Agricola slept late.  He had gone to his room the evening before much incensed at the presumption of some younger Grandissimes who had brought up the subject, and spoken in defence, of their cousin Honore.  He had retired, however, not to rest, but to construct an engine of offensive warfare which would revenge him a hundred-fold upon the miserable school of imported thought which had sent its revolting influences to the very Grandissime hearthstone; he wrote a “Phillipique Generale contre la Conduite du Gouvernement de la Louisiane” and a short but vigorous chapter in English on “The Insanity of Educating the Masses.”  This accomplished, he had gone to bed in a condition of peaceful elation, eager for the next day to come that he might take these mighty productions to Joseph Frowenfeld, and make him a present of them for insertion in his book of tables.

Jean-Baptiste felt no need of his advice, that he should rouse him; and, for a long time before the old man awoke, his younger kinsmen were stirring about unwontedly, going and coming through the hall of the mansion, along its verandas and up and down its outer flight of stairs.  Gates were opening and shutting, errands were being carried by negro boys on bareback horses, Charlie Mandarin of St. Bernard parish and an Armand Fusilier from Faubourg Ste. Marie had on some account come—­as they told the ladies—­“to take breakfast;” and the ladies, not yet informed, amusedly wondering at all this trampling and stage whispering, were up a trifle early.  In those days Creole society was a ship, in which the fair sex were all passengers and the ruder sex the crew.  The ladies of the Grandissime mansion this morning asked passengers’ questions, got sailors’ answers, retorted wittily and more or less satirically, and laughed often, feeling their constrained insignificance.  However, in a house so full of bright-eyed children, with mothers and sisters of all ages as their confederates, the secret was soon out, and before Agricola had left his little cottage in the grove the topic of all tongues was the abysmal treachery and ingratitude of negro slaves.  The whole tribe of Grandissime believed, this morning, in the doctrine of total depravity—­of the negro.

And right in the face of this belief, the ladies put forth the generously intentioned prayer for mercy.  They were answered that they little knew what frightful perils they were thus inviting upon themselves.

The male Grandissimes were not surprised at this exhibition of weak clemency in their lovely women; they were proud of it; it showed the magnanimity that was natural to the universal Grandissime heart, when not restrained and repressed by the stern necessities of the hour.  But Agricola disappointed them.  Why should he weaken and hesitate, and suggest delays and middle courses, and stammer over their proposed measures as “extreme”?  In very truth, it seemed as though that drivelling, woman-beaten Deutsch apotheke—­ha! ha! ha!—­in the rue Royale had bewitched Agricola as well as Honore.  The fact was, Agricola had never got over the interview which had saved Sylvestre his life.