The most jolly looking, jet-black old nigger in white duck livery
brought us our coffee in the morning. His face is a full moon of
laughter. No one could feel gloomy if he were near, and his voice, like
a little child's, is as sweet as a bird, and such delightful phrasing.
He has been with the Senator for fifteen years and couldn't live "way
from de car." His name is Marcus Aurelius, and I am sure he is just as
great a philosopher as the Emperor was.
The girls have known him since they were babies, of course, and it
is such fun to hear him talking to them, a mixture of authority,
worshipping affection, and familiarity, which I believe only old niggers
can have.
"A pretty sight to see dem tree young ladies as happy as birds in dar
nests;" we heard him telling Gaston just outside, when he met on his way
to the bath (there are two lovely bath-rooms).
So Gaston said he was sure the coffee-pot was heavy and he could not
hold so many plates, and he would with pleasure help him with our
breakfast. But Tom, who joined them, said Marcus Aurelius must not set
fire to tinder, and that he was the only one of the party who could be
considered suitable to be morning waiter, being my cousin and a married
man.
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