The old woman reluctantly obeyed, and the land baron penned a somewhat lengthy epistle to his one-time master in Paris, the Abbé Moneau, whose disapproval of the Anglo-Saxon encroachments––witness Louisiana!––and zeal for the colonization of the Latin races are matters of history. Having completed his epistle, the land baron placed it in the old crone’s hand to mail with: “If that man calls again, tell him I’ll meet him to-night,” and, leaving the room, shot through the doorway, once more rapidly walking down the shabby thoroughfare. The aged negro woman stumbled out upon the balcony and gazed after the departing figure still moaning softly to herself and shaking her head in anguish.
“Fo’ebber and ebber,” she repeated in a wailing tone. Below a colored boy gazed at her in wonderment.
“What debblement am she up to now?” he said to a girl seated in a doorway. “When de old witch am like dat––”
“Come in dar, yo’ black imp!” And a vigorous arm pulled the lad abruptly through the opening. “Ef she sees yo’, she can strike yo’ dead, foh suah!”
The crone could no longer distinguish Mauville––her eyes were nearly sightless––but she continued to 407 look in the direction he had taken, sobbing as before: “Fo’ebber and ebber! Fo’ebber and ebber!”
Once more upon a fashionable thoroughfare, the land baron’s footstep relaxed and he relapsed into his languorous, indolent air. The shadows of twilight were darkening the streets and a Caribbee-scented breeze was wafted from the gulf across the city. It swept through the broad avenues and narrow highways, and sighed among the trees of the old garden. Seating himself absently on one of the public benches, Mauville removed his hat to allow the cool air to fan his brow. Presently he moved on; up Canal Street, where the long rows of gas lights now gleamed through the foliage; thence into a side thoroughfare, as dark as the other street was bright, pausing before a doorway, illumined by a single yellow flame that flickered in the draft and threatened to leave the entrance in total obscurity. Mounting two flights of stairs, no better lighted than the hall below, the land baron reached a doorway, where he paused and knocked. In answer to his summons a slide was quickly slipped back, and through the aperture floated an alcoholic breath.
“Who is it?”
“A Knight of the Golden Square,” said the caller, impatiently. “Open the door.”
The man obeyed and the land baron was admitted to the hall of an organization which had its inception in Texas; a society not unlike the Secret Session Legation of the Civil War, having for its object the 408 overthrow of the government, the carrying of mails and despatches and other like business. Here was gathered a choice aggregation of Mexican sympathizers, a conclave hostile to the North. Composed of many nationalities, the polished continental adventurer rubbed shoulders with the Spanish politicians; the swarthy agents of Santa Anna brushed against the secret enemies of northern aggression. A small bar, unpretentious but convenient, occupied a portion of one end of the room, and a brisk manipulator of juleps presided over this popular corner.
Half-disdainfully, the land baron mingled with the heterogeneous assembly; half-ironically, his eye swept the group at the bar––the paid spy, the needy black-sheep; the patriot, the swashbuckler; men with and without a career. As Mauville stepped forward, a quiet, dark-looking man, obviously a Mexican, not without a certain distinguished carriage, immediately approached the newcomer.