The day being, as the figures have already shown, an unusually mild one, even for a Louisiana December, and the finger of the clock drawing by and by toward the last hour of sunlight, some half dozen of Frowenfeld’s townsmen had gathered, inside and out, some standing, some sitting, about his front door, and all discussing the popular topics of the day.  For it might have been anticipated that, in a city where so very little English was spoken and no newspaper published except that beneficiary of eighty subscribers, the “Moniteur de la Louisiane,” the apothecary’s shop in the rue Royale would be the rendezvous for a select company of English-speaking gentlemen, with a smart majority of physicians.

The Cession had become an accomplished fact.  With due drum-beatings and act-reading, flag-raising, cannonading and galloping of aides-de-camp, Nouvelle Orleans had become New Orleans, and Louisiane was Louisiana.  This afternoon, the first week of American jurisdiction was only something over half gone, and the main topic of public debate was still the Cession.  Was it genuine? and, if so, would it stand?

“Mark my words,” said one, “the British flag will be floating over this town within ninety days!” and he went on whittling the back of his chair.

From this main question, the conversation branched out to the subject of land titles.  Would that great majority of Spanish titles, derived from the concessions of post-commandants and others of minor authority, hold good?

“I suppose you know what ——­ thinks about it?”

“No.”

“Well, he has quietly purchased the grant made by Carondelet to the Marquis of ——­, thirty thousand acres, and now says the grant is two hundred and thirty thousand.  That is one style of men Governor Claiborne is going to have on his hands.  The town will presently be as full of them as my pocket is of tobacco crumbs,—­every one of them with a Spanish grant as long as Clark’s ropewalk and made up since the rumor of the Cession.”

“I hear that some of Honore Grandissime’s titles are likely to turn out bad,—­some of the old Brahmin properties and some of the Mandarin lands.”

“Fudge!” said Dr. Keene.

There was also the subject of rotation in office.  Would this provisional governor-general himself be able to stand fast?  Had not a man better temporize a while, and see what Ex-Governor-general Casa Calvo and Trudeau were going to do?  Would not men who sacrificed old prejudices, braved the popular contumely, and came forward and gave in their allegiance to the President’s appointee, have to take the chances of losing their official positions at last?  Men like Camille Brahmin, for instance, or Charlie Mandarin:  suppose Spain or France should get the province back, then where would they be?

“One of the things I pity most in this vain world,” drawled Doctor Keene, “is a hive of patriots who don’t know where to swarm.”