OLD CREOLE DAYS.
 
 OLD CREOLE DAYS 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE W. CABLE 
 
 NEW YORK 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 743 AND 745 BROADWAY
 
 COPYRIGHT BY 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS. 
 1879- 
 
 PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING Co., 
 aos-213 East lit* St., 
 
 NEW YORK.
 
 Ps 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PACK 
 
 'SIEUR GEORGE i 
 
 'TlTE POULETTE 25 
 
 BELLES DEMOISELLES PLANTATION 60 
 
 JEAN-AH POQUELIN ; 88 
 
 MADAME DELICIEUSE 124 
 
 CAFE DES EXILE s 162 
 
 " POSSON JONE' " 199
 
 OLD CREOLE DAYS. 
 
 '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 are rented 
 to a class of persons occupying them simply for 
 lack of activity to find better and cheaper quarters 
 elsewhere. With its gray stucco peeling 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 ancient streets, like a faded fop who 
 pretends to be looking for employment. 
 
 Under its main archway is a dingy apothecary- 
 shop. On one street is the bazaar of a modiste en 
 robes et cliapeaux and other humble shops ; on the 
 other, the immense batten doors with gratings over 
 the lintels, barred and bolted with masses of cob- 
 webbed iron, like the door of a donjon, are over- 
 hung by a creaking sign (left by the sheriff), on 
 which is faintly discernible the mention of wines
 
 2 Old Creole Days. 
 
 and liquors. A peep through one of the shops re- 
 veals a square court within, hung with many lines 
 of wet clothes, its sides hugged by rotten staircases 
 that seem vainly trying to clamber out of the rub- 
 bish. 
 
 The neighborhood is one long since given up to 
 fifth-rate shops, whose masters and mistresses dis- 
 play such enticing mottoes as " An gagne petit ! " 
 Innumerable children swarm about, and, by some 
 charm of the place, are not run over, but obstruct 
 the banquettes playing their clamorous games. 
 
 The building is a thing of many windows, where 
 passably good-looking women appear and disap- 
 pear, clad in cotton gowns, watering little outside 
 shelves of flowers and cacti, or hanging canaries' 
 cages. Their husbands are keepers in wine-ware- 
 houses, rent-collectors for the agents of old French- 
 men who have been laid up to dry in Paris, cus- 
 tom-house supernumeraries and court-clerks' depu- 
 ties (for your second-rate Creole is a great seeker 
 for little offices). A decaying cornice hangs over, 
 dropping bits of mortar on passers below, like a 
 boy at a boarding-house. 
 
 The landlord is one Kookoo, an ancient Creole 
 of doubtful purity of blood, who in his landlordly 
 old age takes all suggestions of repairs as personal 
 insults. He was but a stripling when his father 
 left him this inheritance, and has grown old and 
 wrinkled and brown, a sort of periodically animate
 
 ' Sieur George. 3 
 
 mummy, in the business. He smokes cascarilla, 
 wears velveteen, and is as punctual as an execu- 
 tioner. 
 
 To Kookoo's venerable property a certain old 
 man used for many years to come every evening, 
 stumbling through the groups of prattling children 
 who frolicked about in the early moonlight whose 
 name no one knew, but whom all the neighbors 
 designated by the title of 'Sieur George. It was 
 his wont to be seen taking a straight too straight 
 course toward his home, never careening to right 
 or left, but now forcing himself slowly forward, as 
 though there were a high gale in front, and now 
 scudding briskly ahead at a ridiculous little dog- 
 trot, as if there were a tornado behind. He would 
 go up the main staircase very carefully, sometimes 
 stopping half-way up for thirty or forty minutes' 
 doze, but getting to the landing eventually, and 
 tramping into his room in the second story, with 
 no little elation tu 5nd it still there. Were it not 
 for these slight symptoms of potations, he was 
 such a one as you would pick out of a thousand for 
 a miser. A year or two ago he suddenly disap- 
 peared. 
 
 A great many years ago, when the old house 
 was still new, a young man with no baggage save 
 a small hair-trunk, came and took the room I have 
 mentioned and another adjoining. He supposed 
 he might stay fifty days and he stayed fifty years
 
 4 Old Creole Days. 
 
 and over. This was a very fashionable neighbor 
 hood, and he kept the rooms on that account 
 month after month. 
 
 But when he had been here about a year some- 
 thing happened to him, so it was rumored, that 
 greatly changed the tenor of his life ; and from 
 that time on there began to appear in him and to 
 accumulate upon each other in a manner which be- 
 came the profound study of Kookoo, the symp- 
 toms of a decay, whose cause baffled the landlord's 
 limited powers of conjecture for well nigh half a 
 century. Hints of a duel, of a reason warped, of 
 disinheritance, and many other unauthorized ru- 
 mors, fluttered up and floated off, while he became 
 recluse, and, some say, began incidentally to be- 
 tray the unmanly habit which we have already 
 noticed. His neighbors would have continued 
 neighborly had he allowed them, but he never let 
 himself be understood, and les Amc'ricains 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) he never admitted even a 
 housemaid, but kept his apartments himself. Only 
 the merry serenaders, who in those times used to 
 sing under the balconies, would now and then give 
 him a crumb of their feast for pure fun's sake ; and 
 after awhile, because they could not find out his 
 full name, called him, at hazard, George but al
 
 'Sieur George. 5 
 
 ways prefixing Monsieur. Afterward, when he 
 began to be careless in his dress, and the fashion 
 of serenading had passed away, the commoner 
 people dared to shorten the title to " 'Sieur 
 George." 
 
 Many seasons came and went. The city changed 
 like a growing boy ; gentility and fashion went up- 
 town, but 'Sieur George still retained his rooms. 
 Every one knew him slightly, and bowed, but no 
 one seemed to know him well, unless it were a 
 brace or so of those convivial fellows in regulation- 
 blue at little Fort St. Charles. He often came 
 home late, with one of these on either arm, all 
 singing different tunes and stopping at every twen- 
 ty steps to tell secrets. But by-and-by the fort 
 was demolished, church and government property 
 melted down under the warm demand 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, as though there were an earth- 
 quake or a chimney on fire. What to do or say 
 or think they do not know ; they are at their wits' 
 ends, therefore well-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 street with every eye upon him ; he approach- 
 es Monsieur he addresses to him a few remarks
 
 6 Old Creole Days. 
 
 they shake hands they engage in some conversa- 
 tion Monsieur places his hand on his sword ! 
 now Monsieur passes. 
 
 The populace crowd around the blacksmith, 
 children clap their hands softly and jump up and 
 down on tiptoes of expectation 'Sieur George is 
 going to the war in Mexico ! 
 
 " Ah ! " says a little girl in the throng, " 'Sieur 
 George's two rooms will be empty ; I find that 
 very droll." 
 
 The landlord, this same Kookoo, is in the 
 group. He hurls himself into the house and up 
 the stairs. " Fifteen years pass since he have 
 been in those 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 in- 
 tentions, had, in company with a middle-aged 
 slave-woman, taken these two rooms, and now, at 
 the slightly-opened door, proffered a month's rent 
 in advance. What could a landlord do but smile ? 
 Yet there was a pretext left ; " the rooms must 
 need repairs ? " " No, sir ; he could look in and 
 see." Joy ! he looked in. All was neatness. The 
 floor unbroken, the walls cracked but a little, and 
 the cracks closed with new plaster, no doubt by 
 the jealous hand of 'Sieur George himself. Koo-
 
 'Sieur George. 7 
 
 koo's eyes swept sharply round the two apart- 
 ments. The furniture was all there. Moreover, 
 there was Monsieur's little hair-trunk. He should 
 not soon forget that trunk. One day, fifteen years 
 or more before, he had taken hold of that trunk 
 to assist Monsieur to arrange his apartment, and 
 Monsieur had drawn his fist back and cried to him 
 to " drop it ! " Mais ! there it was, looking very 
 suspicious in Kookoo's eyes, and the lady's do- 
 mestic, as tidy as a yellow-bird, went and sat on 
 it. Could that trunk contain treasure ? It might, 
 for Madame wanted to shut the door, and, in fact, 
 did so. 
 
 The lady was quite handsome had been more 
 so, but was still young spoke the beautiful lan- 
 guage, and kept, in the inner room, her discreet 
 and taciturn mulattress, a tall, straight woman, 
 with a fierce eye, but called by the young Creoles 
 of the neighborhood "confound' good lookin'." 
 
 Among les Am^ricaines, where the new neigh- 
 bor always expects to be called upon by the older 
 residents, this lady might have made friends in 
 spite of being as reserved as 'Sieur George ; but 
 the reverse being the Creole custom, and she be- 
 ing well pleased to keep her own company, chose 
 mystery rather than society. 
 
 The poor landlord was sorely troubled ; it must 
 not that anything de trop take place in his house. 
 He watched the two rooms narrowly, but withou*
 
 8 Old Creole Days. 
 
 result, save to find that Madame plied her needle 
 for pay, spent her money for little else besides harp- 
 strings, and took good care of the little trunk of 
 Monsieur. This espionage was a good turn to the 
 mistress and maid, for when Kookoo announced 
 that all was proper, no more was said by outsiders. 
 Their landlord never got but one question answered 
 by the middle-aged maid : 
 
 " Madame, he feared, was a litt' bit embarrass' 
 pour money, eh ? " 
 
 " Non ; Mademoiselle [Mademoiselle, you no- 
 tice !] had some property, but did not want to eat 
 it up." 
 
 Sometimes lady-friends came, in very elegant 
 private carriages, to see her, and one or two seemed 
 to beg her but in vain to go away with them ; 
 but these gradually dropped off, until lady and 
 servant were alone in the world. And so years, 
 and the Mexican war, went by. 
 
 The volunteers came home ; peace reigned, and 
 the city went on spreading up and down the land ; 
 but 'Sieur George did not return. It overran the 
 country like cocoa-grass. Fields, roads, wood- 
 lands, that were once 'Sieur George's places of re- 
 treat from mankind, were covered all over with 
 little one-story houses in the " Old Third," and 
 fine residences and gardens up in "Lafayette." 
 Streets went slicing like a butcher's knife, through 
 old colonial estates, whose first masters never
 
 ' Sieur George. 9 
 
 dreamed of the city reaching them, and 'Sieur 
 George was still away. The four-story brick 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, and the very beggars were gone with them. 
 The little trunk got very old and bald, and still its 
 owner lingered ; still the lady, somewhat the worse 
 for lapse of time, looked from the balcony-window 
 in the brief southern twilights, and the maid every 
 morning shook a worn rug or two over the danger- 
 ous-looking railing ; and yet neither had made 
 friends or enemies. 
 
 The two rooms, from having been stingily kept 
 at first, were needing repairs half the time, and the 
 occupants were often moving, now into one, now 
 back into the other ; yet the hair-trunk was seen 
 only by glimpses, the landlord, to his infinite cha- 
 grin, always being a little too late in offering his 
 services, the women, whether it was light or heavy, 
 having already moved it. He thought it significant. 
 
 Late one day of a most bitter winter, that sea- 
 son when, to the ecstatic amazement of a whole 
 cityful of children, snow covered the streets ankle 
 deep, there came a soft tap on the corridor-door 
 of this pair of rooms. The lady opened it, and 
 beheld a tall, Jank, iron-gray man, a total stranger 
 standing behind Monsieur George ! Both men
 
 io Old Creole Days. 
 
 were weather-beaten, scarred, and tattered. Across 
 'Sieur George's crown, leaving a long, bare streak 
 through his white hair, was the souvenir of a Mex- 
 ican saber. 
 
 The landlord had accompanied them to the 
 door : it was a magnificent opportunity. Made- 
 moiselle asked them all in and tried to furnish a 
 seat to each ; but failing, 'Sieur George went 
 straight across the room and sat on the hair-trunk. 
 The action was so conspicuous, the landlord laid it 
 up in his penetrative mind. 
 
 'Sieur George was quiet, or, as it appeared, 
 quieted. The mulattress stood near him, and to 
 her he addressed, in an undertone, most of the 
 little he said, leaving Mademoiselle to his com- 
 panion. The stranger was a warm talker, and 
 seemed to please the lady from the first ; but if he 
 pleased, nothing else did. Kookoo, intensely 
 curious, sought some pretext for staying, but found 
 none. They were, altogether, an uncongenial 
 company. The lady seemed to think Kookoo had 
 no business there ; 'Sieur George seemed to think 
 the same concerning his companion ; and the few 
 words between Mademoiselle and 'Sieur George 
 were cool enough. The maid appeared nearly 
 satisfied, but could not avoid casting an anxious 
 eye at times upon her mistress. Naturally the 
 visit was short. 
 
 The next day but one the two gentlemen came
 
 'Sieur George. n 
 
 again in better attire. 'Sieur George evidently dis 
 liked his companion, yet would not rid himself of 
 him. The stranger was a gesticulating, stagy 
 fellow, much Monsieur's junior, an incessant talker 
 in Creole-French, always excited on small matters 
 and unable to appreciate a great one. Once, as 
 they were leaving, Kookoo, accidents will hap- 
 pen, was under the stairs. As they began to 
 descend the tall man was speaking: " better to 
 bury it," the startled landlord heard him say, 
 and held his breath, thinking of 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 in progress. It was very plain now 
 why 'Sieur George had wished not to be accom- 
 panied by the tall gentleman ; but since his visits 
 had become regular and frequent, it was equally 
 plain why he did not get rid of him ; because it 
 would not look well to be going and coming too 
 often alone. Maybe it was only this tender passion 
 that the tall man had thought "better to bury." 
 Lately there often came sounds of gay conversation 
 from the first of the two rooms, which had been 
 turned into a parlor ; and as, week after week, the 
 friends came down-stairs, the tali man was always in 
 high spirits and anxious to embrace 'Sieur George,
 
 1 2 Old Creole Days. 
 
 who, " sly dog," thought the landlord, would try 
 to look grave, and only smiled in an embarrassed 
 way. " Ah ! Monsieur, you tink to be varry con- 
 ning ; mats you not so conning as Kookoo, no ; " 
 and the inquisitive little man would shake his head 
 and smile, and shake his head again, as a man has a 
 perfect right to do under the conviction that he has 
 been for twenty years baffled by a riddle and is 
 learning to read it at last ; he had guessed what 
 was in 'Sieur George's head, he would by and by 
 guess what was in his trunk. 
 
 A few months passed quickly away, and it be- 
 came apparent to every eye in or about the an- 
 cient mansion that the landlord's guess was not so 
 bad ; in fact, that Mademoiselle was to be mar- 
 ried. 
 
 On a certain rainy spring afternoon, a single 
 hired hack drove up to the main entrance of the 
 old house, and after some little bustle and the 
 gathering of a crowd of damp children about the 
 big doorway, 'Sieur George, muffled in a newly- 
 repaired overcoat, jumped out and went upstairs. 
 A moment later he reappeared, leading Mademoi- 
 selle, wreathed and veiled, down the stairway. 
 Very fair was Mademoiselle still. Her beauty was 
 mature, fully ripe, maybe a little too much so, 
 but only a little ; and as she came down with the 
 ravishing odor of bridal flowers floating about her, 
 she seemed the garlanded victim of a pagan sacri-
 
 'Sieur George. 13 
 
 fice. The mulattress in holiday gear followed be- 
 hind. 
 
 The landlord owed a duty to the community. 
 He arrested the maid on the last step: "Your 
 mistress, she goin' pour marier 'Sieur George ? 
 It make 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, he watched the carriage trundle 
 away. It passed out of sight through the rain ; 
 he turned to enter the house, and all at once 
 tottered under the weight of a tremendous thought 
 they had left the trunk ! He hurled himself 
 upstairs 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 way into the damp entrance 
 of the house, stumbled up the cracking stairs, un- 
 locked, after many languid efforts, the door of the 
 two rooms, and falling over the hair-trunk, slept 
 until the morning sunbeams climbed over the bal- 
 cony and in at the window, and shone full on the 
 back of his head. Old Kookoo, passing the door 
 just then, was surprised to find it slightly ajar- 
 pushed it open silently, and saw, within, 'Sieur
 
 14 Old Creole Days. 
 
 George in the act of rising from his knees beside the 
 mysterious trunk ! He had come back to be once 
 more the tenant of the two rooms. 
 
 'Sieur George, for the second time, was a changed 
 man changed from bad to worse ; from being re- 
 tired and reticent, he had come, by reason of ad- 
 vancing years/ or mayhap that which had left the 
 terrible scar on his face, to be garrulous. When, 
 once in a while, employment sought him (for he 
 never sought employment), whatever remuneration 
 he received went its way for something that left 
 him dingy and threadbare. He now made a lively 
 acquaintance with his landlord, as, indeed, with 
 every ?oul in the neighborhood, and told all his 
 adventures in Mexican prisons and Cuban cities ; 
 including full details of the hardships and perils 
 experienced jointly with the "long gentleman" 
 who had married Mademoiselle, and who was no 
 Mexican or Cuban, but a genuine Louisianian. 
 
 " It was he that fancied me," he said, ''not I 
 him ; but once he had fallen in love with me I 
 hadn't the force to cast him off. How Madame 
 ever should have liked him was one of those wo- 
 man's freaks that a man mustn't expect to under- 
 stand. He was no more fit for her than rags are 
 fit for a queen ; and I could have choked his head 
 off the night he hugged me round the neck and 
 told me what a suicide she had committed. But 
 other fine women are committing that same folly
 
 'Sieur George. 15 
 
 every day, only they don't wait until 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 imperfect knowledge 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 the man he had been before 
 he went away ; and the great hair-trunk puzzle 
 was still the same puzzle, growing greater every 
 day. 
 
 Thus the two rooms had been the scene of some 
 events quite queer, if not really strange ; but the 
 queerest that ever they presented, I guess, was 
 'Sieur George coming in there one day, crying 
 like a little child, and bearing in his arms an infant 
 a girl the lovely offspring of the drunkard whom 
 he so detested, and poor, robbed, spirit-broken 
 and now dead Madame. He took good care of the 
 orphan, for orphan she was very soon. The long 
 gentleman was pulled out of the Old Basin one 
 morning, and 'Sieur George identified the body at 
 the Treme station. He never hired 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 sharp corners of baby-life and child- 
 hood, without a human hand to help him, until 
 one evening, having persistently shut his eyes to
 
 1 6 Old Creole Days. 
 
 it for weeks and months, like one trying to sleep 
 in the sunshine, he awoke to the realization that 
 she was a woman. It was a smoky one in No- 
 vember, the first cool day of autumn. The sunset 
 was dimmed by the smoke of burning prairies, the 
 air was full of the ashes of grass and reeds, ragged 
 urchins were lugging home sticks of cordword, and 
 when a bit of coal fell from a cart in front of Koo- 
 koo's old house, a child was boxed half across 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 smartly without stopping to 
 rest, went with a step unusually light and quiet to 
 his 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 stained 
 with dampness and the ceiling full of bald places 
 that showed the lathing. The furniture was cheap 
 and meager, including conspicuously the small, 
 curious-looking hair-trunk. The floor was of 
 wide slabs fastened down with spikes, and sloping 
 up and down in one or two broad undulations, as 
 if they had drifted far enough down the current 
 of time to feel the tide-swell. 
 
 However, the floor was clean, the bed well 
 made, the cypress table in place, and the musty
 
 'Sieur George. 17 
 
 smell of the walls partly neutralized by a geranium 
 on the window-sill. 
 
 He so coming in and sitting down, an unseen 
 person called from the room adjoining (of which, 
 also, he was still the rentee), to know if he were 
 he, and being answered in the affirmative, said, 
 " Papa George, guess who was 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 en- 
 tered the room. She was a girl of sixteen or 
 thereabout, very beautiful, with very black hair 
 and eyes. A face and form more entirely out of 
 place you could not have found in the whole city. 
 She sat 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 a conversation which, of course, could not be 
 overheard in the corridor outside. 
 
 Whatever was said, she presently rose, he opened
 
 1 8 Old Creole Days. 
 
 his amis, and she sat on his knee and kissed him. 
 This done, there was a silence, both smiling pen- 
 sively and gazing out over the rotten balcony into 
 the street. After a while she started up, saying 
 something about the change of weather, and, slip- 
 ping away, thrust a match between the bars of the 
 grate. The old man turned about to the fire, and 
 she from her little room brought a low sewing-chair 
 and sat beside him, laying her head on his knee, 
 and he stroking her brow with his brown palm. 
 
 And then, in an altered a low, sad tone he be- 
 gan a monotonous recital. 
 
 Thus they sat, he talking very steadily and she 
 listening, until all the neighborhood was wrapped 
 in slumber, all the neighbors, but not Kookoo. 
 
 Kookoo in his old age had become a great eaves- 
 dropper ; his ear and eye took turns at the key- 
 hole that night, for he tells things that were not 
 intended for outside hearers. He heard the girl 
 sobbing, and the old man saying, "But you must 
 go now. You cannot stay with me safely or de- 
 cently, much as I wish it. The Lord only knows 
 how I'm to bear it, or where you're to go ; but 
 He's your Lord, child, and He'll make a place for 
 you. I was your grandfather's death ; I frittered 
 *your poor, dead mother's fortune away : let that be 
 the last damage I do. 
 
 " I have always meant everything for the best," 
 he added half in soliloquy.
 
 ' Sieur George. 19 
 
 From all Kookoo could gather, he must have 
 been telling her the very story just recounted. 
 She had dropped quite to the floor, hiding her face 
 in her hands, and was saying between her sobs, 
 " I cannot go, Papa George; oh, Papa George, I 
 cannot go ! " 
 
 Just then 'Sieur George, having kept a good res- 
 olution ail day, was encouraged by the orphan's 
 pitiful tones to contemplate the most senseless act 
 he ever attempted to commit. He said to the sob- 
 bing girl that she was not of his blood ; that she 
 was nothing to him by natural ties ; that his cove- 
 nant was with her grandsire to care for his off- 
 spring ; and though it had been poorly kept, it 
 might be breaking it worse 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 wee little baby, I took you 
 for better or worse. I intended to do well by you 
 all your childhood-days, and to do best at last. I 
 thought surely we should be living well by this 
 time, and you could choose from a world full 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 given you, should have af- 
 forded your sweet charms a noble setting ; that
 
 20 Old Creole Days. 
 
 good mothers and sisters would be wanting to 
 count you into their families, and that the blossom 
 of a happy womanhood would open perfect and full 
 of sweetness. 
 
 " I would have given my life for it. I did give 
 it, such as it was; but it was a very poor concern, 
 I know my life and not enough to buy any good 
 thing. 
 
 "I have had a thought of something, but I'm 
 afraid to tell it. It didn't come to me to-day 
 or yesterday ; it has beset me a long time for 
 months." 
 
 The girl gazed into the embers, listening in- 
 tensely. 
 
 " And oh ! dearie, if I could only get you to 
 think the same way, you might stay with me 
 then." 
 
 " How long ? " she asked, without stirring. 
 
 " Oh, as long as heaven should let us. But 
 there is only one chance," he said, as it were feel- 
 ing 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.
 
 'Sieur George. 21 
 
 Then Kookoo, peering through the keyhole, saw 
 that they had been looking into 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 were ready to crack. It seemed 
 as if 'Sieur George was stone, only stone couldn't 
 weep like that. 
 
 Every separate bone in his neck was hot with 
 pain. He would have given ten dollars ten sweet 
 dollars ! to have seen 'Sieur George get up and 
 turn 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, looked at it, muttered some- 
 thing about "ruin," and something about "for- 
 tune," kicked the lid down and threw himself 
 across the bed. 
 
 Small profit to old Kookoo that he went to his 
 own couch ; sleep was not for the little landlord. 
 For well-nigh half a century he had suspected his 
 tenant of having a treasure hidden in his house, 
 and to-night he had heard his own admission that in 
 the little trunk was a fortune. Kookoo had 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 landlord suffered pov- 
 erty.
 
 22 Old Creole Days. 
 
 And he knew very well, too, did Kookoo, what 
 the tenant would do. If he did 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 sleep soundly. 
 
 No one would ever have supposed Kookoo capa- 
 ble of a crime. He was too fearfully impressed 
 with the extra-hazardous risks of dishonesty ; he 
 was old, too, and weak, and, besides all, intensely 
 a coward. Nevertheless, while it was yet two or 
 three hours before daybreak, the sleep-forsaken 
 little man arose, shuffled into his garments, and in 
 his stocking-feet sought the corridor leading to 
 'Sieur George's apartment. The night, as it often 
 does in that region, had grown warm and clear; 
 the stars were sparkling like diamonds pendent in 
 the deep blue heavens, and at every window and 
 lattice and cranny the broad, bright moon poured 
 down its glittering beams upon the hoary-headed 
 thief, as he crept along the 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 a loud creak. The land- 
 lord, wet with cold sweat from head to foot, and 
 shaking till the floor trembled, paused for several 
 minutes, and then entered the moon-lit apartment. 
 The tenant, lying as if he had not moved, was sleep- 
 ing heavily. And now the poor coward trembled
 
 ' 'Sieur George. 23 
 
 so, that to 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 the sleeper stirred, and the thought of losing 
 his opportunity strung his nerves up in an instant. 
 He went softly down upon his knees, laid his hands 
 upon the lid, lifted it, and let in the intense moon- 
 light. The trunk was full, full, crowded down 
 and running over full, of the tickets of the Havana 
 Lottery ! 
 
 A little after daybreak, Kookoo from his win- 
 dow saw the orphan, pausing on the corner. She 
 stood for a moment, and then dove into the dense 
 fog which had floated in from the river, and disap- 
 peared. He never saw her again. 
 
 But her Lord is taking care of her. Once only 
 she has seen 'Sieur George. She had been in the 
 belvedere of the house which she now calls home, 
 looking down upon the outspread city. Far away 
 southward and westward the great river glistened 
 in the sunset. Along its sweeping bends the 
 chimneys of a smoking commerce, the magazines 
 of surplus wealth, the gardens of the opulent, the 
 steeples of a hundred sanctuaries and thousands on 
 thousands of mansions and hovels covered the fer- 
 tile birthright arpents which 'Sieur George, in his 
 fifty years' stay, had seen tricked away from dull 
 colonial Esaus by their blue-eyed brethren of the 
 North Nearer by she looked upon the forlornly
 
 24 Old Creole Days. 
 
 silent region of lowly dwellings, neglected by legis- 
 lation and shunned by all lovers of comfort, that 
 once had been the smiling fields of her own grand- 
 sire's broad plantation ; and but a little way off, 
 trudging across the marshy commons, her eye 
 caught sight of 'Sieur George following the sunset 
 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- 
 stair to her frequent kneeling-place under the fra- 
 grant candles of the chapel-altar in Mother Nativi- 
 ty's asylum. 
 
 'Sieur George is houseless. He cannot find the 
 orphan. Mother Nativity seems to know nothing 
 of her. If he could find her now, and could get 
 from her the use of ten dollars for but three days, 
 he knows a combination which would repair all the 
 past ; it could not fail, he thinks. But he cannot 
 find her, and the letters he writes all containing 
 the one scheme disappear in the mail-box, and 
 there's an end.
 
 ' Tite Poulette. 25 
 
 TITE POULETTE. 
 
 KRISTIAN KOPPIG was a rosy-faced, beardless 
 young Dutchman. He was one of that army of 
 gentlemen who, after the purchase of Louisiana, 
 swarmed from all parts of the commercial world, 
 over the mountains of Franco-Spanish exclusive- 
 ness, like the Goths over the Pyrenees, and settled 
 down in New Orleans to pick up their fortunes, 
 with the diligence of hungry pigeons. He may 
 have been a German ; the distinction was too fine 
 .for Creole haste and disrelish. 
 
 He made his home in a room with one dormer 
 window looking out, and somewhat down, upon a 
 building opposite, which still stands, flush with the 
 street, a century old. Its big, round- arched win- 
 dows in a long, second-story row, are walled up, 
 and two or three from time to time have had 
 smaller windows let into them again, with odd lit- 
 tle latticed peep-holes in their batten shutters. 
 Tlr.s had already been done when Kristian Koppig 
 first began to look at them from his solitary dormer 
 window. 
 
 All the features of the building lead me to guess 
 that it is a remnant of the old Spanish Barracks,
 
 26 Old Creole Days. 
 
 whose extensive structure fell by government sale 
 into private hands a long time ago. At the end 
 toward the swamp a great, oriental-looking passage 
 is left, with an arched entrance, and a pair of pon- 
 derous wooden doors. You look at it, and almost 
 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 birth- 
 day. 
 
 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 theater-balls, and Cayetano's circus, Kris- 
 tian Koppig rooming as described, there lived in the 
 portion of this house, partly overhanging the arch- 
 way, a palish handsome woman, by the name or 
 going by the name of Madame John. You 
 would hardly have thought of her being " col- 
 ored." Though fading, she was still of very at- 
 tractive countenance, fine, rather severe features, 
 nearly straight hair carefully kept, and that vivid 
 black eye so peculiar to her kind. Her smile, 
 which came and went with her talk, was sweet and 
 exceedingly intelligent ; and something told you, 
 as you looked at her, that she was one who had 
 had to learn a great deal in this troublesome life.
 
 ' Tite Poulette. 27 
 
 " But ! " the Creole lads in the street would 
 say " her daughter ! " and there would be lift- 
 ing of arms, wringing of fingers, rolling of eyes, 
 rounding of mouths, gaspings and clasping of 
 hands. " So beautiful, beautiful, beautiful ! 
 White ? white like a water-lily ! White like a 
 magnolia ! " 
 
 Applause would follow, and invocation of all thf 
 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 about seventeen." 
 
 Mother and daughter were very fond. The 
 neighbors could hear them call each other pet 
 names, and see them sitting together, sewing, talk- 
 ing happily to each other in the unceasing French 
 way, and see them go out and come in together 
 on their little tasks and errands. " Tite Pou- 
 lette," 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 Kristian Koppig " I'll tell 
 you. You know ? she was " and the rest atom- 
 ized off in a rasping whisper. She was the best 
 yellow-fever nurse in a thousand yards round ; but 
 that is not what the \vig maker said.
 
 28 Old Creole Days. 
 
 A block nearer the river stands a house alto- 
 gether different from the remnant of old barracks. 
 It is of frame, with a deep front gallery over which 
 the roof extends. It has become a den of Italians, 
 who sell fuel by 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 to be John. He was a member of the 
 Good Children Social Club. As his parents lived 
 with him, his wife would, according to custom, 
 have been called 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 'Tite 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 little one." 
 
 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 which charac- 
 terizes ignorance, she sold the property and placed 
 the proceeds in a bank, which made haste to fail. 
 She put on widow's weeds, and wore them still
 
 ' Tite Poulette. 29 
 
 when 'Tite Poulette " had seventeen," as the fran- 
 tic lads would say. 
 
 How they did chatter over her. Quiet Kristian 
 Koppig had never seen the like. He wrote to his 
 mother, and told her so. A pretty fellow at the 
 corner would suddenly double himself up with 
 beckoning to a knot of chums ; these would hasten 
 up ; recruits would come in from two or three other 
 directions ; as they reached the corner their coun- 
 tenances would quickly assume a genteel severity, 
 and presently, with her mother, 'Tite Poulette would 
 pass tall, straight, lithe, her great black eyes 
 made tender by their sweeping lashes, the faintest 
 tint of color in her Southern cheek, her form all 
 grace, her carriage a wonder of simple dignity. 
 
 The instant she was gone every tongue was let 
 slip on the marvel of her beauty ; but, though 
 theirs were only the loose New Orleans morals of 
 over fifty years ago, their unleashed tongues never 
 had attempted any greater liberty than to take up 
 the pet name, 'Tite Poulette. And yet the mother 
 was soon to be, as we shall discover, a paid dancer 
 at the Salle de Condd. 
 
 To Zalli, of course, as to all " quadroon ladies," 
 the festivities of the Conde' street ball-room were 
 familiar of old. There, in the happy days when 
 dear Monsieur John was young, and the eighteenth 
 century old, she had often repaired under guard 
 of her mother dead now, alas ! and Monsieur
 
 30 Old Creole Days. 
 
 John would slip away from the dull play and dry 
 society of Theatre d'Orleans, and come around 
 with his crowd of elegant friends ; and through 
 the long sweet hours of the ball she had danced, 
 and laughed, and coquetted under her satin mask, 
 even to the baffling and tormenting of that prince 
 of gentlemen, dear Monsieur John himself. No 
 man of questionable blood dare set his foot within 
 the door. Many noble gentlemen were pleased to 
 
 dance with her. Colonel De and General 
 
 La : city councilmen and officers from the 
 
 Government House. There were no paid dancers 
 then. Everything was decorously conducted in- 
 deed ! Every girl's mother was there, and the 
 more discreet always left before there was too 
 much drinking. Yes, it was gay, gay ! but 
 sometimes dangerous. Ha ! more times than a 
 few had Monsieur John knocked down some long- 
 haired and long-knifed rowdy, and kicked the 
 breath out of him for looking saucily at her ; but 
 that was like him, he was so brave and kind ; 
 and he is gone ! 
 
 There was no room for widow's weeds there. 
 So when she put these on, her glittering eyes never 
 again looked through her pink and white mask, 
 and she was glad of it ; for never, never in her life 
 had they so looked for anybody but her dear Mon- 
 sieur John, and now he was in heaven so the 
 priest said and she was a sick-nurse.
 
 ' Tite Poulette. 31 
 
 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 mis- 
 taken way, with, of course, no more education 
 than the ladies in society got, they knew nothing 
 beyond a little music and embroidery. They 
 struggled as they could, faintly; now giving a few 
 private dancing lessons, now dressing hair, but 
 ever beat back by the steady detestation of their 
 imperious patronesses ; and, by and by, for want 
 of that priceless worldly grace known among the 
 flippant as " money-sense," these two poor chil- 
 dren, born of misfortune and the complacent bad- 
 ness of the times, began to be in want. 
 
 Kristian Koppig noticed from his dormer win- 
 dow one day a man standing at the big archway 
 opposite, and clanking the brass knocker on the 
 wicket that was in one of the doors. He was a 
 smooth man, with his hair parted in the middle, 
 and his cigarette poised on a tiny gold holder. 
 He waited a moment, politely cursed the dust, 
 knocked again, threw his slender sword-cane under 
 his arm, and wiped the inside of his hat with his 
 handkerchief. 
 
 Madame John held a parley with him at the 
 wicket. 'Tite Poulette was nowhere 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 the manager
 
 32 Old Creole Days. 
 
 of the Salle de Conde". Presently Madame John 
 returned with a little bundle, and they hurried off 
 together. 
 
 And now what did this mean ? Why, by any 
 one of ordinary acuteness the matter was easily 
 understood, but, to tell the truth, Kristian Koppig 
 was a trifle dull, and got the idea at once that 
 some damage was being planned against 'Tite 
 Poulette. It made the gentle Dutchman miser- 
 able not 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 
 whether she could or not. I know that next day 
 Kristian Koppig, glancing eagerly over the "Ami 
 des Lois" read an advertisement which he had 
 always before skipped with a frown. It was 
 headed, " Salle de CondS," 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 the famous " Danse du Shawl." 
 
 It was the Sabbath. The young man watched 
 the opposite window steadily and painfully from 
 early in the afternoon until the moon shone 
 bright ; and from the time the moon shone bright 
 until Madame John ! joy ! Madame John ! and 
 not 'Tite Poulette, stepped through the wicket, 
 much dressed and well muffled, and hurried off
 
 ' Tite Poulette. 33 
 
 toward the rue Condt. Madame John was the 
 "young lady; " and the young man's mind, glad 
 to return to its own 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 
 there of paint and powder, the mother danced the 
 dance of the shawl, the daughter remaining at 
 home alone. 
 
 Kristian Koppig, simple, slow-thinking young 
 Dutchman, never noticing that 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 Kop- 
 pig coming to his room nearly at the same mo- 
 ment, there was much earnest conversation, which 
 he could 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 voice trembled plaintively. 
 
 " But how, Maman ? " 
 3
 
 34 Old Creole Days. 
 
 "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 be lonely, lonely, all your 
 poor life long. There is no place in this world for 
 us poor women. I wish that we were either white 
 or black ! " and the tears, two " shining ones," 
 stood in the poor quadroon's eyes. 
 
 The daughter stood up, her eyes flashing. 
 
 " God made us, Maman," she said with a gen- 
 tle, but stately smile. 
 
 " Ha ! " said the mother, her keen glance dart- 
 ing through her tears, " Sin made me, yes." 
 
 " No," said 'Tite Poulette, " God made us. 
 He made us just as we are ; not more white, not 
 more black." 
 
 " He made you, truly ! " said Zalli. " You are 
 so beautiful ; I believe it well." She reached and 
 drew the fair form to a kneeling posture. "My 
 sweet, white daughter ! " 
 
 Now the tears were in the girl's eyes. " And 
 could I be whiter than I am ? " she asked. 
 
 " Oh, no, no 1 'Tite Poulette," cried the other; 
 " but if we were only real wliite ! both of us ; so 
 that some gentleman might come to see me and 
 say 'Madame John, I want your pretty little chick. 
 She is so beautiful. I want to take her home. 
 She is so good I want her to be my wife.' Oh,
 
 ' Tite Poulette. 35 
 
 my child, my child, to see that I would give my 
 life I would give my soul ! Only you should 
 take me along to be your servant. I walked be- 
 hind two young men to-night ; they were 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 at times and kept saying " Be- 
 ware ! " but the other I prayed the Virgin to bless 
 him, he spoke such kind and noble words. Such 
 gentle pity ; such a holy heart ! ' May God de- 
 fend her,' he said, cherie ; he said, ' May God de- 
 fend her, for I see no help for her.' The other one 
 laughed and left him. He stopped in the door 
 right across the street. Ah, my child, do you 
 blush? Is that something to bring the rose to 
 your cheek? Many fine gentlemen at the ball 
 ask me often, ' How is your daughter, Madame 
 John?'" 
 
 The daughter's face was thrown into the mother's 
 lap, not so well satisfied, now, with God's handi- 
 work. Ah, how she wept ! Sob, sob, sob ; gasps 
 and sighs and stifled ejaculations, her small right 
 hand clenched and beating on her mother's knee ; 
 and the mother weeping over her. 
 
 Kristian Koppig shut his window. Nothing 
 but a generous heart and a Dutchman's phlegm 
 could have done so at that moment. And even
 
 36 Old Creole Days. 
 
 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 lives opposite me, and who, alas 1 
 though so fair, is one of those whom the taint of 
 caste has cursed. She lives a lonely, innocent life 
 in the midst of corruption, like the lilies I find here 
 in the marshes, and I have great pity for her. 
 ' God defend her,' I said to-night to a fellow clerk, 
 ' I see no help for her.' I know there is a natural, 
 and I think proper, horror of mixed blood (excuse 
 the mention, sweet mother), and I feel it, too ; and 
 yet if she were in Holland to-day, not one of a 
 hundred suitors would detect the hidden blemish." 
 
 In such strain this young man wrote on trying 
 to demonstrate the utter impossibility of his ever 
 loving the lovable unfortunate, until the midnight 
 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, not knowing, you know, 
 promise me you will not tell him you are not 
 white." 
 
 " It can never be," said 'Tite Poulette.
 
 ' Tite Poulette. 37 
 
 " But if it should," said Madame John plead- 
 ingly. 
 
 "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, she started. 
 
 " '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, read- 
 ing. Mother and daughter bent a steady gaze at 
 each other. It meant in French, "If he saw us 
 last night ! " 
 
 "Ah! dear," said the mother, her face beam- 
 ing 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 
 cafe, just as who should be coming out but Mon- 
 sieur, the manager of the Salle de Conde. He had 
 not yet gone to bed. Monsieur was astonished. 
 He had a Frenchman's eye for the beautiful, and 
 certainly there the beautiful was. He had heard
 
 38 Old Creole Days. 
 
 of Madame John's daughter, and had hoped once 
 to see her, but did not ; but could this be she ? 
 
 They disappeared within the cathedral. A 
 sudden pang of piety moved him ; he followed. 
 J Tite Poulette was already kneeling in the aisle. 
 Zalli, still in the vestibule, was just taking her 
 hand from the font of holy-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 her face, which the manager 
 misinterpreted. 
 
 " I think not, Madame John." He shook his 
 head, smiling as one too wise to 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 of hearts, by Zalli's alarm, 
 that she was lying. " But how? Why does she 
 not come to our ball-room with you ? " 
 
 Zalli, trying to get away from him, shrugged 
 and smiled. "Each to his taste, Monsieur; it 
 pleases her not." 
 
 She was escaping, but he followed one step 
 more. "I shall come to see you, Madame John.'
 
 'Ttte Poulette. 39 
 
 She whirled and attacked him with her eyes. 
 " Monsieur must not give himself the trouble ! " 
 she said, the eyes at the same time saying, " Dare 
 to come ! " She turned again, and knelt to her de- 
 votions. The manager dipped in the font, crossed 
 himself, and departed. 
 
 Several weeks went by, and M. de la Rue had 
 not accepted the fierce challenge of Madame 
 John's eyes. One or two Sunday nights she had 
 succeeded in avoiding him, though fulfilling her 
 engagement in the Salle ; but by and by pay-day, 
 a Saturday, came round, and though the pay 
 was ready, she was loth to go up to Monsieur's 
 little office. 
 
 It was an afternoon in May. Madame John 
 came in and, with a sigh, sank into a chair. Her 
 eyes were wet. 
 
 " Did you go, dear mother ? " asked 'Tite Pou- 
 lette. 
 
 "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, and saw 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."
 
 40 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " 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 posi- 
 tion in the German importing house where, he had 
 fondly told his mother, he was indispensable. 
 " Summer was coming on," the senior said, " and 
 you see our young men are almost idle. Yes, our 
 engagement was for a year, but ah we could not 
 foresee " etc., etc., " besides," (attempting a part- 
 ing flattery) " your father 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 reading and glancing down 
 at the little casement opposite, where a small, 
 rude shelf had lately been put out, holding a row 
 of cigar boxes with wretched little botanical speci- 
 mens in them trying to die. 'Tite Poulette was 
 their gardener ; and it was odd to see, dry 
 weather or wet, how many waterings per day 
 those plants could take. She never looked up 
 from her task ; but I know she performed it with 
 that unacknowledged pleasure which all girls love 
 and deny, that of being looked upon by noble 
 eyes. 
 
 On this particular Saturday afternoon in May, 
 Kristian Koppig had been witness of the distress
 
 ' Tite Poulette. 41 
 
 ful scene over the way. It occurred to 'Tite Pou- 
 lette that such might be the case, and she stepped 
 to the casement to shut it. As she did so, the 
 marvelous delicacy of Kristian Koppig moved him 
 to draw in one of his shutters. Both young heads 
 came out at one moment, while at the same in- 
 stant 
 
 " Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap ! " clanked the knock- 
 er on the wicket. The black eyes of the maiden 
 and the blue over the way, from looking into each 
 other for the first time in life, glanced down to the 
 arched doorway upon Monsieur the manager. 
 Then the black eyes disappeared within, and Kris- 
 tian Koppig thought again, and re-opening his 
 shutter, stood up at the window prepared to be- 
 come a bold spectator of what might follow. 
 
 But for a moment nothing followed. 
 
 " Trouble over there," thought the rosy Dutch 
 man, and waited. The manager waited too, rub- 
 bing his hat and brushing his clothes with the tips 
 of his kidded fingers. 
 
 " They do not wish to see him," slowly con- 
 cluded the spectator. 
 
 " Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap ! v quoth the knocker, 
 and M. de la Rue looked up around at the windows 
 opposite and noticed the handsome young Dutch- 
 man looking at him. 
 
 " Dutch ! " said the manager softly, between his 
 teeth.
 
 42 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " He is staring at me," said Kristian Koppig to 
 himself; " but then I am staring 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 
 
 re-commenced than several neighbors looked out 
 of doors and windows. 
 
 " Very bad," thought our Dutchman ; " some- 
 body should make him go off. I wonder 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 his thoughts lost 
 
 outline ; he was only convinced that he had some- 
 what to say to him, and turned to go down-stairs. 
 In going he became a little vexed with himself be- 
 cause he could not help hurrying. He noticed, 
 too, that his arm holding the stair-rail trembled in 
 a silly way, whereas he was perfectly calm. Pre- 
 cisely as he reached the street-door the manage?
 
 ' Tite Poulette. 43 
 
 raised the knocker ; but the latch clicked and the 
 wicket was drawn sightly 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 in some intention to which 
 Madame John was steadfastly opposed. 
 
 The window above, too, it was Kristian Kop- 
 pig who noticed that, opened a wee bit, like the 
 shell of a terrapin. Presently the manager lifted 
 his foot and put forward an arm, as though he 
 would enter the gate by pushing, but as quick as 
 gunpowder it clapped in his face ! 
 
 You could hear the fleeing feet of Zalli pound- 
 ing up the staircase. 
 
 As the panting mother re-entered her room, 
 "See, Maman," said 'Tite Poulette, peeping at 
 the window, " the young gentleman from over the 
 way has crossed ! " 
 
 " Holy Mary bless him ! " said the mother. 
 
 " I will go over," thought Kristian Koppig, 
 " and ask him kindly if he is not making a mis- 
 take." 
 
 " What are they doing, dear? " asked the moth- 
 er, with clasped hands. 
 
 " They are talking ; the young man is tranquil, 
 but 'Sieur de la Rue is very angry," whispered the 
 daughter ; and just then pang ! came a sharp,
 
 44 Old Creole Days. 
 
 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 three win- 
 dows. 
 
 " Oh ! what a slap ! " cried the girl, half in 
 fright, half in glee, jerking herself back from the 
 casement simultaneously with the report. But the 
 " ahas," and laughter, and clapping of feminine 
 hands, which still continued, came from another 
 cause. 'Tite Poulette's rapid action had struck the 
 slender cord that held up an end of her hanging 
 garden, and the whole rank of cigar-boxes slid 
 from their place, turned gracefully over as they shot 
 through the air, and emptied themselves plump 
 upon the head of the slapped manager. Breath- 
 less, dirty, pale as whitewash, he gasped a threat 
 to be heard from again, and, getting round the 
 corner as quick as he could walk, left Kristian 
 Koppig, standing motionless, the most astonished 
 man in that street. 
 
 " Kristian Koppig, Kristian Koppig, "said Great- 
 heart to himself, slowly dragging upstairs, " what 
 a mischief you have done. One poor woman cer- 
 tainly to be robbed of her bitter wages, and an- 
 other so lovely ! put to the burning shame of 
 being the subject of a street brawl ! What will 
 this silly neighborhood say ? ' Has the gentleman 
 a heart as well as a hand ? ' ' Is it jealousy ? ' ' 
 There he paused, afraid himself to answer the sup-
 
 ' Tite Poulette. 45 
 
 posed query ; and then "Oh! Kristian Koppig, 
 you have been such a dunce!" "And I cannot 
 apologize to them. Who in this street would carry 
 my note, and not wink and grin over it with low 
 surmises ? I cannot even make restitution. Mon- 
 ey ? They would not dare receive it. Oh ! Kris- 
 tian Koppig, why did you not mind your own 
 business ? Is she anything to you ? Do you love 
 her ? Of course not ! Oh ! such a dunce ! " 
 
 The reader will eagerly admit that however faul- 
 ty this young man's course of reasoning, his con- 
 clusion was correct. For mark what he did. 
 
 He went to his room, which was already grow- 
 ing dark, shut his window, lighted his big Dutch 
 lamp, and sat down to write. "Something must 
 be done," said he aloud, taking up his pen; "I 
 will be calm and cool ; I will 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 so poorly, dunce that I am, when all my 
 brothers and sisters speak it so well." He got out 
 his French dictionary. Two hours slipped by. 
 He made a new pen, washed and refilled his ink- 
 stand, mended his " abominable " chair, and after 
 two hours more made another attempt, and an- 
 other failure. " My head aches," said he, and lay 
 down on his couch, the better to frame his phrases. 
 
 He was awakened by the Sabbath sunlight. 
 The bells of the Cathedral and the Ursulines'
 
 46 Old Creole Days. 
 
 chapel were ringing for high mass, and a mocking 
 bird, perching on a chimney-top above Madame 
 John's rooms, was caroling, whistling, mewing, 
 chirping, screaming, and trilling with the ecstasy 
 of a whole May in his throat. " Oh ! sleepy Kris- 
 tian Koppig," was the young man's first thought, 
 " such a dunce ! " 
 
 Madame John and daughter did not go to mass. 
 The morning wore away, and their casement re- 
 mained closed. " They are offended," said Kris- 
 tian Koppig, leaving the house, and wandering up 
 to the little Protestant affair known as Christ 
 Church. 
 
 " No, possibly they are not," he said, returning 
 and finding the shutters thrown back. 
 
 By a sad accident, which mortified him ex- 
 tremely, he happened to see, late in the afternoon, 
 hardly conscious that he was looking across the 
 street, that Madame John was dressing. Could 
 it be that she was going to the Salle de Condt? 
 He rushed to his table, and began to write. 
 
 He had guessed aright. The wages were too 
 precious to be lost. The manager had written her 
 a note. He begged to assure her that he was a 
 gentleman of the clearest cut. If he* had made a 
 mistake the previous afternoon, he was glad no 
 unfortunate result had followed except his having 
 been assaulted by a ruffian ; that the Danse du 
 Shawl was promised in his advertisement, and he
 
 ' Tile Poulelle. 47 
 
 hoped Madame John (whose wages were in hand 
 waiting for her) would not fail to assist as usual. 
 Lastly, and delicately put, he expressed his con- 
 viction that Mademoiselle was wise and discreet in 
 declining to entertain gentlemen at her home. 
 
 So, against much beseeching on the part of 'Tite 
 Poulette, Madame John was going to the ball- 
 room. " Maybe I can discover what 'Sieur de la 
 Rue is planning against Monsieur over the way," 
 she said, knowing certainly the slap would not be 
 forgiven ; and the daughter, though tremblingly, 
 at once withdrew her objections. 
 
 The heavy young Dutchman, now thoroughly 
 electrified, was writing like mad. He wrote and 
 tore up, wrote and tore up, lighted his lamp, started 
 again, and at last signed his name. A letter by a 
 Dutchman in French ! what can be made of it in 
 English ? We will see 
 
 " MADAME AND MADEMOISELLE : 
 
 " A stranger, seeking not to be acquainted, but seeing and admir- 
 ing all days the goodness and high honor, begs to be pardoned of 
 them for the mistakes, alas ! of yesterday, and to make reparation 
 and satisfaction in destroying the ornaments of the window, as well 
 as the loss of compensation from Monsieur the manager, with the 
 enclosed bill of the Banque de la Louisiane for fifty dollars ($50) . 
 And, hoping they will seeing what he is meaning, remains, respect- 
 fully, 
 
 " KRISTIAN KOPPIG. 
 
 " P. S. Madame must not go to the ball." 
 
 He must bear the missive himself. He must
 
 48 Old Creole Days. 
 
 speak in French. What should the words be. A 
 moment of study he has it, and is off down the 
 long three-story stairway. At the same moment 
 Madame John stepped from the wicket, and glided 
 off to the Salle de Conde, a trifle late. 
 
 " I shall see Madame John, of course," thought 
 the young man, crushing a hope, and rattled the 
 knocker. 'Tite Poulette sprang up from praying 
 for her mother's safety. " What has she forgot- 
 ten?" she asked herself, and hastened down. The 
 wicket opened. The two innocents were stunned. 
 
 "Aw aw " said the pretty Dutchman, 
 " aw ," blurted out something in virgin 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 what shall 
 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 and misery 
 by reading and misconstruing the all but unintelli- 
 gible contents. What then ? Not only sobs and 
 sighs, but moaning and beating of little fists to- 
 gether, and outcries of soul-felt agony stifled 
 against the bedside, and temples pressed into 
 knitted palms, because of one who " sought not to 
 be acquainted," but offered money money ! in 
 pity to a poor shame on her for saying that ! a 
 poor
 
 ' Tite Poulette. 49 
 
 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 John will 
 appear this time." He knocked. The shutter 
 stirred above, and something white came fluttering 
 wildly down like a shot dove. It was his own 
 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, the same step on the 
 stair. Step, step, every step one step deeper into 
 his heart. '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 Cond^." 
 
 " At the ball ! " Kristian Koppig strayed off, 
 repeating the words for want of definite thought. 
 All at once it occurred to him that at the ball he 
 could make Madame John's acquaintance with im- 
 punity. " Was it courting sin to go ? " By no 
 means ; he should, most likely, save a woman from 
 trouble, and help the poor in their distress. 
 
 Behold Kristian Koppig standing on the floor 
 of the Salle de Condi?. A large hall, a blaze of 
 lamps, a bewildering flutter of fans and floating
 
 50 Old Creole Days. 
 
 robes, strains of music, columns of gay promenaders, 
 a long row of turbaned mothers lining either wall, 
 gentlemen of the portlier sort filling the recesses 
 of the windows, whirling waltzers gliding here and 
 there smiles and grace, smiles and grace ; all fair, 
 orderly, elegant, bewitching. A young Creole's 
 laugh mayhap a little loud, and truly there were 
 many sword canes. ' But neither grace nor foul- 
 ness satisfied the eye of the zealous young Dutch- 
 man. 
 
 Suddenly a muffled woman passed him, leaning 
 on a gentleman's arm. It looked like it must be, 
 Madame John. Speak quick, Kristian Koppig ; do 
 not stop to notice the man ! 
 
 " Madame John " bowing " I am your neigh- 
 bor, 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 stay here a moment. Are 
 you armed ? No. Take this." She tried to slip 
 a dirk into his hands, but he would not have it. 
 
 " Oh, my dear young man, go ! Go quickly ! " 
 she plead, glanc'.ng furtively down 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 go together." She
 
 * Tite Poulette. 51 
 
 thrust her arm through his, and they hastened into 
 the street. When a square had been passed there 
 came a sound of men running behind them. 
 
 "Run, Monsieur, run!" she cried, trying to 
 drag him ; but Monsieur Dutchman would not. 
 
 " Run, Monsieur ! Oh, my God ! it is 'Sieur " 
 
 " That for yesterday!" cried the manager, 
 striking fiercely with his cane. Kristian Koppig's 
 fist rolled him in the dirt. 
 
 " That for 'Tite Poulette ! " cried another man 
 dealing the Dutchman a terrible blow from be- 
 hind. 
 
 " And that for me ! " hissed a third, thrusting 
 at him with something bright. 
 
 " 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 here and there, 
 grasped the air, shut his eyes, staggered, reeled, 
 fell, rose half up, fell again for good, and they 
 were kicking him and jumping on him. 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?"
 
 52 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " 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 count profits ; a single bill 
 Banque de la Louisiane, fifty dollars. Providence 
 is kind tolerably so. Break it at the " Guillaume 
 Tell." " But did you ever hear any one scream 
 like that girl did ? " 
 
 And there lies the young Dutch neighbor. His 
 money will not flutter back to him this time ; nor 
 will any voice behind a gate " beg Monsieur to go 
 away." O, Woman ! that knows no enemy so. 
 terrible as man ! Come nigh, poor Woman, you 
 have nothing to fear. Lay your strange, electric 
 touch upon the chilly flesh ; it strikes no eager 
 mischief along the fainting veins. Look your 
 sweet looks upon the grimy face, and tenderly lay 
 back the locks from the congested brows ; no
 
 ' Tite Poulette. 53 
 
 wicked misinterpretation lurks to bite your kind- 
 ness. Be motherly, be sisterly, fear naught. Go, 
 watch him by 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, 
 be gentle 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 door against Death, the sick 
 man himself laid a grief upon them. 
 
 " Mother," he said to Madame John, quite a mas- 
 ter of French in his delirium, " dear mother, fear 
 not ; trust your boy ; fear nothing. I will not 
 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 the patient quite 
 slept he started once and stared. 
 
 " Take her away," waving his hand " take 
 your beauty away. She is jet white. Who could 
 take a jet white wife ? O, no, no, no, no ! " 
 
 Next morning his brain was right. 
 
 "Madame," he weakly whispered, " I was de- 
 lirious last night ? " 
 
 Zalli shrugged. . " Only a very, very, wee, v/ee 
 trifle of a bit." 
 
 " And did I say something wrong or foolish ? "
 
 54 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " 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 grew suspicious instead. 
 
 Hard was the battle against death. Nurses are 
 sometimes amazons, and such were these. Through 
 the long, enervating summer, the contest lasted ; 
 but when at last the cool airs of October came 
 stealing in at the bedside like long-banished little 
 children, Kristian Koppig rose upon his elbow 
 and smiled them a welcome. 
 
 The. physician, blessed man, was kind beyond 
 measure ; but said some inexplicable things, which 
 Zalli tried in vain to make him speak in an under- 
 tone. "If I knew Monsieur John?" he said, 
 " certainly I Why, we were chums at school. And 
 he left you so much as that, Madame John ? Ah ! 
 my old 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 'Tite 
 Poulette. 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,
 
 ' Tite Poulette. 55 
 
 not even 'Tite Poulette. What?" a long whistle 
 "is that pos-si-ble ? and Monsieur John knew 
 it ? encouraged it ? eh, well, eh, well ! But 
 can I believe 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 skeptical shrug. 
 " Pardon me, Madame John, I think perhaps, per- 
 haps you are telling the truth. 
 
 " If I think you did right? Certainly! What 
 nature keeps back, accident sometimes gives, 
 Madame John ; either is God's will. Don't cry. 
 ' Stealing from 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, hears in 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 the tribulations attending yellow fever. 
 
 " I had a lady and gentleman once a Spanish 
 lady and gentleman, just off the ship ; both sick 
 at once with the fever delirious could not tell 
 tneir names. Nobody to help me but sometimes
 
 56 Old Creole Days. 
 
 Monsieur John ! I never had such a time, 
 never before, never since, as that time. Four 
 days and nights this head touched not a pillow." 
 
 " And they died ! " said Kristian Koppig. 
 
 "The third night the gentleman went. Poor 
 Sefior ! 'Sieur John, he did not know the harm, 
 gave him some coffee and toast ! The fourth 
 night it rained 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 ! " And Madame gave vent to a 
 true Frenchwoman's laugh. 
 
 It was too much for the sick man. In the piti- 
 ful weakness of his shattered nerves he turned his 
 face into his pillow and wept like a child. Zalli 
 passed into the next room to hide her emotion. 
 
 "Maman, dear Maman," said 'Tite Poulette. 
 who had overheard nothing, but only saw the 
 tears.
 
 'Tite Poulette. 57 
 
 " Ah ! my child, my child, my task my task 
 is too great too great for me. Let me go now 
 another time. Go and watch at his bedside." 
 
 "But, Maman," for Tite Poulette was fright- 
 ened, "he needs no care now." 
 
 " Nay, but go, my child ; I wish to be alone." 
 
 The maiden stole in with averted eyes and tip- 
 toed to the window that window. The patient, 
 already a man again, gazed at her till she could 
 feel the gaze. He turned his eyes from her a mo- 
 ment to gather resolution. And now, stout heart, 
 farewell ; a word or two of friendly parting noth- 
 ing 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, 
 to-morrow, on a litter." 
 
 She did not stir or speak. 
 
 " And I must now thank you, sweet nurse, for 
 youi 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 Pou- 
 lette ! "
 
 58 Old Creole Days. 
 
 She stirred not. He reached, and gently took 
 her little hand, and as he drew her one step nearer, 
 a tear fell from her long lashes. From the next 
 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 in his own upon the bedside, like some 
 weak thing snared, that could only not 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 the tears ran down. 
 
 " Thou wrong'st me, 'Tite Poulette. Thou dost 
 not trust me ; thou fearest the kiss may loosen the 
 hands. But I tell thee nay. I have struggled 
 hard, even to this hour, against Love, but I yield 
 me now ; I yield ; I am his unconditioned prisoner 
 forever. God forbid that I ask aught but that you 
 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
 
 ' Tite Poulette. 59 
 
 waist and dragging her forward. " Take her ! she 
 is thine. I have robbed God long enough. Here 
 are the sworn papers here ! Take her ; she is as 
 white as snow so ! Take her, kiss her ; Mary be 
 praised ! I never had a child she is the Spaniard's 
 daughter ! "
 
 60 Old Creole Days. 
 
 BELLES DEMOISELLES PLANTATION. 
 
 THE original grantee was Count , assume the 
 name to be De Charleu ; the old Creoles never for- 
 give a public mention. He was the French king's 
 commissary. One day, called to France to explain 
 the lucky accident of the commissariat having 
 burned down with his account-books inside, he left 
 his wife, a Choctaw Comptesse, behind. 
 
 Arrived at court, his excuses were accepted, 
 and that tract granted him where afterwards stood 
 Belles Demoiselles Plantation. A man cannot re- 
 member everything ! In a fit of forgetfulness he 
 married a French gentlewoman, rich and beautiful, 
 and "brought her out." However, "All's well 
 that ends well ; " a famine had been in the colony, 
 and the Choctaw Comptesse had starved, leaving 
 nought but a half-caste orphan family lurking on 
 the edge of the settlement, bearing our French 
 gentlewoman's own new name, and being men- 
 tioned in Monsieur's will. 
 
 And the new Comptesse she tarried but a 
 twelvemonth, left Monsieur a lovely son, and de- 
 parted, led out of this vain world by the swamp- 
 fever.
 
 Belles Demoiselles Plantation. 61 
 
 From this son sprang the proud Creole family 
 of De Charleu. It rose straight up, up, up, gen- 
 eration 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 cen- 
 tury-plant, in Artemise, Innocente, Felicite, the 
 twins Marie and Martha, Leontine and little Sep- 
 tima ; the seven beautiful daughters for whom 
 their home had been fitly named Belles Demois- 
 elles. 
 
 The Count's grant had once been a long point, 
 round which the Mississippi used to whirl, and 
 seethe, and foam, that it was horrid to behold. 
 Big whirlpools would open and wheel about in the 
 savage eddies under the low bank, "and close up 
 again, and others open, and spin, and disappear. 
 Great circles of muddy surface would boil up from 
 hundreds of feet below, and gloss over, and seem 
 to float away, sink, come back again under 
 water, and with only a soft hiss surge up again, 
 and again drift off, and vanish. Every few min- 
 utes the loamy bank would tip down a great load 
 of earth upon its besieger, and fall back a foot, 
 sometimes a yard, and the writhing river would 
 press after, until at last the Pointe was quite swal- 
 lowed up, and the great river glided by in a majes- 
 tic curve, and asked no more ; the bank stood 
 fast, the "caving" became a forgotten misfor- 
 tune, and the diminished grant was a long, sweep-
 
 62 Old Creole Days. 
 
 ing, 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 Cathe- 
 dral, you would be pretty sure to spy, just over to 
 your right under the levee, Belles Demoiselles 
 Mansion, with its broad veranda and red painted 
 cypress roof, peering over the embankment, like a 
 bird in the nest, half hid by the avenue of willows 
 which one of the departed De Charleus, he that 
 married a Marot, had planted on the levee's 
 crown. 
 
 The house stood unusually near the river, facing 
 eastward, and standing four-square, with an im- 
 mense veranda about its sides, and a flight of steps 
 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 of the slaves, and on the 
 horizon everywhere a dark belt of cypress forest. 
 
 The master was old Colonel, De Charleu, Jean 
 Albert Henri Joseph De Charleu-Marot, and 
 "Colonel" by the grace of the first American 
 governor. Monsieur, he would not speak to any 
 one who called him " Colonel," was a hoary- 
 headed patriarch. His step was firm, his form
 
 Belles Demoiselles Plantation. 63 
 
 erect, his intellect strong and clear, his counte- 
 nance 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 mouth that left no outward 
 blemish on the surface of the gentleman. He had 
 gambled in Royal street, drank hard in Orleans 
 street, run his adversary through in the duelling- 
 ground at Slaughter-house Point, and danced and 
 quarreled at the St. Philippe-street-theatre quad- 
 roon balls. Even now, with all his courtesy and 
 bounty, and a hospitality which seemed to be en- 
 tertaining angels, he was bitter-proud and penuri- 
 ous, and deep down in his hard-finished heart 
 loved nothing but hifnself, his name, and his 
 motherless children. But these ! their ravishing 
 beauty was all but excuse enough for the un- 
 bounded idolatry of their father. Against these 
 seven goddesses he never rebelled. Had they 
 even required him to defraud old De Carlos 
 
 I can hardly say. 
 
 Old De Carlos was his extremely distant rela- 
 tive on the Choctaw side. With this single excep- 
 tion, the narrow thread-like line of descent from 
 the Indian wife, diminished to a mere strand by 
 injudicious alliances, and deaths in the gutters of 
 old New Orleans, was extinct. The name, by 
 Spanish contact, had become De Carlos ; but this
 
 64 Old Creole Days. 
 
 one surviving bearer of it was known to all, and 
 known only, as Ingin Charlie. 
 
 One thing I never knew a Creole to do. He 
 will not utterly go back on the ties of blood, no 
 matter what sort of knots those ties may be. For 
 one reason, he is never ashamed of his or his 
 father's sins ; and for another, he will tell you 
 he is " all heart ! " 
 
 So the different heirs of the De Charleu estate 
 had always strictly regarded the rights and inter- 
 ests of the De Carloses, especially their ownership 
 of a block of dilapidated buildings in a part of the 
 city, which had once been very poor property, 
 but was beginning to be valuable. This block 
 had much more than maintained the last De Carlos 
 through a long and lazy lifetime, and, as his house- 
 hold consisted only of himself, and an aged and 
 crippled negress, the inference was irresistible that 
 he "had money." Old Charlie, though by alias 
 an " Injin," was plainly a dark white man, about 
 as old as Colonel De Charleu, sunk in the bliss of 
 deep ignorance, shrewd, deaf, and, by repute at 
 least, unmerciful. 
 
 The Colonel and he always conversed in Eng- 
 lish. This rare accomplishment, which the former 
 had learned from his Scotch wife, the latter from 
 up-river traders, they found an admirable medium 
 of communication, answering, better than French 
 c,ould, a similar purpose to that of the stick which
 
 Belles Demoiselles Plantation, 65 
 
 we fasten to the bit of one horse and breast-gear 
 of another, whereby each keeps his distance. 
 Once in a while, too, by way of jest, English found 
 its way among the ladies of Belles Demoiselles, 
 always signifying that their sire was about to have 
 business with old Charlie. 
 
 Now a long standing wish to buy out Charlie 
 troubled the Colonel. He had no desire to oust 
 him unfairly ; he was proud of being always fair ; 
 yet he did long to engross the whole estate under 
 one title. Out of his luxurious idleness he had 
 conceived this desire, and thought little of so slight 
 an obstacle as being already somewhat in debt to 
 old Charlie for 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's heritage. Ah ! he might 
 bring that into existence which his belles demoiselles 
 had been begging for, ' since many years ; ' a 
 home, and such a 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 to vine-covered arbors ; the bakery 
 yonder should make way for a costly conserva- 
 tory ; that wine warehouse should come down, 
 and the mansion go up. It should be the finest 
 in the State. Men should never pass it, but they 
 should say ' the palace of the De Charleus ; a
 
 66 Old Creole Days. 
 
 family of grand descent, a people of elegance and 
 bounty, a line as old as France, a fine old man, and 
 seven daughters as beautiful as happy ; whoever 
 dare attempt to marry there must leave his own 
 name behind him ! ' 
 
 " The house should be of stones fitly set, brought 
 down in ships from the land of ' les Yankees,' and 
 it should have an airy belvedere, with a gilded 
 image tip-toeing and shining on its peak, and from 
 it you should see, far across the gleaming folds of 
 the river, the red roof of Belles Demoiselles, the 
 country-seat. At the big stone gate there should 
 be a porter'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 fine wishes, yet happy enough 
 where they were, to have had no wish but to live 
 there always. 
 
 To those, who, by whatever fortune, wandered 
 into the garden of Belles Demoiselles some sum- 
 mer afternoon as the sky was reddening towards 
 evening, it was lovely to see the family gathered 
 out upon the tiled pavement at the foot of the 
 broad front steps, gaily chatting and jesting, with 
 that ripple of laughter that comes so pleasingly 
 from a bevy of girls. The father would be found 
 seated in their midst, the center of attention and 
 compliment, witness, arbiter, umpire, critic, by his 
 beautiful children's unanimous appointment, but
 
 Belles Demoiselles Plantation. 67 
 
 the single vassal, too, of seven absolute sover- 
 eigns. 
 
 Now they would draw their chairs near togethet 
 in eager discussion of some new step in the dance, or 
 the adjustment of some rich adornment. Now they 
 would start about him with excited comments to see 
 the eldest fix a bunch of violets in his button-hole. 
 Now the twins would move down a walk after some 
 unusual flower, and be greeted on their return with 
 the high pitched notes of delighted feminine surprise. 
 
 As evening came on they would draw more 
 quietly about their paternal center. Often their 
 chairs were forsaken, and they grouped themselves 
 on the lower steps, one above another, and surren- 
 dered themselves to the tender influences of the 
 approaching night. At such an hour the passer 
 on the river, already attracted by the dark figures 
 of the broad-roofed mansion, and its woody garden 
 standing against the glowing sunset, would hear 
 the voices of the hidden group rise from the spot 
 in the soft harmonies of an evening song ; swelling 
 clearer and clearer as the thrill of music warmed 
 them into feeling, and presently joined by the 
 deeper tones of the father's voice ; then, as the 
 daylight passed quite away, all would be still, and 
 he would know that the beautiful home had gath- 
 ered its nestlings under its wings. 
 
 And yet, for mere vagary, it pleased them not 
 to be pleased.
 
 68 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " Arti ! " called one sister to another in the broad 
 hall, one morning, mock amazement in her 
 distended eyes, " something is goin 1 to took 
 place ! " 
 
 " Comm-e-n-t ? " longdrawn perplexity. 
 
 " Papa is goin' to town ! " 
 
 The news passed up stairs. 
 
 " Inno ! " one to another meeting in a door- 
 way, " something is goin' to took place ! " 
 
 " Qiiest-ce-que c'est/" vain attempt at gruff- 
 ness. 
 
 " Papa is goin' to town ! " 
 
 The unusual tidings were true. It was afternoon 
 of the same day that the Colonel tossed his horse's 
 bridle to his groom, and stepped up to old Charlie, 
 who was sitting on his bench under a China-tree, 
 his head, as was his fashion, bound in a Madras 
 handkerchief. The " old man " was plainly under 
 the effect of spirits, and smiled a deferential saluta- 
 tion without trusting himself to his feet. 
 
 "Eh, well Charlie!" the Colonel raised his 
 voice to suit his kinsman's deafness, " 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 pretense 
 of rising. 
 
 " Non, non ! I don't want," the speaker paused 
 to breathe " ow is collection ? "
 
 Belles Demoiselles Plantation. 69 
 
 " O ! " said Charlie, " every day he make me 
 more poorer ! " 
 
 " What do you hask for it? " asked the planter 
 indifferently, designating the 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 plan- 
 ter. 
 
 "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 ? O, no, 
 dat is no price. He is blame good old house, . 
 dat old house." (Old Charlie and the Colonel 
 never swore in presence of each other.) "Forty 
 years dat old house didn't had to 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 barrel full
 
 70 Old Creole Days. 
 
 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), " mayfo, if you 
 sell it cheap." 
 
 " She's a bully old house." 
 
 There was a long silence. By and by old Charlie 
 commenced 
 
 " Old Injin Charlie is a low-down dog." 
 
 " Cest vrai, oui / " retorted the Colonel in an 
 undertone. 
 
 " He's got Injin blood in him." 
 
 The Colonel nodded assent. 
 
 " 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, you blame old fool ! ' Mais, 
 old Charlie's good blood says, ' Charlie ! if you sell 
 dat old house, Charlie, you low-down old dog, 
 Charlie, what de Compte De Charleu make for you
 
 Belles Demoiselles Plantation. 71 
 
 grace-gran'-muzzer, de dev' can eat you, Charlie, 
 I don't care.'" 
 
 " But you'll sell it anyhow, won't you, old 
 man ? " 
 
 " No ! " And the no rumbled off in muttered 
 oaths like thunder out on the Gulf. 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, and came 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 to you?" he said in a 
 high key, and then laughed "Ho, ho, ho!" and 
 rode away. 
 
 A cloud, but not a dark one, overshadowed the 
 spirits of Belles Demoiselles' plantation. The old 
 master, whose beaming presence had always made 
 him a shining Saturn, spinning and sparkling within 
 the bright circle of his- daughters, fell into musing
 
 72 Old Creole Days. 
 
 fits, started out of frowning reveries, walked often 
 by himself, and heard business from his overseer 
 fretfully. 
 
 No wonder. The daughters knew his closeness 
 in trade, and attributed to it his failure to negotiate 
 for the Old Charlie buildings, so to call them. 
 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 to drive. In 
 the morning the garden was wet. In the evening 
 the grasshopper was a burden. Ennui was turned 
 into capital ; every headache was interpreted a 
 premonition of ague ; and when the native exu- 
 berance of a flock of ladies without a want or a care 
 burst out in laughter in the father's face, they 
 spread their French eyes, rolled up their little 
 hands, and with rigid wrists and mock vehemence 
 vowed and vowed again that they only laughed at 
 their misery, and should pine to death unless they 
 could move to the sweet city. " O ! the theater ! 
 O ! Orleans Street ! O ! the masquerade ! the 
 Place d'Armes ! the ball ! " and they would call 
 upon Heaven with French irreverence, and fall into 
 each other's arms, and whirl down the hall singing 
 a waltz, end with a grand collision and fall, and, 
 their eyes streaming merriment, lay the blame on 
 the slippery floor, that would some day be the 
 death of the whole seven. 
 
 Three times more the fond father, thus goaded,
 
 Belles Demoiselles Plantation. 73 
 
 managed, by accident, business accident, to see 
 old Charlie and increase his offer ; 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 
 old rat-hole, good for old Injin Charlie, da's 
 all. Why you don't stay where you be hal- 
 ways 'appy ? Why you don't buy somewheres 
 else ? " 
 
 "That's none of your business," snapped the 
 planter. Truth was, his reasons were unsatisfac- 
 tory 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 and git drunk, and go to 
 sleep ; de dev' comes along and says, ' Charlie ! 
 old Charlie, 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 down and make him over 
 new, you blame old fool, Charlie, you low-down old 
 Injin dog ! ' " 
 
 " I'll give you forty thousand dollars," said the 
 Colonel.
 
 74 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " 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 no lie." 
 
 " Non, non ! I give you forty-five I " 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 he was, in certain specified 
 respects, the vilest of living creatures, and no com- 
 pany for a fine gentyman. 
 
 The "fine gentyman" longed to blaspheme, 
 but before old Charlie ! in the name 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 Belles 
 Demoiselles."
 
 Belles Demoiselles Plantation. 75 
 
 The old Colonel's quiet laugh intimated it made 
 no difference either way. 
 
 " But me," continued Charlie, "me, I'm got le 
 Compte De Charleu's blood in 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, de peoples will say, day 
 will say, ' Old 1 Charlie he been all doze time tell a 
 blame lie ! He ain't no kin to his old grace-gran- 
 muzzer, not a blame bit ! He don't got nary 
 drop of De Charleu blood to save his blame low- 
 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 an ugly whisk at him with 
 his riding-whip. Then the Colonel, too, moved 
 off. 
 
 Two or three times over, as he ambled home- 
 ward, laughter broke through his annoyance, as he 
 recalled old Charlie's family pride and the pre- 
 sumption of his offer. Yet each time he could but 
 think better of not the offer to swap, but the pre- 
 posterous ancestral loyalty. It was so much better 
 than he could have expected from his "low- 
 down " relative, and not unlike his own whim 
 withal the proposition which went with it was 
 forgiven.
 
 76 Old Creole Days. 
 
 This last defeat bore so harshly on the master 
 of Belles Demoiselles, that the daughters, reading 
 chagrin in his face, began to repent. They loved 
 their father as daughters can, and when they saw 
 their pretended dejection harassing him seriously 
 they restrained their complaints, displayed more 
 than ordinary tenderness, and heroically and osten- 
 tatiously concluded there was no place like Belles 
 Demoiselles. But the new mood touched him 
 more than the old, and only refined his discontent 
 Here was a man, rich without the care of riches, 
 free from any real trouble, happiness as native to 
 his house as perfume to his garden, deliberately, 
 as it were with premeditated malice, taking joy by 
 the shoulder and bidding her be gone to town, 
 whither he might easily have followed, only that 
 the very same ancestral nonsense that kept Injin 
 Charlie from selling the old place for twice its value 
 prevented him from choosing any other spot for a 
 city home. 
 
 But by and by the charm of nature and the 
 merry hearts around him prevailed ; the fit of 
 exalted sulks passed off, and after a while the 
 year flared up at Christmas, flickered, and went 
 out. 
 
 New Year came and passed ; the beautiful gar- 
 den of Belles Demoiselles put on its spring attire ; 
 the seven fair sisters moved from rose to rose ; the 
 cloud of discontent had warmed into invisible
 
 Belles Demoiselles Plantation. 77 
 
 vapor in the rich sunlight of family affection, and 
 on the common memory the only scar of last year's 
 wound was old Charlie's sheer impertinence in 
 crossing the caprice of the De Charleus. The cup of 
 gladness seemed to fill with the filling of the river. 
 
 How high it was ! Its tremendous current rolled 
 and tumbled and spun along, hustling the long 
 funeral flotillas of drift, and how near shore it 
 came ! Men were out day and night, watching 
 the levee. On windy nights even the old Colonel 
 took part, and grew light-hearted with occupation 
 and excitement, as every minute the river threw a 
 white arm over 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 and 
 looked quite incapable of harm. 
 
 On a summer afternoon of uncommon mildness, 
 old Colonel Jean Albert Henri Joseph De Charleu- 
 Marot, being in a mood for reverie, slipped the 
 custody of his feminine rulers and sought the 
 crown of the levee, where it was his wont to prom- 
 enade. Presently he sat upon a stone bench, a 
 favorite seat. Before him lay his broadspread 
 fields ; near by, his lordly mansion ; and being 
 still, perhaps by female contact, somewhat sen- 
 timental, he fell to musing on his past. It was 
 hardly worthy to be proud of. All its morning 
 was reddened with mad frolic, and far toward the 
 meridian it was marred with elegant rioting. Pride
 
 78 Old Creole Days. 
 
 had kept him well nigh useless, and despised the 
 honors won by valor ; gaming had dimmed pros- 
 perity ; death had taken his heavenly wife ; volup- 
 tuous ease had mortgaged his lands ; and yet his 
 house still stood, his sweet-smelling fields were 
 still fruitful, his name was fame enough ; and yon- 
 der and yonder, among the trees and flowers, like 
 angels walking in Eden, were the seven goddesses 
 of his only worship. 
 
 Just then a slight sound behind him brought him 
 to his feet. He cast his eyes anxiously to the 
 outer edge of the little strip of bank between the 
 levee's base and the river. There was nothing 
 visible. He paused, with his ear toward the water, 
 his face full of frightened expectation. Ha ! There 
 came a single plashing sound, like some great 
 beast slipping into the river, and little waves in a 
 wide semi-circle came out from under the bank and 
 spread over the water ! 
 
 "My God!" 
 
 He plunged down the levee and bounded through 
 the low weeds to the edge of the bank. It was 
 sheer, and the water about four feet below. He 
 did not stand quite on the edge, but fell upon his 
 knees a couple of yards away, wringing his hands, 
 moaning and weeping, and staring through his 
 watery eyes at a fine, long crevice just discernible 
 under the matted grass, and curving outward on 
 either hand toward the river.
 
 Belles Demoiselles Plantation. 79 
 
 "My God!" he sobbed aloud; "my God!" 
 and even while he called, his God answered : the 
 tough Bermuda grass stretched and snapped, the 
 crevice slowly became a gape, and softly, gradu- 
 ally, with no sound but the closing of the water at 
 last, a ton or more of earth settled into the boiling 
 eddy and disappeared. 
 
 At the same instant a pulse of the breeze brought 
 from the garden behind, the joyous, thoughtless 
 laughter of the fair mistresses of Belles Demoi- 
 selles. 
 
 The old Colonel sprang up and clambered over 
 the levee. Then forcing himself to a more com- 
 posed movement, he hastened into the house and 
 ordered his horse. 
 
 "Tell my children to make merry while I am 
 gone," he left word. " I shall be back to-night," 
 and the horse's hoofs clattered down a by-road 
 leading to the city. 
 
 " Charlie," said the planter, riding up to a win- 
 dow, from which the old man's night-cap was 
 thrust out, " what you say, Charlie, my house 
 for yours, 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 the truth.) 
 
 "What you want?" said matter-of-fact Char- 
 lie.
 
 8o Old Creole Days. 
 
 " I come to trade." 
 
 The low-down relative drew the worsted off his 
 ears. "Oh ! yass," he said with an uncertain air, 
 
 "Well, old man Charlie, what you say: my 
 house for yours, like you said, eh, Charlie ? " 
 
 "I dunno," said Charlie; "it's nearly mine 
 now. Why you don't stay dare youse'f ? " 
 
 "Because I don't want!" said the Colonel 
 savagely. " Is dat reason enough for you ? You 
 better take me in de notion, old man, I tell you, 
 yes ! " 
 
 Charlie never winced ; but how his answer de- 
 lighted the Colonel ! Quoth Charlie : 
 
 " I don't care I take him ! mats, possession 
 give right off." 
 
 " Not: the whole plantation, Charlie ; only 
 
 " I don't care," said Charlie ; "we easy can fix 
 dat. Mais, what for you don'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. I pass by dare since two 
 weeks. Oh, pritty Belles Demoiselles ! De cane 
 was wave in de wind, de garden smell like a bou-
 
 Belles Demoiselles Plantation. 81 
 
 quet, de white-cap was jump up and down on de 
 river ; seven belles demoiselles was ridin' on horses. 
 ' Pritty, pritty, pritty ! ' says old Charlie. Ah ! 
 Monsieur le pere, 'ow 'appy, 'appy, 'appy ! " 
 
 " Yass ! " he continued the Colonel still staring 
 " le Compte De Charleu have two familie. One 
 was low-down Choctaw, one was high up noblesse. 
 He give the low-down Choctaw dis old rat-hole ; 
 he give Belles Demoiselles to your gran-fozzer ; 
 and now you don't be satisfait. What I'll do wid 
 Belles Demoiselles ? She'll break me in two years, 
 yass. And what you'll do wid old Charlie's house, 
 eh ? You'll tear her down and make you'se'f a 
 blame old fool. I rather wouldn't trade ! " 
 
 The planter caught a big breathful of anger, but 
 Charlie went straight on : 
 
 " I rather wouldn't, mats I will do it for you ; 
 just the same, like Monsieur le Compte would say, 
 ' Charlie, you old fool, I want to shange houses wid 
 you.' " 
 
 So long as the Colonel suspected irony he was 
 angry, but as Charlie seemed, after all, to be cer- 
 tainly in earnest, he began to feel conscious-strick- 
 en. He was by no means a tender man, but his 
 lately-discovered misfortune had unhinged him, 
 and this strange, undeserved, disinterested family 
 fealty on the part of Charlie touched his heart. 
 And should he still try to lead him into the pitfall 
 Jie had dug ? He hesitated ; no, he would show
 
 82 Old Creole Days. 
 
 him the place by broad day-light, and if he chose 
 to overlook the " caving bank," it would be his 
 own fault ; a trade's a trade. 
 
 " Come," said the planter, " come at my house 
 to-night ; to-morrow we look at 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 by hedges 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 un- 
 generous design was beginning to be hateful to 
 him. Not only old Charlie's unprovoked good- 
 ness was prevailing ; the eulogy on Belles Demoi- 
 selles had stirred the depths of an intense love for 
 his beautiful home. True, if he held to it, the
 
 Belles Demoiselles Plantation. 83 
 
 caving of the bank, at its present fearful speed, 
 would let the house into the river within three 
 months ; but were it not better to lose it so, than 
 sell his birthright? Again, coming back to the 
 first thought, to betray his own blood ! It was only 
 Injin Charlie; but had not the De Charleu blood just 
 spoken out in him ? Unconsciously he groaned. 
 
 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 came in 
 sight of the villa. It looked so like a gem, shining 
 through its dark grove, so like a great glow-worm 
 in the dense foliage, so significant of luxury and 
 gayety, that the poor master, from an overflowing 
 heart, groaned again. 
 
 " What ? " asked Charlie. 
 
 The Colonel only drew his rein, and, dismount- 
 ing mechanically, contemplated the sight before 
 him. The high, arched doors and windows were 
 thrown wide to the summer air ; from every open- 
 ing the bright light of numerous candelabra darted 
 out upon the sparkling foliage of magnolia and 
 bay, and here and there in the spacious verandas 
 a colored lantern swayed in the gentle breeze. A 
 sound of revel fell on the ear, the music of harps ; 
 and across one window, brighter than the rest, 
 flitted, once or twice, the shadows of dancers. 
 But oh ! the shadows flitting across the heart of the 
 fair mansion's master !
 
 84 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " Old Charlie," said he, gazing fondly at his 
 house, " you and me is both old, eh ? " 
 
 " Yass," said the stolid Charlie. 
 
 " And we has both been bad enough in out* 
 time, eh, Charlie ? " 
 
 Charlie, surprised at the tender tone, repeated 
 "Yass." 
 
 " And you and me is mighty close ? " 
 
 " Blame close, yass." 
 
 " 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 shan't cheat you now. My God ! 
 old man, I tell you you better not make the 
 trade ! " 
 
 "Because for what?" asked Charlie in plain 
 anger ; but both looked quickly toward the house ! 
 The Colonel tossed his hands wildly in the air, 
 rushed forward a step or two, and giving one fear- 
 ful scream of agony and fright, fell fonvard on his 
 face in the path. Old Charlie stood transfixed 
 with horror. Belles Demoiselles, the realm of 
 maiden beauty, the home of merriment, the house 
 of dancing, all in the tremor and glow of pleasure, 
 suddenly sunk, with one short, wild wail of terror 
 sunk, sunk, down, down, down, into the merci- 
 less, unfathomable flood of the Mississippi.
 
 Belles Demoiselles Plantation. 85 
 
 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 every 
 night, old Charlie, the " low-down," the "fool," 
 watched him tenderly, tended him lovingly, for 
 the sake of his name, his misfortunes, and his 
 broken heart. No woman's step crossed the floor 
 of the sick-chamber, whose western dormer-win- 
 dows overpeered the dingy architecture of old 
 Charlie's block ; Charlie and a skilled physician, 
 the one all interest, the other all gentleness, hope, 
 and patience these only entered by the door ; but 
 by the window came in a sweet-scented evergreen 
 vine, transplanted from the caving bank of Belles 
 Demoiselles. It caught the rays of sunset in its 
 flowery net and let them softly in upon the sick 
 man's bed ; gathered the glancing beams of the 
 moon at midnight, and often wakened the sleeper 
 to look, with his mindless eyes, upon their pretty 
 silver fragments strewn upon the floor. 
 
 By and by there seemed there was a twink- 
 ling dawn of returning reason. Slowly, peace- 
 fully, with an increase unseen from day to day, 
 the light of reason came into the eyes, and speech 
 became coherent ; but withal there came a failing 
 of the wrecked body, and the doctor said that 
 monsieur was both better and worse. 
 
 One evening, as Charlie sat by the vine-clad win- 
 dow with his fireless pipe in his hand, the old
 
 86 Old Creole Days. 
 
 Colonel's eyes fell full upon his own, and rested 
 there. 
 
 " Charl ," he said with an effort, and his de- 
 lighted nurse hastened to the bed-side and bowed 
 his best ear. There was an unsuccessful effort or 
 two, and then he whispered, smiling with sweet 
 sadness, 
 
 "We didn't trade." 
 
 The truth, in this case, was a secondary matter 
 to Charlie ; the main point was to give a pleasing 
 answer. So he nodded his head decidedly, as 
 who should say " Oh yes, we did, it was a bona- 
 fide swap ! " but when he saw the smile vanish, he 
 tried the other expedient and shook his head with 
 still more vigor, to signify that they had not so 
 much as approached a bargain ; and the smile re- 
 turned. 
 
 Charlie wanted to see the vine recognized. He 
 stepped backward to the window 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
 
 Belles Demoiselles Plantation. 87 
 
 would not suffer the crucifix to be removed from 
 his breast. 
 
 One more morning came. Just before dawn 
 Charlie, lying on a pallet in the 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 his brown face. " Dat 
 makes not'in." 
 
 The Colonel whispered once more : 
 
 " Mes belles demoiselles! in paradise; in the 
 garden I shall be with them at sunrise ; " and so 
 it was.
 
 88 Old Creole Days. 
 
 JEAN-AH POQUELIN. 
 
 IN the first decade of the present century, when 
 the newly established American Government was 
 the most hateful thing in Louisiana when the 
 Creoles were still kicking at such vile innovations 
 as the trial by jury, American dances, anti-smug- 
 gling laws, and the printing of the Governor's 
 proclamation in English when the Anglo-Ameri- 
 can flood that was presently to burst in a crevasse 
 of immigration upon the delta had thus far been 
 felt only as slippery seepage which made the 
 Creole tremble for his footing there stood, a short 
 distance above what is now Canal-street, and con- 
 siderably back from the line of villas which fringed 
 the river-bank on Tchoupitoulas Road, an old 
 colonial plantation-house half in ruin. 
 
 It stood aloof from civilization, the tracts that 
 had once been its indigo fields given over to their 
 first noxious wildness, and grown up into one of 
 the horridest marshes within a circuit of fifty miles. 
 
 The house was of heavy cypress, lifted up on 
 pillars, grim, solid, and spiritless, its massive build 
 a strong reminder of days still earlier, when every
 
 Jean-ah Poquelin. 89 
 
 man had been his own peace officer and the insur- 
 rection of the blacks a daily contingency. Its 
 dark, weather-beaten roof and sides were hoisted 
 up above the jungly plain in a distracted way, like 
 a gigantic ammunition-wagon stuck in the mud and 
 abandoned by some retreating army. Around it 
 was a dense growth of low water willows, with half 
 a hundred sorts of thorny or fetid bushes, savage 
 strangers alike to the " language of flowers " and to 
 the botanist's Greek. They were hung with count- 
 less strands of discolored and prickly smilax, and the 
 impassable mud below bristled with clievaux defrise 
 of the dwarf palmetto. Two lone forest-trees, dead 
 cypresses, stood in the center of the marsh, dotted 
 with roosting vultures. The shallow strips of 
 water were hid by myriads of aquatic plants, under 
 whose coarse and spiritless flowers, could one have 
 seen it, was a harbor of reptiles, great and small, 
 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 of 
 big, ravening fish and alligators, that held it against 
 all comers. 
 
 Such was the home of old Jean Marie Poquelin, 
 once an opulent indigo planter, standing high in 
 the esteem of his small, proud circle of exclusively 
 male acquaintances in the old city ; now a hermit, 
 alike shunned by and shunning all who had ever
 
 90 Old Creole Days. 
 
 known him. " The last of his line," said the gos- 
 sips. His father lies under the floor of the St. 
 Louis Cathedral, with the wife of his youth on one 
 side, and the wife of his old age on the other. Old 
 Jean visits the spot daily. His half-brother alas ! 
 there was a mystery ; no one knew what had be- 
 come of the gentle, young half-brother, more than 
 thirty years his junior, whom once he seemed so 
 fondly to love, but who, seven years ago, had dis- 
 appeared suddenly, once for all, and left no clue 
 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 mated birds, one 
 always on the wing, the other always in the nest. 
 
 There was no trait in Jean Marie Poquelin, said 
 the old gossips, for which he was so well known 
 among his few friends as his apparent fondness for 
 his "little brother." "Jacques said this," and 
 "Jacques said that;" he "would leave this or 
 that, or anything 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 ask Jacques as soon as 
 he got home," since Jacques "was never elsewhere 
 to be seen.
 
 Jean-ah Poquelin. 91 
 
 It was between the roving character of the one 
 brother, and the bookishness of the other, that the 
 estate fell into decay. Jean Marie, generous gen- 
 tleman, gambled the slaves away one by one, until 
 none was left, man or woman, but one old African 
 mute. 
 
 The indigo-fields and vats of Louisiana had been 
 generally abandoned as unremunerative. Certain 
 enterprising men had substituted the culture of 
 sugar ; but while the recluse was too apathetic to 
 take so active a course, the other saw larger, and, 
 at thai time, equally respectable profits, first in 
 smuggling, and later in the African slave-trade. 
 What harm could he see in it ? The whole people 
 said it was vitally necessary, and to minister to a 
 vital public necessity, good enough, certainly, 
 and so he laid up many a doubloon, that made him 
 none the worse in the public regard. 
 
 One day old Jean Marie was about to start upon 
 a voyage that was to be longer, much longer, than 
 any that he had yet made. Jacques had begged 
 him hard for many days not to go, but he laughed 
 him off, and finally said, kissing him : 
 
 " Adieu 'tit fr ere." 
 
 " 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 with-
 
 92 Old Creole Days. 
 
 out his vessel. He must have arrived at his house 
 by night. No one saw him come. No one saw 
 " his little brother ; " rumor whispered that he, 
 too, had returned, but he had never been seen 
 again. 
 
 A dark suspicion fell upon the old slave-trader. 
 No matter that the few kept the many reminded 
 of the tenderness that had ever marked his bearing 
 to the missing man. The many shook their heads. 
 " You know he has a quick and fearful temper ; " 
 and " why does he cover his loss with mystery ? " 
 " Grief would out with the truth." 
 
 " But," said the charitable few, " look in his 
 face ; see that expression of true humanity." The 
 many did look in his face, and, as he looked in 
 theirs, he read the silent question : " Where is thy 
 brother Abel ? " The few were silenced, his former 
 friends died off, and the name of Jean Marie Po- 
 quelin became a symbol of witchery, devilish 
 crime, and hideous nursery fictions. 
 
 The man and his house were alike shunned. The 
 snipe and duck hunters forsook the marsh, and the 
 woodcutters abandoned the canal. Sometimes the 
 hardier boys who ventured out there snake-shoot- 
 ing heard a slow thumping of oar-locks on the canal. 
 They would look at each other for a moment 
 half in consternation, half in glee, then rush from 
 their sport in wanton haste to assail with their 
 gibes the unoffending, withered old man who, in
 
 Jean-ah Poquelin. 93 
 
 rusty attire, sat in the stern of a skiff, rowed home- 
 ward by his 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 the tone 
 of mockery : " Oh, Jean-ah Poquelin ! " and while 
 they tumbled one over another in their needless 
 haste to fly, he would rise carefully from his seat, 
 while the aged mute, with downcast, face went on 
 rowing, and rolling up his brown fist and extend- 
 ing it toward the urchins, would pour forth such an 
 unholy broadside of French imprecation and invec- 
 tive as- would all but craze them with delight. 
 
 Among both blacks and whites the house was the 
 object of a thousand superstitions. Every mid- 
 night, they affirmed, the feu follet came out of the 
 marsh and ran in and out of the rooms, flashing 
 from window to window. The story of some lads, 
 whose word in ordinary statements was worthless, 
 was generally credited, that the night they camped 
 in the woods, 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 a human voice. There 
 was a bottomless well, everybody professed to 
 know, beneath the sill of the big front door under
 
 94 - Old Creole Days. 
 
 the rotten veranda ; whoever set his foot upon that 
 threshold disappeared forever in the depth below. 
 
 What wonder the marsh grew as wild as Africa ! 
 Take all the Faubourg St. Marie, and half the 
 ancient city, you would not find one graceless dare- 
 devil reckless enough to pass within a hundred 
 yards of the house after nightfall. 
 
 The alien races pouring into old New Orleans 
 began to find the few streets named for the Bour- 
 bon princes too strait for them. The wheel of 
 fortune, beginning to whir, threw them off beyond 
 the ancient corporation lines, and sowed civilization 
 and even trade upon the lands of the Graviers and 
 Girods. Fields became roads, roads streets. Every- 
 where the leveler was peering through his glass, 
 rodsmen were whacking their way through willow 
 brakes and rose hedges, and the sweating Irishmen 
 tossed the blue clay up with their long-handled 
 shovels. 
 
 " Ha ! that is all very well," quoth the Jean- 
 Baptistes, feeling the reproach of an enterprise that 
 asked neither co-operation nor advice of them, 
 " but wait till they come yonder to Jean Poquelin's 
 marsh; ha! ha! ha!" The supposed predica- 
 ment so delighted them, that they put on a mock 
 terror and whirled about in an assumed stampede, 
 then caught their clasped hands between their 
 knee? in excess of mirth, and laughed till the tears 
 ran ; for whether the street-makers mired in the
 
 Jean-ah Poquelin. 95 
 
 marsh, or contrived to cut through old " Jean-ah's ' 
 property, either event would be joyful. Meantime 
 a line of tiny rods, with bits of white paper in 
 their split tops, gradually extended its way straight 
 through the haunted ground, and crossed the canal 
 diagonally. 
 
 " We shall fill that ditch," said the men in mud- 
 boots, and brushed close along the chained and 
 padlocked gate of the haunted mansion. Ah, 
 Jean-ah Poquelin, those were not Creole boys, to 
 be stampeded with a little hard swearing. 
 
 He went to the Governor. That official scanned 
 the odd figure with no slight interest. Jean Poque- 
 lin was of short, broad frame, with a bronzed leo- 
 nine face. His brow was ample and deeply fur- 
 rowed. His eye, large and black, was bold and 
 open like that of a war-horse, and his jaws shut 
 together with the firmness of iron. He was 
 dressed in a suit of Attakapas cottonade, and his 
 shirt unbuttoned and thrown back from the throat 
 and bosom, sailor-wise, showed a herculean breast, 
 hard and grizzled. There was no fierceness or 
 defiance in his look, no harsh ungentleness, no 
 symptom of his unlawful life or violent temper; 
 but rather a peaceful and peaceable fearlessness. 
 Across the whole face, not marked in one or an- 
 other feature, but as it were laid softly upon the 
 countenance like an almost imperceptible veil, was 
 the imprint of some great grief. A careless eye
 
 96 Old Creole Days. 
 
 might easily overlook it, but, once seen, there it 
 hung faint, but unmistakable. 
 
 The Governor bowed. 
 
 " Parlez-vous Franqais ? " 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 la-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 indemnify you 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 Gouver- 
 neurf" 
 
 "Yes."
 
 Jean -ah Poquelin. 97 
 
 "Mais, yes. You har le Gouverneur yes. 
 Veh-well. I come to you. I tell 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 a Fr-r-rench-a- 
 man ! Fr-rench-a-man have something aller au 
 contraire he come at his Gouverneur, I come at 
 you. If me not had been bought from me king 
 like bossals in the hold time, ze king gof France 
 would-a-show Monsieur le Gouverneur to take care 
 his men to make strit in right places. Mais, I 
 know ; we billong to Monsieur le President. I 
 want you do somesin for me, eh ? " 
 
 " What is it? " asked the patient Governor. 
 
 " I want you tell Monsieur le President, strit 
 can't pass at me 'ouse." 
 
 " Have a chair, Mr. Poquelin ; " but the old 
 man did not stir. The Governor took a quill and 
 wrote a line to a city official, introducing Mr. 
 Poquelin, and asking for him every possible cour- 
 tesy. He handed it to him, instructing him where 
 to present it. 
 
 " Mr. Poqualin," he said, with a conciliatory 
 smile, " tell me, is it your house that our Creole 
 citizens tell such odd stories about ? " . 
 
 The old man glared sternly upon the speaker, 
 and with immovable features said : 
 . " You don't see me trade some Guinea nigga' ? "
 
 98 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " Oh, no." 
 
 " You don't see me make some smugglin' ? " 
 
 " 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 an inter- 
 preter. 
 
 " He says," said the interpreter to the officer, 
 " he come to make you the fair warning how you 
 muz not make the street pas' at his 'ouse." 
 
 The officer remarked that " such impudence was 
 refreshing ; " but the experienced interpreter trans- 
 lated 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, " the marass is a too unhealth' for 
 peopl' to live." 
 
 " But we expect to drain his old marsh ; it's not 
 going to be a marsh." 
 
 " // dit The interpreter* explained in 
 
 French. 
 
 The old man answered tersely. 
 
 " He says the canal is a private," said the inter- 
 preter. 
 
 "Oh! that old ditch; that's to be filled up.
 
 Jean-ah Poquelin. 99 
 
 Tell the old man we're going to fix him up 
 nicely." 
 
 Translation being duly made, the man in power 
 was amused to see a thunder-cloud gathering on 
 the old man's face. 
 
 " Tell him," he added, " by the time we finish, 
 there'll not be a ghost left in his shanty." 
 
 The interpreter began to translate, but 
 
 " Je' comprends, Je' comprends" said the old 
 man, with an impatient gesture, and burst forth, 
 pouring curses upon the United States, the Presi- 
 dent, the Territory of Orleans, Congress, the Gov- 
 ernor and all his subordinates, striding out of the 
 apartment as he cursed, while the object of his 
 maledictions roared with merriment and rammed 
 the floor with his foot. 
 
 "Why, it will make his old place worth ten 
 dollars to one," said the official to the interpre- 
 ter. 
 
 " 'Tis not for de worse of de property," said the 
 interpreter. 
 
 " I should guess not," said the other, whittling 
 his chair, "seems to me as if some of these old 
 Creoles would liever live in a crawfish hole than 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
 
 ioo Old Creole Days. 
 
 poured in a thick double stream from his nostrils, 
 he said, 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 of 
 its 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 shooting some grosbec. I killed 
 three ; but I had trouble to fine them, it was be- 
 coming so dark. When I have them I start' to 
 come home ; then I got to pas' at Jean Poquelin's 
 house." 
 
 " Ho, ho, ho ! " laughed the other, throwing his 
 leg over the arm of his chair. 
 
 " Wait," said the interpreter. "I come along 
 slow, not making some noises ; still, still " 
 
 " And scared," said the smiling one. 
 
 " Mais, wait. I get all pas' the 'ouse. 'Ah!' 
 I say ; ' all right ! ' Then I see two thing' before ! 
 Hah ! I get as cold and humide, and shake like a 
 leaf. You think it was nothing ? There I see, so 
 plain as can be (though it was making nearly dark), 
 I see Jean Marie Po-que-lin walkin' right in 
 front, and right there beside of him was something 
 like a man but not a man white like paint ! I
 
 Jean-ah Poquelin. 101 
 
 dropp' on the grass from scared they pass* ; so 
 sure as I live 'twas the ghos' of Jacques Poquelin, 
 his brother ! " 
 
 " Pooh ! " said the listener. 
 
 " I'll put my han' in the fire," said the inter- 
 preter. 
 
 " But did you never think," asked the other, 
 " that that might be Jack Poquelin, as you call 
 him, alive and well, and for some cause hid away 
 by his brother ? " 
 
 " But there har' no cause! " said the other, and 
 the entrance of third parties changed the subject. 
 
 Some months passed and the street was opened. 
 A canal was first dug through the marsh, the small 
 one which passed so close to Jean Poquelin's house 
 was filled, and the street, or rather a sunny road, 
 just touched a corner of the old mansion's door- 
 yard. The morass ran dry. Its venomous deni- 
 zens slipped away through the bulrushes ; the cat- 
 tle roaming freely upon its hardened surface tram- 
 pled the superabundant undergrowth. The bel- 
 lowing frogs croaked to westward. Lilies and the 
 flower-de-luce sprang up in the place of reeds ; 
 smilax and poison-oak gave way to the purple- 
 plumed iron-weed and pink spiderwort ; the bind- 
 weeds ran everywhere blooming as they ran, 
 and on one of the dead cypresses a giant creeper 
 hung its green burden of foliage and lifted its 
 ^scarlet trumpets. Sparrows and red-birds flittered
 
 IO2 Old Creole Days. 
 
 through the bushes, and dewberries grew ripe be- 
 neath. Over all these came a sweet, dry smell of 
 salubrity which the place had not known since the 
 sediments of the Mississippi first lifted it from the 
 sea. 
 
 But its owner did not build. Over the willow- 
 brakes, and down the vista of the open street, 
 bright new houses, some singly, some by ranks, 
 were prying in upon the old man's privacy. They 
 even settled down toward his southern side. First 
 a wood-cutter's hut or two, then a market garden- 
 er's shanty, then a painted cottage, and all at once 
 the faubourg had flanked and half surrounded him 
 and his dried-tip marsh. 
 
 Ah ! then the common people began to hate 
 him. " The old tyrant ! " " You don't mean an 
 old tyrant ? " "Well, then, why don't he build 
 when the public need demands it ? What does he 
 live in that unneighborly way for?" "The old 
 pirate!" "The old kidnapper!" How easily 
 even the most ultra Louisianians put on the impor- 
 tant virtues of the North when they could be 
 brought to bear against the hermit. "There he 
 goes, with the boys after him ! Ah ! ha ! ha ! 
 Jean-ah Poquelin ! Ah ! Jean-ah ! Aha ! aha ! 
 Jean-ah Maria ! Jean-ah Poquelin ! The old vil- 
 lain ! " How merrily the swarming Americains 
 echo the spirit of persecution ! " The old fraud," 
 they say " pretends to live in a haunted house,
 
 Jean-ah Poquelin. 103 
 
 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 broken sadly of late, and 
 the street urchins are ever at his heels. It is like 
 the days when they cried: "Go up, thou bald- 
 head," and the old man now and 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 public 
 and private ill-fortune. Upon him all the vagaries 
 of their superstitions gathered and grew. If a 
 house caught fire, it was imputed to his machina- 
 tions. Did a woman go off in a fit, he had be- 
 witched her. Did a child stray off for an hour, the 
 mother shivered with the apprehension that Jean 
 Poquelin had offered him to strange gods. The 
 house was the subject of every bad boy's invention 
 who loved to contrive ghostly lies. " As long as 
 that house stands we shall have bad luck. Do you 
 not see our peas and beans dying, our cabbages 
 and lettuce going to seed and our gardens turning 
 to dust, while every day you can see it raining in 
 the woods ? The rain will never pass old Poque- 
 lin's house. He keeps a fetich. He has conjured 
 the whole Faubourg St. Marie. And why, the old 
 wretch ? Simply because our playful and innocent 
 children call after him as he passes."
 
 IO4 Old Creole Days. 
 
 A " Building and Improvement Company," 
 which had not yet got its charter, " but was going 
 to," and which had not, indeed, any tangible capi- 
 tal yet, but " was going to have some," joined the 
 " Jean-ah Poquelin " war. The haunted property 
 would be such a capital site for a market-house ! 
 They sent a deputation to the old mansion to ask 
 its occupant to sell. The deputation never got be- 
 yond the chained gate and a very barren interview 
 with 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 com- 
 pany's stock ; but 
 
 " Fact is, gentlemen," he said at the next meet- 
 ing, "it would take us at least twelve months to 
 make Mr. Pokaleen understand the rather original 
 features 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. " Better meet a bear robbed of 
 her whelps," said one. 
 
 " You're mistaken as to that," said the President. 
 " I did meet him and stopped him, and found him 
 quite polite. But I could get no satisfaction from 
 him ; the fellow wouldn't talk in French, and when 
 I spoke in English he hoisted his old shoulders up, 
 and gave the same answer to everything I said."
 
 Jean-ah Poquelin. 105 
 
 " And that was ? " asked one or two, impa- 
 tient of the pause. 
 
 " That it ' don't worse w'ile ? ' " 
 
 One of the Board said : " Mr. President, this 
 market-house project, as I take it, is not altogether 
 a selfish one ; the community is to be benefited 
 by it. We may feel that we are working in the 
 public interest [the Board smiled knowingly], if we 
 employ all possible means to oust this old nuisance 
 from among us. You may know that at the time 
 the street was cut through, this old Poquelann did 
 all he could to prevent it. It was owing to a cer- 
 tain connection which I had with that affair that I 
 heard a ghost story [smiles, followed by a sudden 
 dignified check] ghost story, which, of course, I 
 am not going to relate ; but I may say that my 
 profound conviction, arising from a prolonged 
 study of that story, is, that this old villain, John 
 Poquelann, has his brother locked up in that old 
 house. Now, if this is so, and we can fix it on him, 
 I merely suggest that we can make the matter 
 highly useful. I don't know," he added, begin- 
 ning to sit down, " but that it is an action we 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, it would be unadvisable for us 
 to authorize any action involving trespass ; but if
 
 lo6 Old Creole Days. ' 
 
 you, for instance, Mr. President, should, as it were, 
 for mere curiosity, request some one, as, for in- 
 stance, our excellent Secretary, simply as a per- 
 sonal favor, to look into the matter ; this is merely 
 a suggestion." 
 
 The Secretary smiled sufficiently to be under- 
 stood that, while he certainly did not consider such 
 preposterous service a part of his duties as secre- 
 tary, he might, notwithstanding, accede to the 
 President's request ; and the Board adjourned. 
 
 Little White, as the Secretary was called, was a 
 mild, kind-hearted little man, who, nevertheless, 
 had no fear of anything, unless it was the fear of 
 being unkind. 
 
 " I tell you frankly," he privately said to the 
 President, " I go into this purely for reasons of my 
 own." 
 
 The next day, a little after nightfall, one might 
 have descried this little man slipping along the rear 
 fence of the Poquelin place, preparatory to vault- 
 ing over into the rank, grass-grown yard, and bear- 
 ing himself altogether more after the manner of a 
 collector of rare chickens than according to the 
 usage of secretaries. 
 
 The picture presented to his eye was not calcu- 
 lated to enliven his mind. The old mansion stood 
 out against the western sky, black and silent. One 
 long, lurid pencil-stroke along a sky of slate was 
 all that was left of daylight. No sign of life was
 
 Jean-ah Poquelin. 107 
 
 apparent ; no light at any window, unless it might 
 have been on the side of the house hidden from 
 view. No owls were on the chimneys, no dogs 
 were in the yard. 
 
 He entered the place, and ventured up behind a 
 small cabin which stood apart from the house. 
 Through one of its many crannies he easily detected 
 the African mute crouched before a flickering pine 
 knot, his head on his knees, fast asleep. 
 
 He concluded to enter the mansion, and, with 
 that view, stood and scanned it. The broad rear 
 steps of the veranda would not serve him ; he 
 might meet some one midway. He was measur- 
 ing, with his eye, the proportions of one of the pil- 
 lars which supported it, and estimating the practi- 
 cability of climbing it, when he heard a footstep. 
 Some one dragged a chair out toward the railing, 
 then seemed to change his mind and began to pace 
 the veranda, his footfalls resounding on the dry 
 boards with singular loudness. Little White 
 drew a step backward, got the figure between 
 himself and the sky, and at once recognized the 
 short, broad-shouldered form of old Jean Po- 
 quelin. 
 
 He sat down upon a billet of wood, and, to 
 escape the stings of a whining cloud of mosquitoes, 
 shrouded his face and neck in his handkerchief, 
 leaving his eyes uncovered. 
 
 -He had sat there but a moment when he noticed
 
 io8 Old Creole Days. 
 
 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 was as dry as powder. 
 It was not in the air ; it seemed to come from the 
 ground. 
 
 Rising up, he noticed, for the first time, a few 
 steps before him a narrow footpath loading toward 
 the house. He glanced down it ha ! right there 
 was some one coming ghostly white ! 
 
 Quick as thought, and as noiselessly, he lay 
 down at full length against the 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 said to himself. " I know it cannot be 
 a ghost ; " but the perspiration burst out at every 
 pore, and the air seemed to thicken with heat. 
 " It is a living man," he said in his thoughts. 
 " I hear his footstep, and I hear old Poquelin's 
 footsteps, too, separately, over on the veranda. I 
 am not discovered ; the thing has passed ; there is 
 that odor again ; what a smell of death ! Is it 
 coming back ? Yes. It stops at the door of the 
 cabin. Is it peering in at the sleeping mute ? It 
 moves away. It is in the path again. Now it is 
 gone." He shuddered. " Now, if I dare venture, 
 the mystery is solved." He rose cautiously, close 
 against the cabin, and peered along the path. 
 
 The figure of a man, a presence ii not a body
 
 Jean-ah Poquelin. 109 
 
 but whether clad in some white stuff or naked the 
 darkness would not allow him to determine had 
 turned, and now, with a seeming painful gait, 
 moved slowly from him. " Great Heaven ! can it 
 be that the dead do walk ? " He withdrew again 
 the hands which had gone to his eyes. The dread- 
 ful object passed between two pillars and under the 
 house. He listened. There was a faint sound as 
 of feet upon a staircase ; then all was still except 
 the measured tread of Jean Poquelin walking on 
 the veranda, and the heavy respirations of the mute 
 slumbering in the cabin. 
 
 The little Secretary was about to retreat ; but as 
 he looked once more toward the haunted house a 
 dim light appeared in the crack of a closed window, 
 and presently old Jean Poquelin came, dragging 
 his chair, and sat down close against the shining 
 cranny. He spoke in a low, tender tone in the 
 French tongue, making some inquiry. An answer 
 came from within. Was it the voice of a human ? 
 So unnatural was it so hollow, so discordant, so 
 unearthly that the stealthy listener shuddered 
 again from head to foot ; and when something 
 stirred in some bushes near by though it may 
 have been nothing more than a rat and came 
 scuttling through the grass, the little Secretary 
 actually turned and fled. As he left the inclosure 
 he moved with bolder leisure through the bushes ; 
 yet Jiow and then he spoke aloud: "Oh, oh!
 
 no Old Creole Days. 
 
 I see, I understand ! " and shut his eyes in his 
 hands. 
 
 How strange that henceforth little White was 
 the champion of Jean Poquelin ! In season and 
 out of season wherever a word was uttered 
 against him the Secretary, with a quiet, aggres- 
 sive force that instantly arrested gossip, demanded 
 upon what authority the statement or conjecture 
 was made ; but as he did not condescend to explain 
 his own remarkable attitude, it was not long be- 
 fore the disrelish and suspicion which had followed 
 Jean Poquelin so many years fell also upon him. 
 
 It was only the next evening but one after his 
 adventure that he made himself a source of sullen 
 amazement to one hundred and fifty boys, by or- 
 dering 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 started on. The boys, save one, from 
 pure astonishment, ceased ; but a ruffianly little 
 Irish lad, more daring than any had yet been, 
 threw a big hurtling clod, that struck old Poquelin 
 between the shoulders and burst like a shell. The 
 enraged old man wheeled with uplifted staff to 
 give chase to the scampering vagabond ; and he 
 may have tripped, or he may not, but he fell full 
 length. Little White hastened to help him up, 
 but he waved him off with a fierce imprecation,
 
 Jean-ah Poquelin. in 
 
 and staggering to his feet resumed his way home- 
 ward. His lips were reddened with blood. . 
 
 Little White was on his way to the meeting of 
 the Board. He would have given all he dared 
 spend to have stayed away, for he felt both too 
 fierce and 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 the old 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 more investigations. Some- 
 body'll investigate himself into trouble. No, sir ; 
 it isn't a threat, it is only my advice, but I warn 
 you that whoever takes the task in hand will 
 rue it to his dying day which may be hastened, 
 too." 
 
 The President expressed himself " surprised." 
 
 " I don't care a rush," answered little White, 
 wildly and foolishly. " I don't care a rush if 
 you are, sir. No, my nerves are not disordered ; 
 my head's as clear as a bell. No, I'm not excited." 
 
 A Director remarked that 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 to cultivate old Poquelin's society 
 you. can have one, too."
 
 1 1 2 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " 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 the President a paper which brought 
 the Board to other business. 
 
 The story got among the gossips that somebody 
 (they were afraid to say little White) had been to 
 the Poquelin mansion by-night and beheld some- 
 thing appalling. The rumor was but a shadow of 
 the truth, magnified and distorted as is the manner 
 of shadows. He had seen skeletons walking, and 
 had barely escaped the clutches of one by making 
 the sign of the cross. 
 
 Some madcap boys with an appetite for the hor- 
 rible plucked up courage to venture through the 
 dried marsh by the cattle-path, and come before 
 the house at a spectral hour when the air was full 
 of bats. Something which they but half saw 
 half a sight was enough sent them tearing back 
 through the willow-brakes and acacia bushes tc 
 their homes, where they fairly dropped down, and 
 cried : 
 
 "Was it white?" "No yes nearly so we 
 can't tell but we saw it." And one could hardly 
 doubt, to look at their ashen faces, that they had, 
 whatever it was. 
 
 " Jf that old rascal lived in the country we come
 
 Jcan-ah Poquelin. 113 
 
 from," said certain Americains, "he'd have been 
 tarred and feathered before now, wouldn't he, San- 
 ders ? " 
 
 " 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 rollicking Creoles who had as- 
 sumed 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 sit- 
 ting on their doorsteps on the sidewalk, as Creole 
 custom had taught them, looking toward the sun- 
 set. They had moved into the lately-opened 
 street. The view was not attractive on the score 
 of beauty. The houses were small and scattered, 
 and across the flat commons, spite of the lofty tan- 
 gle of weeds and bushes, and spite of the thickets 
 of acacia, they needs must see the dismal old 
 Poquelin mansion, tilted awry and shutting out the 
 declining sun. The moon, white and slender, was 
 hanging the tip of its horn over one of the chim- 
 neys.
 
 114 Old Creole Days. 
 
 "And you say," said the Secretary, "the old 
 black man has been going by here alone ? Patty, 
 suppose old Poquelin should be concocting some 
 mischief; he don't lack provocation ; the way that 
 clod hit him the other day was enough to have 
 killed him. Why, Patty, he dropped as quick as 
 that ! No wonder you haven't seen him. I won- 
 der if they haven't heard something 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 the day peculiar to the lati- 
 tude. 
 
 "That moon is ghost enough for one house," 
 she said, as her husband returned. " It has gone 
 right down the chimney." 
 
 " Patty," said little White, " the drug-clerk says 
 the boys are going to shivaree old Poquelin to- 
 night. I'm going to try to stop it." 
 
 "Why, White," said hjs 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, 
 7'hey're compelled to pass right by here." 
 
 "Why, White, it may be midnight before 
 they start ; you're not going to sit out here tijj 
 then." 
 
 "Yes, lam/'
 
 Jean-ah Poquelin. 115 
 
 " Well, you're very foolish," said Mrs. White in 
 an undertone, looking anxious, and tapping one of 
 the steps with her foot. 
 
 They sat a very long time talking over little fam- 
 ily matters. 
 
 " What's that ? " at last said Mrs. White. 
 
 "That's the nine o'clock gun," said White, and 
 they relapsed into a long-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 again silence fell upon them. 
 
 " Patty, suppose I walk out to the old house and 
 see if I can find out anything." 
 
 " Suppose," said she, " you don't do any such 
 listen ! " 
 
 Down the street arose a great hubbub. Dogs 
 and boys were howling and barking ; men were 
 laughing, shouting, groaning, and blowing horns, 
 whooping, and clanking cow-bells, whinnying, and 
 howling, and rattling pots and pans. 
 
 "They are coming this way," said little White. 
 " You had better go into the 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.
 
 1 16 Old Creole Days. 
 
 In a few moments the little Secretary met the 
 mob. The pen hesitates on the word, for there is 
 a respectable difference, measurable only on the 
 scale of the half century, between a mob and a 
 charivari. Little White lifted his ineffectual voice. 
 He faced the head of the disorderly column, and 
 cast himself about as if he were made of wood and 
 moved by the jerk of a string. He rushed to one 
 who seemed, from the size and clatter of his tin 
 pan, to be a leader. " Stop these fellows, Bien- 
 venu, stop them just a minute, till I tell tJicm 
 something" Bienvenu turned and brandished his 
 instruments of discord in an imploring way to the 
 crowd. They slackened their pace, two or three 
 hushed their horns and joined the prayer of little 
 White and Bienvenu for silence. The throng halted. 
 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' to chahivahi somebody, eh ? You 
 sink bickause I make a little playfool wiz zis tin pan 
 zat I am dhonk ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, Bienvenu, old fellow, you're all right. 
 I was afraid you might not know that old Poquelin 
 was sick, you know, but you're not going there, 
 are you ? " 
 
 " My fwang, I vay soy to tail you zat you ah 
 dhonk as de dev'. I am sJiem of you. I ham ze ser
 
 Jean-ah Poquelin. 117 
 
 van' of zz publique. Zese citoyens goin' to wick west 
 Jean Poquelin to give to the Ursuline two hondred 
 fifty dolla' " 
 
 " He quoif" cried a listener, " Cinq cent pias- 
 tres, 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. Wen we have say we going 
 make le charivari, do you want that we hall tell a 
 lie ? My faith ! 'sfools ! " 
 
 " But you can shivaree somebody else," said 
 desperate little White. 
 
 " Oui!" cried Bienvenu, " et chaJiivalii Jean- 
 ah Poquelin tomo'w ! " 
 
 " Let us go to Madame Schneider ! " cried two 
 or three, and amid huzzahs and confused cries, 
 among which was heard a stentorian Celtic call foi 
 drinks, the crowd again began to move. 
 
 " Cent piastres pour I' Jwpital de cJiarite ! " 
 
 " Hurrah ! " 
 
 " One hongrec! dolla' for Charity Hospital! " 
 " Hurrah ! "
 
 1 1 8 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " 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 mantel- 
 clock. 
 
 " Well, if it isn't away after midnight." 
 
 The hideous noise down street was passing be- 
 yond earshot. She raised a sash and listened. 
 For a moment there was silence. Some one came 
 to the door. 
 
 " 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 her step-daughter's 
 sweetheart. They say she has got to pay $100 to 
 the hospital before they stop." 
 
 The couple retired, and Mrs. White slumbered. 
 She was awakened by her husband snapping the 
 lid of his watch. 
 
 " What time ? " she asked. 
 
 " Half-past three. Patty, I haven't slept a 
 wink. Those fellows are out yet. 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 his clothes, " and they're 
 coming fast. You'd better go away from that 
 window, Patty. My ! what a clatter ! "
 
 Jean-ah Poqueiin. ng 
 
 " Here they are," said Mrs. White, but her hus- 
 band was gone. Two or three hundred men and 
 boys pass the place at a rapid walk straight down 
 the broad, new street, toward the hated house of 
 ghosts. The din was terrific. She saw little White 
 at the head of the rabble brandishing his arms and 
 trying in vain to make himself heard ; but they 
 only shook their heads, laughing and hooting the 
 louder, and so passed, bearing him on before 
 them. 
 
 Swiftly they pass out from among the houses, 
 away from the dim oil lamps of the street, out into 
 the broad starlit commons, and enter the willowy 
 jungles of the haunted ground. Some hearts fail 
 and their owners lag behind and turn back, sud- 
 denly remembering how near morning it is. But 
 the most part push on, tearing the air with their 
 clamor. 
 
 Down ahead of them in the long, thicket-dark- 
 ened way there is singularly enough a faint, 
 dancing light. It must be very near the old 
 house ; it is. It has stopped now. It is a lan- 
 tern, and is under a wdl-known sapling which has 
 grown up on the wayside since the canal was filled. 
 Now it swings mysteriously to and fro. A goodly 
 number of the more ghost-fearing give up the 
 sport ; but a full hundred move forward at a run, 
 doubling their devilish howling and banging. 
 
 Yes ; it is a lantern, and there are two persons
 
 1 2O Old Creole Days. 
 
 under the tree. The crowd draws near drops 
 into a walk ; one of the two is the old African 
 mute ; he lifts the lantern up so that it shines or. 
 the other ; the crowd recoils ; there is a hush of 
 all clangor, and all at once, with a cry of mingled 
 fright and horror from every throat, the whole 
 throng rushes back, dropping everything, sweep- 
 ing past little White and hurrying on, never stop- 
 ping until the jungle is left behind, and then to 
 find that not one in ten has seen the cause of the 
 stampede, and not one of the tenth is certain what 
 it was. 
 
 There is one huge fellow among them who looks 
 capable of any villainy. He finds something to 
 mount on, and, in the Creole patois, calls a gen- 
 eral halt. Bienvenu sinks down, and, vainly try- 
 ing to recline gracefully, resigns the leadership. 
 The herd gather round the speaker ; he assures 
 them that they have been outraged. Their right 
 peaceably to traverse the public streets has been 
 trampled upon. Shall such encroachments be en- 
 dured ? It is now daybreak. Let them go now 
 by the open light of day and force a free passage 
 of the public highway ! 
 
 A scattering consent was the response, and the 
 crowd, thinned now and drowsy, 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
 
 Jean-ah Poquelin. 121 
 
 White sat upon a bank of turf on the opposite side 
 of the way looking very stern and sad. To each 
 new-comer he 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't go away." 
 
 " Why not? " 
 
 " I want you to go to the funeral presently." 
 
 If some Louisianian, too loyal to dear France or 
 Spain to understand English, looked bewildered, 
 some one would interpret for him ; and presently 
 they went. Little White led the van, the crowd 
 trooping after him down the middle of the way. 
 The gate, that had never been seen before un- 
 chained, was open. Stern little White stopped a 
 short distance from it ; the rabble stopped behind 
 him. Something was moving out from under the 
 veranda. The many whisperers stretched upward 
 to see. The African mute came very slowly 
 toward the gate, leading by a cord in the nose 
 a small brown bull, which was harnessed to a 
 rude cart. On the flat body of the cart, under a 
 black cloth, were seen the outlines of a long 
 box. 
 
 " Hats off, gentlemen," said little White, as the 
 box came in view, and the crowd silently uncov- 
 ered. 
 ."Gentlemen," said little White, "here come
 
 122 Old Creole Days. 
 
 the last remains of Jean Marie Poquelin, a bettef 
 man, I'm afraid, with all his sins, yes a better a 
 kinder man to his blood a man of more self-for- 
 getful goodness 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 front started suddenly. There was a back- 
 ward rush, then all stood still again staring one 
 way ; for there, behind the bier, with eyes cast 
 down and labored step, walked the living re- 
 mains all that was left of little Jacques Poque- 
 lin, the long-hidden brother a leper, as white as 
 snow. 
 
 Dumb with horror, the cringing crowd gazed 
 upon the walking death. They watched, in silent 
 awe, the slow cortege creep down the long, straight 
 road and lessen on the view, until by and by it 
 stopped where a wild, unfrequented path branched 
 off into the undergrowth toward the rear of the 
 ancient city. 
 
 " They are going to the Terre aux Ldpreux" 
 said one in the crowd. The rest 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 
 the leper stood in sight, while the former ad-
 
 Jean-ak Poquelin. 123 
 
 justed his heavy burden ; then, without one back- 
 ward glance upon the unkind human world, turn- 
 ing their faces toward the ridge in the depths of 
 the swamp known as the Leper's Land, they 
 stepped into the jungle, disappeared, and were 
 never seen again.
 
 1 24 Old Creole Days. 
 
 MADAME DELICIEUSE. 
 
 JUST adjoining the old Cafe de Poesie on the 
 corner, stood the little one-story, yellow-washed 
 tenement of Dr. Mossy, with its two glass doors 
 protected by batten shutters, and its low, weed- 
 grown tile roof sloping out over the sidewalk. 
 You were very likely to find the Doctor in, for he 
 was a great student and rather negligent of his 
 business as business. He was a small, sedate, 
 Creole gentleman of thirty or more, with a young- 
 old face and manner that provoked instant admira- 
 tion. He would receive you be you who you 
 may in a mild, candid manner, looking into yout 
 face with his deep blue eyes, and reassuring you 
 with a modest, amiable smile, very sweet and rare 
 on a man's mouth. 
 
 To be frank, the Doctor's little establishment 
 was dusty and disorderly very. It was curious 
 to see the jars, and jars, and jars. In them were 
 serpents and hideous fishes and precious specimens 
 of many sorts. There were stuffed birds on broken 
 perches ; and dried lizards, and eels, and little alii-
 
 Madame D'elicieuse. 125 
 
 gators, and old skulls with their crowns sawed off, 
 and ten thousand odd scraps of writing-paper 
 strewn with crumbs of lonely lunches, and inter- 
 spersed with long-lost spatulas and rust-eaten 
 lancets. 
 
 All New Orleans, at least all Creole New 
 Orleans, knew, and yet did not know, the dear 
 little Doctor. So gentle, so kind, so skillful, so 
 patient, so lenient ; so careless of the rich and so 
 attentive to the poor ; a man, all in all, such as, 
 should you once love him, you would love him for- 
 ever. So very learned, too, but with apparently 
 no idea of how to show himself to his social profit, 
 two features much more smiled at than re- 
 spected, not to say admired, by a people remote 
 from the seats of learning, and spending most of 
 their esteem upon animal heroisms and exterior 
 display. 
 
 " Alas ! " said his wealthy acquaintances, " what 
 a pity ; when he might as well be rich." 
 
 " Yes, his father has plenty." 
 
 " Certainly, and gives it freely. But intends his 
 son shall see none of it.'' 
 
 " His son? You dare not so much as mention 
 him ? " 
 
 " Well, well, how strange ! But they can never 
 agree not even upon their name. Is not that 
 droll ? a man named General Villivicencio, and 
 his- son, Dr. Mossy ! "
 
 126 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " Oh, that is nothing ; it is only that the Doctor 
 drops the de Villivicencio." 
 
 "Drops the de Villivicencio ? but I think the 
 de Villivicencio drops him, ho, ho, ho, diable ! " 
 
 Next to the residence of good Dr. Mossy tow 
 ered the narrow, red-brick front mansion of young 
 Madame Delicieuse, firm friend at once and 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 the 
 lace-curtained windows of the second-story bal- 
 conies. 
 
 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 windows aglow. 
 
 The Madame had had some tastes of human ex- 
 perience ; had been betrothed at sixteen (to a man 
 she did not love, " being at that time a fool," as 
 she said) ; one summer day at noon had been a 
 bride, and at sundown a widow. Accidental dis- 
 charge of the tipsy bridegroom's own pistol. Pass 
 it by ! It left but one lasting effect on her, a spe- 
 cial detestation of quarrels and weapons. 
 
 The little maidens whom poor parentage has 
 doomed to sit upon street door-sills and nurse 
 their infant brothers have a game of " choosing" 
 the beautiful ladies who sweep by along the pave- 
 ment ; but in rue Royale there was no choosing;
 
 Madame Delicieuse. 127 
 
 every little damsel must own Madame Delicieuse 
 or nobody, and as that richly adorned and regal 
 favorite of old General Villivicencio came along 
 they would lift their big, bold eyes away up to her 
 face and pour forth their admiration in a universal 
 " Ah-h-h-h!" 
 
 But, mark you, she was good Madame Deli- 
 cieuse as well as fair Madame Delicieuse : her 
 principles, however, not constructed in the austere 
 Anglo-Saxon style, exactly (what need, with the 
 lattice of the Confessional not a stone's throw 
 off?). Her kind offices and beneficent schemes 
 were almost as famous as General Villivicencio's 
 splendid alms ; if she could at times do what the 
 infantile Washington said he could not, why, no 
 doubt she and her friends generally looked upon it 
 as a mere question of enterprise. 
 
 She had charms, too, of intellect albeit not such 
 a sinner against time and place as to be an " edu- 
 cated woman " charms that even in a plainer per- 
 son, 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 her feet, and, 
 with the fine tact which was the perfection of her 
 character, kept it there contented. Madam was, 
 in short, one of the kind that gracefully wrest from 
 society the prerogative of doing as they please, and 
 had gone even to such extravagant lengths as driv- 
 ing out in the Amc'ricain faubourg, learning the
 
 128 Old Creole Days. 
 
 English tongue, talking national politics, and simi 
 lar freaks whereby she provoked the unbounded 
 worship of her less audacious lady friends. In the 
 center of the cluster of Creole beauties which every- 
 where gathered about her, and, most of all, in 
 those incomparable companies which assembled in 
 her own splendid drawing-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 of curious furniture. 
 
 There was this notable charm about Madame 
 Delicieuse, she improved by comparison. She 
 never looked so grand as when, hanging on Gen- 
 eral Villiviccncio's arm at some gorgeous ball, these 
 two bore down on you like a royal barge lashed to 
 a ship-of-the-line. She never looked so like her 
 sweet name, as when she seated her prettiest lady 
 adorers close around her, and got them all a-laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 Of the two balconies which overhung the ban- 
 quette on the front of the Delicieuse house, one 
 was a small affair, and the other a deeper and 
 broader one, from which Madame and her ladies 
 were wont upon gala days to wave handkerchiefs 
 and cast flowers to the friends in the processions. 
 There they gathered one Eighth of January morn- 
 ing to see the military display. It was a bright 
 blue day, and the group that quite filled the bal- 
 cony had laid wrappings aside, as all flower-buds
 
 Madame Delicieuse, 129 
 
 are apt to do on such Creole January days, and 
 shone resplendent in spring attire. 
 
 The sight-seers passing below looked up by hun- 
 dreds and smiled at the ladies' eager twitter, as, flirt- 
 ing in humming-bird fashion from one subject to an- 
 other, they laughed away the half hours waiting for 
 the pageant. By and by they fell a-listening, for 
 Madame Delicieuse had begun a narrative concern- 
 ing Dr. Mossy. She sat somewhat above her lis- 
 teners, her elbow on the arm of her chair, and her 
 plump white hand waving now and then in grace- 
 ful gesture, they silently attending with eyes full 
 of laughter and lips starting apart. 
 
 " Vous savez," she said (they conversed in French 
 of course), " you know it is now long that Dr. 
 Mossy and his father have been in disaccord. In- 
 deed, when have they not differed ? For, when 
 Mossy was but a little boy, his father thought it 
 hard that he was not a rowdy. He switched him 
 once because he would not play with his toy gun 
 and drum. He was not so high when his father 
 wished to send him to Paris to enter the French 
 army ; 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, no indeed 
 and, if I wanted some fun, I had only to pull his 
 hair and run into the house ; he would cry, and 
 monsieur papa would come out with his hand 
 spread open and "
 
 130 Old Creole Days. 
 
 Madame gave her hand a malicious little sweep, 
 and joined heartily in the laugh which followed. 
 
 " That was when they lived over the way. But 
 wait ! you shall see ; I have something. This 
 evening the General " 
 
 The houses of rue Roy ale gave a start and rat- 
 tled their windows. In the long, irregular line of 
 balconies the beauty of the city rose up. Then 
 the houses jumped again and the windows rattled ; 
 Madame steps inside the window and gives a mes- 
 sage which the housemaid smiles at in receiving. 
 As she turns the houses shake again, and now 
 again ; and now there comes a distant strain of 
 trumpets, and by and by the drums and bayonets 
 and clattering hoofs, and plumes and dancing ban- 
 ners ; far down the long street stretch out the shin- 
 ing ranks of gallant men, and the fluttering, over- 
 leaning swarms of ladies shower down their sweet 
 favors and wave their countless welcomes. 
 
 In the front, towering above his captains, rides 
 General Villivicencio, veteran of 1814-15, and, 
 with the gracious pomp of the old time gentleman, 
 lifts his cocked hat, and bows, and bows. 
 
 Madame Delicieuse's balcony was a perfect maze 
 of waving kerchiefs. The General looked up for 
 the woman of all women ; she was not there. But 
 he remembered the other balcony, the smaller one, 
 and cast his glance onward to it. There he saw 
 Madame and one other person only. A srnalj
 
 Madame Delicieuse. 131 
 
 blue-eyed, broad-browed, scholarly-looking man 
 whom the arch lady had . lured from his pen by 
 means of a mock professional summons, and who 
 now stood beside her, a smile of pleasure playing 
 on his lips and about his eyes. 
 
 " Vite ! " said Madame, as the father's eyes met 
 the son's. Dr. Mossy lifted his arm and cast a 
 bouquet of roses. A girl in the crowd bounded 
 forward, caught it in the air, and, blushing, handed 
 it to the plumed giant. He bowed low, first to the 
 girl, then to the balcony above ; and then, with a 
 responsive smile, tossed ap two splendid kisses, 
 one to Madame, 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 bowed the knee to any abomina- 
 tion of the Americains, nor sworn deceitfully to any 
 species of compromise ; their beloved city was pres- 
 ently to pass into the throes of an election, and 
 this band, heroically unconscious of their feebleness, 
 putting their trust in " reactions " and like delu- 
 sions, resolved to make one more stand for the tradi- 
 tions of their fathers. It was concerning this that 
 Madame Delicieuse was incidentally about to speak 
 when interrupted by the boom of cannon ; they 
 had promised to meet at her house that evening.
 
 132 Old Creole Days. 
 
 They met. With very little discussion or delay 
 (for their minds were made up beforehand), it was 
 decided to announce in the French-English news- 
 paper that, at a meeting of leading citizens, it had 
 been thought consonant with the public interest to 
 place before the people the name of General Her- 
 cule Mossy de Villivicencio. No explanation was 
 considered necessary. All had been done in strict 
 accordance with time-honored customs, and if any 
 one did not know it it was his own fault. No 
 eulogium was to follow, no editorial indorsement. 
 The two announcements were destined to stand 
 next morning, one on the English side and one on 
 the French, in severe simplicity, to be greeted with 
 profound gratification by a few old gentlemen in 
 blue cottonade, and by roars of laughter from a 
 rampant majority. 
 
 As the junto were departing, sparkling Madame 
 Delicieuse detained the General at the head of the 
 stairs that descended into the tiled carriage-way, 
 to wish she was a man, that she might vote for 
 him. 
 
 " But, General," she said, " had I not a beauti- 
 ful bouquet of ladies on my balcony this morn- 
 ing ? " 
 
 The General replied, with majestic gallantry, 
 that " it was as magnificent as could be expected 
 with the central rose wanting." And so Madame 
 was disappointed, for she was tryi.ng to force the
 
 Madame D'elicieuse. 133 
 
 General to mention his son. " I will bear this no 
 longer ; he shall not rest," she had said to her little 
 aunt, " until he has either kissed his son or quar- 
 reled with him." To which the aunt had answered 
 that, " coute que coute, she need not cry about 
 it ; " nor did she. Though the General's compli- 
 ment had foiled her thrust, she answered gayly to 
 the effect that enough was enough ; " but, ah ! 
 General," dropping her voice to an undertone, " if 
 you had heard what some of those rosebuds said 
 of you ! " 
 
 The old General pricked up like a country beau. 
 Madame laughed to herself, " Monsieur Peacock, 
 I have thee ; " but aloud she said gravely : 
 
 " Come into the drawing room, if you please, 
 and seat yourself. You must be greatly fatigued." 
 
 The friends who waited below overheard the in- 
 vitation. 
 
 " Au revoir, General," said they. 
 
 " Au revoir, Messieurs," he answered, and fol- 
 lowed the lady. 
 
 " General," said she, as if her heart were over- 
 flowing, " you have been spoken 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."
 
 134 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " With you, Madame ? That is not possible." 
 
 "I do not love to make revelations, General; 
 but when a noble friend is evil spoken of" she 
 leaned her brow upon her thumb and forefinger, 
 and looked pensively at her slipper's toe peeping 
 out at the edge of her skirt 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 be angry. We were all 
 speaking at once of handsome men. She said to 
 me : ' Well, Madame Delicieuse, you may say 
 what you will of General Villivicencio, and I sup- 
 pose it is true ; but everybody knows ' pardon 
 me, General, but just so she said ' all the world 
 knows he treats his son very badly." 
 
 " It is not true," said the General. 
 
 "If I wasn't angry !" said Madame, making a 
 pretty fist. ' How can that be ? ' I said. ' Well,' 
 she said, ' mamma says he has been angry with his 
 son 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 had done 
 nothing for fifteen years' ho, ho, ho ! " 
 
 The old General cleared his throat, and smiled 
 as by compulsion. 
 
 " You know, General," said Madame, looking 
 distressed, "it was nothing to joke about, but I
 
 Madame Delicieuse. 135 
 
 had to say so, because I did not know what your 
 son had done, nor did I wish to hear anything 
 against one who has the honor to 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, to laugh at good Dr. Mossy ; 
 nobody neither General Villivicencio, neither any 
 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 Delicieuse, 
 " and I asked her, ' how brave ? ' ' Brave ? " she 
 said, ' why, braver than any soldier, in tending the 
 small-pox, the cholera, the fevers, and all those 
 horrible things. Me, I saw his father once run 
 from a snake ; I think he wouldn't fight the small- 
 pox my faith ! ' she said, ' they say that Dr. 
 Mossy does all that and never wears a scapula ! 
 and does it nine hundred and ninety-nine times in 
 a thousand for nothing ! Is that brave, Madame 
 Delicieuse, or is it not ? ' And, General, what 
 could I say ? " 
 
 Madame dropped her palms on either side of her 
 spreading robes and waited pleadingly for an 
 answer. There was no sound but the drumming 
 of the General's fingers on his sword-hilt. Madame 
 res.umed :
 
 136 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " I said, ' I do not deny that Mossy is a noble 
 gentleman ; '- -I had to say that, had I not, Gen- 
 eral ? " 
 
 " 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,' she said. ' Do you know, 
 Madame, why his father is angry so long ? ' An- 
 other lady says, ' I know ! ' ' For what ? ' said I. 
 ' Because he refused to become a soldier ; mamma 
 told me that.' ' It cannot be !' I said." 
 
 The General flushed. Madame saw it, but re- 
 lentlessly continued : 
 
 " ' Mais oui,' said^that lady. ' What ! ' I said, 
 ' think you General Villivicencio will not rather 
 be the very -man most certain to respect a son 
 who has the courage to be his own master ? 
 Oh, what does he want with a poor fool of a 
 son who will do only as he says ? You think he 
 will love him less for healing instead of killing? 
 Mesdemoiselles, you do not know that noble 
 soldier ! ' " 
 
 The noble soldier glowed and bowed his ac- 
 knowledgments in a dubious, half remonstrative 
 way, as if Madame might be producing material 
 for her next confession, as, indeed, she diligently
 
 Madame Delicieuse. 137 
 
 was doing ; but she went straight on once more, 
 as a surgeon would. 
 
 " But that other lady said : ' No, Madame, no, 
 ladies ; but I am going to tell 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 and made you angry, with 
 my silly revelations. Pardon me, my friend. 
 Those were foolish girls, and, any how, they 
 admired you. They said you looked glorious 
 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 forced him to 
 let his eyelids sink down ; yet^just there, in the 
 midst of his painful bewilderment, he realized with 
 ecstatic complacency that the most martial-looking 
 man in Louisiana was standing in his spurs with 
 the hand of Louisiana's queenliest woman laid ten- 
 derly on his arm. 
 
 " I am a wretched tattler ! " said she. 
 
 " Ah ! no, Madame, you are my dearest friend, 
 yes." 
 
 "Well, any how, I called them' fools. 'Ah! 
 innocent creatures,' I said, ' think you a man of 
 his sense and goodness, giving his thousands to the
 
 138 Old Creole Days. 
 
 sick and afflicted, will cease to love his only son 
 because he is not big like a horse or quarrelsome 
 like a dog ? No, ladies, there is a great reason 
 which none of you know.' ' Well, well,' they 
 cried, ' tell it; he has need of a very good reason ; 
 tell it now.' ' My ladies,' I said, ' I must not' 
 for, General, for all the world I knew not a reason 
 why you should be angry against your son ; you 
 know, General, you have never told me." 
 
 The beauty again laid her hand on his arm and 
 gazed, with round-eyed simplicity, into his somber 
 countenance. For an instant her witchery had 
 almost 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 ; I must ask it now. A matter of 
 so great importance " 
 
 Madame's little brown aunt gave a faint cough 
 from a dim corner of the room. 
 
 " 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, may be, repeated twice 
 or thrice ; for it was fully ten minutes before he 
 moved out of the room, saying good-evening. 
 
 Ah ! old General Villivicencio. The most 
 martial-looking man in Louisiana ! But what
 
 Madame Delicieuse. 139 
 
 would the people, the people who cheered in the 
 morning, have said, to see the fair Queen Delicieuse 
 at the top of the stair, sweetly bowing you down 
 into the starlight, humbled, crest-fallen, rejected I 
 
 The campaign opened. The Villivicencio ticket 
 was read in French and English with the very dif- 
 ferent sentiments already noted. In the Exchange, 
 about the courts, among the "banks," there was 
 lively talking concerning its intrinsic excellence 
 and extrinsic chances. The young gentlemen who 
 stood about the doors of the so-called " coffee- 
 houses " talked with a frantic energy alarming to 
 any stranger, and just when you would have ex- 
 pected to see them jump and bite large mouthfuls 
 out of each other's face, they would turn and enter 
 the door, talking on in the same furious manner, 
 and, walking up to the bar, click their glasses to 
 the success of the Villivicencio ticket. Sundry 
 swarthy and wrinkled remnants of an earlier gen- 
 eration were still more enthusiastic. There was to 
 be a happy renaissance ; a purging out of Yankee 
 ideas ; a blessed home-coming of those good old 
 Bourbon morals and manners which Yankee notions 
 had expatriated. In the cheerfulness of their an- 
 ticipations they even went the length of throwing 
 their feet high in air, thus indicating how the 
 Villivicencio ticket was going to give " doze Amri- 
 cains " the kick under the nose.
 
 140 Old Creole Days. 
 
 In the three or four weeks which followed, the 
 General gathered a surfeit of adulation, notwith- 
 standing which he was constantly and with pain 
 imagining a confused chatter of ladies, and when 
 he shut his eyes with annoyance, there was Madame 
 Delicieuse standing, and saying, " I knew not a 
 reason why you should be angry against your son," 
 gazing in his face with hardened simplicity, and 
 then that last scene on the stairs wherein he 
 seemed still to be descending, down, down. 
 
 Madame herself was keeping good her resolu- 
 tion. 
 
 " Now or never," she said, " a reconciliation or 
 a quarrel." 
 
 When the General, to keep up appearances, 
 called again, she so moved him with an account 
 of certain kindly speeches of her own invention, 
 which she 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 of reference, finishing 
 a thrilling chapter on the cuticle, too absorbed to 
 hear 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 a little wife, kissed him.
 
 Madame D'elicieuse. 141 
 
 " Be seated, papa," he said, offering his own 
 chair, and perching on the desk. 
 
 The General took it, and, clearing his throat, 
 gazed around upon the jars and jars with their little 
 Adams and Eves in zoological 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," said the 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 his manuscript. 
 
 " I am interrupting you," said the General, 
 quickly, and rose. 
 
 " No, no ! pardon me ; be seated ; it gives me 
 great pleasure to I did not know what I was do- 
 ing. It is the work wijth which I fill my leisure 
 moments."
 
 142 Old Creole Days. 
 
 So the General settled down again, and father 
 and son sat very close to each other in a bodil) 
 sense ; spiritually they were many miles apart. 
 The General's finger-ends, softly tapping the desk, 
 had the sound of far-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, leaned down upon his 
 elbow and supplied an omitted word to the manu- 
 script. 
 
 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 with rather a dark counte- 
 nance. 
 
 Dr. Mossy touched his fingers to his forehead, 
 trying to remember. 
 
 " I fear 1 have ah ! I rejoice to see your name 
 before the public, dear papa, and at the head of the 
 ticket.'
 
 Madame Delicieuse. 143 
 
 The General's displeasure sank down like an 
 eagle's feathers. He smiled thankfully, 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 to express, 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 they can, papa," said the Doc- 
 tor. " Myself, I should like to assist you, papa, if 
 I could." 
 
 " A-bah ! " said the pleased father, incredu- 
 lously. 
 
 " 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 make me happy ! " 
 
 " But," added Mossy, realizing with a tremor 
 how far he had gone, " I see not how it is pos- 
 sible." 
 
 The General's chin dropped. 
 
 " Not being a public man," continued the Doc-
 
 144 Old Creole Days. 
 
 tor ; " unless, indeed, my pen you might enlist 
 my pen." 
 
 He paused with a smile of bashful inquiry. The 
 General stood aghast for a moment, and then 
 caught the idea. 
 
 " Certainly ! cer-tain-ly ! ha, ha, ha ! " backing 
 out of the door " certainly ! Ah ! Mossy, you are 
 right, to be sure ; to make a complete world we 
 must have swords and pens. Well, my son, ' au 
 revoir ; ' no, I cannot stay I will return. I hasten 
 to tell my friends that the pen of Dr. Mossy is on 
 our side ! Adieu, dear son." 
 
 Standing outside on the banquette he bowed 
 not to Dr. Mossy, but to the balcony of the big 
 red-brick front a most sunshiny smile, and de- 
 parted. 
 
 The very next morning, as if fate had ordered it, 
 the Villivicencio ticket was attacked ambushed, 
 as it were, from behind the Americain newspaper. 
 The onslaught was at least General Villivicencio 
 said it was absolutely ruffianly. Never had all 
 the lofty courtesies and formalities of chivalric con- 
 test been so completely ignored. Poisoned balls 
 at least personal epithets were used. The Gen- 
 eral himself was called " antiquated ! " The friends 
 who had nominated him, they were positively 
 sneered at ; dubbed " fossils," " old ladies," and 
 their caucus termed " irresponsible " thunder and 
 lightning ! gentlemen of honor to be termed " not
 
 Madame D'elicieuse. 145 
 
 responsible ! " It was asserted that the nomina- 
 tion was made secretly, in a private house, by two 
 or three unauthorized harum-scarums (that touched 
 the very bone) who had with more caution than 
 propriety withheld their names. The article was 
 headed, "The Crayfish-eaters' Ticket." It contin- 
 ued farther to say that, had not the publication of 
 this ticket been regarded as a dull hoax, it would 
 not have been suffered to pass for two weeks 
 unchallenged, and that it was now high time 
 the universal wish should be realized in its with- 
 drawal. 
 
 Among the earliest readers of this production 
 was the young Madame. She first enjoyed a quiet 
 gleeful smile over it, and then called : 
 
 " Ninide, here, take this down to Dr. Mossy 
 stop." She marked the communication heavily 
 with her gold pencil. " No answer ; he need not 
 return it." 
 
 About the same hour, and in a neighboring 
 street, one of the " not responsibles " knocked on 
 the Villivicencio castle gate. The General invited 
 him into his bedroom. With a short and strictly 
 profane harangue the visitor produced the offen- 
 sive newspaper, and was about to begin reading, 
 when one of those loud nasal blasts, so peculiar to 
 the Gaul, resounded at the gate, and another " not 
 responsible " entered, more excited, if possible, 
 than the first. Several minutes were spent in
 
 146 Old Creole Days. 
 
 \ 
 
 exchanging fierce sentiments and slapping the palm 
 
 of the left hand rapidly with the back of the right. 
 Presently there was a pause for breath. 
 
 " Alphonse, proceed to read," said the General, 
 sitting up in bed. 
 
 " De Crayfish-eaters' Ticket "- began Alphonse ; 
 but a third rapping at the gate interrupted him, 
 and a third " irresponsible " reinforced their num- 
 ber, talking loudly and wildly to the waiting-man 
 as he came up the hall. 
 
 , Finally, Alphonse read the article. Little by 
 little the incensed gentlemen gave it a hearing, 
 now two words and now three, interrupting it to 
 rip out long, rasping maledictions, and wag their 
 forefingers at each other as they strode ferociously 
 about the apartment. 
 
 As Alphonse reached the close, and dashed the 
 paper to the floor, the whole quartette, 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, " you shall not fight him. I forbid 
 it you shall not ! " 
 
 " But," cried the three at once, " one of us must 
 fight, and you you cannot ; if you fight our cause 
 ,s lost ! The candidate must not fight." 
 
 " Hah-h ! Messieurs," cried the hero, beating 
 his breast and lifting his eyes, " grace au ciel. I 
 have a son. Yes, my beloved friends, a son who
 
 Madame Delicieuse. 147 
 
 shall call the villain out and make him pay for his 
 impudence with blood, or eat his words in to-mor- 
 row morning's paper. Heaven be thanked that 
 gave me a son for this occasion ! I shall see him 
 at once as soon as I can dress.". 
 
 " We will go with you." 
 
 " No, gentlemen, let me see my son alone. I 
 can meet you at Maspero's in two hours. Adieu, 
 my dear friends." 
 
 He was resolved. 
 
 " Au revoir," said the dear friends. 
 
 Shortly after, cane in hand, General Villivicen- 
 cio moved with an ireful stride up the banquette 
 of rue Royale. Just as he passed the red-brick 
 front one of the batten shutters opened the faint- 
 est bit, and a certain pair of lovely eyes looked 
 after him, without any of that round simplicity 
 which we have before discovered in them. As 
 he half turned to knock at his son's door he 
 glanced at this very shutter, but it was as tightly 
 closed as though the house were an enchanted 
 palace. 
 
 Dr. Mossy's door, on the contrary, swung ajar 
 when he knocked, and the General 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 sat writing.
 
 148 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " What is that, papa ? " 
 
 " My faith ! Mossy, is it possible you have not 
 heard of the attack upon me, which has surprised 
 and exasperated the city this morning ? " 
 
 " No," said Dr. Mossy, with still greater surprise, 
 and laying his hand on the arm of his chair. 
 
 His father put on a dying look. " My soul ! " 
 At that moment his glance fell upon the paper 
 which had been sent in by Madame D^licieuse. 
 " But, Mossy, my son," he screamed, " there it is ! " 
 striking it rapidly with one finger " there ! there ! 
 there ! read it ! It calls me ' not responsible ! ' ' not 
 responsible ' it calls me ! Read ! read ! " 
 
 " But, papa," said the quiet little Doctor, rising, 
 and accepting the crumpled 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 on his face, sealed it with an affec- 
 tionate 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 re- 
 suming his chair, began : 
 
 " MESSRS. EDITORS : On your journal of this morning " 
 
 " Eh ! how ! you have not written it in English, 
 is it, son ? "
 
 Madame D'elicieuse. 149 
 
 " But, yes, papa." 
 
 " Tis a vile tongue," said the General ; " but, if it 
 is necessary proceed." 
 
 " MESSRS. EDITORS : On your journal of this morning is pub- 
 lished an editorial article upon the Villivicencio ticket, which is 
 plentiful and abundant with mistakes. Who is the author or writer 
 of the above said editorial article your correspondent does at present 
 ignore, but doubts not he is one who, hasty to form an opinion, will 
 yet, however, make his assent 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. 
 " Betise ! " 
 
 " 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 de in- 
 dignan' scoundrel who meek some lies on you' 
 paper about mon pere et ses amis ! " 
 
 " Ah-h ! " said Dr. Mossy, in a tone of derision 
 and anger. 
 
 His father gazed at him in mute astonishment. 
 He stood beside his disorderly little desk, his small 
 form drawn up, a hand thrust into his breast, and 
 that look of invincibility in his eyes such as blue 
 eyes sometimes surprise us with. 
 - " You want me to fight," he said.
 
 150 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " My faith ! " gasped tjie General, loosening in 
 all his joints. " I believe -you may cut me in 
 pieces if I do not believe you were going to reason 
 it out in the newspaper ! Fight ? If 1 want you 
 to fight ? Upon my soul, 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 opened them. " Yes, your God. 
 I am afraid " 
 
 " Afraid ! " gasped the General. 
 
 " Yes," rang out the Doctor, " afraid ; afraid ! 
 God forbid that I should not be afraid. But I will 
 tell you what I do not fear I do not fear to call 
 your affairs of honor murder ! " 
 
 " My son ! " cried the father. 
 
 " I retract," cried the son ; " consider it unsaid. 
 I will never reproach my father." 
 
 " It is well," said the father. " I was wrong. 
 It is my quarrel. I go to settle it myself." 
 
 Dr. Mossy moved quickly between his father 
 and the door. General Villivicencio 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
 
 Madame Delicieuse. 151 
 
 strangers, and yesterday were friends. You must 
 not leave me so. I will even settle this quarrel 
 for you. You must let me. I am pledged to 
 your service." 
 
 The peace-loving little Doctor did not mean " to 
 settle," but " to adjust." He felt in an instant 
 that he was misunderstood ; yet, as quiet people 
 are apt to do, though not wishing to deceive, he 
 let the misinterpretation stand. In his embarrass- 
 ment he did not know with absolute certainty what 
 he should do himself. 
 
 The father's face he thought of but one way to 
 settle a quarrel began instantly 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 not return 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.
 
 152 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " Well," consented the almost happy father, 
 " go, my son ; I will stay. But if some of your 
 sick shall call ? " 
 
 " Sit quiet," said the son. " They will think no 
 one is here." And the General noticed that the 
 dust lay so thick on the panes that a person out- 
 side 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 newspaper office, thrice addressed 
 himself to the wrong person, finally found the 
 courteous editor, and easily convinced him that 
 his father had been imposed upon ; but when Dr. 
 Mossy went farther, and asked which one of the 
 talented editorial staff had written the article : 
 
 " You see, Doctor," said the editor "just step 
 into my private office a moment." 
 
 They went in together. The next minute saw 
 Dr. Mossy departing hurriedly from the place, 
 while the editor complacently resumed his pen, as- 
 sured that 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 
 not escape the fear that possibly, after all, his son 
 might compromise the Villivicencio honor in the 
 interests of peace. Not that he preferred to put 
 his son's life in jeopardy ; he would not object 
 to an adjustment, provided the enemy should beg
 
 Madame D'elicieuse. 153 
 
 for it. But if not, whom would his son select to 
 perform those friendly offices indispensable in 
 polite quarrels ? Some half-priest, half-woman ? 
 Some spectacled book-worm ? He suffered. 
 
 The monotony of his passive task was relieved 
 by one or two callers who had the sagacity (01 
 bad manners) to peer through the dirty glass, and 
 then 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 long he 
 might be absent. Still the time dragged painfully, 
 and he began at length to wonder why Mossy did 
 not return. 
 
 There came a rap at the glass door different 
 from all the raps that had forerun it a fearless, 
 but gentle, dignified, graceful rap ; and the Gen- 
 eral, before he looked round, felt in all his veins 
 that it came from the young Madame. Yes, there 
 was her glorious outline thrown sidewise upon the 
 glass. He hastened and threw open the door, 
 bending low at the same instant, and extending 
 his hand. 
 
 She extended hers also, but not to take his. 
 With a calm dexterity that took the General's 
 breath, she reached between him and the door, 
 and closed it. 
 
 "What is the matter?" anxiously asked the 
 General for her face, in spite of its smile, was 
 severe.
 
 154 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " General," she began, ignoring his inquiry 
 and, with all her Creole bows, smiles, and insinu- 
 ating phrases, the severity of her countenance but 
 partially waned " I came to see my physician 
 your son. Ah ! General, when I find you recon- 
 ciled to your son, it makes me think I am in 
 heaven. You will let me say so ? You will not 
 be offended with the old playmate 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 us occasion to rejoice together over 
 his many merits. For you know, General, in all 
 the years of your estrangement, Mossy had no 
 friend like myself. 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 a mechanical way, he could say 
 nothing else. She seemed to fall for a little while 
 into a sad meditation that embarrassed him be- 
 yond 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 altogether understand him ; 
 for look you, General, he was what do you think ? 
 a great man /nothing less." 
 
 " How ? " asked the General, not knowing what 
 else to respond. 
 
 " You never dreamed of that, eh ? " continued 
 the lady. " But, of course not; nobody did but
 
 Madame Delicieuse. 155 
 
 me. Some of those Americains, I suppose, knew 
 it ; but who would ever ask them ? Here in 
 Royal-street, in New Orleans, where we people 
 know nothing and care nothing but for meat, 
 drink, and pleasure, he was only Dr. Mossy, who 
 gave pills. My faith ! General, no wonder 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 knew better. I 
 could have told you how your little son stood head 
 and shoulders above the crowd. I could have told 
 you some things too wonderful to believe. I could 
 have told you that his name was known and hon- 
 ored in the scientific schools of Paris, of London, 
 of Germany ! Yes ! I could have shown you " 
 she warmed as she proceeded "I could have 
 shown you letters (I begged them of him), written 
 as between brother and brother, from the foremost 
 men of science and discovery ! " 
 
 She stood up, her eyes flashing with excite- 
 ment. 
 
 " 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 tell you ; you were too 
 proud to mention your son. But he had pride to 
 match yours ha ! achieving all everything 
 with an assumed name ! ' Let me tell your father,' 
 I implored him ; but ' let him find me out,' he
 
 156 Old Creole Days. 
 
 said, and you never found him out. Ah ! there he 
 was fine. He would not, he said, though only for 
 your sake, re-enter your affections as anything 
 more 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 
 times she would not be interrupted. Once he at- 
 tempted a laugh, but again her hand commanded 
 silence. 
 
 " Behold, Monsieur, all these dusty specimens, 
 these revolting fragments. How have you blushed 
 to know that our idle people laugh in their sleeves 
 at these things ! How have you blushed and 
 you his father ! But why did you not ask me ? 
 I could have told you : ' Sir, your son is not an 
 apothecary ; not one of these ugly things but has 
 helped him on in the glorious path of discovery ; 
 discovery, General your son known in Europe 
 as a scientific discoverer ! ' Ah-h ! the blind peo- 
 ple say, ' how is that, that General Villivicencio 
 should be dissatisfied with his son ? He is 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 ! "
 
 Madame Delicieuse. 157 
 
 "Just Heaven! Madame, you shall not speak 
 of my son as of one dead and buried ! 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, pluck- 
 ing up. 
 
 "But if the search is already over," slowly re- 
 sponded Madame. 
 
 The father looked one instant in her face, then 
 rose with an exclamation : 
 
 " Where is my son ? What has happened ? 
 Do you think I am a child, to be trifled 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 you all. You can do nothing 
 now. Listen ! suppose you should rush out and 
 find that your son had played the coward at last ! 
 Sit down and "
 
 158 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " Ah ! Madame, this is play ! " cried the dis- 
 tracted 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 strangely mingled in her beautiful 
 face. 
 
 " General, tell me true ; did you not force this 
 quarrel into your son's hand ? I know he would 
 not choose to have it. Did you not do it to test 
 his courage, because all these fifteen years you 
 have made yourself a fool with the fear that he 
 became a student only to escape being a soldier ? 
 Did you not ?" 
 
 Her eyes looked him through and through. 
 
 " And if I did ? " demanded he with faint de- 
 fiance. 
 
 " Yes ! and if he has made dreadful haste and 
 proved his courage ? " asked she. 
 
 " Well, then," the General straightened up 
 triumphantly " then he is my son ! " 
 
 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.
 
 Madame Delicieuse. 159 
 
 " 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 away bewildered, turned again to- 
 ward it, and again away ; and at every step and 
 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 father hushed 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 
 my husband." 
 
 " Alas ! would to God I had known it ! Oh ! 
 Mossy, my son," 
 
 " Oh ! Monsieur," cried the lady, clasping her 
 hands, " forgive me mourn no more your son is 
 unharmed ! / wrote the article I am your re- 
 canting slanderer ! Your son is hunting for me
 
 160 Old Creole Days. 
 
 now. I told my aunt to misdirect him. I slipped 
 by him unseen in the carriage-way." 
 
 The wild old General, having already staggered 
 back and rushed forward again, would have seized 
 her in his arms, had not the little Doctor himself 
 at that instant violently rattled the door and shook 
 his finger at them playfully as he peered through 
 the glass. 
 
 " Behold ! " said Madame, attempting a smile : 
 " open to your son ; here is the 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, as Madame presently re- 
 opened her eyes ; " no wonder you fainted ; you 
 have finished some hard work see ; here ; so ; 
 Clarisse, dear, take this." 
 
 Father and son stood side by side, tenderly re- 
 garding her as she revived. 
 
 " 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, 
 throwi g her arms about his neck.
 
 Madame Delicieuse. 161 
 
 " But, yes ! " he insisted ; " my faith ! you will 
 at least allow me to remove my dead from the 
 field." 
 
 " But, certainly ; " said the son ; " see Clarisse, 
 here is Madame, your aunt, asking us all into the 
 house. Let us go." 
 
 The group passed out into the rue Royale, Doc- 
 tor Mossy shutting the door behind them. The 
 sky was blue, the air was soft and balmy, and on 
 the sweet 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 the little aunt glance at them 
 with a playful smile. 
 
 Madame Delicieuse, for almost the first time in 
 her life, and Doctor Mossy for the thousandth 
 blushed. 
 
 It was the odor of orange blossoms.
 
 1 62 Old Creole Days. 
 
 CAF DES EXILES. 
 
 THAT which in 1835 I think he said thirty-five 
 was a reality in the rue Burgundy I think he 
 said Burgundy is now but a reminiscence. Yet 
 so vividly was its story told me, that at this mo- 
 ment the old Cafe" des Exiles appears before my 
 eye, floating in the clouds of reverie, and I doubt 
 not I see it just as it was in the old times. 
 
 An antiquated story-and-a-half Creole cottage 
 sitting right down on the banquette, as do the 
 Choctaw squaws who sell bay and sassafras and 
 life-everlasting, with a high, close board fence 
 shutting out of view the diminutive garden on the 
 southern side. An ancient willow droops over the 
 roof of round tiles and partly hides the discolored 
 stucco, which keeps dropping off into the garden 
 as though the old caf was stripping for the plunge 
 into oblivion disrobing for its execution. I see, 
 well up in the angle of the broad side gable, 
 -'shaded by its rude awning of clap-boards, as the 
 eyes of an old dame are shaded by her wrinkled 
 hand, the window of Pauline. Oh, for the image 
 of the maiden, were it but for one moment, leaning
 
 Cafe des Exiles. 163 
 
 out of the casement to hang her mocking-bird and 
 looking down into the garden, where, above the 
 barrier of old boards, I see the top of the fig-tree, 
 the pale green clump of bananas, the tall palmetto 
 with its jagged crown, Pauline's Own two orange- 
 trees holding up their hands toward the window, 
 heavy with the promises of autumn ; the broad, : 
 crimson mass of the many-stemmed oleander, and 
 the crisp boughs of the pomegranate loaded with 
 freckled apples, and with here and there a linger- 1 
 ing scarlet blossom ! 
 
 The Cafe des Exiles, to use a figure, flowered,' 
 bore fruit, and dropped it 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 golden burden of the banana from its 
 stem ; then, like a banana which has borne its 
 fruit, it was razed to the ground and made way for 
 a newer, brighter growth. I believe it would set 
 every tooth on edge should I go by there now 
 now that I have heard the story, and see the old 
 site covered by the " Shoo-fly Coffee-house." 
 Pleasanter far to close my eyes and call to view 
 the unpretentious portals of the old cafe, with her 
 children for such those exiles seem to me drag- 
 ging their rocking-chairs out, and sitting in their 
 wonted group under the long, outreaching eaves 
 which shaded the banquette of the rue Burgundy. 
 
 Jt was in 1835 that the Cafe des Exiles was, as
 
 '164 Old Creole Days, 
 
 one might say, in full blossom. Old M. D'Heme- 
 court, father of Pauline and host of the cafe, him- 
 ,self a refugee from San Domingo, was the cause 
 at least the human cause of its opening. As its 
 white-curtained, glazed doors expanded, emitting 
 a little puff of his own cigarette smoke, it was like 
 the bursting of catalpa blossoms, and the exiles 
 came like bees, pushing into the tiny room to sip 
 its rich variety of tropical syrups, its lemonades, 
 its orangeades, its orgeats, its barley-waters, and 
 its outlandish wines, while they talked of dear 
 home that is to say, of Barbadoes, 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 hair as; harsh as tropical grass and gray as 
 ashes. When he could spare his cigarette from 
 his lips, he would tell you in a cavernous voice, 
 and with a wrinkled smile, that he was " a-t- 
 thorty-seveng." 
 
 There was Martinez of San Domingo, yellow as 
 a canary, always sitting with one leg curled under 
 him, and holding the back of his head in his 
 knitted 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 that strange, infantile insensibility to the so-
 
 Cafe des Exiles. 105 
 
 lemnity of his bereavement so peculiar to Latin 
 people. 
 
 But, besides these, and many who need no men- 
 tion, there were two in particular, around whom 
 all the story of the Cafe des Exiles, of old M. 
 D'Hemecourt and of Pauline, turns as on a double 
 center. First, Manuel Mazaro, whose small, rest- 
 less eyes were as black and bright as those of a 
 mouse, whose light talk became his dark girlish face, 
 'and whose redundant locks curled so prettily and so 
 wonderfully black under the fine white brim of his 
 jaunty Panama. He had the hands of a woman, 
 save that the nails were stained with the smoke of 
 cigarettes. He could play the guitar delightfully, 
 and wore his knife down behind his coat collar. 
 
 The second was " Major " Galahad Shaughnessy. 
 I imagine I can see him, in his white duck, brass- 
 buttoned roundabout, with his saberless belt peep- 
 ing out beneath, all his boyishness in his sea-blue 
 eyes, leaning lightly against the door-post of the 
 Cafe des Exiles as a child leans against his mother, 
 running his fingers over a basketful of fragrant 
 limes, and watching his chance to strike some sol- 
 emn Creole under the fifth 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. Major 
 Shaughnessy was warm, and it was no uncommon
 
 1 66 Old Creole Days. 
 
 thing to find those two apart from the others, talk- 
 ing in an undertone, and playing at confidantes like 
 two school-girls. The kind old man was at this 
 time drifting close up to his sixtieth year. There 
 was much he could tell of San Domingo, whither 
 he had been carried from Martinique in his child- 
 hood, whence he had become a refugee to Cuba, 
 and thence to New Orleans in the flight of 1809. 
 
 It fell one day to Manuel Mazaro's lot to dis- 
 cover, by sauntering within earshot, that to Gala- 
 had Shaughnessy only, of all the children of the 
 Cafe des Exiles, the good host spoke long and 
 confidentially concerning his daughter. The 
 words, half heard and magnified like objects seen 
 in a fog, meaning Manuel Mazaro knew not what, 
 but made portentous by his suspicious nature, 
 were but the old man's recital of the grinding he 
 had got between the millstones of his poverty and 
 his pride, in trying so long to sustain, for little 
 Pauline's sake, that attitude before society which 
 earns respect from a surface-viewing world. It 
 was while he was telling this that Manuel Mazaro 
 drew near ; the old man paused in an embarrassed 
 way ; the Major, sitting sidewise in his chair, lifted 
 his cheek from its resting-place on his elbow ; and 
 Mazaro, after standing an awkward moment, turned 
 away with such an inward feeling as one may guess 
 would arise in a heart full of Cuban blood, not un- 
 mixed with Indian.
 
 Cafe des Exiles. 167 
 
 As he moved off, M. D'Hemecourt resumed : 
 that in a last extremity he had opened, partly from 
 dire want, partly for very love to homeless souls, 
 the Cafe des Exiles. He had hoped that, as strong 
 drink and high words were to be alike unknown to 
 it, it might not prejudice sensible people ; but it 
 had. He had no doubt they said among them- 
 selves, " She is an excellent and beautiful girl and 
 deserving all respect ; " and respect they accorded, 
 but their respects they never came to pay. 
 
 " A cafe is a cafe," said the old gentleman. " It 
 is nod possib' to ezcape him, aldough de Cafe des 
 Exiles is differen' from de rez." 
 
 " It's different from the Cafe des Refugis," sug- 
 gested the Irishman. 
 
 " Differen' as possib','' replied M. D'Hemecourt. 
 He looked about upon the walls. The shelves were 
 luscious with ranks of cooling syrups which he 
 alone knew how to make. The expression of his 
 face changed from sadness to a gentle pride, which 
 spoke without words, saying and let our story 
 pause a moment to hear it say : 
 
 " If any poor exile, from any island where 
 guavas or mangoes or plantains grow, wants a 
 draught which will make him see his home among 
 the cocoa-palms, behold the Cafe des Exiles ready 
 to take the poor child up and give him the breast ! 
 And if gold or silver he has them not, why Heaven 
 and Santa Maria, and Saint Christopher bless him !.
 
 1 68 Old Creole Days. 
 
 It makes no difference. Here is a rocking-chair 
 here a cigarette, and here a light from the host's 
 own tinder. He will pay when he can." 
 
 As this easily pardoned pride said, so it often 
 occurred ; and if the newly come exile said his 
 father was a Spaniard " Come ! " old M. D'Heme- 
 court would cry ; " another glass ; it is an innocent 
 drink ; my mother was a Castilian." But, if the 
 exile said his mother was a Frenchwoman, the 
 glasses would be forthcoming all the same, for 
 " My father," the old man would say, "was a 
 Frenchman of Martinique, with blood as pure as 
 that wine and a heart as sweet as this honey ; 
 come, a glass of orgeat ; " and he would bring it 
 himself in a quart tumbler. 
 
 Now, there are jealousies and jealousies. There 
 are people who rise up quickly and kill, and there 
 are others who turn their hot thoughts over silently 
 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 vision in the temple 
 while he and all the brethren tarried without. 
 Pauline had been to the Cafe des Exile's in some 
 degree what the image of the Virgin was to their 
 churches at home ; and for her father to whisper 
 her name to one and not to another was, it seemed 
 to Mazaro, as if the old man, were he a sacristan, 
 should say to some single worshiper, " Here, you 
 may have this madonna ; I make it a present to
 
 Cafe des Exiles. 169 
 
 you." Or, if such was not the handsome young 
 Cuban's feeling, such, at least, was the disguise his 
 jealousy put on. If Pauline was to be handed 
 down from her niche, why, then, farewell Cafe des 
 Exiles. She was its preserving influence, she 
 made the place holy ; she was the burning candles 
 on the altar. Surely the reader will pardon the 
 pen that lingers in the mention of her. 
 
 And yet I know not how to describe the for- 
 bearing, unspoken tenderness with which all these 
 exiles regarded the maiden. In the balmy after- 
 noons, as I have said, they gathered about their 
 mother's knee, that is to say, upon the banquette 
 outside the door. There, lolling back in their 
 rocking-chairs, they would pass the evening hours 
 with oft-repeated tales of home ; and the moon 
 would come out and glide among the clouds like a 
 silver barge among islands wrapped in mist, and 
 they loved the silently gliding orb with a sort of 
 worship, because from her soaring height she looked 
 down at the same moment upon them and upon 
 their homes in the far Antilles. It was somewhat 
 thus that they looked upon Pauline as she seemed 
 to them held up half way to heaven, they knew not 
 how. Ah ! those who have been pilgrims ; who 
 have wandered out beyond harbor and light ; whom 
 fate hath led in lonely paths strewn with thorns and 
 briers not of their own sowing ; who, homeless in 
 a land of homes, see windows gleaming and doors
 
 1 70 Old Creole Days. 
 
 ajar, but not for them, it is they who well under- 
 stand what the worship is that cries to any daughter 
 of our dear mother Eve whose footsteps chance 
 may draw across the path, the silent, 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 my sister ; stay yet a mo- 
 ment while I look from afar, with helpless-hanging 
 hands, upon the softness of thy cheek, upon the 
 folded coils of thy shining hair ; and my spirit shall 
 fall down and say those prayers which I may never 
 again God knoweth say at home." 
 
 She was seldom seen ; but sometimes, when the 
 lounging exiles would be sitting in their afternoon 
 circle under the eaves, and some old man would 
 tell his tale of fire and blood and capture and escape, 
 and the heads would lean forward from the chair- 
 backs and a great stillness would follow the ending 
 of the story, old M. D'Hemecourt would all at 
 once speak up and say, laying his hands upon the 
 narrator's knee, " Comrade, your throat is dry, 
 here are fresh limes ; let my dear child herself come 
 and mix you a lemonade." Then the neighbors, 
 sitting about their doors, would by and by softly 
 say, " See, see ! there is Pauline ! " and all the ex- 
 iles would rise from their rocking-chairs, take off 
 their hats and stand as men stand in church, while 
 Pauline came out like the moon from a cloud, de 
 scended the three steps of the cafe door, and stood
 
 Cafe des Exiles. 1 7 1 
 
 with waiter and glass, like Rebecca with her pitcher, 
 before the swarthy wanderer. 
 
 What tales that would have been tear-compelling, 
 nay, heart-rending, had they not been palpable in- 
 ventions, the pretty, womanish Mazaro from time to 
 time poured forth, in the ever ungratified hope that 
 the goddess might come down with a draught of 
 nectar for him, it profiteth not to recount ; but I 
 should fail to show a family feature of the Cafe des 
 Exiles did I omit to say that these make-believe 
 adventures were heard with every mark of respect 
 and credence ; while, on the other hand, they were 
 never attempted in the presence of the Irishman. 
 He would have moved an eyebrow, or made some 
 barely audible sound, or dropped some seem- 
 ingly innocent word, and the whole company, 
 spite of themselves, would have smiled. Where- 
 fore, it may be doubted whether at any time the 
 curly-haired young Cuban had that playful affection 
 for his Celtic comrade, which a habit of giving lit- 
 tle velvet taps to Galahad's cheek made a show of. 
 
 Such was the Cafe des Exiles, such its inmates, 
 such its guests, when certain apparently trivial 
 events began to fall around it like germs of blight 
 upon corn, and to bring about that end which com- 
 eth to all things. 
 
 The little seed of jealousy dropped into the heart 
 of Manuel Mazaro we have already taken into ac- 
 count.
 
 172 Old Creole Days. 
 
 Galahad Shaughnessy began to be specially active 
 in organizing a society of Spanish Americans, the 
 design of which, as set forth in its manuscript con- 
 stitution, was to provide proper funeral honors to 
 such of their membership as might be overtaken by 
 death ; and, whenever it was practicable, to send 
 their ashes to their native land. Next to Galahad 
 in this movement was an elegant old Mexican phy- 
 sician, Dr. , his name escapes me whom 
 
 the Cafe des Exiles sometimes took upon her lap- 
 that is to say door-step but whose favorite resort 
 was the old Caf des ReTugies in the rue Royale 
 (Royal-street, as it was beginning to be called). 
 Manuel Mazaro was made secretary. 
 
 It was for some reason thought judicious for the 
 society to hold its meetings in various places, now 
 here, now there ; but the most frequent rendezvous 
 was the Cafe des Exiles ; it was quiet ; those .Span- 
 ish 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 
 old institution, a kind of inward assurance that 
 " mother wouldn't tell ; " though, after all, what 
 great secrets could there be connected with a mere 
 burial society ? 
 
 Before the hour of meeting, the Cafe des Exiles 
 always sent away her children and closed her door. 
 Presently they would commence returning, one by 
 one, as a flock of wild fowl will do, that has been
 
 Cafe des Exiles. 1 73 
 
 startled up from its accustomed haunt. Frequent- 
 ers of the Cafe des Refugies also would appear. A 
 small gate in the close garden-fence let them into 
 a room behind the cafe proper, and by and by the 
 apartment would be full of dark-visaged men con- 
 versing in the low, courteous tone common to their 
 race. The shutters of doors and windows were 
 closed and the chinks stopped with cotton ; some 
 people are so jealous of observation. 
 
 On a certain night after one of these meetings 
 had dispersed in its peculiar way, the members re- 
 tiring two by two at intervals, Manuel Mazaro 
 and M. D'Hemecourt were left alone, sitting close 
 together in the dimly lighted room, the former 
 speaking, the other, with no pleasant counte- 
 nance, attending. It seemed to the, young Cuban 
 a proper precaution he was made of precau- 
 tions to speak in English. His voice was barely 
 audible. 
 
 " sayce to me, ' Manuel, she t-theeng I 
 
 want-n to marry hore.' Seflor, you shouth 'ave 
 see' him laugh ! " 
 
 M. D'Hemecourt lifted up his head, and laid his 
 hand upon the young man'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 ! "
 
 1 74 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " No," said the tender old man, " no, bud h-I 
 am positeef dad de Madjor will shood you." 
 
 Mazaro nodded, and lifted one finger for atten- 
 tion. 
 
 " sayce to me, 'Manuel, you goin' tell-a 
 
 Sefior D'Hemecourt I fin'-a you some nigh' an' 
 cut-a you' heart ou'.' An' I sayce to heem-a, 
 'Boat-a if Sefior 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 nod 
 possib' dad you s'all spick him ! I cannot pearmid 
 fluid." 
 
 While the old man was speaking these vehement 
 words, the Cuban was emphatically nodding ap- 
 proval. 
 
 "Co-rect-a, correct -a, Sefior," he replied. 
 " Seftor, you' r -r - right - a ; escuse - a me, Seflor, 
 escuse - a me. Senor D ' Hemecourt, Mayor 
 Shaughness', 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 labored control, " I muz tell you 
 good nighd. You 'ave sooprise me a verry gred 
 deal. I s'all zwvestigade doze ting ; an', Manuel 
 Mazaro, h-I am a hole man ; bud I will requez you, 
 iv dad wad you say is nod de true, my God ! not 
 to h-ever ritturn again ad de Cafe des Exiles."
 
 Cafe dcs Exiles. 175 
 
 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 
 his face and figure, and how the odor of the night 
 jessamine was filling the air with an almost insup- 
 portable sweetness. The Cuban paused a moment, 
 as if to speak, but checked himself, lifted his girlish 
 face, and looked up to where the daggers of the 
 palmetto-tree were crossed upon the face of the 
 moon, dropped his glance, touched his Panama, 
 and silently followed 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, he uttered an ejacu- 
 lation of astonishment. Pauline stood before him. 
 She spoke 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 is all false ; but why do I 
 find you out of bed so late, little bird ? The night 
 is nearly gone." 
 
 He laid his hand upon her cheek. 
 
 " Ah, papa, I cannot deceive you. I thought 
 Manuel would tell you something of this kind, and 
 I listened." 
 
 The father's face immediately betrayed a new 
 and deeper distress. 
 
 " Pauline, my child," he said with tremulous
 
 T 76 Old Creole Days. 
 
 voice, " if Manuel's story is all false, in the name 
 of Heaven how could you think he was going to 
 tell it ? " 
 
 He unconsciously clasped his hands. The good 
 child had one trait which she could not have in- 
 herited from her father ; she was quick-witted and 
 discerning ; yet now she stood confounded. 
 
 " Speak, my child," cried the alarmed old man ; 
 " speak ! let me live, and not 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 ; something told 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 he can 
 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 of tears. Her father looked 
 upon her with such sad sternness as his tender 
 nature was capable of. He laid hold of one of her 
 arms to draw a hand from 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 ? "
 
 Cafe des Exiles. 177 
 
 She dropped both hands, and, lifting her stream- 
 ing eyes that had nothing to 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 poor little Pauline, your papa is 
 not angry. Rise, my little one ; so ; kiss me ; 
 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 Caf 
 des Exiles never should have 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 too late ; 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 or good-morning ; God 
 keep you ! " 
 
 " Well, then, papa," she said, "have no fear; 
 you need not hide me ; I have my prayer-book, 
 and my altar, and my garden, and my window ; 
 my garden is my fenced city, and my window my 
 watch-tower ; do you see ? "
 
 178 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " Ah ! Pauline," responded the father, " but I 
 have been letting the enemy in 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 said 
 those things ; not he ; good-night." 
 
 The next evening Galahad Shaughnessy and 
 Manuel Mazaro met at that " very different " place, 
 the Cafe des Refugies. There was much free talk 
 going on about Texan annexation, about chances 
 of war with Mexico, about San Domingan affairs, 
 about Cuba and many et-caeteras. Galahad was 
 in his usual gay mood. He strode about among a 
 mixed company of Louisianais, Cubans, and Am6ri- 
 cains, keeping them in a great laugh with his ac- 
 count of one of Ole Bull's concerts, and how he 
 had there extorted an invitation from M. and Mme. 
 Devoti to attend one of their famous children's 
 fancy dress balls. 
 
 " Halloo ! " said he as Mazaro approached, 
 " heer's the etheerial Angelica herself. Look-ut 
 heer, sissy, why ar'n't ye in the maternal arms of 
 the Cafe des Exiles ? " 
 
 Mazaro smiled amiably and sat down, A mo- 
 ment after, the Irishman, stepping away from his 
 companions, stood before the young Cuban, and 
 asked, with a quiet business air : 
 
 " D'ye want to see me, Mazaro ? " 
 
 The Cuban nodded, and they went asicie. M4-
 
 Cafe des Exiles. 1 79 
 
 zaro, in a few quick words, looking at his pretty foot 
 the while, told the other on no account to go near 
 the Cafe des Exiles, 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 from another, of interrupting any 
 person who might be speaking. 
 
 " They must know I say they must know that 
 whenever I'm nowhurs else I'm heer. What do 
 they want ? " . 
 
 Mazaro made a gesture, signifying caution and 
 secrecy, and smiled, as if to 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-a crowth." 
 
 " That's so," said the Irishman; "I say, that's 
 so. If I don't feel very much like go-un, I'll not 
 go ; I say, I'll not go. We've no business to-night, 
 eh, Mazaro ? " 
 
 "No, Seftor." 
 
 A second evening was much the same, Mazaro 
 repeating his warning. But when, on the third 
 evening, the Irishman again repeated his willing- 
 ness to stay away from the Cafe des Exiles unless 
 he should feel strongly impelled to go, it was with
 
 I So Old Creole Days. 
 
 the mental reservation that he did feel very much 
 in that humor, and, unknown to Mazaro, should 
 thither repair, if only to see whether some of those 
 deep old fellows were not contriving a practical 
 joke. 
 
 " Mazaro," said he, " I'm go-un around the 
 caurnur a bit ; I want ye to wait heer till I come 
 back. I say I want ye to wait heer till I come 
 back ; I'll be gone about three-quarters of an 
 hour." 
 
 Mazaro assented. He saw with satisfaction the 
 Irishman start in a direction opposite that in which 
 lay the Cafe des Exiles, tarried fifteen or twenty 
 minutes, and then, thinking he could step around 
 to the Cafe des Exiles and return before the ex- 
 piration of the allotted time, hurried out. 
 
 Meanwhile that peaceful habitation sat jn the 
 moonlight with her children about her feet. The 
 company outside the door was somewhat thinner 
 than common. M. D'Hemecourt was not among 
 them, but was sitting in the room behind the caf. 
 The long table which the burial society used at 
 their meetings extended across the apartment, and 
 a lamp had been placed upon it. M. D'Hemecourt 
 sat by the lamp. Opposite him was a chair, which 
 seemed awaiting an expected occupant. Beside 
 the old man sat Pauline. They were talking in 
 cautious undertones, and in French. 
 
 " No," she seemed to insist ; "we do not. know
 
 Cafe des Exiles. 181 
 
 that he refuses to come. We only know that 
 Manuel says so." 
 
 The father shook his head sadly. " When has 
 he ever stayed away three nights together before ? " 
 he asked. " No, my child ; it is intentional. Man- 
 uel urges him to come, but he only sends poor 
 excuses." 
 
 " But," said the girl, shading her face from the 
 lamp and speaking with some suddenness, " why 
 have you not sent word to him by some other per- 
 son.? " 
 
 M. D'Hemecourt looked up at his daughter a 
 moment, and then smiled at his own simplicity. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said. " Certainly ; and that is what 
 I will run, Pauline. There is Manuel, now, ahead 
 of time ! " 
 
 A step was heard inside the cafe. The maiden, 
 though she knew the step was not Mazaro's, rose 
 hastily, opened the nearest door, and disappeared. 
 She had barely closed it behind her when Galahad 
 Shaughnessy entered the apartment. 
 
 M. D'Hemecourt rose up, both surprised and 
 confused. 
 
 " Good-evening, Munshcr D'Himecourt," said 
 the Irishman. " Munsher D'Himecourt, I know 
 it's against rules I say I know it's against rules 
 to 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."
 
 1 82 Old Creole Days. 
 
 In the closet of bottles the maiden smiled tri 
 umphantly. She also wiped the dew from her fore- 
 head, for the place was very close and warm. 
 
 With her father was no triumph. In him sadness 
 and doubt were so mingled with anger that he dared 
 not lift his eyes, but gazed at the knot in the wood 
 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, and asked " 
 
 " Madjor," unluckily interrupted the old man, 
 suddenly looking up and speaking with subdued 
 fervor. " For w'y iv Mazaro tol' you for w'y 
 you din come more sooner ? Dad is one 'eavy 
 charge again' you." 
 
 " Didn't Mazaro tell ye why I didn't come ? " 
 asked the other, beginning to be puzzled at his 
 host's meaning. 
 
 " Yez," replied M. D'Hemecourt, "bud one brev 
 zhenteman should not be afraid 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 
 of any 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 incom-
 
 Cafe des Exil&s. 183 
 
 prehensible to the speaker, who nevertheless con- 
 tinued : 
 
 " 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 the very reason 
 why I stayed away, ye see, eh ? I say that's the 
 very reason I stayed 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 different signifi- 
 cance in the mind of each of the three. The old 
 man was agitated. 
 
 " Bud, sir," he began, shaking his head and lift- 
 ing his hand : 
 
 " Bless yer soul, Munsher D'Himecourt," inter- 
 rupted the Irishman. " Wut's the use o' grapplin' 
 two cut-throats, when " 
 
 " Madjor Shaughnessy ! " cried M. D'Heme- 
 court, losing all self-control. " H-I am nod a cud- 
 troad, Madjor Shaughnessy, h-an I 'ave a r-r-righd 
 to wadge you." 
 
 The Major rose from his chair. 
 
 "What d'ye mean?" he asked vacantly, and 
 then : " Look-ut here, Munsher D'Himecourt, one 
 of uz is crazy. I say one " 
 
 " No, sar-r-r ! " cried the other, rising and clench- 
 ing his trembling fist. " H-I am nod crezzy. 
 I'ave de righd to wadge dad man wad mague rim- 
 ark aboud me dotter."
 
 184 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " 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 so is a liur." 
 
 " Ah-h-h-h ! " said the old man, wagging his 
 finger. " Ah-h-h-h ! You call Manuel 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 with a yarn about two 
 Spaniards watchin' for me. That's what I came in 
 to ask ye about. My dear sur, do ye s'pose I wud 
 talk about the goddess I mean, 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 was in the trough of the 
 sea, with a hurricane of doubts and fears whirling 
 around him. Somebody had told a lie, and he, 
 having struck upon its sunken surface, was dazed 
 and stunned. He opened his lips to say he knew 
 not what, when his ear caught the voice of Manuel 
 Mazaro, replying to the greeting of some of his 
 comrades outside the front door. 
 
 " He is comin' ! " cried the old man. " Mague
 
 Cafe des Exiles. 185 
 
 you'sev hide, Madjor ; do not led 'im kedge you, 
 Mon Dieu ! 
 
 The Irishman smiled. 
 
 " The little yellow wretch ! " said he quietly, his 
 blue eyes dancing. " I'm goin' to catch him." 
 
 A certain hidden hearer instantly made up her 
 mind to rush out between the two young men and 
 be a heroine. 
 
 " Non, non!" exclaimed M. D'Hemecourt ex- 
 citedly. " Nod in de Gate des Exiles nod now, 
 Madjor. Go in dad door, hif you pliz, Madjor. 
 You will heer 'im w'at he 'ave to say. Mague 
 you'sev de troub'. Nod dad door diz one." 
 
 The Major laughed again and started toward the 
 door indicated, but in an instant stopped. 
 
 " I cant go in theyre," he said. " That's yer 
 daughter's room." 
 
 " Out, out, mais ! " cried the other softly, but 
 Mazaro's step was near. 
 
 " I'll just slip in heer," said the amused Shaugh- 
 nessy, tripped lightly to the closet door, drew it 
 open in spite of a momentary resistance from with- 
 in which he had no time to notice, stepped into a 
 small recess full of shelves and bottles, shut the 
 door, and stood face to face the broad moonlight 
 shining upon her through a small, high-grated 
 opening on one side with Pauline. At the same 
 instant the voice of the young Cuban sounded in 
 the room.
 
 1 86 Old Creole Days. 
 
 Pauline was in a great tremor. She made as if 
 she would have opened the door and fled, but the 
 Irishman gave a gesture of earnest protest and re- 
 assurance. The re-opened door might make the 
 back parlor of the Cafe des Exiles a scene of blood. 
 Thinking of this, what could she do ? She stayed. 
 
 "You goth a heap-a thro-vle, Seflor," said Man- 
 uel Mazaro, taking the seat so lately vacated. He 
 had patted M. D'Hemecourt tenderly on the back 
 and the old gentleman had flinched ; hence the re- 
 mark, to which there was no reply. 
 
 " Was a bee crowth a' the Caftf the Rdftigids" 
 continued the young man. 
 
 " Bud, w'ere dad Madjor Shaughnessy ? " de- 
 manded M. D'Hemecourt, with the little sternness 
 he could command. 
 
 " Mayor Shaughness' yez-a ; was there ; boat- 
 a," with a disparaging smile and shake of the head, 
 " he woon-a come-a to you, Seflor, oh ! no." 
 
 The old man smiled bitterly, 
 
 " Non ? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh, no, Seflor ! " Mazaro drew his chair 
 closer. " Seflor ; " he paused, " eez a-vary barh-a 
 fore-a you thaughter, eh ? " 
 
 " Wat ? " asked the host, snapping like a tor- 
 mented dog. 
 
 " D-theze talkin' 'bou'," answered the young 
 man ; " d-theze coffee-howces noth a goo' plaze-a 
 fore hore, eh ? "
 
 Cafe des Exiles. 187 
 
 The Irishman and the maiden looked into each 
 other's eyes an instant, as people will do when list- 
 ening ; but Pauline's immediately fell, and when 
 Mazaro's words Were understood, her blushes be- 
 came visible even by moonlight. 
 
 " He's r-right ! " emphatically whispered Gala- 
 had. 
 
 She attempted to draw back a step, but found 
 herself against the shelves. 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 to ask his questioner to 
 leave him ; but the handsome Cuban motioned 
 him down with a gesture that seemed to beg for 
 only a moment more. 
 
 " Seflor, if a-was one man whath lo-va you' 
 thaughter, all is possiblee to lo-va." 
 
 Pauline, nervously braiding some bits of wire 
 which she had unconsciously taken from a shelf, 
 glanced up against her will, into the eyes of 
 Galahad. They were looking so steadily down 
 upon her that with a great leap of the heart for 
 joy she closed her own and half turned away. 
 But Mazaro had not ceased. 
 
 " All is possiblee to lo-va, Seflor, you shouth-a 
 let marry hore an' tak'n 'way frone d'these plaze. 
 Senor."
 
 1 88 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " Manuel Mazaro," said M. D'Hemecourt, again 
 rising, "you 'ave say enough." 
 
 " No, no, Seftor ; 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 was about 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 Manuel Mazaro's very face. Turn- 
 ing again and looking up into Galahad's face in a 
 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', Sefior," pursued the Cuban, " if a was 
 possiblee you' thaughter to lo-va heem, a-wouth-a 
 be worse-a kine in worlt ; but, Sefior, / 
 
 M. D'Hemecourt made a majestic sign for si- 
 lence. He had resumed his chair, but he rose up 
 once more, took the Cuban s hat from the table 
 and tendered it to him. 
 
 " Manuel Mazaro, you 'ave "
 
 Cafe des Exiles. 189 
 
 " Seftor, I goin' tell you " 
 
 " Manuel Mazaro, you " 
 
 "Boat-a, Seilor " 
 
 " Bud, Manuel Maz " 
 
 " Seflor, escuse-a me " 
 
 " Huzh ! " cried the old man. " Manuel Mazaro, 
 you 'ave desceive' 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 his face, such as Mazaro 
 instantly remembered to have seen on it one night 
 when 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 the back of his coat-collar. 
 
 " Ah, ah ! " cried the Irishman, shaking his head 
 with a broader smile and thrusting his hand threat- 
 eningly 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-was on'y tellin' Seftor 
 D'Hemecourt someteen z was t-thrue."
 
 1 90 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " And I tell ye," said Galahad, " ye'r a liur, and 
 to be so kind an' get yersel' to the front stoop, as 
 I'm desiruz o' kickin' ye before the crowd." 
 
 " Madjor ! " cried D'Hemecourt 
 
 " Go," said Galahad, advancing a step toward 
 the Cuban. 
 
 Had Manuel Mazaro wished to personate the 
 prince of darkness, his beautiful face had the cor- 
 rect expression for it. He slowly turned, opened 
 the door into the cafe, sent one glowering look be- 
 hind, and disappeared. 
 
 Pauline laid her hand upon her lover's arm. 
 
 " Madjor," began her father. 
 
 " Oh, Madjor and Madjor," said the Irishman ; 
 " Munsher D'Hemecourt, just say ' Madjor, heer's 
 a gude wife fur ye,' and I'll let the little serpent 
 
 go-" 
 
 Thereupon, sure enough, both M. D'Hemecourt 
 and his daughter, rushing together, did what I 
 have been hoping all along, for the reader's sake, 
 they would have dispensed with ; they burst into 
 tears ; whereupon the Major, with his Irish appre- 
 ciation of the ludicrous, turned away to hide his 
 smirk and began good-humoredly to scratch him- 
 self first on the temple and then on the thigh. 
 
 Mazaro passed silently through the group about 
 the door- steps, and not many minutes afterward, 
 Galahad Shaughnessy, having taken a place among 
 the exiles, rose with the remark that the old
 
 Cafe des Exiles. 191 
 
 gentleman would doubtless be willing to tell them 
 good-night. Good- night was accordingly said, the 
 Cafe des Exiles closed her windows, then her doors, 
 winked a moment or two through the cracks in 
 the shutters and then went fast asleep. 
 
 The Mexican physician, at Galahad's request, 
 told Mazaro that at the next meeting of the burial 
 society he might and must occupy his accus- 
 tomed seat without fear of molestation ; and he 
 did so. 
 
 The meeting took place some seven days after 
 the affair in the back parlor, and on the same 
 ground. Business being finished, Galahad, who 
 presided, stood up, looking, in his white duck suit 
 among his darkly-clad companions, like a white 
 sheep among black ones, and begged leave to 
 order " dlasses " from the front room. I say 
 among black sheep ; yet, I suppose, than that 
 double row of languid, effeminate faces, one 
 would have been taxed to find a more harmless- 
 looking company. The glasses were brought and 
 filled. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Galahad, " comrades, this 
 may be the last time we ever meet together an un- 
 broken body." 
 
 Martinez of San Domingo, he of the horrible 
 experience, nodded with a lurking smile, curled a 
 leg under him and clasped his fingers behind his 
 head.
 
 192 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " Who knows," continued the speaker, " but 
 Sefior Benito, though strong and sound and har'ly 
 thirty-seven " here all smiled " may be taken ill 
 to-morrow ? " 
 
 Martinez smiled across to the tall, gray Benito 
 on Galahad's left, and he, in turn, smilingly showed 
 to the company a thin, white line of teeth between 
 his moustachios like distant reefs. 
 
 " Who knows," the young Irishman proceeded 
 to inquire, " I say, who knows but Pedro, theyre, 
 may be struck wid a fever ? " 
 
 Pedro, a short, compact man of thoroughly 
 mixed blood, and with an eyebrow cut away, 
 whose surname no one knew, smiled his acknowl- 
 edgments. 
 
 "Who knows?" resumed Galahad, when those 
 who understood English had explained in Spanish 
 to those who did not, "but they may soon need 
 the services not only of our good doctor heer, but 
 of our society ; and that Fernandez and Benigno, 
 and Gonzalez and Dominguez, may not be chosen 
 to see, on that very schooner lying at the Pica- 
 yune Tier just now, their beloved remains and so 
 forth safely delivered into the hands and lands of 
 their people. I say, who knows bur it may be so ? " 
 
 The company bowed graciously as who should 
 say, "Well-turned phrases, Sefior well-turned." 
 
 " And amigos, if so be that such is their ap 
 prooching fate, I will say : "
 
 Cafe des Exiles. 193 
 
 He lifted his glass, and the rest did the same. 
 
 " I say, I will say to them, Creoles, country- 
 men, and lovers, boun voyadge an' good luck to 
 ye's." 
 
 For several moments there was much translat- 
 ing, bowing, and murmured acknowledgments ; 
 Mazaro said : " Bueno ! " and all around among 
 the long double rank of moustachioed lips amiable 
 teeth were gleaming, some white, some brown, some 
 yellow, like bones in the grass. 
 
 "And now, gentlemen," Galahad recommenced, 
 "fellow-exiles, once more. Munsher D'Hime- 
 court, it was yer practice, until lately, to reward a 
 good talker with a dlass from the hands o' yer 
 daughter." (Si, si !} " I'm bur 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 all meet together, if ye will not let 
 the goddess of the Cafe des Exiles grace our com- 
 pany with her presence for just about one minute ? " 
 ( Ye s- a, Senor ; si; yez-a ; oiti.} 
 
 Every head was turned toward the old man, nod- 
 ding 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' more and more 
 embarrassin' daily, and the operaytions of our soci- 
 ety were likely to make it wurse in the future ; 
 wherefore I have lately taken steps I say I tuke
 
 194 Old Creole Days. 
 
 steps this morn to relieve the old gentleman's dis- 
 tresses and his daughter's " 
 
 He paused. M. D'Kemecourt entered with 
 Pauline, and the exiles all rose up. Ah ! but why 
 say again she was lovely ? 
 
 Galahad stepped forward to meet her, took her 
 hand, led her to the head of the board, and turning 
 to the company, said : 
 
 " Friends and fellow-patriots, Misthress Shaugh- 
 nessy." 
 
 There was no outburst of astonishment only 
 the same old bowing, smiling, and murmuring of 
 compliment. Galahad turned with a puzzled look 
 to M. D'Hemecourt, and guessed the truth. In 
 the joy of an old man's heart he had already that 
 afternoon told the truth to each and every man 
 separately, as a secret too deep for them to reveal, 
 but too sweet for him to keep. The Major and Pau- 
 line were man and wife. 
 
 The last laugh that was ever heard in the Cafe 
 des Exiles sounded softly through the room. 
 
 "Lads," said the Irishman. " Fill yer dlasses. 
 Here's to the Cafe des Exiles, God bless her ! " 
 
 And the meeting slowly adjourned. 
 
 Two days later, signs and rumors of sickness 
 began to find place about the Cafe des Re'fugie's, 
 and the Mexican physician made three calls in one 
 day. It was said by the people around that the 
 tall Cuban gentleman named Benito was very sick
 
 Cafe des Exiles. 195 
 
 in one of the back rooms. A similar frequency of 
 the same physician's calls was noticed about the 
 Cafe des Exiles. 
 
 "The man with one eyebrow," said the neigh- 
 bors, " is sick. Pauline left the house yesterday to 
 make room for him." 
 
 " Ah ! is it possible ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is really true ; she and her husband. 
 She took her mocking-bird with her ; he carried it ; 
 he came back alone." 
 
 On the next afternoon the children about the 
 Cafe des Refugies enjoyed the spectacle of the in- 
 valid Cuban moved on a trestle to the Cafe" des 
 Exiles, although he did not look so deathly sick as 
 they could have liked to see him, and on the fourth 
 morning the doors of the Cafe des Exiles remained 
 closed. A black-bordered funeral notice, veiled 
 with crape, announced that the great Caller- home 
 of exiles had served his summons 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'clock 
 that same day, a slight commotion, and those who 
 stood aimlessly about a small, neat schooner, said 
 she was " seized." At four there suddenly ap- 
 peared before the Cafe des Exiles a squad of men 
 with silver crescents on their breasts police offi-
 
 196 Old Creole Days. 
 
 cers. The old cottage sat silent with closed doors, 
 the crape hanging heavily over the funeral notice 
 like a widow's veil, the little unseen garden send- 
 ing up odors from its hidden censers, 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 the tops off with hat- 
 chet and chisel ? " 
 
 Rap, 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 an- 
 other. 
 
 " He says they are not dead men, but new mus- 
 kets " 
 
 " Here, clear out ! " cries an officer, and the 
 loiterers fall back and by and by straggle off.
 
 Cafe des Exiles. 197 
 
 The exiles? What became of them, do you 
 ask ? Why, nothing ; they were not troubled, 
 but they never all came together again. Said 
 a Chief-of- Police to Major Shaughnessy years after 
 ward : 
 
 " Major, there was only one thing that kept 
 your expedition from succeeding you were too 
 sly about it. Had you come out flat and said 
 what you were doing, we'd never a-said a word to 
 you. But that little fellow gave us the wink, and 
 then we had to stop you." 
 
 And was no one punished ? Alas ! one was. 
 Poor, pretty, curly-headed traitorous Mazaro ! He 
 was drawn out of Carondelet Canal cold, dead ! 
 And when his wounds were counted they were 
 just the number of the Cafe" des Exile's' children, 
 less Galahad. But the mother that is, the old caf 
 did not see it ; she had gone up the night before 
 in a chariot of fire. 
 
 In the files of the old " Picayune" and " Price- 
 Current" of 1837 may be seen the mention of 
 Galahad Shaughnessy among the merchants 
 " our enterprising and accomplished fellow-towns- 
 man," and all that. But old M. D'Hemecourt's 
 name is cut in marble, and his citizenship is in "a 
 city whose maker and builder is God." 
 
 Only yesterday I dined with the Shaughnessys 
 fine old couple and handsome. Their children 
 sat about them and entertained me most pleas-
 
 198 Old Creole Days. 
 
 antly. But there isn't one can tell a tale as their 
 father can 'twas he told me this one, though here 
 and there my enthusiasm may have taken liber- 
 ties. He knows the history of every old house in 
 the French Quarter ; or, if he happens not to 
 know a true one, he can make one up as he goes 
 along.
 
 " Posson Jone" 199 
 
 "POSSON JONEV* 
 
 To Jules St. Ange elegant little heathen 
 there yet remained at manhood a remembrance 
 of having been to school, and of having been 
 taught by a stony-headed Capuchin that the world 
 is round for example, like a cheese. This round 
 world is a cheese to be eaten through, and Jules 
 had nibbled quite into his cheese-world already at 
 twenty-two. 
 
 He realized this as he idled about one Sunday 
 morning where the intersection of Royal and Conti 
 Streets some seventy years ago formed a central 
 corner of New Orleans. Yes, yes, the trouble was 
 he had been wasteful and honest. He discussed 
 the matter with that faithful friend and confidant, 
 Baptiste, his yellow body-servant. They con- 
 cluded that, papa's patience and tantes pin-money 
 having been gnawed away quite to the rind, there 
 were left open only these few easily-enumerated 
 resorts : to go to work they shuddered ; to join 
 Major Innerarity's filibustering expedition ; or else 
 why not ? to try some games of confidence. 
 At twenty-two one must begin to be something. 
 
 * Published in Appleton's Journal. Republished by permission.
 
 2OO Old Creole Days. 
 
 Nothing else tempted ; could that avail ? One 
 could but try. It is noble to try ; and, besides, 
 they were hungry. If one could "make the 
 friendship " of some person from the country, for 
 instance, with money, not expert at cards or dice, 
 but, as one would say, willing to learn, one might 
 find cause to say some " Hail Marys." 
 
 The sun broke through a clearing sky, and Bap- 
 tiste pronounced it good for luck. There had been 
 a hurricane in the night. The weed -grown tile- 
 roofs were still dripping, and from lofty brick and 
 low adobe walls a rising steam responded to the 
 summer sunlight. Up-street, and across the Rue 
 du Canal, one could get glimpses of the gardens in 
 Faubourg Ste. -Marie standing in silent wretched- 
 ness, so many tearful Lucretias, tattered victims of 
 the storm. Short remnants of the wind now and 
 then came down the narrow street in erratic puffs 
 heavily laden with odors of broken boughs and 
 torn flowers, skimmed the little pools of rain- 
 water in the deep ruts of the unpaved street, and 
 suddenly went away to nothing, 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 the way, crouching, mendicant-like, in the 
 shadow of a great importing-house, was the mud 
 laboratory of the mender of broken combs. Light
 
 " Posson Jone" 201 
 
 balconies overhung the rows of showy shops and 
 stores open for trade this Sunday morning, and 
 pretty Latin faces of the higher class glanced over 
 their savagely-pronged railings upon the passers 
 below. At some windows hung lace curtains, 
 flannel duds at some, and at others only the scrap- 
 ing and sighing one-hinged shutter groaning to- 
 ward Paris after its neglectful master. 
 
 M. St.-Ange stood looking up and down the 
 street for nearly an hour. But few ladies, only 
 the inveterate mass-goers, were out. About the 
 entrance of the frequent cafe's the masculine gen- 
 tility stood leaning on canes, with which now one 
 and now another beckoned to Jules, some even 
 adding pantomimic hints of the social cup. 
 
 M. St.-Ange remarked to his servant without 
 turning his head that somehow he felt sure he 
 should soon return those bons that the mulatto had 
 lent him. 
 
 " What will you do with them ? " 
 
 " Me ! " said Baptiste, quickly ; " I will go and 
 see the bull-fight in the Place 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, they are 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,
 
 202 Old Creole Days. 
 
 and commenced striking at something with their 
 canes. Others followed. Can M. St.-Ange and 
 servant, who hasten forward can the Creoles, 
 Cubans, Spaniards, San Domingo refugees, and 
 other loungers can they hope it is a fight ? They 
 hurry forward. Is a man in a fit ? The crowd 
 pours in from the side-streets. Have they killed a 
 so-long snake ? Bareheaded shopmen leave their 
 wives, who stand upon chairs. The crowd hud- 
 dles and packs. Those on 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. 
 
 " Personnel 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 and shoulders 
 on top the res'." 
 
 " He in the homespun ? " asks a second shop- 
 keeper. " Humph ! an Amdricain a West-Flori- 
 dian ; 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
 
 " Posson Jone^ 203 
 
 slight stoop in his shoulders, as if he was mak- 
 ing a constant, good-natured attempt to accommo- 
 date himself to ordinary doors and ceilings. His 
 bones were those of an ox. His face was marked 
 more by weather than age, and his narrow brow 
 was bald and smooth. He had instantaneously 
 formed an opinion of Jules St.-Ange, and the mul 
 titude of words, most of them lingual curiosities 
 with which he was rasping the wide-open ears of 
 his listeners, signified, in short, that, as sure as his 
 name was Parson Jones, the little Creole was a 
 " plum gentleman." 
 
 M. St.-Ange bowed and smiled, and was about 
 to call attention, by both gesture and speech, to a 
 singular object on top of the still uncovered head, 
 when the nervous motion of the Ame'ricain antici- 
 pated 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, Misty Posson Jone'," said St.- 
 Ange, counting it with his eyes. 
 
 The countryman gave a start and smile of sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " How d'dyou know my name was Jones ? " he 
 asked ; but, without pausing for the Creole's an-
 
 204 Old Creole Days. 
 
 swer, furnished in his reckless way some further 
 specimens of West-Floridian English ; and the 
 conciseness with which he presented full intelli- 
 gence of his home, family, calling, lodging-house, 
 'and present and future plans, might have passed 
 for consummate art, had it not been the most run- 
 wild nature. " And I've done been to Mobile, 
 you know, on business for Bethesdy Church. It's 
 the on'yest time I ever been from home ; now you 
 wouldn't of believed that, would you ? But I ad- 
 mire 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 Colossus of Rhodes. 
 Is that yo' yallah boy, Jools ? Fetch him along. 
 Colossus. It seems like a special providence. 
 Jools, do you believe in a special providence f " 
 
 Jules said he did. 
 
 The new-made friends moved briskly off, fol- 
 lowed by Baptiste and a short, square, old negro, 
 very black and grotesque, who had introduced 
 himself 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 conversa- 
 tion. Parson Jones descanted upon the doctrine 
 he had mentioned, as illustrated in the perplexities 
 of cotton-growing, and concluded that there would
 
 " Posson Jone" 205 
 
 always be " a special providence again' cotton un- 
 tell folks quits a pressin' of it and haulin' of it on 
 Sundays.! " 
 
 " Je dis," said St.-Ange, in response, " I thing 
 you is juz right. I believe, me, strong-strong in 
 the improvidence, yes. You know my papa he 
 hown a sugah-plantation, you know. 'Jules, me 
 son,' he say one time to me, ' I goin' to make one 
 baril sugah to fedge the moze high price in New 
 Orleans.' Well, he take his bez baril sugah I 
 nevah see a so careful man like rne papa always to 
 make a so beautiful sugah et strop. ' 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.'' I ged the holy-water; 
 my papa sprinkle it over the baril, an' make one 
 cross 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 dead if thad baril sugah 
 din fedge the more high cost than any other in the 
 city. Parceque, the man what buy that baril sugah 
 he make a mistake of one hundred pound " falling 
 back " mats certainlee ! " 
 
 " And you think that was growin* out of the 
 holy-water ? " asked the parson. 
 
 "Mats, what could make it else? Id could 
 not be the quitte, because my papa keep the
 
 206 Old Creole Days. 
 
 bucket, an' forget to sen' the quitte to Father 
 Pierre." 
 
 Parso.n Jones was disappointed. 
 
 " Well, now, Jools, you know, I don't think that 
 was right. I reckon you must be a plum Cath- 
 olic." 
 
 M. St.-Ange shrugged. He would not deny his 
 faith. 
 
 " I am a Catholique, mais" brightening as he 
 hoped to recommend himself anew " not a good 
 one." 
 
 "Well, you know," said Jones " where's Co- 
 lossus ? Oh ! all right. Colossus strayed off a 
 minute in Mobile, and I plum lost him for two 
 days. Here's the 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 go in-' to throw me ? What ? Speak 
 louder. Why, Colossus, you shayn't talk so, saw. 
 Ton my soul, you're the mightiest fool I ever taken 
 up with. Jest you go down that 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 ? "
 
 " Posson Jone " 207 
 
 " O Mahs Jimmy, I I's gwine ; but " he ven- 
 tured nearer " don't on no account drink nothin', 
 Mahs Jimmy." 
 
 Such was the negro's earnestness that he put one 
 foot in the gutter, and fell heavily against his mas- 
 ter. 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 
 that when I never taken a drop, exceptin' for chills, 
 in my life which he knows so as well as me ! " 
 
 The two masters began to ascend a stair. 
 
 " Mats, 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 in Bethesdy who says he 
 is a rascal. He's a powerful smart fool. Why, 
 that boy's got money, Jools ; more money than 
 religion, I reckon. I'm shore he fallen into mighty 
 bad company " they passed beyond earshot. 
 
 Baptiste and Colossus, instead of going to the 
 tavern kitchen, passed to the next door and entered 
 the dark rear corner of a low grocery, where, the 
 law notwithstanding, liquor was covertly sold to 
 slaves. There, in the quiet company of Baptiste 
 and the grocer, the colloquial powers of Colossus, 
 which were simply prodigious, began very soon to 
 show themselves. 
 
 " For whilst," said he. " Mahs Jimmy has ed
 
 208 Old Creole Days. 
 
 dication, you know whilst he has eddication, I 
 has 'scretion. He has eddication and I has 'scre- 
 tion, an' so we gits along." 
 
 He drew a black bottle down the counter, and, 
 laying half his length upon the damp board, con- 
 tinued : 
 
 "As ap'inciple I discredits de imbimin' of avvjus 
 liquors. De imbimin' of awjus liquors, de wiolu- 
 tion of de Sabbaf, de 'playin' of de fiddle, and de 
 usin' of by-words, dey is de fo'sins of de conscience ; 
 an' if any man sin de fo'sins of de conscience, de 
 debble done sharp his fork fo' dat man. Ain't dat 
 so, boss ? " 
 
 The grocer was sure it was so. 
 
 " Neberdeless, mind you" here the orator 
 brimmed his glass from the bottle and swallowed 
 the contents with a dry eye " mind you, a roytious 
 man, 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 ; this is the story of a true Chris- 
 tian ; to wit, Parson Jones. 
 
 The parson and his new friend ate. But the 
 coffee M. St.-Ange declared he could not touch ; 
 it was too wretchedly bad. At the French Market, 
 near by, there was some noble coffee. This, how- 
 ever, would have to be bought, and Parson Jones 
 had scruples,
 
 "Posson Jone " 209 
 
 " You see, Jools, every man has his conscience 
 to guide him, which it does 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 it is 
 wrong to dring some coffee well, then, it is wrong; 
 you thing it is 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 I would go again' my con- 
 scien' ? Mais allons, led us go and ged some 
 coffee." 
 
 " Jools." 
 
 "Wat?" 
 
 " Jools, it ain't the drinkin' of coffee, but the 
 buyin' of it on a Sabbath. You must really excuse 
 me, Jools, it's again' conscience, you know." 
 
 " Ah ! " said St.-Ange, " cesl very true. For 
 you it would be a sin, mais for me it is only 'abit. 
 Rilligion is a very strange ; I know a man 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 one friend, Mig- 
 uel ; led us go at his house and ged some coffee. 
 Come ; Miguel have no familie ; only him and 
 Joe always like to see friend ; allons, led us come 
 yonder."
 
 2io Old Creole Days. 
 
 " Why, Jools, my dear friend, you know," said 
 the shame-faced parson, " I never visit on Sun- 
 days." 
 
 " Never w'at ? " asked the astounded Creole. 
 
 " No," said Jones, smiling awkwardly. 
 
 " Never visite ? " 
 
 " Exceptin' sometimes amongst church-mem- 
 bers," said Parson Jones. 
 
 "Mais," said the seductive St.-Ange, "Miguel 
 and Joe is church-member' certainlee ! They 
 love to talk about rilligion. Come at Miguel 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." 
 
 " Mats, the church is right yonder at Miguel', 
 yes. Ah!" continued St.-Ange, as they de- 
 scended the stairs, " I thing every man muz have 
 the rilligion he like' the bez me, I like the Catlio- 
 lique riiligion the bez for me it is the bez. Every 
 man will sure go to heaven if he like his rilligion 
 the bez. " 
 
 " Jools," said the West-Floridian, laying his 
 great hand tenderly upon the Creole's shoulder, as 
 they stepped out upon the banquette, " do you think 
 you have any shore hopes of heaven ? " 
 
 " Yass ! " replied St.-Ange ; " I am sure-sure,
 
 Posson one'" 211 
 
 I thing everybody will go to heaven. I thing 
 you will go, et I thing Miguel will go, et Joe 
 everybody, I thing mats, hof course, not if they 
 not have been christen'. Even I thing some nig- 
 gers will go." 
 
 " Jools," said the parson, stopping in his walk 
 " Jools, I don't want to lose my niggah." 
 
 "You will not loose him. With Baptiste he 
 cannot ged loose." 
 
 But Colossus's master was not reassured. 
 
 " Now," said he, still tarrying, "this is jest the 
 way ; had I of gone to church -- " 
 
 " 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-by turned into a cross- 
 street. The parson stopped an instant as they 
 were turning, and looked back up the street. 
 
 " W'at you lookin' ? " asked his companion. 
 
 " I thought I saw Colossus," answered the par- 
 son, with an anxious face ; " I reckon 'twa'n'thim, 
 though." And they went on. 
 
 The street they now entered was a very quiet 
 one. The eye of any chance passer would have 
 been at once drawn to a broad, heavy, white brick
 
 2 1 2 Old Creole Days 
 
 edifice on the lower side of the way, with a flag- 
 pole standing out like a bowsprit from one of its 
 great windows, and a pair of lamps hanging before 
 a large closed entrance. It was a theatre, honey- 
 combed with gambling-dens. At this morning 
 hour all was still, and the only sign of life was a 
 knot of little barefoot girls gathered within its nar- 
 row shade, and each carrying an infant relative. 
 Into this place the parson and M. St.-Ange en- 
 tered, the little nurses jumping up from the sills to 
 let them pass in. 
 
 A half-hour may have passed. At the end of 
 that time the whole juvenile company were laying 
 alternate eyes and ears to the chinks, to gather what 
 they could of an interesting quarrel going on within. 
 
 " I did not, saw ! I given you no cause of 
 offense, saw ! It's not so, saw ! Mister Jools 
 simply mistaken the house, thinkin' it was a Sab- 
 bath-school ! No such thing, saw ; I airit bound 
 to bet ! Yes, I kin git out ! Yes, without bettin' ! 
 I hev a right to my opinion ; I reckon I'm a white 
 man, saw ! No, saw 1 I on'y said I didn't think 
 you could get the game on them cards. 'Sno 
 such thing, saw ! I do not know how to play ! I 
 wouldn'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 die 
 first ! Yes, saw ; Mr. Jools can. bet for me if he 
 admires to ; I ain't his mostah."
 
 ' ' Posson Jone " 213 
 
 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 to bet 'for me. I didn't 
 suspicion this from you, saw. No, I won't take 
 any more lemonade ; it's the most notorious stuff 
 I ever drank, saw ! " 
 
 M. St.-Ange's replies were in falsetto and not 
 without effect ; for presently the parson's indigna- 
 tion and anger began to melt. " Don't ask me, 
 Jools, I can't help you. It's no use ; it's a matter 
 of conscience with me, Jools." 
 
 " Mais out ! 'tis a matt' of conscien' wid me, the 
 same." 
 
 " But, Jools, the money's none o' mine, nohow ; 
 it belongs to Smyrny, you know." 
 
 " If I could make jus' one bet," said the persua- 
 sive St.-Ange, " I would leave this place, fas'-fas', 
 yes. If I had thing mats I did not soupspicion 
 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 me conscien' me honor ! " 
 
 " Well, Jools, I hope I'm not a-doin' no wrong. 
 I'll loan you some of this money if you say you'll 
 come right out 'thout takin' your winnin's."
 
 214 Old Creole Days. 
 
 All was still. The peeping children could see 
 the parson as he lifted his hand to his breast- 
 pocket. There it paused a moment in bewilder- 
 ment, then plunged to the bottom. It came back 
 empty, and fell lifelessly at his side. His head 
 dropped upon his breast, his eyes were for a mo- 
 ment closed, his broad palms were lifted and 
 pressed against his forehead, a tremor seized him, 
 and he fell all in a lump to the floor. The chil- 
 dren ran off with their infant loads, leaving Jules 
 St.-Ange swearing by all his deceased relatives, 
 first tp Miguel and Joe, and then to the lifted par- 
 son, 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 grown 
 old, green with all the luxuriance of the wild Creole 
 summer, lay the Congo Plains. Here stretched 
 the canvas of the historic Cayetano, who Sunday 
 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 an ir- 
 retrievable sop of everything. The circus trailed 
 away its bedraggled magnificence, and the ring 
 was cleared for the bull. 
 
 Then the sun seemed to come out and work foi
 
 ' ' Posson Jone" 215 
 
 the people. " See," said the Spaniards, looking 
 up at the glorious sky with its great, white fleets 
 drawn off upon the horizon " see heaven smiles 
 upon the bull-fight ! " 
 
 In the high upper seats of the rude amphitheatre 
 sat the gayly-decked wives and daughters of the 
 Gascons, from the mttaries along the Ridge, and 
 the chattering Spanish women of the Market, their 
 shining hair unbonneted to the sun. Next below 
 were their husbands and lovers in Sunday blouses, 
 milkmen, butchers, bakers, black-bearded fisher- 
 men, Sicilian fruiterers, swarthy Portuguese sailors, 
 in little woolen caps, and strangers of the graver 
 sort ; mariners of England, Germany, and Holland. 
 The lowest seats were full of trappers, smugglers, 
 Canadian voyageurs, drinking and singing ; Ameri- 
 cains, too more's the shame from the upper 
 rivers who will not keep their seats who ply the 
 bottle, and who will get home by-and-by and tell 
 how wicked Sodom is ; broad-brimmed, silver- 
 braided Mexicans, too, with their copper cheeks 
 and bat's eyes, and their tinkling spurred heels. 
 Yonder, in that quieter section, are the quadroon 
 women in their black lace shawls and there is 
 Baptiste ; and below them are the turbaned black 
 women, and there is but he vanishes Colossus. 
 
 The afternoon is advancing, yet the sport, 
 though loudly demanded, does not begin. The 
 Amcricains grow derisive and find pastime in gibes
 
 2i6 Old Creole Days. 
 
 and raillery. They mock the various Latins with 
 their national inflections, and answer their scowls 
 with laughter. Some of the more aggressive 
 shout pretty French greetings to the women of 
 Gascony, and one bargeman, amid peals of ap- 
 plause, stands on a seat and hurls a kiss to the 
 quadroons. The mariners of England, Germany, 
 and Holland, as spectators, like the fun, while the 
 Spaniards look black and cast defiant imprecations 
 upon their persecutors. Some Gascons, with 
 timely caution, pick their women out and depart, 
 running a terrible fire of gallantries. 
 
 In hope of truce, a new call is raised for the 
 bull : " The bull, the bull ! hush ! " 
 
 In a tier near the ground a man is standing and 
 calling standing head and shoulders above the 
 rest calling in the Amtricaine tongue. Another 
 man, big and red, named Joe, and a handsome 
 little Creole in elegant dress and full of laughter, 
 wish to stop him, but the flat-boatmen, hahaing 
 and cheering, will not suffer it. Ah, through 
 some shameful knavery of the men, into whose 
 hands he has fallen, he is drunk ! Even the 
 women can see that ; and now he throws his arms 
 wildly and raises his voice until the whole great 
 circle hears it. He is preaching ! 
 
 Ah ! kind Lord, for a special providence now ! 
 The men of his own nation men from the land of 
 the open English Bible and temperance cup and
 
 " Posson Jone" 217 
 
 song are cheering him on to mad disgrace. And 
 now another call for the appointed sport is 
 drowned by the flat-boatmen singing the ancient 
 tune 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 singers who toss their hats aloft 
 and roll in their seats, the chorus swells to the ac- 
 companiment 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 raise one mighty cry for 
 silence. The big red man gets a hand over the 
 parson's mouth, and the ribboned man seizes his 
 moment. 
 
 " They have been endeavoring for hours," he 
 says, " to draw the terrible animals from their 
 dens, but such is their strength and fierceness, 
 that " 
 
 His voice is drowned. Enough has been heard 
 to warrant the inference that the beasts cannot be 
 whipped out of the storm-drenched cages to 
 which menagerie-life and long starvation have 
 attached them, and from the roar of indignation 
 the man of ribbons flies. The noise increases,
 
 2i8 Old Creole Days. 
 
 Men are standing up by hundreds, and women are 
 imploring to be let out of the turmoil. All at 
 once, like the bursting of a dam, the whole mass 
 pours down into the ring. They sweep across the 
 arena and over the showman's barriers. Miguel 
 gets a frightful trampling. Who cares for gates or 
 doors ? They tear the beasts' houses bar from 
 bar, and, laying hold of the gaunt buffalo, drag 
 him forth by feet, ears, and tail ; and in the midst 
 of the mette> still head and shoulders above all, 
 wilder, with the cup of the wicked, than any beast, 
 is the man of God from the Florida parishes ! 
 
 In his arms he bore and all the people shouted 
 at once when they saw it the tiger. He had 
 lifted it high up with its back to his breast, his 
 arms clasped under its shoulders ; the wretched 
 brute had curled up caterpillar-wise, with its long 
 tail against its belly, and through its filed teeth 
 grinned a fixed and impotent wrath. And Parson 
 Jones was shouting : 
 
 " The tiger and the buffler shell lay down to- 
 gether ! You dah to say they shayn't and I'll 
 comb you with this varmint from head to foot ! 
 The tiger and the buffier shell lay down together. 
 They shell ! Now, you, Joe ! Behold ! I am here 
 to see it done. The lion and the bufrler shell lay 
 down together! " 
 
 Mouthing these words again and again, the par- 
 son forced his way through the surge in the wake
 
 " Posson Jone " 219 
 
 of the buffalo. This creature the Latins had se- 
 cured by a lariat over his head, and were dragging 
 across the old rampart and into a street of the city. 
 
 The northern races were trying to prevent, and 
 there was pommeling and knocking down, cursing 
 and knife-drawing, until Jules St.-Ange was quite 
 carried away with the fun, laughed, clapped his 
 hands, and swore with delight, and ever kept close 
 to the gallant parson. 
 
 Joe, contrariwise, counted all this child's-play an 
 interruption. He had come to find Colossus and 
 the money. In an unlucky moment he made bold 
 to lay hold of the parson, but a piece of the bro- 
 ken barriers in the hands of a flat-boatman felled 
 him to the sod, the terrible crowd swept over him, 
 the lariat was cut and the giant parson hurled the 
 tiger upon the buffalo's back. In another instant 
 both brutes were dead at the hands of the mob; 
 Jones was lifted from his feet, and prating of 
 Scripture and the millennium, of Paul at Ephesus 
 and Daniel in the " buffer's " den, was borne aloft 
 upon the shoulders of the huzzaing Amdricains. 
 Half an hour later he was sleeping heavily on the 
 floor of a cell in the calabozo. 
 
 When Parson Jones awoke, a bell was some- 
 where tolling for midnight. Somebody was at 
 the door of his cell with a key. The lock grated, 
 the door swung, the turnkey looked in and stepped 
 back, and a ray of moonlight fell upon M. Jules
 
 22O Old Creole Days. 
 
 St.-Ange. The prisoner sat upon the empty 
 shackles 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 sometime a 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 ! Jools, 
 where's my pore old niggah ? " 
 
 " Posson Jone', never min' ; he is wid Baptiste." 
 
 " Where ? 
 
 " I don' know w'ere niais he is wid Baptiste. 
 Baptiste is a beautiful to take care of somebody." 
 
 " Is he as good as you, Jules ?" asked .Parson 
 Jones, sincerely. 
 
 Jules was slightly staggered. 
 
 " You know, Posson Jone', you know, a nigger 
 cannot be good as a w'ite man mats 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, " I swear you is the moz funny
 
 " Posson jfone." 221 
 
 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 ! ' My faith ! shall a man make 
 hisse'f to be the more sorry because the money he 
 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 ad the bull-ring. Ha ! 
 ha ! L swear I thing you can make money to 
 preach thad sermon many time ad the theatre St. 
 Philippe. Hah ! you is the moz brave dat I never 
 see, mats ad the same time the moz rilligious man. 
 Where I'm goin' to fin' one priest to make like 
 dat ? Mais, why you can't cheer up an' be 'appy ? 
 Me, if I should be miserabl' like that I would kill 
 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's house 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 complete the game ! ' Posson Jone', it was 
 a specious providence ! I win in t'ree hours more 
 dan six hundred dollah ! Look." He produced a 
 mass of bank-notes, bons, and due-bills. 
 
 " And you got the pass ? " asked the parson, re-
 
 222 Old Creole Days. 
 
 garding the money with a sadness incomprehensi- 
 ble to Jules'. 
 
 " It is here ; it take the effect so soon the day- 
 light." 
 
 " 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 have broken the laws, and ought to stand 
 the penalty ; and secondly you must really ex- 
 cuse me, Jools, you know, but the pass has been 
 got onfairly, I'm afeered. You told the judge I 
 was innocent ; and in neither case it don't become 
 a Christian (which I hope I can still say I am one) 
 to ' do evil that good may come.' I muss stay." 
 
 M. St. Ange stood up aghast, and for a moment 
 speechless, at this exhibition of moral heroism ; 
 but an artifice was presently hit upon. " Mais, 
 Posson Jone' ! " in his old falsetto " de order 
 you cannot read it, it is in French compel you to 
 go hout, sir ! " 
 
 " Is that so ? " cried the parson, bounding up 
 with radiant face " is that so, Jools ? " 
 
 The young man nodded, smiling ; but, though 
 he smiled, the fountain of his tenderness was 
 opened. He made the sign of the cross as the 
 parson knelt in prayer, and even whispered " Hail 
 Mary," etc., quite through, twice over. 
 
 Morning broke in summer glory upon a cluster 
 pf villas behind the city, nestled under live-oaks
 
 " Posson Jone" 223 
 
 and magnolias on the banks of a deep bayou, 
 and known as Suburb St. Jean. 
 
 With the first beam came the West-Floridian 
 and the Creole out upon the bank below the vil- 
 lage. Upon the parson's arm hung a pair of an- 
 tique saddle-bags. Baptiste limped wearily be- 
 hind ; both his eyes were encircled with broad, 
 blue rings and one cheek-bone bore the official im- 
 press of every knuckle of Colossus's left hand. 
 The " beautiful to take care of somebody " had 
 lost his charge. At mention of the negro he be- 
 came wild, and, half in English, half in the " gumbo" 
 dialect, said murderous things. Intimidated by 
 Jules to calmness, he became able to speak confi- 
 dently on one point ; he could, would, and did 
 swear that Colossus had gone home to the Florida 
 parishes ; he was almost certain ; in fact, he thought 
 so. 
 
 There was a clicking of pulleys as the three ap- 
 peared upon the bayou's margin, and Baptiste 
 pointed out, in the deep shadow of a great oak, 
 the Isabella, moored among the bulrushes, and just 
 spreading her sails for departure. Moving down 
 to where she lay, the parson and his friend paused 
 on the bank, loath to say farewell. 
 
 " O Jools ! " said the parson, " supposin' Colos- 
 sus ain't gone home ! O Jools, if you'll look him 
 out for me, I'll never forget you I'll never forget 
 you, nohow, Jools. No, Jools, I never will believe
 
 224 Old Creole Days. 
 
 he taken that money. Yes, I know all niggahs 
 will steal " he set foot upon the gang-plank 
 " but Colossus wouldn't steal from me. Good-by." 
 
 " Misty Posson Jone'," said St. Ange, putting 
 his hand on the parson's arm with genuine affec- 
 tion, " hoi' on. You see dis money w'at I win 
 las' night ? Well, I win' it by a specious provi- 
 dence, 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, " cest very true. I ged 
 this money in the mysterieuze way. Mais, if I 
 keep dis money, you know where it goin' be to- 
 night ? " 
 
 " I really can't say," replied the parson. 
 
 " Goin' to de dev'," said the sweetly-smiling 
 young 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? " 
 
 " Anything ! " answered the parson ; " better 
 donate it away to some poor man " 
 
 " Ah ! Misty Posson Jone', dat is w'at I want, 
 You los' five hondred dollar' 'twas me fault." 
 
 " No, it wa'n't, Jools."
 
 " Posson Jone'." 225 
 
 " Mais, it was ! " 
 
 " No ! " 
 
 " It was me fault ! I swear it was me fault ! 
 Mais, here is five hondred dollar' ; I wish you 
 shall take it. Here ! I don't got no use for 
 money. Oh, my faith ! Posson Jone', you must 
 not begin to cry some more." 
 
 Parson Jones was choked with tears. When he 
 found voice, he said : 
 
 " O Jools, Jools, Jools ! my pore, noble, dear, 
 misguidened friend ! ef you hed of hed a Chris- 
 tian raisin' ! May the Lord show you your errors 
 better'n I kin, and bless you for your good inten- 
 tions oh, no ! I cayn't touch that money with a 
 ten-foot pole ; it wa'n't rightly got ; you must 
 really 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 ! " 
 '5
 
 226 Old Creole Days. 
 
 "All right!" cried the Creole; "I thing he's 
 willin'. Adieu, Posson Jone'. My faith' ! you 
 are the so fighting an' moz rilligious man as I 
 never saw ! Adieu ! Adieu ! " 
 
 Baptiste uttered a cry and presently ran by his 
 master toward the schooner, his hands full of clods. 
 
 St.-Ange looked just in time to see the sable 
 form of Colossus of Rhodes emerge from the ves- 
 sel's hold, and the pastor of Smyrna and Bethesda 
 seize 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 and swearing, and making con- 
 fused allusion to the entire personnel and furniture 
 of the lower regions. 
 
 By odd fortune, at the moment that St.-Ange 
 further demonstrated his delight by tripping his 
 mulatto into a bog, the schooner came brushing 
 along the reedy bank with a graceful curve, the 
 sails flapped, and the crew fell to poling her slowly 
 along. 
 
 Parson Jones was on the deck, kneeling once 
 more in prayer. His hat had fallen before him ; 
 behind him knelt his slave. In thundering tones 
 he was confessing himself " a plum fool," from 
 whom " the conceit had been jolted out," and who 
 had been made to see that even his " nigger had 
 the longest head of the two."
 
 " Pass on Jone" 227 
 
 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' jackace of 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 the strategist. Pausing 
 but an instant over the master's hat to grin an ac- 
 knowledgment of his beholders' speechless interest, 
 he softly placed in it the faithfully-mourned and 
 honestly-prayed-for Smyrna fund ; then, saluted 
 by the gesticulative, silent applause of St.-Ange 
 and the schoonermen, he resumed his first attitude 
 behind his roaring master. 
 
 " Amen ! " cried Colossus, meaning to bring 
 him to a close.
 
 228 Old Creole Days. 
 
 " 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 the well-known roll. As one stunned, 
 he gazed for a moment upon his slave, who still 
 knelt with clasped hands and rolling eyeballs ; but 
 when he became aware of the laughter and cheers 
 that greeted him from both deck and shore, he 
 lifted eyes and hands to heaven, and cried like the 
 veriest babe. And when he looked at the roll 
 again, and hugged and kissed it, St.-Ange tried to 
 raise a second shout, but choked, and the crew 
 fell to their poles. 
 
 And now up runs Baptiste, covered with slime, 
 and prepares to cast his projectiles. The first one 
 fell wide of the mark ; the schooner swung round 
 into a long reach of water, where the breeze was in 
 her favor ; another shout of laughter drowned the 
 maledictions of the muddy man ; the sails filled ; 
 Colossus of Rhodes, smiling and bowing as hero 
 of the moment, ducked as the main boom swept 
 round, and the schooner, leaning slightly to the 
 pleasant influence, rustled a moment over the bul- 
 rushes, and then sped far away down the rippling 
 bayou. 
 
 M. Jules St.-Ange stood long, gazing at the re- 
 ceding vessel as it now disappeared, now reap- 
 peared beyond the tops of the high undergrowth ;
 
 " Posson Jone" 229 
 
 but, when an arm of the forest hid it finally from 
 sight, he turned town-ward, followed by that 
 fagged-out spaniel, his servant, saying, as he 
 turned, " Baptiste." 
 
 " Miche?" 
 
 " 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 a wine-bottle, and master and 
 man, leaving care behind, returned to the pictur> 
 esque Rue Royale. The ways of Providence are 
 indeed strange. In all Parson Jones's after-life, 
 amid the many painful reminiscences of his visit to 
 the City of the Plain, the sweet knowledge was 
 withheld from him that by the light of the Chris- 
 tian virtue that shone from him even in his great 
 fall, Jules St.-Ange arose, and went to his father, 
 an honest man. 
 
 THE END.
 
 OLD CREOLE DAYS 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE W. CABLE. 
 
 One Volume, 16mo, extra cloth, - Sl.OO. 
 
 Mr. Cable's sketches of life in the old French quarter of New Orleans 
 display a freshness and originality, an insight into the character of the 
 mixed races there, and a faculty of seizing on the picturesque phases of 
 life among these oddly contrasted people, that give them an importance 
 far above their value as a mere collection of clever stories. "Sieur 
 George," "Madame Delicieuse,'' " Jean-ah Poquelin," and "The Belles 
 Demoiselles' Plantation," are some of the stories included carrying even 
 in their titles some of their quaint attractiveness. 
 
 CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 ' It is very seldom indeed that we meet with a book so distinctly marking the advent 
 of a writer of high artistic power and fresh observation, as this of Mr. Cable's. After 
 re-reading carefully, and with the keenest enjoyment, the stories now collected under one 
 heading, we not only have no hesitation in pronouncing their author a genius with special 
 and captivating endowments, but we feel it an imperative critical duty to so declare him." 
 
 Boston Courier. 
 
 " Mr. Cable has the rare gift of keen observation united to great descriptive power. 
 . . . He has portrayed the character of the remnant of France stranded on a loreign 
 shore, in so many aspects, that the reader gains a most perfect idea of the strange com- 
 pound of courtesy and selfishness, of grace and untriuhfumess, of bravery and cunning, 
 which that character presents. . . The stories, themselves, display an inventive genius 
 which ranks the author among the best of our modern writers." Christian Intelligencer. 
 
 "These charming stories attract attention and commendation by their quaint delicacy 
 of style, their faithful delirteation of Creole character, and a marked originality. The 
 careful rendering of the dialect reveals patient study of living models ; and to any reader 
 whose ear is accustomed to the broken English, as heard in the parts of our city every 
 day, its truth to nature is striking." New Orleans Picayune. 
 
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 strong drawing. Here, in this little volume, is life, breath, and blood. The author of 
 this book is an artist, and over such a revelation one may be permitted strong words." 
 
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 and as to his women, they are as delightful as the scent of the flowers which he mentions 
 every now and then." N. Y. Times. 
 
 " The seven sketches which compose this bright little volume are full of a delicate pathetic 
 kumor which lias rarely been equaled in American Literature." Detroit Free Press. 
 
 11 Then half-pathetic, half-humorous, and altogether delicate sketches, constitute 
 extremeiy good literature. . . . There is the touch of a true artist in them." Ev. Post. 
 
 " These stories contain a most attractive blending of vivid descriptions of local scenery 
 nth admirable delineations of personal character." Congregationalist. 
 
 %* The above book for tale by all booksellers, or will be sent, prepaid, *fon 
 rtttift of frice, by 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 743 ANO 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK.
 
 The Boy^s Froissart. 
 
 EDITED WITH AN INTBODUOTION 
 By SIDNEY LANIER. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ALFRED KAPPES. 
 
 One Volume, crown 8vo, extra cloth, - $3.OO. 
 
 " A s you read of the fair knights and the foul knights for Froissart tells of 
 both it cannot but occur to you tkat somehow it seems harder to be a good knight 
 now-a-days than it was then . . . Nevertheless the same qualities which made 
 a manful fighter then, make one now. To speak the very truth, to perform a promise 
 to the utmost, to reverence all women, to maintain right and honesty, to help the 
 weak ; to treat hi^h and low with courtesy, to be constant to one love, to be fair to a 
 bitter foe, to despise luxury, to pursue simplicity, modesty and gentleness in heart 
 and bearing, this was in the oath of the young knight who took the stroke upon him 
 in the fourteenth century, and this is still the way to win love and glory in tftf 
 nineteenth." EXTRACT FROM THE PREFACE. 
 
 CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 "There is no reason why Sir John Froissart should not become as well known to 
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 knightly, the heroic, the gentle, and this spirit breathes through all his chronicles. There 
 is a genuineness, too, about his writings that gives them a literary value." 
 
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 inspired him with more enthusiasm than even poetry itself, Mr. Lanier has shown, 
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 plete, and has digested them into an orderly compact volume, upon which the publishers 
 have lavished fine paper, presswork and binding, and that is illustrated by a number of 
 cuts." Philadelphia Times. 
 
 *#* For sale by all booksellers, or will be sent, post-paid, upon receipt of Jtrict 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 
 
 Nos. 743 AND 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK.
 
 The 
 
 Letters of CharlesDickens. 
 
 Edited by his Sister-in-Law and his Eldest Daughter. 
 With several Fac-simile Letters. 
 
 Two Volumes, 12mo, cloth, - $3.OO. 
 
 nimselt Dy nimseil. Aitogetner, tne letters give sucn a revelation 01 
 the man as nothing else could give so well, and as might make a substitute 
 for any biography. 
 
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 tten in English that is clear ai ' 
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 They flash Dickens on you with as much vigor as if they gave you a glimpse of him in a 
 magic-lantern." London Spectator. 
 
 " That bright sparkling style, that tenderness of heart and fund of cheery humoi; 
 that odd, keen, humorous way of observing and noting things, that appreciation of and 
 affection for hosts of friends, which we already knew to lie aVnong his most lovable traits, 
 are to be yet once more tasted and enjoyed in these pages." Literary World. 
 
 "The attractiveness of these volumes lies in their free and natural exhibition of 
 
 " Of three things noticeable in this correspondence, one is the prevailing cheerful- 
 ness of high spirits. , . . The other two noticeable things are the great excellence 
 flexibility and simpleness of style from the very first, and the surprising quantity of highly 
 entertaining epistolary writing produced by this one man." Boston Courier. 
 
 * ^ Far sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid, upon receipt of price, 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS; 
 
 Nos. 743 AND 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK.
 
 t.The oh arm of these nearly perfect stories lie* In their 
 *qulite simplicity and most tender humor." PHILADELPHIA Tuu 
 
 RUDDER GRANGE. 
 
 By FRANK R. STOCKTON. 
 
 One Volume, 16mo, Extra Cloth, attractive binding*, 91.2S. 
 
 44 Humor like this is perennial." Washington Pott. 
 
 " Mr. Stockton has rare gifts for this style of writing, and hat 
 developed in these papers remarkable genius." Pittsburgh Gazette. 
 
 44 A cei tain humorous seriousness over matters that are not serious 
 surrounds the story, even in its most indifferent parts, with an atmosphere, 
 an aroma of very quaint and delightful humor." N. Y. Evening Post. 
 
 "Mr. Stockton's vein of humor is a fresh and rich one, that affords 
 pleasure to mature people as well as to youne ones. Thus far, ' Rudder . 
 Grange ' is his best effort." Philadelphia Bulletin. 
 
 " Rudder Grange is an ideal book to take into the country for 
 summer reading." Portland Press. 
 
 " Rudder Grange is really a very delightful piece of fooling, but, like 
 all fooling that is worth the while, it has point and purpose." Phil. 
 Telegraph. 
 
 "The odd conceit of making his young couple try their hands at 
 house-keeping first in an old canal boat, suggests many droll situations, 
 which the author improves with a frolicsome humor that is all liis own." 
 'Worcester Spy. 
 
 " There is in these chapters a rare and captivating drollery. . . . , 
 We have had more pleasure in reading them over again than we had when 
 they first appeared in the magazine." Congregationalism 
 
 * Tk* about book for talt by all bookseller*, or will bt tent, frefaid, *fim 
 rtttift of trice, by 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 743 AND 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK,

 
 University of California Library 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 Phone Renewal 
 310/825-918^ 
 
 DATE SENT OCT 6 1997 
 
 DUE 3 MONTHS FROM 
 DATE RECEIVED 
 
 IP-" 
 
 BEC17B9G 
 
 Ql JAN 16 2081' 
 
 JUL 5 REC-D .QOAM 
 
 JUL2920M
 
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