go-as-you-please disposition of that
excellent officer.

Beverley set out in search of the French commander's house, impressed
with no particular respect for him or his office. Somehow Americans of
Anglo-Saxon blood were slow to recognize any good qualities whatever in
the Latin Creoles of the West and South. It seemed to them that the
Frenchman and the Spaniard were much too apt to equalize themselves
socially and matrimonially with Indians and negroes. The very fact that
for a century, while Anglo-Americans had been in constant bloody
warfare with savages, Frenchmen had managed to keep on easy and highly
profitable trading terms with them, tended to confirm the worst
implication. "Eat frogs and save your scalp," was a bit of contemptuous
frontier humor indicative of what sober judgement held in reserve on
the subject.

Intent upon his formal mission, Lieutenant Beverley stalked boldly into
the inclosure at Roussillon place and was met on the gallery by Madame
Roussillon in one of her worst moods. She glared at him with her hands
on her hips, her mouth set irritably aslant upward, her eyebrows
gathered into a dark knot over her nose. It would be hard to imagine a
more forbidding countenance; and for supplementary effect out popped
hunchback Jean to stand behind her, with his big head lying back in the
hollow of his shoulders and his long chin elevated, while he gawped
intently up into Beverley's face.

"Bon jour, Madame," said the Lieutenant, lifting his hat and speaking
with a pleasant accent. "Would it be agreeable to Captain Roussillon
for me to see him a moment?"

Despite Beverley's cleverness in using the French language, he had a
decided brusqueness of manner and a curt turn of voice not in the least
Gallic. True, the soft Virginian intonation marked every word, and his
obeisance was as low as if Madame Roussillon had been a queen; but the
light French grace was wholly lacking.

"What do you want of my husband?" Madame Roussillon demanded.

"Nothing unpleasant, I assure you, Madame," said Beverley.

"Well, he's not at home, Mo'sieu; he's up the river for a few days."

She relaxed her stare, untied her eyebrows, and even let fall her hands
from her shelf-like hips.

"Thank you, Madame," said Beverley, bowing again, "I am sorry not to
have seen him."

As he was turning to go a shimmer of brown hair streaked with gold
struck upon his vision from just within the door. He paused, as if in
response to a m