“Let me see,” said M. Grandissime.  “You have a mortgage on one of our Golden Coast plantations.  Well, to be frank with you, I was thinking of that when you came in.  You know I am partial to prompt transactions—­I thought of offering you either to take up that mortgage or to sell you the plantation, as you may prefer.  I have ventured to guess that it would suit you to own it.”

And the speaker felt within him a secret exultation in the idea that he had succeeded in throwing the issue off upon a Providence that could control this mortgager’s choice.

“I would prefer to leave that choice with you,” said the coy would-be purchaser; and then the two went coquetting again for another moment.

“I understand that Nicholas Girod is proposing to erect a four-story brick building on the corner of Royale and St. Pierre.  Do you think it practicable?  Do you think our soil will support such a structure?”

“Pitot thinks it will.  Bore says it is perfectly feasible.”

So they dallied.

“Well,” said the mortgager, presently rising, “you will make up your mind and let me know, will you?”

The chance repetition of those words “make up your mind” touched Honore Grandissime like a hot iron.  He rose with the visitor.

“Well, sir, what would you give us for our title in case we should decide to part with it?”

The two men moved slowly, side by side, toward the door, and in the half-open doorway, after a little further trifling, the title was sold.

“Well, good-day,” said M. Grandissime.  “M. de Brahmin will arrange the papers for us to-morrow.”

He turned back toward his private desk.

“And now,” thought he, “I am acting without resolving.  No merit; no strength of will; no clearness of purpose; no emphatic decision; nothing but a yielding to temptation.”

And M. Grandissime spoke truly; but it is only whole men who so yield—­yielding to the temptation to do right.

He passed into the counting-room, to M. De Brahmin, and standing there talked in an inaudible tone, leaning over the upturned spectacles of his manager, for nearly an hour.  Then, saying he would go to dinner, he went out.  He did not dine at home nor at the Veau-qui-tete, nor at any of the clubs; so much is known; he merely disappeared for two or three hours and was not seen again until late in the afternoon, when two or three Brahmins and Grandissimes, wandering about in search of him, met him on the levee near the head of the rue Bienville, and with an exclamation of wonder and a look of surprise at his dusty shoes, demanded to know where he had hid himself while they had been ransacking the town in search of him.

“We want you to tell us what you will do about our titles.”

He smiled pleasantly, the picture of serenity, and replied: 

“I have not fully made up my mind yet; as soon as I do so I will let you know.”