permission.]



To Jules St.-Ange--elegant little heathen--there yet remained at manhood
a remembrance of having been to school, and of having been taught by a
stony-headed Capuchin that the world is round--for example, like a
cheese. This round world is a cheese to be eaten through, and Jules had
nibbled quite into his cheese-world already at twenty-two.

He realized this as he idled about one Sunday morning where the
intersection of Royal and Conti Streets some seventy years ago formed a
central corner of New Orleans. Yes, yes, the trouble was he had been
wasteful and honest. He discussed the matter with that faithful friend
and confidant, Baptiste, his yellow body-servant. They concluded that,
papa's patience and _tante's_ pin-money having been gnawed away quite to
the rind, there were left open only these few easily-enumerated resorts:
to go to work--they shuddered; to join Major Innerarity's filibustering
expedition; or else--why not?--to try some games of confidence. At
twenty-two one must begin to be something. Nothing else tempted; could
that avail? One could but try. It is noble to try; and, besides, they
were hungry. If one could "make the friendship" of some person from the
country, for instance, with money, not expert at cards or dice, but, as
one would say, willing to learn, one might find cause to say some "Hail
Marys."

The sun broke through a clearing sky, and Baptiste pronounced it good
for luck. There had been a hurricane in the night. The weed-grown
tile-roofs were still dripping, and from lofty brick and low adobe walls
a rising steam responded to the summer sunlight. Up-street, and across