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So exclusive he became that (though it may have been for economy) he never admitted even a housemaid, but kept his apartments himself. Only the merry serenaders, who in those times used to sing under the balconies, would now and then give him a crumb of their feast for pure fun’s sake; and after a while, because they could not find out his full name, called him, at hazard, George–but always prefixing Monsieur. Afterward, when he began to be careless in his dress, and the fashion of serenading had passed away, the commoner people dared to shorten the title to “‘Sieur George.”

Many seasons came and went. The city changed like a growing boy; gentility and fashion went uptown, but ‘Sieur George still retained his rooms. Every one knew him slightly, and bowed, but no one seemed to know him well, unless it were a brace or so of those convivial fellows in regulation-blue at little Fort St. Charles. He often came home late, with one of these on either arm, all singing different tunes and stopping at every twenty steps to tell secrets. But by and by the fort was demolished, church and goverment property melted down under the warm demand for building-lots, the city spread like a ringworm,–and one day ‘Sieur George steps out of the old house in full regimentals!

The Creole neighbors rush bareheaded into the middle of the street, as though there were an earthquake or a chimney on fire. What to do or say or think they do not know; they are at their wits’ ends, therefore well-nigh happy. However, there is a German blacksmith’s shop near by, and they watch to see what Jacob will do. Jacob steps into the street with every eye upon him; he approaches Monsieur–he addresses to him a few remarks–they shake hands–they engage in some conversation–Monsieur places his hand on his sword!–now Monsieur passes.

The populace crowd around the blacksmith, children clap their hands softly and jump up and down on tiptoes of expectation–‘Sieur George is going to the war in Mexico!

“Ah!” says a little girl in the throng, ‘”Sieur George’s two rooms will be empty; I find that very droll.”

The landlord,–this same Kookoo,–is in the group. He hurls himself into the house and up the stairs. “Fifteen years pass since he have been in those room!” He arrives at the door–it is shut–“It is lock!”

In short, further investigation revealed that a youngish lady in black, who had been seen by several neighbors to enter the house, but had not, of course, been suspected of such remarkable intentions, had, in company with a middle-aged slave-woman, taken these two rooms, and now, at the slightly-opened door, proffered a month’s rent in advance. What could a landlord do but smile? Yet there was a pretext left “the rooms must need repairs?”–“No, sir; he could look in and see.” Joy! he looked in. All was neatness. The floor unbroken, the walls cracked but a little, and the cracks closed with new plaster, no doubt by the jealous hand of ‘Sieur George himself Kookoo’s eyes swept sharply round the two apartments. The furniture was all there. Moreover, there was Monsieur’s little hair-trunk. He should not soon forget that trunk. One day, fifteen years or more before, he had taken hold of that trunk to assist Monsieur to arrange his apartment, and Monsieur had drawn his fist back and cried to him to “drop it!” Mais! there it was, looking very suspicious in Kookoo’s eyes, and the lady’s domestic, as tidy as a yellow-bird, went and sat on it. Could that trunk contain treasure? It might, for Madame wanted to shut the door, and, in fact, did so.

The lady was quite handsome–had been more so, but was still young–spoke the beautiful language, and kept, in the inner room, her discreet and taciturn mulattress, a tall, straight woman, with a fierce eye, but called by the young Creoles of the neighborhood “confound’ good lookin’.”