n to the foregoing, the stories are illustrated with eight
smaller photogravures from drawings by Mr. Herter_.

CHAPTER I

MASKED BATTERIES

It was in the Theatre St. Philippe (they had laid a temporary floor over
the parquette seats) in the city we now call New Orleans, in the month
of September, and in the year 1803. Under the twinkle of numberless
candles, and in a perfumed air thrilled with the wailing ecstasy of
violins, the little Creole capital's proudest and best were offering up
the first cool night of the languidly departing summer to the divine
Terpsichore. For summer there, bear in mind, is a loitering gossip, that
only begins to talk of leaving when September rises to go. It was like
hustling her out, it is true, to give a select _bal masque_ at such a
very early--such an amusingly early date; but it was fitting that
something should be done for the sick and the destitute; and why not
this? Everybody knows the Lord loveth a cheerful giver.

And so, to repeat, it was in the Theatre St. Philippe (the oldest, the
first one), and, as may have been noticed, in the year in which the
First Consul of France gave away Louisiana. Some might call it "sold."
Old Agricola Fusilier in the rumbling pomp of his natural voice--for he
had an hour ago forgotten that he was in mask and domino--called it
"gave away." Not that he believed it had been done; for, look you, how
could it be? The pretended treaty contained, for instance, no provision
relative to the great family of Brahmin Mandarin Fusilier de
Grandissime. It was evidently spurious.

Being bumped against, he moved a step or two aside, and was going on to
denounce further the detestable rumor, when a masker--one of four who
had just finished the contra-dance and were moving away in the column of
promenaders--brought him smartly around with the salutation:

"_Comment to ye, Citoyen Agricola!_"

"H-you young kitten!" said the old man in a growling voice, and with the
teased, half laugh of aged vanity as he bent a baffled scrutiny at the
back-turned face of an ideal Indian Queen. It was not merely the
_tutoiement_ that struck him as saucy, but the further familiarity of
using the slave dialect. His French was unprovincial.

"H-the cool rascal!" he added laughingly, and, only half to himself;
"get into the garb of your true sex, sir, h-and I will guess who
you are!"

But the Queen, in the same feigned voice as before, retorted:

"_Ah! mo piti fils, to