We looked about us while our packs were being unloaded, and the place had a strange flavor in that year of our Lord, 1789.  A swarthy boatman in a tow shirt with a bright handkerchief on his head stared at us over the gunwale of one of the keel boats, and spat into the still, yellow water; three high-cheeked Indians, with smudgy faces and dirty red blankets, regarded us in silent contempt; and by the water-side above us was a sled loaded with a huge water cask, a bony mustang pony between the shafts, and a chanting negro dipping gourdfuls from the river.  A road slanted up the little limestone bluff, and above and below us stone houses could be seen nestling into the hill, houses higher on the river side, and with galleries there.  We climbed the bluff, Benjy at our heels with the saddle-bags, and found ourselves on a yellow-clay street lined with grass and wild flowers.  A great peace hung over the village, an air of a different race, a restfulness strange to a Kentuckian.  Clematis and honeysuckle climbed the high palings, and behind the privacy of these, low, big-chimneyed houses of limestone, weathered gray, could be seen, their roofs sloping in gentle curves to the shaded porches in front; or again, houses of posts set upright in the ground and these filled between with plaster, and so immaculately whitewashed that they gleamed against the green of the trees which shaded them.  Behind the houses was often a kind of pink-and-cream paradise of flowering fruit trees, so dear to the French settlers.  There were vineyards, too, and thrifty patches of vegetables, and lines of flowers set in the carefully raked mould.

We walked on, enraptured by the sights around us, by the heavy scent of the roses and the blossoms.  Here was a quaint stone horse-mill, a stable, or a barn set uncouthly on the street; a baker’s shop, with a glimpse of the white-capped baker through the shaded doorway, and an appetizing smell of hot bread in the air.  A little farther on we heard the tinkle of the blacksmith’s hammer, and the man himself looked up from where the hoof rested on his leather apron to give us a kindly “Bon soir, Messieurs,” as we passed.  And here was a cabaret, with the inevitable porch, from whence came the sharp click of billiard balls.

We walked on, stopping now and again to peer between the palings, when we heard, amidst the rattling of a cart and the jingling of bells, a chorus of voices:—­

“A cheval, a cheval, pour aller voir ma mie,
Lon, lon, la!”

A shaggy Indian pony came ambling around the corner between the long shafts of a charette.  A bareheaded young man in tow shirt and trousers was driving, and three laughing girls were seated on the stools in the cart behind him.  Suddenly, before I quite realized what had happened, the young man pulled up the pony, the girls fell silent, and Nick was standing in the middle of the road, with his hat in his hand, bowing elaborately.

“Je vous salue, Mesdemoiselles,” he cried, “mes anges a char-a-banc.  Pouvez-vous me diriger chez Monsieur Gratiot?”