The Grandissimes | Page 4

eyes, and the Monk began to lift and unfold a wrapping. As the Cavalier' drew it into his own possession, and, agreeably to his gesture, the Monk and he sat down side by side, he said, in a low tone:
"One more laugh before we part."
"A monk cannot laugh for nothing."
"I will pay for it."
"But with nothing to laugh at?" The thought of laughing at nothing made her laugh a little on the spot.
"We will make something to laugh at," said the Cavalier; "we will unmask to each other, and when we find each other first cousins, the laugh will come of itself."
"Ah! we will unmask?--no! I have no cousins. I am certain we are strangers."
"Then we will laugh to think that I paid for the disappointment."
Much more of this childlike badinage followed, and by and by they came around again to the same last statement. Another little laugh escaped from the cowl.
"You will pay? Let us see; how much will you give to the sick and destitute?"
"To see who it is I am laughing with, I will give whatever you ask."
"Two hundred and fifty dollars, cash, into the hands of the managers!"
"A bargain!"
The Monk laughed, and her chaperon opened her eyes and smiled apologetically. The Cavalier laughed, too, and said:
"Good! That was the laugh; now the unmasking."
"And you positively will give the money to the managers not later than to-morrow evening?"
"Not later. It shall be done without fail."
"Well, wait till I put on my wrappings; I must be ready to run."
This delightful nonsense was interrupted by the return of the _Fille à la Cassette_ and her aged, but sprightly, escort, from a circuit of the floor. Madame again opened her eyes, and the four prepared to depart. The Dragoon helped the Monk to fortify herself against the outer air. She was ready before the others. There was a pause, a low laugh, a whispered "Now!" She looked upon an unmasked, noble countenance, lifted her own mask a little, and then a little more; and then shut it quickly down again upon a face whose beauty was more than even those fascinating graces had promised which Honoré Grandissime had fitly named the Morning; but it was a face he had never seen before.
"Hush!" she said, "the enemies of religion are watching us; the Huguenotte saw me. Adieu"--and they were gone.
M. Honoré Grandissime turned on his heel and very soon left the ball.
"Now, sir," thought he to himself, "we'll return to our senses."
"Now I'll put my feathers on again," says the plucked bird.
CHAPTER II
THE FATE OF THE IMMIGRANT
It was just a fortnight after the ball, that one Joseph Frowenfeld opened his eyes upon Louisiana. He was an American by birth, rearing and sentiment, yet German enough through his parents, and the only son in a family consisting of father, mother, self, and two sisters, new-blown flowers of womanhood. It was an October dawn, when, long wearied of the ocean, and with bright anticipations of verdure, and fragrance, and tropical gorgeousness, this simple-hearted family awoke to find the bark that had borne them from their far northern home already entering upon the ascent of the Mississippi.
We may easily imagine the grave group, as they came up one by one from below, that morning of first disappointment, and stood (with a whirligig of jubilant mosquitoes spinning about each head) looking out across the waste, seeing the sky and the marsh meet in the east, the north, and the west, and receiving with patient silence the father's suggestion that the hills would, no doubt, rise into view after a while.
"My children, we may turn this disappointment into a lesson; if the good people of this country could speak to us now, they might well ask us not to judge them or their land upon one or two hasty glances, or by the experiences of a few short days or weeks."
But no hills rose. However, by and by they found solace in the appearance of distant forest, and in the afternoon they entered a land--but such a land! A land hung in mourning, darkened by gigantic cypresses, submerged; a land of reptiles, silence, shadow, decay.
"The captain told father, when we went to engage passage, that New Orleans was on high land," said the younger daughter, with a tremor in the voice, and ignoring the remonstrative touch of her sister.
"On high land?" said the captain, turning from the pilot; "well, so it is--higher than the swamp, but not higher than the river," and he checked a broadening smile.
But the Frowenfelds were not a family to complain. It was characteristic of them to recognize the bright as well as the solemn virtues, and to keep each other reminded of the duty of cheerfulness. A smile, starting from the quiet elder sister, went around the group, directed against the