The New Orleans Bulletin

ORANGE GROVES AND THE PLANTATION CHATEAU ONCE MORE TO THE FRONT—BLOOD WILL TELL.

George W. Cable, our whilom confrere upon more than one city paper, tells a short story with the view of illustrating the power with which blood speaks under peculiar circumstances. The De Charlen family was founded by a Frenchman who came to Louisiana in the service of the King. He took a Choctaw for his bride, and had several children by her. He returned to France, married a French woman; and, taking up his residence again on the banks of the Mississippi, discovered that his Indian wife was dead. When the old man died himself he remembered in his will both sets of children, and he was rich, the King having rewarded him with large grants of land.

Thus the family, with its two branches, was founded. In time the sole representatives were Col. De Charleu, the proud Creole, and old Charlie, a lazy, half-drunken fellow, showing plainly his Indian blood. Col. De Charleu had a magnificent place on the banks of the Mississippi, a short distance from New Orleans, which was known as Belles Demoiselles Plantation. He was blessed with seven beautiful daughters, who were the pride of his heart, and for whom he was willing to make any sacrifice. The daughters wanted to go into the city to live, and their father planned to take them there. But they must have a home worthy of their beauty and proud descent. Indian Charlie, as the sole survivor of the Choctaw side of the house, owned a block of houses in New Orleans, which had come to him by the law of inheritance.

As the ground on which these buildings stood had once belonged to the founder of the Charleu family, the Colonel coveted it and no other for his city home. He would tear the old buildings down and build upon it a palace. But could he drive a bargain with old Charlie? That was the question. He went to see his low-down kinsman, but found him proof against all temptations. The Indian blood in old Charlie said: "Sell." but the De Charleu blood said: "No;" and the pride of the De Charleu strain carried the day. At last, in order to put an end to importunity, he proposed to exchange places; he would give his city property for the plantation, his argument running thus:

"If I go out of dis place and don't go to Belles Demoiselles, de people will say—dey will say, 'Old Charlie he been all doze time tell a blame lie! He ain't no kin to his old grace-gran-muzzer, not a blame bit! He don't got nary drop of De Charleu blood to save his blame low-down old Injin soul!' No, sare! What I want wid money den? No, sare! My place for yours!" The Colonel at first rejected the proposition with scorn. It was presumption on the part of this Choctaw to ask him to give up the home of his ancestors. And yet he had asked old Charlie, who had De Charleu blood in his veins, to sell his ancestral possessions. But then Charlie was only a low-down Indian.

Wait a moment. Loving his children so fondly as to make any sacrifice for them; and finding that a sudden rise in the river had driven the mad waters through his levee, threatening his house with destruction, the Colonel mounted his horse and rode into town determined to push the trade and take advantage of the ignorance of the Choctaw. Charlie agreed to make the exchange, but as they neared the house they were appalled to see the mansion with its seven precious inmates disappear. The water had undermined the ground on which it stood, and then the shell gave way, and all went down in the angry flood. The shock was so great as to deprive Colonel De Charleu of his reason.

For twelve months the Indian watched over him with the greatest care. When the mind became clear again, the invalid was at death's door. Old Charlie assured him that they had not traded on that fatal night, and thus put his conscience at rest. The low-down Indian was ready to give any promise or assurance calculated to satisfy the pride and to render happy the last moments of the dying man. Thus did the blood of the old Frenchman speak after the lapse of generations. Charlie had lived a kind of vagabond life, but the pride of his cultivated white progenitor clung to him. He might be indolent and squander money in drink, but he would rather cut off his head than sell to a stranger the home that his ancestors had bequeathed to him.

The influence of blood in this particular was more potent than that of habit or association. Blood is stronger than water. Men and women may do strange things sometimes, but when the mother or father can set her or his face against her or his own child, nursing a stranger in its place, you may rest assured that reason has gone astray, and that the mind is incapable of following the dictates of the heart. If not this, then the brute nature has outgrown that sweet sentiment which makes man something more than a selfish hog. Were it not for pride of race, did not the past speak through generations, by the aid of the mysterious blood current, to the present, man would make little advancement, and we should seldom be called upon to applaud heroic action.