Page:Maud Howe - Atlanta in the South.djvu/160

 The last speaker was a young Parisian who had drifted to New Orleans that winter with a portmanteau of faultlessly fitting clothes, a choice selection of the last bons mots of the clubs, and the latest slang of the boulevards of Paris. Add to this a handsome but minute figure and face, a complexion snow white and rose red, the title of an old and honorable family, the manners of a prince of the blood, and you have Bouton de Rose, the great social success of the season. He was bright withal and well born, only it was best for him to be out of France for a year or two; and so New Orleans welcomed him with open arms, and repeated his stories, copied the cut of his hair, and tried to sharpen up its French and make it sound like his crisp Parisian dialect. In spite of the efforts of some of the most distinguished of the Creoles, the French of Louisiana has grown flat and broad; the delicate edge of the language has been blunted by the heavier Saxon tongue with which it is hourly brought in closer contact.

Glasses were filled, and the company drank to the restoration of Feuardent's health and spirits, Bouton de Rose making a speech, gracious and sparkling as the wine he raised to his lips. Robert, confused and shy, said a few words in response, and the conversation soon became general. The contagious merriment of