"Yes," said his companion, an American, "so I understand; and there is no man I would rather see rich than Harold Le Duc. His marriage, so soon after the recovery of his child, surprised some of us, but no doubt it was a good thing."
"A good t'ing! It was magnificent! If he is one of de finest men in Louisiana, she is equal to him. Dat remark dat he married only for a mudder for his child—dat's all in my heye! I am sure he was in love to her one year, maybe two, befo' dat—mais, I am not sure he would have asked any woman to marry him. He had not de courage. For him love was past—and he was afraid of it. Mais de chil' she wake him up again! Oh, it is a good t'ing, sure! An' de strange part, she t'ought she wou'n' never love again, jus' de same as him—until—"
"Until what?"
"Well, until he spoke! Until w'at you t'ink?"
"Not'ing. I t'ought maybe it was somet'ing unusual."
"Well, an' is dat not somet'ing unusual—w'en a widow is sure she will not love again? Dey often t'ink so, mais she was absolutely sure! You see, her first husband he was one hero; he fell on de same battle-field wid gallant 'Jeb' Stuart—from a stray shot w'en de fighting was over, carrying dat poor imbecile, Philippe Delmaire, off de fiel', biccause he was yelling so, wid dat one li'l' toe he los'! A good fellow, yas, mais no account! Yas, he drank himself to deat', all on account for de loss of dat toe, so he say. Excuses dey are cheap, yas. If it was not his toe it would have been somet'ing else. You know, his figure, it was really perfection, no mistake, an' to lose perfection, even in so small a matter as one toe—it prey on his mind. Tell de trut', I used to feel sorry for him, an'—an'—w'en he always would touch his glass an' drink dat favorite toast, 'To my big toe!' well, dere was somet'ing pitiful in it. I used to drink it wid him. It was no harm, an' he had always good wine, poor fellow. Mais to t'ink of Paul de La Rose dying for him! It make me mad, yet w'en I t'ink so, I am almos' sorry to reflect I have drunk to his toe! Bah—a valu'ble man—to die like dat! Wat you say? Yas, da's true. It makes not how de soldier fall—de glory is de same. Well, any'ow, if he could have picked out a successor, he could not have done better dan yo'ng Le Duc—sure! W'at you say? ''Ow is he bought doze plantation twice?' Well, dis way: W'en he had to take dem on mortgage, an' dey were sold at de door of de court-house—bidding against him, understand—no rainy-day sale—he paid double—I mean to say he paid so much as de mortagage again. Not in every case, mais in many—to widows. I know two cousin of mine, he paid dem so. I ricollec' dey tol' me dat he was de mos' remembering man to look out for dem, an' de mos' forgetting to sen' de bills.
"Oh, yas. An' his daughter, dey say she is in love to her stepmother—an' she is jus' so foolish about de chil'—an' wid good reason. She had never children—an' she is proud for dat daughter, an' jealous, too, of dose Yankee rillation. Still, she invite dem to come every year, so the chil' can stay—an' now, would you believe it? Dey are come to be great friends, mais, of co'se, her father sends her every year at Boston to her grandmother. Dey all want her, an' no wonder. If she was one mud fence, I suppose it would be all de same, mais you know, she is one great beauty! I say one gr-r-r-reat beauty! Wh! An'w'en I whistle so 'wh!' I mean w'at I say. You see me so, I am one ol' man, now—pas' forty—an' rich in children, an' not bad-looking children, neither; mais I would walk, me, all de way from de barracks up to Bouligny, an' back, just to see her pass in de street an' smile on me. You take my word, if she is not snapped up by some school-boy, she can marry anyt'ing—a coronet! An' I know somet'ing about women—not to brag."
"If you are so anxious to see dat young lady, Felix," said another, "you don't need to walk so far. She is, at dis moment, wid her father an' her stepmudder, on dis trip."
"W'at! w'at you say? Well, wait. I di'n' inten', me, to dress for de ladies' cabin to-night, mais w'en I have my supper I will put on my Sunday t'ings—jus' to go an' sit down in de cabin w'ere—I—can—look—at innocent—beauty! It pleasure me, yas, to see some t'ing like dat. Maybe I am not all good, mais I am not all given over for bad so long I can enjoy a rose-vine all in pink, or a fair yo'ng girl more beautiful yet.
"I tell you, my friends, I was sitting, week before las', at my 'ouse on Esplanade Street, on de back gallerie, w'ere de vines is t'ick, an' dey were, as you might say, honey-suckling de bees—an' de perfume from my night-bloomin' jasmine filled my nose. It was in de evening, an' de moon on de blue sky was like a map of de city, jus' a silver crescent, an' close by, one li'l' star, shining, as de children say, 'like a diamond in de sky,' an' I tell you—I tell you—