married. Their quest is self-gratification,
to which they sacrifice no matter what. I despise them."--She laughed
mock-heroically,--"Take now your Englishman! Let him love a Frenchwoman,
for it is only a Frenchwoman who can return such love! Domestic, silent,
energetic,--he adores, protects, provides, and yet accomplishes
ambitions. This is because he sacrifices none of such things to the
Myself, who is the god of Frenchmen!"

These words seemed of more importance to me than the beautiful speaker
could have thought. I had almost committed my soul; was it to a cup of
Comus, to a fatal household of Circe?

The lady smilingly glided away with her husband.

Then new characteristics seemed in face of race patriotism, to dawn as I
looked at those passing around. I imagined each facial expression
thoughtless, heartless, jaded or disgusted. I had taken the beautiful
Creole's cynical words seriously, and thought I saw the search for
self-gratification everywhere.

Instead of striking a balance of impressions, I passed for the time from
the extreme of admiration to the extreme of criticism, and at last
turned into the supper room to think. A dapper man of sanguine
complexion and grey moustache and hair, a cynical gentleman-of-leisure
and old-established visitor at my grandmother's, was taking wine there,
and he addressed me familiarly. I began to question him about several
people:

"Who is that man with the mass of locks and the queer beard?"

"That," replied he like a showman, "is the Honorable Grandmoulin, the
National Liar, Premier Minister of the Province, and First Juggler of
its finances:--a profligate in public in the name of the Church--in
secret in the name of Free-Thought--_beau diseur_--demagogue of the
rabble and chieftain of the Cave."

"The Cave?"

He lifted his glass of ruby liquid and faced me across it. "You may not
know, my simple Ali Baba, that the Government of this Province is the
private property of Forty Thieves."

"What are these thieves--this Cave?--I do not understand what you mean,
sir."

"Chevaliers of the highway my child," (he had just enough in him to make
him free of speech), "who obtain office through the credulity of Jean
Baptiste the industrious Beaver, who, like Jacques in France, bears
everything. Jean Baptiste labors. It is the duty of Jean Baptiste to
believe everything he is told. Monsieur of the Forty and Company must
live upon something. Tsha! The Beavers were created to swea