Squalidity first met our eyes.  Below us, crowded between the levee and the row of houses, were dozens of squalid market-stalls tended by cotton-clad negroes.  Beyond, across the bare Place d’Armes, a blackened gap in the line of houses bore witness to the devastation of the year gone by, while here and there a roof, struck by the setting sun, gleamed fiery red with its new tiles.  The levee was deserted save for the negroes and the river men.

“Time for siesta, Michie,” said Xavier, joining us; “I will show you ze inn of which I spik.  She is kep’ by my fren’, Madame Bouvet.”

“Xavier,” said Nick, looking at the rolling flood of the river, “suppose this levee should break?”

“Ah,” said Xavier, “then some Spaniard who never have a bath—­he feel what water is lak.”

Followed by Benjy with the saddle-bags, we went down the steps set in the levee into this strange, foreign city.  It was like unto nothing we had ever seen, nor can I give an adequate notion of how it affected us,—­such a mixture it seemed of dirt and poverty and wealth and romance.  The narrow, muddy streets ran with filth, and on each side along the houses was a sun-baked walk held up by the curved sides of broken flatboats, where two men might scarcely pass.  The houses, too, had an odd and foreign look, some of wood, some of upright logs and plaster, and newer ones, Spanish in style, of adobe, with curving roofs of red tiles and strong eaves spreading over the banquette (as the sidewalk was called), casting shadows on lemon-colored walls.  Since New Orleans was in a swamp, the older houses for the most part were lifted some seven feet above the ground, and many of these houses had wide galleries on the street side.  Here and there a shop was set in the wall; a watchmaker was to be seen poring over his work at a tiny window, a shoemaker cross-legged on the floor.  Again, at an open wicket, we caught a glimpse through a cool archway into a flowering court-yard.  Stalwart negresses with bright kerchiefs made way for us on the banquette.  Hands on hips, they swung along erect, with baskets of cakes and sweetmeats on their heads, musically crying their wares.

At length, turning a corner, we came to a white wooden house on the Rue Royale, with a flight of steps leading up to the entrance.  In place of a door a flimsy curtain hung in the doorway, and, pushing this aside, we followed Xavier through a darkened hall to a wide gallery that overlooked a court-yard.  This court-yard was shaded by several great trees which grew there, the house and gallery ran down one other side of it; and the two remaining sides were made up of a series of low cabins, these forming the various outhouses and the kitchen.  At the far end of this gallery a sallow, buxom lady sat sewing at a table, and Xavier saluted her very respectfully.

“Madame,” he said, “I have brought you from St. Louis with Michie Gratiot’s compliments two young American gentlemen, who are travelling to amuse themselves.”