f
it have not had been fo' dat I would not be married to-day. You think I
would get married on dat sal'rie w'at Proffis-or Frowenfel' was payin'
me? Twenty-five dolla' de mont'? Docta Keene, no gen'leman h-ought to
git married if 'e 'ave not anny'ow fifty dolla' de mont'! If I wasn' a
h-artiz I wouldn' git married; I gie you my word!"

"Yes," said the little doctor, "you are right. Now tell me the news."

"Well, dat Cong-ress gone an' make--"

"Raoul, stop. I know that Congress has divided the province into two
territories; I know you Creoles think all your liberties are lost; I
know the people are in a great stew because they are not allowed to
elect their own officers and legislatures, and that in Opelousas and
Attakapas they are as wild as their cattle about it--"

"We 'ad two big mitting' about it," interrupted Raoul; "my bro'r-in-law
speak at both of them!"

"Who?"

"Chahlie Mandarin."

"Glad to hear it," said Doctor Keene,--which was the truth. "Besides
that, I know Laussat has gone to Martinique; that the Americains have a
newspaper, and that cotton is two-bits a pound. Now what I want to know
is, how are my friends? What has Honore done? What has Frowenfeld done?
And Palmyre,--and Agricole? They hustled me away from here as if I had
been caught trying to cut my throat. Tell me everything."

And Raoul sank the artist and bridegroom in the historian, and told him.

CHAPTER XLVII

THE NEWS

"My cousin Honore,--well, you kin jus' say 'e bitray' 'is 'ole fam'ly."

"How so?" asked Doctor Keene, with a handkerchief over his face to
shield his eyes from the sun.

"Well,--ce't'nly 'e did! Di'n' 'e gave dat money to Aurora De
Grapion?--one 'undred five t'ousan' dolla'? Jis' as if to say, 'Yeh's de
money my h-uncle stole from you' 'usban'.' Hah! w'en I will swear on a
stack of Bible' as 'igh as yo' head, dat Agricole win dat 'abitation
fair!--If I see it? No, sir; I don't 'ave to see it! I'll swear to
it! Hah!"

"And have she and her daughter actually got the money?"

"She--an'--heh--daughtah--ac--shilly--got-'at-money-sir! W'at? Dey
livin' in de rue Royale in mag-_niff_ycen' style on top de drug-sto' of
Proffis-or Frowenfel'."

"But how, over Frowenfeld's, when Frowenfeld's is a one-story--"

"My dear frien'! Proffis-or Frowenfel' is _moove!_ You rickleck dat big
new t'ree-story buildin' w'at jus' finished in de rue Royale, a lill mo'
farther up town from his old shop? Well, we open dare _a b