Valentine Grandissime, of Tchoupitoulas, goes quite down to the bottom of the steps and leans against the balustrade.

He is a large, broad-shouldered, well-built man, and, as he stands smoking a cigar, with his black-stockinged legs crossed, he glances at the sky with the eye of a hunter--or, it may be, of a sailor.
"Valentine will not marry," says one of two ladies who lean over the rail of the veranda above.

"I wonder why." The other fixes on her a meaning look, and she twitches her shoulders and pouts, seeing she has asked a foolish question, the answer to which would only put Valentine in a numerous class and do him no credit.
Such were the choice spirits of the family.

Agricola had retired.

Raoul was there; his pretty auburn head might have been seen about half-way up the steps, close to one well sprinkled with premature gray.
"No such thing!" exclaimed his companion.
(The conversation was entirely in Creole French.) "I give you my sacred word of honor!" cried Raoul.
"That Honore is having all his business carried on in English ?" asked the incredulous Sylvestre.