It would, no doubt, be different were the blighted heart that of his younger. With her the Spanish proverb, “un clavo saca otro clavo,” might have meaning. By good fortune, Jessie needs no nail to drive out another. Her natural exuberance of spirits grown to greater joy from the hopes that now halo her young life, is flung over the future of all. Some compensation for her sister’s sadness—something to cheer their common father. There is also the excitement attendant on the industries of the hour—the cares of the cotton-planting, with speculations about the success of the crop—these, with a hundred like thoughts and things, hinder him from so frequently recurring to, or so long dwelling on, that which can but cruelly distress.
It is the night succeeding that in which the mestizo made his private pyrotechnic display; and Colonel Armstrong with his future son-in-law is seated in the former refectory of the mission, which they have converted into a decent dining-room.
They are not alone, or, as in French phraseology better expressed, chez eux mêmes. Six or seven of their fellow-colonists of the better class share the saloon with them—these being guests whom they have invited to dinner.
The meal is over, the hour touching ten, the ladies have retired from the table, only the gentlemen remain, drinking choice claret, which Dupré, a sort of Transatlantic Lucullus, has brought with him from his Louisiana wine bins.
Armstrong himself, being of Scotch ancestry, has the national preference for whisky punch; and a tumbler of this beverage—the best in the world—stands on the table before him. His glass has been filled three times, and is as often emptied.
It need not be said, at this moment he is not sad. After three tumblers of whisky toddy no man can help being hilarious; and so is it with Colonel Armstrong. Seated at the head of his dining-table, the steaming punch before him, he converses with his guests, gay as the gayest. For a time their conversation is on general topics; but at length changes to one more particular. Something said has directed their attention to a man, who waited upon them at table, now no longer in the room.
The individual thus honoured is Dupré’s confidential servant Fernand; who, as already said, is house-steward, butler, factotum of affairs generally.
As is usual with such grand dignitaries, he has withdrawn simultaneously with the removal of the tablecloth, leaving a deputy to look to the decanting of the wine. Therefore, there is nothing remarkable in his disappearance; nor would aught be observed about it, but for a remark made by one of the guests during the course of conversation. A young surgeon, who has cast in his lot with the new colony, is he who starts the topic, thus introducing it:—
“Friend Dupré, where did you get that fellow Fernand? I don’t remember having seen him on your Louisiana plantation.”
“I picked him up in Natchitoches while we were organising. You know I lost my old major-domo last fall by the yellow fever. It took him off while we were down in New Orleans. Fernand, however, is his superior in every sense; can keep plantation accounts, wait at table, drive a carriage, or help in a hunt. He’s a fellow of wonderful versatility; in short, a genius. And what is rare in such a combination of talents, he is devoted to his duties—a very slave to them.”