Ah! then the common people began to hate him.  “The old tyrant!” “You don’t mean an old tyrant?” “Well, then, why don’t he build when the public need demands it?  What does he live in that unneighborly way for?” “The old pirate!” “The old kidnapper!” How easily even the most ultra Louisianians put on the imported virtues of the North when they could be brought to bear against the hermit.  “There he goes, with the boys after him!  Ah! ha! ha!  Jean-ah Poquelin!  Ah!  Jean-ah!  Aha! aha!  Jean-ah Marie!  Jean-ah Poquelin!  The old villain!” How merrily the swarming Americains echo the spirit of persecution!  “The old fraud,” they say—­“pretends to live in a haunted house, does he?  We’ll tar and feather him some day.  Guess we can fix him.”

He cannot be rowed home along the old canal now; he walks.  He has broken sadly of late, and the street urchins are ever at his heels.  It is like the days when they cried:  “Go up, thou bald-head,” and the old man now and then turns and delivers ineffectual curses.

To the Creoles—­to the incoming lower class of superstitious Germans, Irish, Sicilians, and others—­he became an omen and embodiment of public and private ill-fortune.  Upon him all the vagaries of their superstitions gathered and grew.  If a house caught fire, it was imputed to his machinations.  Did a woman go off in a fit, he had bewitched her.  Did a child stray off for an hour, the mother shivered with the apprehension that Jean Poquelin had offered him to strange gods.  The house was the subject of every bad boy’s invention who loved to contrive ghostly lies.  “As long as that house stands we shall have bad luck.  Do you not see our pease and beans dying, our cabbages and lettuce going to seed and our gardens turning to dust, while every day you can see it raining in the woods?  The rain will never pass old Poquelin’s house.  He keeps a fetich.  He has conjured the whole Faubourg St. Marie.  And why, the old wretch?  Simply because our playful and innocent children call after him as he passes.”

A “Building and Improvement Company,” which had not yet got its charter, “but was going to,” and which had not, indeed, any tangible capital yet, but “was going to have some,” joined the “Jean-ah Poquelin” war.  The haunted property would be such a capital site for a market-house!  They sent a deputation to the old mansion to ask its occupant to sell.  The deputation never got beyond the chained gate and a very barren interview with the African mute.  The President of the Board was then empowered (for he had studied French in Pennsylvania and was considered qualified) to call and persuade M. Poquelin to subscribe to the company’s stock; but—­

“Fact is, gentlemen,” he said at the next meeting, “it would take us at least twelve months to make Mr. Pokaleen understand the rather original features of our system, and he wouldn’t subscribe when we’d done; besides, the only way to see him is to stop him on the street.”