The Mysteries of New Orleans (The Longfellow Series of American Languages and Literatures) by Baron Ludwig von Reizenstein & Steven Rowan

Author:Baron Ludwig von Reizenstein & Steven Rowan
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Johns Hopkins University Press
Published: 2003-05-21T22:00:00+00:00

Lajos

One can see that these lines had been written at a time before the Hungarian had dared to stage a coup d’état against the Pontifex Maximus. Likewise, Gabor had still been an active member of the gang.

The Negro stared in amazement at these lines, which told him just in time of a conspiracy against his freedom.* He put the bed in order with the greatest care and stuck his lucky find in his vest pocket.

When he had turned around and faced the door, he saw a flame at the lock; in an instant his handkerchief turned to ashes on the floor.

It appeared to him that someone was again looking through the keyhole.

Clothing is one of the characteristic signs of a person. One can accept with certainty that men who leave the lower portion of their vests unbuttoned are endowed with stormy sensuality, a quality promising women the greatest happiness. Men who routinely button the entire vest, not omitting a single button, are either too straightlaced or harbor fears about their belly or abdomen, an anxiety that women never forgive, even with the best substantial evidence. Congenital elegance leads many to wear nothing but black frock coats, which cannot be dispensed with even in dubious professions. A man who courts the lady of his heart with a white cravat and a white piqué vest can be certain of victory, while a colored tie will repel and discourage even the most willing woman. Whoever wears a coat buttoned up is either a clergyman or a wholesale grocer, an organ player or a piano teacher of young ladies. Whoever wears a dark vest in the summer either has none of a lighter color or is a journalist or drama critic. Because of the absence of white piqué vests among these latter persons, the life of the salon is closed to them. No lady will consider permitting even the slightest liberty to such a dark-vested journalist or drama critic. In the same manner, any lady maintaining good tone will, with just dudgeon, show the door to any courting man wearing underpants in the summer.

This is particularly the case in New Orleans. In no town does the cream of chivalry count for more.

The Negro Sulla wore a black frock coat both summer and winter, with white cravat and a white piqué vest, displaying an elegance that he did not put aside at the bar. Why he still had no success would be hard to determine.

Sulla was feverishly agitated, and in his heart he cursed the hardness of his fate. Besides the distress that the letter was causing him, he understood that the strange episode with his handkerchief was not calculated to cool him down and slow the rush of his blood. He saw only too well that Merlina was leading him about on a fool’s leash and making fun of him. He passed an hour in the greatest upset, without the zambo negresse making an appearance.

He sat down on the bed and stared at the door.

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