"Yass," said Charlie. "I don't want Belle Demoiselles."

The old Colonel's quiet laugh intimated it made no difference either
way.

"But me," continued Charlie, "me,--I'm got le Compte De Charleu's blood
in me, any'ow,--a litt' bit, any'ow, ain't it?"

The Colonel nodded that it was.

"_Bien!_ If I go out of dis place and don't go to Belles Demoiselles, de
peoples will say,--dey will say, 'Old Charlie he been all doze time tell
a blame _lie!_ He ain't no kin to his old grace-gran-muzzer, not a blame
bit! He don't got nary drop of De Charleu blood to save his blame
low-down old Injin soul!' No, sare! What I want wid money, den? No,
sare! My place for yours!"

He turned to go into the house, just too soon to see the Colonel make an
ugly whisk at him with his riding-whip. Then the Colonel, too, moved
off.

Two or three times over, as he ambled homeward, laughter broke through
his annoyance, as he recalled old Charlie's family pride and the
presumption of his offer. Yet each time he could but think better
of--not the offer to swap, but the preposterous ancestral loyalty. It
was so much better than he could have expected from his "low-down"
relative, and not unlike his own whim withal--the proposition which went
with it was forgiven.

This last defeat bore so harshly on the master of Belles Demoiselles,