There is an aphorism to the effect that one can not spend and have; also, a saying about the whirlwind, both of which in time came home to the land baron. For several generations the Mauville family, bearing one of the proudest names in Louisiana, had held marked prestige under Spanish and French rule, while extensive plantations indicated the commercial ascendency of the patroon’s ancestors. The thrift of his forefathers, however, passed lightly over Edward Mauville. Sent to Paris by his mother, a widow, who could deny him nothing, in the course of a few years he had squandered two plantations and several hundred negroes. Her death placed him in undisputed possession of the residue of the estate, when finding the exacting details of commerce irksome, in a moment of weakness, he was induced to dispose of some of his possessions to Yankee speculators who had come in with the flood of northern energy. Most of the money thus realized he placed in loose investments, while the 400 remainder gradually disappeared in indulging his pleasures.

At this critical stage in his fortunes––or misfortunes––the patroon’s legacy had seemed timely, and his trip to the North followed. But from a swarm of creditors, to a nest of anti-renters, was out of the frying-pan into the fire, hastening his return to the Crescent City, where he was soon forced to make an assignment of the remaining property. A score of hungry lawyers hovered around the sinking estate, greedily jealous lest some one of their number should batten too gluttonously at this general collation. It was the one topic of interest in the musty, dusty courthouse until the end appeared with the following announcement in the local papers:

“Annonce! Vente importante de NÈgres! Mauville estate in bankruptcy!”

And thereafter were specified the different lots of negroes to be sold.

Coincident with these disasters came news from the North regarding his supposedly immense interests in New York State. A constitutional convention had abolished all feudal tenures and freed the fields from baronial burdens. At a breath––like a house of cards––the northern heritage was swept away and about all that remained of the principality was the worthless ancient deed itself, representing one of the largest colonial grants.

But even the sale of the negroes and his other merchandise and property failed to satisfy his clamorous 401 creditors or to pay his gambling debts. Those obligations at cards it was necessary to meet, so he moved out of his bachelor apartments, turned over his expensive furnishings and bric-À-brac to the gamblers and snapped his fingers at the over-anxious constables and lawyers.

As time went by evidence of his reverses insidiously crept into his personal appearance. He who had been the leader now clung to the tail-ends of style, and it was a novel sensation when one day he noticed a friend scrutinizing his garments much in the same critical manner that he had himself erstwhile affected. This glance rested casually on the hat; strayed carelessly to the waistcoat; wandered absently to the trousers, down one leg and up the other; superciliously jumped over the waistcoat and paused the infinitesimal part of a second on the necktie. Mauville learned in that moment how the eye may wither and humble, without giving any ostensible reason for offense. The attitude of this mincing fribble, as he danced twittingly away, was the first intimation Mauville had received that he would soon be relegated to the ranks of gay adventurers thronging the city. He who had watched his estates vanish with an unruffled countenance now became disconcerted over the width of his trousers and the shape of his hat.

His new home was in the house of an aged quadroon who had been a servant in his family many years ago––how long no one seemed to remember!––and who had been his nurse before she had received 402 her freedom. She enjoyed the distinction of being feared in the neighborhood; her fetishes had a power no other witch’s possessed, and many of the negroes would have done anything to have possessed these infallible charms, save crossing her threshold to get them. Mauville, when he found fortune slipping away from him and ruin staring him in the face, had been glad to transfer his abode to this unhallowed place; going into hiding, as it were, until the storm should blow by, when he expected to emerge, confident as ever.

But inaction soon chafed his restless nature, and drove him forth in spite of himself from the streets in that quarter of the town where the roofs of various-colored houses formed strange geometrical figures and the windows were bright with flaring head-dresses, beneath which looked out curious visages of ebony. Returning one day from such a peregrination, he determined to end a routine of existence so humiliating to his pride.

Pausing before a doorway, the land baron looked this way and that, and seeing only the rotating eyes of a pickaninny fastened upon him, hurried through the entrance. Hanging upon the walls were red and green pods and bunches of dried herbs of unquestionable virtue belonging to the old crone’s pharmacopoeia. Mauville slowly ascended the dark stairs and reached his retreat, a small apartment, with furniture of cane-work and floor covered with sea-grass; 403 the ceiling low and the windows narrow, opening upon a miniature balcony that offered space for one and no more.

“Is dat yo’, honey?” said an adoring voice on the landing.

“Yes, auntie,” replied the land baron, as an old crone emerged from an ill-lighted recess and stood before him.

Now the light from the doorway fell upon her, and surely five score years were written on her curiously wrinkled face––five score, or more, for even the negroes did not profess to know how old she was. Her bent figure, watery eyes and high shrill voice bore additional testimony to her age.

“Yo’s home earlier dan usual, dearie?” she resumed. “But yo’ supper’s all ready. Sit down here.”

“I’m not hungry, auntie,” he returned.

“Not hungry, honey?” she cried, laughing shrilly. “Yo’ wait!” And she disappeared into an adjoining room, soon to emerge with a steaming platter, which she set on the snow-white cover of the little table. Removing the lid from the dish, she hobbled back a few steps to regard her guest with triumphant expectation. “Dat make yo’ eat.”

“What a cook you are, mammy!” he said, lightly. “You would give a longing tooth to satiety.”

“De debil blow de fire,” she answered, chuckling.

“Then the devil is a chef de cuisine. This sauce is bewitching.”

“Yo’ like it?” Delighted.

“Tis a spell in itself. Confess, mammy, Old Nick mixed it?”

“No, he only blow de fire,” she reiterated, with a grin.

“Any one been to see me, mammy?”

“Only dat Mexican gemmen; dat gemmen been here befo’ who take yo’ message about de troops; when dey go from New Orleans; how many dey am!”

“You know that, auntie?” he asked quickly. “You know that I––”

“Yes, honey,” she answered, shaking her head. “Yo’ be berry careful, Mar’s’r Edward.”

“What did he want?” said the land baron, quickly.

“He gib me dis.” And the crone handed her visitor a slip of paper on which a few words were written. “What dat mean?”

“It means I am going away, mammy,” pushing back his chair.

“Gwine away!” she repeated. “When’s yo’ gwine?”

“To-morrow; perhaps to-night even; down the river, auntie!” Rising and surveying himself in a mirror.

“How long yo’ gwine away foh?”

“Perhaps forever, auntie!”

“Not foh good, Mar’s’r Edward? Not foh good?” He nodded and she broke into loud wailings. “Yo’s gwine and yo’ old mammy’ll see yo’ no moh––no moh! I knows why yo’s gwine, Mar’s’r Edward. I’s heard 405 yo’ talkin’ about her in yo’ sleep. But yo’ stay and yo’ mammy has a love-charm foh yo’; den she’s yo’s, foh suah.”

This offer, coming from one of her uncanny reputation, would have been accepted with implicit faith by most of the dwellers in that locality, superstitious to the last degree, but Mauville laughed carelessly.

“Pshaw, mammy! Do you think I would fly from a woman? Do I look as though I needed a charm?”

“No; she mus’ worship yo’!” cried the infatuated crone.

Then a change passed over her puckered face and she lifted her arms despairingly, rocking her body to and fro, while she mumbled unintelligible words which would have caused the negroes to draw away from her with awe, for the spell was on her. But the land baron only regarded her carelessly as she muttered something pertaining to spells and omens.

“Come, auntie,” he said impatiently at last, “you know I don’t believe in this tom-foolery.”

She turned to him vehemently. “Don’t go whar yo’ thinkin’ ob gwine, honey,” she implored. “Yo’ll nebber come back, foh suah––foh suah! I see yo’ lyin’ dar, honey, in de dark valley––whar de mists am risin’––and I hears a bugle soundin’––and de tramp of horses. Dey am all gone, honey––and de mists come back––but yo’ am dar––lying dar––de mountains around yo’––yo’ am dar fo’ebber and ebber and––” Here she broke into wild sobbing and moaning, tossing her white hair with her trembling withered arms, 406 a moving picture of an inspired dusky sibyl. Mauville shrugged his shoulders.

“We’re losing time, mammy,” he exclaimed. “Stop this nonsense and go pack a few things for me. I have some letters to write.”

The old woman reluctantly obeyed, and the land baron penned a somewhat lengthy epistle to his one-time master in Paris, the AbbÉ Moneau, whose disapproval of the Anglo-Saxon encroachments––witness Louisiana!––and zeal for the colonization of the Latin races are matters of history. Having completed his epistle, the land baron placed it in the old crone’s hand to mail with: “If that man calls again, tell him I’ll meet him to-night,” and, leaving the room, shot through the doorway, once more rapidly walking down the shabby thoroughfare. The aged negro woman stumbled out upon the balcony and gazed after the departing figure still moaning softly to herself and shaking her head in anguish.

“Fo’ebber and ebber,” she repeated in a wailing tone. Below a colored boy gazed at her in wonderment.

“What debblement am she up to now?” he said to a girl seated in a doorway. “When de old witch am like dat––”

“Come in dar, yo’ black imp!” And a vigorous arm pulled the lad abruptly through the opening. “Ef she sees yo’, she can strike yo’ dead, foh suah!”

The crone could no longer distinguish Mauville––her eyes were nearly sightless––but she continued to 407 look in the direction he had taken, sobbing as before: “Fo’ebber and ebber! Fo’ebber and ebber!”

Once more upon a fashionable thoroughfare, the land baron’s footstep relaxed and he relapsed into his languorous, indolent air. The shadows of twilight were darkening the streets and a Caribbee-scented breeze was wafted from the gulf across the city. It swept through the broad avenues and narrow highways, and sighed among the trees of the old garden. Seating himself absently on one of the public benches, Mauville removed his hat to allow the cool air to fan his brow. Presently he moved on; up Canal Street, where the long rows of gas lights now gleamed through the foliage; thence into a side thoroughfare, as dark as the other street was bright, pausing before a doorway, illumined by a single yellow flame that flickered in the draft and threatened to leave the entrance in total obscurity. Mounting two flights of stairs, no better lighted than the hall below, the land baron reached a doorway, where he paused and knocked. In answer to his summons a slide was quickly slipped back, and through the aperture floated an alcoholic breath.

“Who is it?”

“A Knight of the Golden Square,” said the caller, impatiently. “Open the door.”

The man obeyed and the land baron was admitted to the hall of an organization which had its inception in Texas; a society not unlike the Secret Session Legation of the Civil War, having for its object the 408 overthrow of the government, the carrying of mails and despatches and other like business. Here was gathered a choice aggregation of Mexican sympathizers, a conclave hostile to the North. Composed of many nationalities, the polished continental adventurer rubbed shoulders with the Spanish politicians; the swarthy agents of Santa Anna brushed against the secret enemies of northern aggression. A small bar, unpretentious but convenient, occupied a portion of one end of the room, and a brisk manipulator of juleps presided over this popular corner.

Half-disdainfully, the land baron mingled with the heterogeneous assembly; half-ironically, his eye swept the group at the bar––the paid spy, the needy black-sheep; the patriot, the swashbuckler; men with and without a career. As Mauville stepped forward, a quiet, dark-looking man, obviously a Mexican, not without a certain distinguished carriage, immediately approached the newcomer.

“You have come? Good!” he said, and drew Mauville aside. They conversed in low tones, occasionally glancing about them at the others.

In the hall below the rhythm of a waltz now made itself heard, and the land baron, having received certain papers which committed him to a hazardous service, prepared to leave.

“Here’s luck!” said a man on his left, raising his glass. At these words several of the company turned.

“Send it south!” roared a Texan Furioso, emptying his tumbler.

“Send it south!” echoed the others, and “south” the fragrant juleps were “sent,” as the land baron unceremoniously tore himself away from the group.

“They say the floods are rising,” said the man with whom Mauville had conferred, at the door.

“All the better if the river’s running wild!” answered the other. “It will be easier running the guard.”

“Yes,” returned the Mexican, extending his hand, with a smile; “in this case, there’s safety in danger!”

“That’s reassuring!” replied the land baron, lightly, as he descended the stairs.

On reaching the floor below he was afforded a view through an open door into a large room, lighted with many lamps, where a quadroon dance, or “society ball,” was in progress. After a moment’s hesitation he entered and stood in the glare, watching the waltzers. Around the wall were dusky chaperons, guarding their charges with the watchfulness of old dowagers protecting their daughters from the advances of younger sons. Soft eyes flashed invitingly, graceful figures passed, and the revelry momentarily attracted Mauville, as he followed the movements of the waltzers and heard the strains of music. Impulsively he approached a young woman whose complexion was as light as his own and asked her to dance. 410 The next moment they were gliding to the dreamy rhythm around the room.

By a fatal trick of imagination, his thoughts wandered to the dark-haired girl he had met in the Shadengo Valley. If this now were she, the partner he had so unceremoniously summoned to his side. How light were her feet; what poetry of motion was her dancing; what pleasure the abandonment to which she had resigned herself! Involuntarily he clasped more tightly the slender waist, and the dark eyes, moved by that palpable caress, looked not unkindly into his own. But at the glance he experienced a strange repulsion and started, as if awakening from a fevered sleep, abruptly stopping in the dance, his arm falling to his side. The girl looked at him half-shyly, half-boldly, and the very beauty of her eyes––the deep, lustrous orbs of a quadroon––smote him mockingly. He felt as though some light he sought shone far beyond his ken; a light he saw, but could never reach; ever before him, but always receding.

“Monsieur is tired?” said the girl, in a puzzled tone.

“Yes,” he answered bluntly, leading her to a seat. “Good-night.”

“Good-night,” she replied, following his retreating figure with something like regret.

The evening bells, distinct and mysterious, were sounding as he emerged from New Orleans’ Mabille, and their crystalline tones, rising and falling on the solemn night, brought to mind his boyhood. Pictures 411 long forgotten passed before him, as his footsteps led him far from the brightly-lighted streets to a sequestered thoroughfare that lay peacefully on the confines of the busy city; a spot inviting rest from the turmoil yonder and in accord with the melancholy vibrations of the bells. He stood, unseen in the shadow of great trees, before a low rambling mansion; not so remote but that the perfume from the garden was wafted to him over the hedge.

“A troubadour!” he said scornfully to himself. “Edward Mauville sighing at a lady’s window like some sentimental serenader! There’s a light yonder. Now to play my despairing part, I must watch for her image. If I were some one else, I should say my heart beats faster than usual. She comes––the fair lady! Now the curtain’s down. All that may be seen is her shadow. So, despairing lover, hug that shadow to your breast!”

He plucked a rose from a bush in her garden, laughing at himself the while for doing so, and as he moved away he repeated with conviction:

“A shadow! That is all she ever could have been to me!”