before it could have effect upon his
movements, a stunning blow fell upon the back of his head, and Palmyre's
slave woman, the Congo dwarf, under the impression that it was the most
timely of strokes, stood brandishing a billet of pine and preparing to
repeat the blow.

He hurled her, snarling and gnashing like an ape, against the farther
wall, cast the bar from the street door and plunged out, hatless,
bleeding and stunned.

CHAPTER XXXII

INTERRUPTED PRELIMINARIES

About the same time of day, three gentlemen (we use the term gentlemen
in its petrified state) were walking down the rue Royale from the
direction of the Faubourg Ste. Marie.

They were coming down toward Palmyre's corner. The middle one, tall and
shapely, might have been mistaken at first glance for Honore
Grandissime, but was taller and broader, and wore a cocked hat, which
Honore did not. It was Valentine. The short, black-bearded man in
buckskin breeches on his right was Jean-Baptiste Grandissime, and the
slight one on the left, who, with the prettiest and most graceful
gestures and balancings, was leading the conversation, was Hippolyte
Brahmin-Mandarin, a cousin and counterpart of that sturdy-hearted
challenger of Agricola, Sylvestre.

"But after all," he was saying in Louisiana French, "there is no spot
comparable, for comfortable seclusion, to the old orange grove under
the levee on the Point; twenty minutes in a skiff, five minutes for
preliminaries--you would not want more, the ground has been measured off
five hundred times--'are you ready?'--"

"Ah, bah!" said Valentine, tossing his head, "the Yankees would be down
on us before you could count one."

"Well, then, behind the Jesuits' warehouses, if you insist. I don't
care. Perdition take such a government! I am almost sorry I went to the
governor's reception."

"It was quiet, I hear; a sort of quiet ball, all promenading and no
contra-dances. One quadroon ball is worth five of such."

This was the opinion of Jean-Baptiste.

"No, it was fine, anyhow. There was a contra-dance. The music
was--tarata joonc, tara, tara--tarata joonc, tararata joonc, tara--oh!
it was the finest thing--and composed here. They compose as fine things
here as they do anywhere in the--look there! That man came out of
Palmyre's house; see how he staggered just then!"

"Drunk," said Jean-Baptiste.

"No, he seems to be hurt. He has been struck on the head. Oho, I tell
you, gentlemen, that same Palmyr