Sitting moodily in a corner, with legs crossed and hat upon his knee, was a young man whose careless glance wandered from time to time from his cigar to the passing figures. As the marquis slowly hobbled along, with an effort to appear alert, the young man arose quickly and came forward with a conventional smile, intercepting the old nobleman near the door.
“My dear Monsieur le Marquis,” he exclaimed, effusively, “it is with pleasure I see you recovered from your recent indisposition.”
“Recovered!” almost shrieked the marquis. “I’m far from recovered; I’m worse than ever. I detest congratulations, Monsieur! It’s what a lying world always does when you are on the verge of dissolution.”
“You are as discerning as ever,” murmured the land baron––for it was Edward Mauville.
“I’m not fit to be around; I only came out”––with a sardonic chuckle––“because the doctors said it would be fatal.”
“Surely you do not desire––”
“To show them they are impostors? Yes.”
“And does New Orleans continue to please you?” asked the other, with some of that pride Southerners entertained in those days for their queen city.
“How does the exile like the forced land of his adoption?” returned the nobleman, irritably. “My king is in exile. Why should I not be also? Should I stay there, herd with the cattle, call every shipjack ‘Citizen’ and every clod ‘Brother’; treat every scrub as though she were a duchess?”