And so, to repeat, it was in the Theatre St. Philippe (the oldest, the first one), and, as may have been noticed, in the year in which the First Consul of France gave away Louisiana.  Some might call it “sold.”  Old Agricola Fusilier in the rumbling pomp of his natural voice—­for he had an hour ago forgotten that he was in mask and domino—­called it “gave away.”  Not that he believed it had been done; for, look you, how could it be?  The pretended treaty contained, for instance, no provision relative to the great family of Brahmin Mandarin Fusilier de Grandissime.  It was evidently spurious.

Being bumped against, he moved a step or two aside, and was going on to denounce further the detestable rumor, when a masker—­one of four who had just finished the contra-dance and were moving away in the column of promenaders—­brought him smartly around with the salutation: 

“Comment to ye, Citoyen Agricola!”

“H-you young kitten!” said the old man in a growling voice, and with the teased, half laugh of aged vanity as he bent a baffled scrutiny at the back-turned face of an ideal Indian Queen.  It was not merely the tutoiement that struck him as saucy, but the further familiarity of using the slave dialect.  His French was unprovincial.

“H-the cool rascal!” he added laughingly, and, only half to himself; “get into the garb of your true sex, sir, h-and I will guess who you are!”

But the Queen, in the same feigned voice as before, retorted: 

“Ah! mo piti fils, to pas connais to zancestres? Don’t you know your ancestors, my little son!”

“H-the g-hods preserve us!” said Agricola, with a pompous laugh muffled under his mask, “the queen of the Tchoupitoulas I proudly acknowledge, and my great-grandfather, Epaminondas Fusilier, lieutenant of dragoons under Bienville; but,”—­he laid his hand upon his heart, and bowed to the other two figures, whose smaller stature betrayed the gentler sex—­“pardon me, ladies, neither Monks nor Filles a la Cassette grow on our family tree.”

The four maskers at once turned their glance upon the old man in the domino; but if any retort was intended it gave way as the violins burst into an agony of laughter.  The floor was immediately filled with waltzers and the four figures disappeared.

“I wonder,” murmured Agricola to himself, “if that Dragoon can possibly be Honore Grandissime.”

Wherever those four maskers went there were cries of delight:  “Ho, ho, ho! see there! here! there! a group of first colonists!  One of Iberville’s Dragoons! don’t you remember great-great grandfather Fusilier’s portrait—­the gilded casque and heron plumes?  And that one behind in the fawn-skin leggings and shirt of birds’ skins is an Indian Queen.  As sure as sure can be, they are intended for Epaminondas and his wife, Lufki-Humma!” All, of course, in Louisiana French.

“But why, then, does he not walk with her?”