The Strollers

Following the strollers’ experiences with short engagements and improvised theaters, there was solace in the appearance of the city of cream and honey, and the players, assembled on the boiler deck, regarded the thriving port with mingled feelings as they drew nearer. Susan began forthwith to dream of conquests–a swarthy Mexican, the owner of an opal mine; a prince from Brazil; a hidalgo, exile, or any other notable among the cosmopolitan people. Adonis bethought himself of dusky beauties, waiting in their carriages at the stage entrance; sighing for him, languishing for him; whirling him away to a supper room–and Paradise! Regretfully the wiry old lady reverted to the time when she and her first husband had visited this Paris of the South, and, with a deep sigh, paid brief tribute to the memory of conjugal felicity.

Constance’s eyes were grave as they rested upon the city where she would either triumph or fail, and the seriousness of her task came over her, leaning with clasped hands against the railing of the boat. Among that busy host what place would be made for her? How easy it seemed to be lost in the legion of workers; to be crushed in the swaying crowd! It was as though she were entering a room filled with strangers, and stood hesitating on the threshold. But youth’s assurance soon set aside this gloomy picture; the shadow of a smile lighted her face and her glance grew bright. At twenty the world is rosy and in the perspective are many castles.

Near by the soldier also leaned against the rail, looking not, however, at New Orleans but at her, while all unconscious of his regard she continued to gaze cityward. His face, too, was thoughtful. The haphazard journey was approaching its end, and with it, in all likelihood, the bond of union, the alliance of close comradeship associated with the wilderness. She was keenly alive to honor, fame, renown. What meaning had those words to him–save for her? He smiled bitterly, as a sudden revulsion of dark thoughts crowded upon him. He had had his bout; the sands of the arena that once had shone golden now were dust.

Drawing up to the levee, they became a part of the general bustle and confusion; hurriedly disembarked, rushed about for their luggage, because every one else was rushing; hastily entered carriages of which there was a limited supply, and were whisked off over the rough cobblestones which constituted the principal pavements of the city; catching momentary glimpses, between oscillations, of oyster saloons, fruit and old clothes’ shops, and coffee stands, where the people ate in the open air. In every block were cafés or restaurants, and the sign “Furnished Rooms” appearing at frequent intervals along the thoroughfare through which they drove at headlong pace, bore evidence to the fact that the city harbored many strangers.

The hotel was finally reached–and what a unique hostelry it was! “Set the St. Charles down in St. Petersburg,” commented a chronicler in 1846, “and you would think it a palace; in Boston, and ten to one, you would christen it a college; in London, and it would remind you of an exchange.” It represented at that day the evolution of the American tavern, the primitive inn, instituted for passengers and wayfaring men; the development of the pot-house to the metropolitan hotel, of the rural ale-room to the palatial saloon.

“What a change from country hostelries!” soliloquized the manager, after the company were installed in commodious rooms. “No more inns where soap and towels are common property, and a comb, without its full complement of teeth, does service for all comers!” he continued, gazing around the apartment in which he found himself. “Think of real gas in your room, Barnes, and great chairs, easy as the arms of Morpheus! Are you comfortable, my dear?” he called out.

Constance’s voice in an adjoining room replied affirmatively, and he added: “I’m going down stairs to look around a bit.”

Beneath the porch and reception hall extended the large bar-room, where several score of men were enjoying their liquors and lunches, and the hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses and the noise made by the skilful mixer of drinks were as sweet music to the manager, when shortly after he strode to the bar. Wearing neither coat nor vest, the bartender’s ruffled shirt displayed a glistening stone; the sleeves were ornamented with gold buttons and the lace collar had a Byronic roll.

“What will you have, sir?” he said in a well-modulated voice to a big Virginian, who had preceded Barnes into the room.

“A julep,” was the reply, “and, while you are making it, a little whisky straight.”

A bottle of bourbon was set before him, and he wasted no valuable time while the bartender manipulated the more complicated drink. Experiencing the felicity of a man who has entered a higher civilization, the manager ordered a bottle of iced ale, drank it with gusto, and, seating himself, was soon partaking of a palatable dish. By this time the Virginian, joined by a friend, had ordered another julep for the near future and a little “straight” for the immediate present.

“Happy days!” said the former.

“And yours happier!” replied the newcomer.

“Why, it’s Utopia,” thought Barnes. “Every one is happy!”

But even as he thus ruminated, his glance fell upon an old man at the next table whom the waiters treated with such deference the manager concluded he must be some one of no slight importance. This gentleman was thin, wrinkled and worn, with a face Voltairian in type, his hair scanty, his dress elegant, and his satirical smile like the “flash of a dagger in the sunlight.” He was inspecting his bouillon with manifest distrust, adjusting his eye-glass and thrusting his head close to the plate. The look of suspicion deepened and finally a grimace of triumph illumined his countenance, as he rapped excitedly on the table.

“Waiter, waiter, do you see that soup?” he almost shouted.

“Yes, Monsieur le Marquis,” was the humble response.

“Look at it well!” thundered the old gentleman. “Do you find nothing extraordinary about it?”

Again the bouillon was examined, to the amusement of the manager.

“I am sorry, Monsieur le Marquis; I can detect nothing unusual,” politely responded the waiter, when he had concluded a pains-taking scrutiny with all the gravity and seriousness attending so momentous an investigation.

“You are blind!” exclaimed the old man. “See there; a spot of grease floating in the bouillon, and there, another and another! In fact, here is an ‘Archipelago of Greece!’” This witticism was relieved by an ironical smile. “Take it away!”

The waiter hurried off with the offending dish and the old man looked immensely satisfied over the disturbance he had created.

“Well has it been said,” thought the manager, “that the destiny of a nation depends upon the digestion of its first minister! I wonder what he’ll do next?”

Course after course that followed was rejected, the guest keeping up a running comment:

“This sauce is not properly prepared. This salad is not well mixed. I shall starve in this place. These truffles; spoiled in the importation!”

“Oh, Monsieur le Marquis,”–clasping his hands in despair–“they were preserved in melted paraffin.”

“What do I care about your paraffin? Never mind anything more, waiter. I could not eat a mouthful. What is the bill? Very well; and there is something for yourself, blockhead.”

“Thank you, Monsieur le Marquis.” Deferentially.

“The worst meal I’ve ever had! And I’ve been in Europe, Asia and Africa. Abominable–abominable–idiot of a waiter–miserable place, miserable–and this dyspepsia–”

Thus running on, with snatches of caustic criticism, the old gentleman shambled out, the waiter holding the door open for him and bowing obsequiously.

“An amiable individual!” observed Barnes to the waiter. “Is he stopping at the hotel?”

“No, Monsieur. He has an elegant house near by. The last time he was here he complimented the cook and praised the sauces. He is a little–what you call it?–whimsical!”

“Yes; slightly inclined that way. But is he here alone?”

“He is, Monsieur. He loses great sums in the gambling rooms. He keeps a box at the theater for the season. He is a prince–a great lord–?”

“Even if he calls you ‘liar’ and ‘blockhead’?”

“Oh, Monsieur,”–displaying a silver dollar with an expressive shrug of the shoulders–“this is the–what you call it?–balm.”

“And very good balm, too,” said Barnes, heartily.

Still grumbling to himself, the marquis reached the main corridor, where the scene was almost as animated as in the bar and where the principal topic of conversation seemed to be horses and races that had been or were about to be run. “I’d put Uncle Rastus’ mule against that hoss!” “That four-year-old’s quick as a runaway nigger!” “Five hundred, the gelding beats the runaway nigger!” “Any takers on Jolly Rogers?” were among the snatches of talk which lent life and zest to the various groups.

Sitting moodily in a corner, with legs crossed and hat upon his knee, was a young man whose careless glance wandered from time to time from his cigar to the passing figures. As the marquis slowly hobbled along, with an effort to appear alert, the young man arose quickly and came forward with a conventional smile, intercepting the old nobleman near the door.

“My dear Monsieur le Marquis,” he exclaimed, effusively, “it is with pleasure I see you recovered from your recent indisposition.”

“Recovered!” almost shrieked the marquis. “I’m far from recovered; I’m worse than ever. I detest congratulations, Monsieur! It’s what a lying world always does when you are on the verge of dissolution.”

“You are as discerning as ever,” murmured the land baron–for it was Edward Mauville.

“I’m not fit to be around; I only came out”–with a sardonic chuckle–“because the doctors said it would be fatal.”

“Surely you do not desire–”

“To show them they are impostors? Yes.”

“And does New Orleans continue to please you?” asked the other, with some of that pride Southerners entertained in those days for their queen city.

“How does the exile like the forced land of his adoption?” returned the nobleman, irritably. “My king is in exile. Why should I not be also? Should I stay there, herd with the cattle, call every shipjack ‘Citizen’ and every clod ‘Brother’; treat every scrub as though she were a duchess?”

“There is, indeed, a regrettable tendency to deify common clay nowadays,” assented the patroon, soothingly.

“Why, your ‘Citizen’ regards it as condescension to notice a man of condition!” said the marquis, violently. “When my king was driven away by the rabble the ocean was not too broad to separate me from a swinish civilization. I will never go back; I will live there no more!”

“That is good news for us,” returned the land baron.