“A woman,” said he.
Xavier, who overheard, gave a delighted laugh.
“Parbleu, Michié, you have right,” he said, “but Michié Gratiot, he say no. In Nouvelle Orléans we find some.”
Nick got to his feet, and if anything he did could have surprised me, I should have been surprised when he put his arm coaxingly about Xavier's neck. Xavier himself was surprised and correspondingly delighted.
“Tell me, Xavier,” he said, with a look not to be resisted, “do you think I shall find some beauties there?”
“Beauties!” exclaimed Xavier, “La Nouvelle Orléans—it is the home of beauty, Michié. They promenade themselves on the levee, they look down from ze gallerie, mais—”
“But what, Xavier?”
“But, mon Dieu, Michié, they are vair' difficile. They are not like Englis' beauties, there is the father and the mother, and—the convent.” And Xavier, who had a wen under his eye, laid his finger on it.
“For shame, Xavier,” cried Nick; “and you are balked by such things?”
Xavier thought this an exceedingly good joke, and he took his pipe out of his mouth to laugh the better.