At length, one beautiful evening in July, under a sky resplendent with stars, amid the perfume of gardens and caressed by the cool night breeze, we made our entry into the village of St. Martinville—­the Little Paris, the oasis in the desert.

My father ordered Julien [the coachman] to stop at the best inn.  He turned two or three corners and stopped near the bayou [Teche] just beside the bridge, before a house of the strangest aspect possible.  There seemed first to have been built a rez-de-chaussee house of ordinary size, to which had been hastily added here a room, there a cabinet, a balcony, until the “White Pelican”—­I seem to see it now—­was like a house of cards, likely to tumble before the first breath of wind.  The host’s name was Morphy.  He came forward, hat in hand, a pure-blooded American, but speaking French almost like a Frenchman.  In the house all was comfortable and shining with cleanness.  Madame Morphy took us to our room, adjoining papa’s ["tou ta cote de selle de papa"], the two looking out, across the veranda, upon the waters of the Teche.

After supper my father proposed a walk.  Madame Morphy showed us, by its lights, in the distance, a theater!

“They are playing, this evening, ‘The Barber of Seville.’”

We started on our walk, moving slowly, scanning the houses and listening to the strains of music that reached us from the distance.  It seemed but a dream that at any moment might vanish.  On our return to the inn, papa threw his letters upon the table and began to examine their addresses.

“To whom will you carry the first letter, papa?” I asked.

“To the Baron du Clozel,” he replied.  “I have already met him in New Orleans, and even had the pleasure to render him a slight service.”

Mechanically Suzanne and I examined the addresses and amused ourselves reading the pompous title’s.

“‘Le chevalier Louis de Blanc!’” began my sister; “’L’honorable A. Declouet’; ‘Le comte Louis le Pelletrier de la Houssaye’!  Ah!” she cried, throwing the packet upon the table, “the aristocrats!  I am frightened, poor little plebeian that I am.”

“Yes, my daughter,” responded my father, “these names represent true aristocrats, as noble in virtues as in blood.  My father has often told me of two uncles of the Count de la Houssaye:  the first, Claude de la Pelletrier de la Houssaye, was prime minister to King Louis XV.; and the second, Barthelemy, was employed by the Minister of Finance.  The count, he to whom I bear this letter, married Madelaine Victoire de Livilier.  These are noble names.”

Then Alix was not mistaken; it was really her friend, the Countess Madelaine, whom I was about to meet.

FOOTNOTES:  [16] When I used the name of Agricole Fuselier (or Agricola Fusilier, as I have it in my novel “The Grandissimes”) I fully believed it was my own careful coinage; but on publishing it I quickly found that my supposed invention was but an unconscious reminiscence.  The name still survives, I am told, on the Teche.—­TRANSLATOR.