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All in a tremor one day a messenger, Attalie’s black slave girl, came to Camille to say that her mistress was in trouble! in distress! in deeper distress than he could possibly imagine, and in instant need of that wise counsel which Camille Ducour had so frequently offered to give.

“I am busy,” he said, in the Creole-negro patois, “but–has anybody–has anything happened to–to anybody in Madame Brouillard’s house?”

“Yes,” the messenger feared that “ce Michie qui pote soulie jaune–that gentleman who wears yellow shoes–is ill. Madame Brouillard is hurrying to and fro and crying.”

“Very loud?”

“No, silently; yet as though her heart were breaking.”

“And the doctor?” asks Camille, as he and the messenger are hurrying side by side out of Exchange alley into Bienville street.

“—- was there yesterday and the day before.”

They reach the house. Attalie meets her counselor alone at the top of the stairs. “Li bien malade,” she whispers, weeping; “he is very ill.”

“—- wants to make his will?” asks Camille. All their talk is in their bad French.

Attalie nods, answers inaudibly, and weeps afresh. Presently she manages to tell how the sick man had tried to write, and failed, and had fallen back exclaiming, “Attalie–Attalie–I want to leave it all to you–what little–” and did not finish, but presently gasped out, “Bring a notary.”

“And the doctor?”

“—- has not come to-day. Michie told the doctor if he came again he would kick him downstairs. Yes, and the doctor says whenever a patient of his says that he stops coming.”

They reach the door of the sick man’s bedchamber. Attalie pushes it softly, looks into the darkened chamber and draws back, whispering, “He has dropped asleep.”

Camille changes places with her and looks in. Then he moves a step across the threshold, leans forward peeringly, and then turns about, lifts his ill-kept forefinger, and murmurs while he fixes his little eyes on hers:

“If you make a noise, or in any way let any one know what has happened, it will cost you all he is worth. I will leave you alone with him just ten minutes.” He makes as if to pass by her towards the stair, but she seizes him by the wrist.

“What do you mean?” she asks, with alarm.

“Hush! you speak too loud. He is dead.”

The woman leaps by him, slamming him against the banisters, and disappears within the room. Camille hears her loud, long moan as she reaches the bedside. He takes three or four audible steps away from the door and towards the stairs, then turns, and darting with the swift silence of a cat surprises her on her knees by the bed, disheveled, unheeding, all moans and tears, and covering with passionate kisses the dead man’s–hands only!

To impute moral sublimity to a white man and a quadroon woman at one and the same time and in one and the same affair was something beyond the powers of Camille’s small soul. But he gave Attalie, on the instant, full credit, over credit it may be, and felt a momentary thrill of spiritual contagion that he had scarcely known before in all his days. He uttered not a sound; but for all that he said within himself, drawing his breath in through his clenched teeth, and tightening his fists till they trembled, “Oho-o!–Aha!–No wonder you postponed the writing of your will day by day, month by month, year in and year out! But you shall see, my fine Michie White man–dead as you are, you shall see–you’ll see if you shan’t!–she shall have the money, little or much! Unless there are heirs she shall have every picayune of it!” Almost as quickly as it had flashed up, the faint flicker of moral feeling died out; yet the resolution remained. He was going to “beat” a dead white man.

IV.

PROXY.

Camille glided to the woman’s side and laid a gentle yet commanding touch upon her.

“Come, there is not a moment to lose.”