On the great back piazza, which had been inclosed with sail-cloth and lighted with lanterns, was Palmyre, full of a new and deep design and playing her deceit to the last, robed in costly garments to whose beauty was added the charm of their having been worn once, and once only, by her beloved Mademoiselle.
[Footnote 3: An over-zealous Franciscan once complained bitterly to the bishop of Havana, that people were being married in Louisiana in their own houses after dark and thinking nothing of it.

It is not certain that he had reference to the Grandissime mansion; at any rate he was tittered down by the whole community.] But where was Bras-Coupe?
The question was asked of Palmyre by Agricola with a gaze that meant in English, "No tricks, girl!" Among the servants who huddled at the windows and door to see the inner magnificence a frightened whisper was already going round.
"We have made a sad discovery, Miche Fusilier," said the overseer.
"Bras-Coupe is here; we have him in a room just yonder.

But--the truth is, sir, Bras-Coupe is a voudou." "Well, and suppose he is; what of it?
Only hush; do not let his master know it.

It is nothing; all the blacks are voudous, more or less." "But he declines to dress himself--has painted himself all rings and stripes, antelope fashion." "Tell him Agricola Fusilier says, 'dress immediately!'" "Oh, Miche, we have said that five times already, and his answer--you will pardon me--his answer is--spitting on the ground--that you are a contemptible _dotchian_ (white trash)." There is nothing to do but privily to call the very bride--the lady herself.

She comes forth in all her glory, small, but oh, so beautiful! Slam! Bras-Coupe is upon his face, his finger-tips touching the tips of her snowy slippers.