There was a moment’s hush to hear the answer.

“Ask Valentine,” said Honore.

Everybody laughed aloud.  That taciturn man’s only retort was to survey the company above him with an unmoved countenance, and to push the ashes slowly from his cigar with his little finger.  M. Valentine Grandissime, of Tchoupitoulas, could not read.

“Show it to Agricola,” cried two or three, as that great man came out upon the veranda, heavy-eyed, and with tumbled hair.

Sylvestre, spying Agricola’s head beyond the ladies, put the question.

“How is it spelled on that paper?” retorted the king of beasts.

“L-a-y—­”

“Ignoramus!” growled the old man.

“I did not spell it,” cried Raoul, and attempted to seize the paper.  But Sylvestre throwing his hand behind him, a lady snatched the paper, two or three cried “Give it to Agricola!” and a pretty boy, whom the laughter and excitement had lured from the garden, scampered up the steps and handed it to the old man.

“Honore!” cried Raoul, “it must not be read.  It is one of your private matters.”

But Raoul’s insinuation that anybody would entrust him with a private matter brought another laugh.

Honore nodded to his uncle to read it out, and those who could not understand English, as well as those who could, listened.  It was a paper Sylvestre had picked out of a waste-basket on the day of Aurore’s visit to the counting-room.  Agricola read: 

     “What is that layde want in thare with Honore?”
     “Honore is goin giv her bac that proprety—­that is
     Aurore De Grapion what Agricola kill the husband.”

That was the whole writing, but Agricola never finished.  He was reading aloud—­“that is Aurore De Grap—­”

At that moment he dropped the paper and blackened with wrath; a sharp flash of astonishment ran through the company; an instant of silence followed and Agricola’s thundering voice rolled down upon Sylvestre in a succession of terrible imprecations.

It was painful to see the young man’s face as, speechless, he received this abuse.  He stood pale and frightened, with a smile playing about his mouth, half of distress and half of defiance, that said as plain as a smile could say, “Uncle Agricola, you will have to pay for this mistake.”

As the old man ceased, Sylvestre turned and cast a look downward to Valentine Grandissime, then walked up the steps, and passing with a courteous bow through the group that surrounded Agricola, went into the house.  Valentine looked at the zenith, then at his shoe-buckles, tossed his cigar quietly into the grass and passed around a corner of the house to meet Sylvestre in the rear.

Honore had already nodded to his uncle to come aside with him, and Agricola had done so.  The rest of the company, save a few male figures down in the garden, after some feeble efforts to keep up their spirits on the veranda, remarked the growing coolness or the waning daylight, and singly or in pairs withdrew.  It was not long before Raoul, who had come up upon the veranda, was left alone.  He seemed to wait for something, as, leaning over the rail while the stars came out, he sang to himself, in a soft undertone, a snatch of a Creole song: