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Of late years the Charleses had subsided into the more republican but scarcely less royally carried magnificence and ease of plantation life along the Mississippi. Perhaps Grandemont was even Marquis de Brassé. There was that title in the family. But a Marquis on seventy-five dollars per month! Vraiment! Still, it has been done on less.
Those friends, said Grandemont, should once more, if never again, sit at Charleroi on a nineteenth of January to celebrate the festal day of his house. Grandemont had his cards of invitation engraved. They were expensive, but beautiful. In one particular their good taste might have been disputed; but the Creole allowed himself that one feather in the cap of his fugacious splendour.
He allowed Absalom to seat him at Grandemont's right hand with the manner of one thus accustomed to be waited upon. "It grieves me," said Grandemont, "to be obliged to exchange names with a guest. My own name is Charles." "In the mountains," said the wayfarer, "they call me Gringo. Along the roads they call me Jack." "I prefer the latter," said Grandemont. "A glass of wine with you, Mr. Jack."
No doubt some one had cast it away from a passing carriage after comparing it with the tenantless house of Charleroi. "From the hedges and highways bid them come," he said to himself, softly smiling. And then to Absalom: "Send Louis to me." Louis, once his own body-servant, came promptly, in his white jacket. "This gentleman," said Grandemont, "will dine with me. Furnish him with bath and clothes.
To the wine merchants next; and here a doleful slice was lopped from the six hundred. It was an exquisite pleasure to Grandemont once more to pick among the precious vintages. The champagne bins lured him like the abodes of sirens, but these he was forced to pass. With his six hundred he stood before them as a child with a penny stands before a French doll.
"Nine o'clock, M'shi Grande," said Absalom in the uninflected voice of a good servant who states a fact unqualified by personal opinion. Grandemont rose to his feet. In their time all the Charleses had been proven, and they were gallant losers. "Serve dinner," he said calmly.
But one moment more of waiting and not even the thousand thunders of black pigs of the quarter would touch it! "They are a little late," said Grandemont, calmly. "They will come soon. Tell André to hold back dinner. And ask him if, by some chance, a bull from the pastures has broken, roaring, into the house." He seated himself again to his cigarettes.
Though he had said it, he scarcely believed Charleroi would entertain company that night. For the first time in history the invitation of a Charles had been ignored. So simple in courtesy and honour was Grandemont, and, perhaps, so serenely confident in the prestige of his name, that the most likely reasons for the vacant board did not occur to him.
He must have drifted into a dream and an extravagant one for he was master of Charleroi and Adèle was his wife. She was coming out to him now; he could hear her steps; he could feel her hand upon his shoulder "Pardon moi, M'shi Grande" it was Absalom's hand touching him, it was Absalom's voice, speaking the patois of the blacks "but it is eight o'clock." Eight o'clock. Grandemont sprang up.
Grandemont told him of his plan, and the old chef swayed with pride and delight. With a sigh of relief, knowing that he need have no further concern until the serving of that dinner was announced, he placed in André's hands a liberal sum for the cost of it, giving carte blanche for its creation. Among the blacks were also a number of the old house servants.
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