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To avoid the moonlight I followed the shadows of the sidewalk-trees down to the next corner, to cross there and come back under a like cover on the other side. But squarely on the crossing I was met and stopped by a belated drunkard, who had a proposition to make to me which he thought no true gentleman, such as he was, for instance, could decline. I was alone, he asked me to notice; and he was alone; but if he should go with me, which he would be glad to do, why, then, you see, we should be together. He stuck like a bur, and it was minutes before I got him well started off in his own right direction. I slipped to the Fontenettes’ gate, as near as was best, and instantly saw, between one of its posts and a very black myrtle-orange, Fontenette himself, standing as still as the trees. I was not in so deep a shade as he, but I might have stepped right out into the moonlight without his seeing me, so intensely was he watching his wife’s front door. For there stood the entomologist. He had evidently been knocking, and was about to knock again when there came some response from within, to which he replied, in a suppressed yet eager and agitated voice, “Mine Psyche! Oh, mine Psyche! She is come to me undt she is bringing me already more as a hoondredt–vhat?” He had been interrupted from within. “Vhat you say?”

Fontenette drew his knife.

I stood ready to spring the instant he should stir to advance. I realized almost unbearably my position, stealing thus at such a moment on the heels of my neighbor and friend, but this is not a story of feelings, at any rate, not of mine.

“Vhat?” said the entomologist. “Go avay? Mien Gott! No, I vill not ko avay. Mien gloryform! Gif me first mine gloryform! Dot Psyche hass come out fon ter grysalis! she hass drawn me dot room full mit oder Psyches, undt you haf mine pottle of gloryform in your pocket yet! Yes, ko kit ut; I vait; ach!” Presently he seemed to hear from inside a second approach. Then the door opened an inch or so, and with another “Ach!” and never a word of thanks, he, snatched the vial and, turning to make off with it, came nose to nose with M. Fontenette, who stood in the moonlight gateway holding a blazing match to his cigarette.

“Well, sir, good-evening again,” said the Creole. I noticed the perfection of his dress; evidently he had not as yet loosed as much as a shoestring. And then I observed also that the visitor so close before him was without his shoes.

“Good-evening–or, good-morning, perchance,” said Fontenette. “I suepose thaz a great thing to remove those old stain’ that chloroform, eh?”

“Ach! it iss you? Ach, you must coom–coom undt hellup me! Coom! you shall see someding.”

“A moment,” said the Creole. “May I inquire you how is that, that you call on us in yo’ sock feet?”

“Ach! I am already t’e socks putting on pefore I remember I do not need t’em! But coom! coom! see a vonderfool!” He led, and Fontenette, when he had blown a cloud of smoke through his nose, followed, saying exclusively for his own ear:

“A wonder fool, yes! But a fool is no wonder to me any more; I find myself to be that kind.”

X

When, hypocritically clad in dressing-gown and slippers, I stopped at my guest’s inner door and Fontenette opened it just enough to let me enter, I saw, indeed, a wonderful sight. The entomologist had lighted up the room, and it was filled, filled! with gorgeous moths as large as my hand and all of a kind, dancing across one another’s airy paths in a bewildering maze or alighting and quivering on this thing and that. The mosquito-net, draping almost from ceiling to floor, was beflowered with them majestically displaying in splendid alternation their upper and under colors, or, with wings lifted and vibrant, tipping to one side and another as they crept up the white mesh, like painted and gilded sails in a fairies’ regatta.