Marie some fricassée, fricassée! fricassée! That is what competition does,—negroes running from place to place to get five cents more pay; and it all comes from that old Sîmon and Mr. Smith. What more can you expect? They do not care; they have no sentiment. A plantation is a sugar factory to them, that is all. The idea that such canaille should be allowed to profit by the ruin of our old families, and buy up the finest places in Louisiana! Oh, they can afford to offer more to negroes than others, and force us to hire Italians! Old Sîmon: Stasie can tell you who old Sîmon is; you ought to hear Stasie talk about him. She remembers the day well when he used to go up and down the coast with a pack on his back, crying Rabais, and selling things to the negroes; it is only right that he should pay them well now,—he made them pay enough, vas! and now he owns La Trinité. And Mr. Smith, tiens! Eugénie, you remember Nathalie Cortez at school; you know when she graduated! Well, her daughter has just been married to this Mr. Smith. Don't repeat it as coming from me, you know, but," she lowered her voice,
