“Mr. Poquelin,” he said with a conciliatory smile, “tell me, is it your house that our Creole citizens tell such odd stories about?”

The old man glared sternly upon the speaker, and with immovable features said: 

“You don’t see me trade some Guinea nigga’?”

“Oh, no.”

“You don’t see me make some smuggling”

“No, sir; not at all.”

“But, I am Jean Marie Poquelin.  I mine me hown bizniss.  Dat all right?  Adieu.”

He put his hat on and withdrew.  By and by he stood, letter in hand, before the person to whom it was addressed.  This person employed an interpreter.

“He says,” said the interpreter to the officer, “he come to make you the fair warning how you muz not make the street pas’ at his ’ouse.”

The officer remarked that “such impudence was refreshing;” but the experienced interpreter translated freely.

“He says:  ‘Why you don’t want?’” said the interpreter.

The old slave-trader answered at some length.

“He says,” said the interpreter, again turning to the officer, “the marass is a too unhealth’ for peopl’ to live.”

“But we expect to drain his old marsh; it’s not going to be a marsh.”

“Il dit”—­The interpreter explained in French.

The old man answered tersely.

“He says the canal is a private,” said the interpreter.

“Oh! that old ditch; that’s to be filled up.  Tell the old man we’re going to fix him up nicely.”

Translation being duly made, the man in power was amused to see a thunder-cloud gathering on the old man’s face.

“Tell him,” he added, “by the time we finish, there’ll not be a ghost left in his shanty.”

The interpreter began to translate, but—­

“J’ comprends, J’ comprends,” said the old man, with an impatient gesture, and burst forth, pouring curses upon the United States, the President, the Territory of Orleans, Congress, the Governor and all his subordinates, striding out of the apartment as he cursed, while the object of his maledictions roared with merriment and rammed the floor with his foot.

“Why, it will make his old place worth ten dollars to one,” said the official to the interpreter.

“’Tis not for de worse of de property,” said the interpreter.

“I should guess not,” said the other, whittling his chair,—­“seems to me as if some of these old Creoles would liever live in a crawfish hole than to have a neighbor”

“You know what make old Jean Poquelin make like that?  I will tell you.  You know”—­

The interpreter was rolling a cigarette, and paused to light his tinder; then, as the smoke poured in a thick double stream from his nostrils, he said, in a solemn whisper: 

“He is a witch.”

“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed the other.

“You don’t believe it?  What you want to bet?” cried the interpreter, jerking himself half up and thrusting out one arm while he bared it of its coat-sleeve with the hand of the other.  “What you want to bet?”