the seniors were found at a table for four.
mme. de l'isle explained: "but! with only four to sit down there, how was it possib' to h-ask for a tab'e for six? that wou'n' be logical!"
when the waiter offered to add a smaller table and make one snug board for six--"no," she said; "for feet and hands that be all right; but for the mind, ah! you see, mr. chezter, m. de l'isle he's also precizely in the mi'l' of a moze overwhelming story of his own------"
"hiztorical!" the aunts broke in. "well-known! abbout old house! in the vieux carré!"
"and," madame insisted, "'twould ruin that story, to us, to commenze to hear it over, while same time 'twould ruin it to you to commenze to hear it in the mi'l'. and beside', aline, you are doubtlezz yet in the mi'l' of your own story and--waiter! make there at that firz' window a tab'e for two, and" [to the pair] "we'll run both storie' ad the same time--if not three!"
"like that circ'"--the aunts fell into tears of laughter. they touched each other with finger-tips, cried, "like that circuz of barnum!" and repeated to the de l'isles and then to aline, "like that circuz of barnum an' bailey!"
at the table for two, as the gumbo was uncovered and chester asked how it was made, "ah!" said aline, "for a veritable gumbo what you want most is enthusiasm. the enthusiasm of both my aunts would not be too much. and to tell how 'tis made you'd need no less, that would be a story by itself, third ring of the circus."
"then tell me, further, of 'grandpère'"
"and grand'mère? yes, i must, as i learned about them on papa's knee. mamma never saw them; they had been years gone when papa first knew her. but sidney i knew, when she was old and had seen all those dreadful times; and, though she often would not tell me the story, she would tell me what to ask papa; you see? you would have liked to talk with sidney about old buildings. mr. chester, i think it is not that in new orleans we are so picturesque, but that all the rest of our country--in the cities--is so starved for the picturesque. sidney would have told you that story monsieur is telling now as well as all the strange history of that old hotel st. louis. first, after the war it was changed back from a hospital to a hotel. i think 'twas then they called it hotel royal. anyhow 'twas again very fine. grandpère and grand'mère were often in that salon where he had first--as they say--spoken. because, for one thing, there they met people of the outside world without the local prejudices, you know?"
"at that time bitter and vindictive?"
"oh, ferocious! and there they met also people of the most--dignity."
"above the average of the other hotels?"
"well, not so--so brisk."
"not so american?"
"ah, you know. well, maybe that's one reason the st. charles, for example, continued, while the royal did not. anyhow the royal--grandpère had the life habit of it and 'twas just across the street. daily they ate there; a real economy."
"but they kept the old home."
"yes. 'twas furnished the same but not 'run' the same. 'twas very difficult to keep it, even with all three stories of the servants' wing shut up, you know?--like"--a glance indicated the de l'isles.
"but you say hotel royal was soon closed."
"yes, and then, in the worst of those days, it became the capitol. there, in the most elegant hotel for the most elegant planters of the south--anyhow southwest--sat their slaves, with white men even more abhorred, and made the laws. in that old dome, second story, they put a floor across, and there sat the senate! just over that auction-block where grandpère had bought mingo."
"where was he--mingo?"
"dead--of drink. grandpère was in that government! long time he was senator. mr. chester, for that papa was proud of him, and i am proud."
the listener was proud of her pride. "i know," he said, "from my own people, that in such an attitude--as your grandfather's--there was honor a plenty for any honorable man. ovide tells me the negroes never wanted negro supremacy. i wonder if that's so. they were often, he says, madly foolish and corrupt; yet their fundamental lawmaking was mostly good. i know the state's constitution was; it was ahead of the times."
aline made a quick gesture: "and any of the old masters who agreed to that could help lead!"
"mademoiselle, how could they agree to it? some did, i know, but that's the wonder. those that could not--who can blame them?"
"ah! 'tis no longer a question of blame but of judgment. so papa used to say. anyhow grandpère agreed, accepted, led; until at the last, one day, that white league--you've heard of them, how they armed and drilled and rose against that reconstruction police in a battle on the steamboat landing? grandpère was in that. he commanded part of the reconstruction forces. and papa was there, though only thirteen. grandpère was bayonet-wounded. they carried him away bleeding. only at the state-house a surgeon met them, and there, under that dome, just as papa brought grand'mère and sidney, he died." mademoiselle ceased.
chester waited, but she glanced to the other table. monsieur had ended his recital. madame and the aunts chatted merrily. smilingly the niece's eyes came back.
"don't stop," said chester. "what followed--for 'maud'--sidney--your boy father--your little-girl aunts? did the clock in the sky call them north again?"
"no." the speaker rose. "i'll tell you on the train; i hear it coming."
