. "This, I believe you know, Jean, is Madame Delphine"-- The quadroone courtesied. "A friend of mine, " he added, smiling kindly upon her, and turning, withsomething imperative in his eye, to the group. "She says she has animportant private matter to communicate. " "To me?" asked Jean Thompson. "To all of you; so I will--Good-evening. " He responded nothing to theexpressions of regret, but turned to Madame Delphine. She murmuredsomething. "Ah! yes, certainly. " He addressed the company "She wishes me to speakfor her veracity; it is unimpeachable. Well, good-evening. " He shookhands and departed. The four resumed their seats, and turned their eyes upon the standingfigure. "Have you something to say to us?" asked Jean Thompson, frowning at herlaw-defying bonnet. "Oui, " replied the woman, shrinking to one side, and laying hold of oneof the benches, "_mo oulé di' tou' ç'ose_"--I want to tell every thing. "_Miché Vignevielle la plis bon homme di moune_"--the best man in theworld; "_mo pas capabe li fé tracas_"--I cannot give him trouble. "_Mopas capable, non; m'olé di' tous ç'ose_. " She attempted to fan herself, her face turned away from the attorney, and her eyes rested on theground. "Take a seat, " said Doctor Varrillat, with some suddenness, startingfrom his place and gently guiding her sinking form into the corner ofthe bench. The ladies rose up; somebody had to stand; the two racescould not both sit down at once--at least not in that public manner. "Your salts, " said the physician to his wife. She handed the vial. Madame Delphine stood up again. "We will all go inside, " said Madame Thompson, and they passed throughthe gate and up the walk, mounted the steps, and entered the deep, cooldrawing-room. Madame Thompson herself bade the quadroone be seated. "Well?" said Jean Thompson, as the rest took chairs. "_C'est drole_"--it's funny--said Madame Delphine, with a piteous effortto smile, "that nobody thought of it. It is so plain. You have only tolook and see. I mean about Olive. " She loosed a button in the front ofher dress and passed her hand into her bosom. "And yet, Olive herselfnever thought of it. She does not know a word. " The hand came out holding a miniature. Madame Varrillat passed it toJean Thompson. "_Ouala so popa_, " said Madame Delphine. "That is her father. " It went from one to another, exciting admiration and murmured praise. "She is the image of him, " said Madame Thompson, in an austereundertone, returning it to her husband. Doctor Varrillat was watching Madame Delphine. She was very pale. Shehad passed a trembling hand into a pocket of her skirt, and now drew outanother picture, in a case the counterpart of the first. He reached outfor it, and she handed it to him. He looked at it a moment, when hiseyes suddenly lighted up and he passed it to the attorney. "_Et là_"--Madame Delphine's utterance failed--"_et là ouala sa moman_. That is her mother. " The three others instantly gathered around Jean Thompson's chair. Theywere much impressed. "It is true beyond a doubt!" muttered Madame Thompson. Madame Varrillat looked at her with astonishment. "The proof is right there in the faces, " said Madame Thompson. "Yes! yes!" said Madame Delphine, excitedly; "the proof is there! You donot want any better! I am willing to swear to it! But you want no betterproof! That is all anybody could want! My God! you cannot help but seeit!" Her manner was wild. Jean Thompson looked at her sternly. "Nevertheless you say you are willing to take your solemn oath to this. " "Certainly"-- "You will have to do it. " "Certainly, Miché Thompson, _of course_ I shall; you will make out thepaper and I will swear before God that it is true! Only"--turning to theladies--"do not tell Olive; she will never believe it. It will break herheart! It"-- A servant came and spoke privately to Madame Thompson, who rose quicklyand went to the hall Madame Delphine continued, rising unconsciously: "You see, I have had her with me from a baby. She knows no better. Hebrought her to me only two months old. Her mother had died in the ship, coming out here. He did not come straight from home here. His peoplenever knew he was married!" The speaker looked around suddenly with a startled glance. There was anoise of excited speaking in the hall. "It is not true, Madame Thompson!" cried a girl's voice. Madame Delphine's look became one of wildest distress and alarm, and sheopened her lips in a vain attempt to utter some request, when Oliveappeared a moment in the door, and then flew into her arms. "My mother! my mother! my mother!" Madame Thompson, with tears in her eyes, tenderly drew them apart andlet Madame Delphine down into her chair, while Olive threw herself uponher knees, continuing to cry: "Oh, my mother! Say you are my mother!" Madame Delphine looked an instant into the upturned face, and thenturned her own away, with a long, low cry of pain, looked again, andlaying both hands upon the suppliant's head, said: "_Oh, chère piti à moin, to pa' ma fie_!"--Oh, my darling little one, you are not my daughter!--Her eyes closed, and her head sank back; thetwo gentlemen sprang to her assistance, and laid her upon a sofaunconscious. When they brought her to herself, Olive was kneeling at her headsilently weeping. "_Maman, chère maman_!" said the girl softly, kissing her lips. "_Ma courri c'ez moin_"--I will go home--said the mother, drearily. "You will go home with me, " said Madame Varrillat, with great kindnessof manner--"just across the street here; I will take care of you tillyou feel better. And Olive will stay here with Madame Thompson. You willbe only the width of the street apart. " But Madame Delphine would go nowhere but to her home. Olive she wouldnot allow to go with her. Then they wanted to send a servant or two tosleep in the house with her for aid and protection; but all she wouldaccept was the transient service of a messenger to invite two of herkinspeople--man and wife--to come and make their dwelling with her. In course of time these two--a poor, timid, helpless pair--fell heir tothe premises. Their children had it after them; but, whether in thosehands or these, the house had its habits and continued in them; and tothis day the neighbors, as has already been said, rightly explain itsclose-sealed, uninhabited look by the all-sufficient statement that theinmates "is quadroons. " CHAPTER XV. KYRIE ELEISON. The second Saturday afternoon following was hot and calm. The lampburning before the tabernacle in Père Jerome's little church might havehung with as motionless a flame in the window behind. The lilies of St. Joseph's wand, shining in one of the half opened panes, were not morecompletely at rest than the leaves on tree and vine without, suspendedin the slumbering air. Almost as still, down under the organ-gallery, with a single band of light falling athwart his box from a small doorwhich stood ajar, sat the little priest, behind the lattice of theconfessional, silently wiping away the sweat that beaded on his brow androlled down his face. At distant intervals the shadow of some oneentering softly through the door would obscure, for a moment, the bandof light, and an aged crone, or a little boy, or some gentle presencethat the listening confessor had known only by the voice for many years, would kneel a few moments beside his waiting ear, in prayer for blessingand in review of those slips and errors which prove us all akin. The day had been long and fatiguing. First, early mass; a hasty meal;then a business call upon the archbishop in the interest of someprojected charity; then back to his cottage, and so to the banking-houseof "Vignevielle, " in the Rue Toulouse. There all was open, bright, andre-assured, its master virtually, though not actually, present. Thesearch was over and the seekers gone, personally wiser than they wouldtell, and officially reporting that (to the best of their knowledge andbelief, based on evidence, and especially on the assurances of anunexceptionable eye-witness, to wit, Monsieur Vignevielle, banker)Capitaine Lemaitre was dead and buried. At noon there had been a weddingin the little church. Its scenes lingered before Père Jerome's visionnow--the kneeling pair: the bridegroom, rich in all the excellences ofman, strength and kindness slumbering interlocked in every part andfeature; the bride, a saintly weariness on her pale face, her awesomeeyes lifted in adoration upon the image of the Saviour; the small knotsof friends behind: Madame Thompson, large, fair, self-contained; JeanThompson, with the affidavit of Madame Delphine showing through histightly buttoned coat; the physician and his wife, sharing oneexpression of amiable consent; and last--yet first--one small, shrinkingfemale figure, here at one side, in faded robes and dingy bonnet. Shesat as motionless as stone, yet wore a look of apprehension, and in thesmall, restless black eyes which peered out from the pinched and wastedface, betrayed the peacelessness of a harrowed mind; and neither therecollection of bride, nor of groom, nor of potential friends behind, nor the occupation of the present hour, could shut out from the tiredpriest the image of that woman, or the sound of his own low words ofinvitation to her, given as the company left the church--"Come toconfession this afternoon. " By and by a long time passed without the approach of any step, or anyglancing of light or shadow, save for the occasional progress fromstation to station of some one over on the right who was noiselesslygoing the way of the cross. Yet Père Jerome tarried. "She will surely come, " he said to himself; "she promised she wouldcome. " A moment later, his sense, quickened by the prolonged silence, caught asubtle evidence or two of approach, and the next moment a penitent kneltnoiselessly at the window of his box, and the whisper came tremblingly, in the voice he had waited to hear: "_Bénissez-moin, mo' Père, pa'ce que mo péché. _" (Bless me, father, forI have sinned. ) He gave his blessing. "Ainsi soit-il--Amen, " murmured the penitent, and then, in the softaccents of the Creole _patois_, continued: "'I confess to Almighty God, to the blessed Mary, ever Virgin, toblessed Michael the Archangel, to blessed John the Baptist, to the holyApostles Peter and Paul, and to all the saints, that I have sinnedexceedingly in thought, word, and deed, _through my fault, through myfault, through my most grievous fault. _' I confessed on Saturday, threeweeks ago, and received absolution, and I have performed the penanceenjoined. Since then"--There she stopped. There was a soft stir, as if she sank slowly down, and another as if sherose up again, and in a moment she said: "Olive _is_ my child. The picture I showed to Jean Thompson is thehalf-sister of my daughter's father, dead before my child was born. Sheis the image of her and of him; but, O God! Thou knowest! Oh, Olive, myown daughter!" She ceased, and was still. Père Jerome waited, but no sound came. Helooked through the window. She was kneeling, with her forehead restingon her arms--motionless. He repeated the words of absolution. Still she did not stir. "My daughter, " he said, "go to thy home in peace. " But she did not move. He rose hastily, stepped from the box, raised her in his arms, andcalled her by name: "Madame Delphine!" Her head fell back in his elbow; for an instant therewas life in the eyes--it glimmered--it vanished, and tears gushed fromhis own and fell upon the gentle face of the dead, as he looked up toheaven and cried: "Lord, lay not this sin to her charge!" CAFÉ DES EXILÉS. That which in 1835--I think he said thirty-five--was a reality in theRue Burgundy--I think he said Burgundy--is now but a reminiscence. Yetso vividly was its story told me, that at this moment the old Café desExilés appears before my eye, floating in the clouds of revery, and Idoubt not I see it just as it was in the old times. An antiquated story-and-a-half Creole cottage sitting right down on thebanquette, as do the Choctaw squaws who sell bay and sassafras andlife-everlasting, with a high, close board-fence shutting out of viewthe diminutive garden on the southern side. An ancient willow droopsover the roof of round tiles, and partly hides the discolored stucco, which keeps dropping off into the garden as though the old café wasstripping for the plunge into oblivion--disrobing for its execution. Isee, well up in the angle of the broad side gable, shaded by its rudeawning of clapboards, as the eyes of an old dame are shaded by herwrinkled hand, the window of Pauline. Oh for the image of the maiden, were it but for one moment, leaning out of the casement to hang hermocking-bird and looking down into the garden, --where, above the barrierof old boards, I see the top of the fig-tree, the pale green clump ofbananas, the tall palmetto with its jagged crown, Pauline's own twoorange-trees holding up their bands toward the window, heavy with thepromises of autumn; the broad, crimson mass of the many-stemmedoleander, and the crisp boughs of the pomegranate loaded with freckledapples, and with here and there a lingering scarlet blossom. The Café des Exilés, to use a figure, flowered, bore fruit, and droppedit long ago--or rather Time and Fate, like some uncursed Adam and Eve, came side by side and cut away its clusters, as we sever the goldenburden of the banana from its stem; then, like a banana which has borneits fruit, it was razed to the ground and made way for a newer, brightergrowth. I believe it would set every tooth on edge should I go by therenow, --now that I have heard the story, --and see the old site covered bythe "Shoo-fly Coffee-house. " Pleasanter far to close my eyes and call toview the unpretentious portals of the old café, with her children--forsuch those exiles seem to me--dragging their rocking-chairs out, andsitting in their wonted group under the long, out-reaching eaves whichshaded the banquette of the Rue Burgundy. It was in 1835 that the Café des Exilés was, as one might say, in fullblossom. Old M. D'Hemecourt, father of Pauline and host of the café, himself a refugee from San Domingo, was the cause--at least the humancause--of its opening. As its white-curtained, glazed doors expanded, emitting a little puff of his own cigarette smoke, it was like thebursting of catalpa blossoms, and the exiles came like bees, pushinginto the tiny room to sip its rich variety of tropical sirups, itslemonades, its orangeades, its orgeats, its barley-waters, and itsoutlandish wines, while they talked of dear home--that is to say, ofBarbadoes, of Martinique, of San Domingo, and of Cuba. There were Pedro and Benigno, and Fernandez and Francisco, and Benito. Benito was a tall, swarthy man, with immense gray moustachios, and hairas harsh as tropical grass and gray as ashes. When he could spare hiscigarette from his lips, he would tell you in a cavernous voice, andwith a wrinkled smile that he was "a-t-thorty-seveng. " There was Martinez of San Domingo, yellow as a canary, always sittingwith one leg curled under him and holding the back of his head in hisknitted fingers against the back of his rocking-chair. Father, mother, brother, sisters, all, had been massacred in the struggle of '21 and'22; he alone was left to tell the tale, and told it often, with thatstrange, infantile insensibility to the solemnity of his bereavement sopeculiar to Latin people. But, besides these, and many who need no mention, there were two inparticular, around whom all the story of the Café des Exilés, of old M. D'Hemecourt and of Pauline, turns as on a double centre. First, ManuelMazaro, whose small, restless eyes were as black and bright as those ofa mouse, whose light talk became his dark girlish face, and whoseredundant locks curled so prettily and so wonderfully black under thefine white brim of his jaunty Panama. He had the hands of a woman, savethat the nails were stained with the smoke of cigarettes. He could playthe guitar delightfully, and wore his knife down behind his coat-collar. The second was "Major" Galahad Shaughnessy. I imagine I can see him, inhis white duck, brass-buttoned roundabout, with his sabreless beltpeeping out beneath, all his boyishness in his sea-blue eyes, leaninglightly against the door-post of the Café des Exilés as a child leansagainst his mother, running his fingers over a basketful of fragrantlimes, and watching his chance to strike some solemn Creole under thefifth rib with a good old Irish joke. Old D'Hemecourt drew him close to his bosom. The Spanish Creoles were, as the old man termed it, both cold and hot, but never warm. MajorShaughnessy was warm, and it was no uncommon thing to find those twoapart from the others, talking in an undertone, and playing atconfidantes like two schoolgirls. The kind old man was at this timedrifting close up to his sixtieth year. There was much he could tell ofSan Domingo, whither he had been carried from Martinique in hischildhood, whence he had become a refugee to Cuba, and thence to NewOrleans in the flight of 1809. It fell one day to Manuel Mazaro's lot to discover, by sauntering withinearshot, that to Galahad Shaughnessy only, of all the children of theCafé des Exilés, the good host spoke long and confidentially concerninghis daughter. The words, half heard and magnified like objects seem in afog, meaning Manuel Mazaro knew not what, but made portentous by hissuspicious nature, were but the old man's recital of the grinding he hadgot between the millstones of his poverty and his pride, in trying solong to sustain, for little Pauline's sake, that attitude before societywhich earns respect from a surface-viewing world. It was while he wastelling this that Manuel Mazaro drew near; the old man paused in anembarrassed way; the Major, sitting sidewise in his chair, lifted hischeek from its resting-place on his elbow; and Mazaro, after standing anawkward moment, turned away with such an inward feeling as one may guesswould arise in a heart full of Cuban blood, not unmixed with Indian. As he moved off, M. D'Hemecourt resumed: that in a last extremity he hadopened, partly from dire want, partly for very love to homeless souls, the Café des Exilés. He had hoped that, as strong drink and high wordswere to be alike unknown to it, it might not prejudice sensible people;but it had. He had no doubt they said among themselves, "She is anexcellent and beautiful girl and deserving all respect;" and respectthey accorded, but their _respects_ they never came to pay. "A café is a café, " said the old gentleman. "It is nod possib' to ezcapehim, aldough de Café des Exilés is differen from de rez. " "It's different from the Café des Réfugiés, " suggested the Irishman. "Differen' as possib', " replied M. D'Hemecourt He looked about upon thewalls. The shelves were luscious with ranks of cooling sirups which healone knew how to make. The expression of his face changed from sadnessto a gentle pride, which spoke without words, saying--and let our storypause a moment to hear it say: "If any poor exile, from any island where guavas or mangoes or plantainsgrow, wants a draught which will make him see his home among thecocoa-palms, behold the Café des Exilés ready to take the poor child upand give him the breast! And if gold or silver he has them not, whyHeaven and Santa Maria, and Saint Christopher bless him! It makes nodifference. Here is a rocking-chair, here a cigarette, and here a lightfrom the host's own tinder. He will pay when he can. " As this easily pardoned pride said, so it often occurred; and if thenewly come exile said his father was a Spaniard--"Come!" old M. D'Hemecourt would cry; "another glass; it is an innocent drink; mymother was a Castilian. " But, if the exile said his mother was aFrenchwoman, the glasses would be forthcoming all the same, for "Myfather, " the old man would say, "was a Frenchman of Martinique, withblood as pure as that wine and a heart as sweet as this honey; come, aglass of orgeat;" and he would bring it himself in a quart tumbler. Now, there are jealousies and jealousies. There are people who rise upquickly and kill, and there are others who turn their hot thoughts oversilently in their minds as a brooding bird turns her eggs in the nest. Thus did Manuel Mazaro, and took it ill that Galahad should see a visionin the temple while he and all the brethren tarried without. Pauline hadbeen to the Café des Exilés in some degree what the image of the Virginwas to their churches at home; and for her father to whisper her name toone and not to another was, it seemed to Mazaro, as if the old man, werehe a sacristan, should say to some single worshiper, "Here, you may havethis madonna; I make it a present to you. " Or, if such was not thehandsome young Cuban's feeling, such, at least, was the disguise hisjealousy put on. If Pauline was to be handed down from her niche, why, then, farewell Café des Exilés. She was its preserving influence, shemade the place holy; she was the burning candles on the altar. Surelythe reader will pardon the pen that lingers in the mention of her. And yet I know not how to describe the forbearing, unspoken tendernesswith which all these exiles regarded the maiden. In the balmyafternoons, as I have said, they gathered about their mother's knee, that is to say, upon the banquette outside the door. There, lolling backin their rocking-chairs, they would pass the evening hours withoft-repeated tales of home; and the moon would come out and glide amongthe clouds like a silver barge among islands wrapped in mist, and theyloved the silently gliding orb with a sort of worship, because from hersoaring height she looked down at the same moment upon them and upontheir homes in the far Antilles. It was somewhat thus that they lookedupon Pauline as she seemed to them held up half way to heaven, they knewnot how. Ah, those who have been pilgrims; who have wandered out beyondharbor and light; whom fate hath led in lonely paths strewn with thornsand briers not of their own sowing; who, homeless in a land of homes, see windows gleaming and doors ajar, but not for them, --it is they whowell understand what the worship is that cries to any daughter of ourdear mother Eve whose footsteps chance may draw across the path, thesilent, beseeching cry, "Stay a little instant that I may look upon you. Oh, woman, beautifier of the earth! Stay till I recall the face of mysister; stay yet a moment while I look from afar, with helpless-hanginghands, upon the softness of thy cheek, upon the folded coils of thyshining hair; and my spirit shall fall down and say those prayers whichI may never again--God knoweth--say at home. " She was seldom seen; but sometimes, when the lounging exiles would besitting in their afternoon circle under the eaves, and some old manwould tell his tale of fire and blood and capture and escape, and theheads would lean forward from the chair-backs and a great stillnesswould follow the ending of the story, old M. D'Hemecourt would all atonce speak up and say, laying his hands upon the narrator's knee, "Comrade, your throat is dry, here are fresh limes; let my dear childherself come and mix you a lemonade. " Then the neighbors over the way, sitting about their doors, would by and by softly say, "See, see! thereis Pauline!" and all the exiles would rise from their rocking-chairs, take off their hats and stand as men stand in church, while Pauline cameout like the moon from a cloud, descended the three steps of the cafédoor, and stood with waiter and glass, a new Rebecca with her pitcher, before the swarthy wanderer. What tales that would have been tear-compelling, nay, heart-rending, hadthey not been palpable inventions, the pretty, womanish Mazaro from timeto time poured forth, in the ever ungratified hope that the goddessmight come down with a draught of nectar for him, it profiteth not torecount; but I should fail to show a family feature of the Café desExilés did I omit to say that these make-believe adventures were heardwith every mark of respect and credence; while, on the other hand, theywere never attempted in the presence of the Irishman. He would havemoved an eyebrow, or made some barely audible sound, or dropped someseemingly innocent word, and the whole company, spite of themselves, would have smiled. Wherefore, it may be doubted whether at any time thecurly-haired young Cuban had that playful affection for his Celticcomrade, which a habit of giving little velvet taps to Galahad's cheekmade a show of. Such was the Café des Exilés, such its inmates, such its guests, whencertain apparently trivial events began to fall around it as germs ofblight fall upon corn, and to bring about that end which cometh to allthings. The little seed of jealousy, dropped into the heart of Manuel Mazaro, wehave already taken into account. Galahad Shaughnessy began to be specially active in organizing a societyof Spanish Americans, the design of which, as set forth in itsmanuscript constitution, was to provide proper funeral honors to such oftheir membership as might be overtaken by death; and, whenever it waspracticable, to send their ashes to their native land. Next to Galahadin this movement was an elegant old Mexican physician, Dr. --, --his nameescapes me--whom the Café des Exilés sometimes took upon her lap--thatis to say door-step--but whose favorite resort was the old Café desRéfugiés in the Rue Royale (Royal Street, as it was beginning to becalled). Manuel Mazaro was made secretary. It was for some reason thought judicious for the society to hold itsmeetings in various places, now here, now there; but the most frequentrendezvous was the Café des Exilés; it was quiet; those Spanish Creoles, however they may afterward cackle, like to lay their plans noiselessly, like a hen in a barn. There was a very general confidence in this oldinstitution, a kind of inward assurance that "mother wouldn't tell;"though, after all, what great secrets could there be connected with amere burial society? Before the hour of meeting, the Café des Exilés always sent away herchildren and closed her door. Presently they would commence returning, one by one, as a flock of wild fowl will do, that has been startled upfrom its accustomed haunt. Frequenters of the Café des Réfugiés alsowould appear. A small gate in the close garden-fence let them into aroom behind the café proper, and by and by the apartment would be fullof dark-visaged men conversing in the low, courteous tone common totheir race. The shutters of doors and windows were closed and the chinksstopped with cotton; some people are so jealous of observation. On a certain night after one of these meetings had dispersed in itspeculiar way, the members retiring two by two at intervals, ManuelMazaro and M. D'Hemecourt were left alone, sitting close together in thedimly lighted room, the former speaking, the other, with no pleasantcountenance, attending. It seemed to the young Cuban a properprecaution--he was made of precautions--to speak in English. His voicewas barely audible. "---- sayce to me, 'Manuel, she t-theeng I want-n to marry hore. ' Senor, you shouth 'ave see' him laugh!" M. D'Hemecourt lifted up his head, and laid his hand upon the youngman's arm. "Manuel Mazaro, " he began, "iv dad w'ad you say is nod"-- The Cuban interrupted. "If is no' t-thrue you will keel Manuel Mazaro?--a' r-r-right-a!" "No, " said the tender old man, "no, bud h-I am positeef dad de Madjorwill shood you. " Mazaro nodded, and lifted one finger for attention. "---- sayce to me, 'Manuel, you goin' tell-a Senor D'Hemecourt, I fin'-ayou some nigh' an' cut-a you' heart ou'. An' I sayce to heem-a, 'Boat-aif Senor D'Hemecourt he fin'-in' ou' frone Pauline'"-- "_Silence!_" fiercely cried the old man. "My God! 'Sieur Mazaro, neideryou, neider somebody helse s'all h'use de nem of me daughter. It is nodpossib' dad you s'all spick him! I cannot pearmid thad. " While the old man was speaking these vehement words, the Cuban wasemphatically nodding approval. "Co-rect-a, co-rect-a, Senor, " he replied. "Senor, you' r-r-right-a;escuse-a me, Senor, escuse-a me. Senor D'Hemecourt, Mayor Shanghness', when he talkin' wi' me he usin' hore-a name o the t-thime-a!" "My fren', " said M. D'Hemecourt, rising and speaking with laboredcontrol, "I muz tell you good nighd. You 'ave sooprise me a verry greddeal. I s'all _in_vestigade doze ting; an', Manuel Mazaro, h-I am a holeman; bud I will requez you, iv dad wad you say is nod de true, my God!not to h-ever ritturn again ad de Café des Exilés. " Mazaro smiled and nodded. His host opened the door into the garden, and, as the young man stepped out, noticed even then how handsome was hisface and figure, and how the odor of the night jasmine was filling theair with an almost insupportable sweetness. The Cuban paused a moment, as if to speak, but checked himself, lifted his girlish face, and lookedup to where the daggers of the palmetto-tree were crossed upon the faceof the moon, dropped his glance, touched his Panama, and silentlyfollowed by the bare-headed old man, drew open the little garden-gate, looked cautiously out, said good-night, and stepped into the street. As M. D'Hemecourt returned to the door through which he had come, heuttered an ejaculation of astonishment. Pauline stood before him. Shespoke hurriedly in French. "Papa, papa, it is not true. " "No, my child, " he responded, "I am sure it is not true: I am sure it isall false; but why do I find you out of bed so late, little bird? Thenight is nearly gone. " He laid his hand upon her cheek. "Ah, papa, I cannot deceive you. I thought Manuel would tell yousomething of this kind, and I listened. " The father's face immediately betrayed a new and deeper distress. "Pauline, my child, " he said with tremulous voice, "if Manuel's story isall false, in the name of Heaven how could you think he was going totell it?" He unconsciously clasped his hands. The good child had one trait whichshe could not have inherited from her father; she was quick-witted anddiscerning; yet now she stood confounded. "Speak, my child, " cried the alarmed old man; "speak! let me live, andnot die. " "Oh, papa, " she cried, "I do not know!" The old man groaned. "Papa, papa, " she cried again, "I felt it; I know not how; somethingtold me. " "Alas!" exclaimed the old man, "if it was your conscience!" "No, no, no, papa, " cried Pauline, "but I was afraid of Manuel Mazaro, and I think he hates him--and I think he will hurt him in any way hecan--and I _know_ he will even try to kill him. Oh! my God!" She struck her hands together above her head, and burst into a flood oftears. Her father looked upon her with such sad sternness as his tendernature was capable of. He laid hold of one of her arms to draw a handfrom the face whither both hands had gone. "You know something else, " he said; "you know that the Major loves you, or you think so: is it not true?" She dropped both hands, and, lifting her streaming eyes that had nothingto hide straight to his, suddenly said: "I would give worlds to think so!" and sunk upon the floor. He was melted and convinced in one instant. "Oh, my child, my child, " he cried, trying to lift her. "Oh, my poorlittle Pauline, your papa is not angry. Rise, my little one; so; kissme; Heaven bless thee. Pauline, treasure, what shall I do with thee?Where shall I hide thee?" "You have my counsel already, papa. " "Yes, my child, and you were right. The Café des Exilés never shouldhave been opened. It is no place for you; no place at all. " "Let us leave it, " said Pauline. "Ah! Pauline, I would close it to-morrow if I could, but now it is toolate; I cannot. " "Why?" asked Pauline, pleadingly. She had cast an arm about his neck. Her tears sparkled with a smile. "My daughter, I cannot tell you; you must go now to bed; good-night--orgood-morning; God keep you!" "Well, then, papa, " she said, "have no fear; you need not hide me; Ihave my prayer-book, and my altar, and my garden, and my window; mygarden is my fenced city, and my window my watch-tower; do you see?" "Ah! Pauline, " responded the father, "but I have been letting the enemyin and out at pleasure. " "Good-night, " she answered, and kissed him three times on either cheek;"the blessed Virgin will take care of us; good-night; _he_ never saidthose things; not he; good-night. " The next evening Galahad Shaughnessy and Manuel Mazaro met at that "verydifferent" place, the Café des Réfugiés. There was much free talk goingon about Texan annexation, about chances of war with Mexico, about SanDomingan affairs, about Cuba and many et-ceteras. Galahad was in hisusual gay mood. He strode about among a mixed company of Louisianais, Cubans, and Américains, keeping them in a great laugh with his accountof one of Ole Bull's concerts, and how he had there extorted aninvitation from M. And Mme. Devoti to attend one of their famouschildren's fancy dress balls. "Halloo!" said he as Mazaro approached, "heer's the etheerial Angelicaherself. Look-ut heer, sissy, why ar'n't ye in the maternal arms of theCafé des Exilés?" Mazaro smiled amiably and sat down. A moment after, the Irishman, stepping away from his companions, stood before the young Cuban, andasked with a quiet business air: "D'ye want to see me, Mazaro?" The Cuban nodded, and they went aside. Mazaro, in a few quick words, looking at his pretty foot the while, told the other on no account to gonear the Café des Exilés, as there were two men hanging about there, evidently watching for him, and-- "Wut's the use o' that?" asked Galahad; "I say, wut's the use o' that?" Major Shaughnessy's habit of repeating part of his words arose fromanother, of interrupting any person who might be speaking. "They must know--I say they must know that whenever I'm nowhurs else I'mheer. What do they want?" Mazaro made a gesture, signifying caution and secrecy, and smiled, as ifto say, "You ought to know. " "Aha!" said the Irishman softly. "Why don't they come here?" "Z-afrai', " said Mazaro; "d'they frai' to do an'teen een d-these-acrowth. " "That's so, " said the Irishman; "I say, that's so. If I don't feel verymuch like go-un, I'll not go; I say, I'll not go. We've no businessto-night, eh Mazaro?" "No, Senor. " A second evening was much the same, Mazaro repeating his warning. Butwhen, on the third evening, the Irishman again repeated his willingnessto stay away from the Café des Exilés unless he should feel stronglyimpelled to go, it was with the mental reservation that he did feel verymuch in that humor, and, unknown to Mazaro, should thither repair, ifonly to see whether some of those deep old fellows were not contriving apractical joke. "Mazaro, " said he, "I'm go-un around the caurnur a bit; I want ye towait heer till I come back. I say I want ye to wait heer till I comeback; I'll be gone about three-quarters of an hour. " Mazaro assented. He saw with satisfaction the Irishman start in adirection opposite that in which lay the Café des Exilés, tarriedfifteen or twenty minutes, and then, thinking he could step around tothe Café des Exilés and return before the expiration of the allottedtime, hurried out. Meanwhile that peaceful habitation sat in the moonlight with herchildren about her feet. The company outside the door was somewhatthinner than common. M. D'Hemecourt was not among them, but was sittingin the room behind the café. The long table which the burial societyused at their meetings extended across the apartment, and a lamp hadbeen placed upon it. M. D'Hemecourt sat by the lamp. Opposite him was achair, which seemed awaiting an expected occupant. Beside the old mansat Pauline. They were talking in cautious undertones, and in French. "No, " she seemed to insist; "we do not know that he refuses to come. Weonly know that Manuel says so. " The father shook his head sadly. "When has he ever staid away threenights together before?" he asked. "No, my child; it is intentional. Manuel urges him to come, but he only sends poor excuses. " "But, " said the girl, shading her face from the lamp and speaking withsome suddenness, "why have you not sent word to him by some otherperson?" M. D'Hemecourt looked up at his daughter a moment, and then smiled athis own simplicity. "Ah!" he said. "Certainly; and that is what I will--run away, Pauline. There is Manuel, now, ahead of time!" A step was heard inside the café. The maiden, though she knew the stepwas not Mazaro's, rose hastily, opened the nearest door, anddisappeared. She had barely closed it behind her when GalahadShaughnessy entered the apartment. M'Hemecourt rose up, both surprised and confused. "Good-evening, Munsher D'Himecourt, " said the Irishman. "MunsherD'Himecourt, I know it's against rules--I say, I know it's against rulesto come in here, but"--smiling, --"I want to have a private wurd with ye. I say, I want to have a private wurd with ye. " In the closet of bottles the maiden smiled triumphantly. She also wipedthe dew from her forehead, for the place was very close and warm. With her father was no triumph. In him sadness and doubt were so mingledwith anger that he dared not lift his eyes, but gazed at the knot in thewood of the table, which looked like a caterpillar curled up. Mazaro, he concluded, had really asked the Major to come. "Mazaro tol' you?" he asked. "Yes, " answered the Irishman. "Mazaro told me I was watched, andasked"-- "Madjor, " unluckily interrupted the old man, suddenly looking up andspeaking with subdued fervor, "for w'y--iv Mazaro tol' you--for w'y youdin come more sooner? Dad is one 'eavy charge again' you. " "Didn't Mazaro tell ye why I didn't come?" asked the other, beginning tobe puzzled at his host's meaning. "Yez, " replied M. D'Hemecourt, "bud one brev zhenteman should not beafraid of"-- The young man stopped him with a quiet laugh, "Munsher D'Himecourt, "said he, "I'm nor afraid of any two men living--I say I'm nor afraid ofany two men living, and certainly not of the two that's bean a-watchin'me lately, if they're the two I think they are. " M. D'Hemecourt flushed in a way quite incomprehensible to the speaker, who nevertheless continued: "It was the charges, " he said, with some slyness in his smile. "They_are_ heavy, as ye say, and that's the very reason--I say that's thevery reason why I staid away, ye see, eh? I say that's the very reason Istaid away. " Then, indeed, there was a dew for the maiden to wipe from her brow, unconscious that every word that was being said bore a differentsignificance in the mind of each of the three. The old man was agitated. "Bud, sir, " he began, shaking his head and lifting his hand. "Bless yer soul, Munsher D'Himecourt, " interrupted the Irishman. "Wut'sthe use o' grapplin' two cut-throats, when"-- "Madjor Shaughnessy!" cried M. D'Hemecourt, losing all self-control. "H-I am nod a cud-troad, Madjor Shaughnessy, h-an I 'ave a r-r-righd towadge you. " The Major rose from his chair. "What d'ye mean?" he asked vacantly, and then: "Look-ut here, MunsherD'Himecourt, one of uz is crazy. I say one"-- "No, sar-r-r!" cried the other, rising and clenching his trembling fist. "H-I am not crezzy. I 'ave de righd to wadge dad man wad mague rimarkaboud me dotter. " "I never did no such a thing. " "You did. " "I never did no such a thing. " "Bud you 'ave jus hacknowledge'--" "I never did no such a _thing_, I tell ye, and the man that's told ye sois a liur!" "Ah-h-h-h!" said the old man, wagging his finger "Ah-h-h-h! You callManuel Mazaro one liar?" The Irishman laughed out. "Well, I should say so!" He motioned the old man into his chair, and both sat down again. "Why, Munsher D'Himecourt, Mazaro's been keepin' me away from heer witha yarn about two Spaniards watchin' for me. That's what I came in to askye about. My dear sur, do ye s'pose I wud talk about the goddess--Imean, yer daughter--to the likes o' Mazaro--I say to the likes o'Mazaro?" To say the old man was at sea would be too feeble an expression--he wasin the trough of the sea, with a hurricane of doubts and fears whirlingaround him. Somebody had told a lie, and he, having struck upon itssunken surface, was dazed and stunned. He opened his lips to say he knewnot what, when his ear caught the voice of Manuel Mazaro, replying tothe greeting of some of his comrades outside the front door. "He is comin'!" cried the old man. "Mague you'sev hide, Madjor; do notled 'im kedge you, Mon Dieu!" The Irishman smiled. "The little yellow wretch!" said he quietly, his blue eyes dancing. "I'mgoin' to catch _him_. " A certain hidden hearer instantly made up her mind to rush out betweenthe two young men and be a heroine. "_Non, non!_" exclaimed M. D'Hemecourt excitedly. "Nod in de Café desExilés--nod now, Madjor. Go in dad door, hif you pliz, Madjor. You willheer 'im w'at he 'ave to say. Mague you'sev de troub'. Nod dad door--dizone. " The Major laughed again and started toward the door indicated, but in aninstant stopped. "I can't go in theyre, " he said. "That's yer daughter's room. " "_Oui, oui, mais!_" cried the other softly, but Mazaro's step was near. "I'll just slip in heer, " and the amused Shaughnessy tripped lightly tothe closet door, drew it open in spite of a momentary resistance fromwithin which he had no time to notice, stepped into a small recess fullof shelves and bottles, shut the door, and stood face to face--the broadmoonlight shining upon her through a small, high-grated opening on oneside--with Pauline. At the same instant the voice of the young Cubansounded in the room. Pauline was in a great tremor. She made as if she would have opened thedoor and fled, but the Irishman gave a gesture of earnest protest andre-assurance. The re-opened door might make the back parlor of the Cafédes Exilés a scene of blood. Thinking of this, what could she do? Shestaid. "You goth a heap-a thro-vle, Senor, " said Manuel Mazaro, taking the seatso lately vacated. He had patted M. D'Hemecourt tenderly on the back andthe old gentleman had flinched; hence the remark, to which there was noreply. "Was a bee crowth a' the _Café the Réfugiés_, " continued the young man. "Bud, w'ere dad Madjor Shaughnessy?" demanded M. D'Hemecourt, with thelittle sternness he could command. "Mayor Shaughness'--yez-a; was there; boat-a, " with a disparaging smileand shake of the head, "_he_ woon-a come-a to you. Senor, oh' no. " The old man smiled bitterly. "_Non?_" he asked. "Oh, no, Senor!" Mazaro drew his chair closer. "Senor;" he paused, --"eeza-vary bath-a fore-a you thaughter, eh?" "W'at?" asked the host, snapping like a tormented dog. "D-theze talkin' 'bou', " answered the young man; "d-theze coffee-howcesnoth a goo' plaze-a fore hore, eh?" The Irishman and the maiden looked into each other's eyes an instant, aspeople will do when listening; but Pauline's immediately fell, and whenMazaro's words were understood, her blushes became visible even bymoonlight. "He's r-right!" emphatically whispered Galahad. She attempted to draw back a step, but found herself against theshelves. M. D'Hemecourt had not answered. Mazaro spoke again. "Boat-a you canno' help-a, eh? I know, 'out-a she gettin' marry, eh?" Pauline trembled. Her father summoned all his force and rose as if toask his questioner to leave him; but the handsome Cuban motioned himdown with a gesture that seemed to beg for only a moment more. "Senor, if a-was one man whath lo-va you' thaughter, all is possiblee tolo-va. " Pauline, nervously braiding some bits of wire which she hadunconsciously taken from a shelf, glanced up--against her will, --intothe eyes of Galahad. They were looking so steadily down upon her thatwith a great leap of the heart for joy she closed her own and halfturned away. But Mazaro had not ceased. "All is possiblee to lo-va, Senor, you shouth-a let marry hore an' tak'n'way frone d'these plaze, Senor. " "Manuel Mazaro, " said M. D'Hemecourt, again rising, "you 'ave sayenough. " "No, no, Senor; no, no; I want tell-a you--is a-one man--_whath lo-va_you' thaughter; an' I _knowce_ him!" Was there no cause for quarrel, after all? Could it be that Mazaro wasabout to speak for Galahad? The old man asked in his simplicity: "Madjor Shaughnessy?" Mazaro smiled mockingly. "Mayor Shaughness', " he said; "oh, no; not Mayor Shaughness'!" Pauline could stay no longer; escape she must, though it be in ManuelMazaro's very face. Turning again and looking up into Galahad's face ina great fright, she opened her lips to speak, but-- "Mayor Shaughness', " continued the Cuban; "_he_ nev'r-a lo-va you'thaughter. " Galahad was putting the maiden back from the door with his hand. "Pauline, " he said, "it's a lie!" "An', Senor, " pursued the Cuban, "if a was possiblee you' thaughter tolo-va heem, a-wouth-a be worse-a kine in worlt; but, Senor, _I_"-- M. D'Hemecourt made a majestic sign for silence. He had resumed hischair, but be rose up once more, took the Cuban's hat from the table andtendered it to him. "Manuel Mazaro, you 'ave"-- "Senor, I goin' tell you"-- "Manuel Mazaro, you"-- "Boat-a Senor"-- "Bud, Manuel Maz"-- "Senor, escuse-a me"-- "Huzh!" cried the old man. "Manuel Mazaro, you ave deceive' me! You 'ave_mocque_ me, Manu"-- "Senor, " cried Mazaro, "I swear-a to you that all-a what I sayin'ees-a"-- He stopped aghast. Galahad and Pauline stood before him. "Is what?" asked the blue-eyed man, with a look of quiet delight on hisface, such as Mazaro instantly remembered to have seen on it one nightwhen Galahad was being shot at in the Sucking Calf Restaurant in St. Peter Street. The table was between them, but Mazaro's hand went upward toward theback of his coat-collar. "Ah, ah!" cried the Irishman, shaking his head with a broader smile andthrusting his hand threateningly into his breast; "don't ye do that!just finish yer speech. " "Was-a notthin', " said the Cuban, trying to smile back. "Yer a liur, " said Galahad. "No, " said Mazaro, still endeavoring to smile through his agony; "z-wason'y tellin' Senor D'Hemecourt someteen z-was t-thrue. " "And I tell ye, " said Galahad, "ye'r a liur, and to be so kind an' getyersel' to the front stoop, as I'm desiruz o' kickin' ye before thecrowd. " "Madjor!" cried D'Hemecourt-- "Go, " said Galahad, advancing a step toward the Cuban. Had Manuel Mazaro wished to personate the prince of darkness, hisbeautiful face had the correct expression for it. He slowly turned, opened the door into the café, sent one glowering look behind, anddisappeared. Pauline laid her hand upon her lover's arm. "Madjor, " began her father. "Oh, Madjor and Madjor, " said the Irishman; "Munsher D'Hemecourt, justsay 'Madjor, heer's a gude wife fur ye, ' and I'll let the little serpentgo. " Thereupon, sure enough, both M. D'Hemecourt and his daughter, rushingtogether, did what I have been hoping all along, for the reader's sake, they would have dispensed with; they burst into tears; whereupon theMajor, with his Irish appreciation of the ludicrous, turned away to hidehis smirk and began good-humoredly to scratch himself first on thetemple and then on the thigh. Mazaro passed silently through the group about the door-steps, and notmany minutes afterward, Galahad Shaughnessy, having taken a place amongthe exiles, rose with the remark that the old gentleman would doubtlessbe willing to tell them good-night. Good-night was accordingly said, theCafé des Exilés closed her windows, then her doors, winked a moment ortwo through the cracks in the shutters and then went fast asleep. The Mexican physician, at Galahad's request, told Mazaro that at thenext meeting of the burial society he might and must occupy hisaccustomed seat without fear of molestation; and he did so. The meeting took place some seven days after the affair in the backparlor, and on the same ground. Business being finished, Galahad, whopresided, stood up, looking, in his white duck suit among hisdarkly-clad companions, like a white sheep among black ones, and beggedleave to order "dlasses" from the front room. I say among black sheep;yet, I suppose, than that double row of languid, effeminate faces, onewould have been taxed to find a more harmless-looking company. Theglasses were brought and filled. "Gentlemen, " said Galahad, "comrades, this may be the last time we evermeet together an unbroken body. " Martinez of San Domingo, he of the horrible experience, nodded with alurking smile, curled a leg under him and clasped his fingers behind hishead. "Who knows, " continued the speaker, "but Senor Benito, though strong andsound and har'ly thirty-seven"--here all smiled--"may be taken illtomorrow?" Martinez smiled across to the tall, gray Benito on Galahad's left, andhe, in turn, smilingly showed to the company a thin, white line of teethbetween his moustachios like distant reefs. "Who knows, " the young Irishman proceeded to inquire, "I say, who knowsbut Pedro, theyre, may be struck wid a fever?" Pedro, a short, compact man of thoroughly mixed blood, and with aneyebrow cut away, whose surname no one knew, smiled his acknowledgments. "Who knows?" resumed Galahad, when those who understood English hadexplained in Spanish to those who did not, "but they may soon need theservices not only of our good doctor heer, but of our society; and thatFernandez and Benigno, and Gonzalez and Dominguez, may not be chosen tosee, on that very schooner lying at the Picayune Tier just now, theirbeloved remains and so forth safely delivered into the hands and landsof their people. I say, who knows bur it may be so!" The company bowed graciously as who should say, "Well-turned phrases, Senor--well-turned. " "And _amigos_, if so be that such is their approoching fate, I willsay:" He lifted his glass, and the rest did the same. "I say, I will say to them, Creoles, countrymen, and lovers, bounvoyadge an' good luck to ye's. " For several moments there was much translating, bowing, and murmuredacknowledgments; Mazaro said: "_Bueno!_" and all around among the longdouble rank of moustachioed lips amiable teeth were gleaming, somewhite, some brown, some yellow, like bones in the grass. "And now, gentlemen, " Galahad recommenced, "fellow-exiles, once more. Munsher D'Himecourt, it was yer practice, until lately, to reward a goodtalker with a dlass from the hands o' yer daughter. " (_Si, si!_) "I'mbur a poor speaker. " (_Si, si, Senor, z-a-fine-a kin'-a can be; si!_)"However, I'll ask ye, not knowun bur it may be the last time we allmeet together, if ye will not let the goddess of the Café des Exilésgrace our company with her presence for just about one minute?" (_Yez-a, Senor; si; yez-a; oui. _) Every head was turned toward the old man, nodding the echoed request. "Ye see, friends, " said Galahad in a true Irish whisper, as M. D'Hemecourt left the apartment, "her poseetion has been a-growin' moreand more embarrassin' daily, and the operaytions of our society werelikely to make it wurse in the future; wherefore I have lately takensteps--I say I tuke steps this morn to relieve the old gentleman'sdistresses and his daughter's"-- He paused. M. D'Hemecourt entered with Pauline, and the exiles all roseup. Ah!--but why say again she was lovely? Galahad stepped forward to meet her, took her hand, led her to the headof the board, and turning to the company, said: "Friends and fellow-patriots, Misthress Shaughnessy. " There was no outburst of astonishment--only the same old bowing, smiling, and murmuring of compliment. Galahad turned with a puzzled lookto M. D'Hemecourt, and guessed the truth. In the joy of an old man'sheart he had already that afternoon told the truth to each and every manseparately, as a secret too deep for them to reveal, but too sweet forhim to keep. The Major and Pauline were man and wife. The last laugh that was ever heard in the Café des Exilés sounded softlythrough the room. "Lads, " said the Irishman. "Fill yer dlasses. Here's to the Café desExilés, God bless her!" And the meeting slowly adjourned. Two days later, signs and rumors of sickness began to find place aboutthe Café des Réfugiés, and the Mexican physician made three calls in oneday. It was said by the people around that the tall Cuban gentlemannamed Benito was very sick in one of the back rooms. A similar frequencyof the same physician's calls was noticed about the Café des Exilés. "The man with one eyebrow, " said the neighbors, "is sick. Pauline leftthe house yesterday to make room for him. " "Ah! is it possible?" "Yes, it is really true; she and her husband. She took her mocking-birdwith her; he carried it; he came back alone. " On the next afternoon the children about the Café des Réfugiés enjoyedthe spectacle of the invalid Cuban moved on a trestle to the Café desExilés, although he did not look so deathly sick as they could haveliked to see him, and on the fourth morning the doors of the Café desExilés remained closed. A black-bordered funeral notice, veiled withcrape, announced that the great Caller-home of exiles had served hissummons upon Don Pedro Hernandez (surname borrowed for the occasion), and Don Carlos Mendez y Benito. The hour for the funeral was fixed at four P. M. It never took place. Down at the Picayune Tier on the river bank there was, about two o'clockthat same day, a slight commotion, and those who stood aimlessly about asmall, neat schooner, said she was "seized. " At four there suddenlyappeared before the Café des Exilés a squad of men with silver crescentson their breasts--police officers. The old cottage sat silent withclosed doors, the crape hanging heavily over the funeral notice like awidow's veil, the little unseen garden sending up odors from its hiddencensers, and the old weeping-willow bending over all. "Nobody here?" asks the leader. The crowd which has gathered stares without answering. As quietly and peaceably as possible the officers pry open the door. They enter, and the crowd pushes in after. There are the two coffins, looking very heavy and solid, lying in state but unguarded. The crowd draws a breath of astonishment. "Are they going to wrench thetops off with hatchet and chisel?" Bap, rap, rap; wrench, rap, wrench. Ah! the cases come open. "Well kept?" asks the leader flippantly. "Oh, yes, " is the reply. And then all laugh. One of the lookers-on pushes up and gets a glimpse within. "What is it?" ask the other idlers. He tells one quietly. "What did he say?" ask the rest, one of another. "He says they are not dead men, but new muskets"-- "Here, clear out!" cries an officer, and the loiterers fall back and byand by straggle off. The exiles? What became of them, do you ask? Why, nothing; they were nottroubled, but they never all came together again. Said a chief-of-policeto Major Shaughnessy years afterward: "Major, there was only one thing that kept your expedition fromsucceeding--you were too sly about it. Had you come out flat and saidwhat you were doing, we'd never a-said a word to you. But that littlefellow gave us the wink, and then we had to stop you. " And was no one punished? Alas! one was. Poor, pretty, curly-headedtraitorous Mazaro! He was drawn out of Carondelet Canal--cold, dead! Andwhen his wounds were counted--they were just the number of the Café desExilés' children, less Galahad. But the mother--that is, the oldcafé--did not see it; she had gone up the night before in a chariot offire. In the files of the old "Picayune" and "Price-Current" of 1837 may beseen the mention of Galahad Shaughnessy among the merchants--"ourenterprising and accomplished fellow-townsman, " and all that. But old M. D'Hemecourt's name is cut in marble, and his citizenship is in "a citywhose maker and builder is God. " Only yesterday I dined with the Shaughnessys--fine old couple andhandsome. Their children sat about them and entertained me mostpleasantly. But there isn't one can tell a tale as their fathercan--'twas he told me this one, though here and there my enthusiasm mayhave taken liberties. He knows the history of every old house in theFrench Quarter; or, if he happens not to know a true one, he can makeone up as he goes along. BELLES DEMOISELLES PLANTATION. The original grantee was Count----, assume the name to be De Charleu;the old Creoles never forgive a public mention. He was the French king'scommissary. One day, called to France to explain the lucky accident ofthe commissariat having burned down with his account-books inside, heleft his wife, a Choctaw Comptesse, behind. Arrived at court, his excuses were accepted, and that tract granted himwhere afterwards stood Belles Demoiselles Plantation. A man cannotremember every thing! In a fit of forgetfulness he married a Frenchgentlewoman, rich and beautiful, and "brought her out. " However, "All'swell that ends well;" a famine had been in the colony, and the ChoctawComptesse had starved, leaving nought but a half-caste orphan familylurking on the edge of the settlement, bearing our French gentlewoman'sown new name, and being mentioned in Monsieur's will. And the new Comptesse--she tarried but a twelvemonth, left Monsieur alovely son, and departed, led out of this vain world by the swamp-fever. From this son sprang the proud Creole family of De Charleu. It rosestraight up, up, up, generation after generation, tall, branchless, slender, palm-like; and finally, in the time of which I am to tell, flowered with all the rare beauty of a century-plant, in Artemise, Innocente, Felicité, the twins Marie and Martha, Leontine and littleSeptima; the seven beautiful daughters for whom their home had beenfitly named Belles Demoiselles. The Count's grant had once been a long Pointe, round which theMississippi used to whirl, and seethe, and foam, that it was horrid tobehold. Big whirlpools would open and wheel about in the savage eddiesunder the low bank, and close up again, and others open, and spin, anddisappear. Great circles of muddy surface would boil up from hundreds offeet below, and gloss over, and seem to float away, --sink, come backagain under water, and with only a soft hiss surge up again, and againdrift off, and vanish. Every few minutes the loamy bank would tip down agreat load of earth upon its besieger, and fall back a foot, --sometimesa yard, --and the writhing river would press after, until at last thePointe was quite swallowed up, and the great river glided by in amajestic curve, and asked no more; the bank stood fast, the "caving"became a forgotten misfortune, and the diminished grant was a long, sweeping, willowy bend, rustling with miles of sugar-cane. Coming up the Mississippi in the sailing craft of those early days, about the time one first could descry the white spires of the old St. Louis Cathedral, you would be pretty sure to spy, just over to yourright under the levee, Belles Demoiselles Mansion, with its broadveranda and red painted cypress roof, peering over the embankment, likea bird in the nest, half hid by the avenue of willows which one of thedeparted De Charleus, --he that married a Marot, --had planted on thelevee's crown. The house stood unusually near the river, facing eastward, and standingfour-square, with an immense veranda about its sides, and a flight ofsteps in front spreading broadly downward, as we open arms to a child. From the veranda nine miles of river were seen; and in their compass, near at hand, the shady garden full of rare and beautiful flowers;farther away broad fields of cane and rice, and the distant quarters ofthe slaves, and on the horizon everywhere a dark belt of cypress forest. The master was old Colonel De Charleu, --Jean Albert Henri Joseph DeCharleu-Marot, and "Colonel" by the grace of the first Americangovernor. Monsieur, --he would not speak to any one who called him"Colonel, "--was a hoary-headed patriarch. His step was firm, his formerect, his intellect strong and clear, his countenance classic, serene, dignified, commanding, his manners courtly, his voice musical, --fascinating. He had had his vices, --all his life; but had borne them, as his race do, with a serenity of conscience and a cleanness of mouththat left no outward blemish on the surface of the gentleman. He hadgambled in Royal Street, drunk hard in Orleans Street, run his adversarythrough in the duelling-ground at Slaughter-house Point, and danced andquarrelled at the St. Philippe-street-theatre quadroon balls. Even now, with all his courtesy and bounty, and a hospitality which seemed to beentertaining angels, he was bitter-proud and penurious, and deep down inhis hard-finished heart loved nothing but himself, his name, and hismotherless children. But these!--their ravishing beauty was all butexcuse enough for the unbounded idolatry of their father. Against theseseven goddesses he never rebelled. Had they even required him to defraudold De Carlos-- I can hardly say. Old De Carlos was his extremely distant relative on the Choctaw side. With this single exception, the narrow thread-like line of descent fromthe Indian wife, diminished to a mere strand by injudicious alliances, and deaths in the gutters of old New Orleans, was extinct. The name, bySpanish contact, had become De Carlos; but this one surviving bearer ofit was known to all, and known only, as Injin Charlie. One thing I never knew a Creole to do. He will not utterly go back onthe ties of blood, no matter what sort of knots those ties may be. Forone reason, he is never ashamed of his or his father's sins; and foranother, --he will tell you--he is "all heart!" So the different heirs of the De Charleu estate had always strictlyregarded the rights and interests of the De Carloses, especially theirownership of a block of dilapidated buildings in a part of the city, which had once been very poor property, but was beginning to bevaluable. This block had much more than maintained the last De Carlosthrough a long and lazy lifetime, and, as his household consisted onlyof himself, and an aged and crippled negress, the inference wasirresistible that he "had money. " Old Charlie, though by _alias_ an"Injin, " was plainly a dark white man, about as old as Colonel DeCharleu, sunk in the bliss of deep ignorance, shrewd, deaf, and, byrepute at least, unmerciful. The Colonel and he always conversed in English. This rareaccomplishment, which the former had learned from his Scotch wife, --thelatter from up-river traders, --they found an admirable medium ofcommunication, answering, better than French could, a similar purpose tothat of the stick which we fasten to the bit of one horse andbreast-gear of another, whereby each keeps his distance. Once in awhile, too, by way of jest, English found its way among the ladies ofBelles Demoiselles, always signifying that their sire was about to havebusiness with old Charlie. Now a long-standing wish to buy out Charlie troubled the Colonel. He hadno desire to oust him unfairly; he was proud of being always fair; yethe did long to engross the whole estate under one title. Out of hisluxurious idleness he had conceived this desire, and thought little ofso slight an obstacle as being already somewhat in debt to old Charliefor money borrowed, and for which Belles Demoiselles was, of course, good, ten times over. Lots, buildings, rents, all, might as well be his, he thought, to give, keep, or destroy. "Had he but the old man'sheritage. Ah! he might bring that into existence which his _bellesdemoiselles_ had been begging for, 'since many years;' a home, --and sucha home, --in the gay city. Here he should tear down this row of cottages, and make his garden wall; there that long rope-walk should give place tovine-covered ardors; the bakery yonder should make way for a costlyconservatory; that wine warehouse should come down, and the mansion goup. It should be the finest in the State. Men should never pass it, butthey should say--'the palace of the De Charleus; a family of granddescent, a people of elegance and bounty, a line as old as France, afine old man, and seven daughters as beautiful as happy; whoever dareattempt to marry there must leave his own name behind him!' "The house should be of stones fitly set, brought down in ships from theland of 'les Yankees, ' and it should have an airy belvedere, with agilded image tiptoeing and shining on its peak, and from it you shouldsee, far across the gleaming folds of the river, the red roof of BellesDemoiselles, the country-seat. At the big stone gate there should be aporter's lodge, and it should be a privilege even to see the ground. " Truly they were a family fine enough, and fancy-free enough to have finewishes, yet happy enough where they were, to have had no wish but tolive there always. To those, who, by whatever fortune, wandered into the garden of BellesDemoiselles some summer afternoon as the sky was reddening towardsevening, it was lovely to see the family gathered out upon the tiledpavement at the foot of the broad front steps, gayly chatting andjesting, with that ripple of laughter that comes so pleasingly from abevy of girls. The father would be found seated in their midst, thecentre of attention and compliment, witness, arbiter, umpire, critic, byhis beautiful children's unanimous appointment, but the single vassal, too, of seven absolute sovereigns. Now they would draw their chairs near together in eager discussion ofsome new step in the dance, or the adjustment of some rich adornment. Now they would start about him with excited comments to see the eldestfix a bunch of violets in his button-hole. Now the twins would move downa walk after some unusual flower, and be greeted on their return withthe high pitched notes of delighted feminine surprise. As evening came on they would draw more quietly about their paternalcentre. Often their chairs were forsaken, and they grouped themselves onthe lower steps, one above another, and surrendered themselves to thetender influences of the approaching night. At such an hour the passeron the river, already attracted by the dark figures of the broad-roofedmansion, and its woody garden standing against the glowing sunset, wouldhear the voices of the hidden group rise from the spot in the softharmonies of an evening song; swelling clearer and clearer as the thrillof music warmed them into feeling, and presently joined by the deepertones of the father's voice; then, as the daylight passed quite away, all would be still, and he would know that the beautiful home hadgathered its nestlings under its wings. And yet, for mere vagary, it pleased them not to be pleased. "Arti!" called one sister to another in the broad hall, onemorning, --mock amazement hi her distended eyes, --"something is goin' totook place!" "_Comm-e-n-t?_"--long-drawn perplexity. "Papa is goin' to town!" The news passed up stairs. "Inno!"--one to another meeting in a doorway, --"something is goin' totook place!" "_Qu'est-ce-que c'est!_"--vain attempt at gruffness. "Papa is goin' to town!" The unusual tidings were true. It was afternoon of the same day that theColonel tossed his horse's bridle to his groom, and stepped up to oldCharlie, who was sitting on his bench under a China-tree, his head aswas his fashion, bound in a Madras handkerchief The "old man" wasplainly under the effect of spirits and smiled a deferential salutationwithout trusting himself to his feet. "Eh, well Charlie!"--the Colonel raised his voice to suit his kinsman'sdeafness, --"how is those times with my friend Charlie?" "Eh?" said Charlie, distractedly. "Is that goin' well with my friend Charlie?" "In de house, --call her, "--making a pretence of rising. "_Non, non!_ I don't want, "--the speaker paused to breathe--"ow iscollection?" "Oh!" said Charlie, "every day he make me more poorer!" "What do you hask for it?" asked the planter indifferently, designatingthe house by a wave of his whip. "Ask for w'at?" said Injin Charlie. "De _house!_ What you ask for it?" "I don't believe, " said Charlie. "What you would _take_ for it!" cried the planter. "Wait for w'at?" "What you would _take_ for the whole block?" "I don't want to sell him!" "I'll give you _ten thousand dollah_ for it. " "Ten t'ousand dollah for dis house? Oh, no, dat is no price. He is blamegood old house, --dat old house. " (Old Charlie and the Colonel neverswore in presence of each other. ) "Forty years dat old house didn't hadto be paint! I easy can get fifty t'ousand dollah for dat old house. " "Fifty thousand picayunes; yes, " said the Colonel. "She's a good house. Can make plenty money, " pursued the deaf man. "That's what make you so rich, eh, Charlie?" "_Non_, I don't make nothing. Too blame clever, me, dat's de troub'. She's a good house, --make money fast like a steamboat, --make a barrelfull in a week! Me, I lose money all de days. Too blame clever. " "Charlie!" "Eh?" "Tell me what you'll take. " "Make? I don't make _nothing_. Too blame clever. " "What will you _take?_" "Oh! I got enough already, --half drunk now. " "What will you take for the 'ouse?" "You want to buy her?" "I don't know, "--(shrug), --"may_be_, --if you sell it cheap. " "She's a bully old house. " There was a long silence. By and by old Charlies commenced-- "Old Injin Charlie is a low-down dog. " "_C'est vrai, oui!_" retorted the Colonel in an undertone. "He's got Injin blood in him. " "But he's got some blame good blood, too, ain't it?" The Colonel nodded impatiently. "_Bien!_ Old Charlie's Injin blood says, 'sell de house, Charlie, youblame old fool!' _Mais_, old Charlie's good blood says, 'Charlie! if yousell dat old house, Charlie, you low-down old dog, Charlie, what deCompte De Charleu make for you grace-gran'muzzer, de dev' can eat you, Charlie, I don't care. '" "No!" And the _no_ rumbled off in muttered oaths like thunder out on theGulf. The incensed old Colonel wheeled and started off. "Curl!" (Colonel) said Charlie, standing up unsteadily. The planter turned with an inquiring frown. "I'll trade with you!" said Charlie. The Colonel was tempted. "'Ow'l you trade?" he asked. "My house for yours!" The old Colonel turned pale with anger. He walked very quickly back, andcame close up to his kinsman. "Charlie!" he said. "Injin Charlie, "--with a tipsy nod. But by this time self-control was returning. "Sell Belles Demoiselles toyou?" he said in a high key, and then laughed "Ho, ho, ho!" and rodeaway. A cloud, but not a dark one, overshadowed the spirits of BellesDemoiselles' plantation. The old master, whose beaming presence hadalways made him a shining Saturn, spinning and sparkling within thebright circle of his daughters, fell into musing fits, started out offrowning reveries, walked often by himself, and heard business from hisoverseer fretfully. No wonder. The daughters knew his closeness in trade, and attributed toit his failure to negotiate for the Old Charlie buildings, --so to callthem. They began to depreciate Belles Demoiselles. If a north wind blew, it was too cold to ride. If a shower had fallen, it was too muddy todrive. In the morning the garden was wet. In the evening the grasshopperwas a burden. _Ennui_ was turned into capital; every headache wasinterpreted a premonition of ague; and when the native exuberance of aflock of ladies without a want or a care burst out in laughter in thefather's face, they spread their French eyes, rolled up their littlehands, and with rigid wrists and mock vehmence vowed and vowed againthat they only laughed at their misery, and should pine to death unlessthey could move to the sweet city. "Oh! the theatre! Oh! Orleans Street!Oh! the masquerade! the Place d'Armes! the ball!" and they would callupon Heaven with French irreverence, and fall into each other's arms, and whirl down the hall singing a waltz, end with a grand collision andfall, and, their eyes streaming merriment, lay the blame on the slipperyfloor, that would some day be the death of the whole seven. Three times more the fond father, thus goaded, managed, byaccident, --business accident, --to see old Charlie and increase hisoffer; but in vain. He finally went to him formally. "Eh?" said the deaf and distant relative. "For what you want him, eh?Why you don't stay where you halways be 'appy? Dis is a blame oldrat-hole, --good for old Injin Charlie, --da's all. Why you don't staywhere you be halways 'appy? Why you don't buy somewheres else?" "That's none of yonr business, " snapped the planter. Truth was, hisreasons were unsatisfactory even to himself. A sullen silence followed. Then Charlie spoke: "Well, now, look here; I sell you old Charlie's house. " "_Bien!_ and the whole block, " said the Colonel. "Hold on, " said Charlie. "I sell you de 'ouse and de block. Den I go andgit drunk, and go to sleep de dev' comes along and says, 'Charlie! oldCharlie, you blame low-down old dog, wake up! What you doin' here?Where's de 'ouse what Monsieur le Compte give your grace-gran-muzzer?Don't you see dat fine gentyman, De Charleu, done gone and tore him downand make him over new, you blame old fool, Charlie, you low-down oldInjin dog!'" "I'll give you forty thousand dollars, " said the Colonel. "For de 'ouse?" "For all. " The deaf man shook his head. "Forty-five!" said the Colonel. "What a lie? For what you tell me 'What a lie?' I don't tell you nolie. " "_Non, non!_ I give you _forty-five!_" shouted the Colonel. Charlie shook his head again. "Fifty!" He shook it again. The figures rose and rose to-- "Seventy-five!" The answer was an invitation to go away and let the owner alone, as hewas, in certain specified respects, the vilest of living creatures, andno company for a fine gentyman. The "fine gentyman" longed to blaspheme--but before old Charlie!--in thename of pride, how could he? He mounted and started away. "Tell you what I'll make wid you, " said Charlie. The other, guessing aright, turned back without dismounting, smiling. "How much Belles Demoiselles hoes me now?" asked the deaf one. "One hundred and eighty thousand dollars, " said the Colonel, firmly. "Yass, " said Charlie. "I don't want Belle Demoiselles. " The old Colonel's quiet laugh intimated it made no difference eitherway. "But me, " continued Charlie, "me, --I'm got le Compte De Charleu's bloodin me, any'ow, --a litt' bit, any'ow, ain't it?" The Colonel nodded that it was. "_Bien!_ If I go out of dis place and don't go to Belles Demoiselles, depeoples will say, --dey will say, 'Old Charlie he been all doze time tella blame _lie!_ He ain't no kin to his old grace-gran-muzzer, not a blamebit! He don't got nary drop of De Charleu blood to save his blamelow-down old Injin soul!' No, sare! What I want wid money, den? No, sare! My place for yours!" He turned to go into the house, just too soon to see the Colonel make anugly whisk at him with his riding-whip. Then the Colonel, too, movedoff. Two or three times over, as he ambled homeward, laughter broke throughhis annoyance, as he recalled old Charlie's family pride and thepresumption of his offer. Yet each time he could but think betterof--not the offer to swap, but the preposterous ancestral loyalty. Itwas so much better than he could have expected from his "low-down"relative, and not unlike his own whim withal--the proposition which wentwith it was forgiven. This last defeat bore so harshly on the master of Belles Demoiselles, that the daughters, reading chagrin in his face, began to repent. Theyloved their father as daughters can, and when they saw their pretendeddejection harassing him seriously they restrained their complaints, displayed more than ordinary tenderness, and heroically andostentatiously concluded there was no place like Belles Demoiselles. Butthe new mood touched him more than the old, and only refined hisdiscontent. Here was a man, rich without the care of riches, free fromany real trouble, happiness as native to his house as perfume to hisgarden, deliberately, as it were with premeditated malice, taking joy bythe shoulder and bidding her be gone to town, whither he might easilyhave followed, only that the very same ancestral nonsense that keptInjin Charlie from selling the old place for twice its value preventedhim from choosing any other spot for a city home. But by and by the charm of nature and the merry hearts around himprevailed; the fit of exalted sulks passed off, and after a while theyear flared up at Christmas, flickered, and went out. New Year came and passed; the beautiful garden of Belles Demoiselles puton its spring attire; the seven fair sisters moved from rose to rose;the cloud of discontent had warmed into invisible vapor in the richsunlight of family affection, and on the common memory the only scar oflast year's wound was old Charlie's sheer impertinence in crossing thecaprice of the De Charleus. The cup of gladness seemed to fill with thefilling of the river. How high that river was! Its tremendous current rolled and tumbled andspun along, hustling the long funeral flotillas of drift, --and how nearshore it came! Men were out day and night, watching the levee. On windynights even the old Colonel took part, and grew light-hearted withoccupation and excitement, as every minute the river threw a white armover the levee's top, as though it would vault over. But all held fast, and, as the summer drifted in, the water sunk down into its banks andlooked quite incapable of harm. On a summer afternoon of uncommon mildness, old Colonel Jean AlbertHenri Joseph De Charleu-Marot, being in a mood for revery, slipped thecustody of his feminine rulers and sought the crown of the levee, whereit was his wont to promenade. Presently he sat upon a stone bench, --afavorite seat. Before him lay his broad-spread fields; near by, hislordly mansion; and being still, --perhaps by female contact, --somewhatsentimental, he fell to musing on his past. It was hardly worthy to beproud of. All its morning was reddened with mad frolic, and far towardthe meridian it was marred with elegant rioting. Pride had kept himwell-nigh useless, and despised the honors won by valor; gaming haddimmed prosperity; death had taken his heavenly wife; voluptuous easehad mortgaged his lands; and yet his house still stood, hissweet-smelling fields were still fruitful, his name was fame enough; andyonder and yonder, among the trees and flowers, like angels walking inEden, were the seven goddesses of his only worship. Just then a slight sound behind him brought him to his feet. He cast hiseyes anxiously to the outer edge of the little strip of bank between thelevee's base and the river. There was nothing visible. He paused, withhis ear toward the water, his face full of frightened expectation. Ha!There came a single plashing sound, like some great beast slipping intothe river, and little waves in a wide semi-circle came out from underthe bank and spread over the water! "My God!" He plunged down the levee and bounded through the low weeds to the edgeof the bank. It was sheer, and the water about four feet below. He didnot stand quite on the edge, but fell upon his knees a couple of yardsaway, wringing his hands, moaning and weeping, and staring through hiswatery eyes at a fine, long crevice just discernible under the mattedgrass, and curving outward on either hand toward the river. "My God!" he sobbed aloud; "my God!" and even while he called, his Godanswered: the tough Bermuda grass stretched and snapped, the creviceslowly became a gape, and softly, gradually, with no sound but theclosing of the water at last, a ton or more of earth settled into theboiling eddy and disappeared. At the same instant a pulse of the breeze brought from the gardenbehind, the joyous, thoughtless laughter of the fair mistresses ofBelles Demoiselles. The old Colonel sprang up and clambered over the levee. Then forcinghimself to a more composed movement he hastened into the house andordered his horse. "Tell my children to make merry while I am gone, " he left word. "I shallbe back to-night, " and the horse's hoofs clattered down a by-roadleading to the city. "Charlie, " said the planter, riding up to a window, from which the oldman's nightcap was thrust out, "what you say, Charlie, --my house foryours, eh, Charlie--what you say?" "Ello!" said Charlie; "from where you come from dis time of to-night?" "I come from the Exchange in St. Louis Street. " (A small fraction of thetruth. ) "What you want?" said matter-of-fact Charlie. "I come to trade. " The low-down relative drew the worsted off his ears. "Oh! yass, " he saidwith an uncertain air. "Well, old man Charlie, what you say: my house for yours, --like yousaid, --eh, Charlie?" "I dunno, " said Charlie; "it's nearly mine now. Why you don't stay dareyouse'f?" "_Because I don't want!_" said the Colonel savagely. "Is dat reasonenough for you? You better take me in de notion, old man, I tellyou, --yes!" Charlie never winced; but how his answer delighted the Colonel! QuothCharlie: "I don't care--I take him!--_mais_, possession give right off. " "Not the whole plantation, Charlie; only"-- "I don't care, " said Charlie; "we easy can fix dat _Mais_, what for youdon't want to keep him? I don't want him. You better keep him. " "Don't you try to make no fool of me, old man, " cried the planter. "Oh, no!" said the other. "Oh, no! but you make a fool of yourself, ain't it?" The dumbfounded Colonel stared; Charlie went on: "Yass! Belles Demoiselles is more wort' dan tree block like dis one. Ipass by dare since two weeks. Oh, pritty Belles Demoiselles! De cane waswave in de wind, de garden smell like a bouquet, de white-cap was jumpup and down on de river; seven _belles demoiselles_ was ridin' onhorses. 'Pritty, pritty, pritty!' says old Charlie. Ah! _Monsieur lePère_, 'ow 'appy, 'appy, 'appy!" "Yass!" he continued--the Colonel still staring--"le Compte De Charleuhave two familie. One was low-down Choctaw, one was high up _noblesse_. He gave the low-down Choctaw dis old rat-hole; he give BellesDemoiselles to you gran-fozzer; and now you don't be _satisfait_. WhatI'll do wid Belles Demoiselles? She'll break me in two years, yass. Andwhat you'll do wid old Charlie's house, eh? You'll tear her down andmake you'se'f a blame old fool. I rather wouldn't trade!" The planter caught a big breathful of anger, but Charlie went straighton: "I rather wouldn't, _mais_ I will do it for you;--just the same, likeMonsieur le Compte would say, 'Charlie, you old fool, I want to shangehouses wid you. '" So long as the Colonel suspected irony he was angry, but as Charlieseemed, after all, to be certainly in earnest, he began to feelconscience-stricken. He was by no means a tender man, but hislately-discovered misfortune had unhinged him, and this strange, undeserved, disinterested family fealty on the part of Charlie touchedhis heart. And should he still try to lead him into the pitfall he haddug? He hesitated;--no, he would show him the place by broad daylight, and if he chose to overlook the "caving bank, " it would be his ownfault;--a trade's a trade. "Come, " said the planter, "come at my house to-night; to-morrow we lookat the place before breakfast, and finish the trade. " "For what?" said Charlie. "Oh, because I got to come in town in the morning. " "I don't want, " said Charlie. "How I'm goin' to come dere?" "I git you a horse at the liberty stable. " "Well--anyhow--I don't care--I'll go. " And they went. When they had ridden a long time, and were on the road darkened byhedges of Cherokee rose, the Colonel called behind him to the "low-down"scion: "Keep the road, old man. " "Eh?" "Keep the road. " "Oh, yes; all right; I keep my word; we don't goin' to play no tricks, eh?" But the Colonel seemed not to hear. His ungenerous design was beginningto be hateful to him. Not only old Charlie's unprovoked goodness wasprevailing; the eulogy on Belles Demoiselles had stirred the depths ofan intense love for his beautiful home. True, if he held to it, thecaving of the bank, at its present fearful speed, would let the houseinto the river within three months; but were it not better to lose itso, than sell his birthright? Again, --coming back to the firstthought, --to betray his own blood! It was only Injin Charlie; but hadnot the De Charleu blood just spoken out in him? Unconsciously hegroaned. After a time they struck a path approaching the plantation in the rear, and a little after, passing from behind a clump of live-oaks, they camein sight of the villa. It looked so like a gem, shining through its darkgrove, so like a great glow-worm in the dense foliage, so significant ofluxury and gayety, that the poor master, from an overflowing heart, groaned again. "What?" asked Charlie. The Colonel only drew his rein, and, dismounting mechanically, contemplated the sight before him. The high, arched doors and windowswere thrown wide to the summer air; from every opening the bright lightof numerous candelabra darted out upon the sparkling foliage of magnoliaand bay, and here and there in the spacious verandas a colored lanternswayed in the gentle breeze. A sound of revel fell on the ear, the musicof harps; and across one window, brighter than the rest, flitted, onceor twice, the shadows of dancers. But oh! the shadows flitting acrossthe heart of the fair mansion's master! "Old Charlie, " said he, gazing fondly at his house, "You and me is bothold, eh?" "Yaas, " said the stolid Charlie. "And we has both been bad enough in our times eh, Charlie?" Charlie, surprised at the tender tone, repeated "Yaas. " "And you and me is mighty close?" "Blame close, yaas. " "But you never know me to cheat, old man!" "No, "--impassively. "And do you think I would cheat you now?" "I dunno, " said Charlie. "I don't believe. " "Well, old man, old man, "--his voice began to quiver, --"I sha'n't cheatyou now. My God!--old man, I tell you--you better not make the trade!" "Because for what?" asked Charlie in plain anger; but both lookedquickly toward the house! The Colonel tossed his hands wildly in theair, rushed forward a step or two, and giving one fearful scream ofagony and fright, fell forward on his face in the path. Old Charliestood transfixed with horror. Belles Demoiselles, the realm of maidenbeauty, the home of merriment, the house of dancing, all in the tremorand glow of pleasure, suddenly sunk, with one short, wild wail ofterror--sunk, sunk, down, down, down, into the merciless, unfathomableflood of the Mississippi. Twelve long months were midnight to the mind of the childless father;when they were only half gone, he took his bed; and every day, and everynight, old Charlie, the "low-down, " the "fool, " watched him tenderly, tended him lovingly, for the sake of his name, his misfortunes, and hisbroken heart. No woman's step crossed the floor of the sick-chamber, whose western dormer-windows overpeered the dingy architecture of oldCharlie's block; Charlie and a skilled physician, the one all interest, the other all gentleness, hope, and patience--these only entered by thedoor; but by the window came in a sweet-scented evergreen vine, transplanted from the caving bank of Belles Demoiselles. It caught therays of sunset in its flowery net and let then softly in upon the sickman's bed; gathered the glancing beams of the moon at midnight, andoften wakened the sleeper to look, with his mindless eyes, upon theirpretty silver fragments strewn upon the floor. By and by there seemed--there was--a twinkling dawn of returning reason. Slowly, peacefully, with an increase unseen from day to day, the lightof reason came into the eyes, and speech became coherent; but withalthere came a failing of the wrecked body, and the doctor said thatmonsieur was both better and worse. One evening, as Charlie sat by the vine-clad window with his firelesspipe in his hand, the old Colonel's eyes fell full upon his own, andrested there. "Charl--, " he said with an effort, and his delighted nurse hastened tothe bedside and bowed his best ear. There was an unsuccessful effort ortwo, and then he whispered, smiling with sweet sadness, -- "We didn't trade. " The truth, in this case, was a secondary matter to Charlie; the mainpoint was to give a pleasing answer. So he nodded his head decidedly, aswho should say--"Oh yes, we did, it was a bona-fide swap!" but when hesaw the smile vanish, he tried the other expedient and shook his headwith still more vigor, to signify that they had not so much asapproached a bargain; and the smile returned. Charlie wanted to see the vine recognized. He stepped backward to thewindow with a broad smile, shook the foliage, nodded and looked smart. "I know, " said the Colonel, with beaming eyes, "--many weeks. " The next day-- "Charl--" The best ear went down. "Send for a priest. " The priest came, and was alone with him a whole afternoon. When he left, the patient was very haggard and exhausted, but smiled and would notsuffer the crucifix to be removed from his breast. One more morning came. Just before dawn Charlie, lying on a pallet inthe room, thought he was called, and came to the bedside. "Old man, " whispered the failing invalid, "is it caving yet?" Charlie nodded. "It won't pay you out. " "Oh, dat makes not'ing, " said Charlie. Two big tears rolled down hisbrown face. "Dat makes not'in. " The Colonel whispered once more: "_Mes belles demoiselles!_ in paradise;--in the garden--I shall be withthem at sunrise;" and so it was. "POSSON JONE'. " [1] [Footnote 1: Published in Appletons' Journal. Republished bypermission. ] To Jules St. -Ange--elegant little heathen--there yet remained at manhooda remembrance of having been to school, and of having been taught by astony-headed Capuchin that the world is round--for example, like acheese. This round world is a cheese to be eaten through, and Jules hadnibbled quite into his cheese-world already at twenty-two. He realized this as he idled about one Sunday morning where theintersection of Royal and Conti Streets some seventy years ago formed acentral corner of New Orleans. Yes, yes, the trouble was he had beenwasteful and honest. He discussed the matter with that faithful friendand confidant, Baptiste, his yellow body-servant. They concluded that, papa's patience and _tante's_ pin-money having been gnawed away quite tothe rind, there were left open only these few easily-enumerated resorts:to go to work--they shuddered; to join Major Innerarity's filibusteringexpedition; or else--why not?--to try some games of confidence. Attwenty-two one must begin to be something. Nothing else tempted; couldthat avail? One could but try. It is noble to try; and, besides, theywere hungry. If one could "make the friendship" of some person from thecountry, for instance, with money, not expert at cards or dice, but, asone would say, willing to learn, one might find cause to say some "HailMarys. " The sun broke through a clearing sky, and Baptiste pronounced it goodfor luck. There had been a hurricane in the night. The weed-growntile-roofs were still dripping, and from lofty brick and low adobe wallsa rising steam responded to the summer sunlight. Up-street, and acrossthe Rue du Canal, one could get glimpses of the gardens in FaubourgSte. -Marie standing in silent wretchedness, so many tearful Lucretias, tattered victims of the storm. Short remnants of the wind now and thencame down the narrow street in erratic puffs heavily laden with odors ofbroken boughs and torn flowers, skimmed the little pools of rain-waterin the deep ruts of the unpaved street, and suddenly went away tonothing, like a juggler's butterflies or a young man's money. It was very picturesque, the Rue Royale. The rich and poor met together. The locksmith's swinging key creaked next door to the bank; across theway, crouching, mendicant-like, in the shadow of a greatimporting-house, was the mud laboratory of the mender of broken combs. Light balconies overhung the rows of showy shops and stores open fortrade this Sunday morning, and pretty Latin faces of the higher classglanced over their savagely-pronged railings upon the passers below. Atsome windows hung lace certains, flannel duds at some, and at othersonly the scraping and sighing one-hinged shutter groaning toward Parisafter its neglectful master. M. St. -Ange stood looking up and down the street for nearly an hour. Butfew ladies, only the inveterate mass-goers, were out. About the entranceof the frequent _cafés_ the masculine gentility stood leaning on canes, with which now one and now another beckoned to Jules, some even addingpantomimic hints of the social cup. M. St. -Ange remarked to his servant without turning his head thatsomehow he felt sure he should soon return those _bons_ that the mulattohad lent him. "What will you do with them?" "Me!" said Baptiste, quickly; "I will go and see the bull-fight in thePlace Congo. " "There is to be a bull-fight? But where is M. Cayetano?" "Ah, got all his affairs wet in the tornado. Instead of his circus, theyare to have a bull-fight--not an ordinary bull-fight with sick horses, but a buffalo-and-tiger fight. I would not miss it"-- Two or three persons ran to the opposite corner, and commenced strikingat something with their canes. Others followed. Can M. St. -Ange andservant, who hasten forward--can the Creoles, Cubans, Spaniards, SanDomingo refugees, and other loungers--can they hope it is a fight? Theyhurry forward. Is a man in a fit? The crowd pours in from theside-streets. Have they killed a so-long snake? Bareheaded shopmen leavetheir wives, who stand upon chairs. The crowd huddles and packs. Thoseon the outside make little leaps into the air, trying to be tall. "What is the matter?" "Have they caught a real live rat?" "Who is hurt?" asks some one in English. "_Personne_, " replies a shopkeeper; "a man's hat blow' in the gutter;but he has it now. Jules pick' it. See, that is the man, head andshoulders on top the res'. " "He in the homespun?" asks a second shopkeeper. "Humph! an_Américain_--a West-Floridian; bah!" "But wait; 'st! he is speaking; listen!" "To who is he speak----?" "Sh-sh-sh! to Jules. " "Jules who?" "Silence, you! To Jules St. -Ange, what howe me a bill since long time. Sh-sh-sh!" Then the voice was heard. Its owner was a man of giant stature, with a slight stoop in hisshoulders, as if he was making a constant, good-natured attempt toaccommodate himself to ordinary doors and ceilings. His bones were thoseof an ox. His face was marked more by weather than age, and his narrowbrow was bald and smooth. He had instantaneously formed an opinion ofJules St. -Ange, and the multitude of words, most of them lingualcuriosities, with which he was rasping the wide-open ears of hislisteners, signified, in short, that, as sure as his name was ParsonJones, the little Creole was a "plum gentleman. " M. St. -Ange bowed and smiled, and was about to call attention, by bothgesture and speech, to a singular object on top of the still uncoveredhead, when the nervous motion of the _Américain_ anticipated him, as, throwing up an immense hand, he drew down a large roll of bank-notes. The crowd laughed, the West-Floridian joining, and began to disperse. "Why, that money belongs to Smyrny Church, " said the giant. "You are very dengerous to make your money expose like that, MistyPosson Jone', " said St. -Ange, counting it with his eyes. The countryman gave a start and smile of surprise. "How d'dyou know my name was Jones?" he asked; but, without pausing forthe Creole's answer, furnished in his reckless way some furtherspecimens of West-Floridian English; and the conciseness with which hepresented full intelligence of his home, family, calling, lodging-house, and present and future plans, might have passed for consummate art, hadit not been the most run-wild nature. "And I've done been to Mobile, youknow, on busi_ness_ for Bethesdy Church. It's the on'yest time I everbeen from home; now you wouldn't of believed that, would you? But Iadmire to have saw you, that's so. You've got to come and eat with me. Me and my boy ain't been fed yit. What might one call yo' name? Jools?Come on, Jools. Come on, Colossus. That's my niggah--his name's Colossusof Rhodes. Is that yo' yallah boy, Jools? Fetch him along, Colossus. Itseems like a special provi_dence_. --Jools, do you believe in a specialprovi_dence?_" Jules said he did. The new-made friends moved briskly off, followed by Baptiste and ashort, square, old negro, very black and grotesque, who had introducedhimself to the mulatto, with many glittering and cavernous smiles, as"d'body-sarvant of d'Rev'n' Mr. Jones. " Both pairs enlivened their walk with conversation. Parson Jonesdescanted upon the doctrine he had mentioned, as illustrated in theperplexities of cotton-growing, and concluded that there would always be"a special provi_dence_ again' cotton untell folks quits a-pressin' ofit and haulin' of it on Sundays!" "_Je dis_, " said St. -Ange, in response, "I thing you is juz right. Ibelieve, me, strong-strong in the improvidence, yes. You know my papa hehown a sugah-plantation, you know. 'Jules, me son, ' he say one time tome, 'I goin' to make one baril sugah to fedge the moze high price in NewOrleans. ' Well, he take his bez baril sugah--I nevah see a so carefulman like me papa always to make a so beautiful sugah _et sirop_. 'Jules, go at Father Pierre an' ged this lill pitcher fill with holy water, an'tell him sen' his tin bucket, and I will make it fill with _quitte_. ' Iged the holy-water; my papa sprinkle it over the baril, an' make onecross on the 'ead of the baril. " "Why, Jools, " said Parson Jones, "that didn't do no good. " "Din do no good! Id broughd the so great value! You can strike me deadif thad baril sugah din fedge the more high cost than any other in thecity. _Parce-que_, the man what buy that baril sugah he make a mistakeof one hundred pound"--falling back--"_Mais_ certainlee!" "And you think that was growin' out of the holy-water?" asked theparson. "_Mais_, what could make it else? Id could not be the _quitte_, becausemy papa keep the bucket, an' forget to sen' the _quitte_ to FatherPierre. " Parson Jones was disappointed. "Well, now, Jools, you know, I don't think that was right. I reckon youmust be a plum Catholic. " M. St. -Ange shrugged. He would not deny his faith. "I am a _Catholique, mais_"--brightening as he hoped to recommendhimself anew--"not a good one. " "Well, you know, " said Jones--"where's Colossus? Oh! all right. Colossusstrayed off a minute in Mobile, and I plum lost him for two days. Here'sthe place; come in. Colossus and this boy can go to the kitchen. --Now, Colossus, what _air_ you a-beckonin' at me faw?" He let his servant draw him aside and address him in a whisper. "Oh, go 'way!" said the parson with a jerk. "Who's goin' to throw me?What? Speak louder. Why, Colossus, you shayn't talk so, saw. 'Pon mysoul, you're the mightiest fool I ever taken up with. Jest you go downthat alley-way with this yalla boy, and don't show yo' face untell yo'called!" The negro begged; the master wrathily insisted. "Colossus, will you do ez I tell you, or shell I hev to strike you, saw?" "O Mahs Jimmy, I--I's gwine; but"--he ventured nearer--"don't on noaccount drink nothin', Mahs Jimmy. " Such was the negro's earnestness that he put one foot in the gutter, andfell heavily against his master. The parson threw him off angrily. "Thar, now! Why, Colossus, you most of been dosted with sumthin'; yo'plum crazy. --Humph, come on, Jools, let's eat! Humph! to tell me thatwhen I never taken a drop, exceptin' for chills, in my life--which heknows so as well as me!" The two masters began to ascend a stair. "_Mais_, he is a sassy; I would sell him, me, " said the young Creole. "No, I wouldn't do that, " replied the parson; "though there is people inBethesdy who says he is a rascal. He's a powerful smart fool. Why, thatboy's got money, Jools; more money than religion, I reckon. I'm shore hefallen into mighty bad company"--they passed beyond earshot. Baptiste and Colossus, instead of going to the tavern kitchen, passed tothe next door and entered the dark rear corner of a low grocery, where, the law notwithstanding, liquor was covertly sold to slaves. There, inthe quiet company of Baptiste and the grocer, the colloquial powers ofColossus, which were simply prodigious, began very soon to showthemselves. "For whilst, " said he, "Mahs Jimmy has eddication, you know--whilst hehas eddication, I has 'scretion. He has eddication and I has 'scretion, an' so we gits along. " He drew a black bottle down the counter, and, laying half his lengthupon the damp board, continued: "As a p'inciple I discredits de imbimin' of awjus liquors. De imbimin'of awjus liquors, de wiolution of de Sabbaf, de playin' of de fiddle, and de usin' of by-words, dey is de fo' sins of de conscience; an' ifany man sin de fo' sins of de conscience, de debble done sharp his forkfo' dat man. --Ain't that so, boss?" The grocer was sure it was so. "Neberdeless, mind you"--here the orator brimmed his glass from thebottle and swallowed the contents with a dry eye--"mind you, a roytiousman, sech as ministers of de gospel and dere body-sarvants, can take a_leetle_ for de weak stomach. " But the fascinations of Colossus's eloquence must not mislead us; thisis the story of a true Christian; to wit, Parson Jones. The parson and his new friend ate. But the coffee M. St. -Ange declaredhe could not touch; it was too wretchedly bad. At the French Market, near by, there was some noble coffee. This, however, would have to bebought, and Parson Jones had scruples. "You see, Jools, every man has his conscience to guide him, which itdoes so in"-- "Oh, yes!" cried St. -Ange, "conscien'; thad is the bez, Posson Jone'. Certainlee! I am a _Catholique_, you is a _schismatique_; you thing itis wrong to dring some coffee--well, then, it _is_ wrong; you thing itis wrong to make the sugah to ged the so large price--well, then, it_is_ wrong; I thing it is right--well, then, it is right; it is all'abit; _c'est tout_. What a man thing is right, _is right_; 'tis all'abit. A man muz nod go again' his conscien'. My faith! do you thing Iwould go again' my conscien'? _Mais allons_, led us go and ged somecoffee. " "Jools. " "W'at?" "Jools, it ain't the drinkin' of coffee, but the buyin' of it on aSabbath. You must really excuse me, Jools, it's again' conscience, youknow. " "Ah!" said St. -Ange, "_c'est_ very true. For you it would be a sin, _mais_ for me it is only 'abit. Rilligion is a very strange; I know aman one time, he thing it was wrong to go to cock-fight Sunday evening. I thing it is all 'abit. _Mais_, come, Posson Jone'; I have got onefriend, Miguel; led us go at his house and ged some coffee. Come; Miguelhave no familie; only him and Joe--always like to see friend; _allons_, led us come yonder. " "Why, Jools, my dear friend, you know, " said the shamefaced parson, "Inever visit on Sundays. " "Never w'at?" asked the astounded Creole. "No, " said Jones, smiling awkwardly. "Never visite?" "Exceptin' sometimes amongst church-members. " said Parson Jones. "_Mais_, " said the seductive St. -Ange, "Miguel and Joe ischurch-member'--certainlee! They love to talk about rilligion. Come atMiguel and talk about some rilligion. I am nearly expire for me coffee. " Parson Jones took his hat from beneath his chair and rose up. "Jools, " said the weak giant, "I ought to be in church right now. " "_Mais_, the church is right yonder at Miguel', yes. Ah!" continuedSt. -Ange, as they descended the stairs, "I thing every man muz have therilligion he like' the bez--me, I like the _Catholique_ rilligion thebez--for me it _is_ the bez. Every man will sure go to heaven if he likehis rilligion the bez. " "Jools, " said the West-Floridian, laying his great hand tenderly uponthe Creole's shoulder, as they stepped out upon the _banquette_, "do youthink you have any shore hopes of heaven?" "Yass!" replied St. -Ange; "I am sure-sure. I thing everybody will go toheaven. I thing you will go, _et_ I thing Miguel will go, _et_Joe--everybody, I thing--_mais_, hof course, not if they not have beenchristen'. Even I thing some niggers will go. " "Jools, " said the parson, stopping in his walk--"Jools, I _don't_ wantto lose my niggah. " "Yon will not loose him. With Baptiste he _cannot_ ged loose. " But Colossus's master was not re-assured. "Now, " said he, still tarrying, "this is jest the way; had I of gone tochurch"-- "Posson Jone', " said Jules. "What?" "I tell you. We goin' to church!" "Will you?" asked Jones, joyously. "_Allons_, come along, " said Jules, taking his elbow. They walked down the Rue Chartres, passed several corners, and by and byturned into a cross street. The parson stopped an instant as they wereturning and looked back up the street. "W'at you lookin'?" asked his companion. "I thought I saw Colossus, " answered the parson, with an anxious face;"I reckon 'twa'n't him, though. " And they went on. The street they now entered was a very quiet one. The eye of any chancepasser would have been at once drawn to a broad, heavy, white brickedifice on the lower side of the way, with a flag-pole standing out likea bowsprit from one of its great windows, and a pair of lamps hangingbefore a large closed entrance. It was a theatre, honey-combed withgambling-dens. At this morning hour all was still, and the only sign oflife was a knot of little barefoot girls gathered within its narrowshade, and each carrying an infant relative. Into this place the parsonand M. St. -Ange entered, the little nurses jumping up from the sills tolet them pass in. A half-hour may have passed. At the end of that time the whole juvenilecompany were laying alternate eyes and ears to the chinks, to gatherwhat they could of an interesting quarrel going on within. "I did not, saw! I given you no cause of offence, saw! It's not so, saw!Mister Jools simply mistaken the house, thinkin' it was aSabbath-school! No such thing, saw; I _ain't_ bound to bet! Yes, I kingit out. Yes, without bettin'! I hev a right to my opinion; I reckon I'ma _white man_, saw! No saw! I on'y said I didn't think you could get thegame on them cards. 'Sno such thing, saw! I do _not_ know how to play! Iwouldn't hev a rascal's money ef I should win it! Shoot, ef you dare!You can kill me, but you cayn't scare me! No, I shayn't bet! I'll diefirst! Yes, saw; Mr. Jools can bet for me if he admires to; I ain't hismostah. " Here the speaker seemed to direct his words to St. -Ange. "Saw, I don't understand you, saw. I never said I'd loan you money tobet for me. I didn't suspicion this from you, saw. No, I won't take anymore lemonade; it's the most notorious stuff I ever drank, saw!" M. St. -Ange's replies were in _falsetto_ and not without effect; forpresently the parson's indignation and anger began to melt. "Don't askme, Jools, I can't help you. It's no use; it's a matter of consciencewith me, Jools. " "_Mais oui!_ 'tis a matt' of conscien' wid me, the same. " "But, Jools, the money's none o' mine, nohow; it belongs to Smyrny, youknow. " "If I could make jus' _one_ bet, " said the persuasive St. -Ange, "I wouldleave this place, fas'-fas', yes. If I had thing--_mais_ I did notsoupspicion this from you, Posson Jone'"-- "Don't, Jools, don't!" "No! Posson Jone'. " "You're bound to win?" said the parson, wavering. "_Mais certainement!_ But it is not to win that I want;'tis meconscien'--me honor!" "Well, Jools, I hope I'm not a-doin' no wrong. I'll loan you some ofthis money if you say you'll come right out 'thout takin' yourwinnin's. " All was still. The peeping children could see the parson as he liftedhis hand to his breast-pocket. There it paused a moment in bewilderment, then plunged to the bottom. It came back empty, and fell lifelessly athis side. His head dropped upon his breast, his eyes were for a momentclosed, his broad palms were lifted and pressed against his forehead, atremor seized him, and he fell all in a lump to the floor. The childrenran off with their infant-loads, leaving Jules St. -Ange swearing by allhis deceased relatives, first to Miguel and Joe, and then to the liftedparson, that he did not know what had become of the money "except if"the black man had got it. In the rear of ancient New Orleans, beyond the sites of the old rampart, a trio of Spanish forts, where the town has since sprung up and grownold, green with all the luxuriance of the wild Creole summer, lay theCongo Plains. Here stretched the canvas of the historic Cayetano, whoSunday after Sunday sowed the sawdust for his circus-ring. But to-day the great showman had fallen short of his printed promise. The hurricane had come by night, and with one fell swash had made anirretrievable sop of every thing. The circus trailed away its bedraggledmagnificence, and the ring was cleared for the bull. Then the sun seemed to come out and work for the people. "See, " said theSpaniards, looking up at the glorious sky with its great, white fleetsdrawn off upon the horizon--"see--heaven smiles upon the bull-fight!" In the high upper seats of the rude amphitheatre sat the gayly-deckedwives and daughters of the Gascons, from the _métaries_ along the Ridge, and the chattering Spanish women of the Market, their shining hairun-bonneted to the sun. Next below were their husbands and lovers inSunday blouses, milkmen, butchers, bakers, black-bearded fishermen, Sicilian fruiterers, swarthy Portuguese sailors, in little woollen caps, and strangers of the graver sort; mariners of England, Germany, andHolland. The lowest seats were full of trappers, smugglers, Canadian_voyageurs_, drinking and singing; _Américains_, too--more's theshame--from the upper rivers--who will not keep their seats--who ply thebottle, and who will get home by and by and tell how wicked Sodom is;broad-brimmed, silver-braided Mexicans, too, with their copper cheeksand bat's eyes and their tinkling spurred heels. Yonder, in that quietersection, are the quadroon women in their black lace shawls--and there isBaptiste; and below them are the turbaned black women, and there is--buthe vanishes--Colossus. The afternoon is advancing, yet the sport, though loudly demanded, doesnot begin. The _Américains_ grow derisive and find pastime in gibes andraillery They mock the various Latins with their national inflections, and answer their scowls with laughter. Some of the more aggressive shoutpretty French greetings to the women of Gascony, and one bargeman, amidpeals of applause, stands on a seat and hurls a kiss to the quadroons. The mariners of England, Germany, and Holland, as spectators, like thefun, while the Spaniards look black and cast defiant imprecations upontheir persecutors. Some Gascons, with timely caution, pick their womenout and depart, running a terrible fire of gallantries. In hope of truce, a new call is raised for the bull: "The bull, thebull!--hush!" In a tier near the ground a man is standing and calling--standing headand shoulders above the rest--callimg in the _Américaine_ tongue. Another man, big and red, named Joe, and a handsome little Creole inelegant dress and full of laughter, wish to stop him, but theflat-boatmen, ha-ha-ing and cheering, will not suffer it. Ah, throughsome shameful knavery of the men, into whose hands he has fallen, he isdrunk! Even the women can see that; and now he throws his arms wildlyand raises his voice until the whole great circle hears it. He ispreaching! Ah! kind Lord, for a special providence now! The men of his ownnation--men from the land of the open English Bible and temperance cupand song are cheering him on to mad disgrace. And now another call forthe appointed sport is drowned by the flat-boatmen singing the ancienttune of Mear. You can hear the words-- "Old Grimes is dead, that good old soul" --from ribald lips and throats turned brazen with laughter, from singerswho toss their hats aloft and roll in their seats; the chorus swells tothe accompaniment of a thousand brogans-- "He used to wear an old gray coat All buttoned down before. " A ribboned man in the arena is trying to be heard, and the Latins raiseone mighty cry for silence. The big red man gets a hand over theparson's mouth, and the ribboned man seizes his moment. "They have been endeavoring for hours, " he says, "to draw the terribleanimals from their dens, but such is their strength and fierceness, that"-- His voice is drowned. Enough has been heard to warrant the inferencethat the beasts cannot be whipped out of the storm-drenched cages towhich menagerie-life and long starvation have attached them, and fromthe roar of indignation the man of ribbons flies. The noise increases. Men are standing up by hundreds, and women are imploring to be let outof the turmoil. All at once, like the bursting of a dam, the whole masspours down into the ring. They sweep across the arena and over theshowman's barriers. Miguel gets a frightful trampling. Who cares forgates or doors? They tear the beasts' houses bar from bar, and, layinghold of the gaunt buffalo, drag him forth by feet, ears, and tail; andin the midst of the _mêlée_, still head and shoulders above all, wilder, with the cup of the wicked, than any beast, is the man of God from theFlorida parishes! In his arms he bore--and all the people shouted at once when they sawit--the tiger. He had lifted it high up with its back to his breast, hisarms clasped under its shoulders; the wretched brute had curled upcaterpillar-wise, with its long tail against its belly, and through itsfiled teeth grinned a fixed and impotent wrath. And Parson Jones wasshouting: "The tiger and the buffler _shell_ lay down together! You dah to saythey shayn't and I'll comb you with this varmint from head to foot! Thetiger and the buffler _shell_ lay down together. They _shell!_ Now, you, Joe! Behold! I am here to see it done. The lion and the buffler _shell_lay down together!" Mouthing these words again and again, the parson forced his way throughthe surge in the wake of the buffalo. This creature the Latins hadsecured by a lariat over his head, and were dragging across the oldrampart and into a street of the city. The northern races were trying to prevent, and there was pommelling andknocking down, cursing and knife-drawing, until Jules St. -Ange was quitecarried away with the fun, laughed, clapped his hands, and swore withdelight, and ever kept close to the gallant parson. Joe, contrariwise, counted all this child's-play an interruption. He hadcome to find Colossus and the money. In an unlucky moment he made boldto lay hold of the parson, but a piece of the broken barriers in thehands of a flat-boatman felled him to the sod, the terrible crowd sweptover him, the lariat was cut and the giant parson hurled the tiger uponthe buffalo's back. In another instant both brutes were dead at thehands of the mob; Jones was lifted from his feet, and prating ofScripture and the millennium, of Paul at Ephesus and Daniel in the"buffler's" den, was borne aloft upon the shoulders of the huzzaing_Américains_. Half an hour later he was sleeping heavily on the floor ofa cell in the _calaboza_. When Parson Jones awoke, a bell was somewhere tolling for midnight. Somebody was at the door of his cell with a key. The lock grated, thedoor swung, the turnkey looked in and stepped back, and a ray ofmoonlight fell upon M. Jules St. -Ange. The prisoner sat upon the emptyshackles and ring-bolt in the centre of the floor. "Misty Posson Jone', " said the visitor, softly. "O Jools!" "_Mais_, w'at de matter, Posson Jone'?" "My sins, Jools, my sins!" "Ah! Posson Jone', is that something to cry, because a man get sometimea litt' bit intoxicate? _Mais_, if a man keep _all the time_ intoxicate, I think that is again' the conscien'. " "Jools, Jools, your eyes is darkened--oh I Jools, Where's my pore oldniggah?" "Posson Jone', never min'; he is wid Baptiste. " "Where?" "I don' know w'ere--_mais_ he is wid Baptiste. Baptiste is a beautifulto take care of somebody. " "Is he as good as you, Jools?" asked Parson Jones, sincerely. Jules was slightly staggered. "You know, Posson Jone', you know, a nigger cannot be good as a w'iteman--_mais_ Baptiste is a good nigger. " The parson moaned and dropped his chin into his hands. "I was to of left for home to-morrow, sun-up, on the Isabella schooner. Pore Smyrny!" He deeply sighed. "Posson Jone', " said Jules, leaning against the wall and smiling, "Iswear you is the moz funny man I ever see. If I was you I would say, me, 'Ah! 'ow I am lucky! the money I los', it was not mine, anyhow!' Myfaith! shall a man make hisse'f to be the more sorry because the moneyhe los' is not his? Me, I would say, 'it is a specious providence. ' "Ah! Misty Posson Jone', " he continued, "you make a so droll sermon adthe bull-ring. Ha! ha! I swear I thing you can make money to preach thadsermon many time ad the theatre St. Philippe. Hah! you is the moz bravedat I never see, _mais_ ad the same time the moz rilligious man. WhereI'm goin' to fin' one priest to make like dat? _Mais, _ why you can'tcheer up an' be 'appy? Me, if I should be miserabl' like that I wouldkill meself. " The countryman only shook his head. "_Bien, _ Posson Jone', I have the so good news for you. " The prisoner looked up with eager inquiry. "Las' evening when they lock' you, I come right off at M. De Blanc'shouse to get you let out of de calaboose; M. De Blanc he is the judge. So soon I was entering--'Ah! Jules, me boy, juz the man to make completethe game!' Posson Jone', it was a specious providence! I win in t'reehours more dan six hundred dollah! Look. " He produced a mass ofbank-notes, _bons_, and due-bills. "And you got the pass?" asked the parson, regarding the money with asadness incomprehensible to Jules. "It is here; it take the effect so soon the daylight. " "Jools, my friend, your kindness is in vain. " The Creole's face became a perfect blank. "Because, " said the parson, "for two reasons: firstly, I hare broken thelaws, and ought to stand the penalty; and secondly--you must reallyexcuse me, Jools, you know, but the pass has been got onfairly, I'mafeerd. You told the judge I was innocent; and in neither case it don'tbecome a Christian (which I hope I can still say I am one) to 'do evilthat good may come. ' I muss stay. " M. St. -Ange stood up aghast, and for a moment speechless, at thisexhibition of moral heroism; but an artifice was presently hit upon. "_Mais_, Posson Jone'!"--in his old _falsetto_--"de order--you cannotread it, it is in French--compel you to go hout, sir!" "Is that so?" cried the parson, bounding up with radiant face--"is thatso, Jools?" The young man nodded, smiling; but, though he smiled, the fountain ofhis tenderness was opened. He made the sign of the cross as the parsonknelt in prayer, and even whispered "Hail Mary, " etc. , quite through, twice over. Morning broke in summer glory upon a cluster of villas behind the city, nestled under live-oaks and magnolias on the banks of a deep bayou, andknown as Suburb St. Jean. With the first beam came the West-Floridian and the Creole out upon thebank below the village. Upon the parson's arm hung a pair of antiquesaddle-bags. Baptiste limped wearily behind; both his eyes wereencircled with broad, blue rings, and one cheek-bone bore the officialimpress of every knuckle of Colossus's left hand. The "beautiful to takecare of somebody" had lost his charge. At mention of the negro he becamewild, and, half in English, half in the "gumbo" dialect, said murderousthings. Intimidated by Jules to calmness, he became able to speakconfidently on one point; he could, would, and did swear that Colossushad gone home to the Florida parishes; he was almost certain; in fact, he thought so. There was a clicking of pulleys as the three appeared upon the bayou'smargin, and Baptiste pointed out, in the deep shadow of a great oak, theIsabella, moored among the bulrushes, and just spreading her sails fordeparture. Moving down to where she lay, the parson and his friendpaused on the bank, loath to say farewell. "O Jools!" said the parson, "supposin' Colossus ain't gone home! OJools, if you'll look him out for me, I'll never forget you--I'll neverforget you, nohow, Jools. No, Jools, I never will believe he taken thatmoney. Yes, I know all niggahs will steal"--he set foot upon thegang-plank--"but Colossus wouldn't steal from me. Good-by. " "Misty Posson Jone, '" said St. -Ange, putting his hand on the parson'sarm with genuine affection, "hol' on. You see dis money--w'at I win las'night? Well, I win' it by a specious providence, ain't it?" "There's no tellin', " said the humbled Jones. "Providence 'Moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform. '" "Ah!" cried the Creole, "_c'est_ very true. I ged this money in themysterieuze way. _Mais_, if I keep dis money, you know where it goin' beto-night?" "I really can't say, " replied the parson. "Goin' to de dev', " said the sweetly-smiling yonng man. The schooner-captain, leaning against the shrouds, and even Baptiste, laughed outright. "O Jools, you mustn't!" "Well, den, w'at I shall do wid _it?_" "Any thing!" answered the parson; "better donate it away to some poorman"-- "Ah! Misty Posson Jone', dat is w'at I want. You los' five hondreddollar'--'twas me fault. " "No, it wa'n't, Jools. " "_Mais_, it was!" "No!" "It _was_ me fault! I _swear_ it was me fault! _Mais_, here is fivehondred dollar'; I wish you shall take it. Here! I don't got no use formoney. --Oh, my faith! Posson Jone', you must not begin to cry somemore. " Parson Jones was choked with tears. When he found voice he said: "O Jools, Jools, Jools! my pore, noble, dear, misguidened friend! ef youhed of hed a Christian raisin'! May the Lord show you your errorsbetter'n I kin, and bless you for your good intentions--oh, no! I cayn'ttouch that money with a ten-foot pole; it wa'n't rightly got; you mustreally excuse me, my dear friend, but I cayn't touch it. " St. -Ange was petrified. "Good-by, dear Jools, " continued the parson. "I'm in the Lord's haynds, and he's very merciful, which I hope and trust you'll find it out. Good-by!"--the schooner swang slowly off before the breeze--"good-by!" St. -Ange roused himself. "Posson Jone'! make me hany'ow _dis_ promise: you never, never, _never_will come back to New Orleans. " "Ah, Jools, the Lord willin', I'll never leave home again!" "All right!" cried the Creole; "I thing he's willin'. Adieu, PossonJone'. My faith'! you are the so fighting an' moz rilligious man as Inever saw! Adieu! Adieu!" Baptiste uttered a cry and presently ran by his master toward theschooner, his hands full of clods. St. -Ange looked just in time to see the sable form of Colossus of Rhodesemerge from the vessel's hold, and the pastor of Smyrna and Bethesdaseize him in his embrace. "O Colossus! you outlandish old nigger! Thank the Lord! Thank the Lord!" The little Creole almost wept. He ran down the tow-path, laughing andswearing, and making confused allusion to the entire _personnel_ andfurniture of the lower regions. By odd fortune, at the moment that St. -Ange further demonstrated hisdelight by tripping his mulatto into a bog, the schooner came brushingalong the reedy bank with a graceful curve, the sails flapped, and thecrew fell to poling her slowly along. Parson Jones was on the deck, kneeling once more in prayer. His hat hadfallen before him; behind him knelt his slave. In thundering tones hewas confessing himself "a plum fool, " from whom "the conceit had beenjolted out, " and who had been made to see that even his "nigger had thelongest head of the two. " Colossus clasped his hands and groaned. The parson prayed for a contrite heart. "Oh, yes!" cried Colossus. The master acknowledged countless mercies. "Dat's so!" cried the slave. The master prayed that they might still be "piled on. " "Glory!" cried the black man, clapping his hands; "pile on!" "An' now, " continued the parson, "bring this pore, backslidin' jackaceof a parson and this pore ole fool nigger back to thar home in peace!" "Pray fo' de money!" called Colossus. But the parson prayed for Jules. "Pray fo' de _money!_" repeated the negro. "And oh, give thy servant back that there lost money!" Colossus rose stealthily, and tiptoed by his still shouting master. St. -Ange, the captain, the crew, gazed in silent wonder at thestrategist. Pausing but an instant over the master's hat to grin anacknowledgment of his beholders' speechless interest, he softly placedin it the faithfully-mourned and honestly-prayed-for Smyrna fund; then, saluted by the gesticulative, silent applause of St. -Ange and theschooner-men, he resumed his first attitude behind his roaring master. "Amen!" cried Colossus, meaning to bring him to a close. "Onworthy though I be"--cried Jones. "_Amen!_" reiterated the negro. "A-a-amen!" said Parson Jones. He rose to his feet, and, stooping to take up his hat, beheld thewell-known roll. As one stunned, he gazed for a moment upon his slave, who still knelt with clasped hands and rolling eyeballs; but when hebecame aware of the laughter and cheers that greeted him from both deckand shore, he lifted eyes and hands to heaven, and cried like theveriest babe. And when he looked at the roll again, and hugged andkissed it, St. -Ange tried to raise a second shout, but choked, and thecrew fell to their poles. And now up runs Baptiste, covered with slime, and prepares to cast hisprojectiles. The first one fell wide of the mark; the schooner swunground into a long reach of water, where the breeze was in her favor;another shout of laughter drowned the maledictions of the muddy man; thesails filled; Colossus of Rhodes, smiling and bowing as hero of themoment, ducked as the main boom swept round, and the schooner, leaningslightly to the pleasant influence, rustled a moment over the bulrushes, and then sped far away down the rippling bayou. M. Jules St. -Ange stood long, gazing at the receding vessel as it nowdisappeared, now re-appeared beyond the tops of the high undergrowth;but, when an arm of the forest hid it finally from sight, he turnedtownward, followed by that fagged-out spaniel, his servant, saying, ashe turned, "Baptiste. " "_Miché?_" "You know w'at I goin' do wid dis money?" "_Non, m'sieur. _" "Well, you can strike me dead if I don't goin' to pay hall my debts!_Allons!_" He began a merry little song to the effect that his sweetheart was awine-bottle, and master and man, leaving care behind, returned to thepicturesque Rue Royale. The ways of Providence are indeed strange. Inall Parson Jones's after-life, amid the many painful reminiscences ofhis visit to the City of the Plain, the sweet knowledge was withheldfrom him that by the light of the Christian virtue that shone from himeven in his great fall, Jules St. -Ange arose, and went to his father anhonest man. JEAN-AH POQUELIN. In the first decade of the present century, when the newly establishedAmerican Government was the most hateful thing in Louisiana--when theCreoles were still kicking at such vile innovations as the trial byjury, American dances, anti-smuggling laws, and the printing of theGovernor's proclamation in English--when the Anglo-American flood thatwas presently to burst in a crevasse of immigration upon the delta hadthus far been felt only as slippery seepage which made the Creoletremble for his footing--there stood, a short distance above what is nowCanal Street, and considerably back from the line of villas whichfringed the river-bank on Tchoupitoulas Road, an old colonialplantation-house half in ruin. It stood aloof from civilization, the tracts that had once been itsindigo fields given over to their first noxious wildness, and grown upinto one of the horridest marshes within a circuit of fifty miles. The house was of heavy cypress, lifted up on pillars, grim, solid, andspiritless, its massive build a strong reminder of days still earlier, when every man had been his own peace officer and the insurrection ofthe blacks a daily contingency. Its dark, weatherbeaten roof and sideswere hoisted up above the jungly plain in a distracted way, like agigantic ammunition-wagon stuck in the mud and abandoned by someretreating army. Around it was a dense growth of low water willows, withhalf a hundred sorts of thorny or fetid bushes, savage strangers aliketo the "language of flowers" and to the botanist's Greek. They were hungwith countless strands of discolored and prickly smilax, and theimpassable mud below bristled with _chevaux de frise_ of the dwarfpalmetto. Two lone forest-trees, dead cypresses, stood in the centre ofthe marsh, dotted with roosting vultures. The shallow strips of waterwere hid by myriads of aquatic plants, under whose coarse and spiritlessflowers, could one have seen it, was a harbor of reptiles, great andsmall, to make one shudder to the end of his days. The house was on a slightly raised spot, the levee of a draining canal. The waters of this canal did not run; they crawled, and were full ofbig, ravening fish and alligators, that held it against all comers. Such was the home of old Jean Marie Poquelin, once an opulent indigoplanter, standing high in the esteem of his small, proud circle ofexclusively male acquaintances in the old city; now a hermit, alikeshunned by and shunning all who had ever known him. "The last of hisline, " said the gossips. His father lies under the floor of the St. Louis Cathedral, with the wife of his youth on one side, and the wife ofhis old age on the other. Old Jean visits the spot daily. Hishalf-brother--alas! there was a mystery; no one knew what had become ofthe gentle, young half brother, more than thirty years his junior, whomonce he seemed so fondly to love, but who, seven years ago, haddisappeared suddenly, once for all, and left no clew of his fate. They had seemed to live so happily in each other's love. No father, mother, wife to either, no kindred upon earth. The elder a bold, frank, impetuous, chivalric adventurer; the younger a gentle, studious, book-loving recluse; they lived upon the ancestral estate like matedbirds, one always on the wing, the other always in the nest. There was no trait in Jean Marie Poquelin, said the old gossips, forwhich he was so well known among his few friends as his apparentfondness for his "little brother. " "Jacques said this, " and "Jacquessaid that;" he "would leave this or that, or any thing to Jacques, " for"Jacques was a scholar, " and "Jacques was good, " or "wise, " or "just, "or "far-sighted, " as the nature of the case required; and "he should askJacques as soon as he got home, " since Jacques was never elsewhere to beseen. It was between the roving character of the one brother, and thebookishness of the other, that the estate fell into decay. Jean Marie, generous gentleman, gambled the slaves away one by one, until none wasleft, man or woman, but one old African mute. The indigo-fields and vats of Louisiana had been generally abandoned asunremunerative. Certain enterprising men had substituted the culture ofsugar; but while the recluse was too apathetic to take so active acourse, the other saw larger, and, at time, equally respectable profits, first in smuggling, and later in the African slave-trade. What harmcould he see in it? The whole people said it was vitally necessary, andto minister to a vital public necessity, --good enough, certainly, and sohe laid up many a doubloon, that made him none the worse in the publicregard. One day old Jean Marie was about to start upon a voyage that was to belonger, much longer, than any that he had yet made. Jacques had beggedhim hard for many days not to go, but he laughed him off, and finallysaid, kissing him: "_Adieu, 'tit frère_. " "No, " said Jacques, "I shall go with you. " They left the old hulk of a house in the sole care of the African mute, and went away to the Guinea coast together. Two years after, old Poquelin came home without his vessel. He must havearrived at his house by night. No one saw him come. No one saw "hislittle brother;" rumor whispered that he, too, had returned, but he hadnever been seen again. A dark suspicion fell upon the old slave-trader. No matter that the fewkept the many reminded of the tenderness that had ever marked hisbearing to the missing man. The many shook their heads. "You know he hasa quick and fearful temper;" and "why does he cover his loss withmystery?" "Grief would out with the truth. " "But, " said the charitable few, "look in his face; see that expressionof true humanity. " The many did look in his face, and, as he looked intheirs, he read the silent question: "Where is thy brother Abel?" Thefew were silenced, his former friends died off, and the name of JeanMarie Poquelin became a symbol of witchery, devilish crime, and hideousnursery fictions. The man and his house were alike shunned. The snipe and duck huntersforsook the marsh, and the wood-cutters abandoned the canal. Sometimesthe hardier boys who ventured out there snake-shooting heard a slowthumping of oar-locks on the canal. They would look at each other for amoment half in consternation, half in glee, then rush from their sportin wanton haste to assail with their gibes the unoffending, withered oldman who, in rusty attire, sat in the stern of a skiff, rowed homeward byhis white-headed African mute. "O Jean-ah Poquelin! O Jean-ah! Jean-ah Poquelin!" It was not necessary to utter more than that. No hint of wickedness, deformity, or any physical or moral demerit; merely the name and tone ofmockery: "Oh, Jean-ah Poquelin!" and while they tumbled one over anotherin their needless haste to fly, he would rise carefully from his seat, while the aged mute, with downcast face, went on rowing, and rolling uphis brown fist and extending it toward the urchins, would pour forthsuch an unholy broadside of French imprecation and invective as wouldall but craze them with delight. Among both blacks and whites the house was the object of a thousandsuperstitions. Every midnight they affirmed, the _feu follet_ came outof the marsh and ran in and out of the rooms, flashing from window towindow. The story of some lads, whose words in ordinary statements wereworthless, was generally credited, that the night they camped in thewoods, rather than pass the place after dark, they saw, about sunset, every window blood-red, and on each of the four chimneys an owl sitting, which turned his head three times round, and moaned and laughed with ahuman voice. There was a bottomless well, everybody professed to know, beneath the sill of the big front door under the rotten veranda; whoeverset his foot upon that threshold disappeared forever in the depth below. What wonder the marsh grew as wild as Africa! Take all the Faubourg Ste. Marie, and half the ancient city, you would not find one gracelessdare-devil reckless enough to pass within a hundred yards of the houseafter nightfall. * * * * * The alien races pouring into old New Orleans began to find the fewstreets named for the Bourbon princes too strait for them. The wheel offortune, beginning to whirl, threw them off beyond the ancientcorporation lines, and sowed civilization and even trade upon the landsof the Graviers and Girods. Fields became roads, roads streets. Everywhere the leveller was peering through his glass, rodsmen werewhacking their way through willow-brakes and rose-hedges, and thesweating Irishmen tossed the blue clay up with their long-handledshovels. "Ha! that is all very well, " quoth the Jean-Baptistes, fueling thereproach of an enterprise that asked neither co-operation nor advice ofthem, "but wait till they come yonder to Jean Poquelin's marsh; ha! ha!ha!" The supposed predicament so delighted them, that they put on a mockterror and whirled about in an assumed stampede, then caught theirclasped hands between their knees in excess of mirth, and laughed tillthe tears ran; for whether the street-makers mired in the marsh, orcontrived to cut through old "Jean-ah's" property, either event would bejoyful. Meantime a line of tiny rods, with bits of white paper in theirsplit tops, gradually extended its way straight through the hauntedground, and across the canal diagonally. "We shall fill that ditch, " said the men in mud-boots, and brushed closealong the chained and padlocked gate of the haunted mansion. Ah, Jean-ahPoquelin, those were not Creole boys, to be stampeded with a little hardswearing. He went to the Governor. That official scanned the odd figure with noslight interest. Jean Poquelin was of short, broad frame, with a bronzedleonine face. His brow was ample and deeply furrowed. His eye, large andblack, was bold and open like that of a war-horse, and his jaws shuttogether with the firmness of iron. He was dressed in a suit ofAttakapas cottonade, and his shirt unbuttoned and thrown back from thethroat and bosom, sailor-wise, showed a herculean breast; hard andgrizzled. There was no fierceness or defiance in his look, no harshungentleness, no symptom of his unlawful life or violent temper; butrather a peaceful and peaceable fearlessness. Across the whole face, notmarked in one or another feature, but as it were laid softly upon thecountenance like an almost imperceptible veil, was the imprint of somegreat grief. A careless eye might easily overlook it, but, once seen, there it hung--faint, but unmistakable. The Governor bowed. "_Parlez-vous français_?" asked the figure. "I would rather talk English, if you can do so, " said the Governor. "My name, Jean Poquelin. " "How can I serve you, Mr. Poquelin?" "My 'ouse is yond'; _dans le marais là-bas_. " The Governor bowed. "Dat _marais_ billong to me. " "Yes, sir. " "To me; Jean Poquelin; I hown 'im meself. " "Well, sir?" "He don't billong to you; I get him from me father. " "That is perfectly true, Mr. Poquelin, as far as I am aware. " "You want to make strit pass yond'?" "I do not know, sir; it is quite probable; but the city will indemnifyyou for any loss you may suffer--you will get paid, you understand. " "Strit can't pass dare. " "You will have to see the municipal authorities about that, Mr. Poquelin. " A bitter smile came upon the old man's face: "_Pardon, Monsieur_, you is not _le Gouverneur_?" "Yes. " "_Mais_, yes. You har _le Gouverneur_--yes. Veh-well. I come to you. Itell you, strit can't pass at me 'ouse. " "But you will have to see"-- "I come to you. You is _le Gouverneur_. I know not the new laws. I ham aFr-r-rench-a-man! Fr-rench-a-man have something _aller au contraire_--hecome at his _Gouverneur_. I come at you. If me not had been bought fromme king like _bossals_ in the hold time, ze king gof--Francewould-a-show _Monsieur le Gouverneur_ to take care his men to make stritin right places. _Mais_, I know; we billong to _Monsieur le Président_. I want you do somesin for me, eh?" "What is it?" asked the patient Governor. "I want you tell _Monsieur le Président_, strit--can't--pass--at--me--'ouse. " "Have a chair, Mr. Poquelin;" but the old man did not stir. The Governortook a quill and wrote a line to a city official, introducing Mr. Poquelin, and asking for him every possible courtesy. He handed it tohim, instructing him where to present it. "Mr. Poquelin, " he said with a conciliatory smile, "tell me, is it yourhouse that our Creole citizens tell such odd stories about?" The old man glared sternly upon the speaker, and with immovable featuressaid: "You don't see me trade some Guinea nigga'?" "Oh, no. " "You don't see me make some smuggling" "No, sir; not at all. " "But, I am Jean Marie Poquelin. I mine me hown bizniss. Dat all right?Adieu. " He put his hat on and withdrew. By and by he stood, letter in hand, before the person to whom it was addressed. This person employed aninterpreter. "He says, " said the interpreter to the officer, "he come to make you thefair warning how you muz not make the street pas' at his 'ouse. " The officer remarked that "such impudence was refreshing;" but theexperienced interpreter translated freely. "He says: 'Why you don't want?'" said the interpreter. The old slave-trader answered at some length. "He says, " said the interpreter, again turning to the officer, "themarass is a too unhealth' for peopl' to live. " "But we expect to drain his old marsh; it's not going to be a marsh. " "_Il dit_"--The interpreter explained in French. The old man answered tersely. "He says the canal is a private, " said the interpreter. "Oh! _that_ old ditch; that's to be filled up. Tell the old man we'regoing to fix him up nicely. " Translation being duly made, the man in power was amused to see athunder-cloud gathering on the old man's face. "Tell him, " he added, "by the time we finish, there'll not be a ghostleft in his shanty. " The interpreter began to translate, but-- "_J' comprends, J' comprends_, " said the old man, with an impatientgesture, and burst forth, pouring curses upon the United States, thePresident, the Territory of Orleans, Congress, the Governor and all hissubordinates, striding out of the apartment as he cursed, while theobject of his maledictions roared with merriment and rammed the floorwith his foot. "Why, it will make his old place worth ten dollars to one, " said theofficial to the interpreter. "'Tis not for de worse of de property, " said the interpreter. "I should guess not, " said the other, whittling his chair, --"seems to meas if some of these old Creoles would liever live in a crawfish holethan to have a neighbor" "You know what make old Jean Poquelin make like that? I will tell you. You know"-- The interpreter was rolling a cigarette, and paused to light his tinder;then, as the smoke poured in a thick double stream from his nostrils, hesaid, in a solemn whisper: "He is a witch. " "Ho, ho, ho!" laughed the other. "You don't believe it? What you want to bet?" cried the interpreter, jerking himself half up and thrusting out one arm while he bared it ofits coat-sleeve with the hand of the other. "What you want to bet?" "How do you know?" asked the official. "Dass what I goin' to tell you. You know, one evening I was shootingsome _grosbec_. I killed three, but I had trouble to fine them, it wasbecoming so dark. When I have them I start' to come home; then I got topas' at Jean Poquelin's house. " "Ho, ho, ho!" laughed the other, throwing his leg over the arm of hischair. "Wait, " said the interpreter. "I come along slow, not making somenoises; still, still"-- "And scared, " said the smiling one. "_Mais_, wait. I get all pas' the 'ouse. 'Ah!' I say; 'all right!' ThenI see two thing' before! Hah! I get as cold and humide, and shake like aleaf. You think it was nothing? There I see, so plain as can be (thoughit was making nearly dark), I see Jean--Marie--Po-que-lin walkin' rightin front, and right there beside of him was something like a man--butnot a man--white like paint!--I dropp' on the grass from scared--theypass'; so sure as I live 'twas the ghos' of Jacques Poquelin, hisbrother!" "Pooh!" said the listener. "I'll put my han' in the fire, " said the interpreter. "But did you never think, " asked the other, "that that might be JackPoquelin, as you call him, alive and well, and for some cause hid awayby his brother?" "But there har' no cause!" said the other, and the entrance of thirdparties changed the subject. Some months passed and the street was opened. A canal was first dugthrough the marsh, the small one which passed so close to JeanPoquelin's house was filled, and the street, or rather a sunny road, just touched a corner of the old mansion's dooryard. The morass ran dry. Its venomous denizens slipped away through the bulrushes; the cattleroaming freely upon its hardened surface trampled the superabundantundergrowth. The bellowing frogs croaked to westward. Lilies and theflower-de-luce sprang up in the place of reeds; smilax and poison-oakgave way to the purple-plumed iron-weed and pink spiderwort; thebindweeds ran everywhere blooming as they ran, and on one of the deadcypresses a giant creeper hung its green burden of foliage and liftedits scarlet trumpets. Sparrows and red-birds flitted through the bushes, and dewberries grew ripe beneath. Over all these came a sweet, dry smellof salubrity which the place had not known since the sediments of theMississippi first lifted it from the sea. But its owner did not build. Over the willow-brakes, and down the vistaof the open street, bright new houses, some singly, some by ranks, wereprying in upon the old man's privacy. They even settled down toward hissouthern side. First a wood-cutter's hut or two, then a marketgardener's shanty, then a painted cottage, and all at once the faubourghad flanked and half surrounded him and his dried-up marsh. Ah! then the common people began to hate him. "The old tyrant!" "Youdon't mean an old _tyrant_?" "Well, then, why don't he build when thepublic need demands it? What does he live in that unneighborly way for?""The old pirate!" "The old kidnapper!" How easily even the most ultraLouisianians put on the imported virtues of the North when they could bebrought to bear against the hermit. "There he goes, with the boys afterhim! Ah! ha! ha! Jean-ah Poquelin! Ah! Jean-ah! Aha! aha! Jean-ah Marie!Jean-ah Poquelin! The old villain!" How merrily the swarming Américainsecho the spirit of persecution! "The old fraud, " they say--"pretends tolive in a haunted house, does he? We'll tar and feather him some day. Guess we can fix him. " He cannot be rowed home along the old canal now; he walks. He has brokensadly of late, and the street urchins are ever at his heels. It is likethe days when they cried: "Go up, thou bald-head, " and the old man nowand then turns and delivers ineffectual curses. To the Creoles--to the incoming lower class of superstitious Germans, Irish, Sicilians, and others--he became an omen and embodiment of publicand private ill-fortune. Upon him all the vagaries of theirsuperstitions gathered and grew. If a house caught fire, it was imputedto his machinations. Did a woman go off in a fit, he had bewitched her. Did a child stray off for an hour, the mother shivered with theapprehension that Jean Poquelin had offered him to strange gods. Thehouse was the subject of every bad boy's invention who loved to contriveghostly lies. "As long as that house stands we shall have bad luck. Doyou not see our pease and beans dying, our cabbages and lettuce going toseed and our gardens turning to dust, while every day you can see itraining in the woods? The rain will never pass old Poquelin's house. Hekeeps a fetich. He has conjured the whole Faubourg St. Marie. And why, the old wretch? Simply because our playful and innocent children callafter him as he passes. " A "Building and Improvement Company, " which had not yet got its charter, "but was going to, " and which had not, indeed, any tangible capital yet, but "was going to have some, " joined the "Jean-ah Poquelin" war. Thehaunted property would be such a capital site for a market-house! Theysent a deputation to the old mansion to ask its occupant to sell. Thedeputation never got beyond the chained gate and a very barren interviewwith the African mute. The President of the Board was then empowered(for he had studied French in Pennsylvania and was considered qualified)to call and persuade M. Poquelin to subscribe to the company's stock;but-- "Fact is, gentlemen, " he said at the next meeting, "it would take us atleast twelve months to make Mr. Pokaleen understand the rather originalfeatures of our system, and he wouldn't subscribe when we'd done;besides, the only way to see him is to stop him on the street. " There was a great laugh from the Board; they couldn't help it. "Bettermeet a bear robbed of her whelps, " said one. "You're mistaken as to that, " said the President. "I did meet him, andstopped him, and found him quite polite. But I could get no satisfactionfrom him; the fellow wouldn't talk in French, and when I spoke inEnglish he hoisted his old shoulders up, and gave the same answer toevery thing I said. " "And that was--?" asked one or two, impatient of the pause. "That it 'don't worse w'ile?'" One of the Board said: "Mr. President, this market-house project, as Itake it, is not altogether a selfish one; the community is to bebenefited by it. We may feel that we are working in the public interest[the Board smiled knowingly], if we employ all possible means to oustthis old nuisance from among us. You may know that at the time thestreet was cut through, this old Poquelann did all he could to preventit. It was owing to a certain connection which I had with that affairthat I heard a ghost story [smiles, followed by a sudden dignifiedcheck]--ghost story, which, of course, I am not going to relate; but I_may_ say that my profound conviction, arising from a prolonged study ofthat story, is, that this old villain, John Poquelann, has his brotherlocked up in that old house. Now, if this is so, and we can fix it onhim, I merely _suggest_ that we can make the matter highly useful. Idon't know, " he added, beginning to sit down, "but that it is an actionwe owe to the community--hem!" "How do you propose to handle the subject?" asked the President. "I was thinking, " said the speaker, "that, as a Board of Directors, itwould be unadvisable for us to authorize any action involving trespass;but if you, for instance, Mr. President, should, as it were, for merecuriosity, _request_ some one, as, for instance, our excellentSecretary, simply as a personal favor, to look into the matter--this ismerely a suggestion. " The Secretary smiled sufficiently to be understood that, while hecertainly did not consider such preposterous service a part of hisduties as secretary, he might, notwithstanding, accede to thePresident's request; and the Board adjourned. Little White, as the Secretary was called, was a mild, kind-heartedlittle man, who, nevertheless, had no fear of any thing, unless it wasthe fear of being unkind. "I tell you frankly, " he privately said to the President, "I go intothis purely for reasons of my own. " The next day, a little after nightfall, one might have descried thislittle man slipping along the rear fence of the Poquelin place, preparatory to vaulting over into the rank, grass-grown yard, andbearing himself altogether more after the manner of a collector of rarechickens than according to the usage of secretaries. The picture presented to his eye was not calculated to enliven his mind. The old mansion stood out against the western sky, black and silent. Onelong, lurid pencil-stroke along a sky of slate was all that was left ofdaylight. No sign of life was apparent; no light at any window, unlessit might have been on the side of the house hidden from view. No owlswere on the chimneys, no dogs were in the yard. He entered the place, and ventured up behind a small cabin which stoodapart from the house. Through one of its many crannies he easilydetected the African mute crouched before a flickering pine-knot, hishead on his knees, fast asleep. He concluded to enter the mansion, and, with that view, stood andscanned it. The broad rear steps of the veranda would not serve him; hemight meet some one midway. He was measuring, with his eye, theproportions of one of the pillars which supported it, and estimating thepracticability of climbing it, when he heard a footstep. Some onedragged a chair out toward the railing, then seemed to change his mindand began to pace the veranda, his footfalls resounding on the dryboards with singular loudness. Little White drew a step backward, gotthe figure between himself and the sky, and at once recognized theshort, broad-shouldered form of old Jean Poquelin. He sat down upon a billet of wood, and, to escape the stings of awhining cloud of mosquitoes, shrouded his face and neck in hishandkerchief, leaving his eyes uncovered. He had sat there but a moment when he noticed a strange, sickening odor, faint, as if coming from a distance, but loathsome and horrid. Whence could it come? Not from the cabin; not from the marsh, for it wasas dry as powder. It was not in the air; it seemed to come from theground. Rising up, he noticed, for the first time, a few steps before him anarrow footpath leading toward the house. He glanced down it--ha! rightthere was some one coming--ghostly white! Quick as thought, and as noiselessly, he lay down at full length againstthe cabin. It was bold strategy, and yet, there was no denying it, little White felt that he was frightened. "It is not a ghost, " he saidto himself. "I _know_ it cannot be a ghost;" but the perspiration burstout at every pore, and the air seemed to thicken with heat. "It is aliving man, " he said in his thoughts. "I hear his footstep, and I hearold Poquelin's footsteps, too, separately, over on the veranda. I am notdiscovered; the thing has passed; there is that odor again; what a smellof death! Is it coming back? Yes. It stops at the door of the cabin. Isit peering in at the sleeping mute? It moves away. It is in the pathagain. Now it is gone. " He shuddered. "Now, if I dare venture, themystery is solved. " He rose cautiously, close against the cabin, andpeered along the path. The figure of a man, a presence if not a body--but whether clad in somewhite stuff or naked the darkness would not allow him to determine--hadturned, and now, with a seeming painful gait, moved slowly from him. "Great Heaven! can it be that the dead do walk?" He withdrew again thehands which had gone to his eyes. The dreadful object passed between twopillars and under the house. He listened. There was a faint sound as offeet upon a staircase; then all was still except the measured tread ofJean Poquelin walking on the veranda, and the heavy respirations of themute slumbering in the cabin. The little Secretary was about to retreat; but as he looked once moretoward the haunted Louse a dim light appeared in the crack of a closedwindow, and presently old Jean Poquelin came, dragging his chair, andsat down close against the shining cranny. He spoke in a low, tendertone in the French tongue, making some inquiry. An answer came fromwithin. Was it the voice of a human? So unnatural was it--so hollow, sodiscordant, so unearthly--that the stealthy listener shuddered againfrom head to foot, and when something stirred in some bushes nearby--though it may have been nothing more than a rat--and came scuttlingthrough the grass, the little Secretary actually turned and fled. As heleft the enclosure he moved with bolder leisure through the bushes; yetnow and then he spoke aloud: "Oh, oh! I see, I understand!" and shut hiseyes in his hands. How strange that henceforth little White was the champion of JeanPoquelin! In season and out of season--wherever a word was utteredagainst him--the Secretary, with a quiet, aggressive force thatinstantly arrested gossip, demanded upon what authority the statement orconjecture was made; but as he did not condescend to explain his ownremarkable attitude, it was not long before the disrelish and suspicionwhich had followed Jean Poquelin so many years fell also upon him. It was only the next evening but one after his adventure that he madehimself a source of sullen amazement to one hundred and fifty boys, byordering them to desist from their wanton hallooing. Old Jean Poquelin, standing and shaking his cane, rolling out his long-drawn maledictions, paused and stared, then gave the Secretary a courteous bow and startedon. The boys, save one, from pure astonishment, ceased but a ruffianlylittle Irish lad, more daring than any had yet been, threw a bighurtling clod, that struck old Poquelin between the shoulders and burstlike a shell. The enraged old man wheeled with uplifted staff to givechase to the scampering vagabond; and--he may have tripped, or he maynot, but he fell full length. Little White hastened to help him up, buthe waved him off with a fierce imprecation and staggering to his feetresumed his way homeward. His lips were reddened with blood. Little White was on his way to the meeting of the Board. He would havegiven all he dared spend to have staid away, for he felt both too fierceand too tremulous to brook the criticisms that were likely to be made. "I can't help it, gentlemen; I can't help you to make a case against theold man, and I'm not going to. " "We did not expect this disappointment, Mr. White. " "I can't help that, sir. No, sir; you had better not appoint any moreinvestigations. Somebody'll investigate himself into trouble. No, sir;it isn't a threat, it is only my advice, but I warn you that whoevertakes the task in hand will rue it to his dying day--which may behastened, too. " The President expressed himself "surprised. " "I don't care a rush, " answered little White, wildly and foolishly. "Idon't care a rush if you are, sir. No, my nerves are not disordered; myhead's as clear as a bell. No, I'm _not_ excited. " A Director remarkedthat the Secretary looked as though he had waked from a nightmare. "Well, sir, if you want to know the fact, I have; and if you choose tocultivate old Poquelin's society you can have one, too. " "White, " called a facetious member, but White did not notice. "White, "he called again. "What?" demanded White, with a scowl. "Did you see the ghost?" "Yes, sir; I did, " cried White, hitting the table, and handing thePresident a paper which brought the Board to other business. The story got among the gossips that somebody (they were afraid to saylittle White) had been to the Poquelin mansion by night and beheldsomething appalling. The rumor was but a shadow of the truth, magnifiedand distorted as is the manner of shadows. He had seen skeletonswalking, and had barely escaped the clutches of one by making the signof the cross. Some madcap boys with an appetite for the horrible plucked up courage toventure through the dried marsh by the cattle-path, and come before thehouse at a spectral hour when the air was full of bats. Something whichthey but half saw--half a sight was enough--sent them tearing backthrough the willow-brakes and acacia bushes to their homes, where theyfairly dropped down, and cried: "Was it white?" "No--yes--nearly so--we can't tell--but we saw it. " Andone could hardly doubt, to look at their ashen faces, that they had, whatever it was. "If that old rascal lived in the country we come from, " said certainAméricains, "he'd have been tarred and feathered before now, wouldn'the, Sanders?" "Well, now he just would. " "And we'd have rid him on a rail, wouldn't we?" "That's what I allow. " "Tell you what you _could_ do. " They were talking to some rollickingCreoles who had assumed an absolute necessity for doing _something_. "What is it you call this thing where an old man marries a young girl, and you come out with horns and"-- "_Charivari_?" asked the Creoles. "Yes, that's it. Why don't you shivaree him?" Felicitous suggestion. Little White, with his wife beside him, was sitting on their doorstepson the sidewalk, as Creole custom had taught them, looking toward thesunset. They had moved into the lately-opened street. The view was notattractive on the score of beauty. The houses were small and scattered, and across the flat commons, spite of the lofty tangle of weeds andbushes, and spite of the thickets of acacia, they needs must see thedismal old Poquelin mansion, tilted awry and shutting out the decliningsun. The moon, white and slender, was hanging the tip of its horn overone of the chimneys. "And you say, " said the Secretary, "the old black man has been going byhere alone? Patty, suppose old Poquelin should be concocting somemischief; he don't lack provocation; the way that clod hit him the otherday was enough to have killed him. Why, Patty, he dropped as quick as_that_! No wonder you haven't seen him. I wonder if they haven't heardsomething about him up at the drug-store. Suppose I go and see. " "Do, " said his wife. She sat alone for half an hour, watching that sudden going out of theday peculiar to the latitude. "That moon is ghost enough for one house, " she said, as her husbandreturned. "It has gone right down the chimney. " "Patty, " said little White, "the drug-clerk says the boys are going toshivaree old Poquelin to-night. I'm going to try to stop it. " "Why, White, " said his wife, "you'd better not. You'll get hurt. " "No, I'll not. " "Yes, you will. " "I'm going to sit out here until they come along. They're compelled topass right by here. " "Why, White, it may be midnight before they start; you're not going tosit out here till then. " "Yes, I am. " "Well, you're very foolish, " said Mrs. White in an undertone, lookinganxious, and tapping one of the steps with her foot. They sat a very long time talking over little family matters. "What's that?" at last said Mrs. White. "That's the nine-o'clock gun, " said White, and they relapsed into along-sustained, drowsy silence. "Patty, you'd better go in and go to bed, " said he at last. "I'm not sleepy. " "Well, you're very foolish, " quietly remarked little White, and againsilence fell upon them. "Patty, suppose I walk out to the old house and see if I can find outany thing. " "Suppose, " said she, "you don't do any such--listen!" Down the street arose a great hubbub. Dogs and boys were howling andbarking; men were laughing, shouting, groaning, and blowing horns, whooping, and clanking cow-bells, whinnying, and howling, and rattlingpots and pans. "They are coming this way, " said little White. "You had better go intothe house, Patty. " "So had you. " "No. I'm going to see if I can't stop them. " "Why, White!" "I'll be back in a minute, " said White, and went toward the noise. In a few moments the little Secretary met the mob. The pen hesitates onthe word, for there is a respectable difference, measurable only on thescale of the half century, between a mob and a _charivari_. Little Whitelifted his ineffectual voice. He faced the head of the disorderlycolumn, and cast himself about as if he were made of wood and moved bythe jerk of a string. He rushed to one who seemed, from the size andclatter of his tin pan, to be a leader. "_Stop these fellows, Bienvenu, stop them just a minute, till I tell them something_. " Bienvenu turnedand brandished his instruments of discord in an imploring way to thecrowd. They slackened their pace, two or three hushed their horns andjoined the prayer of little White and Bienvenu for silence. The thronghalted. The hush was delicious. "Bienvenu, " said little White, "don't shivaree old Poquelin to-night;he's"-- "My fwang, " said the swaying Bienvenu, "who tail you I goin' tochahivahi somebody, eh? Yon sink bickause I make a little playfool wizzis tin pan zat I am _dhonk_?" "Oh, no, Bienvenu, old fellow, you're all right. I was afraid you mightnot know that old Poquelin was sick, you know, but you're not goingthere, are you?" "My fwang, I vay soy to tail you zat you ah dhonk as de dev'. I am_shem_ of you. I ham ze servan' of ze _publique_. Zese _citoyens_ goin'to wickwest Jean Poquelin to give to the Ursuline' two hondred fiftydolla'"-- "_Hé quoi_!" cried a listener, "_Cinq cent piastres, oui_!" "_Oui_!" said Bienvenu, "and if he wiffuse we make him some lit'_musique_; ta-ra ta!" He hoisted a merry hand and foot, then frowning, added: "Old Poquelin got no bizniz dhink s'much w'isky. " "But, gentlemen, " said little White, around whom a circle had gathered, "the old man is very sick. " "My faith!" cried a tiny Creole, "we did not make him to be sick. W'enwe have say we going make _le charivari_, do you want that we hall tella lie? My faith! 'sfools!" "But you can shivaree somebody else, " said desperate little White. "_Oui_" cried Bienvenu, "_et chahivahi_ Jean-ah Poquelin tomo'w!" "Let us go to Madame Schneider!" cried two or three, and amid huzzas andconfused cries, among which was heard a stentorian Celtic call fordrinks, the crowd again began to move. "_Cent piastres pour l'hôpital de charité_!" "Hurrah!" "One hongred dolla' for Charity Hospital!" "Hurrah!" "Whang!" went a tin pan, the crowd yelled, and Pandemonium gaped again. They were off at a right angle. Nodding, Mrs. White looked at the mantle-clock. "Well, if it isn't away after midnight. " The hideous noise down street was passing beyond earshot. She raised asash and listened. For a moment there was silence. Some one came to thedoor. "Is that you, White?" "Yes. " He entered. "I succeeded, Patty. " "Did you?" said Patty, joyfully. "Yes. They've gone down to shivaree the old Dutchwoman who married herstep-daughter's sweetheart. They say she has got to pay a hundreddollars to the hospital before they stop. " The couple retired, and Mrs. White slumbered. She was awakened by herhusband snapping the lid of his watch. "What time?" she asked. "Half-past three. Patty, I haven't slept a wink. Those fellows are outyet. Don't you hear them?" "Why, White, they're coming this way!" "I know they are, " said White, sliding out of bed and drawing on hisclothes, "and they're coming fast. You'd better go away from thatwindow, Patty. My! what a clatter!" "Here they are, " said Mrs. White, but her husband was gone. Two or threehundred men and boys pass the place at a rapid walk straight down thebroad, new street, toward the hated house of ghosts. The din wasterrific. She saw little White at the head of the rabble brandishing hisarms and trying in vain to make himself heard; but they only shook theirheads laughing and hooting the louder, and so passed, bearing him onbefore them. Swiftly they pass out from among the houses, away from the dim oil lampsof the street, out into the broad starlit commons, and enter the willowyjungles of the haunted ground. Some hearts fail and their owners lagbehind and turn back, suddenly remembering how near morning it is. Butthe most part push on, tearing the air with their clamor. Down ahead of them in the long, thicket-darkened way thereis--singularly enough--a faint, dancing light. It must be very near theold house; it is. It has stopped now. It is a lantern, and is under awell-known sapling which has grown up on the wayside since the canal wasfilled. Now it swings mysteriously to and fro. A goodly number of themore ghost-fearing give up the sport; but a full hundred move forward ata run, doubling their devilish howling and banging. Yes; it is a lantern, and there are two persons under the tree. Thecrowd draws near--drops into a walk; one of the two is the old Africanmute; he lifts the lantern up so that it shines on the other; the crowdrecoils; there is a hush of all clangor, and all at once, with a cry ofmingled fright and horror from every throat, the whole throng rushesback, dropping every thing, sweeping past little White and hurrying on, never stopping until the jungle is left behind, and then to find thatnot one in ten has seen the cause of the stampede, and not one of thetenth is certain what it was. There is one huge fellow among them who looks capable of any villany. Hefinds something to mount on, and, in the Creole _patois_, calls ageneral halt. Bienvenu sinks down, and, vainly trying to reclinegracefully, resigns the leadership. The herd gather round the speaker;he assures them that they have been outraged. Their right peaceably totraverse the public streets has been trampled upon. Shall suchencroachments be endured? It is now daybreak. Let them go now by theopen light of day and force a free passage of the public highway! A scattering consent was the response, and the crowd, thinned now anddrowsy, straggled quietly down toward the old house. Some drifted ahead, others sauntered behind, but every one, as he again neared the tree, came to a stand-still. Little White sat upon a bank of turf on theopposite side of the way looking very stern and sad. To each new-comerhe put the same question: "Did you come here to go to old Poquelin's?" "Yes. " "He's dead. " And if the shocked hearer started away he would say: "Don'tgo away. " "Why not?" "I want you to go to the funeral presently. " If some Louisianian, too loyal to dear France or Spain to understandEnglish, looked bewildered, some one would interpret for him; andpresently they went. Little White led the van, the crowd trooping afterhim down the middle of the way. The gate, that had never been seenbefore unchained, was open. Stern little White stopped a short distancefrom it; the rabble stopped behind him. Something was moving out fromunder the veranda. The many whisperers stretched upward to see. TheAfrican mute came very slowly toward the gate, leading by a cord in thenose a small brown bull, which was harnessed to a rude cart. On the flatbody of the cart, under a black cloth, were seen the outlines of a longbox. "Hats off, gentlemen, " said little White, as the box came in view, andthe crowd silently uncovered. "Gentlemen, " said little White, "here come the last remains of JeanMarie Poquelin, a better man, I'm afraid, with all his sins, --yes abetter--a kinder man to his blood--a man of more self-forgetfulgoodness--than all of you put together will ever dare to be. " There was a profound hush as the vehicle came creaking through the gate;but when it turned away from them toward the forest, those in frontstarted suddenly. There was a backward rush, then all stood still againstaring one way; for there, behind the bier, with eyes cast down andlabored step, walked the living remains--all that was left--of littleJacques Poquelin, the long-hidden brother--a leper, as white as snow. Dumb with horror, the cringing crowd gazed upon the walking death. Theywatched, in silent awe, the slow _cortége_ creep down the long, straightroad and lessen on the view, until by and by it stopped where a wild, unfrequented path branched off into the undergrowth toward the rear ofthe ancient city. "They are going to the _Terre aux Lépreux_, " said one in the crowd. Therest watched them in silence. The little bull was set free; the mute, with the strength of an ape, lifted the long box to his shoulder. For a moment more the mute and theleper stood in sight, while the former adjusted his heavy burden; then, without one backward glance upon the unkind human world, turning theirfaces toward the ridge in the depths of the swamp known as the Leper'sLand, they stepped into the jungle, disappeared, and were never seenagain. TITE POULETTE. Kristian Koppig was a rosy-faced, beardless young Dutchman. He was oneof that army of gentlemen who, after the purchase of Louisiana, swarmedfrom all parts of the commercial world, over the mountains ofFranco-Spanish exclusiveness, like the Goths over the Pyrenees, andsettled down in New Orleans to pick up their fortunes, with thediligence of hungry pigeons. He may have been a German; the distinctionwas too fine for Creole haste and disrelish. He made his home in a room with one dormer window looking out, andsomewhat down, upon a building opposite, which still stands, flush withthe street, a century old. Its big, round-arched windows in a long, second-story row, are walled up, and two or three from time to time havehad smaller windows let into them again, with odd little latticedpeep-holes in their batten shutters. This had already been done whenKristian Koppig first began to look at them from his solitary dormerwindow. All the features of the building lead me to guess that it is a remnantof the old Spanish Barracks, whose extensive structure fell bygovernment sale into private hands a long time ago. At the end towardthe swamp a great, oriental-looking passage is left, with an archedentrance, and a pair of ponderous wooden doors. You look at it, andalmost see Count O'Reilly's artillery come bumping and trundling out, and dash around into the ancient Plaza to bang away at King St. Charles's birthday. I do not know who lives there now. You might stand about on the opposite_banquette_ for weeks and never find out. I suppose it is a residence, for it does not look like one. That is the rule in that region. In the good old times of duels, and bagatelle-clubs, and theatre-balls, and Cayetano's circus, Kristian Koppig rooming as described, there livedin the portion of this house, partly overhanging the archway, a palishhandsome woman, by the name--or going by the name--of Madame John. Youwould hardly have thought of her being "colored. " Though fading, she wasstill of very attractive countenance, fine, rather severe features, nearly straight hair carefully kept, and that vivid black eye sopeculiar to her kind. Her smile, which came and went with her talk, wassweet and exceedingly intelligent; and something told you, as you lookedat her, that she was one who had had to learn a great deal in thistroublesome life. "But!"--the Creole lads in the street would say--"--her daughter!"and there would be lifting of arms, wringing of fingers, rolling ofeyes, rounding of mouths, gaspings and clasping of hands. "So beautiful, beautiful, beautiful! White?--white like a water lily! White--like amagnolia!" Applause would follow, and invocation of all the saints to witness. And she could sing. "Sing?" (disdainfully)--"if a mocking-bird can _sing_! Ha!" They could not tell just how old she was; they "would give her aboutseventeen. " Mother and daughter were very fond. The neighbors could hear them calleach other pet names, and see them sitting together, sewing, talkinghappily to each other in the unceasing French way, and see them go outand come in together on their little tasks and errands. "'TitePoulette, " the daughter was called; she never went out alone. And who was this Madame John? "Why, you know!--she was"--said the wig-maker at the corner to KristianKoppig--"I'll tell you. You know?--she was"--and the rest atomized offin a rasping whisper. She was the best yellow-fever nurse in a thousandyards round; but that is not what the wig-maker said. A block nearer the river stands a house altogether different from theremnant of old barracks. It is of frame, with a deep front gallery overwhich the roof extends. It has become a den of Italians, who sell fuelby daylight, and by night are up to no telling what extent of deviltry. This was once the home of a gay gentleman, whose first name happened tobe John. He was a member of the Good Children Social Club. As hisparents lived with him, his wife would, according to custom, have beencalled Madame John but he had no wife. His father died, then his mother;last of all, himself. As he is about to be off, in comes Madame John, with 'Tïte Poulette, then an infant, on her arm. "Zalli, " said he, "I am going. " She bowed her head, and wept. "You have been very faithful to me, Zalli. " She wept on. "Nobody to take care of you now, Zalli. " Zalli only went on weeping. "I want to give you this house, Zalli; it is for you and the littleone. " An hour after, amid the sobs of Madame John, she and the "little one"inherited the house, such as it was. With the fatal caution whichcharacterizes ignorance, she sold the property and placed the proceedsin a bank, which made haste to fail. She put on widow's weeds, and worethem still when 'Tite Poulette "had seventeen, " as the frantic ladswould say. How they did chatter over her. Quiet Kristian Koppig had never seen thelike. He wrote to his mother, and told her so. A pretty fellow at thecorner would suddenly double himself up with beckoning to a knot ofchums; these would hasten up; recruits would come in from two or threeother directions; as they reached the corner their countenances wouldquickly assume a genteel severity, and presently, with her mother, 'TitePoulette would pass--tall, straight, lithe, her great black eyes madetender by their sweeping lashes, the faintest tint of color in herSouthern cheek, her form all grace, her carriage a wonder of simpledignity. The instant she was gone every tongue was let slip on the marvel of herbeauty; but, though theirs were only the loose New Orleans morals ofover fifty years ago, their unleashed tongues never had attempted anygreater liberty than to take up the pet name, 'Tite Poulette. And yetthe mother was soon to be, as we shall discover, a paid dancer at the_Salle de Condé_. To Zalli, of course, as to all "quadroon ladies, " the festivities of theConde-street ball-room were familiar of old. There, in the happy dayswhen dear Monsieur John was young, and the eighteenth century old, shehad often repaired under guard of her mother--dead now, alas!--andMonsieur John would slip away from the dull play and dry society ofThéâtre d'Orléans, and come around with his crowd of elegant friends;and through the long sweet hours of the ball she had danced, andlaughed, and coquetted under her satin mask, even to the baffling andtormenting of that prince of gentlemen, dear Monsieur John himself. Noman of questionable blood dare set his foot within the door. Many noblegentlemen were pleased to dance with her. Colonel De ---- and GeneralLa ----: city councilmen and officers from the Government House. Therewere no paid dancers then. Every thing was decorously conducted indeed!Every girl's mother was there, and the more discreet always left beforethere was too much drinking. Yes, it was gay, gay!--but sometimesdangerous. Ha! more times than a few had Monsieur John knocked down somelong-haired and long-knifed rowdy, and kicked the breath out of him forlooking saucily at her; but that was like him, he was so brave andkind;--and he is gone! There was no room for widow's weeds there. So when she put these on, herglittering eyes never again looked through her pink and white mask, andshe was glad of it; for never, never in her life had they so looked foranybody but her dear Monsieur John, and now he was in heaven--so thepriest said--and she was a sick-nurse. Living was hard work; and, as Madame John had been brought up tenderly, and had done what she could to rear her daughter in the same mistakenway, with, of course, no more education than the ladies in society got, they knew nothing beyond a little music and embroidery. They struggledas they could, faintly; now giving a few private dancing lessons, nowdressing hair, but ever beat back by the steady detestation of theirimperious patronesses; and, by and by, for want of that pricelessworldly grace known among the flippant as "money-sense, " these two poorchildren, born of misfortune and the complacent badness of the times, began to be in want. Kristian Koppig noticed from his dormer window one day a man standing atthe big archway opposite, and clanking the brass knocker on the wicketthat was in one of the doors. He was a smooth man, with his hair partedin the middle, and his cigarette poised on a tiny gold holder. He waiteda moment, politely cursed the dust, knocked again, threw his slendersword-cane under his arm, and wiped the inside of his hat with hishandkerchief. Madame John held a parley with him at the wicket. 'Tite Poulette wasnowhere seen. He stood at the gate while Madame John went up-stairs. Kristian Koppig knew him. He knew him as one knows a snake. He was themanager of the _Salle de Condé_. Presently Madame John returned with alittle bundle, and they hurried off together. And now what did this mean? Why, by any one of ordinary acuteness thematter was easily understood, but, to tell the truth, Kristian Koppigwas a trifle dull, and got the idea at once that some damage was beingplanned against 'Tite Poulette. It made the gentle Dutchman miserablenot to be minding his own business, and yet-- "But the woman certainly will not attempt"--said he to himself--"no, no!she cannot. " Not being able to guess what he meant, I cannot say whethershe could or not. I know that next day Kristian Koppig, glancing eagerlyover the "_Ami des Lois_, " read an advertisement which he had alwaysbefore skipped with a frown. It was headed, "_Salle de Condé_, " and, being interpreted, signified that a new dance was to be introduced, the_Danse de Chinois_, and that _a young lady_ would follow it with thefamous "_Danse du Shawl_. " It was the Sabbath. The young man watched the opposite window steadilyand painfully from early in the afternoon until the moon shone bright;and from the time the moon shone bright until Madame John!--joy!--MadameJohn! and not 'Tite Poulette, stepped through the wicket, much dressedand well muffled, and hurried off toward the _Rue Condé_. Madame Johnwas the "young lady;" and the young man's mind, glad to return to itsown unimpassioned affairs, relapsed into quietude. Madame John danced beautifully. It had to be done. It brought some pay, and pay was bread; and every Sunday evening, with a touch here and thereof paint and powder, the mother danced the dance of the shawl, thedaughter remaining at home alone. Kristian Koppig, simple, slow-thinking young Dutchman, never noticingthat he staid at home with his window darkened for the very purpose, would see her come to her window and look out with a little wild, alarmed look in her magnificent eyes, and go and come again, and again, until the mother, like a storm-driven bird, came panting home. Two or three months went by. One night, on the mother's return, Kristian Koppig coming to his roomnearly at the same moment, there was much earnest conversation, which hecould see, but not hear. "'Tite Poulette, " said Madame John, "you are seventeen. " "True, Maman. " "Ah! my child, I see not how you are to meet the future. " The voicetrembled plaintively. "But how, Maman?" "Ah! you are not like others; no fortune, no pleasure, no friend. " "Maman!" "No, no;--I thank God for it; I am glad you are not; but you will belonely, lonely, all your poor life long. There is no place in this worldfor us poor women. I wish that we were either white or black!"--and thetears, two "shining ones, " stood in the poor quadroon's eyes. Tha daughter stood up, her eyes flashing. "God made us, Maman, " she said with a gentle, but stately smile. "Ha!" said the mother, her keen glance darting through her tears, "Sinmade _me_, yes. " "No, " said 'Tite Poulette, "God made us. He made us Just as we are; notmore white, not more black. " "He made you, truly!" said Zalli. "You are so beautiful; I believe itwell. " She reached and drew the fair form to a kneeling posture. "Mysweet, white daughter!" Now the tears were in the girl's eyes. "And could I be whiter than Iam?" she asked. "Oh, no, no! 'Tite Poulette, " cried the other; "but if we were only_real white!_--both of us; so that some gentleman might come to see meand say 'Madame John, I want your pretty little chick. She is sobeautiful. I want to take her home. She is so good--I want her to be mywife. ' Oh, my child, my child, to see that I would give my life--I wouldgive my soul! Only you should take me along to be your servant. I walkedbehind two young men to-night; they ware coming home from their office;presently they began to talk about you. " 'Tite Poulette's eyes flashed fire. "No, my child, they spoke only the best things One laughed a little attimes and kept saying 'Beware!' but the other--I prayed the Virgin tobless him, he spoke such kind and noble words. Such gentle pity; such aholy heart! 'May God defend her, ' he said, _chérie_; he said, 'May Goddefend her, for I see no help for her. ' The other one laughed and lefthim. He stopped in the door right across the street. Ah, my child, doyou blush? Is that something to bring the rose to your cheek? Many finegentlemen at the ball ask me often, 'How is your daughter, MadameJohn?'". The daughter's face was thrown into the mother's lap, not so wellsatisfied, now, with God's handiwork. Ah, how she wept! Sob, sob, sob;gasps and sighs and stifled ejaculations, her small right hand clinchedand beating on her mother's knee; and the mother weeping over her. Kristian Koppig shut his window. Nothing but a generous heart and aDutchman's phlegm could have done so at that moment. And even thou, Kristian Koppig!--for the window closed very slowly. He wrote to his mother, thus: "In this wicked city, I see none so fair as the poor girl who livesopposite me, and who, alas! though so fair, is one of those whom thetaint of caste has cursed. She lives a lonely, innocent life in themidst of corruption, like the lilies I find here in the marshew, and Ihave great pity for her. 'God defend her, ' I said to-night to a fellowclerk, 'I see no help for her. ' I know there is a natural, and I thinkproper, horror of mixed blood (excuse the mention, sweet mother), and Ifeel it, too; and yet if she were in Holland today, not one of a hundredsuitors would detect the hidden blemish. " In such strain this young man wrote on trying to demonstrate the utterimpossibility of his ever loving the lovable unfortunate, until themidnight tolling of the cathedral clock sent him to bed. About the same hour Zalli and 'Tite Poulette were kissing good-night. "'Tite Poulette, I want you to promise me one thing. " "Well, Maman?" "If any gentleman should ever love you and ask you to marry, --notknowing, you know, --promise me you will not tell him you are not white. " "It can never be, " said 'Tite Poulette. "But if it should, " said Madame John pleadingly. "And break the law?" asked 'Tite Poulette, impatiently. "But the law is unjust, " said the mother. "But it is the law!" "But you will not, dearie, will you?" "I would surely tell him!" said the daughter. When Zalli, for some cause, went next morning to the window, shestarted. "'Tite Poulette!"--she called softly without moving. The daughter came. The young man, whose idea of propriety had actuated him to this display, was sitting in the dormer window, reading. Mother and daughter bent asteady gaze at each other. It meant in French, "If he saw us lastnight!"-- "Ah! dear, " said the mother, her face beaming with fun-- "What can it be, Maman?" "He speaks--oh! ha, ha!--he speaks--such miserable French!" It came to pass one morning at early dawn that Zalli and 'Tite Poulette, going to mass, passed a café, just as--who should be coming out butMonsieur, the manager of the _Salle de Condé_. He had not yet gone tobed. Monsieur was astonished. He had a Frenchman's eye for thebeautiful, and certainly there the beautiful was. He had heard of MadameJohn's daughter, and had hoped once to see her, but did not but couldthis be she? They disappeared within the cathedral. A sudden pang of piety moved him;he followed. 'Tite Poulette was already kneeling in the aisle. Zalli, still in the vestibule, was just taking her hand from the font ofholy-water. "Madame John, " whispered the manager. She courtesied. "Madame John, that young lady--is she your daughter?" "She--she--is my daughter, " said Zalli, with somewhat of alarm in herface, which the manager misinterpreted. "I think not, Madame John. " He shook his head, smiling as one too wiseto be fooled. "Yes, Monsieur, she is my daughter. " "O no, Madame John, it is only make-believe, I think. " "I swear she is, Monsieur de la Rue. " "Is that possible?" pretending to waver, but convinced in his heart ofhearts, by Zalli's alarm, that she was lying. "But how? Why does she notcome to our ball-room with you?" Zalli, trying to get away from him, shrugged and smiled. "Each to histaste, Monsieur; it pleases her not. " She was escaping, but he followed one step more. "I shall come to seeyou, Madame John. " She whirled and attacked him with her eyes. "Monsieur must not givehimself the trouble!" she said, the eyes at the same time adding, "Dareto come!" She turned again, and knelt to her devotions. The managerdipped in the font, crossed himself, and departed. Several weeks went by, and M. De la Rue had not accepted the fiercechallenge of Madame John's eyes. One or two Sunday nights she hadsucceeded in avoiding him, though fulfilling her engagement in the_Salle_; but by and by pay-day, --a Saturday, --came round, and though thepay was ready, she was loath to go up to Monsieur's little office. It was an afternoon in May. Madame John came to her own room, and, witha sigh, sank into a chair. Her eyes were wet. "Did you go to his office, dear mother?" asked 'Tite Poulette. "I could not, " she answered, dropping her face in her hands. "Maman, he has seen me at the window!" "While I was gone?" cried the mother. "He passed on the other side of the street. He looked up purposely, andsaw me. " The speaker's cheeks were burning red. Zalli wrung her hands. "It is nothing, mother; do not go near him. " "But the pay, my child. " "The pay matters not. " "But he will bring it here; he wants the chance. " That was the trouble, sure enough. About this time Kristian Koppig lost his position in the Germanimporting house where, he had fondly told his mother, he wasindispensable. "Summer was coming on, " the senior said, "and you see our young men arealmost idle. Yes, our engagement _was_ for a year, but ah--we could notforesee"--etc. , etc. , "besides" (attempting a parting flattery), "yourfather is a rich gentleman, and you can afford to take the summer easy. If we can ever be of any service to you, " etc. , etc. So the young Dutchman spent the afternoons at his dormer window readingand glancing down at the little casement opposite, where a small, rudeshelf had lately been put out, holding a row of cigar-boxes withwretched little botanical specimens in them trying to die. 'TitePoulette was their gardener; and it was odd to see, --dry weather orwet, --how many waterings per day those plants could take. She neverlooked up from her task; but I know she performed it with thatunacknowledged pleasure which all girls love and deny, that of beinglooked upon by noble eyes. On this peculiar Saturday afternoon in May, Kristian Koppig had beenwitness of the distressful scene over the way. It occurred to 'TitePoulette that such might be the case, and she stepped to the casement toshut it. As she did so, the marvellous delicacy of Kristian Koppig movedhim to draw in one of his shutters. Both young heads came out at onemoment, while at the same instant-- "Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap!" clanked the knocker on the wicket. The blackeyes of the maiden and the blue over the way, from looking into eachother for the first time in life, glanced down to the arched doorwayupon Monsieur the manager. Then the black eyes disappeared within, andKristian Koppig thought again, and re-opening his shutter, stood up atthe window prepared to become a bold spectator of what might follow. But for a moment nothing followed. "Trouble over there, " thought the rosy Dutchman, and waited. The managerwaited too, rubbing his hat and brushing his clothes with the tips ofhis kidded fingers. "They do not wish to see him, " slowly concluded the spectator. "Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap!" quoth the knocker, and M. De la Rue looked uparound at the windows opposite and noticed the handsome young Dutchmanlooking at him. "Dutch!" said the manager softly, between his teeth. "He is staring at me, " said Kristian Koppig to himself;--"but then I amstaring at him, which accounts for it. " A long pause, and then another long rapping. "They want him to go away, " thought Koppig. "Knock hard!" suggested a street youngster, standing by. "Rap, rap"--The manager had no sooner recommenced than several neighborslooked out of doors and windows. "Very bad, " thought our Dutchman; "somebody should make him go off. Iwonder what they will do. " The manager stepped into the street, looked up at the closed window, returned to the knocker, and stood with it in his hand. "They are all gone out, Monsieur, " said the street-youngster. "You lie!" said the cynosure of neighboring eyes. "Ah!" thought Kristian Koppig; "I will go down and ask him"--Here histhoughts lost outline; he was only convinced that he had somewhat to sayto him, and turned to go down stairs. In going he became a little vexedwith himself because he could not help hurrying. He noticed, too, thathis arm holding the stair-rail trembled in a silly way, whereas he wasperfectly calm. Precisely as he reached the street-door the managerraised the knocker; but the latch clicked and the wicket was drawnslightly ajar. Inside could just be descried Madame John. The manager bowed, smiled, talked, talked on, held money in his hand, bowed, smiled, talked on, flourished the money, smiled, bowed, talked on and plainly persisted insome intention to which Madame John was steadfastly opposed. The window above, too, --it was Kristian Koppig who noticed that, --openeda wee bit, like the shell of a terrapin; Presently the manager liftedhis foot and put forward an arm, as though he would enter the gate bypushing, but as quick as gunpowder it clapped--in his face! You could hear the fleeing feet of Zalli pounding up the staircase. As the panting mother re-entered her room, "See, Maman, " said 'TitePoulette, peeping at the window, "the young gentleman from over the wayhas crossed!" "Holy Mary bless him!" said the mother. "I will go over, " thought Kristian Koppig, "and ask him kindly if he isnot making a mistake. " "What are they doing, dear?" asked the mother, with clasped hands. "They are talking; the young man is tranquil, but 'Sieur de la Rue isvery angry, " whispered the daughter; and just then--pang! came a sharp, keen sound rattling up the walls on either side of the narrow way, and"Aha!" and laughter and clapping of female hands from two or threewindows. "Oh! what a slap!" cried the girl, half in fright, half in glee, jerkingherself back from the casement simultaneously with the report. But the"ahas" and laughter, and clapping of feminine hands, which stillcontinued, came from another cause. 'Tite Poulette's rapid action hadstruck the slender cord that held up an end of her hanging garden, andthe whole rank of cigar-boxes slid from their place, turned gracefullyover as they shot through the air, and emptied themselves plump upon thehead of the slapped manager. Breathless, dirty, pale as whitewash, hegasped a threat to be heard from again, and, getting round the corner asquick as he could walk, left Kristian Koppig, standing motionless, themost astonished man in that street. "Kristian Koppig, Kristian Koppig, " said Greatheart to himself, slowlydragging up-stairs, "what a mischief you have done. One poor womancertainly to be robbed of her bitter wages, and another--so lovely!--putto the burning shame of being the subject of a street brawl! What willthis silly neighborhood say? 'Has the gentleman a heart as well as ahand?' 'Is it jealousy?'" There he paused, afraid himself to answer thesupposed query; and then--"Oh! Kristian Koppig, you have been such adunce!" "And I cannot apologize to them. Who in this street would carrymy note, and not wink and grin over it with low surmises? I cannot evenmake restitution. Money? They would not dare receive it. Oh! KristianKoppig, why did you not mind your own business? Is she any thing to you?Do you love her? _Of course not_! Oh!--such a dunce!" The reader will eagerly admit that however faulty this young man'scourse of reasoning, his conclusion was correct. For mark what he did. He went to his room, which was already growing dark, shut his window, lighted his big Dutch lamp, and sat down to write. "Something _must_ bedone, " said he aloud, taking up his pen; "I will be calm and cool; Iwill be distant and brief; but--I shall have to be kind or I may offend. Ah! I shall have to write in French; I forgot that; I write it sopoorly, dunce that I am, when all my brothers and sisters speak it sowell. " He got out his French dictionary. Two hours slipped by. He made anew pen, washed and refilled his inkstand, mended his "abominable!"chair, and after two hours more made another attempt, and anotherfailure. "My head aches, " said he, and lay down on his couch, the betterto frame his phrases. He was awakened by the Sabbath sunlight. The bells of the Cathedral andthe Ursulines' chapel were ringing for high mass, and a mocking-bird, perching on a chimney-top above Madame John's rooms, was carolling, whistling, mewing, chirping, screaming, and trilling with the ecstasy ofa whole May in his throat. "Oh! sleepy Kristian Koppig, " was the youngman's first thought, "--such a dunce!" Madame John and daughter did not go to mass. The morning wore away, andtheir casement remained closed. "They are offended, " said KristianKoppig, leaving the house, and wandering up to the little Protestantaffair known as Christ Church. "No, possibly they are not, " he said, returning and finding the shuttersthrown back. By a sad accident, which mortified him extremely, he happened to see, late in the afternoon, --hardly conscious that he was looking across thestreet, --that Madame John was--dressing. Could it be that she was goingto the _Salle de Condé_? He rushed to his table, and began to write. He had guessed aright. The wages were too precious to be lost. Themanager had written her a note. He begged to assure her that he was agentleman of the clearest cut. If he had made a mistake the previousafternoon, he was glad no unfortunate result had followed except hishaving been assaulted by a ruffian; that the _Danse du Shawl_ waspromised in his advertisement, and he hoped Madame John (whose wageswere in hand waiting for her) would not fail to assist as usual. Lastly, and delicately put, he expressed his conviction that Mademoiselle waswise and discreet in declining to entertain gentlemen at her home. So, against much beseeching on the part of 'Tite Poulette, Madame Johnwas going to the ball-room. "Maybe I can discover what 'Sieur de la Rueis planning against Monsieur over the way, " she said, knowing certainlythe slap would not be forgiven; and the daughter, though tremblingly, atonce withdrew her objections. The heavy young Dutchman, now thoroughly electrified, was writing likemad. He wrote and tore up, wrote and tore up, lighted his lamp, startedagain, and at last signed his name. A letter by a Dutchman inFrench!--what can be made of it in English? We will see: "MADAME AND MADEMOISELLE: "A stranger, seeking not to be acquainted, but seeing and admiring alldays the goodness and high honor, begs to be pardoned of them for themistakes, alas! of yesterday, and to make reparation and satisfaction indestroying the ornaments of the window, as well as the loss ofcompensation from Monsieur the manager, with the enclosed bill of the_Banque de la Louisiane_ for fifty dollars ($50). And, hoping they willseeing what he is meaning, remains, respectfully, "KRISTIAN KOPPIG. "P. S. --Madame must not go to the ball. " He must bear the missive himself. He must speak in French. What shouldthe words be? A moment of study--he has it, and is off down the longthree-story stairway. At the same moment Madame John stepped from thewicket, and glided off to the _Salle de Condé_, a trifle late. "I shall see Madame John, of course, " thought the young man, crushing ahope, and rattled the knocker. 'Tite Poulette sprang up from praying forher mother's safety. "What has she forgotten?" she asked herself, andhastened down. The wicket opened. The two innocents were stunned. "Aw--aw"--said the pretty Dutchman, "aw, "--blurted out something invirgin Dutch, . . . Handed her the letter, and hurried down street. "Alas! what have I done?" said the poor girl, bending over her candle, and bursting into tears that fell on the unopened letter. "And whatshall I do! It may be wrong to open it--and worse not to. " Like her sex, she took the benefit of the doubt, and intensified her perplexity andmisery by reading and misconstruing the all but unintelligible contents. What then? Not only sobs and sighs, but moaning and beating of littlefists together, and outcries of soul-felt agony stifled against thebedside, and temples pressed into knitted palms, because of one who"sought _not to be_ acquainted, " but offered money--money!--in pity to apoor--shame on her for saying that!--a poor _nigresse_. And now our self-confessed dolt turned back from a half-hour's walk, concluding there might be an answer to his note. "Surely Madame Johnwill appear this time. " He knocked. The shutter stirred above, andsomething white came fluttering wildly down like a shot dove. It was hisown letter containing the fifty-dollar bill. He bounded to the wicket, and softly but eagerly knocked again. "Go away, " said a trembling voice from above. "Madame John?" said he; but the window closed, and he heard a step, thesame step on the stair. Step, step, every step one step deeper into hisheart. 'Tite Poulette came to the closed door. "What will you?" said the voice within. "I--I--don't wish to see you. I wish to see Madame John. " "I must pray Monsieur to go away. My mother is at the _Salle de Condé_. " "At the ball!" Kristian Koppig strayed off, repeating the words for wantof definite thought. All at once it occurred to him that at the ball hecould make Madame John's acquaintance with impunity. "Was it courtingsin to go?" By no means; he should, most likely, save a woman fromtrouble, and help the poor in their distress. Behold Kristian Koppig standing on the floor of the _Salle de Condé_. Alarge hall, a blaze of lamps, a bewildering flutter of fans and floatingrobes, strains of music, columns of gay promenaders, a long row ofturbaned mothers lining either wall, gentlemen of the portlier sortfilling the recesses of the windows, whirling waltzers gliding here andthere--smiles and grace, smiles and grace; all fair, orderly, elegant, bewitching. A young Creole's laugh mayhap a little loud, and--trulythere were many sword-canes. But neither grace nor foulness satisfiedthe eye of the zealous young Dutchman. Suddenly a muffled woman passed him, leaning on a gentleman's arm. Itlooked like--it must be, Madame John. Speak quick, Kristian Koppig; donot stop to notice the man! "Madame John"--bowing--"I am your neighbor, Kristian Koppig. " Madame John bows low, and smiles--a ball-room smile, but is frightened, and her escort, --the manager, --drops her hand and slips away. "Ah! Monsieur, " she whispers excitedly, "you will be killed if you stayhere a moment. Are you armed? No. Take this. " She tried to slip a dirkinto his hands, but he would not have it. "Oh, my dear young man, go! Go quickly!" she plead, glancing furtivelydown the hall. "I wish you not to dance, " said the young man. "I have danced already; I am going home. Come; be quick! we will gotogether. " She thrust her arm through his, and they hastened into thestreet. When a square had been passed there came a sound of men runningbehind them. "Run, Monsieur, run!" she cried, trying to drag him; but MonsieurDutchman would not. "_Run, _ Monsieur! Oh, my God! it is 'Sieur"-- "_That_ for yesterday!" cried the manager, striking fiercely with hiscane. Kristian Koppig's fist rolled him in the dirt. "_That_ for 'Tite Poulette!" cried another man dealing the Dutchman aterrible blow from behind. "And _that_ for me!" hissed a third, thrusting at him with somethingbright. "_That_ for yesterday!" screamed the manager, bounding like a tiger;"That!" "THAT!" "Ha!" Then Kristian Koppig knew that he was stabbed. "That!" and "That!" and "That!" and the poor Dutchman struck wildly hereand there, grasped the air, shut his eyes, staggered, reeled, fell, rosehalf up, fell again for good, and they were kicking him and jumping onhim. All at once they scampered. Zalli had found the night-watch. "Buz-z-z-z!" went a rattle. "Buz-z-z-z!" went another. "Pick him up. " "Is he alive?" "Can't tell; hold him steady; lead the way, misses. " "He's bleeding all over my breeches. " "This way--here--around this corner. " "This way now--only two squares more. " "Here we are. " "Rap-rap-rap!" on the old brass knocker. Curses on the narrow wicket, more on the dark archway, more still on the twisting stairs. Up at last and into the room. "Easy, easy, push this under his head: never mind his boots!" So he lies--on 'Tite Poulette's own bed. The watch are gone. They pause under the corner lamp to countprofits;--a single bill--_Banque de la Louisiane_, fifty dollars. Providence is kind--tolerably so. Break it at the "Guillaume Tell. " "Butdid you ever hear any one scream like that girl did?" And there lies the young Dutch neighbor. His money will not flutter backto him this time; nor will any voice behind a gate "beg Monsieur to goaway. " O, Woman!--that knows no enemy so terrible as man! Come nigh, poor Woman, you have nothing to fear. Lay your strange, electric touchupon the chilly flesh; it strikes no eager mischief along the faintingveins. Look your sweet looks upon the grimy face, and tenderly lay backthe locks from the congested brows; no wicked misinterpretation lurks tobite your kindness. Be motherly, be sisterly, fear nought. Go, watch himby night; you may sleep at his feet and he will not stir. Yet he lives, and shall live--may live to forget you, who knows? But for all that, begentle and watchful; be womanlike, we ask no more; and God reward you! Even while it was taking all the two women's strength to hold the dooragainst Death, the sick man himself laid a grief upon them. "Mother, " he said to Madame John, quite a master of French in hisdelirium, "dear mother, fear not; trust your boy; fear nothing. I willnot marry 'Tite Poulette; I cannot. She is fair, dear mother, but ah!she is not--don't you know, mother? don't you know? The race! the race!Don't you know that she is jet black. Isn't it?" The poor nurse nodded "Yes, " and gave a sleeping draught; but before thepatient quite slept he started once and stared. "Take her away, "--waving his hand--"take your beauty away. She is jetwhite. Who could take a jet white wife? O, no, no, no, no!" Next morning his brain was right. "Madame, " he weakly whispered, "I was delirious last night?" Zalli shrugged. "Only a very, very, wee, wee trifle of a bit. " "And did I say something wrong or--foolish?" "O, no, no, " she replied; "you only clasped your hands, so, and prayed, prayed all the time to the dear Virgin. " "To the virgin?" asked the Dutchman, smiling incredulously. "And St. Joseph--yes, indeed, " she insisted; "you may strike me dead. " And so, for politeness' sake, he tried to credit the invention, but grewsuspicions instead. Hard was the battle against death. Nurses are sometimes amazons, andsuch were these. Through the long, enervating summer, the contestlasted; but when at last the cool airs of October came stealing in atthe bedside like long-banished little children, Kristian Koppig roseupon his elbow and smiled them a welcome. The physician, blessed man, was kind beyond measure; but said someinexplicable things, which Zalli tried in vain to make him speak in anundertone. "If I knew Monsieur John?" he said, "certainly! Why, we werechums at school. And he left you so much as that, Madame John? Ah! myold friend John, always noble! And you had it all in that naughty bank?Ah, well, Madame John, it matters little. No, I shall not tell 'TitePoulette. Adieu. " And another time:--"If I will let you tell me something? With pleasure, Madame John. No, and not tell anybody, Madame John. No, Madame, not even'Tite Poulette. What?"--a long whistle--"is that pos-si-ble?--andMonsieur John knew it?--encouraged it?--eh, well, eh, well!--But--can Ibelieve you, Madame John? Oh! you have Monsieur John's sworn statement. Ah! very good, truly, but--you _say_ you have it; but where is it? Ah!to-morrow!" a sceptical shrug. "Pardon me, Madame John, I think perhaps, _perhaps_ you are telling the truth. "If I think you did right? Certainly! What nature keeps back, accidentsometimes gives, Madame John; either is God's will. Don't cry. 'Stealingfrom the dead?' No! It was giving, yes! They are thanking you in heaven, Madame John. " Kristian Koppig, lying awake, but motionless and with closed eyes, hearsin part, and, fancying he understands, rejoices with silent intensity. When the doctor is gone he calls Zalli. "I give you a great deal of trouble, eh, Madame John?" "No, no; you are no trouble at all. Had you the yellow fever--ah! then!" She rolled her eyes to signify the superlative character of thetribulations attending yellow fever. "I had a lady and gentleman once--a Spanish lady and gentleman, just offthe ship; both sick at once with the fever--delirious--could not telltheir names. Nobody to help me but sometimes Monsieur John! I never hadsuch a time, --never before, never since, --as that time. Four days andnights this head touched not a pillow. " "And they died!" said Kristian Koppig. "The third night the gentleman went. Poor Senor! 'Sieur John, --he didnot know the harm, --gave him some coffee and toast! The fourth night itrained and turned cool, and just before day the poor lady"-- "Died!" said Koppig. Zalli dropped her arms listlessly into her lap and her eyes ran brimful. "And left an infant!" said the Dutchman, ready to shout with exultation. "Ah! no, Monsieur, " said Zalli. The invalid's heart sank like a stone. "Madame John, "--his voice was all in a tremor, --"tell me the truth. Is'Tite Poulette your own child?" "Ah-h-h, ha! ha! what foolishness! Of course she is my child!" AndMadame gave vent to a true Frenchwoman's laugh. It was too much for the sick man. In the pitiful weakness of hisshattered nerves he turned his face into his pillow and wept like achild. Zalli passed into the next room to hide her emotion. "Maman, dear Maman, " said 'Tite Poulette, who had overheard nothing, butonly saw the tears. "Ah! my child, my child, my task--my task is too great--too great forme. Let me go now--another time. Go and watch at his bedside. " "But, Maman, "--for 'Tite Poulette was frightened, --"he needs no carenow. " "Nay, but go, my child; I wish to be alone. " The maiden stole in with averted eyes and tiptoed to the window--_thatwindow_. The patient, already a man again, gazed at her till she couldfeel the gaze. He turned his eyes from her a moment to gatherresolution. And now, stout heart, farewell; a word or two of friendlyparting--nothing more. "'Tite Poulette. " The slender figure at the window turned and came to the bedside. "I believe I owe my life to you, " he said. She looked down meekly, the color rising in her cheek. "I must arrange to be moved across the street tomorrow, on a litter. " She did not stir or speak. "And I must now thank you, sweet nurse, for your care. Sweet nurse!Sweet nurse!" She shook her head in protestation. "Heaven bless you, 'Tite Poulette!" Her face sank lower. "God has made you very beautiful, Tite Poulette!" She stirred not. He reached, and gently took her little hand, and as hedrew her one step nearer, a tear fell from her long lashes. From thenext room, Zalli, with a face of agonized suspense, gazed upon the pair, undiscovered. The young man lifted the hand to lay it upon his lips, when, with a mild, firm force, it was drawn away, yet still rested inhis own upon the bedside, like some weak thing snared, that could onlynot get free. "Thou wilt not have my love, 'Tite Poulette?" No answer. "Thou wilt not, beautiful?" "Cannot!" was all that she could utter, and upon their clasped hands thetears ran down. "Thou wrong'st me, 'Tite Poulette. Thou dost not trust me; thou fearestthe kiss may loosen the hands. But I tell thee nay. I have struggledhard, even to this hour, against Love, but I yield me now; I yield; I amhis unconditioned prisoner forever. God forbid that I ask aught but thatyou will be my wife. " Still the maiden moved not, looked not up, only rained down tears. "Shall it not be, 'Tite Poulette?" He tried in vain to draw her. "'Tite Poulette?" So tenderly he called! And then she spoke. "It is against the law. " "It is not!" cried Zalli, seizing her round the waist and dragging herforward. "Take her! she is thine. I have robbed God long enough. Hereare the sworn papers--here! Take her; she is as white as snow--so! Takeher, kiss her; Mary be praised! I never had a child--she is theSpaniard's daughter!" 'SIEUR GEORGE. In the heart of New Orleans stands a large four-story brick building, that has so stood for about three-quarters of a century. Its rooms arerented to a class of persons occupying them simply for lack of activityto find better and cheaper quarters elsewhere. With its gray stuccopeeling off in broad patches, it has a solemn look of gentility in rags, and stands, or, as it were, hangs, about the corner of two ancientstreets, like a faded fop who pretends to be looking for employment. Under its main archway is a dingy apothecary-shop. On one street is thebazaar of a _modiste en robes et chapeaux_ and other humble shops; onthe other, the immense batten doors with gratings over the lintels, barred and bolted with masses of cobwebbed iron, like the door of adonjon, are overhung by a creaking sign (left by the sheriff), on whichis faintly discernible the mention of wines and liquors. A peep throughone of the shops reveals a square court within, hung with many lines ofwet clothes, its sides hugged by rotten staircases that seem vainlytrying to clamber out of the rubbish. The neighborhood is one long since given up to fifth-rate shops, whosemasters and mistresses display such enticing mottoes as "_Au gagnepetit!_" Innumerable children swarm about, and, by some charm of theplace, are not run over, but obstruct the sidewalks playing theirclamorous games. The building is a thing of many windows, where passably good-lookingwomen appear and disappear, clad in cotton gowns, watering littleoutside shelves of flowers and cacti, or hanging canaries' cages. Theirhusbands are keepers in wine-warehouses, rent-collectors for the agentsof old Frenchmen who have been laid up to dry in Paris, custom-housesupernumeraries and court-clerks' deputies (for your second-rate Creoleis a great seeker for little offices). A decaying cornice hangs over, dropping bits of mortar on passers below, like a boy at aboarding-house. The landlord is one Kookoo, an ancient Creole of doubtful purity ofblood, who in his landlordly old age takes all suggestions of repairs aspersonal insults. He was but a stripling when his father left him thisinheritance, and has grown old and wrinkled and brown, a sort ofperiodically animate mummy, in the business. He smokes cascarilla, wearsvelveteen, and is as punctual as an executioner. To Kookoo's venerable property a certain old man used for many years tocome every evening, stumbling through the groups of prattling childrenwho frolicked about in the early moonlight--whose name no one knew, butwhom all the neighbors designated by the title of 'Sieur George. It washis wont to be seen taking a straight--too straight--course toward hishome, never careening to right or left, but now forcing himself slowlyforward, as though there were a high gale in front, and now scuddingbriskly ahead at a ridiculous little dog-trot, as if there were atornado behind. He would go up the main staircase very carefully, sometimes stopping half-way up for thirty or forty minutes' doze, butgetting to the landing eventually, and tramping into his room in thesecond story, with no little elation to find it still there. Were it notfor these slight symptoms of potations, he was such a one as you wouldpick out of a thousand for a miser. A year or two ago he suddenlydisappeared. A great many years ago, when the old house was still new, a young manwith no baggage save a small hair-trunk, came and took the room I havementioned and another adjoining. He supposed he might stay fiftydays--and he staid fifty years and over. This was a very fashionableneighborhood, and he kept the rooms on that account month after month. But when he had been here about a year something happened to him, so itwas rumored, that greatly changed the tenor of his life; and from thattime on there began to appear in him and to accumulate upon each otherin a manner which became the profound study of Kookoo, the symptoms of adecay, whose cause baffled the landlord's limited powers of conjecturefor well-nigh half a century. Hints of a duel, of a reason warped, ofdisinheritance, and many other unauthorized rumors, fluttered up andfloated off, while he became recluse, and, some say, began incidentallyto betray the unmanly habit which we have already noticed. His neighborswould have continued neighborly had he allowed them, but he never lethimself be understood, and _les Américains_ are very droll anyhow; so, as they could do nothing else, they cut him. So exclusive he became that (though it may have been for economy) henever admitted even a housemaid, but kept his apartments himself. Onlythe merry serenaders, who in those times used to sing under thebalconies, would now and then give him a crumb of their feast for purefun's sake; and after a while, because they could not find out his fullname, called him, at hazard, George--but always prefixing Monsieur. Afterward, when he began to be careless in his dress, and the fashion ofserenading had passed away, the commoner people dared to shorten thetitle to "'Sieur George. " Many seasons came and went. The city changed like a growing boy;gentility and fashion went uptown, but 'Sieur George still retained hisrooms. Every one knew him slightly, and bowed, but no one seemed to knowhim well, unless it were a brace or so of those convivial fellows inregulation-blue at little Fort St. Charles. He often came home late, with one of these on either arm, all singing different tunes andstopping at every twenty steps to tell secrets. But by and by the fortwas demolished, church and goverment property melted down under the warmdemand for building-lots, the city spread like a ringworm, --and one day'Sieur George steps out of the old house in full regimentals! The Creole neighbors rush bareheaded into the middle of the street, asthough there were an earthquake or a chimney on fire. What to do or sayor think they do not know; they are at their wits' ends, thereforewell-nigh happy. However, there is a German blacksmith's shop near by, and they watch to see what _Jacob_ will do. Jacob steps into the streetwith every eye upon him; he approaches Monsieur--he addresses to him afew remarks--they shake hands--they engage in some conversation--Monsieurplaces his hand on his sword!--now Monsieur passes. The populace crowd around the blacksmith, children clap their handssoftly and jump up and down on tiptoes of expectation--'Sieur George isgoing to the war in Mexico! "Ah!" says a little girl in the throng, '"Sieur George's two rooms willbe empty; I find that very droll. " The landlord, --this same Kookoo, --is in the group. He hurls himself intothe house and up the stairs. "Fifteen years pass since he have been inthose room!" He arrives at the door--it is shut--"It is lock!" In short, further investigation revealed that a youngish lady in black, who had been seen by several neighbors to enter the house, but had not, of course, been suspected of such remarkable intentions, had, in companywith a middle-aged slave-woman, taken these two rooms, and now, at theslightly-opened door, proffered a month's rent in advance. What could alandlord do but smile? Yet there was a pretext left "the rooms must needrepairs?"--"No, sir; he could look in and see. " Joy! he looked in. Allwas neatness. The floor unbroken, the walls cracked but a little, andthe cracks closed with new plaster, no doubt by the jealous hand of'Sieur George himself Kookoo's eyes swept sharply round the twoapartments. The furniture was all there. Moreover, there was Monsieur'slittle hair-trunk. He should not soon forget that trunk. One day, fifteen years or more before, he had taken hold of that trunk to assistMonsieur to arrange his apartment, and Monsieur had drawn his fist backand cried to him to "drop it!" _Mais!_ there it was, looking verysuspicious in Kookoo's eyes, and the lady's domestic, as tidy as ayellow-bird, went and sat on it. Could that trunk contain treasure? Itmight, for Madame wanted to shut the door, and, in fact, did so. The lady was quite handsome--had been more so, but was stillyoung--spoke the beautiful language, and kept, in the inner room, herdiscreet and taciturn mulattress, a tall, straight woman, with a fierceeye, but called by the young Creoles of the neighborhood "confound' goodlookin'. " Among _les Américaines_, where the new neighbor always expects to becalled upon by the older residents, this lady might have made friends inspite of being as reserved as 'Sieur George; but the reverse being theCreole custom, and she being well pleased to keep her own company, chosemystery rather than society. The poor landlord was sorely troubled; it must not that any thing _detrop_ take place in his house. He watched the two rooms narrowly, butwithout result, save to find that Madame plied her needle for pay, spenther money for little else besides harpstrings, and took good care of thelittle trunk of Monsieur. This espionage was a good turn to the mistressand maid, for when Kookoo announced that all was proper, no more wassaid by outsiders. Their landlord never got but one question answered bythe middle-aged maid: "Madame, he feared, was a litt' bit embarrass' _pour_ money, eh?" "_Non_; Mademoiselle [Mademoiselle, you notice!] had some property, butdid not want to eat it up. " Sometimes lady-friends came, in very elegant private carriages, to seeher, and one or two seemed to beg her--but in vain--to go away withthem; but these gradually dropped off, until lady and servant were alonein the world. And so years, and the Mexican war, went by. The volunteers came home; peace reigned, and the city went on spreadingup and down the land; but 'Sieur George did not return. It overran thecountry like cocoa-grass. Fields, roads, woodlands, that were once'Sieur George's places of retreat from mankind, were covered all overwith little one-story houses in the "Old Third, " and fine residences andgardens up in "Lafayette. " Streets went slicing like a butcher's knife, through old colonial estates, whose first masters never dreamed of thecity reaching them, --and 'Sieur George was still away. The four-storybrick got old and ugly, and the surroundings dim and dreamy. Theatres, processions, dry-goods stores, government establishments, banks, hotels, and all spirit of enterprise were gone to Canal Street and beyond, andthe very beggars were gone with them. The little trunk got very old andbald, and still its owner lingered; still the lady, somewhat the worsefor lapse of time, looked from the balcony-window in the brief southerntwilights, and the maid every morning shook a worn rug or two over thedangerous-looking railing; and yet neither had made friends or enemies. The two rooms, from having been stingily kept at first, were needingrepairs half the time, and the occupants were often moving, now intoone, now back into the other; yet the hair-trunk was seen only byglimpses, the landlord, to his infinite chagrin, always being a littletoo late in offering his services, the women, whether it was light orheavy, having already moved it. He thought it significant. Late one day of a most bitter winter, --that season when, to the ecstaticamazement of a whole city-full of children, snow covered the streetsankle-deep, --there came a soft tap on the corridor-door of this pair ofrooms. The lady opened it, and beheld a tall, lank, iron-gray man, atotal stranger, standing behind--Monsieur George! Both men wereweather-beaten, scarred, and tattered. Across 'Sieur George's crown, leaving a long, bare streak through his white hair, was the souvenir ofa Mexican sabre. The landlord had accompanied them to the door: it was a magnificentopportunity. Mademoiselle asked them all in, and tried to furnish a seatto each; but failing, 'Sieur George went straight across the room and_sat on the hair-trunk_. The action was so conspicuous, the landlordlaid it up in his penetrative mind. 'Sieur George was quiet, or, as it appeared, quieted. The mulattressstood near him, and to her he addressed, in an undertone, most of thelittle he said, leaving Mademoiselle to his companion. The stranger wasa warm talker, and seemed to please the lady from the first; but if hepleased, nothing else did. Kookoo, intensely curious, sought somepretext for staying, but found none. They were, altogether, anuncongenial company. The lady seemed to think Kookoo had no businessthere; 'Sieur George seemed to think the same concerning his companion;and the few words between Mademoiselle and 'Sieur George were coolenough. The maid appeared nearly satisfied, but could not avoid castingan anxious eye at times upon her mistress. Naturally the visit wasshort. The next day but one the two gentlemen came again in better attire. 'Sieur George evidently disliked his companion, yet would not ridhimself of him. The stranger was a gesticulating, stagy fellow, muchMonsieur's junior, an incessant talker in Creole-French, always excitedon small matters and unable to appreciate a great one. Once, as theywere leaving, Kookoo, --accidents will happen, --was under the stairs. Asthey began to descend the tall man was speaking: "--better to buryit, "--the startled landlord heard him say, and held his breath, thinkingof the trunk; but no more was uttered. A week later they came again. A week later they came again. A week later they came yet again! The landlord's eyes began to open. There must be a courtship inprogress. It was very plain now why 'Sieur George had wished not to beaccompanied by the rail gentleman; but since his visits had becomeregular and frequent, it was equally plain why he did not get rid ofhim;--because it would not look well to be going and coming too oftenalone. Maybe it was only this tender passion that the tall man hadthought "better to bury. " Lately there often came sounds of gayconversation from the first of the two rooms, which had been turned intoa parlor; and as, week after week, the friends came down-stairs, thetall man was always in high spirits and anxious to embrace 'SieurGeorge, who, --"sly dog, " thought the landlord, --would try to lookgrave, and only smiled in an embarrassed way. "Ah! Monsieur, you tink tobe varry conning; _mais_ you not so conning as Kookoo, no;" and theinquisitive little man would shake his head and smile, and shake hishead again, as a man has a perfect right to do under the conviction thathe has been for twenty years baffled by a riddle and is learning to readit at last; he had guessed what was in 'Sieur George's head, he would byand by guess what was in the trunk. A few months passed quickly away, and it became apparent to every eye inor about the ancient mansion that the landlord's guess was not so bad;in fact, that Mademoiselle was to be married. On a certain rainy spring afternoon, a single hired hack drove up to themain entrance of the old house, and after some little bustle and thegathering of a crowd of damp children about the big doorway, 'SieurGeorge, muffled in a newly-repaired overcoat, jumped out and wentup-stairs. A moment later he re-appeared, leading Mademoiselle, wreathedand veiled, down the stairway. Very fair was Mademoiselle still. Herbeauty was mature, --fully ripe, --maybe a little too much so, but only alittle; and as she came down with the ravishing odor of bridal flowersfloating about her, she seemed the garlanded victim of a pagansacrifice. The mulattress in holiday gear followed behind. The landlord owed a duty to the community. He arrested the maid on thelast step: "Your mistress, she goin' _pour marier_ 'Sieur George? Itmake me glad, glad, glad!" "Marry 'Sieur George? Non, Monsieur. " "Non? Not marrie 'Sieur George? _Mais comment_?" "She's going to marry the tall gentleman. " "_Diable!_ ze long gentyman!"--With his hands upon his forehead, hewatched the carriage trundle away. It passed out of sight through therain; he turned to enter the house, and all at once tottered under theweight of a tremendous thought--they had left the trunk! He hurledhimself up-stairs as he had done seven years before, but again--"Ah, bah!!"--the door was locked, and not a picayune of rent due. Late that night a small square man, in a wet overcoat, fumbled his wayinto the damp entrance of the house, stumbled up the cracking stairs, unlocked, after many languid efforts, the door of the two rooms, andfalling over the hair-trunk, slept until the morning sunbeams climbedover the balcony and in at the window, and shone full on the back of hishead. Old Kookoo, passing the door just then, was surprised to find itslightly ajar--pushed it open silently, and saw, within, 'Sieur Georgein the act of rising from his knees beside the mysterious trunk! He hadcome back to be once more the tenant of the two rooms. 'Sieur George, for the second time, was a changed man--changed from badto worse; from being retired and reticent, he had come, by reason ofadvancing years, or mayhap that which had left the terrible scar on hisface, to be garrulous. When, once in a while, employment sought him (forhe never sought employment), whatever remuneration he received went itsway for something that left him dingy and threadbare. He now made alively acquaintance with his landlord, as, indeed, with every soul inthe neighborhood, and told all his adventures in Mexican prisons andCuban cities; including full details of the hardships and perilsexperienced jointly with the "long gentleman" who had marriedMademoiselle, and who was no Mexican or Cuban, but a genuineLouisianian. "It was he that fancied me, " he said, "not I him; but once he had fallenin love with me I hadn't the force to cast him off. How Madame evershould have liked him was one of those woman's freaks that a man mustn'texpect to understand. He was no more fit for her than rags are fit for aqueen; and I could have choked his head off the night he hugged me roundthe neck and told me what a suicide she had committed. But other finewomen are committing that same folly every day, only they don't waituntil they're thirty-four or five to do it. --'Why don't I like him?'Well, for one reason, he's a drunkard!" Here Kookoo, whose imperfectknowledge of English prevented his intelligent reception of the story, would laugh as if the joke came in just at this point. However, with all Monsieur's prattle, he never dropped a word about theman he had been before he went away; and the great hair-trunk puzzle wasstill the same puzzle, growing greater every day. Thus the two rooms had been the scene of some events quite queer, if notreally strange; but the queerest that ever they presented, I guess, was'Sieur George coming in there one day, crying like a little child, andbearing in his arms an infant--a girl--the lovely offspring of thedrunkard whom he so detested, and poor, robbed, spirit-broken and nowdead Madame. He took good care of the orphan, for orphan she was verysoon. The long gentleman was pulled out of the Old Basin one morning, and 'Sieur George identified the body at the Trémé station. He neverhired a nurse--the father had sold the lady's maid quite out of sight;so he brought her through all the little ills and around all the sharpcorners of baby-life and childhood, without a human hand to help him, until one evening, having persistently shut his eyes to it for weeks andmonths, like one trying to sleep in the sunshine, he awoke to therealization that she was a woman. It was a smoky one in November, thefirst cool day of autumn. The sunset was dimmed by the smoke of burningprairies, the air was full of the ashes of grass and reeds, raggedurchins were lugging home sticks of cordwood, and when a bit of coalfell from a cart in front of Kookoo's old house, a child was boxed halfacross the street and robbed of the booty by a _blanchisseuse de fin_from over the way. The old man came home quite steady. He mounted the stairs smartlywithout stopping to rest, went with a step unusually light and quiet tohis chamber and sat by the window opening upon the rusty balcony. It was a small room, sadly changed from what it had been in old times;but then so was 'Sieur George. Close and dark it was, the walls stainedwith dampness and the ceiling full of bald places that showed thelathing. The furniture was cheap and meagre, including conspicuously thesmall, curious-looking hair-trunk. The floor was of wide slabs fasteneddown with spikes, and sloping up and down in one or two broadundulations, as if they had drifted far enough down the current of timeto feel the tide-swell. However, the floor was clean, the bed well made, the cypress table inplace, and the musty smell of the walls partly neutralized by a geraniumon the window-sill. He so coming in and sitting down, an unseen person called from the roomadjoining (of which, also, he was still the rentee), to know if he werehe, and being answered in the affirmative, said, "Papa George guess whowas here to-day?" "Kookoo, for the rent?" "Yes, but he will not come back. " "No? why not?" "Because you will not pay him. " "No? and why not?" "Because I have paid him. " "Impossible! where did you get the money?" "Cannot guess?--Mother Nativity. " "What, not for embroidery?" "No? and why not? _Mais oui!_"--saying which, and with a pleasant laugh, the speaker entered the room. She was a girl of sixteen or thereabout, very beautiful, with very black hair and eyes. A face and form moreentirely out of place you could not have found in the whole city. Shesat herself at his feet, and, with her interlocked hands upon his knee, and her face, full of childish innocence mingled with womanly wisdom, turned to his, appeared for a time to take principal part in aconversation which, of course, could not be overheard in the corridoroutside. Whatever was said, she presently rose, he opened his arms, and she saton his knee and kissed him. This done, there was a silence, both smilingpensively and gazing out over the rotten balcony into the street. Aftera while she started up, saying something about the change of weather, and, slipping away, thrust a match between the bars of the grate. Theold man turned about to the fire, and she from her little room brought alow sewing-chair and sat beside him, laying her head on his knee, and hestroking her brow with his brown palm. And then, in an altered--a low, sad tone--he began a monotonous recital. Thus they sat, he talking very steadily and she listening, until all theneighborhood was wrapped in slumber, --all the neighbors, but not Kookoo. Kookoo in his old age had become a great eavesdropper; his ear and eyetook turns at the keyhole that night, for he tells things that were notintended for outside hearers. He heard the girl sobbing, and the old mansaying, "But you must go now. You cannot stay with me safely ordecently, much as I wish it. The Lord only knows how I'm to bear it, orwhere you're to go; but He's your Lord, child, and He'll make a placefor you. I was your grandfather's death; I frittered your poor, deadmother's fortune away: let that be the last damage I do. "I have always meant everything for the best, " he added half insoliloquy. From all Kookoo could gather, he must have been telling her the verystory just recounted. She had dropped quite to the floor, hiding herface in her hands, and was saying between her sobs, "I cannot go, PapaGeorge; oh, Papa George, I cannot go!" Just then 'Sieur George, kaving kept a good resolution all day, wasencouraged by the orphan's pitiful tones to contemplate the mostsenseless act he ever attempted to commit. He said to the sobbing girlthat she was not of his blood; that she was nothing to him by naturalties; that his covenant was with her grandsire to care for hisoffspring; and though it had been poorly kept, it might be breaking itworse than ever to turn her out upon ever so kind a world. "I have tried to be good to you all these years. When I took you, a weelittle baby, I took you for better or worse. I intended to do well byyou all your childhood-days, and to do best at last. I thought surely weshould be living well by this time, and you could choose from a worldfull of homes and a world full of friends. "I don't see how I missed it!" Here he paused a moment in meditation, and presently resumed with some suddenness: "I thought that education, far better than Mother Nativity has givenyou, should have afforded your sweet charms a noble setting; that goodmothers and sisters would be wanting to count you into their families, and that the blossom of a happy womanhood would open perfect and full ofsweetness. "I would have given my life for it. I did give it, such as it was; butit was a very poor concern, I know--my life--and not enough to buy anygood thing. "I have had a thought of something, but I'm afraid to tell it. It didn'tcome to me to-day or yesterday; it has beset me a long time--formonths. " The girl gazed into the embers, listening intensely. "And oh! dearie, if I could only get you to think the same way, youmight stay with me then. " "How long?" she asked, without stirring. "Oh, is long as heaven should let us. But there is only one chance, " hesaid, as it were feeling his way. "only one way for us to stay together. Do you understand me?" She looked up at the old man with a glance of painful inquiry. "If you could be--my wife, dearie?" She uttered a low, distressful cry, and, gliding swiftly into her room, for the first time in her young life turned the key between them. And the old man sat and wept. Then Kookoo, peering through the keyhole, saw that they had been lookinginto the little trunk. The lid was up, but the back was toward the door, and he could see no more than if it had been closed. He stooped and stared into the aperture until his dry old knees wereready to crack. It seemed as if 'Sieur George was stone, only stonecouldn't weep like that. Every separate bone in his neck was hot with pain. He would have giventen dollars--ten sweet dollars!--to have seen 'Sieur George get up andturn that trunk around. There! 'Sieur George rose up--what a face! He started toward the bed, and as he came to the trunk he paused, lookedat it, muttered something about "ruin, " and something about "fortune, "kicked the lid down and threw himself across the bed. Small profit to old Kookoo that he went to his own couch; sleep was notfor the little landlord. For well-nigh half a century he had suspectedhis tenant of having a treasure hidden in his house, and to-night he hadheard his own admission that in the little trunk was a fortune. Kookoohad never felt so poor in all his days before. He felt a Creole's anger, too, that a tenant should be the holder of wealth while his landlordsuffered poverty. And he knew very well, too, did Kookoo, what the tenant would do. If hedid not know what he kept in the trunk, he knew what he kept behind it, and he knew he would take enough of it to-night to make him sleepsoundly. No one would ever have supposed Kookoo capable of a crime. He was toofearfully impressed with the extra-hazardous risks of dishonesty; he wasold, too, and weak, and, besides all, intensely a coward. Nevertheless, while it was yet two or three hours before daybreak, the sleep-forsakenlittle man arose, shuffled into his garments, and in his stocking-feetsought the corridor leading to 'Sieur George's apartment. The Novembernight, as it often does in that region, had grown warm and clear; thestars were sparkling like diamonds pendent in the deep blue heavens, andat every window and lattice and cranny the broad, bright moon poureddown its glittering beams upon the hoary-headed thief, as he crept alongthe mouldering galleries and down the ancient corridor that led to'Sieur George's chamber. 'Sieur George's door, though ever so slowly opened, protested with aloud creak. The landlord, wet with cold sweat from head to foot, andshaking till the floor trembled, paused for several minutes, and thenentered the moon-lit apartment. The tenant, lying as if he had notmoved, was sleeping heavily. And now the poor coward trembled so, thatto kneel before the trunk, without falling, he did not know how. Twice, thrice, he was near tumbling headlong. He became as cold as ice. But thesleeper stirred, and the thought of losing his opportunity strung hisnerves up in an instant. He went softly down upon his knees, laid hishands upon the lid, lifted it, and let in the intense moonlight. Thetrunk was full, full, crowded down and running over full, of the ticketsof the Havana Lottery! A little after daybreak, Kookoo from his window saw the orphan, pausingon the corner. She stood for a moment, and then dove into the dense fogwhich had floated in from the river, and disappeared. He never saw heragain. But her Lord is taking care of her. Once only she has seen 'SieurGeorge. She had been in the belvedere of the house which she now callshome, looking down upon the outspread city. Far away southward andwestward the great river glistened in the sunset. Along its sweepingbends the chimneys of a smoking commerce, the magazines of surpluswealth, the gardens of the opulent, the steeples of a hundredsanctuaries and thousands on thousands of mansions and hovels coveredthe fertile birthright arpents which 'Sieur George, in his fifty years'stay, had seen tricked away from dull colonial Esaus by their blue-eyedbrethren of the North. Nearer by she looked upon the forlornly silentregion of lowly dwellings, neglected by legislation and shunned by alllovers of comfort, that once had been the smiling fields of her owngrandsire's broad plantation; and but a little way off, trudging acrossthe marshy commons, her eye caught sight of 'Sieur George following thesunset out upon the prairies to find a night's rest in the high grass. She turned at once, gathered the skirt of her pink calico uniform, and, watching her steps through her tears, descended the steep winding-stairto her frequent kneeling-place under the fragrant candles of thechapel-altar in Mother Nativity's asylum. 'Sieur George is houseless. He cannot find the orphan. Mother Nativityseems to know nothing of her. If he could find her now, and could getfrom her the use of ten dollars for but three days, he knows acombination which would repair all the past; it could not fail, he--thinks. But he cannot find her, and the letters he writes--allcontaining the one scheme--disappear in the mail-box, and there's anend. MADAME DÉLICIEUSE Just adjoining the old Café de Poésie on the corner, stood the littleone-story, yellow-washed tenement of Dr. Mossy, with its two glass doorsprotected by batten shutters, and its low, weed-grown tile roof slopingout over the sidewalk. You were very likely to find the Doctor in, forhe was a great student and rather negligent of his business--asbusiness. He was a small, sedate, Creole gentleman of thirty or more, with a young-old face and manner that provoked instant admiration. Hewould receive you--be you who you may--in a mild, candid manner, lookinginto your face with his deep blue eyes, and re-assuring you with amodest, amiable smile, very sweet and rare on a man's mouth. To be frank, the Doctor's little establishment was dusty anddisorderly--very. It was curious to see the jars, and jars, and jars. Inthem were serpents and hideous fishes and precious specimens of manysorts. There were stuffed birds on broken perches; and dried lizards, and eels, and little alligators, and old skulls with their crowns sawedoff, and ten thousand odd scraps of writing-paper strewn with crumbs oflonely lunches, and interspersed with long-lost spatulas and rust-eatenlancets. All New Orleans, at least all Creole New Orleans, knew, and yet did notknow, the dear little Doctor. So gentle, so kind, so skilful, sopatient, so lenient; so careless of the rich and so attentive to thepoor; a man, all in all, such as, should you once love him, you wouldlove him forever. So very learned, too, but with apparently no idea ofhow to _show himself_ to his social profit, --two features much moresmiled at than respected, not to say admired, by a people remote fromthe seats of learning, and spending most of their esteem upon animalheroisms and exterior display. "Alas!" said his wealthy acquaintances, "what a pity; when he might aswell be rich. " "Yes, his father has plenty. " "Certainly, and gives it freely. But intends his son shall see none ofit. " "His son? You dare not so much as mention him. " "Well, well, how strange! But they can never agree--not even upon theirname. Is not that droll?--a man named General Villivicencio, and hisson, Dr. Mossy!" "Oh, that is nothing; it is only that the Doctor drops the _deVillivicencio_. " "Drops the _de Villivicencio?_ but I think the _de Villivicencio_ dropshim, ho, ho, ho, --_diable!_" Next to the residence of good Dr. Mossy towered the narrow, red-brick-front mansion of young Madame Délicieuse, firm friend at onceand always of those two antipodes, General Villivicencio and Dr. Mossy. Its dark, covered carriage-way was ever rumbling, and, with nightfall, its drawing-rooms always sent forth a luxurious light from thelace-curtained windows of the second-story balconies. It was one of the sights of the Rue Royale to see by night its tall, narrow outline reaching high up toward the stars, with all its windowsaglow. The Madame had had some tastes of human experience; had been betrothedat sixteen (to a man she did not love, "being at that time a fool, " asshe said); one summer day at noon had been a bride, and at sundown--awidow. Accidental discharge of the tipsy bridegroom's own pistol. Passit by! It left but one lasting effect on her, a special detestation ofquarrels and weapons. The little maidens whom poor parentage has doomed to sit upon streetdoor-sills and nurse their infant brothers have a game of "choosing" thebeautiful ladies who sweep by along the pavement; but in Rue Royalethere was no choosing; every little damsel must own Madame Délicieuse ornobody, and as that richly adorned and regal favorite of old GeneralVillivicencio came along they would lift their big, bold eyes away up toher face and pour forth their admiration in a universal--"Ah-h-h-h!" But, mark you, she was good Madame Délicieuse as well as fair MadameDélicieuse: her principles, however, not constructed in the austereAnglo-Saxon style, exactly (what need, with the lattice of theConfessional not a stone's throw off?). Her kind offices and beneficentschemes were almost as famous as General Villivicencio's splendid alms;if she could at times do what the infantile Washington said he couldnot, why, no doubt she and her friends generally looked upon it as amere question of enterprise. She had charms, too, of intellect--albeit not such a sinner against timeand place as to be an "educated woman"--charms that, even in a plainerperson, would have brought down the half of New Orleans upon one knee, with both hands on the left side. _She_ had the _whole_ city at herfeet, and, with the fine tact which was the perfection of her character, kept it there contented. Madame was, in short, one of the kind thatgracefully wrest from society the prerogative of doing as they please, and had gone even to such extravagant lengths as driving out in the_Américain_ faubourg, learning the English tongue, talking nationalpolitics, and similar freaks whereby she provoked the unbounded worshipof her less audacious lady friends. In the centre of the cluster ofCreole beauties which everywhere gathered about her, and, most of all, in those incomparable companies which assembled in her own splendiddrawing-rooms, she was always queen lily. Her house, her drawing-rooms, etc. ; for the little brown aunt who lived with her was a mere piece ofcurious furniture. There was this notable charm about Madame Délicieuse, she improved bycomparison. She never looked so grand as when, hanging on GeneralVillivicencio's arm at some gorgeous ball, these two bore down on youlike a royal barge lashed to a ship-of-the-line. She never looked solike her sweet name, as when she seated her prettiest lady adorers closearound her, and got them all a-laughing. Of the two balconies which overhung the _banquette_ on the front of theDélicieuse house, one was a small affair, and the other a deeper andbroader one, from which Madame and her ladies were wont upon gala daysto wave handkerchiefs and cast flowers to the friends in theprocessions. There they gathered one Eighth of January morning to seethe military display. It was a bright blue day, and the group that quitefilled the balcony had laid wrappings aside, as all flower-buds are aptto do on such Creole January days, and shone resplendent in springattire. The sight-seers passing below looked up by hundreds and smiled at theladies' eager twitter, as, flirting in humming-bird fashion from onesubject to another, they laughed away the half-hours waiting for thepageant. By and by they fell a-listening, for Madame Délicieuse hadbegun a narrative concerning Dr. Mossy. She sat somewhat above herlisteners, her elbow on the arm of her chair, and her plump white handwaving now and then in graceful gesture, they silently attending witheyes full of laughter and lips starting apart. "_Vous savez_, " she said (they conversed in French of course), "you knowit is now long that Dr. Mossy and his father have been in disaccord. Indeed, when have they not differed? For, when Mossy was but a littleboy, his father thought it hard that he was not a rowdy. He switched himonce because he would not play with his toy gun and drum. He was not sohigh when his father wished to send him to Paris to enter the Frencharmy; but he would not go. We used to play often together on the_banquette_--for I am not so very many years younger than he, noindeed--and, if I wanted some fun, I had only to pull his hair and runinto the house; he would cry, and monsieur papa would come out with hishand spread open and"-- Madame gave her hand a malicious little sweep, and Joined heartily inthe laugh which followed. "That was when they lived over the way. But wait! you shall see: I havesomething. This evening the General"-- The houses of Rue Royale gave a start and rattled their windows. In thelong, irregular line of balconies the beauty of the city rose up. Thenthe houses jumped again and the windows rattled; Madame steps inside thewindow and gives a message which the housemaid smiles at in receiving. As she turns the houses shake again, and now again; and now there comesa distant strain of trumpets, and by and by the drums and bayonets andclattering hoofs, and plumes and dancing banners; far down the longstreet stretch out the shining ranks of gallant men, and the fluttering, over-leaning swarms of ladies shower down their sweet favors and wavetheir countless welcomes. In the front, towering above his captains, rides General Villivicencio, veteran of 1814-15, and, with the gracious pomp of the old-timegentleman, lifts his cocked hat, and bows, and bows. Madame Délicieuse's balcony was a perfect maze of waving kerchiefs. TheGeneral looked up for the woman of all women; she was not there. But heremembered the other balcony, the smaller one, and cast his glanceonward to it. There he saw Madame and one other person only. A smallblue-eyed, broad-browed, scholarly-looking man whom the arch lady hadlured from his pen by means of a mock professional summons, and who nowstood beside her, a smile of pleasure playing on his lips and about hiseyes. "_Vite!_" said Madame, as the father's eyes met the son's. Dr. Mossylifted his arm and cast a bouquet of roses. A girl in the crowd boundedforward, caught it in the air, and, blushing, handed it to the plumedgiant. He bowed low, first to the girl, then to the balcony above; andthen, with a responsive smile, tossed up two splendid kisses, one toMadame, and one, it seemed-- "For what was that cheer?" "Why, did you not see? General Villivicencio cast a kiss to his son. " The staff of General Villivicencio were a faithful few who had not bowedthe knee to any abomination of the Américains, nor sworn deceitfully toany species of compromise; their beloved city was presently to pass intothe throes of an election, and this band, heroically unconscious oftheir feebleness, putting their trust in "re-actions" and likedelusions, resolved to make one more stand for the traditions of theirfathers. It was concerning this that Madame Délicieuse was incidentallyabout to speak when interrupted by the boom of cannon; they had promisedto meet at her house that evening. They met. With very little discussion or delay (for their minds weremade up beforehand), it was decided to announce in the French-Englishnewspaper that, at a meeting of leading citizens, it had been thoughtconsonant with the public interest to place before the people the nameof General Hercule Mossy de Villivicencio. No explanation was considerednecessary. All had been done in strict accordance with time-honoredcustoms, and if any one did not know it it was his own fault. Noeulogium was to follow, no editorial indorsement. The two announcementswere destined to stand next morning, one on the English side and one onthe French, in severe simplicity, to be greeted with profoundgratification by a few old gentlemen in blue cottonade, and by roars oflaughter from a rampant majority. As the junto were departing, sparkling Madame Délicieuse detained theGeneral at the head of the stairs that descended into the tiledcarriage-way, to wish she was a man, that she might vote for him. "But, General, " she said, "had I not a beautiful bouquet of ladies on mybalcony this morning?" The General replied, with majestic gallantry, that "it was asmagnificent as could be expected with the central rose wanting. " And soMadame was disappointed, for she was trying to force the General tomention his son. "I will bear this no longer; he shall not rest, " shehad said to her little aunt, "until he has either kissed his son orquarrelled with him. " To which the aunt had answered that, "_coûte que coûte_, she need notcry about it;" nor did she. Though the General's compliment had foiledher thrust, she answered gayly to the effect that enough was enough;"but, ah! General, " dropping her voice to an undertone, "if you hadheard what some of those rosebuds said of you!" The old General pricked up like a country beau. Madame laughed toherself, "Monsieur Peacock, I have thee;" but aloud she said gravely: "Come into the drawing-room, if you please, and seat yourself. You mustbe greatly fatigued. " The friends who waited below overheard the invitation. "_Au revoir, Général_, " said they. "_Au revoir, Messieurs, _" he answered, and followed the lady. "General, " said she, as if her heart were overflowing, "you have beenspoken against. Please sit down. " "Is that true, Madame?" "Yes, General. " She sank into a luxurious chair. "A lady said to-day--but you will be angry with me, General. " "With you, Madame? That is not possible. " "I do not love to make revelations, General; but when a noble friend isevil spoken of"--she leaned her brow upon her thumb and forefinger, andlooked pensively at her slipper's toe peeping out at the edge of herskirt on the rich carpet--"one's heart gets very big. " "Madame, you are an angel! But what said she, Madame?" "Well, General, I have to tell you the whole truth, if you will not beangry. We were all speaking at once of handsome men. She said to me:'Well, Madame Délicieuse, you may say what you will of GeneralVillivicencio, and I suppose it is true; but everybody knows'--pardonme, General, but just so she said--'all the world knows he treats hisson very badly. '" "It is not true, " said the General. "If I wasn't angry!" said Madame, making a pretty fist. 'How can thatbe?' I said. 'Well, ' she said, 'mamma says he has been angry with hisson for fifteen years. ' 'But what did his son do?' I said. 'Nothing, 'said she. '_Ma foi_, ' I said, 'me, I too would be angry if my son haddone nothing for fifteen years'--ho, ho, ho!" "It is not true, " said the General. The old General cleared his throat, and smiled as by compulsion. "You know, General, " said Madame, looking distressed, "it was nothing tojoke about, but I had to say so, because I did not know what your sonhad done, nor did I wish to hear any thing against one who has the honorto call you his father. " She paused a moment to let the flattery take effect, and then proceeded: "But then another lady said to me; she said, 'For shame, Clarisse, tolaugh at good Dr. Mossy; nobody--neither General Villivicencio, neitherany other, has a right to be angry against that noble, gentle, kind, brave'"-- "Brave!" said the General, with a touch of irony. "So she said, "answered Madame Délicieuse, "and I asked her, 'how brave?' 'Brave?' shesaid, 'why, braver than _any soldier_, in tending the small-pox, thecholera, the fevers, and all those horrible things. Me, I saw his fatheronce run from a snake; I think _he_ wouldn't fight the small-pox--myfaith!' she said, 'they say that Dr. Mossy does all that and never wearsa scapula!--and does it nine hundred and ninety-nine times in a thousandfor nothing! _Is_ that brave, Madame Délicieuse, or is it not?'--And, General, --what could I say?" Madame dropped her palms on either side of her spreading robes andwaited pleadingly for an answer. There was no sound but the drumming ofthe General's fingers on his sword-hilt. Madame resumed: "I said, 'I do not deny that Mossy is a noble gentleman;'--I had to saythat, had I not, General?" "Certainly, Madame, " said the General, "my son is a gentleman, yes. " "'But, ' I said, 'he should not make Monsieur, his father, angry. '" "True, " said the General, eagerly. "But that lady said: 'Monsieur, his father, makes himself angry, ' shesaid. 'Do you know, Madame, why his father is angry so long?' Anotherlady says, 'I know!' 'For what?' said I. 'Because he refused to become asoldier; mamma told me that. ' 'It cannot be!' I said. " The General flushed. Madame saw it, but relentlessly continued: "'_Mais oui_, ' said that lady. 'What!' I said, 'think you GeneralVillivicencio will not rather be the very man most certain to respect ason who has the courage to be his own master? Oh, what does he want witha poor fool of a son who will do only as he says? You think he will lovehim less for healing instead of killing? Mesdemoiselles, you do not knowthat noble soldier!'" The noble soldier glowed, and bowed his acknowledgments in a dubious, half remonstrative way, as if Madame might be producing material for hernext confession, as, indeed, she diligently was doing; but she wentstraight on once more, as a surgeon would. "But that other lady said: 'No, Madame, no, ladies, but I am going totell you why Monsieur, the General, is angry with his son. ' 'Very well, why?'--'Why? It is just--because--he is--a little man!'" General Villivicencio stood straight up. "Ah! mon ami, " cried the lady, rising excitedly, "I have wounded you andmade you angry, with my silly revelations. Pardon me, my friend. Thosewere foolish girls, and, anyhow, they admired you. They said you lookedglorious--grand--at the head of the procession. " Now, all at once, the General felt the tremendous fatigues of the day;there was a wild, swimming, whirling sensation in his head that forcedhim to let his eyelids sink down; yet, just there, in the midst of hispainful bewilderment, he realized with ecstatic complacency that themost martial-looking man in Louisiana was standing in his spurs with thehand of Louisiana's queenliest woman laid tenderly on his arm. "I am a wretched tattler!" said she. "Ah! no, Madame, you are my dearest friend, yes. ' "Well, anyhow, I called them fools. 'Ah! innocent creatures, ' I said, 'think you a man of his sense and goodness, giving his thousands to thesick and afflicted, will cease to love his only son because he is notbig like a horse or quarrelsome like a dog? No, ladies, there is a greatreason which none of you know. ' 'Well, well, ' they cried, 'tell it; hehas need of a very good reason; tell it now. ' 'My ladies, ' I said, 'Imust not'--for, General, for all the world I knew not a reason why youshould be angry against your son; you know, General, you have never toldme. " The beauty again laid her hand on his arm and gazed, with round-eyedsimplicity, into his sombre countenance. For an instant her witchery hadalmost conquered. "Nay, Madame, some day I shall tell you; I have more than one burden_here_. But let me ask you to be seated, for I have a question, also, for you, which I have longed to ask. It lies heavily upon my heart; Imust ask it now. A matter of so great importance"-- Madame's little brown aunt gave a faint cough from a dim corner of theroom. "'Tis a beautiful night, " she remarked, and stepped out on the balcony. Then the General asked his question. It was a very long question, or, maybe, repeated twice or thrice; for it was fully ten minutes before hemoved out of the room, saying good-evening. Ah! old General Villivicencio. The most martial-looking man inLouisiana! But what would the people, the people who cheered in themorning, have said, to see the fair Queen Délicieuse at the top of thestair, sweetly bowing you down into the starlight, --humbled, crestfallen, rejected! The campaign opened. The Villivicencio ticket was read in French andEnglish with the very different sentiments already noted. In theExchange, about the courts, among the "banks, " there was lively talkingconcerning its intrinsic excellence and extrinsic chances. The younggentlemen who stood about the doors of the so-called "coffee-houses"talked with a frantic energy alarming to any stranger, and just when youwould have expected to see them jump and bite large mouthfuls out ofeach other's face, they would turn and enter the door, talking on in thesame furious manner, and, walking up to the bar, click their glasses tothe success of the Villivicencio ticket. Sundry swarthy and wrinkledremnants of an earlier generation were still more enthusiastic. Therewas to be a happy renaissance; a purging out of Yankee ideas; a blessedhome-coming of those good old Bourbon morals and manners which Yankeenotions had expatriated. In the cheerfulness of their anticipations theyeven went the length of throwing their feet high in air, thus indicatinghow the Villivicencio ticket was going to give "doze Américains" thekick under the nose. In the three or four weeks which followed, the General gathered asurfeit of adulation, notwithstanding which he was constantly and withpain imagining a confused chatter of ladies, and when he shut his eyeswith annoyance, there was Madame Délicieuse standing, and saying, "Iknew not a reason why you should be angry against your son, " gazing inhis face with hardened simplicity, and then--that last scene on thestairs wherein he seemed still to be descending, down, down. Madame herself was keeping good her resolution. "Now or never, " she said, "a reconciliation or a quarrel. " When the General, to keep up appearances, called again, she so moved himwith an account of certain kindly speeches of her own invention, whichshe imputed to Dr. Mossy, that he promised to call and see his son;"perhaps;" "pretty soon;" "probably. " Dr. Mossy, sitting one February morning among his specimens and books ofreference, finishing a thrilling chapter on the cuticle, too absorbed tohear a door open, suddenly realized that something was in his light, and, looking up, beheld General Villivicencio standing over him. Breathing a pleased sigh, he put down his pen, and, rising on tiptoe, laid his hand upon his father's shoulder, and lifting his lips like alittle wife, kissed him. "Be seated, papa, " he said, offering his own chair, and perching on thedesk. The General took it, and, clearing his throat, gazed around upon thejars and jars with their little Adams and Eves in zoölogical gardens. "Is all going well, papa?" finally asked Dr. Mossy. "Yes. " Then there was a long pause. "'Tis a beautiful day, " said the son. "Very beautiful, " rejoined the father. "I thought there would have been a rain, but it has cleared off, " saidthe son. "Yes, " responded the father, and drummed on the desk. "Does it appear to be turning cool?" asked the son. "No; it does not appear to be turning cool at all, " was the answer. "H'm 'm!" said Dr. Mossy. "Hem!" said General Villivicencio. Dr. Mossy, not realizing his own action, stole a glance at hismanuscript. "I am interrupting you, " said the General, quickly, and rose. "No, no! pardon me; be seated; it gives me great pleasure to--I did notknow what I was doing. It is the work with which I fill my leisuremoments. " So the General settled down again, and father and son sat very close toeach other--in a bodily sense; spiritually they were many miles apart. The General's finger-ends, softly tapping the desk, had the sound offar-away drums. "The city--it is healthy?" asked the General. "Did you ask me if"--said the little Doctor, starting and looking up. "The city--it has not much sickness at present?" repeated the father. "No, yes--not much, " said Mossy, and, with utter unconsciousness, leaneddown upon his elbow and supplied an omitted word to the manuscript. The General was on his feet as if by the touch of a spring. "I must go!" "Ah! no, papa, " said the son. "But, yes, I must. " "But wait, papa, I had just now something to speak of"-- "Well?" said the General, standing with his hand on the door, and withrather a dark countenance. Dr. Mossy touched his fingers to his forehead, trying to remember. "I fear I have--ah! I rejoice to see your name before the public, dearpapa, and at the head of the ticket. " The General's displeasure sank down like an eagle's feathers. He smiledthankfully, and bowed. "My friends compelled me, " he said. "They think you will be elected?" "They will not doubt it. But what think you, my son?" Now the son had a conviction which it would have been madness toexpress, so he only said: "They could not elect one more faithful. " The General bowed solemnly. "Perhaps the people will think so; my friends believe they will. " "Your friends who have used your name should help you as much as theycan, papa, " said the Doctor. "Myself, I should like to assist you, papa, if I could. " "A-bah!" said the pleased father, incredulously. "But, yes, " said the son. A thrill of delight filled the General's frame. _This_ was like a son. "Thank you, my son! I thank you much. Ah, Mossy, my dear boy, you makeme happy!" "But, " added Mossy, realizing with a tremor how far he had gone, "I seenot how it is possible. " The General's chin dropped. "Not being a public man, " continued the Doctor; "unless, indeed, mypen--you might enlist my pen. " He paused with a smile of bashful inquiry. The General stood aghast fora moment, and then caught the idea. "Certainly! cer-tain-ly! ha, ha, ha!"--backing out of thedoor--"certainly! Ah! Mossy, you are right, to be sure; to make acomplete world we must have swords _and_ pens. Well, my son, '_aurevoir;_' no, I cannot stay--I will return. I hasten to tell my friendsthat the pen of Dr. Mossy is on our side! Adieu, dear son. " Standing outside on the _banquette_ he bowed--not to Dr. Mossy, but tothe balcony of the big red-brick front--a most sunshiny smile, anddeparted. The very next morning, as if fate had ordered it, the Villivicencioticket was attacked--ambushed, as it were, from behind the Américainnewspaper. The onslaught was--at least General Villivicencio said itwas--absolutely ruffianly. Never had all the lofty courtesies andformalities of chivalric contest been so completely ignored. Poisonedballs--at least personal epithets--were used. The General himself wascalled "antiquated!" The friends who had nominated him, they werepositively sneered at; dubbed "fossils, " "old ladies, " and their caucustermed "irresponsible"--thunder and lightning! gentlemen of honor to betermed "not responsible!" It was asserted that the nomination was madesecretly, in a private house, by two or three unauthorized harum-scarums(that touched the very bone) who had with more caution than proprietywithheld their names. The article was headed, "The Crayfish-eaters'Ticket. " It continued further to say that, had not the publication ofthis ticket been regarded as a dull hoax, it would not have beensuffered to pass for two weeks unchallenged, and that it was now hightime the universal wish should be realized in its withdrawal. Among the earliest readers of this production was the young Madame. Shefirst enjoyed a quiet gleeful smile over it, and then called: "Ninide, here, take this down to Dr. Mossy--stop. " She marked thecommunication heavily with her gold pencil. "No answer; he need notreturn it. " About the same hour, and in a neighboring street, one of the "notresponsibles" knocked on the Villivicencio castle gate. The Generalinvited him into his bedroom. With a short and strictly profane haranguethe visitor produced the offensive newspaper, and was about to beginreading, when one of those loud nasal blasts, so peculiar to the Gaul, resounded at the gate, and another "not responsible" entered, moreexcited, if possible, than the first. Several minutes were spent inexchanging fierce sentiments and slapping the palm of the left handrapidly with the back of the right. Presently there was a pause forbreath. "Alphonse, proceed to read, " said the General, sitting up in bed. "De Crayfish-eaters' Ticket"--began Alphonse; but a third rapping at thegate interrupted him, and a third "irresponsible" re-enforced theirnumber, talking loudly and wildly to the waiting-man as he came up thehall. Finally, Alphonse read the article. Little by little the incensedgentlemen gave it a hearing, now two words and now three, interruptingit to rip out long, rasping maledictions, and wag their forefingers ateach other as they strode ferociously about the apartment. As Alphonse reached the close, and dashed the paper to the floor, thewhole quartet, in terrific unison, cried for the blood of the editor. But hereupon the General spoke with authority. "No, Messieurs, " he said, buttoning his dressing-gown, savagely, "youshall not fight him. I forbid it--you shall not!" "But, " cried the three at once, "one of us must fight, and you--youcannot; if _you_ fight our cause is lost! The candidate must not fight. " "Hah-h! Messieurs, " cried the hero, beating his breast and lifting hiseyes, "_grace au ciel_. I have a son. Yes, my beloved friends, a son whoshall call the villain out and make him pay for his impudence withblood, or eat his words in to-morrow morning's paper. Heaven be thankedthat gave me a son for this occasion! I shall see him at once--as soonas I can dress. " "We will go with you. " "No, gentlemen, let me see my son alone. I can meet you at Maspero's intwo hours. Adieu, my dear friends. " He was resolved. "_Au, revoir, _, " said the dear friends. Shortly after, cane in hand, General Villivicencio moved with an irefulstride up the _banquette_ of Rue Royale. Just as he passed the red-brickfront one of the batten shutters opened the faintest bit, and a certainpair of lovely eyes looked after him, without any of that roundsimplicity which we have before discovered in them. As he half turned toknock at his son's door he glanced at this very shutter, but it was astightly closed as though the house were an enchanted palace. Dr. Mossy's door, on the contrary, swung ajar when he knocked, and theGeneral entered. "Well, my son, have you seen that newspaper? No, I think not. I _see_you have not, since your cheeks are not red with shame and anger. " Dr. Mossy looked up with astonishment from the desk where he satwriting. "What is that, papa?" "My faith! Mossy, is it possible you have not heard of the attack uponme, which has surprised and exasperated the city this morning?" "No, " said Dr. Mossy, with still greater surprise, and laying his handon the arm of his chair. His father put on a dying look. "My soul!" At that moment his glancefell upon the paper which had been sent in by Madame Délicieuse. "But, Mossy, my son, " he screamed, "_there_ it is!" striking it rapidly withone finger--"there! there! there! read it! It calls me 'notresponsible!' 'not responsible' it calls me! Read! read!" "But, papa, " said the quiet little Doctor, rising, and accepting thecrumpled paper thrust at him, "I have read this. If this is it, well, then, already I am preparing to respond to it. " The General seized him violently, and, spreading a suffocating kiss onhis face, sealed it with an affectionate oath. "Ah, Mossy, my boy, you are glorious! You had begun already to write!You are glorious! Read to me what you have written, my son. " The Doctor took up a bit of manuscript, and resuming his chair, began: "MESSRS. EDITORS: On your journal of this morning"-- "Eh! how! you have not written it in English, is it, son?" "But, yes, papa. " "'Tis a vile tongue, " said the General; "but, if it isnecessary--proceed. " "MESSRS. EDITORS: On your journal of this morning is published aneditorial article upon the Villivicencio ticket, which is plentiful andabundant with mistakes. Who is the author or writer of the above saideditorial article your correspondent does at present ignore, but doubtsnot he is one who, hasty to form an opinion, will yet, however, make hisassent to the correction of some errors and mistakes which"-- "Bah!" cried the General. Dr. Mossy looked up, blushing crimson. "Bah!" cried the General, still more forcibly. "Bêtise!" "How?" asked the gentle son. "'Tis all nonsent!" cried the General, bursting into English. "Hall you'ave to say is: ''Sieur Editeurs! I want you s'all give de nem of deindignan' scoundrel who meek some lies on you' paper about mon Père etses amis!" "Ah-h!" said Dr. Mossy, in a tone of derision and anger. His father gazed at him in mute astonishment. He stood beside hisdisorderly little desk, his small form drawn up, a hand thrust into hisbreast, and that look of invincibility in his eyes such as blue eyessometimes surprise us with. "You want me to fight, " he said. "My faith!" gasped the General, loosening in all his joints. "Ibelieve--you may cut me in pieces if I do not believe you were going toreason it out in the newspaper! Fight? If I want you to fight? Upon mysoul, I believe you do not want to fight!" "No, " said Mossy. "My God!" whispered the General. His heart seemed to break. "Yes, " said the steadily gazing Doctor, his lips trembling as he openedthem. "Yes, your God. I am afraid"-- "Afraid!" gasped the General. "Yes, " rang out the Doctor, "afraid; afraid! God forbid that I shouldnot be afraid. But I will tell you what I do not fear--I do not fear tocall your affairs of honor--murder!" "My son!" cried the father. "I retract, " cried the son; "consider it unsaid. I will never reproachmy father. " "It is well, " said the father. "I was wrong. It is my quarrel. I go tosettle it myself. " Dr. Mossy moved quickly between his father and the door. GeneralVillivicencio stood before him utterly bowed down. "What will you?" sadly demanded the old man. "Papa, " said the son, with much tenderness, "I cannot permit you. Fifteen years we were strangers, and yesterday were friends. You mustnot leave me so. I will even settle this quarrel for you. You must letme. I am pledged to your service. " The peace-loving little doctor did not mean "to settle, " but "toadjust. " He felt in an instant that he was misunderstood; yet, as quietpeople are apt to do, though not wishing to deceive, he let themisinterpretation stand. In his embarrassment he did not know withabsolute certainty what he should do himself. The father's face--he thought of but one way to settle a quarrel--beganinstantly to brighten. "I would myself do it, " he said, apologetically, "but my friends forbid it. " "And so do I, " said the Doctor, "but I will go myself now, and will notreturn until all is finished. Give me the paper. " "My son, I do not wish to compel you. " There was something acid in the Doctor's smile as he answered: "No; but give me the paper, if you please. " The General handed it. "Papa, " said the son, "you must wait here for my return. " "But I have an appointment at Maspero's at"-- "I will call and make excuse for you, " said the son. "Well, " consented the almost happy father, "go, my son; I will stay. Butif some of your sick shall call?" "Sit quiet, " said the son. "They will think no one is here. " And theGeneral noticed that the dust lay so thick on the panes that a personoutside would have to put his face close to the glass to see within. In the course of half an hour the Doctor had reached the newspaperoffice, thrice addressed himself to the wrong person, finally found thecourteous editor, and easily convinced him that his father had beenimposed upon; but when Dr. Mossy went farther, and asked which one ofthe talented editorial staff had written the article: "You see, Doctor, " said the editor--"just step into my private office amoment. " They went in together. The next minute saw Dr. Mossy departing hurriedlyfrom the place, while the editor complacently resumed his pen, assuredthat he would not return. General Villivicencio sat and waited among the serpents and innocents. His spirits began to droop again. Revolving Mossy's words, he could notescape the fear that possibly, after all, his son might compromise theVillivicencio honor in the interests of peace. Not that he preferred toput his son's life in jeopardy; he would not object to an adjustment, provided the enemy should beg for it. But if not, whom would his sonselect to perform those friendly offices indispensable in politequarrels? Some half-priest, half-woman? Some spectacled book-worm? Hesuffered. The monotony of his passive task was relieved by one or two callers whohad the sagacity (or bad manners) to peer through the dirty glass, andthen open the door, to whom, half rising from his chair, he answered, with a polite smile, that the Doctor was out, nor could he say how longhe might be absent. Still the time dragged painfully, and he began atlength to wonder why Mossy did not return. There came a rap at the glass door different from all the raps that hadforerun it--a fearless, but gentle, dignified, graceful rap; and theGeneral, before he looked round, felt in all his veins that it came fromthe young Madame. Yes, there was her glorious outline thrown side wiseupon the glass. He hastened and threw open the door, bending low at thesame instant, and extending his hand. She extended hers also, but not to take his. With a calm dexterity thattook the General's breath, she reached between him and the door, andclosed it. "What is the matter?" anxiously asked the General--for her face, inspite of its smile, was severe. "General, " she began, ignoring his inquiry--and, with all her Creolebows, smiles, and insinuating phrases, the severity of her countenancebut partially waned--"I came to see my physician--your son. Ah! General, when I find you reconciled to your son, it makes me think I am inheaven. You will let me say so? You will not be offended with the oldplaymate of your son?" She gave him no time to answer. "He is out, I think, is he not? But I am glad of it. It gives usoccasion to rejoice together over his many merits. For you know, General, in all the years of your estrangement, Mossy had no friend likemyself. I am proud to tell you so now; is it not so?" The General was so taken aback that, when he had thanked her in amechanical way, he could say nothing else. She seemed to fall for alittle while into a sad meditation that embarrassed him beyond measure. But as he opened his mouth to speak, she resumed: "Nobody knew him so well as I; though I, poor me, I could not altogetherunderstand him; for look you, General, he was--what do you think?--_agreat man_!--nothing less. " "How?" asked the General, not knowing what else to respond. "You never dreamed of that, eh?" continued the lady. "But, of coursenot; nobody did but me. Some of those Américains, I suppose, knew it;but who would ever ask them? Here in Royal Street, in New Orleans, wherewe people know nothing and care nothing but for meat, drink, andpleasure, he was only Dr. Mossy, who gave pills. My faith! General, nowonder you were disappointed in your son, for you thought the same. Ah!yes, you did! But why did you not ask me, his old playmate? I knewbetter. I could have told you how your little son stood head andshoulders above the crowd. I could have told you some things toowonderful to believe. I could have told you that his name was known andhonored in the scientific schools of Paris, of London, of Germany! Yes!I could have shown you"--she warmed as she proceeded--"I could haveshown you letters (I begged them of him), written as between brother andbrother, from the foremost men of science and discovery!" She stood up, her eyes flashing with excitement. "But why did you never tell me?" cried the General. "He never would allow me--but you--why did you not ask me? I will tellyou; you were too proud to mention your son. But he had pride to matchyours--ha!--achieving all--every thing--with an assumed name! 'Let metell your father, ' I implored him; but--'let him find me out, ' he said, and you never found him out. Ah! there he was fine. He would not, hesaid, though only for your sake, re-enter your affections as any thingmore or less than just--your son. Ha!" And so she went on. Twenty times the old General was astonished anew, twenty times was angry or alarmed enough to cry out, but twenty timesshe would not be interrupted. Once he attempted to laugh, but again herhand commanded silence. "Behold, Monsieur, all these dusty specimens, these revolting fragments. How have you blushed to know that our idle people laugh in their sleevesat these things! How have you blushed--and you his father! But why didyou not ask me? I could have told you: 'Sir, your son is not anapothecary; not one of these ugly things but has helped him on in theglorious path of discovery; discovery, General--your son--known inEurope as a scientific discoverer!' Ah-h! the blind people say, 'How isthat, that General Villivicencio should be dissatisfied with his son? Heis a good man, and a good doctor, only a little careless, that's all. 'But _you_ were more blind still, for you shut your eyes tight like this;when, had you searched for his virtues as you did for his faults, you, too, might have known before it was too late what nobility, what beauty, what strength, were in the character of your poor, poor son!" "Just Heaven! Madame, you shall not speak of my son as of one dead andburied! But, if you have some bad news"-- "Your son took your quarrel on his hands, eh?" "I believe so--I think"-- "Well; I saw him an hour ago in search of your slanderer!" "He must find him!" said the General, plucking up. "But if the search is already over, " slowly responded Madame. The father looked one instant in her face, then rose with anexclamation: "Where is my son? What has happened? Do you think I am a child, to betrifled with--a horse to be teased? Tell me of my son!" Madame was stricken with genuine anguish. "Take your chair, " she begged; "wait; listen; take your chair. " "Never!" cried the General; "I am going to find my son--my God! Madame, you have _locked this door_! What are you, that you should treat me so?Give me, this instant"-- "Oh! Monsieur, I beseech you to take your chair, and I will tell youall. You can do nothing now. Listen! suppose you should rush out andfind that your son had played the coward at last! Sit down and"-- "Ah! Madame, this is play!" cried the distracted man. "But no; it is not play. Sit down; I want to ask you something. " He sank down and she stood over him, anguish and triumph strangelymingled in her beautiful face. "General, tell me true; did you not force this quarrel into your son'shand? I _know_ he would not choose to have it. Did you not do it to testhis courage, because all these fifteen years you have made yourself afool with the fear that he became a student only to escape being asoldier? Did you not?" Her eyes looked him through and through. "And if I did?" demanded he with faint defiance. "Yes! and if he has made dreadful haste and proved his courage?" askedshe. "Well, then, "--the General straightened up triumphantly--"then he is myson!" He beat the desk. "And heir to your wealth, for example?" "Certainly. " The lady bowed in solemn mockery. "It will make him a magnificent funeral!" The father bounded up and stood speechless, trembling from head to foot. Madame looked straight in his eye. "Your son has met the writer of that article. " "Where?" the old man's lips tried to ask. "Suddenly, unexpectedly, in a passage-way. " "My God! and the villain"-- "Lives!" cried Madame. He rushed to the door, forgetting that it was locked. "Give me that key!" he cried, wrenched at the knob, turned awaybewildered, turned again toward it, and again away; and at every stepand turn he cried, "Oh! my son, my son! I have killed my son! Oh! Mossy, my son, my little boy! Oh! my son, my son!" Madame buried her face in her hands and sobbed aloud. Then the fatherhushed his cries and stood for a moment before her. "Give me the key, Clarisse, let me go. " She rose and laid her face on his shoulder. "What is it, Clarisse?" asked he. "Your son and I were ten years betrothed. " "Oh, my child!" "Because, being disinherited, he would not be me husband. " "Alas! would to God I had known it! Oh! Mossy, my son. " "Oh! Monsieur, " cried the lady, clasping her hands, "forgive me--mournno more--your son is unharmed! I wrote the article--I am your recantingslanderer! Your son is hunting for me now. I told my aunt to misdirecthim. I slipped by him unseen in the carriage-way. " The wild old General, having already staggered back and rushed forwardagain, would have seized her in his arms, had not the little Doctorhimself at that instant violently rattled the door and shook his fingerat them playfully as he peered through the glass. "Behold!" said Madame, attempting a smile: "open to your son; here isthe key. " She sank into a chair. Father and son leaped into each other's arms; then turned to Madame: "Ah! thou lovely mischief-maker"-- She had fainted away. "Ah! well, keep out of the way, if you please, papa, " said Dr. Mossy, asMadame presently reopened her eyes; "no wonder you fainted; you havefinished some hard work--see; here; no; Clarisse, dear, take this. " Father and son stood side by side, tenderly regarding her as sherevived. "Now, papa, you may kiss her; she is quite herself again, already. " "My daughter!" said the stately General; "this--is my son's ransom; and, with this, --I withdraw the Villivicencio ticket. " "You shall not, " exclaimed the laughing lady, throwing her arms abouthis neck. "But, yes!" he insisted; "my faith! you will at least allow me to removemy dead from the field. " "But, certainly;" said the son; "see, Clarisse, here is Madame, youraunt, asking us all into the house. Let us go. " The group passed out into the Rue Royale, Dr. Mossy shutting the doorbehind them. The sky was blue, the air was soft and balmy, and on thesweet south breeze, to which the old General bared his grateful brow, floated a ravishing odor of-- "Ah! what is it?" the veteran asked of the younger pair, seeing thelittle aunt glance at them with a playful smile. Madame Délicieuse for almost the first time in her life, and Dr. Mossyfor the thousandth--blushed. It was the odor of orange-blossoms.