The two rich men who had stood and talked together mopped their foreheads and shook hands in silence.
Finally it was the older, whom we have called Adolphe,—which was not his name any more than was his companion's Felix,—finally, then, Adolphe remarked quite calmly, as he looked at his watch:
"I am glad dat cotton in de pile is saved, yas. 'T is not de first time de ol' city has fought a battle wid cotton-bales to help, eh, Felix? All doze foundation bales dey belong to Harold Le Duc. He contribute dem, an' make no condition. All dat trash on top de cotton, it catch de tar; so to-morrow we dig it out clean an' give it to him again—an'—an'—
"Well—"
He looked at his watch again, keeping his eyes upon it for a moment before he ventured, in a lower tone:
"Well, I say, Felix, my boy, w'at you say?"
"I di'n' spoke. W'at you say yourself, Adolphe?"
"'Well,'—dat's all I said; jus' 'well.' Mais I di'n' finish. I begin to say, I—Well, I was just t'inking. You know to-night it is de las' opera—don't you forget. No danger to make a habit on a las' night; ain't dat true? For w'y you don't say somet'ing?"
"Ah-h-h! Talk, ol' man! I am listening." Felix looked at his watch now. "An' maybe I am t'inking a li'l' bit, too. Mais go on."
"Well, I am t'inking of doze strange ladies. I am sure dey had many vacant box to-night. Don't you t'ink dey need a little encouragement—not to leave New Orleans wid dat impression of neglect? We don't want to place a stigma upon de gay ol' town. My carriage is here, an' it is yet time. One hour, an' we will forget all dis trouble. I need me some champagne myself."