One thing I never knew a Creole to do: he will not utterly go back on the ties of blood, no matter what sort of knots those ties may he. For one reason, he is never ashamed of his or his father’s sins; and for another, he will tell you, he is “all heart.”
So the different heirs of the De Charleu estate had always strictly regarded the rights and interests of the De Carloses, especially their ownership of a block of dilapidated buildings in a part of the city which had once been very poor property, but was beginning to be valuable. This block had much more than maintained the last De Carlos through a long and lazy lifetime, and as his household consisted only of himself and an aged and crippled Negress, the inference was irresistible that he “had money.” Old Charlie, though by alias an “Injin,” was plainly a dark white man, about as old as Colonel De Charleu, sunk in the bliss of deep ignorance, shrewd, deaf, and, by repute at least, unmerciful.
The colonel and he always conversed in English. This rare accomplishment, which the former had learned from his Scotch wife, the latter from up-river traders, they found an admirable medium of communication, answering better than French could a purpose similar to that of the stick which we fasten to the bit of one horse and to the breast-gear of another, whereby each keeps his distance. Once in a while, too, by way of jest, English found its way among the ladies of Belles Demoiselles, always signifying that their sire was about to have business with old Charlie.
Now, a long-standing wish to buy out Charlie troubled the colonel. He had no desire to oust him unfairly, he was proud of being always fair; yet he did long to engross the whole estate under one title. Out of his luxurious idleness he had conceived this desire, and thought little of so slight an obstacle as being already somewhat in debt to old Charlie for money borrowed, and for which Belles Demoiselles was of course good ten times over. Lots, buildings, rents, all, might as well be his, he thought, to give, keep, or destroy. Had he but the old man’s heritage! Ah, he might bring that into existence which his belles demoiselles had been begging for “since many years—” a home, and such a home, in the gay city! Here he should tear down this row of cottages and make his garden wall; there that long rope-walk should give place to vine-covered arbors; the bakery yonder should make way for a costly conservatory; that wine warehouse should come down; and the mansion go up. It should be the finest in the State. Men should never pass it but they should say: “The palace of the De Charleus, a family of grand descent, a people of elegance and bounty, a line as old as France, a fine old man, and seven daughters as beautiful as happy. Whoever dare attempt to marry there must leave his own name behind him.”
The house should be of stones fitly set, brought down in ships from the land of “les Yankees” and it should have an airy belvedere, with a gilded image tiptoeing and shining on its peak, and from it you should see, far across the gleaming folds of the river, the red roof of Belles Demoiselles, the country-seat. At the big stone gate there should be a porter’s lodge, and it should be a privilege even to see the ground.
Truly they were a family fine enough and fancy-free enough to have fine wishes, yet happy enough where they were to have had no wish but to live there always.
To those who by whatever fortune wandered into the garden of Belles Demoiselles some summer afternoon as the sky was reddening toward evening, it was lovely to see the family gathered out upon the tiled pavement at the foot of the broad front steps, gaily chatting and jesting, with that ripple of laughter that comes pleasingly from a bevy of girls. The father would be found seated among them, the center of attention and compliment, witness, arbiter, umpire, critic, by his beautiful children’s unanimous appointment, but the single vassal, too, of seven absolute sovereigns.
Now they would draw their chairs near together in eager discussion of some new step in the dance or the adjustment of some rich adornment. Now they would start about him with excited comments to see the eldest fix a bunch of violets in his buttonhole. Now the twins would move down a walk after some unusual flower, and be greeted on their return with the high-pitched notes of delighted feminine surprise.
As evening came on they would draw more quietly about their paternal center. Often their chairs were forsaken, and they grouped themselves on the lower steps one above another, and surrendered themselves to the tender influences of the approaching night. At such an hour the passer on the river, already attracted by the dark figures of the broad-roofed mansion and its woody garden standing against the glowing sunset, would hear the voices of the hidden group rise from the spot in the soft harmonies of an evening song, swelling clearer and clearer as the thrill of music warmed them into feeling, and presently joined by the deeper tones of the father’s voice; then, as the daylight passed quite away, all would be still, and the passer would know that the beautiful home had gathered its nestlings under its wings.
And yet, for mere vagary, it pleased them not to be pleased.