



Produced by Demian Katz and the Online Distributed
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  LITTLE NOBODY

  BY

  MRS. ALEX. MCVEIGH MILLER

  HART SERIES No. 53

  COPYRIGHT 1886 BY GEORGE MUNRO.

  PUBLISHED BY

  THE ARTHUR WESTBROOK COMPANY

  CLEVELAND, O., U. S. A.




LITTLE NOBODY.




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER I.
  CHAPTER II.
  CHAPTER III.
  CHAPTER IV.
  CHAPTER V.
  CHAPTER VI.
  CHAPTER VII.
  CHAPTER VIII.
  CHAPTER IX.
  CHAPTER X.
  CHAPTER XI.
  CHAPTER XII.
  CHAPTER XIII.
  CHAPTER XIV.
  CHAPTER XV.
  CHAPTER XVI.
  CHAPTER XVII.
  CHAPTER XVIII.
  CHAPTER XIX.
  CHAPTER XX.
  CHAPTER XXI.
  CHAPTER XXII.
  CHAPTER XXIII.
  CHAPTER XXIV.
  CHAPTER XXV.
  CHAPTER XXVI.
  CHAPTER XXVII.
  CHAPTER XXVIII.
  CHAPTER XXIX.
  CHAPTER XXX.
  CHAPTER XXXI.
  CHAPTER XXXII.
  CHAPTER XXXIII.
  CHAPTER XXXIV.
  CHAPTER XXXV.
  CHAPTER XXXVI.
  CHAPTER XXXVII.
  CHAPTER XXXVIII.
  CHAPTER XXXIX.
  CHAPTER XL.
  CHAPTER XLI.
  CHAPTER XLII.
  CHAPTER XLIII.
  CHAPTER XLIV.
  CHAPTER XLV.
  CHAPTER XLVI.
  CHAPTER XLVII.
  CHAPTER XLVIII.




CHAPTER I.


He was a Northern journalist, and it was in the interest of his paper
that he found himself, one bright March morning, in New Orleans, almost
dazed by the rapidity with which he had been whirled from the ice and
snow of the frozen North to the sunshine and flowers of the sunny South.

He was charmed with the quaint and unique Crescent City. It was a
totally different world from that in which he had been reared--a summer
land, warm, indolent, luxurious, where one plucked the golden oranges
from the dark-green boughs, laden at once with flowers and fruit, and
where the senses were taken captive by the sensuous perfume of rare
flowers that, in his Northern land, grew only within the confines of
the close conservatory. Then, too, the dark, handsome faces of the
people, and their mixture of foreign tongues, had their own peculiar
charm. Nothing amused him so much as a stroll through the antique
French Market, with its lavish abundance of tropic vegetables, fruits,
and flowers, vended by hucksters of different nationalities in the
Babel of languages that charmed his ear with the languorous softness of
the Southern accent.

He had a letter of introduction to a member of the Jockey Club, and
this famous organization at once adopted him, and, as he phrased it,
"put him through." The theaters, the carnival, the races, all whirled
past in a blaze of splendor never to be forgotten; for it was at the
famous Metairie Race-course that he first met Mme. Lorraine.

But you must not think, reader, because I forgot to tell you his name
at first, that he is the Little Nobody of my story. He was not little
at all, but tall and exceedingly well-favored, and signed his name
Eliot Van Zandt.

Mme. Lorraine was a retired actress--ballet-dancer, some said. She
was a French woman, airy and charming, like the majority of her race.
The Jockey Club petted her, although they freely owned that she was a
trifle fast, and did not have the _entree_ of some of the best houses
in the city. However, there were some nice, fashionable people not
so strait-laced who sent her cards to their fetes, and now and then
accepted return invitations, so that it could not be said that she was
outside the pale of society.

Mme. Lorraine took a fancy to the good-looking Yankee, as she dubbed
him, and gave him _carte blanche_ to call at her _bijou_ house in
Esplanade Street. He accepted with outward eagerness and inward
indifference. He was too familiar with women of her type at the
North--fast, frivolous, and avaricious--to be flattered by her notice
or her invitation.

"She may do for the rich Jockey Club, but her acquaintance is too
expensive a luxury for a poor devil of a newspaper correspondent," he
told the Club. "She has card-parties, of course, and I