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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4baca9d --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #63025 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/63025) diff --git a/old/63025-0.txt b/old/63025-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index d942498..0000000 --- a/old/63025-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7962 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Night in Acadie, by Kate Chopin - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll -have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using -this ebook. - - - -Title: A Night in Acadie - -Author: Kate Chopin - -Illustrator: Frank Hazenplug - Eric Pape - -Release Date: August 23, 2020 [EBook #63025] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A NIGHT IN ACADIE *** - - - - -Produced by KD Weeks, Mary Glenn Krause, Charlene Taylor, -University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Transcriber’s Note: - -This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects. -Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_. - -Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please -see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding -the handling of any textual issues encountered during its preparation. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - A Night in Acadie - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration] - - A NIGHT IN ACADIE - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - _By KATE CHOPIN_ - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - AUTHOR OF “BAYOU FOLK” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration: Published by Way & Williams, CHICAGO] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - MDCCCXCVII - - ------------------------------------------- - - Copyright, 1897, by Way & Williams. - - ------------------------------------------- - - Contents - - PAGE - - I. A NIGHT IN ACADIE 1 - - II. ATHÉNAÏSE 39 - - III. AFTER THE WINTER 107 - - IV. POLYDORE 127 - - V. REGRET 145 - - VI. A MATTER OF PREJUDICE 155 - - VII. CALINE 173 - - VIII. A DRESDEN LADY IN DIXIE 181 - - IX. NÉG CRÉOL 199 - - X. THE LILIES 215 - - XI. AZÉLIE 229 - - XII. MAMOUCHE 251 - - XIII. A SENTIMENTAL SOUL 271 - - XIV. DEAD MEN’S SHOES 295 - - XV. AT CHENIÈRE CAMINADA 315 - - XVI. ODALIE MISSES MASS 341 - - XVII. CAVANELLE 355 - - XVIII. TANTE CAT’RINETTE 369 - - XIX. A RESPECTABLE WOMAN 389 - - XX. RIPE FIGS 399 - - XXI. OZÈME’S HOLIDAY 403 - - - - - A Night in Acadie - - A Night in Acadie - - -There was nothing to do on the plantation so Telèsphore, having a few -dollars in his pocket, thought he would go down and spend Sunday in the -vicinity of Marksville. - -There was really nothing more to do in the vicinity of Marksville than -in the neighborhood of his own small farm; but Elvina would not be down -there, nor Amaranthe, nor any of Ma’me Valtour’s daughters to harass him -with doubt, to torture him with indecision, to turn his very soul into a -weather-cock for love’s fair winds to play with. - -Telèsphore at twenty-eight had long felt the need of a wife. His home -without one was like an empty temple in which there is no altar, no -offering. So keenly did he realize the necessity that a dozen times at -least during the past year he had been on the point of proposing -marriage to almost as many different young women of the neighborhood. -Therein lay the difficulty, the trouble which Telèsphore experienced in -making up his mind. Elvina’s eyes were beautiful and had often tempted -him to the verge of a declaration. But her skin was over swarthy for a -wife; and her movements were slow and heavy; he doubted she had Indian -blood, and we all know what Indian blood is for treachery. Amaranthe -presented in her person none of these obstacles to matrimony. If her -eyes were not so handsome as Elvina’s, her skin was fine, and being -slender to a fault, she moved swiftly about her household affairs, or -when she walked the country lanes in going to church or to the store. -Telèsphore had once reached the point of believing that Amaranthe would -make him an excellent wife. He had even started out one day with the -intention of declaring himself, when, as the god of chance would have -it, Ma’me Valtour espied him passing in the road and enticed him to -enter and partake of coffee and “baignés.” He would have been a man of -stone to have resisted, or to have remained insensible to the charms and -accomplishments of the Valtour girls. Finally there was Ganache’s widow, -seductive rather than handsome, with a good bit of property in her own -right. While Telèsphore was considering his chances of happiness or even -success with Ganache’s widow, she married a younger man. - -From these embarrassing conditions, Telèsphore sometimes felt himself -forced to escape; to change his environment for a day or two and thereby -gain a few new insights by shifting his point of view. - -It was Saturday morning that he decided to spend Sunday in the vicinity -of Marksville, and the same afternoon found him waiting at the country -station for the south-bound train. - -He was a robust young fellow with good, strong features and a somewhat -determined expression--despite his vacillations in the choice of a wife. -He was dressed rather carefully in navy-blue “store clothes” that fitted -well because anything would have fitted Telèsphore. He had been freshly -shaved and trimmed and carried an umbrella. He wore—a little tilted over -one eye—a straw hat in preference to the conventional gray felt; for no -other reason than that his uncle Telèsphore would have worn a felt, and -a battered one at that. His whole conduct of life had been planned on -lines in direct contradistinction to those of his uncle Telèsphore, whom -he was thought in early youth to greatly resemble. The elder Telèsphore -could not read nor write, therefore the younger had made it the object -of his existence to acquire these accomplishments. The uncle pursued the -avocations of hunting, fishing and moss-picking; employments which the -nephew held in detestation. And as for carrying an umbrella, “Nonc“ -Telèsphore would have walked the length of the parish in a deluge before -he would have so much as thought of one. In short, Telèsphore, by -advisedly shaping his course in direct opposition to that of his uncle, -managed to lead a rather orderly, industrious, and respectable -existence. - -It was a little warm for April but the car was not uncomfortably crowded -and Telèsphore was fortunate enough to secure the last available -window-seat on the shady side. He was not too familiar with railway -travel, his expeditions being usually made on horse-back or in a buggy, -and the short trip promised to interest him. - -There was no one present whom he knew well enough to speak to: the -district attorney, whom he knew by sight, a French priest from -Natchitoches and a few faces that were familiar only because they were -native. - -But he did not greatly care to speak to anyone. There was a fair stand -of cotton and corn in the fields and Telèsphore gathered satisfaction in -silent contemplation of the crops, comparing them with his own. - -It was toward the close of his journey that a young girl boarded the -train. There had been girls getting on and off at intervals and it was -perhaps because of the bustle attending her arrival that this one -attracted Telèsphore’s attention. - -She called good-bye to her father from the platform and waved good-bye -to him through the dusty, sun-lit window pane after entering, for she -was compelled to seat herself on the sunny side. She seemed inwardly -excited and preoccupied save for the attention which she lavished upon a -large parcel that she carried religiously and laid reverentially down -upon the seat before her. - -She was neither tall nor short, nor stout nor slender; nor was she -beautiful, nor was she plain. She wore a figured lawn, cut a little low -in the back, that exposed a round, soft nuque with a few little clinging -circlets of soft, brown hair. Her hat was of white straw, cocked up on -the side with a bunch of pansies, and she wore gray lisle-thread gloves. -The girl seemed very warm and kept mopping her face. She vainly sought -her fan, then she fanned herself with her handkerchief, and finally made -an attempt to open the window. She might as well have tried to move the -banks of Red river. - -Telèsphore had been unconsciously watching her the whole time and -perceiving her straight he arose and went to her assistance. But the -window could not be opened. When he had grown red in the face and wasted -an amount of energy that would have driven the plow for a day, he -offered her his seat on the shady side. She demurred—there would be no -room for the bundle. He suggested that the bundle be left where it was -and agreed to assist her in keeping an eye upon it. She accepted -Telèsphore’s place at the shady window and he seated himself beside her. - -He wondered if she would speak to him. He feared she might have mistaken -him for a Western drummer, in which event he knew that she would not; -for the women of the country caution their daughters against speaking to -strangers on the trains. But the girl was not one to mistake an Acadian -farmer for a Western traveling man. She was not born in Avoyelles parish -for nothing. - -“I wouldn’ want anything to happen to it,” she said. - -“It’s all right w’ere it is,” he assured her, following the direction of -her glance, that was fastened upon the bundle. - -“The las’ time I came over to Foché’s ball I got caught in the rain on -my way up to my cousin’s house, an’ my dress! J’ vous réponds! it was a -sight. Li’le mo’, I would miss the ball. As it was, the dress looked -like I’d wo’ it weeks without doin’-up.” - -“No fear of rain to-day,” he reassured her, glancing out at the sky, -“but you can have my umbrella if it does rain; you jus’ as well take it -as not.” - -“Oh, no! I wrap’ the dress roun’ in toile-cirée this time. You goin’ to -Foché’s ball? Didn’ I meet you once yonda on Bayou Derbanne? Looks like -I know yo’ face. You mus’ come f’om Natchitoches pa’ish.” - -“My cousins, the Fédeau family, live yonda. Me, I live on my own place -in Rapides since ’92.” - -He wondered if she would follow up her inquiry relative to Foché’s ball. -If she did, he was ready with an answer, for he had decided to go to the -ball. But her thoughts evidently wandered from the subject and were -occupied with matters that did not concern him, for she turned away and -gazed silently out of the window. - -It was not a village; it was not even a hamlet at which they descended. -The station was set down upon the edge of a cotton field. Near at hand -was the post office and store; there was a section house; there were a -few cabins at wide intervals, and one in the distance the girl informed -him was the home of her cousin, Jules Trodon. There lay a good bit of -road before them and she did not hesitate to accept Telèsphore’s offer -to bear her bundle on the way. - -She carried herself boldly and stepped out freely and easily, like a -negress. There was an absence of reserve in her manner; yet there was no -lack of womanliness. She had the air of a young person accustomed to -decide for herself and for those about her. - -“You said yo’ name was Fédeau?” she asked, looking squarely at -Telèsphore. Her eyes were penetrating—not sharply penetrating, but -earnest and dark, and a little searching. He noticed that they were -handsome eyes; not so large as Elvina’s, but finer in their expression. -They started to walk down the track before turning into the lane leading -to Trodon’s house. The sun was sinking and the air was fresh and -invigorating by contrast with the stifling atmosphere of the train. - -“You said yo’ name was Fédeau?” she asked. - -“No,” he returned. “My name is Telèsphore Baquette.” - -“An’ my name; it’s Zaïda Trodon. It looks like you ought to know me; I -don’ know w’y.” - -“It looks that way to me, somehow,” he replied. They were satisfied to -recognize this feeling—almost conviction—of pre-acquaintance, without -trying to penetrate its cause. - -By the time they reached Trodon’s house he knew that she lived over on -Bayou de Glaize with her parents and a number of younger brothers and -sisters. It was rather dull where they lived and she often came to lend -a hand when her cousin’s wife got tangled in domestic complications; or, -as she was doing now, when Foché’s Saturday ball promised to be -unusually important and brilliant. There would be people there even from -Marksville, she thought; there were often gentlemen from Alexandria. -Telèsphore was as unreserved as she, and they appeared like old -acquaintances when they reached Trodon’s gate. - -Trodon’s wife was standing on the gallery with a baby in her arms, -watching for Zaïda; and four little bare-footed children were sitting in -a row on the step, also waiting; but terrified and struck motionless and -dumb at sight of a stranger. He opened the gate for the girl but stayed -outside himself. Zaïda presented him formally to her cousin’s wife, who -insisted upon his entering. - -“Ah, b’en, pour ça! you got to come in. It’s any sense you goin’ to walk -yonda to Foché’s! Ti Jules, run call yo’ pa.” As if Ti Jules could have -run or walked even, or moved a muscle! - -But Telèsphore was firm. He drew forth his silver watch and looked at it -in a business-like fashion. He always carried a watch; his uncle -Telèsphore always told the time by the sun, or by instinct, like an -animal. He was quite determined to walk on to Foché’s, a couple of miles -away, where he expected to secure supper and a lodging, as well as the -pleasing distraction of the ball. - -“Well, I reckon I see you all to-night,” he uttered in cheerful -anticipation as he moved away. - -“You’ll see Zaïda; yes, an’ Jules,” called out Trodon’s wife -good-humoredly. “Me, I got no time to fool with balls, J’ vous réponds! -with all them chil’ren.” - -“He’s good-lookin’; yes,” she exclaimed, when Telèsphore was out of -ear-shot. “An’ dressed! it’s like a prince. I didn’ know you knew any -Baquettes, you, Zaïda.” - -“It’s strange you don’ know ’em yo’ se’f, cousine.” Well, there had been -no question from Ma’me Trodon, so why should there be an answer from -Zaïda? - -Telèsphore wondered as he walked why he had not accepted the invitation -to enter. He was not regretting it; he was simply wondering what could -have induced him to decline. For it surely would have been agreeable to -sit there on the gallery waiting while Zaïda prepared herself for the -dance; to have partaken of supper with the family and afterward -accompanied them to Foché’s. The whole situation was so novel, and had -presented itself so unexpectedly that Telèsphore wished in reality to -become acquainted with it, accustomed to it. He wanted to view it from -this side and that in comparison with other, familiar situations. The -girl had impressed him—affected him in some way; but in some new, -unusual way, not as the others always had. He could not recall details -of her personality as he could recall such details of Amaranthe or the -Valtours, of any of them. When Telèsphore tried to think of her he could -not think at all. He seemed to have absorbed her in some way and his -brain was not so occupied with her as his senses were. At that moment he -was looking forward to the ball; there was no doubt about that. -Afterwards, he did not know what he would look forward to; he did not -care; afterward made no difference. If he had expected the crash of doom -to come after the dance at Foché’s, he would only have smiled in his -thankfulness that it was not to come before. - - -There was the same scene every Saturday at Foché’s! A scene to have -aroused the guardians of the peace in a locality where such commodities -abound. And all on account of the mammoth pot of gumbo that bubbled, -bubbled, bubbled out in the open air. Foché in shirt-sleeves, fat, red -and enraged, swore and reviled, and stormed at old black Douté for her -extravagance. He called her every kind of a name of every kind of animal -that suggested itself to his lurid imagination. And every fresh -invective that he fired at her she hurled it back at him while into the -pot went the chickens and the pans-full of minced ham, and the -fists-full of onion and sage and piment rouge and piment vert. If he -wanted her to cook for pigs he had only to say so. She knew how to cook -for pigs and she knew how to cook for people of les Avoyelles. - -The gumbo smelled good, and Telèsphore would have liked a taste of it. -Douté was dragging from the fire a stick of wood that Foché had -officiously thrust beneath the simmering pot, and she muttered as she -hurled it smouldering to one side: - -“Vaux mieux y s’méle ces affairs, lui; si non!” But she was all courtesy -as she dipped a steaming plate for Telèsphore; though she assured him it -would not be fit for a Christian or a gentleman to taste till midnight. - -Telèsphore having brushed, “spruced” and refreshed himself, strolled -about, taking a view of the surroundings. The house, big, bulky and -weather-beaten, consisted chiefly of galleries in every stage of -decrepitude and dilapidation. There were a few chinaberry trees and a -spreading live oak in the yard. Along the edge of the fence, a good -distance away, was a line of gnarled and distorted mulberry trees; and -it was there, out in the road, that the people who came to the ball tied -their ponies, their wagons and carts. - -Dusk was beginning to fall and Telèsphore, looking out across the -prairie, could see them coming from all directions. The little Creole -ponies galloping in a line looked like hobby horses in the faint -distance; the mule-carts were like toy wagons. Zaïda might be among -those people approaching, flying, crawling ahead of the darkness that -was creeping out of the far wood. He hoped so, but he did not believe -so; she would hardly have had time to dress. - -Foché was noisily lighting lamps, with the assistance of an inoffensive -mulatto boy whom he intended in the morning to butcher, to cut into -sections, to pack and salt down in a barrel, like the Colfax woman did -to her old husband—a fitting destiny for so stupid a pig as the mulatto -boy. The negro musicians had arrived: two fiddlers and an accordion -player, and they were drinking whiskey from a black quart bottle which -was passed socially from one to the other. The musicians were really -never at their best till the quart bottle had been consumed. - -The girls who came in wagons and on ponies from a distance wore, for the -most part, calico dresses and sun-bonnets. Their finery they brought -along in pillow-slips or pinned up in sheets and towels. With these they -at once retired to an upper room; later to appear be-ribboned and -be-furbelowed; their faces masked with starch powder, but never a touch -of rouge. - -Most of the guests had assembled when Zaïda arrived—“dashed up” would -better express her coming—in an open, two-seated buckboard, with her -cousin Jules driving. He reined the pony suddenly and viciously before -the time-eaten front steps, in order to produce an impression upon those -who were gathered around. Most of the men had halted their vehicles -outside and permitted their women folk to walk up from the mulberry -trees. - -But the real, the stunning effect was produced when Zaïda stepped upon -the gallery and threw aside her light shawl in the full glare of half a -dozen kerosene lamps. She was white from head to foot—literally, for her -slippers even were white. No one would have believed, let alone -suspected that they were a pair of old black ones which she had covered -with pieces of her first communion sash. There is no describing her -dress, it was fluffy, like a fresh powder-puff, and stood out. No wonder -she had handled it so reverentially! Her white fan was covered with -spangles that she herself had sewed all over it; and in her belt and in -her brown hair were thrust small sprays of orange blossom. - -Two men leaning against the railing uttered long whistles expressive -equally of wonder and admiration. - -“Tiens! t’es pareille comme ain mariée, Zaïda;” cried out a lady with a -baby in her arms. Some young women tittered and Zaïda fanned herself. -The women’s voices were almost without exception shrill and piercing; -the men’s, soft and low-pitched. - -The girl turned to Telèsphore, as to an old and valued friend: - -“Tiens! c’est vous?” He had hesitated at first to approach, but at this -friendly sign of recognition he drew eagerly forward and held out his -hand. The men looked at him suspiciously, inwardly resenting his stylish -appearance, which they considered intrusive, offensive and demoralizing. - -How Zaïda’s eyes sparkled now! What very pretty teeth Zaïda had when she -laughed, and what a mouth! Her lips were a revelation, a promise; -something to carry away and remember in the night and grow hungry -thinking of next day. Strictly speaking, they may not have been quite -all that; but in any event, that is the way Telèsphore thought about -them. He began to take account of her appearance: her nose, her eyes, -her hair. And when she left him to go in and dance her first dance with -cousin Jules, he leaned up against a post and thought of them: nose, -eyes, hair, ears, lips and round, soft throat. - -Later it was like Bedlam. - -The musicians had warmed up and were scraping away indoors and calling -the figures. Feet were pounding through the dance; dust was flying. The -women’s voices were piped high and mingled discordantly, like the -confused, shrill clatter of waking birds, while the men laughed -boisterously. But if some one had only thought of gagging Foché, there -would have been less noise. His good humor permeated everywhere, like an -atmosphere. He was louder than all the noise; he was more visible than -the dust. He called the young mulatto (destined for the knife) “my boy” -and sent him flying hither and thither. He beamed upon Douté as he -tasted the gumbo and congratulated her: “C’est toi qui s’y connais, ma -fille! ’cré tonnerre!” - -Telèsphore danced with Zaïda and then he leaned out against the post; -then he danced with Zaïda, and then he leaned against the post. The -mothers of the other girls decided that he had the manners of a pig. - -It was time to dance again with Zaïda and he went in search of her. He -was carrying her shawl, which she had given him to hold. - -“W’at time it is?” she asked him when he had found and secured her. They -were under one of the kerosene lamps on the front gallery and he drew -forth his silver watch. She seemed to be still laboring under some -suppressed excitement that he had noticed before. - -“It’s fo’teen minutes pas’ twelve,” he told her exactly. - -“I wish you’d fine out w’ere Jules is. Go look yonda in the card-room if -he’s there, an’ come tell me.” Jules had danced with all the prettiest -girls. She knew it was his custom after accomplishing this agreeable -feat, to retire to the card-room, - -“You’ll wait yere till I come back?” he asked. - -“I’ll wait yere; you go on.” She waited but drew back a little into the -shadow. Telèsphore lost no time. - -“Yes, he’s yonda playin’ cards with Foché an’ some others I don’ know,” -he reported when he had discovered her in the shadow. There had been a -spasm of alarm when he did not at once see her where he had left her -under the lamp. - -“Does he look—look like he’s fixed yonda fo’ good?” - -“He’s got his coat off. Looks like he’s fixed pretty comf’table fo’ the -nex’ hour or two.” - -“Gi’ me my shawl.” - -“You cole?” offering to put it around her. - -“No, I ain’t cole.” She drew the shawl about her shoulders and turned as -if to leave him. But a sudden generous impulse seemed to move her, and -she added: - -“Come along yonda with me.” - -They descended the few rickety steps that led down to the yard. He -followed rather than accompanied her across the beaten and trampled -sward. Those who saw them thought they had gone out to take the air. The -beams of light that slanted out from the house were fitful and -uncertain, deepening the shadows. The embers under the empty gumbo-pot -glared red in the darkness. There was a sound of quiet voices coming -from under the trees. - -Zaïda, closely accompanied by Telèsphore, went out where the vehicles -and horses were fastened to the fence. She stepped carefully and held up -her skirts as if dreading the least speck of dew or of dust. - -“Unhitch Jules’ ho’se an’ buggy there an’ turn ’em ’roun’ this way, -please.” He did as instructed, first backing the pony, then leading it -out to where she stood in the half-made road. - -“You goin’ home?” he asked her, “betta let me water the pony.” - -“Neva mine.” She mounted and seating herself grasped the reins. “No, I -aint goin’ home,” she added. He, too, was holding the reins gathered in -one hand across the pony’s back. - -“W’ere you goin’?” he demanded. - -“Neva you mine w’ere I’m goin’.” - -“You ain’t goin’ anyw’ere this time o’ night by yo’se’f?” - -“W’at you reckon I’m ’fraid of?” she laughed. “Turn loose that ho’se,” -at the same time urging the animal forward. The little brute started -away with a bound and Telèsphore, also with a bound, sprang into the -buckboard and seated himself beside Zaïda. - -“You ain’t goin’ anyw’ere this time o’ night by yo’se’f.” It was not a -question now, but an assertion, and there was no denying it. There was -even no disputing it, and Zaïda recognizing the fact drove on in -silence. - -There is no animal that moves so swiftly across a ’Cadian prairie as the -little Creole pony. This one did not run nor trot; he seemed to reach -out in galloping bounds. The buckboard creaked, bounced, jolted and -swayed. Zaïda clutched at her shawl while Telèsphore drew his straw hat -further down over his right eye and offered to drive. But he did not -know the road and she would not let him. They had soon reached the -woods. - -If there is any animal that can creep more slowly through a wooded road -than the little Creole pony, that animal has not yet been discovered in -Acadie. This particular animal seemed to be appalled by the darkness of -the forest and filled with dejection. His head drooped and he lifted his -feet as if each hoof were weighted with a thousand pounds of lead. Any -one unacquainted with the peculiarities of the breed would sometimes -have fancied that he was standing still. But Zaïda and Telèsphore knew -better. Zaïda uttered a deep sigh as she slackened her hold on the reins -and Telèsphore, lifting his hat, let it swing from the back of his head. - -“How you don’ ask me w’ere I’m goin’?” she said finally. These were the -first words she had spoken since refusing his offer to drive. - -“Oh, it don’ make any diff’ence w’ere you goin’.” - -“Then if it don’ make any diff’ence w’ere I’m goin’, I jus’ as well tell -you.” She hesitated, however. He seemed to have no curiosity and did not -urge her. - -“I’m goin’ to get married,” she said. - -He uttered some kind of an exclamation; it was nothing articulate—more -like the tone of an animal that gets a sudden knife thrust. And now he -felt how dark the forest was. An instant before it had seemed a sweet, -black paradise; better than any heaven he had ever heard of. - -“W’y can’t you get married at home?” This was not the first thing that -occurred to him to say, but this was the first thing he said. - -“Ah, b’en oui! with perfec’ mules fo’ a father an’ mother! it’s good -enough to talk.” - -“W’y couldn’ he come an’ get you? W’at kine of a scound’el is that to -let you go through the woods at night by yo’se’f?” - -“You betta wait till you know who you talkin’ about. He didn’ come an’ -get me because he knows I ain’t ’fraid; an’ because he’s got too much -pride to ride in Jules Trodon’s buckboard afta he done been put out o’ -Jules Trodon’s house.” - -“W’at’s his name an’ w’ere you goin’ to fine ’im?” - -“Yonda on the other side the woods up at ole Wat Gibson’s—a kine of -justice the peace or something. Anyhow he’s goin’ to marry us. An’ afta -we done married those têtes-de-mulets yonda on bayou de Glaize can say -w’at they want.” - -“W’at’s his name?” - -“André Pascal.” - -The name meant nothing to Telèsphore. For all he knew, André Pascal -might be one of the shining lights of Avoyelles; but he doubted it. - -“You betta turn ’roun’,” he said. It was an unselfish impulse that -prompted the suggestion. It was the thought of this girl married to a -man whom even Jules Trodon would not suffer to enter his house. - -“I done give my word,” she answered. - -“W’at’s the matta with ’im? W’y don’t yo’ father and mother want you to -marry ’im?” - -“W’y? Because it’s always the same tune! W’en a man’s down eve’ybody’s -got stones to throw at ’im. They say he’s lazy. A man that will walk -from St. Landry plumb to Rapides lookin’ fo’ work; an’ they call that -lazy! Then, somebody’s been spreadin’ yonda on the Bayou that he drinks. -I don’ b’lieve it. I neva saw ’im drinkin’, me. Anyway, he won’t drink -afta he’s married to me; he’s too fon’ of me fo’ that. He say he’ll blow -out his brains if I don’ marry ’im.” - -“I reckon you betta turn roun’.” - -“No, I done give my word.” And they went creeping on through the woods -in silence. - -“W’at time is it?” she asked after an interval. He lit a match and -looked at his watch. - -“It’s quarta to one. W’at time did he say?” - -“I tole ’im I’d come about one o’clock. I knew that was a good time to -get away f’om the ball.” - -She would have hurried a little but the pony could not be induced to do -so. He dragged himself, seemingly ready at any moment to give up the -breath of life. But once out of the woods he made up for lost time. They -were on the open prairie again, and he fairly ripped the air; some -flying demon must have changed skins with him. - -It was a few minutes of one o’clock when they drew up before Wat -Gibson’s house. It was not much more than a rude shelter, and in the dim -starlight it seemed isolated, as if standing alone in the middle of the -black, far-reaching prairie. As they halted at the gate a dog within set -up a furious barking; and an old negro who had been smoking his pipe at -that ghostly hour, advanced toward them from the shelter of the gallery. -Telèsphore descended and helped his companion to alight. - -“We want to see Mr. Gibson,” spoke up Zaïda. The old fellow had already -opened the gate. There was no light in the house. - -“Marse Gibson, he yonda to ole Mr. Bodel’s playin’ kairds. But he neva’ -stay atter one o’clock. Come in, ma’am; come in, suh; walk right ’long -in.” He had drawn his own conclusions to explain their appearance. They -stood upon the narrow porch waiting while he went inside to light the -lamp. - -Although the house was small, as it comprised but one room, that room -was comparatively a large one. It looked to Telèsphore and Zaïda very -large and gloomy when they entered it. The lamp was on a table that -stood against the wall, and that held further a rusty looking ink -bottle, a pen and an old blank book. A narrow bed was off in the corner. -The brick chimney extended into the room and formed a ledge that served -as mantel shelf. From the big, low-hanging rafters swung an assortment -of fishing tackle, a gun, some discarded articles of clothing and a -string of red peppers. The boards of the floor were broad, rough and -loosely joined together. - -Telèsphore and Zaïda seated themselves on opposite sides of the table -and the negro went out to the wood pile to gather chips and pieces of -bois-gras with which to kindle a small fire. - -It was a little chilly; he supposed the two would want coffee and he -knew that Wat Gibson would ask for a cup the first thing on his arrival. - -“I wonder w’at’s keepin’ ’im,” muttered Zaïda impatiently. Telèsphore -looked at his watch. He had been looking at it at intervals of one -minute straight along. - -“It’s ten minutes pas’ one,” he said. He offered no further comment. - -At twelve minutes past one Zaïda’s restlessness again broke into speech. - -“I can’t imagine, me, w’at’s become of André! He said he’d be yere sho’ -at one.” The old negro was kneeling before the fire that he had kindled, -contemplating the cheerful blaze. He rolled his eyes toward Zaïda. - -“You talkin’ ’bout Mr. André Pascal? No need to look fo’ him. Mr. Andre -he b’en down to de P’int all day raisin’ Cain.” - -“That’s a lie,” said Zaïda. Telèsphore said nothing. - -“Tain’t no lie, ma’am; he b’en sho’ raisin’ de ole Nick.” She looked at -him, too contemptuous to reply. - -The negro told no lie so far as his bald statement was concerned. He was -simply mistaken in his estimate of André Pascal’s ability to “raise -Cain” during an entire afternoon and evening and still keep a rendezvous -with a lady at one o’clock in the morning. For André was even then at -hand, as the loud and menacing howl of the dog testified. The negro -hastened out to admit him. - -André did not enter at once; he stayed a while outside abusing the dog -and communicating to the negro his intention of coming out to shoot the -animal after he had attended to more pressing business that was awaiting -him within. - -Zaïda arose, a little flurried and excited when he entered. Telèsphore -remained seated. - -Pascal was partially sober. There had evidently been an attempt at -dressing for the occasion at some early part of the previous day, but -such evidences had almost wholly vanished. His linen was soiled and his -whole appearance was that of a man who, by an effort, had aroused -himself from a debauch. He was a little taller than Telèsphore, and more -loosely put together. Most women would have called him a handsomer man. -It was easy to imagine that when sober, he might betray by some subtle -grace of speech or manner, evidences of gentle blood. - -“W’y did you keep me waitin’, André? w’en you knew—” she got no further, -but backed up against the table and stared at him with earnest, startled -eyes. - -“Keep you waiting, Zaïda? my dear li’le Zaïdé, how can you say such a -thing! I started up yere an hour ago an’ that—w’ere’s that damned ole -Gibson?” He had approached Zaïda with the evident intention of embracing -her, but she seized his wrist and held him at arm’s length away. In -casting his eyes about for old Gibson his glance alighted upon -Telèsphore. - -The sight of the ’Cadian seemed to fill him with astonishment. He stood -back and began to contemplate the young fellow and lose himself in -speculation and conjecture before him, as if before some unlabeled wax -figure. He turned for information to Zaïda. - -“Say, Zaïda, w’at you call this? Wat kine of damn fool you got sitting -yere? Who let him in? W’at you reckon he’s lookin’ fo’? trouble?” - -Telèsphore said nothing; he was awaiting his cue from Zaïda. - -“André Pascal,” she said, “you jus’ as well take the do’ an’ go. You -might stan’ yere till the day o’ judgment on yo’ knees befo’ me; an’ -blow out yo’ brains if you a mine to. I ain’t neva goin’ to marry you.” - -“The hell you ain’t!” - -He had hardly more than uttered the words when he lay prone on his back. -Telèsphore had knocked him down. The blow seemed to complete the process -of sobering that had begun in him. He gathered himself together and rose -to his feet; in doing so he reached back for his pistol. His hold was -not yet steady, however, and the weapon slipped from his grasp and fell -to the floor. Zaïda picked it up and laid it on the table behind her. -She was going to see fair play. - -The brute instinct that drives men at each other’s throat was awake and -stirring in these two. Each saw in the other a thing to be wiped out of -his way—out of existence if need be. Passion and blind rage directed the -blows which they dealt, and steeled the tension of muscles and clutch of -fingers. They were not skillful blows, however. - -The fire blazed cheerily; the kettle which the negro had placed upon the -coals was steaming and singing. The man had gone in search of his -master. Zaïda had placed the lamp out of harm’s way on the high mantel -ledge and she leaned back with her hands behind her upon the table. - -She did not raise her voice or lift her finger to stay the combat that -was acting before her. She was motionless, and white to the lips; only -her eyes seemed to be alive and burning and blazing. At one moment she -felt that André must have strangled Telèsphore; but she said nothing. -The next instant she could hardly doubt that the blow from Telèsphore’s -doubled fist could be less than a killing one; but she did nothing. - -How the loose boards swayed and creaked beneath the weight of the -struggling men! the very old rafters seemed to groan; and she felt that -the house shook. - -The combat, if fierce, was short, and it ended out on the gallery -whither they had staggered through the open door—or one had dragged the -other—she could not tell. But she knew when it was over, for there was a -long moment of utter stillness. Then she heard one of the men descend -the steps and go away, for the gate slammed after him. The other went -out to the cistern; the sound of the tin bucket splashing in the water -reached her where she stood. He must have been endeavoring to remove -traces of the encounter. - -Presently Telèsphore entered the room. The elegance of his apparel had -been somewhat marred; the men over at the ’Cadian ball would hardly have -taken exception now to his appearance. - -“W’ere is André?” the girl asked. - -“He’s gone,” said Telèsphore. - -She had never changed her position and now when she drew herself up her -wrists ached and she rubbed them a little. She was no longer pale; the -blood had come back into her cheeks and lips, staining them crimson. She -held out her hand to him. He took it gratefully enough, but he did not -know what to do with it; that is, he did not know what he might dare to -do with it, so he let it drop gently away and went to the fire. - -“I reckon we betta be goin’, too,” she said. He stooped and poured some -of the bubbling water from the kettle upon the coffee which the negro -had set upon the hearth. - -“I’ll make a li’le coffee firs’,” he proposed, “an’ anyhow we betta wait -till ole man w’at’shis-name comes back. It wouldn’t look well to leave -his house that way without some kine of excuse or explanation.” - -She made no reply, but seated herself submissively beside the table. - -Her will, which had been overmastering and aggressive, seemed to have -grown numb under the disturbing spell of the past few hours. An illusion -had gone from her, and had carried her love with it. The absence of -regret revealed this to her. She realized, but could not comprehend it, -not knowing that the love had been part of the illusion. She was tired -in body and spirit, and it was with a sense of restfulness that she sat -all drooping and relaxed and watched Telèsphore make the coffee. - -He made enough for them both and a cup for old Wat Gibson when he should -come in, and also one for the negro. He supposed the cups, the sugar and -spoons were in the safe over there in the corner, and that is where he -found them. - -When he finally said to Zaïda, “Come, I’m going to take you home now,” -and drew her shawl around her, pinning it under the chin, she was like a -little child and followed whither he led in all confidence. - -It was Telèsphore who drove on the way back, and he let the pony cut no -capers, but held him to a steady and tempered gait. The girl was still -quiet and silent; she was thinking tenderly—a little tearfully of those -two old têtes-de-mulets yonder on Bayou de Glaize. - -How they crept through the woods! and how dark it was and how still! - -“W’at time it is?” whispered Zaïda. Alas! he could not tell her; his -watch was broken. But almost for the first time in his life, Telèsphore -did not care what time it was. - - - - - Athénaïse - - Athénaïse - - - I. - -Athénaïse went away in the morning to make a visit to her parents, ten -miles back on rigolet de Bon Dieu. She did not return in the evening, -and Cazeau, her husband, fretted not a little. He did not worry much -about Athénaïse, who, he suspected, was resting only too content in the -bosom of her family; his chief solicitude was manifestly for the pony -she had ridden. He felt sure those “lazy pigs,” her brothers, were -capable of neglecting it seriously. This misgiving Cazeau communicated -to his servant, old Félicité, who waited upon him at supper. - -His voice was low pitched, and even softer than Félicité’s. He was tall, -sinewy, swarthy, and altogether severe looking. His thick black hair -waved, and it gleamed like the breast of a crow. The sweep of his -mustache, which was not so black, outlined the broad contour of the -mouth. Beneath the under lip grew a small tuft which he was much given -to twisting, and which he permitted to grow, apparently for no other -purpose. Cazeau’s eyes were dark blue, narrow and overshadowed. His -hands were coarse and stiff from close acquaintance with farming tools -and implements, and he handled his fork and knife clumsily. But he was -distinguished looking, and succeeded in commanding a good deal of -respect, and even fear sometimes. - -He ate his supper alone, by the light of a single coal-oil lamp that but -faintly illuminated the big room, with its bare floor and huge rafters, -and its heavy pieces of furniture that loomed dimly in the gloom of the -apartment. Félicité, ministering to his wants, hovered about the table -like a little, bent, restless shadow. - -She served him with a dish of sunfish fried crisp and brown. There was -nothing else set before him beside the bread and butter and the bottle -of red wine which she locked carefully in the buffet after he had poured -his second glass. She was occupied with her mistress’s absence, and kept -reverting to it after he had expressed his solicitude about the pony. - -“Dat beat me! on’y marry two mont’, an’ got de head turn’ a’ready to go -’broad. C’est pas Chrétien, ténez!” - -Cazeau shrugged his shoulders for answer, after he had drained his glass -and pushed aside his plate. Félicité’s opinion of the unchristian-like -behavior of his wife in leaving him thus alone after two months of -marriage weighed little with him. He was used to solitude, and did not -mind a day or a night or two of it. He had lived alone ten years, since -his first wife died, and Félicité might have known better than to -suppose that he cared. He told her she was a fool. It sounded like a -compliment in his modulated, caressing voice. She grumbled to herself as -she set about clearing the table, and Cazeau arose and walked outside on -the gallery; his spur, which he had not removed upon entering the house, -jangled at every step. - -The night was beginning to deepen, and to gather black about the -clusters of trees and shrubs that were grouped in the yard. In the beam -of light from the open kitchen door a black boy stood feeding a brace of -snarling, hungry dogs; further away, on the steps of a cabin, some one -was playing the accordion; and in still another direction a little negro -baby was crying lustily. Cazeau walked around to the front of the house, -which was square, squat and one-story. - -A belated wagon was driving in at the gate, and the impatient driver was -swearing hoarsely at his jaded oxen. Félicité stepped out on the -gallery, glass and polishing towel in hand, to investigate, and to -wonder, too, who could be singing out on the river. It was a party of -young people paddling around, waiting for the moon to rise, and they -were singing Juanita, their voices coming tempered and melodious through -the distance and the night. - -Cazeau’s horse was waiting, saddled, ready to be mounted, for Cazeau had -many things to attend to before bed-time; so many things that there was -not left to him a moment in which to think of Athénaïse. He felt her -absence, though, like a dull, insistent pain. - -However, before he slept that night he was visited by the thought of -her, and by a vision of her fair young face with its drooping lips and -sullen and averted eyes. The marriage had been a blunder; he had only to -look into her eyes to feel that, to discover her growing aversion. But -it was a thing not by any possibility to be undone. He was quite -prepared to make the best of it, and expected no less than a like effort -on her part. The less she revisited the rigolet, the better. He would -find means to keep her at home hereafter. - -These unpleasant reflections kept Cazeau awake far into the night, -notwithstanding the craving of his whole body for rest and sleep. The -moon was shining, and its pale effulgence reached dimly into the room, -and with it a touch of the cool breath of the spring night. There was an -unusual stillness abroad; no sound to be heard save the distant, -tireless, plaintive notes of the accordion. - - II. - -Athénaïse did not return the following day, even though her husband sent -her word to do so by her brother, Montéclin, who passed on his way to -the village early in the morning. - -On the third day Cazeau saddled his horse and went himself in search of -her. She had sent no word, no message, explaining her absence, and he -felt that he had good cause to be offended. It was rather awkward to -have to leave his work, even though late in the afternoon,—Cazeau had -always so much to do; but among the many urgent calls upon him, the task -of bringing his wife back to a sense of her duty seemed to him for the -moment paramount. - -The Michés, Athénaïse’s parents, lived on the old Gotrain place. It did -not belong to them; they were “running” it for a merchant in Alexandria. -The house was far too big for their use. One of the lower rooms served -for the storing of wood and tools; the person “occupying” the place -before Miché having pulled up the flooring in despair of being able to -patch it. Upstairs, the rooms were so large, so bare, that they offered -a constant temptation to lovers of the dance, whose importunities Madame -Miché was accustomed to meet with amiable indulgence. A dance at Miché’s -and a plate of Madame Miché’s gumbo filé at midnight were pleasures not -to be neglected or despised, unless by such serious souls as Cazeau. - -Long before Cazeau reached the house his approach had been observed, for -there was nothing to obstruct the view of the outer road; vegetation was -not yet abundantly advanced, and there was but a patchy, straggling -stand of cotton and corn in Miché’s field. - -Madame Miché, who had been seated on the gallery in a rocking-chair, -stood up to greet him as he drew near. She was short and fat, and wore a -black skirt and loose muslin sack fastened at the throat with a hair -brooch. Her own hair, brown and glossy, showed but a few threads of -silver. Her round pink face was cheery, and her eyes were bright and -good humored. But she was plainly perturbed and ill at ease as Cazeau -advanced. - -Montéclin, who was there too, was not ill at ease, and made no attempt -to disguise the dislike with which his brother-in-law inspired him. He -was a slim, wiry fellow of twenty-five, short of stature like his -mother, and resembling her in feature. He was in shirtsleeves, half -leaning, half sitting, on the insecure railing of the gallery, and -fanning himself with his broad-rimmed felt hat. - -“Cochon!” he muttered under his breath as Cazeau mounted the -stairs,—“sacré cochon!” - -“Cochon” had sufficiently characterized the man who had once on a time -declined to lend Montéclin money. But when this same man had had the -presumption to propose marriage to his well-beloved sister, Athénaïse, -and the honor to be accepted by her, Montéclin felt that a qualifying -epithet was needed fully to express his estimate of Cazeau. - -Miché and his oldest son were absent. They both esteemed Cazeau highly, -and talked much of his qualities of head and heart, and thought much of -his excellent standing with city merchants. - -Athénaïse had shut herself up in her room. Cazeau had seen her rise and -enter the house at perceiving him. He was a good deal mystified, but no -one could have guessed it when he shook hands with Madame Miché. He had -only nodded to Montéclin, with a muttered “Comment ça va?” - -“Tiens! something tole me you were coming to-day!” exclaimed Madame -Miché, with a little blustering appearance of being cordial and at ease, -as she offered Cazeau a chair. - -He ventured a short laugh as he seated himself. - -“You know, nothing would do,” she went on, with much gesture of her -small, plump hands, “nothing would do but Athénaïse mus’ stay las’ night -fo’ a li’le dance. The boys wouldn’ year to their sister leaving.” - -Cazeau shrugged his shoulders significantly, telling as plainly as words -that he knew nothing about it. - -“Comment. Montéclin didn’ tell you we were going to keep Athénaïse?” -Montéclin had evidently told nothing. - -“An’ how about the night befo’,” questioned Cazeau, “an’ las’ night? It -isn’t possible you dance every night out yere on the Bon Dieu!” - -Madame Miché laughed, with amiable appreciation of the sarcasm; and -turning to her son, “Montéclin, my boy, go tell yo’ sister that Monsieur -Cazeau is yere.” - -Montéclin did not stir except to shift his position and settle himself -more securely on the railing. - -“Did you year me, Montéclin?” - -“Oh yes, I yeard you plain enough,” responded her son, “but you know as -well as me it’s no use to tell ’Thénaïse anything. You been talkin’ to -her yo’se’f since Monday; an’ pa’s preached himse’f hoa’se on the -subject; an’ you even had uncle Achille down yere yesterday to reason -with her. Wen ’Thénaïse said she wasn’ goin’ to set her foot back in -Cazeau’s house, she meant it.” - -This speech, which Montéclin delivered with thorough unconcern, threw -his mother into a condition of painful but dumb embarrassment. It -brought two fiery red spots to Cazeau’s cheeks, and for the space of a -moment he looked wicked. - -What Montéclin had spoken was quite true, though his taste in the manner -and choice of time and place in saying it were not of the best. -Athénaïse, upon the first day of her arrival, had announced that she -came to stay, having no intention of returning under Cazeau’s roof. The -announcement had scattered consternation, as she knew it would. She had -been implored, scolded, entreated, stormed at, until she felt herself -like a dragging sail that all the winds of heaven had beaten upon. Why -in the name of God had she married Cazeau? Her father had lashed her -with the question a dozen times. Why indeed? It was difficult now for -her to understand why, unless because she supposed it was customary for -girls to marry when the right opportunity came. Cazeau, she knew, would -make life more comfortable for her; and again, she had liked him, and -had even been rather flustered when he pressed her hands and kissed -them, and kissed her lips and cheeks and eyes, when she accepted him. - -Montéclin himself had taken her aside to talk the thing over. The turn -of affairs was delighting him. - -“Come, now, ’Thénaïse, you mus’ explain to me all about it, so we can -settle on a good cause, an’ secu’ a separation fo’ you. Has he been -mistreating an’ abusing you, the sacré cochon?” They were alone together -in her room, whither she had taken refuge from the angry domestic -elements. - -“You please to reserve yo’ disgusting expressions, Montéclin. No, he has -not abused me in any way that I can think.” - -“Does he drink? Come ’Thénaïse, think well over it. Does he ever get -drunk?” - -“Drunk! Oh, mercy, no,—Cazeau never gets drunk.” - -“I see; it’s jus’ simply you feel like me; you hate him.” - -“No, I don’t hate him,” she returned reflectively; adding with a sudden -impulse, “It’s jus’ being married that I detes’ an’ despise. I hate -being Mrs. Cazeau, an’ would want to be Athénaïse Miché again. I can’t -stan’ to live with a man; to have him always there; his coats an’ -pantaloons hanging in my room; his ugly bare feet—washing them in my -tub, befo’ my very eyes, ugh!” She shuddered with recollections, and -resumed, with a sigh that was almost a sob: “Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! Sister -Marie Angélique knew w’at she was saying; she knew me better than myse’f -w’en she said God had sent me a vocation an’ I was turning deaf ears. -W’en I think of a blessed life in the convent, at peace! Oh, w’at was I -dreaming of!” and then the tears came. - -Montéclin felt disconcerted and greatly disappointed at having obtained -evidence that would carry no weight with a court of justice. The day had -not come when a young woman might ask the court’s permission to return -to her mamma on the sweeping ground of a constitutional disinclination -for marriage. But if there was no way of untying this Gordian knot of -marriage, there was surely a way of cutting it. - -“Well, ’Thénaïse, I’m mighty durn sorry yo got no better groun’s ’an -w’at you say. But you can count on me to stan’ by you w’atever you do. -God knows I don’ blame you fo’ not wantin’ to live with Cazeau.” - -And now there was Cazeau himself, with the red spots flaming in his -swarthy cheeks, looking and feeling as if he wanted to thrash Montéclin -into some semblance of decency. He arose abruptly, and approaching the -room which he had seen his wife enter, thrust open the door after a -hasty preliminary knock. Athénaïse, who was standing erect at a far -window, turned at his entrance. - -She appeared neither angry nor frightened, but thoroughly unhappy, with -an appeal in her soft dark eyes and a tremor on her lips that seemed to -him expressions of unjust reproach, that wounded and maddened him at -once. But whatever he might feel, Cazeau knew only one way to act toward -a woman. - -“Athénaïse, you are not ready?” he asked in his quiet tones. “It’s -getting late; we havn’ any time to lose.” - -She knew that Montéclin had spoken out, and she had hoped for a wordy -interview, a stormy scene, in which she might have held her own as she -had held it for the past three days against her family, with Montéclin’s -aid. But she had no weapon with which to combat subtlety. Her husband’s -looks, his tones, his mere presence, brought to her a sudden sense of -hopelessness, an instinctive realization of the futility of rebellion -against a social and sacred institution. - -Cazeau said nothing further, but stood waiting in the doorway. Madame -Miché had walked to the far end of the gallery, and pretended to be -occupied with having a chicken driven from her parterre. Montéclin stood -by, exasperated, fuming, ready to burst out. - -Athénaïse went and reached for her riding skirt that hung against the -wall. She was rather tall, with a figure which, though not robust, -seemed perfect in its fine proportions. “La fille de son père,” she was -often called, which was a great compliment to Miché. Her brown hair was -brushed all fluffily back from her temples and low forehead, and about -her features and expression lurked a softness, a prettiness, a dewiness, -that were perhaps too childlike, that savored of immaturity. - -She slipped the riding-skirt, which was of black alpaca, over her head, -and with impatient fingers hooked it at the waist over her pink -linen-lawn. Then she fastened on her white sunbonnet and reached for her -gloves on the mantelpiece. - -“If you don’ wan’ to go, you know w’at you got to do, ’Thénaïse,” fumed -Montéclin. “You don’ set yo’ feet back on Cane River, by God, unless you -want to,—not w’ile I’m alive.” - -Cazeau looked at him as if he were a monkey whose antics fell short of -being amusing. - -Athénaïse still made no reply, said not a word. She walked rapidly past -her husband, past her brother; bidding good-bye to no one, not even to -her mother. She descended the stairs, and without assistance from any -one mounted the pony, which Cazeau had ordered to be saddled upon his -arrival. In this way she obtained a fair start of her husband, whose -departure was far more leisurely, and for the greater part of the way -she managed to keep an appreciable gap between them. She rode almost -madly at first, with the wind inflating her skirt balloon-like about her -knees, and her sunbonnet falling back between her shoulders. - -At no time did Cazeau make an effort to overtake her until traversing an -old fallow meadow that was level and hard as a table. The sight of a -great solitary oak-tree, with its seemingly immutable outlines, that had -been a landmark for ages—or was it the odor of elderberry stealing up -from the gully to the south? or what was it that brought vividly back to -Cazeau, by some association of ideas, a scene of many years ago? He had -passed that old live-oak hundreds of times, but it was only now that the -memory of one day came back to him. He was a very small boy that day, -seated before his father on horseback. They were proceeding slowly, and -Black Gabe was moving on before them at a little dog-trot. Black Gabe -had run away, and had been discovered back in the Gotrain swamp. They -had halted beneath this big oak to enable the negro to take breath; for -Cazeau’s father was a kind and considerate master, and every one had -agreed at the time that Black Gabe was a fool, a great idiot indeed, for -wanting to run away from him. - -The whole impression was for some reason hideous, and to dispel it -Cazeau spurred his horse to a swift gallop. Overtaking his wife, he rode -the remainder of the way at her side in silence. - -It was late when they reached home. Félicité was standing on the grassy -edge of the road, in the moonlight, waiting for them. - -Cazeau once more ate his supper alone; for Athénaïse went to her room, -and there she was crying again. - - III. - -Athénaïse was not one to accept the inevitable with patient resignation, -a talent born in the souls of many women; neither was she the one to -accept it with philosophical resignation, like her husband. Her -sensibilities were alive and keen and responsive. She met the -pleasurable things of life with frank, open appreciation, and against -distasteful conditions she rebelled. Dissimulation was as foreign to her -nature as guile to the breast of a babe, and her rebellious outbreaks, -by no means rare, had hitherto been quite open and aboveboard. People -often said that Athénaïse would know her own mind some day, which was -equivalent to saying that she was at present unacquainted with it. If -she ever came to such knowledge, it would be by no intellectual -research, by no subtle analyses or tracing the motives of actions to -their source. It would come to her as the song to the bird, the perfume -and color to the flower. - -Her parents had hoped—not without reason and justice—that marriage would -bring the poise, the desirable pose, so glaringly lacking in Athénaïse’s -character. Marriage they knew to be a wonderful and powerful agent in -the development and formation of a woman’s character; they had seen its -effect too often to doubt it. - -“And if this marriage does nothing else,” exclaimed Miché in an outburst -of sudden exasperation, “it will rid us of Athénaïse; for I am at the -end of my patience with her! You have never had the firmness to manage -her,”—he was speaking to his wife,—“I have not had the time, the -leisure, to devote to her training; and what good we might have -accomplished, that maudit Montéclin—Well, Cazeau is the one! It takes -just such a steady hand to guide a disposition like Athénaïse’s, a -master hand, a strong will that compels obedience.” - -And now, when they had hoped for so much, here was Athénaïse, with -gathered and fierce vehemence, beside which her former outbursts -appeared mild, declaring that she would not, and she would not, and she -would not continue to enact the rôle of wife to Cazeau. If she had had a -reason! as Madame Miché lamented; but it could not be discovered that -she had any sane one. He had never scolded, or called names, or deprived -her of comforts, or been guilty of any of the many reprehensible acts -commonly attributed to objectionable husbands. He did not slight nor -neglect her. Indeed, Cazeau’s chief offense seemed to be that he loved -her, and Athénaïse was not the woman to be loved against her will. She -called marriage a trap set for the feet of unwary and unsuspecting -girls, and in round, unmeasured terms reproached her mother with -treachery and deceit. - -“I told you Cazeau was the man,” chuckled Miché, when his wife had -related the scene that had accompanied and influenced Athénaïse’s -departure. - -Athénaïse again hoped, in the morning, that Cazeau would scold or make -some sort of a scene, but he apparently did not dream of it. It was -exasperating that he should take her acquiescence so for granted. It is -true he had been up and over the fields and across the river and back -long before she was out of bed, and he may have been thinking of -something else, which was no excuse, which was even in some sense an -aggravation. But he did say to her at breakfast, “That brother of yo’s, -that Montéclin, is unbearable.” - -“Montéclin? Par exemple!” - -Athénaïse, seated opposite to her husband, was attired in a white -morning wrapper. She wore a somewhat abused, long face, it is true,—an -expression of countenance familiar to some husbands,—but the expression -was not sufficiently pronounced to mar the charm of her youthful -freshness. She had little heart to eat, only playing with the food -before her, and she felt a pang of resentment at her husband’s healthy -appetite. - -“Yes, Montéclin,” he reasserted. “He’s developed into a firs’-class -nuisance; an’ you better tell him, Athénaïse,—unless you want me to tell -him,—to confine his energies after this to matters that concern him. I -have no use fo’ him or fo’ his interference in w’at regards you an’ me -alone.” - -This was said with unusual asperity. It was the little breach that -Athénaïse had been watching for, and she charged rapidly: “It’s strange, -if you detes’ Montéclin so heartily, that you would desire to marry his -sister.” She knew it was a silly thing to say, and was not surprised -when he told her so. It gave her a little foothold for further attack, -however. “I don’t see, anyhow, w’at reason you had to marry me, w’en -there were so many others,” she complained, as if accusing him of -persecution and injury. “There was Marianne running after you fo’ the -las’ five years till it was disgraceful; an’ any one of the Dortrand -girls would have been glad to marry you. But no, nothing would do; you -mus’ come out on the rigolet fo’ me.” Her complaint was pathetic, and at -the same time so amusing that Cazeau was forced to smile. - -“I can’t see w’at the Dortrand girls or Marianne have to do with it,” he -rejoined; adding, with no trace of amusement, “I married you because I -loved you; because you were the woman I wanted to marry, an’ the only -one. I reckon I tole you that befo’. I thought—of co’se I was a fool fo’ -taking things fo’ granted—but I did think that I might make you happy in -making things easier an’ mo’ comfortable fo’ you. I expected—I was even -that big a fool—I believed that yo’ coming yere to me would be like the -sun shining out of the clouds, an’ that our days would be like w’at the -story-books promise after the wedding. I was mistaken. But I can’t -imagine w’at induced you to marry me. W’atever it was, I reckon you -foun’ out you made a mistake, too. I don’ see anything to do but make -the best of a bad bargain, an’ shake han’s over it.” He had arisen from -the table, and, approaching, held out his hand to her. What he had said -was commonplace enough, but it was significant, coming from Cazeau, who -was not often so unreserved in expressing himself. - -Athénaïse ignored the hand held out to her. She was resting her chin in -her palm, and kept her eyes fixed moodily upon the table. He rested his -hand, that she would not touch, upon her head for an instant, and walked -away out of the room. - -She heard him giving orders to workmen who had been waiting for him out -on the gallery, and she heard him mount his horse and ride away. A -hundred things would distract him and engage his attention during the -day. She felt that he had perhaps put her and her grievance from his -thoughts when he crossed the threshold; whilst she— - -Old Félicité was standing there holding a shining tin pail, asking for -flour and lard and eggs from the storeroom, and meal for the chicks. - -Athénaïse seized the bunch of keys which hung from her belt and flung -them at Félicité’s feet. - -“Tiens! tu vas les garder comme tu as jadis fait. Je ne veux plus de ce -train là, moi!” - -The old woman stooped and picked up the keys from the floor. It was -really all one to her that her mistress returned them to her keeping, -and refused to take further account of the ménage. - - IV. - -It seemed now to Athénaïse that Montéclin was the only friend left to -her in the world. Her father and mother had turned from her in what -appeared to be her hour of need. Her friends laughed at her, and refused -to take seriously the hints which she threw out,—feeling her way to -discover if marriage were as distasteful to other women as to herself. -Montéclin alone understood her. He alone had always been ready to act -for her and with her, to comfort and solace her with his sympathy and -his support. Her only hope for rescue from her hateful surroundings lay -in Montéclin. Of herself she felt powerless to plan, to act, even to -conceive a way out of this pitfall into which the whole world seemed to -have conspired to thrust her. - -She had a great desire to see her brother, and wrote asking him to come -to her. But it better suited Montéclin’s spirit of adventure to appoint -a meeting-place at the turn of the lane, where Athénaïse might appear to -be walking leisurely for health and recreation, and where he might seem -to be riding along, bent on some errand of business or pleasure. - -There had been a shower, a sudden downpour, short as it was sudden, that -had laid the dust in the road. It had freshened the pointed leaves of -the live-oaks, and brightened up the big fields of cotton on either side -of the lane till they seemed carpeted with green, glittering gems. - -Athénaïse walked along the grassy edge of the road, lifting her crisp -skirts with one hand, and with the other twirling a gay sunshade over -her bare head. The scent of the fields after the rain was delicious. She -inhaled long breaths of their freshness and perfume, that soothed and -quieted her for the moment. There were birds splashing and spluttering -in the pools, pluming themselves on the fence-*rails, and sending out -little sharp cries, twitters, and shrill rhapsodies of delight. - -She saw Montéclin approaching from a great distance,—almost as far away -as the turn of the woods. But she could not feel sure it was he; it -appeared too tall for Montéclin, but that was because he was riding a -large horse. She waved her parasol to him; she was so glad to see him. -She had never been so glad to see Montéclin before; not even the day -when he had taken her out of the convent, against her parents’ wishes, -because she had expressed a desire to remain there no longer. He seemed -to her, as he drew near, the embodiment of kindness, of bravery, of -chivalry, even of wisdom; for she had never known Montéclin at a loss to -extricate himself from a disagreeable situation. - -He dismounted, and, leading his horse by the bridle, started to walk -beside her, after he had kissed her affectionately and asked her what -she was crying about. She protested that she was not crying, for she was -laughing, though drying her eyes at the same time on her handkerchief, -rolled in a soft mop for the purpose. - -She took Montéclin’s arm, and they strolled slowly down the lane; they -could not seat themselves for a comfortable chat, as they would have -liked, with the grass all sparkling and bristling wet. - -Yes, she was quite as wretched as ever, she told him. The week which had -gone by since she saw him had in no wise lightened the burden of her -discontent. There had even been some additional provocations laid upon -her, and she told Montéclin all about them,—about the keys, for -instance, which in a fit of temper she had returned to Félicité’s -keeping; and she told how Cazeau had brought them back to her as if they -were something she had accidentally lost, and he had recovered; and how -he had said, in that aggravating tone of his, that it was not the custom -on Cane river for the negro servants to carry the keys, when there was a -mistress at the head of the household. - -But Athénaïse could not tell Montéclin anything to increase the -disrespect which he already entertained for his brother-in-law; and it -was then he unfolded to her a plan which he had conceived and worked out -for her deliverance from this galling matrimonial yoke. - -It was not a plan which met with instant favor, which she was at once -ready to accept, for it involved secrecy and dissimulation, hateful -alternatives, both of them. But she was filled with admiration for -Montéclin’s resources and wonderful talent for contrivance. She accepted -the plan; not with the immediate determination to act upon it, rather -with the intention to sleep and to dream upon it. - -Three days later she wrote to Montéclin that she had abandoned herself -to his counsel. Displeasing as it might be to her sense of honesty, it -would yet be less trying than to live on with a soul full of bitterness -and revolt, as she had done for the past two months. - - V. - -When Cazeau awoke, one morning at his usual very early hour, it was to -find the place at his side vacant. This did not surprise him until he -discovered that Athénaïse was not in the adjoining room, where he had -often found her sleeping in the morning on the lounge. She had perhaps -gone out for an early stroll, he reflected, for her jacket and hat were -not on the rack where she had hung them the night before. But there were -other things absent,—a gown or two from the armoire; and there was a -great gap in the piles of lingerie on the shelf; and her traveling-bag -was missing, and so were her bits of jewelry from the toilet tray—and -Athénaïse was gone! - -But the absurdity of going during the night, as if she had been a -prisoner, and he the keeper of a dungeon! So much secrecy and mystery, -to go sojourning out on the Bon Dieu? Well, the Michés might keep their -daughter after this. For the companionship of no woman on earth would he -again undergo the humiliating sensation of baseness that had overtaken -him in passing the old oak-tree in the fallow meadow. - -But a terrible sense of loss overwhelmed Cazeau. It was not new or -sudden; he had felt it for weeks growing upon him, and it seemed to -culminate with Athénaïse’s flight from home. He knew that he could again -compel her return as he had done once before,—compel her to return to -the shelter of his roof, compel her cold and unwilling submission to his -love and passionate transports; but the loss of self-respect seemed to -him too dear a price to pay for a wife. - -He could not comprehend why she had seemed to prefer him above others; -why she had attracted him with eyes, with voice, with a hundred womanly -ways, and finally distracted him with love which she seemed, in her -timid, maidenly fashion, to return. The great sense of loss came from -the realization of having missed a chance for happiness,—a chance that -would come his way again only through a miracle. He could not think of -himself loving any other woman, and could not think of Athénaïse -ever—even at some remote date—caring for him. - -He wrote her a letter, in which he disclaimed any further intention of -forcing his commands upon her. He did not desire her presence ever again -in his home unless she came of her free will, uninfluenced by family or -friends; unless she could be the companion he had hoped for in marrying -her, and in some measure return affection and respect for the love which -he continued and would always continue to feel for her. This letter he -sent out to the rigolet by a messenger early in the day. But she was not -out on the rigolet, and had not been there. - -The family turned instinctively to Montéclin, and almost literally fell -upon him for an explanation; he had been absent from home all night. -There was much mystification in his answers, and a plain desire to -mislead in his assurances of ignorance and innocence. - -But with Cazeau there was no doubt or speculation when he accosted the -young fellow. “Montéclin, w’at have you done with Athénaïse?” he -questioned bluntly. They had met in the open road on horseback, just as -Cazeau ascended the river bank before his house. - -“W’at have you done to Athénaïse?” returned Montéclin for answer. - -“I don’t reckon you’ve considered yo’ conduct by any light of decency -an’ propriety in encouraging yo’ sister to such an action, but let me -tell you”— - -“Voyons! you can let me alone with yo’ decency an’ morality an’ -fiddlesticks. I know you mus’ ’a’ done Athénaïse pretty mean that she -can’t live with you; an’ fo’ my part, I’m mighty durn glad she had the -spirit to quit you.” - -“I ain’t in the humor to take any notice of yo’ impertinence, Montéclin; -but let me remine you that Athénaïse is nothing but a chile in -character; besides that, she’s my wife, an’ I hole you responsible fo’ -her safety an’ welfare. If any harm of any description happens to her, -I’ll strangle you, by God, like a rat, and fling you in Cane river, if I -have to hang fo’ it!” He had not lifted his voice. The only sign of -anger was a savage gleam in his eyes. - -“I reckon you better keep yo’ big talk fo’ the women, Cazeau,” replied -Montéclin, riding away. - -But he went doubly armed after that, and intimated that the precaution -was not needless, in view of the threats and menaces that were abroad -touching his personal safety. - - VI. - -Athénaïse reached her destination sound of skin and limb, but a good -deal flustered, a little frightened, and altogether excited and -interested by her unusual experiences. - -Her destination was the house of Sylvie, on Dauphine Street, in New -Orleans,—a three-story gray brick, standing directly on the banquette, -with three broad stone steps leading to the deep front entrance. From -the second-story balcony swung a small sign, conveying to passers-by the -intelligence that within were “_chambres garnies_.” - -It was one morning in the last week of April that Athénaïse presented -herself at the Dauphine Street house. Sylvie was expecting her, and -introduced her at once to her apartment, which was in the second story -of the back ell, and accessible by an open, outside gallery. There was a -yard below, paved with broad stone flagging; many fragrant flowering -shrubs and plants grew in a bed along the side of the opposite wall, and -others were distributed about in tubs and green boxes. - -It was a plain but large enough room into which Athénaïse was ushered, -with matting on the floor, green shades and Nottingham-lace curtains at -the windows that looked out on the gallery, and furnished with a cheap -walnut suit. But everything looked exquisitely clean, and the whole -place smelled of cleanliness. - -Athénaïse at once fell into the rocking-chair, with the air of -exhaustion and intense relief of one who has come to the end of her -troubles. Sylvie, entering behind her, laid the big traveling-bag on the -floor and deposited the jacket on the bed. - -She was a portly quadroon of fifty or thereabout, clad in an ample -_volante_ of the old-fashioned purple calico so much affected by her -class. She wore large golden hoop-earrings, and her hair was combed -plainly, with every appearance of effort to smooth out the kinks. She -had broad, coarse features, with a nose that turned up, exposing the -wide nostrils, and that seemed to emphasize the loftiness and command of -her bearing,—a dignity that in the presence of white people assumed a -character of respectfulness, but never of obsequiousness. Sylvie -believed firmly in maintaining the color-line, and would not suffer a -white person, even a child, to call her “Madame Sylvie,”—a title which -she exacted religiously, however, from those of her own race. - -“I hope you be please’ wid yo’ room, madame,” she observed amiably. -“Dat’s de same room w’at yo’ brother, M’sieur Miché, all time like w’en -he come to New Orlean’. He well, M’sieur Miché? I receive’ his letter -las’ week, an’ dat same day a gent’man want I give ’im dat room. I say, -‘No, dat room already ingage’.’ Ev-body like dat room on ’count it so -quite (quiet). M’sieur Gouvernail, dere in nax’ room, you can’t pay ’im! -He been stay t’ree year’ in dat room; but all fix’ up fine wid his own -furn’ture an’ books, ’tel you can’t see! I say to ’im plenty time’, -‘M’sieur Gouvernail, w’y you don’t take dat t’ree-story front, now, long -it’s empty?’ He tells me, ‘Leave me ’lone, Sylvie; I know a good room -w’en I fine it, me.’” - -She had been moving slowly and majestically about the apartment, -straightening and smoothing down bed and pillows, peering into ewer and -basin, evidently casting an eye around to make sure that everything was -as it should be. - -“I sen’ you some fresh water, madame,” she offered upon retiring from -the room. “An’ w’en you want an’t’ing, you jus’ go out on de gall’ry an’ -call Pousette: she year you plain,—she right down dere in de kitchen.” - -Athénaïse was really not so exhausted as she had every reason to be -after that interminable and circuitous way by which Montéclin had seen -fit to have her conveyed to the city. - -Would she ever forget that dark and truly dangerous midnight ride along -the “coast” to the mouth of Cane river! There Montéclin had parted with -her, after seeing her aboard the St. Louis and Shreveport packet which -he knew would pass there before dawn. She had received instructions to -disembark at the mouth of Red river, and there transfer to the first -south-bound steamer for New Orleans; all of which instructions she had -followed implicitly, even to making her way at once to Sylvie’s upon her -arrival in the city. Montéclin had enjoined secrecy and much caution; -the clandestine nature of the affair gave it a savor of adventure which -was highly pleasing to him. Eloping with his sister was only a little -less engaging than eloping with some one else’s sister. - -But Montéclin did not do the _grand seigneur_ by halves. He had paid -Sylvie a whole month in advance for Athénaïse’s board and lodging. Part -of the sum he had been forced to borrow, it is true, but he was not -niggardly. - -Athénaïse was to take her meals in the house, which none of the other -lodgers did; the one exception being that Mr. Gouvernail was served with -breakfast on Sunday mornings. - -Sylvie’s clientèle came chiefly from the southern parishes; for the most -part, people spending but a few days in the city. She prided herself -upon the quality and highly respectable character of her patrons, who -came and went unobtrusively. - -The large parlor opening upon the front balcony was seldom used. Her -guests were permitted to entertain in this sanctuary of elegance,—but -they never did. She often rented it for the night to parties of -respectable and discreet gentlemen desiring to enjoy a quiet game of -cards outside the bosom of their families. The second-story hall also -led by a long window out on the balcony. And Sylvie advised Athénaïse, -when she grew weary of her back room, to go and sit on the front -balcony, which was shady in the afternoon, and where she might find -diversion in the sounds and sights of the street below. - -Athénaïse refreshed herself with a bath, and was soon unpacking her few -belongings, which she ranged neatly away in the bureau drawers and the -armoire. - -She had revolved certain plans in her mind during the past hour or so. -Her present intention was to live on indefinitely in this big, cool, -clean back room on Dauphine street. She had thought seriously, for -moments, of the convent, with all readiness to embrace the vows of -poverty and chastity; but what about obedience? Later, she intended, in -some round-*about way, to give her parents and her husband the assurance -of her safety and welfare; reserving the right to remain unmolested and -lost to them. To live on at the expense of Montéclin’s generosity was -wholly out of the question, and Athénaïse meant to look about for some -suitable and agreeable employment. - -The imperative thing to be done at present, however, was to go out in -search of material for an inexpensive gown or two; for she found herself -in the painful predicament of a young woman having almost literally -nothing to wear. She decided upon pure white for one, and some sort of a -sprigged muslin for the other. - - VII. - -On Sunday morning, two days after Athénaïse’s arrival in the city, she -went in to breakfast somewhat later than usual, to find two covers laid -at table instead of the one to which she was accustomed. She had been to -mass, and did not remove her hat, but put her fan, parasol, and -prayer-book aside. The dining-room was situated just beneath her own -apartment, and, like all rooms of the house, was large and airy; the -floor was covered with a glistening oil-cloth. - -The small, round table, immaculately set, was drawn near the open -window. There were some tall plants in boxes on the gallery outside; and -Pousette, a little, old, intensely black woman, was splashing and -dashing buckets of water on the flagging, and talking loud in her Creole -patois to no one in particular. - -A dish piled with delicate river-shrimps and crushed ice was on the -table; a caraffe of crystal-clear water, a few _hors d’œuvres_, beside a -small golden-brown crusty loaf of French bread at each plate. A -half-bottle of wine and the morning paper were set at the place opposite -Athénaïse. - -She had almost completed her breakfast when Gouvernail came in and -seated himself at table. He felt annoyed at finding his cherished -privacy invaded. Sylvie was removing the remains of a mutton-chop from -before Athénaïse, and serving her with a cup of café au lait. - -“M’sieur Gouvernail,” offered Sylvie in her most insinuating and -impressive manner, “you please leave me make you acquaint’ wid Madame -Cazeau. Dat’s M’sieur Miché’s sister; you meet ’im two t’ree time’, you -rec’lec’, an’ been one day to de race wid ’im. Madame Cazeau, you please -leave me make you acquaint’ wid M’sieur Gouvernail.” - -Gouvernail expressed himself greatly pleased to meet the sister of -Monsieur Miché, of whom he had not the slightest recollection. He -inquired after Monsieur Miché’s health, and politely offered Athénaïse a -part of his newspaper,—the part which contained the Woman’s Page and the -social gossip. - -Athénaïse faintly remembered that Sylvie had spoken of a Monsieur -Gouvernail occupying the room adjoining hers, living amid luxurious -surroundings and a multitude of books. She had not thought of him -further than to picture him a stout, middle-aged gentleman, with a bushy -beard turning gray, wearing large gold-rimmed spectacles, and stooping -somewhat from much bending over books and writing material. She had -confused him in her mind with the likeness of some literary celebrity -that she had run across in the advertising pages of a magazine. - -Gouvernail’s appearance was, in truth, in no sense striking. He looked -older than thirty and younger than forty, was of medium height and -weight, with a quiet, unobtrusive manner which seemed to ask that he be -let alone. His hair was light brown, brushed carefully and parted in the -middle. His mustache was brown, and so were his eyes, which had a mild, -penetrating quality. He was neatly dressed in the fashion of the day; -and his hands seemed to Athénaïse remarkably white and soft for a man’s. - -He had been buried in the contents of his newspaper, when he suddenly -realized that some further little attention might be due to Miché’s -sister. He started to offer her a glass of wine, when he was surprised -and relieved to find that she had quietly slipped away while he was -absorbed in his own editorial on Corrupt Legislation. - -Gouvernail finished his paper and smoked his cigar out on the gallery. -He lounged about, gathered a rose for his buttonhole, and had his -regular Sunday-morning confab with Pousette, to whom he paid a weekly -stipend for brushing his shoes and clothing. He made a great pretense of -haggling over the transaction, only to enjoy her uneasiness and -garrulous excitement. - -He worked or read in his room for a few hours, and when he quitted the -house, at three in the afternoon, it was to return no more till late at -night. It was his almost invariable custom to spend Sunday evenings out -in the American quarter, among a congenial set of men and women,—_des -esprits forts_, all of them, whose lives were irreproachable, yet whose -opinions would startle even the traditional “sapeur,“ for whom “nothing -is sacred.” But for all his “advanced” opinions, Gouvernail was a -liberal-minded fellow; a man or woman lost nothing of his respect by -being married. - -When he left the house in the afternoon, Athénaïse had already ensconced -herself on the front balcony. He could see her through the jalousies -when he passed on his way to the front entrance. She had not yet grown -lonesome or homesick; the newness of her surroundings made them -sufficiently entertaining. She found it diverting to sit there on the -front balcony watching people pass by, even though there was no one to -talk to. And then the comforting, comfortable sense of not being -married! - -She watched Gouvernail walk down the street, and could find no fault -with his bearing. He could hear the sound of her rockers for some little -distance. He wondered what the “poor little thing” was doing in the -city, and meant to ask Sylvie about her when he should happen to think -of it. - - VIII. - -The following morning, towards noon, when Gouvernail quitted his room, -he was confronted by Athénaïse, exhibiting some confusion and -trepidation at being forced to request a favor of him at so early a -stage of their acquaintance. She stood in her doorway, and had evidently -been sewing, as the thimble on her finger testified, as well as a -long-threaded needle thrust in the bosom of her gown. She held a stamped -but unaddressed letter in her hand. - -And would Mr. Gouvernail be so kind as to address the letter to her -brother, Mr. Montéclin Miché? She would hate to detain him with -explanations this morning,—another time, perhaps,—but now she begged -that he would give himself the trouble. - -He assured her that it made no difference, that it was no trouble -whatever; and he drew a fountain pen from his pocket and addressed the -letter at her dictation, resting it on the inverted rim of his straw -hat. She wondered a little at a man of his supposed erudition stumbling -over the spelling of “Montéclin” and “Miché.” - -She demurred at overwhelming him with the additional trouble of posting -it, but he succeeded in convincing her that so simple a task as the -posting of a letter would not add an iota to the burden of the day. -Moreover, he promised to carry it in his hand, and thus avoid any -possible risk of forgetting it in his pocket. - -After that, and after a second repetition of the favor, when she had -told him that she had had a letter from Montéclin, and looked as if she -wanted to tell him more, he felt that he knew her better. He felt that -he knew her well enough to join her out on the balcony, one night, when -he found her sitting there alone. He was not one who deliberately sought -the society of women, but he was not wholly a bear. A little -commiseration for Athénaïse’s aloneness, perhaps some curiosity to know -further what manner of woman she was, and the natural influence of her -feminine charm were equal unconfessed factors in turning his steps -towards the balcony when he discovered the shimmer of her white gown -through the open hall window. - -It was already quite late, but the day had been intensely hot, and -neighboring balconies and doorways were occupied by chattering groups of -humanity, loath to abandon the grateful freshness of the outer air. The -voices about her served to reveal to Athénaïse the feeling of loneliness -that was gradually coming over her. Notwithstanding certain dormant -impulses, she craved human sympathy and companionship. - -She shook hands impulsively with Gouvernail, and told him how glad she -was to see him. He was not prepared for such an admission, but it -pleased him immensely, detecting as he did that the expression was as -sincere as it was outspoken. He drew a chair up within comfortable -conversational distance of Athénaïse, though he had no intention of -talking more than was barely necessary to encourage Madame— He had -actually forgotten her name! - -He leaned an elbow on the balcony rail, and would have offered an -opening remark about the oppressive heat of the day, but Athénaïse did -not give him the opportunity. How glad she was to talk to some one, and -how she talked! - -An hour later she had gone to her room, and Gouvernail stayed smoking on -the balcony. He knew her quite well after that hour’s talk. It was not -so much what she had said as what her half saying had revealed to his -quick intelligence. He knew that she adored Montéclin, and he suspected -that she adored Cazeau without being herself aware of it. He had -gathered that she was self-willed, impulsive, innocent, ignorant, -unsatisfied, dissatisfied; for had she not complained that things seemed -all wrongly arranged in this world, and no one was permitted to be happy -in his own way? And he told her he was sorry she had discovered that -primordial fact of existence so early in life. - -He commiserated her loneliness, and scanned his bookshelves next morning -for something to lend her to read, rejecting everything that offered -itself to his view: Philosophy was out of the question, and so was -poetry; that is, such poetry as he possessed. He had not sounded her -literary tastes, and strongly suspected she had none; that she would -have rejected The Duchess as readily as Mrs. Humphry Ward. He -compromised on a magazine. - -It had entertained her passably, she admitted, upon returning it. A New -England story had puzzled her, it was true, and a Creole tale had -offended her, but the pictures had pleased her greatly, especially one -which had reminded her so strongly of Montéclin after a hard day’s ride -that she was loath to give it up. It was one of Remington’s Cowboys, and -Gouvernail insisted upon her keeping it,—keeping the magazine. - -He spoke to her daily after that, and was always eager to render her -some service or to do something towards her entertainment. - -One afternoon he took her out to the lake end. She had been there once, -some years before, but in winter, so the trip was comparatively new and -strange to her. The large expanse of water studded with pleasure-boats, -the sight of children playing merrily along the grassy palisades, the -music, all enchanted her. Gouvernail thought her the most beautiful -woman he had ever seen. Even her gown—the sprigged muslin—appeared to -him the most charming one imaginable. Nor could anything be more -becoming than the arrangement of her brown hair under the white sailor -hat, all rolled back in a soft puff from her radiant face. And she -carried her parasol and lifted her skirts and used her fan in ways that -seemed quite unique and peculiar to herself, and which he considered -almost worthy of study and imitation. - -They did not dine out there at the water’s edge, as they might have -done, but returned early to the city to avoid the crowd. Athénaïse -wanted to go home, for she said Sylvie would have dinner prepared and -would be expecting her. But it was not difficult to persuade her to dine -instead in the quiet little restaurant that he knew and liked, with its -sanded floor, its secluded atmosphere, its delicious menu, and its -obsequious waiter wanting to know what he might have the honor of -serving to “monsieur et madame.” No wonder he made the mistake, with -Gouvernail assuming such an air of proprietorship! But Athénaïse was -very tired after it all; the sparkle went out of her face, and she hung -draggingly on his arm in walking home. - -He was reluctant to part from her when she bade him good-night at her -door and thanked him for the agreeable evening. He had hoped she would -sit outside until it was time for him to regain the newspaper office. He -knew that she would undress and get into her peignoir and lie upon her -bed; and what he wanted to do, what he would have given much to do, was -to go and sit beside her, read to her something restful, soothe her, do -her bidding, whatever it might be. Of course there was no use in -thinking of that. But he was surprised at his growing desire to be -serving her. She gave him an opportunity sooner than he looked for. - -“Mr. Gouvernail,” she called from her room, “will you be so kine as to -call Pousette an’ tell her she fo’got to bring my ice-water?” - -He was indignant at Pousette’s negligence, and called severely to her -over the banisters. He was sitting before his own door, smoking. He knew -that Athénaïse had gone to bed, for her room was dark, and she had -opened the slats of the door and windows. Her bed was near a window. - -Pousette came flopping up with the ice-water, and with a hundred -excuses: “Mo pa oua vou à tab c’te lanuite, mo cri vou pé gagni déja -là-bas; parole! Vou pas cri conté ça Madame Sylvie?” She had not seen -Athénaïse at table, and thought she was gone. She swore to this, and -hoped Madame Sylvie would not be informed of her remissness. - -A little later Athénaïse lifted her voice again: “Mr. Gouvernail, did -you remark that young man sitting on the opposite side from us, coming -in, with a gray coat an’ a blue ban’ aroun’ his hat?” - -Of course Gouvernail had not noticed any such individual, but he assured -Athénaïse that he had observed the young fellow particularly. - -“Don’t you think he looked something,—not very much, of co’se,—but don’t -you think he had a little faux-air of Montéclin?” - -“I think he looked strikingly like Montéclin,” asserted Gouvernail, with -the one idea of prolonging the conversation. “I meant to call your -attention to the resemblance, and something drove it out of my head.” - -“The same with me,” returned Athénaïse. “Ah, my dear Montéclin! I wonder -w’at he is doing now?” - -“Did you receive any news, any letter from him to-day?” asked -Gouvernail, determined that if the conversation ceased it should not be -through lack of effort on his part to sustain it. - -“Not to-day, but yesterday. He tells me that maman was so distracted -with uneasiness that finally, to pacify her, he was fo’ced to confess -that he knew w’ere I was, but that he was boun’ by a vow of secrecy not -to reveal it. But Cazeau has not noticed him or spoken to him since he -threaten’ to throw po’ Montéclin in Cane river. You know Cazeau wrote me -a letter the morning I lef’, thinking I had gone to the rigolet. An’ -maman opened it, an’ said it was full of the mos’ noble sentiments, an’ -she wanted Montéclin to sen’ it to me; but Montéclin refuse’ poin’ -blank, so he wrote to me.” - -Gouvernail preferred to talk of Montéclin. He pictured Cazeau as -unbearable, and did not like to think of him. - -A little later Athénaïse called out, “Good-night, Mr. Gouvernail.” - -“Good-night,” he returned reluctantly. And when he thought that she was -sleeping, he got up and went away to the midnight pandemonium of his -newspaper office. - - IX. - -Athénaïse could not have held out through the month had it not been for -Gouvernail. With the need of caution and secrecy always uppermost in her -mind, she made no new acquaintances, and she did not seek out persons -already known to her; however, she knew so few, it required little -effort to keep out of their way. As for Sylvie, almost every moment of -her time was occupied in looking after her house; and, moreover, her -deferential attitude towards her lodgers forbade anything like the -gossipy chats in which Athénaïse might have condescended sometimes to -indulge with her landlady. The transient lodgers, who came and went, she -never had occasion to meet. Hence she was entirely dependent upon -Gouvernail for company. - -He appreciated the situation fully; and every moment that he could spare -from his work he devoted to her entertainment. She liked to be out of -doors, and they strolled together in the summer twilight through the -mazes of the old French quarter. They went again to the lake end, and -stayed for hours on the water; returning so late that the streets -through which they passed were silent and deserted. On Sunday morning he -arose at an unconscionable hour to take her to the French market, -knowing that the sights and sounds there would interest her. And he did -not join the intellectual coterie in the afternoon, as he usually did, -but placed himself all day at the disposition and service of Athénaïse. - -Notwithstanding all, his manner toward her was tactful, and evinced -intelligence and a deep knowledge of her character, surprising upon so -brief an acquaintance. For the time he was everything to her that she -would have him; he replaced home and friends. Sometimes she wondered if -he had ever loved a woman. She could not fancy him loving any one -passionately, rudely, offensively, as Cazeau loved her. Once she was so -naïve as to ask him outright if he had ever been in love, and he assured -her promptly that he had not. She thought it an admirable trait in his -character, and esteemed him greatly therefor. - -He found her crying one night, not openly or violently. She was leaning -over the gallery rail, watching the toads that hopped about in the -moonlight, down on the damp flagstones of the courtyard. There was an -oppressively sweet odor rising from the cape jessamine. Pousette was -down there, mumbling and quarreling with some one, and seeming to be -having it all her own way,—as well she might, when her companion was -only a black cat that had come in from a neighboring yard to keep her -company. - -Athénaïse did admit feeling heart-sick, body-sick, when he questioned -her; she supposed it was nothing but homesick. A letter from Montéclin -had stirred her all up. She longed for her mother, for Montéclin; she -was sick for a sight of the cotton-fields, the scent of the ploughed -earth, for the dim, mysterious charm of the woods, and the old -tumble-down home on the Bon Dieu. - -As Gouvernail listened to her, a wave of pity and tenderness swept -through him. He took her hands and pressed them against him. He wondered -what would happen if he were to put his arms around her. - -He was hardly prepared for what happened, but he stood it courageously. -She twined her arms around his neck and wept outright on his shoulder; -the hot tears scalding his cheek and neck, and her whole body shaken in -his arms. The impulse was powerful to strain her to him; the temptation -was fierce to seek her lips; but he did neither. - -He understood a thousand times better than she herself understood it -that he was acting as substitute for Montéclin. Bitter as the conviction -was, he accepted it. He was patient; he could wait. He hoped some day to -hold her with a lover’s arms. That she was married made no particle of -difference to Gouvernail. He could not conceive or dream of it making a -difference. When the time came that she wanted him,—as he hoped and -believed it would come,—he felt he would have a right to her. So long as -she did not want him, he had no right to her,—no more than her husband -had. It was very hard to feel her warm breath and tears upon his cheek, -and her struggling bosom pressed against him and her soft arms clinging -to him and his whole body and soul aching for her, and yet to make no -sign. - -He tried to think what Montéclin would have said and done, and to act -accordingly. He stroked her hair, and held her in a gentle embrace, -until the tears dried and the sobs ended. Before releasing herself she -kissed him against the neck; she had to love somebody in her own way! -Even that he endured like a stoic. But it was well he left her, to -plunge into the thick of rapid, breathless, exacting work till nearly -dawn. - -Athénaïse was greatly soothed, and slept well. The touch of friendly -hands and caressing arms had been very grateful. Henceforward she would -not be lonely and unhappy, with Gouvernail there to comfort her. - - X. - -The fourth week of Athénaïse’s stay in the city was drawing to a close. -Keeping in view the intention which she had of finding some suitable and -agreeable employment, she had made a few tentatives in that direction. -But with the exception of two little girls who had promised to take -piano lessons at a price that would be embarrassing to mention, these -attempts had been fruitless. Moreover, the homesickness kept coming -back, and Gouvernail was not always there to drive it away. - -She spent much of her time weeding and pottering among the flowers down -in the courtyard. She tried to take an interest in the black cat, and a -mockingbird that hung in a cage outside the kitchen door, and a -disreputable parrot that belonged to the cook next door, and swore -hoarsely all day long in bad French. - -Beside, she was not well; she was not herself, as she told Sylvie. The -climate of New Orleans did not agree with her. Sylvie was distressed to -learn this, as she felt in some measure responsible for the health and -well-being of Monsieur Miché’s sister; and she made it her duty to -inquire closely into the nature and character of Athénaïse’s malaise. - -Sylvie was very wise, and Athénaïse was very ignorant. The extent of her -ignorance and the depth of her subsequent enlightenment were -bewildering. She stayed a long, long time quite still, quite stunned, -after her interview with Sylvie, except for the short, uneven breathing -that ruffled her bosom. Her whole being was steeped in a wave of -ecstasy. When she finally arose from the chair in which she had been -seated, and looked at herself in the mirror, a face met hers which she -seemed to see for the first time, so transfigured was it with wonder and -rapture. - -One mood quickly followed another, in this new turmoil of her senses, -and the need of action became uppermost. Her mother must know at once, -and her mother must tell Montéclin. And Cazeau must know. As she thought -of him, the first purely sensuous tremor of her life swept over her. She -half whispered his name, and the sound of it brought red blotches into -her cheeks. She spoke it over and over, as if it were some new, sweet -sound born out of darkness and confusion, and reaching her for the first -time. She was impatient to be with him. Her whole passionate nature was -aroused as if by a miracle. - -She seated herself to write to her husband. The letter he would get in -the morning, and she would be with him at night. What would he say? How -would he act? She knew that he would forgive her, for had he not written -a letter?—and a pang of resentment toward Montéclin shot through her. -What did he mean by withholding that letter? How dared he not have sent -it? - -Athénaïse attired herself for the street, and went out to post the -letter which she had penned with a single thought, a spontaneous -impulse. It would have seemed incoherent to most people, but Cazeau -would understand. - -She walked along the street as if she had fallen heir to some -magnificent inheritance. On her face was a look of pride and -satisfaction that passers-by noticed and admired. She wanted to talk to -some one, to tell some person; and she stopped at the corner and told -the oyster-woman, who was Irish, and who God-blessed her, and wished -prosperity to the race of Cazeaus for generations to come. She held the -oyster-woman’s fat, dirty little baby in her arms and scanned it -curiously and observingly, as if a baby were a phenomenon that she -encountered for the first time in life. She even kissed it! - -Then what a relief it was to Athénaïse to walk the streets without dread -of being seen and recognized by some chance acquaintance from Red river! -No one could have said now that she did not know her own mind. - -She went directly from the oyster-woman’s to the office of Harding & -Offdean, her husband’s merchants; and it was with such an air of -partnership, almost proprietorship, that she demanded a sum of money on -her husband’s account, they gave it to her as unhesitatingly as they -would have handed it over to Cazeau himself. When Mr. Harding, who knew -her, asked politely after her health, she turned so rosy and looked so -conscious, he thought it a great pity for so pretty a woman to be such a -little goose. - -Athénaïse entered a dry-goods store and bought all manner of -things,—little presents for nearly everybody she knew. She bought whole -bolts of sheerest, softest, downiest white stuff; and when the clerk, in -trying to meet her wishes, asked if she intended it for infant’s use, -she could have sunk through the floor, and wondered how he might have -suspected it. - -As it was Montéclin who had taken her away from her husband, she wanted -it to be Montéclin who should take her back to him. So she wrote him a -very curt note,—in fact it was a postal card,—asking that he meet her at -the train on the evening following. She felt convinced that after what -had gone before, Cazeau would await her at their own home; and she -preferred it so. - -Then there was the agreeable excitement of getting ready to leave, of -packing up her things. Pousette kept coming and going, coming and going; -and each time that she quitted the room it was with something that -Athénaïse had given her,—a handkerchief, a petticoat, a pair of -stockings with two tiny holes at the toes, some broken prayer-beads, and -finally a silver dollar. - -Next it was Sylvie who came along bearing a gift of what she called “a -set of pattern’,”—things of complicated design which never could have -been obtained in any new-fangled bazaar or pattern-store, that Sylvie -had acquired of a foreign lady of distinction whom she had nursed years -before at the St. Charles hotel. Athénaïse accepted and handled them -with reverence, fully sensible of the great compliment and favor, and -laid them religiously away in the trunk which she had lately acquired. - -She was greatly fatigued after the day of unusual exertion, and went -early to bed and to sleep. All day long she had not once thought of -Gouvernail, and only did think of him when aroused for a brief instant -by the sound of his foot-falls on the gallery, as he passed in going to -his room. He had hoped to find her up, waiting for him. - -But the next morning he knew. Some one must have told him. There was no -subject known to her which Sylvie hesitated to discuss in detail with -any man of suitable years and discretion. - -Athénaïse found Gouvernail waiting with a carriage to convey her to the -railway station. A momentary pang visited her for having forgotten him -so completely, when he said to her, “Sylvie tells me you are going away -this morning.” - -He was kind, attentive, and amiable, as usual, but respected to the -utmost the new dignity and reserve that her manner had developed since -yesterday. She kept looking from the carriage window, silent, and -embarrassed as Eve after losing her ignorance. He talked of the muddy -streets and the murky morning, and of Montéclin. He hoped she would find -everything comfortable and pleasant in the country, and trusted she -would inform him whenever she came to visit the city again. He talked as -if afraid or mistrustful of silence and himself. - -At the station she handed him her purse, and he bought her ticket, -secured for her a comfortable section, checked her trunk, and got all -the bundles and things safely aboard the train. She felt very grateful. -He pressed her hand warmly, lifted his hat, and left her. He was a man -of intelligence, and took defeat gracefully; that was all. But as he -made his way back to the carriage, he was thinking, “By heaven, it -hurts, it hurts!” - - XI. - -Athénaïse spent a day of supreme happiness and expectancy. The fair -sight of the country unfolding itself before her was balm to her vision -and to her soul. She was charmed with the rather unfamiliar, broad, -clean sweep of the sugar plantations, with their monster sugar-houses, -their rows of neat cabins like little villages of a single street, and -their impressive homes standing apart amid clusters of trees. There were -sudden glimpses of a bayou curling between sunny, grassy banks, or -creeping sluggishly out from a tangled growth of wood, and brush, and -fern, and poison-vines, and palmettos. And passing through the long -stretches of monotonous woodlands, she would close her eyes and taste in -anticipation the moment of her meeting with Cazeau. She could think of -nothing but him. - -It was night when she reached her station. There was Montéclin, as she -had expected, waiting for her with a two-seated buggy, to which he had -hitched his own swift-footed, spirited pony. It was good, he felt, to -have her back on any terms; and he had no fault to find since she came -of her own choice. He more than suspected the cause of her coming; her -eyes and her voice and her foolish little manner went far in revealing -the secret that was brimming over in her heart. But after he had -deposited her at her own gate, and as he continued his way toward the -rigolet, he could not help feeling that the affair had taken a very -disappointing, an ordinary, a most commonplace turn, after all. He left -her in Cazeau’s keeping. - -Her husband lifted her out of the buggy, and neither said a word until -they stood together within the shelter of the gallery. Even then they -did not speak at first. But Athénaïse turned to him with an appealing -gesture. As he clasped her in his arms, he felt the yielding of her -whole body against him. He felt her lips for the first time respond to -the passion of his own. - -The country night was dark and warm and still, save for the distant -notes of an accordion which some one was playing in a cabin away off. A -little negro baby was crying somewhere. As Athénaïse withdrew from her -husband’s embrace, the sound arrested her. - -“Listen, Cazeau! How Juliette’s baby is crying! Pauvre ti chou, I wonder -w’at is the matter with it?” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - After the Winter - - After the Winter - - - I. - -Trézinie, the blacksmith’s daughter, stepped out upon the gallery just -as M’sieur Michel passed by. He did not notice the girl but walked -straight on down the village street. - -His seven hounds skulked, as usual, about him. At his side hung his -powder-horn, and on his shoulder a gunny-bag slackly filled with game -that he carried to the store. A broad felt hat shaded his bearded face -and in his hand he carelessly swung his old-fashioned rifle. It was -doubtless the same with which he had slain so many people, Trézinie -shudderingly reflected. For Cami, the cobbler’s son—who must have -known—had often related to her how this man had killed two Choctaws, as -many Texans, a free mulatto and numberless blacks, in that vague -locality known as “the hills.” - -Older people who knew better took little trouble to correct this ghastly -record that a younger generation had scored against him. They themselves -had come to half-believe that M’sieur Michel might be capable of -anything, living as he had, for so many years, apart from humanity, -alone with his hounds in a kennel of a cabin on the hill. The time -seemed to most of them fainter than a memory when, a lusty young fellow -of twenty-five, he had cultivated his strip of land across the lane from -Les Chêniers; when home and toil and wife and child were so many -benedictions that he humbly thanked heaven for having given him. - -But in the early ’60’s he went with his friend Duplan and the rest of -the “Louisiana Tigers.” He came back with some of them. He came to -find—well, death may lurk in a peaceful valley lying in wait to ensnare -the toddling feet of little ones. Then, there are women—there are wives -with thoughts that roam and grow wanton with roaming; women whose pulses -are stirred by strange voices and eyes that woo; women who forget the -claims of yesterday, the hopes of to-morrow, in the impetuous clutch of -to-day. - -But that was no reason, some people thought, why he should have cursed -men who found their blessings where they had left them—cursed God, who -had abandoned him. - -Persons who met him upon the road had long ago stopped greeting him. -What was the use? He never answered them; he spoke to no one; he never -so much as looked into men’s faces. When he bartered his game and fish -at the village store for powder and shot and such scant food as he -needed, he did so with few words and less courtesy. Yet feeble as it -was, this was the only link that held him to his fellow-beings. - -Strange to say, the sight of M’sieur Michel, though more forbidding than -ever that delightful spring afternoon, was so suggestive to Trézinie as -to be almost an inspiration. - -It was Easter eve and the early part of April. The whole earth seemed -teeming with new, green, vigorous life everywhere—except the arid spot -that immediately surrounded Trézinie. It was no use; she had tried. -Nothing would grow among those cinders that filled the yard; in that -atmosphere of smoke and flame that was constantly belching from the -forge where her father worked at his trade. There were wagon wheels, -bolts and bars of iron, plowshares and all manner of unpleasant-looking -things littering the bleak, black yard; nothing green anywhere except a -few weeds that would force themselves into fence corners. And Trézinie -knew that flowers belong to Easter time, just as dyed eggs do. She had -plenty of eggs; no one had more or prettier ones; she was not going to -grumble about that. But she did feel distressed because she had not a -flower to help deck the altar on Easter morning. And every one else -seemed to have them in such abundance! There was ’Dame Suzanne among her -roses across the way. She must have clipped a hundred since noon. An -hour ago Trézinie had seen the carriage from Les Chêniers pass by on its -way to church with Mamzelle Euphrasie’s pretty head looking like a -picture enframed with the Easter lilies that filled the vehicle. - -For the twentieth time Trézinie walked out upon the gallery. She saw -M’sieur Michel and thought of the pine hill. When she thought of the -hill she thought of the flowers that grew there—free as sunshine. The -girl gave a joyous spring that changed to a farandole as her feet -twinkled across the rough, loose boards of the gallery. - -“Hé, Cami!” she cried, clapping her hands together. - -Cami rose from the bench where he sat pegging away at the clumsy sole of -a shoe, and came lazily to the fence that divided his abode from -Trézinie’s. - -“Well, w’at?” he inquired with heavy amiability. She leaned far over the -railing to better communicate with him. - -“You’ll go with me yonda on the hill to pick flowers fo’ Easter, Cami? -I’m goin’ to take La Fringante along, too, to he’p with the baskets. -W’at you say?” - -“No!” was the stolid reply. “I’m boun’ to finish them shoe’, if it is -fo’ a nigga.” - -“Not now,” she returned impatiently; “to-morrow mo’nin’ at sun-up. An’ I -tell you, Cami, my flowers’ll beat all! Look yonda at ’Dame Suzanne -pickin’ her roses a’ready. An’ Mamzelle Euphraisie she’s car’ied her -lilies an’ gone, her. You tell me all that’s goin’ be fresh to-moro’!” - -“Jus’ like you say,” agreed the boy, turning to resume his work. “But -you want to mine out fo’ the ole possum up in the wood. Let M’sieu -Michel set eyes on you!” and he raised his arms as if aiming with a gun. -“Pim, pam, poum! No mo’ Trézinie, no mo’ Cami, no mo’ La Fringante—all -stretch’!” - -The possible risk which Cami so vividly foreshadowed but added a zest to -Trézinie’s projected excursion. - - II. - -It was hardly sun-up on the following morning when the three -children—Trézinie, Cami and the little negress, La Fringante—were -filling big, flat Indian baskets from the abundance of brilliant flowers -that studded the hill. - -In their eagerness they had ascended the slope and penetrated deep into -the forest without thought of M’sieur Michel or of his abode. Suddenly, -in the dense wood, they came upon his hut—low, forbidding, seeming to -scowl rebuke upon them for their intrusion. - -La Fringante dropped her basket, and, with a cry, fled. Cami looked as -if he wanted to do the same. But Trézinie, after the first tremor, saw -that the ogre himself was away. The wooden shutter of the one window was -closed. The door, so low that even a small man must have stooped to -enter it, was secured with a chain. Absolute silence reigned, except for -the whirr of wings in the air, the fitful notes of a bird in the -treetop. - -“Can’t you see it’s nobody there!” cried Trézinie impatiently. - -La Fringante, distracted between curiosity and terror, had crept -cautiously back again. Then they all peeped through the wide chinks -between the logs of which the cabin was built. - -M’sieur Michel had evidently begun the construction of his house by -felling a huge tree, whose remaining stump stood in the centre of the -hut, and served him as a table. This primitive table was worn smooth by -twenty-five years of use. Upon it were such humble utensils as the man -required. Everything within the hovel, the sleeping bunk, the one seat, -were as rude as a savage would have fashioned them. - -The stolid Cami could have stayed for hours with his eyes fastened to -the aperture, morbidly seeking some dead, mute sign of that awful -pastime with which he believed M’sieur Michel was accustomed to beguile -his solitude. But Trézinie was wholly possessed by the thought of her -Easter offerings. She wanted flowers and flowers, fresh with the earth -and crisp with dew. - -When the three youngsters scampered down the hill again there was not a -purple verbena left about M’sieur Michel’s hut; not a May apple blossom, -not a stalk of crimson phlox—hardly a violet. - -He was something of a savage, feeling that the solitude belonged to him. -Of late there had been forming within his soul a sentiment toward man, -keener than indifference, bitter as hate. He was coming to dread even -that brief intercourse with others into which his traffic forced him. - -So when M’sieur Michel returned to his hut, and with his quick, -accustomed eye saw that his woods had been despoiled, rage seized him. -It was not that he loved the flowers that were gone more than he loved -the stars, or the wind that trailed across the hill, but they belonged -to and were a part of that life which he had made for himself, and which -he wanted to live alone and unmolested. - -Did not those flowers help him to keep his record of time that was -passing? They had no right to vanish until the hot May days were upon -him. How else should he know? Why had these people, with whom he had -nothing in common, intruded upon his privacy and violated it? What would -they not rob him of next? - -He knew well enough it was Easter; he had heard and seen signs yesterday -in the store that told him so. And he guessed that his woods had been -rifled to add to the mummery of the day. - -M’sieur Michel sat himself moodily down beside his table—centuries -old—and brooded. He did not even notice his hounds that were pleading to -be fed. As he revolved in his mind the event of the morning—innocent as -it was in itself—it grew in importance and assumed a significance not at -first apparent. He could not remain passive under pressure of its -disturbance. He rose to his feet, every impulse aggressive, urging him -to activity. He would go down among those people all gathered together, -blacks and whites, and face them for once and all. He did not know what -he would say to them, but it would be defiance—something to voice the -hate that oppressed him. - -The way down the hill, then across a piece of flat, swampy woodland and -through the lane to the village was so familiar that it required no -attention from him to follow it. His thoughts were left free to revel in -the humor that had driven him from his kennel. - -As he walked down the village street he saw plainly that the place was -deserted save for the appearance of an occasional negress, who seemed -occupied with preparing the midday meal. But about the church scores of -horses were fastened; and M’sieur Michel could see that the edifice was -thronged to the very threshold. - -He did not once hesitate, but obeying the force that impelled him to -face the people wherever they might be, he was soon standing with the -crowd within the entrance of the church. His broad, robust shoulders had -forced space for himself, and his leonine head stood higher than any -there. - -“Take off yo’ hat!” - -It was an indignant mulatto who addressed him. M’sieur Michel -instinctively did as he was bidden. He saw confusedly that there was a -mass of humanity close to him, whose contact and atmosphere affected him -strangely. He saw his wild-flowers, too. He saw them plainly, in bunches -and festoons, among the Easter lilies and roses and geraniums. He was -going to speak out, now; he had the right to and he would, just as soon -as that clamor overhead would cease. - -“Bonté divine! M’sieur Michel!” whispered ’Dame Suzanne tragically to -her neighbor. Trézinie heard. Cami saw. They exchanged an electric -glance, and tremblingly bowed their heads low. - -M’sieur Michel looked wrathfully down at the puny mulatto who had -ordered him to remove his hat. Why had he obeyed? That initial act of -compliance had somehow weakened his will, his resolution. But he would -regain firmness just as soon as that clamor above gave him chance to -speak. - -It was the organ filling the small edifice with volumes of sound. It was -the voices of men and women mingling in the “Gloria in excelsis Deo!” - -The words bore no meaning for him apart from the old familiar strain -which he had known as a child and chanted himself in that same -organ-loft years ago. How it went on and on. Would it never cease? It -was like a menace; like a voice reaching out from the dead past to taunt -him. - -“Gloria in excelsis Deo!” over and over! How the deep basso rolled it -out! How the tenor and alto caught it up and passed it on to be lifted -by the high, flute-like ring of the soprano, till all mingled again in -the wild pæan, “Gloria in excelsis!” - -How insistent was the refrain! and where, what, was that mysterious, -hidden quality in it; the power which was overcoming M’sieur Michel, -stirring within him a turmoil that bewildered him? - -There was no use in trying to speak, or in wanting to. His throat could -not have uttered a sound. He wanted to escape, that was all. “Bonæ -voluntatis,”—he bent his head as if before a beating storm. “Gloria! -Gloria! Gloria!” He must fly; he must save himself, regain his hill -where sights and odors and sounds and saints or devils would cease to -molest him. “In excelsis Deo!” He retreated, forcing his way backward to -the door. He dragged his hat down over his eyes and staggered away down -the road. But the refrain pursued him—“ax! pax! pax!”—fretting him like -a lash. He did not slacken his pace till the tones grew fainter than an -echo, floating, dying away in an “in excelsis!” When he could hear it no -longer he stopped and breathed a sigh of rest and relief. - - III. - -All day long M’sieur Michel stayed about his hut engaged in some -familiar employment that he hoped might efface the unaccountable -impressions of the morning. But his restlessness was unbounded. A -longing had sprung up within him as sharp as pain and not to be -appeased. At once, on this bright, warm Easter morning the voices that -till now had filled his solitude became meaningless. He stayed mute and -uncomprehending before them. Their significance had vanished before the -driving want for human sympathy and companionship that had reawakened in -his soul. - -When night came on he walked through the woods down the slant of the -hill again. - -“It mus’ be all fill’ up with weeds,” muttered M’sieur Michel to himself -as he went. “Ah, Bon Dieu! with trees, Michel, with trees—in twenty-five -years, man.” - -He had not taken the road to the village, but was pursuing a different -one in which his feet had not walked for many days. It led him along the -river bank for a distance. The narrow stream, stirred by the restless -breeze, gleamed in the moonlight that was flooding the land. - -As he went on and on, the scent of the new-plowed earth that had been -from the first keenly perceptible, began to intoxicate him. He wanted to -kneel and bury his face in it. He wanted to dig into it; turn it over. -He wanted to scatter the seed again as he had done long ago, and watch -the new, green life spring up as if at his bidding. - -When he turned away from the river and had walked a piece down the lane -that divided Joe Duplan’s plantation from that bit of land that had once -been his, he wiped his eyes to drive away the mist that was making him -see things as they surely could not be. - -He had wanted to plant a hedge that time before he went away, but he had -not done so. Yet there was the hedge before him, just as he had meant it -to be, and filling the night with fragrance. A broad, low gate divided -its length, and over this he leaned and looked before him in amazement. -There were no weeds as he had fancied; no trees except the scattered -live oaks that he remembered. - -Could that row of hardy fig trees, old, squat and gnarled, be the twigs -that he himself had set one day into the ground? One raw December day -when there was a fine, cold mist falling. The chill of it breathed again -upon him; the memory was so real. The land did not look as if it ever -had been plowed for a field. It was a smooth, green meadow, with cattle -huddled upon the cool sward, or moving with slow, stately tread as they -nibbled the tender shoots. - -There was the house unchanged, gleaming white in the moon, seeming to -invite him beneath its calm shelter. He wondered who dwelt within it -now. Whoever it was he would not have them find him, like a prowler, -there at the gate. But he would come again and again like this at -nighttime, to gaze and refresh his spirit. - -A hand had been laid upon M’sieur Michel’s shoulder and some one called -his name. Startled, he turned to see who accosted him. - -“Duplan!” - -The two men who had not exchanged speech for so many years stood facing -each other for a long moment in silence. - -“I knew you would come back some day, Michel. It was a long time to -wait, but you have come home at last.” - -M’sieur Michel cowered instinctively and lifted his hands with -expressive deprecatory gesture. “No, no; it’s no place for me, Joe; no -place!” - -“Isn’t a man’s home a place for him, Michel?” It seemed less a question -than an assertion, charged with gentle authority. - -“Twenty-five years, Duplan; twenty-five years! It’s no use; it’s too -late.” - -“You see, I have used it,” went on the planter, quietly, ignoring -M’sieur Michel’s protestations. “Those are my cattle grazing off there. -The house has served me many a time to lodge guests or workmen, for whom -I had no room at Les Chêniers. I have not exhausted the soil with any -crops. I had not the right to do that. Yet am I in your debt, Michel, -and ready to settle en bon ami.” - -The planter had opened the gate and entered the inclosure, leading -M’sieur Michel with him. Together they walked toward the house. - -Language did not come readily to either—one so unaccustomed to hold -intercourse with men; both so stirred with memories that would have -rendered any speech painful. When they had stayed long in a silence -which was eloquent of tenderness, Joe Duplan spoke: - -“You know how I tried to see you, Michel, to speak with you, and you -never would.” - -M’sieur Michel answered with but a gesture that seemed a supplication. - -“Let the past all go, Michel. Begin your new life as if the twenty-five -years that are gone had been a long night, from which you have only -awakened. Come to me in the morning,” he added with quick resolution, -“for a horse and a plow.” He had taken the key of the house from his -pocket and placed it in M’sieur Michel’s hand. - -“A horse?” M’sieur Michel repeated uncertainly; “a plow! Oh, it’s too -late, Duplan; too late.” - -“It isn’t too late. The land has rested all these years, man; it’s -fresh, I tell you; and rich as gold. Your crop will be the finest in the -land.” He held out his hand and M’sieur Michel pressed it without a word -in reply, save a muttered “Mon ami.” - -Then he stood there watching the planter disappear behind the high, -clipped hedge. - -He held out his arms. He could not have told if it was toward the -retreating figure, or in welcome to an infinite peace that seemed to -descend upon him and envelop him. - -All the land was radiant except the hill far off that was in black -shadow against the sky. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Polydore - - Polydore - -[Illustration] - - -It was often said that Polydore was the stupidest boy to be found “from -the mouth of Cane river plumb to Natchitoches.” Hence it was an easy -matter to persuade him, as meddlesome and mischievous people sometimes -tried to do, that he was an overworked and much abused individual. - -It occurred one morning to Polydore to wonder what would happen if he -did not get up. He hardly expected the world to stop turning on its -axis; but he did in a way believe that the machinery of the whole -plantation would come to a standstill. - -He had awakened at the usual hour,—about daybreak,—and instead of -getting up at once, as was his custom, he re-settled himself between the -sheets. There he lay, peering out through the dormer window into the -gray morning that was deliciously cool after the hot summer night, -listening to familiar sounds that came from the barn-yard, the fields -and woods beyond, heralding the approach of day. - -A little later there were other sounds, no less familiar or significant; -the roll of the wagon-wheels; the distant call of a negro’s voice; Aunt -Siney’s shuffling step as she crossed the gallery, bearing to Mamzelle -Adélaïde and old Monsieur José their early coffee. - -Polydore had formed no plan and had thought only vaguely upon results. -He lay in a half-slumber awaiting developments, and philosophically -resigned to any turn which the affair might take. Still he was not quite -ready with an answer when Jude came and thrust his head in at the door. - -“Mista Polydore! O Mista Polydore! You ’sleep?” - -“W’at you want?” - -“Dan ’low he ain’ gwine wait yonda wid de wagon all day. Say does you -inspect ’im to pack dat freight f’om de landing by hisse’f?” - -“I reckon he got it to do, Jude. I ain’ going to get up, me.” - -“You ain’ gwine git up?” - -“No; I’m sick. I’m going stay in bed. Go ’long and le’ me sleep.” - -The next one to invade Polydore’s privacy was Mamzelle Adélaïde herself. -It was no small effort for her to mount the steep, narrow stairway to -Polydore’s room. She seldom penetrated to these regions under the roof. -He could hear the stairs creak beneath her weight, and knew that she was -panting at every step. Her presence seemed to crowd the small room; for -she was stout and rather tall, and her flowing muslin wrapper swept -majestically from side to side as she walked. - -Mamzelle Adélaïde had reached middle age, but her face was still fresh -with its mignon features; and her brown eyes at the moment were round -with astonishment and alarm. - -“W’at’s that I hear, Polydore? They tell me you’re sick!” She went and -stood beside the bed, lifting the mosquito bar that settled upon her -head and fell about her like a veil. - -Polydore’s eyes blinked, and he made no attempt to answer. She felt his -wrist softly with the tips of her fingers, and rested her hand for a -moment on his low forehead beneath the shock of black hair. - -“But you don’t seem to have any fever, Polydore!” - -“No,” hesitatingly, feeling himself forced to make some reply. “It’s a -kine of—a kine of pain, like you might say. It kitch me yere in the -knee, and it goes ’long like you stickin’ a knife clean down in my heel. -Aie! Oh, la-la!” expressions of pain wrung from him by Mamzelle Adélaïde -gently pushing aside the covering to examine the afflicted member. - -“My patience! but that leg is swollen, yes, Polydore.” The limb, in -fact, seemed dropsical, but if Mamzelle Adélaïde had bethought her of -comparing it with the other one, she would have found the two -corresponding in their proportions to a nicety. Her kind face expressed -the utmost concern, and she quitted Polydore feeling pained and ill at -ease. - -For one of the aims of Mamzelle Adélaïde’s existence was to do the right -thing by this boy, whose mother, a ’Cadian hill woman, had begged her -with dying breath to watch over the temporal and spiritual welfare of -her son; above all, to see that he did not follow in the slothful -footsteps of an over-indolent father. - -Polydore’s scheme worked so marvellously to his comfort and pleasure -that he wondered at not having thought of it before. He ate with keen -relish the breakfast which Jude brought to him on a tray. Even old -Monsieur José was concerned, and made his way up to Polydore, bringing a -number of picture-papers for his entertainment, a palm-leaf fan and a -cow-bell, with which to summon Jude when necessary and which he placed -within easy reach. - -As Polydore lay on his back fanning luxuriously, it seemed to him that -he was enjoying a foretaste of paradise. Only once did he shudder with -apprehension. It was when he heard Aunt Siney, with lifted voice, -recommending to “wrop the laig up in bacon fat; de oniest way to draw -out de misery.” - -The thought of a healthy leg swathed in bacon fat on a hot day in July -was enough to intimidate a braver heart than Polydore’s. But the -suggestion was evidently not adopted, for he heard no more of the bacon -fat. In its stead he became acquainted with the not unpleasant sting of -a soothing liniment which Jude rubbed into the leg at intervals during -the day. - -He kept the limb propped on a pillow, stiff and motionless, even when -alone and unobserved. Toward evening he fancied that it really showed -signs of inflammation, and he was quite sure it pained him. - -It was a satisfaction to all to see Polydore appear down-stairs the -following afternoon. He limped painfully, it is true, and clutched -wildly at anything in his way that offered a momentary support. His -acting was clumsily overdrawn; and by less guileless souls than Mamzelle -Adélaïde and her father would have surely been suspected. But these two -only thought with deep concern of means to make him comfortable. - -They seated him on the shady back gallery in an easy-chair, with his leg -propped up before him. - -“He inhe’its dat rheumatism,” proclaimed Aunt Siney, who affected the -manner of an oracle. “I see dat boy’s granpap, many times, all twis’ up -wid rheumatism twell his head sot down on his body, hine side befo’. He -got to keep outen de jew in de mo’nin’s, and he ’bleege to w’ar red -flannen.” - -Monsieur José, with flowing white locks enframing his aged face, leaned -upon his cane and contemplated the boy with unflagging attention. -Polydore was beginning to believe himself a worthy object as a center of -interest. - -Mamzelle Adélaïde had but just returned from a long drive in the open -buggy, from a mission which would have fallen to Polydore had he not -been disabled by this unlooked-for illness. She had thoughtlessly driven -across the country at an hour when the sun was hottest, and now she sat -panting and fanning herself; her face, which she mopped incessantly with -her handkerchief, was inflamed from the heat. - -Mamzelle Adélaïde ate no supper that night, and went to bed early, with -a compress of _eau sédative_ bound tightly around her head. She thought -it was a simple headache, and that she would be rid of it in the -morning; but she was not better in the morning. - -She kept her bed that day, and late in the afternoon Jude rode over to -town for the doctor, and stopped on the way to tell Mamzelle Adélaïde’s -married sister that she was quite ill, and would like to have her come -down to the plantation for a day or two. - -Polydore made round, serious eyes and forgot to limp. He wanted to go -for the doctor in Jude’s stead; but Aunt Siney, assuming a brief -authority, forced him to sit still by the kitchen door and talked -further of bacon fat. - -Old Monsieur José moved about uneasily and restlessly, in and out of his -daughter’s room. He looked vacantly at Polydore now, as if the stout -young boy in blue jeans and a calico shirt were a sort of a -transparency. - -A dawning anxiety, coupled to the inertia of the past two days, deprived -Polydore of his usual healthful night’s rest. The slightest noises awoke -him. Once it was the married sister breaking ice down on the gallery. -One of the hands had been sent with the cart for ice late in the -afternoon; and Polydore himself had wrapped the huge chunk in an old -blanket and set it outside of Mamzelle Adélaïde’s door. - -Troubled and wakeful, he arose from bed and went and stood by the open -window. There was a round moon in the sky, shedding its pale glamor over -all the country; and the live-oak branches, stirred by the restless -breeze, flung quivering, grotesque shadows slanting across the old roof. -A mocking-bird had been singing for hours near Polydore’s window, and -farther away there were frogs croaking. He could see as through a -silvery gauze the level stretch of the cotton-field, ripe and white; a -gleam of water beyond,—that was the bend of the river,—and farther yet, -the gentle rise of the pine hill. - -There was a cabin up there on the hill that Polydore remembered well. -Negroes were living in it now, but it had been his home once. Life had -been pinched and wretched enough up there with the little chap. The -bright days had been the days when his godmother, Mamzelle Adélaïde, -would come driving her old white horse over the pine needles and -crackling fallen twigs of the deserted hill-road. Her presence was -connected with the earliest recollections of whatever he had known of -comfort and well-being. - -And one day when death had taken his mother from him, Mamzelle Adélaïde -had brought him home to live with her always. Now she was sick down -there in her room; very sick, for the doctor had said so, and the -married sister had put on her longest face. - -Polydore did not think of these things in any connected or very -intelligent way. They were only impressions that penetrated him and made -his heart swell, and the tears well up to his eyes. He wiped his eyes on -the sleeve of his night-gown. The mosquitoes were stinging him and -raising great welts on his brown legs. He went and crept back under the -mosquito-bar, and soon he was asleep and dreaming that his _nénaine_ was -dead and he left alone in the cabin upon the pine hill. - -In the morning, after the doctor had seen Mamzelle Adélaïde, he went and -turned his horse into the lot and prepared to stay with his patient -until he could feel it would be prudent to leave her. - -Polydore tiptoed into her room and stood at the foot of the bed. Nobody -noticed now whether he limped or not. She was talking very loud, and he -could not believe at first that she could be as ill as they said, with -such strength of voice. But her tones were unnatural, and what she said -conveyed no meaning to his ears. - -He understood, however, when she thought she was talking to his mother. -She was in a manner apologizing for his illness; and seemed to be -troubled with the idea that she had in a way been the indirect cause of -it by some oversight or neglect. - -Polydore felt ashamed, and went outside and stood by himself near the -cistern till some one told him to go and attend to the doctor’s horse. - -Then there was confusion in the household, when mornings and afternoons -seemed turned around; and meals, which were scarcely tasted, were served -at irregular and unseasonable hours. And there came one awful night, -when they did not know if Mamzelle Adélaïde would live or die. - -Nobody slept. The doctor snatched moments of rest in the hammock. He and -the priest, who had been summoned, talked a little together with -professional callousness about the dry weather and the crops. - -Old monsieur walked, walked, like a restless, caged animal. The married -sister came out on the gallery every now and then and leaned up against -the post and sobbed in her handkerchief. There were many negroes around, -sitting on the steps and standing in small groups in the yard. - -Polydore crouched on the gallery. It had finally come to him to -comprehend the cause of his _nénaine’s_ sickness—that drive in the -sweltering afternoon, when he was shamming illness. No one there could -have comprehended the horror of himself, the terror that possessed him, -squatting there outside her door like a savage. If she died—but he could -not think of that. It was the point at which his reason was stunned and -seemed to swoon. - - -A week or two later Mamzelle Adélaïde was sitting outside for the first -time since her convalescence began. They had brought her own rocker -around to the side where she could get a sight and whiff of the -flower-garden and the blossom-laden rose-vine twining in and out of the -banisters. Her former plumpness had not yet returned, and she looked -much older, for the wrinkles were visible. - -She was watching Polydore cross the yard. He had been putting up his -pony. He approached with his heavy, clumsy walk; his round, simple face -was hot and flushed from the ride. When he had mounted to the gallery he -went and leaned against the railing, facing Mamzelle Adélaïde, mopping -his face, his hands and neck with his handkerchief. Then he removed his -hat and began to fan himself with it. - -“You seem to be perfec’ly cu’ed of yo’ rheumatism, Polydore. It doesn’ -hurt you any mo’, my boy?” she questioned. - -He stamped the foot and extended the leg violently, in proof of its -perfect soundness. - -“You know w’ere I been, _nénaine_?” he said. “I been to confession.” - -“That’s right. Now you mus’ rememba and not take a drink of water -to-morrow morning, as you did las’ time, and miss yo’ communion, my boy. -You are a good child, Polydore, to go like that to confession without -bein told.” - -“No, I ain’ good,” he returned, doggedly. He began to twirl his hat on -one finger. “Père Cassimelle say he always yeard I was stupid, but he -never knew befo’ how bad I been.” - -“Indeed!” muttered Mamzelle Adélaïde, not over well pleased with the -priest’s estimate of her protégé. - -“He gave me a long penance,” continued Polydore. “The ‘Litany of the -Saint’ and the ‘Litany of the Blessed Virgin,’ and three ‘Our Father’ -and three ‘Hail Mary’ to say ev’ry mo’ning fo’ a week. But he say’ that -ain’ enough.” - -“My patience! W’at does he expec’ mo’ from you, I like to know?” -Polydore was now creasing and scanning his hat attentively. - -“He say’ w’at I need, it’s to be wo’ out with the raw-hide. He say’ he -knows M’sieur José is too ole and feeble to give it to me like I -deserve; and if you want, he say’ he’s willing to give me a good tas’e -of the raw-hide himse’f.” - -Mamzelle Adélaïde found it impossible to disguise her indignation: - -“Père Cassimelle sho’ly fo’gets himse’f, Polydore. Don’t repeat to me -any further his inconsid’ate remarks.” - -“He’s right, _nénaine_. Père Cassimelle is right.” - -Since the night he crouched outside her door, Polydore had lived with -the weight of his unconfessed fault oppressing every moment of -existence. He had tried to rid himself of it in going to Father -Cassimelle; but that had only helped by indicating the way. He was -awkward and unaccustomed to express emotions with coherent speech. The -words would not come. - -Suddenly he flung his hat to the ground, and falling on his knees, began -to sob, with his face pressed down in Mamzelle Adélaïde’s lap. She had -never seen him cry before, and in her weak condition it made her -tremble. - -Then somehow he got it out; he told the whole story of his deceit. He -told it simply, in a way that bared his heart to her for the first time. -She said nothing; only held his hand close and stroked his hair. But she -felt as if a kind of miracle had happened. Hitherto her first thought in -caring for this boy had been a desire to fulfill his dead mother’s -wishes. - -But now he seemed to belong to herself, and to be her very own. She knew -that a bond of love had been forged that would hold them together -always. - -“I know I can’t he’p being stupid,” sighed Polydore, “but it’s no call -fo’ me to be bad.” - -“Neva mine, Polydore; neva mine, my boy,” and she drew him close to her -and kissed him as mothers kiss. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Regret - - Regret - -[Illustration] - - -Mamzelle Aurélie possessed a good strong figure, ruddy cheeks, hair that -was changing from brown to gray, and a determined eye. She wore a man’s -hat about the farm, and an old blue army overcoat when it was cold, and -sometimes top-boots. - -Mamzelle Aurélie had never thought of marrying. She had never been in -love. At the age of twenty she had received a proposal, which she had -promptly declined, and at the age of fifty she had not yet lived to -regret it. - -So she was quite alone in the world, except for her dog Ponto, and the -negroes who lived in her cabins and worked her crops, and the fowls, a -few cows, a couple of mules, her gun (with which she shot -chicken-hawks), and her religion. - -One morning Mamzelle Aurélie stood upon her gallery, contemplating, with -arms akimbo, a small band of very small children who, to all intents and -purposes, might have fallen from the clouds, so unexpected and -bewildering was their coming, and so unwelcome. They were the children -of her nearest neighbor, Odile, who was not such a near neighbor, after -all. - -The young woman had appeared but five minutes before, accompanied by -these four children. In her arms she carried little Elodie; she dragged -Ti Nomme by an unwilling hand; while Marcéline and Marcélette followed -with irresolute steps. - -Her face was red and disfigured from tears and excitement. She had been -summoned to a neighboring parish by the dangerous illness of her mother; -her husband was away in Texas—it seemed to her a million miles away; and -Valsin was waiting with the mule-cart to drive her to the station. - -“It’s no question, Mamzelle Aurélie; you jus’ got to keep those -youngsters fo’ me tell I come back. Dieu sait, I would n’ botha you with -’em if it was any otha way to do! Make ’em mine you, Mamzelle Aurélie; -don’ spare ’em. Me, there, I’m half crazy between the chil’ren, an’ Léon -not home, an’ maybe not even to fine po’ maman alive encore!”—a -harrowing possibility which drove Odile to take a final hasty and -convulsive leave of her disconsolate family. - -She left them crowded into the narrow strip of shade on the porch of the -long, low house; the white sunlight was beating in on the white old -boards; some chickens were scratching in the grass at the foot of the -steps, and one had boldly mounted, and was stepping heavily, solemnly, -and aimlessly across the gallery. There was a pleasant odor of pinks in -the air, and the sound of negroes’ laughter was coming across the -flowering cotton-field. - -Mamzelle Aurélie stood contemplating the children. She looked with a -critical eye upon Marcéline, who had been left staggering beneath the -weight of the chubby Elodie. She surveyed with the same calculating air -Marcélette mingling her silent tears with the audible grief and -rebellion of Ti Nomme. During those few contemplative moments she was -collecting herself, determining upon a line of action which should be -identical with a line of duty. She began by feeding them. - -If Mamzelle Aurélie’s responsibilities might have begun and ended there, -they could easily have been dismissed; for her larder was amply provided -against an emergency of this nature. But little children are not little -pigs; they require and demand attentions which were wholly unexpected by -Mamzelle Aurélie, and which she was ill prepared to give. - -She was, indeed, very inapt in her management of Odile’s children during -the first few days. How could she know that Marcélette always wept when -spoken to in a loud and commanding tone of voice? It was a peculiarity -of Marcélette’s. She became acquainted with Ti Nomme’s passion for -flowers only when he had plucked all the choicest gardenias and pinks -for the apparent purpose of critically studying their botanical -construction. - -“Tain’t enough to tell ’im, Mamzelle Aurélie,” Marcéline instructed her; -“you got to tie ’im in a chair. It’s w’at maman all time do w’en he’s -bad: she tie ’im in a chair.” The chair in which Mamzelle Aurélie tied -Ti Nomme was roomy and comfortable, and he seized the opportunity to -take a nap in it, the afternoon being warm. - -At night, when she ordered them one and all to bed as she would have -shooed the chickens into the hen-house, they stayed uncomprehending -before her. What about the little white nightgowns that had to be taken -from the pillow-slip in which they were brought over, and shaken by some -strong hand till they snapped like ox-whips? What about the tub of water -which had to be brought and set in the middle of the floor, in which the -little tired, dusty, sunbrowned feet had every one to be washed sweet -and clean? And it made Marcéline and Marcélette laugh merrily—the idea -that Mamzelle Aurélie should for a moment have believed that Ti Nomme -could fall asleep without being told the story of _Croque-mitaine_ or -_Loup-garou_, or both; or that Elodie could fall asleep at all without -being rocked and sung to. - -“I tell you, Aunt Ruby,” Mamzelle Aurélie informed her cook in -confidence; “me, I’d rather manage a dozen plantation’ than fo’ -chil’ren. It’s terrassent! Bonté! Don’t talk to me about chil’ren!” - -“’Tain’ ispected sich as you would know airy thing ’bout ’em, Mamzelle -Aurélie. I see dat plainly yistiddy w’en I spy dat li’le chile playin’ -wid yo’ baskit o’ keys. You don’ know dat makes chillun grow up -hard-headed, to play wid keys? Des like it make ’em teeth hard to look -in a lookin’-glass. Them’s the things you got to know in the raisin’ an’ -manigement o’ chillun.” - -Mamzelle Aurélie certainly did not pretend or aspire to such subtle and -far-reaching knowledge on the subject as Aunt Ruby possessed, who had -“raised five an’ bared (buried) six” in her day. She was glad enough to -learn a few little mother-tricks to serve the moment’s need. - -Ti Nomme’s sticky fingers compelled her to unearth white aprons that she -had not worn for years, and she had to accustom herself to his moist -kisses—the expressions of an affectionate and exuberant nature. She got -down her sewing-basket, which she seldom used, from the top shelf of the -armoire, and placed it within the ready and easy reach which torn slips -and buttonless waists demanded. It took her some days to become -accustomed to the laughing, the crying, the chattering that echoed -through the house and around it all day long. And it was not the first -or the second night that she could sleep comfortably with little -Elodie’s hot, plump body pressed close against her, and the little one’s -warm breath beating her cheek like the fanning of a bird’s wing. - -But at the end of two weeks Mamzelle Aurélie had grown quite used to -these things, and she no longer complained. - -It was also at the end of two weeks that Mamzelle Aurélie, one evening, -looking away toward the crib where the cattle were being fed, saw -Valsin’s blue cart turning the bend of the road. Odile sat beside the -mulatto, upright and alert. As they drew near, the young woman’s beaming -face indicated that her homecoming was a happy one. - -But this coming, unannounced and unexpected, threw Mamzelle Aurélie into -a flutter that was almost agitation. The children had to be gathered. -Where was Ti Nomme? Yonder in the shed, putting an edge on his knife at -the grindstone. And Marcéline and Marcélette? Cutting and fashioning -doll-rags in the corner of the gallery. As for Elodie, she was safe -enough in Mamzelle Aurélie’s arms; and she had screamed with delight at -sight of the familiar blue cart which was bringing her mother back to -her. - -The excitement was all over, and they were gone. How still it was when -they were gone! Mamzelle Aurélie stood upon the gallery, looking and -listening. She could no longer see the cart; the red sunset and the -blue-gray twilight had together flung a purple mist across the fields -and road that hid it from her view. She could no longer hear the -wheezing and creaking of its wheels. But she could still faintly hear -the shrill, glad voices of the children. - -She turned into the house. There was much work awaiting her, for the -children had left a sad disorder behind them; but she did not at once -set about the task of righting it. Mamzelle Aurélie seated herself -beside the table. She gave one slow glance through the room, into which -the evening shadows were creeping and deepening around her solitary -figure. She let her head fall down upon her bended arm, and began to -cry. Oh, but she cried! Not softly, as women often do. She cried like a -man, with sobs that seemed to tear her very soul. She did not notice -Ponto licking her hand. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - A Matter of Prejudice - - A Matter of Prejudice - -[Illustration] - - -Madame Carambeau wanted it strictly understood that she was not to be -disturbed by Gustave’s birthday party. They carried her big -rocking-chair from the back gallery, that looked out upon the garden -where the children were going to play, around to the front gallery, -which closely faced the green levee bank and the Mississippi coursing -almost flush with the top of it. - -The house—an old Spanish one, broad, low and completely encircled by a -wide gallery—was far down in the French quarter of New Orleans. It stood -upon a square of ground that was covered thick with a semi-tropical -growth of plants and flowers. An impenetrable board fence, edged with a -formidable row of iron spikes, shielded the garden from the prying -glances of the occasional passer-by. - -Madame Carambeau’s widowed daughter, Madame Cécile Lalonde, lived with -her. This annual party, given to her little son, Gustave, was the one -defiant act of Madame Lalonde’s existence. She persisted in it, to her -own astonishment and the wonder of those who knew her and her mother. - -For old Madame Carambeau was a woman of many prejudices—so many, in -fact, that it would be difficult to name them all. She detested dogs, -cats, organ-grinders, white servants and children’s noises. She despised -Americans, Germans and all people of a different faith from her own. -Anything not French had, in her opinion, little right to existence. - -She had not spoken to her son Henri for ten years because he had married -an American girl from Prytania street. She would not permit green tea to -be introduced into her house, and those who could not or would not drink -coffee might drink tisane of _fleur de Laurier_ for all she cared. - -Nevertheless, the children seemed to be having it all their own way that -day, and the organ-grinders were let loose. Old madame, in her retired -corner, could hear the screams, the laughter and the music far more -distinctly than she liked. She rocked herself noisily, and hummed -“Partant pour la Syrie.” - -She was straight and slender. Her hair was white, and she wore it in -puffs on the temples. Her skin was fair and her eyes blue and cold. - -Suddenly she became aware that footsteps were approaching, and -threatening to invade her privacy—not only footsteps, but screams! Then -two little children, one in hot pursuit of the other, darted wildly -around the corner near which she sat. - -The child in advance, a pretty little girl, sprang excitedly into Madame -Carambeau’s lap, and threw her arms convulsively around the old lady’s -neck. Her companion lightly struck her a “last tag,” and ran laughing -gleefully away. - -The most natural thing for the child to do then would have been to -wriggle down from madame’s lap, without a “thank you” or a “by your -leave,” after the manner of small and thoughtless children. But she did -not do this. She stayed there, panting and fluttering, like a frightened -bird. - -Madame was greatly annoyed. She moved as if to put the child away from -her, and scolded her sharply for being boisterous and rude. The little -one, who did not understand French, was not disturbed by the reprimand, -and stayed on in madame’s lap. She rested her plump little cheek, that -was hot and flushed, against the soft white linen of the old lady’s -gown. - -Her cheek was very hot and very flushed. It was dry, too, and so were -her hands. The child’s breathing was quick and irregular. Madame was not -long in detecting these signs of disturbance. - -Though she was a creature of prejudice, she was nevertheless a skillful -and accomplished nurse, and a connoisseur in all matters pertaining to -health. She prided herself upon this talent, and never lost an -opportunity of exercising it. She would have treated an organ-grinder -with tender consideration if one had presented himself in the character -of an invalid. - -Madame’s manner toward the little one changed immediately. Her arms and -her lap were at once adjusted so as to become the most comfortable of -resting places. She rocked very gently to and fro. She fanned the child -softly with her palm leaf fan, and sang “Partant pour la Syrie” in a low -and agreeable tone. - -The child was perfectly content to lie still and prattle a little in -that language which madame thought hideous. But the brown eyes were soon -swimming in drowsiness, and the little body grew heavy with sleep in -madame’s clasp. - -When the little girl slept Madame Carambeau arose, and treading -carefully and deliberately, entered her room, that opened near at hand -upon the gallery. The room was large, airy and inviting, with its cool -matting upon the floor, and its heavy, old, polished mahogany furniture. -Madame, with the child still in her arms, pulled a bell-cord; then she -stood waiting, swaying gently back and forth. Presently an old black -woman answered the summons. She wore gold hoops in her ears, and a -bright bandanna knotted fantastically on her head. - -“Louise, turn down the bed,” commanded madame. “Place that small, soft -pillow below the bolster. Here is a poor little unfortunate creature -whom Providence must have driven into my arms.” She laid the child -carefully down. - -“Ah, those Americans! Do they deserve to have children? Understanding as -little as they do how to take care of them!” said madame, while Louise -was mumbling an accompanying assent that would have been unintelligible -to any one unacquainted with the negro patois. - -“There, you see, Louise, she is burning up,” remarked madame; —“she is -consumed. Unfasten the little bodice while I lift her. Ah, talk to me of -such parents! So stupid as not to perceive a fever like that coming on, -but they must dress their child up like a monkey to go play and dance to -the music of organ-grinders. - -“Haven’t you better sense, Louise, than to take off a child’s shoe as if -you were removing the boot from the leg of a cavalry officer?” Madame -would have required fairy fingers to minister to the sick. “Now go to -Mamzelle Cécile, and tell her to send me one of those old, soft, thin -nightgowns that Gustave wore two summers ago.” - -When the woman retired, madame busied herself with concocting a cooling -pitcher of orange-flower water, and mixing a fresh supply of _eau -sédative_ with which agreeably to sponge the little invalid. - -Madame Lalonde came herself with the old, soft nightgown. She was a -pretty, blonde, plump little woman, with the deprecatory air of one -whose will has become flaccid from want of use. She was mildly -distressed at what her mother had done. - -“But, mamma! But, mamma, the child’s parents will be sending the -carriage for her in a little while. Really, there was no use. Oh dear! -oh dear!” - -If the bedpost had spoken to Madame Carambeau, she would have paid more -attention, for speech from such a source would have been at least -surprising if not convincing. Madame Lalonde did not possess the faculty -of either surprising or convincing her mother. - -“Yes, the little one will be quite comfortable in this,” said the old -lady, taking the garment from her daughter’s irresolute hands. - -“But, mamma! What shall I say, what shall I do when they send? Oh, dear; -oh, dear!” - -“That is your business,” replied madame, with lofty indifference. “My -concern is solely with a sick child that happens to be under my roof. I -think I know my duty at this time of life, Cécile.” - -As Madame Lalonde predicted, the carriage soon came, with a stiff -English coachman driving it, and a red-cheeked Irish nurse-maid seated -inside. Madame would not even permit the maid to see her little charge. -She had an original theory that the Irish voice is distressing to the -sick. - -Madame Lalonde sent the girl away with a long letter of explanation that -must have satisfied the parents; for the child was left undisturbed in -Madame Carambeau’s care. She was a sweet child, gentle and affectionate. -And, though she cried and fretted a little throughout the night for her -mother, she seemed, after all, to take kindly to madame’s gentle -nursing. It was not much of a fever that afflicted her, and after two -days she was well enough to be sent back to her parents. - -Madame, in all her varied experience with the sick, had never before -nursed so objectionable a character as an American child. But the -trouble was that after the little one went away, she could think of -nothing really objectionable against her except the accident of her -birth, which was, after all, her misfortune; and her ignorance of the -French language, which was not her fault. - -But the touch of the caressing baby arms; the pressure of the soft -little body in the night; the tones of the voice, and the feeling of the -hot lips when the child kissed her, believing herself to be with her -mother, were impressions that had sunk through the crust of madame’s -prejudice and reached her heart. - -She often walked the length of the gallery, looking out across the wide, -majestic river. Sometimes she trod the mazes of her garden where the -solitude was almost that of a tropical jungle. It was during such -moments that the seed began to work in her soul—the seed planted by the -innocent and undesigning hands of a little child. - -The first shoot that it sent forth was Doubt. Madame plucked it away -once or twice. But it sprouted again, and with it Mistrust and -Dissatisfaction. Then from the heart of the seed, and amid the shoots of -Doubt and Misgiving, came the flower of Truth. It was a very beautiful -flower, and it bloomed on Christmas morning. - -As Madame Carambeau and her daughter were about to enter her carriage on -that Christmas morning, to be driven to church, the old lady stopped to -give an order to her black coachman, François. François had been driving -these ladies every Sunday morning to the French Cathedral for so many -years—he had forgotten exactly how many, but ever since he had entered -their service, when Madame Lalonde was a little girl. His astonishment -may therefore be imagined when Madame Carambeau said to him: - -“François, to-day you will drive us to one of the American churches.” - -“Plait-il, madame?” the negro stammered, doubting the evidence of his -hearing. - -“I say, you will drive us to one of the American churches. Any one of -them,” she added, with a sweep of her hand. “I suppose they are all -alike,” and she followed her daughter into the carriage. - -Madame Lalonde’s surprise and agitation were painful to see, and they -deprived her of the ability to question, even if she had possessed the -courage to do so. - -François, left to his fancy, drove them to St. Patrick’s Church on Camp -street. Madame Lalonde looked and felt like the proverbial fish out of -its element as they entered the edifice. Madame Carambeau, on the -contrary, looked as if she had been attending St. Patrick’s church all -her life. She sat with unruffled calm through the long service and -through a lengthy English sermon, of which she did not understand a -word. - -When the mass was ended and they were about to enter the carriage again, -Madame Carambeau turned, as she had done before, to the coachman. - -“François,” she said, coolly, “you will now drive us to the residence of -my son, M. Henri Carambeau. No doubt Mamzelle Cécile can inform you -where it is,” she added, with a sharply penetrating glance that caused -Madame Lalonde to wince. - -Yes, her daughter Cécile knew, and so did François, for that matter. -They drove out St. Charles avenue—very far out. It was like a strange -city to old madame, who had not been in the American quarter since the -town had taken on this new and splendid growth. - -The morning was a delicious one, soft and mild; and the roses were all -in bloom. They were not hidden behind spiked fences. Madame appeared not -to notice them, or the beautiful and striking residences that lined the -avenue along which they drove. She held a bottle of smelling-salts to -her nostrils, as though she were passing through the most unsavory -instead of the most beautiful quarter of New Orleans. - -Henri’s house was a very modern and very handsome one, standing a little -distance away from the street. A well-kept lawn, studded with rare and -charming plants, surrounded it. The ladies, dismounting, rang the bell, -and stood out upon the banquette, waiting for the iron gate to be -opened. - -A white maid-servant admitted them. Madame did not seem to mind. She -handed her a card with all proper ceremony, and followed with her -daughter to the house. - -Not once did she show a sign of weakness; not even when her son, Henri, -came and took her in his arms and sobbed and wept upon her neck as only -a warm-hearted Creole could. He was a big, good-looking, honest-faced -man, with tender brown eyes like his dead father’s and a firm mouth like -his mother’s. - -Young Mrs. Carambeau came, too, her sweet, fresh face transfigured with -happiness. She led by the hand her little daughter, the “American child” -whom madame had nursed so tenderly a month before, never suspecting the -little one to be other than an alien to her. - -“What a lucky chance was that fever! What a happy accident!” gurgled -Madame Lalonde. - -“Cécile, it was no accident, I tell you; it was Providence,” spoke -madame, reprovingly, and no one contradicted her. - -They all drove back together to eat Christmas dinner in the old house by -the river. Madame held her little granddaughter upon her lap; her son -Henri sat facing her, and beside her was her daughter-in-law. - -Henri sat back in the carriage and could not speak. His soul was -possessed by a pathetic joy that would not admit of speech. He was going -back again to the home where he was born, after a banishment of ten long -years. - -He would hear again the water beat against the green levee-bank with a -sound that was not quite like any other that he could remember. He would -sit within the sweet and solemn shadow of the deep and overhanging roof; -and roam through the wild, rich solitude of the old garden, where he had -played his pranks of boyhood and dreamed his dreams of youth. He would -listen to his mother’s voice calling him, “mon fils,” as it had always -done before that day he had to choose between mother and wife. No; he -could not speak. - -But his wife chatted much and pleasantly—in a French, however, that must -have been trying to old madame to listen to. - -“I am so sorry, ma mère,” she said, “that our little one does not speak -French. It is not my fault, I assure you,” and she flushed and hesitated -a little. “It—it was Henri who would not permit it.” - -“That is nothing,” replied madame, amiably, drawing the child close to -her. “Her grandmother will teach her French; and she will teach her -grandmother English. You see, I have no prejudices. I am not like my -son. Henri was always a stubborn boy. Heaven only knows how he came by -such a character!” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Caline - - Caline - -[Illustration] - - -The sun was just far enough in the west to send inviting shadows. In the -centre of a small field, and in the shade of a haystack which was there, -a girl lay sleeping. She had slept long and soundly, when something -awoke her as suddenly as if it had been a blow. She opened her eyes and -stared a moment up in the cloudless sky. She yawned and stretched her -long brown legs and arms, lazily. Then she arose, never minding the bits -of straw that clung to her black hair, to her red bodice, and the blue -cotonade skirt that did not reach her naked ankles. - -The log cabin in which she dwelt with her parents was just outside the -enclosure in which she had been sleeping. Beyond was a small clearing -that did duty as a cotton field. All else was dense wood, except the -long stretch that curved round the brow of the hill, and in which -glittered the steel rails of the Texas and Pacific road. - -When Caline emerged from the shadow she saw a long train of passenger -coaches standing in view, where they must have stopped abruptly. It was -that sudden stopping which had awakened her; for such a thing had not -happened before within her recollection, and she looked stupid, at -first, with astonishment. There seemed to be something wrong with the -engine; and some of the passengers who dismounted went forward to -investigate the trouble. Others came strolling along in the direction of -the cabin, where Caline stood under an old gnarled mulberry tree, -staring. Her father had halted his mule at the end of the cotton row, -and stood staring also, leaning upon his plow. - -There were ladies in the party. They walked awkwardly in their -high-heeled boots over the rough, uneven ground, and held up their -skirts mincingly. They twirled parasols over their shoulders, and -laughed immoderately at the funny things which their masculine -companions were saying. - -They tried to talk to Caline, but could not understand the French patois -with which she answered them. - -One of the men—a pleasant-faced youngster—drew a sketch book from his -pocket and began to make a picture of the girl. She stayed motionless, -her hands behind her, and her wide eyes fixed earnestly upon him. - -Before he had finished there was a summons from the train; and all went -scampering hurriedly away. The engine screeched, it sent a few lazy -puffs into the still air, and in another moment or two had vanished, -bearing its human cargo with it. - -Caline could not feel the same after that. She looked with new and -strange interest upon the trains of cars that passed so swiftly back and -forth across her vision, each day; and wondered whence these people -came, and whither they were going. - -Her mother and father could not tell her, except to say that they came -from “loin là bas,” and were going “Djieu sait é où.” - -One day she walked miles down the track to talk with the old flagman, -who stayed down there by the big water tank. Yes, he knew. Those people -came from the great cities in the north, and were going to the city in -the south. He knew all about the city; it was a grand place. He had -lived there once. His sister lived there now; and she would be glad -enough to have so fine a girl as Caline to help her cook and scrub, and -tend the babies. And he thought Caline might earn as much as five -dollars a month, in the city. - -So she went; in a new cotonade, and her Sunday shoes; with a sacredly -guarded scrawl that the flagman sent to his sister. - -The woman lived in a tiny, stuccoed house, with green blinds, and three -wooden steps leading down to the banquette. There seemed to be hundreds -like it along the street. Over the house tops loomed the tall masts of -ships, and the hum of the French market could be heard on a still -morning. - -Caline was at first bewildered. She had to readjust all her -preconceptions to fit the reality of it. The flagman’s sister was a kind -and gentle task-mistress. At the end of a week or two she wanted to know -how the girl liked it all. Caline liked it very well, for it was -pleasant, on Sunday afternoons, to stroll with the children under the -great, solemn sugar sheds; or to sit upon the compressed cotton bales, -watching the stately steamers, the graceful boats, and noisy little tugs -that plied the waters of the Mississippi. And it filled her with -agreeable excitement to go to the French market, where the handsome -Gascon butchers were eager to present their compliments and little -Sunday bouquets to the pretty Acadian girl; and to throw fistfuls of -_lagniappe_ into her basket. - -When the woman asked her again after another week if she were still -pleased, she was not so sure. And again when she questioned Caline the -girl turned away, and went to sit behind the big, yellow cistern, to cry -unobserved. For she knew now that it was not the great city and its -crowds of people she had so eagerly sought; but the pleasant-faced boy, -who had made her picture that day under the mulberry tree. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - A Dresden Lady in Dixie - - A Dresden Lady in Dixie - -[Illustration] - - -Madame Valtour had been in the sitting-room some time before she noticed -the absence of the Dresden china figure from the corner of the -mantel-piece, where it had stood for years. Aside from the intrinsic -value of the piece, there were some very sad and tender memories -associated with it. A baby’s lips that were now forever still had loved -once to kiss the painted “pitty ’ady”; and the baby arms had often held -it in a close and smothered embrace. - -Madame Valtour gave a rapid, startled glance around the room, to see -perchance if it had been misplaced; but she failed to discover it. - -Viny, the house-maid, when summoned, remembered having carefully dusted -it that morning, and was rather indignantly positive that she had not -broken the thing to bits and secreted the pieces. - -“Who has been in the room during my absence?” questioned Madame Valtour, -with asperity. Viny abandoned herself to a moment’s reflection. - -“Pa-Jeff comed in yere wid de mail—” If she had said St. Peter came in -with the mail, the fact would have had as little bearing on the case -from Madame Valtour’s point of view. - -Pa-Jeff’s uprightness and honesty were so long and firmly established as -to have become proverbial on the plantation. He had not served the -family faithfully since boyhood and been all through the war with “old -Marse Valtour” to descend at his time of life to tampering with -household bric-a-brac. - -“Has any one else been here?” Madame Valtour naturally inquired. - -“On’y Agapie w’at brung you some Creole aiggs. I tole ’er to sot ’em -down in de hall. I don’ know she comed in de settin’-room o’ not.” - -Yes, there they were; eight, fresh “Creole eggs” reposing on the muslin -in the sewing basket. Viny herself had been seated on the gallery -brushing her mistress’ gowns during the hours of that lady’s absence, -and could think of no one else having penetrated to the sitting-room. - -Madame Valtour did not entertain the thought that Agapie had stolen the -relic. Her worst fear was, that the girl, finding herself alone in the -room, had handled the frail bit of porcelain and inadvertently broken -it. - -Agapie came often to the house to play with the children and amuse -them—she loved nothing better. Indeed, no other spot known to her on -earth so closely embodied her confused idea of paradise, as this home -with its atmosphere of love, comfort and good cheer. She was, herself, a -cheery bit of humanity, overflowing with kind impulses and animal -spirits. - -Madame Valtour recalled the fact that Agapie had often admired this -Dresden figure (but what had she not admired!); and she remembered -having heard the girl’s assurance that if ever she became possessed of -“fo’ bits” to spend as she liked, she would have some one buy her just -such a china doll in town or in the city. - -Before night, the fact that the Dresden lady had strayed from her proud -eminence on the sitting-room mantel, became, through Viny’s indiscreet -babbling, pretty well known on the place. - -The following morning Madame Valtour crossed the field and went over to -the Bedauts’ cabin. The cabins on the plantation were not grouped; but -each stood isolated upon the section of land which its occupants -cultivated. Pa-Jeff’s cabin was the only one near enough to the Bedauts -to admit of neighborly intercourse. - -Seraphine Bedaut was sitting on her small gallery, stringing red -peppers, when Madame Valtour approached. - -“I’m so distressed, Madame Bedaut,” began the planter’s wife, abruptly. -But the ’Cadian woman arose politely and interrupted, offering her -visitor a chair. - -“Come in, set down, Ma’me Valtour.” - -“No, no; it’s only for a moment. You know, Madame Bedaut, yesterday when -I returned from making a visit, I found that an ornament was missing -from my sitting-room mantel-piece. It’s a thing I prize very, very -much—” with sudden tears filling her eyes—“and I would not willingly -part with it for many times its value.” Seraphine Bedaut was listening, -with her mouth partly open, looking, in truth, stupidly puzzled. - -“No one entered the room during my absence,” continued Madame Valtour, -“but Agapie.” Seraphine’s mouth snapped like a steel trap and her black -eyes gleamed with a flash of anger. - -“You wan’ say Agapie stole some’in’ in yo’ house!” she cried out in a -shrill voice, tremulous from passion. - -“No; oh no! I’m sure Agapie is an honest girl and we all love her; but -you know how children are. It was a small Dresden figure. She may have -handled and broken the thing and perhaps is afraid to say so. She may -have thoughtlessly misplaced it; oh, I don’t know what! I want to ask if -she saw it.” - -“Come in; you got to come in, Ma’me Valtour,” stubbornly insisted -Seraphine, leading the way into the cabin. “I sen’ ’er to de house -yistiddy wid some Creole aiggs,” she went on in her rasping voice, “like -I all time do, because you all say you can’t eat dem sto’ aiggs no mo’. -Yere de basket w’at I sen’ ’em in,” reaching for an Indian basket which -hung against the wall—and which was partly filled with cotton seed. - -“Oh, never mind,” interrupted Madame Valtour, now thoroughly distressed -at witnessing the woman’s agitation. - -“Ah, bien non. I got to show you, Agapie en’t no mo’ thief ’an yo’ own -child’en is.” She led the way into the adjoining room of the hut. - -“Yere all her things w’at she ’muse herse’f wid,” continued Seraphine, -pointing to a soapbox which stood on the floor just beneath the open -window. The box was filled with an indescribable assortment of odds and -ends, mostly doll-rags. A catechism and a blue-*backed speller poked -dog-eared corners from out of the confusion; for the Valtour children -were making heroic and patient efforts toward Agapie’s training. - -Seraphine cast herself upon her knees before the box and dived her thin -brown hands among its contents. “I wan’ show you; I goin’ show you,” she -kept repeating excitedly. Madame Valtour was standing beside her. - -Suddenly the woman drew forth from among the rags, the Dresden lady, as -dapper, sound, and smiling as ever. Seraphine’s hand shook so violently -that she was in danger of letting the image fall to the floor. Madame -Valtour reached out and took it very quietly from her. Then Seraphine -rose tremblingly to her feet and broke into a sob that was pitiful to -hear. - -Agapie was approaching the cabin. She was a chubby girl of twelve. She -walked with bare, callous feet over the rough ground and bare-headed -under the hot sun. Her thick, short, black hair covered her head like a -mane. She had been dancing along the path, but slackened her pace upon -catching sight of the two women who had returned to the gallery. But -when she perceived that her mother was crying she darted impetuously -forward. In an instant she had her arms around her mother’s neck, -clinging so tenaciously in her youthful strength as to make the frail -woman totter. - -Agapie had seen the Dresden figure in Madame Valtour’s possession and at -once guessed the whole accusation. - -“It en’t so! I tell you, maman, it en’t so! I neva touch’ it. Stop -cryin’; stop cryin’!” and she began to cry most piteously herself. - -“But Agapie, we fine it in yo’ box,” moaned Seraphine through her sobs. - -“Then somebody put it there. Can’t you see somebody put it there? ’Ten’t -so, I tell you.” - -The scene was extremely painful to Madame Valtour. Whatever she might -tell these two later, for the time she felt herself powerless to say -anything befitting, and she walked away. But she turned to remark, with -a hardness of expression and intention which she seldom displayed: “No -one will know of this through me. But, Agapie, you must not come into my -house again; on account of the children; I could not allow it.” - -As she walked away she could hear Agapie comforting her mother with -renewed protestations of innocence. - -Pa-Jeff began to fail visibly that year. No wonder, considering his -great age, which he computed to be about one hundred. It was, in fact, -some ten years less than that, but a good old age all the same. It was -seldom that he got out into the field; and then, never to do any heavy -work—only a little light hoeing. There were days when the “misery” -doubled him up and nailed him down to his chair so that he could not set -foot beyond the door of his cabin. He would sit there courting the -sunshine and blinking, as he gazed across the fields with the patience -of the savage. - -The Bedauts seemed to know almost instinctively when Pa-Jeff was sick. -Agapie would shade her eyes and look searchingly towards the old man’s -cabin. - -“I don’ see Pa-Jeff this mo’nin’,” or “Pa-Jeff en’t open his winda,” or -“I didn’ see no smoke yet yonda to Pa-Jeff’s.” And in a little while the -girl would be over there with a pail of soup or coffee, or whatever -there was at hand which she thought the old negro might fancy. She had -lost all the color out of her cheeks and was pining like a sick bird. - -She often sat on the steps of the gallery and talked with the old man -while she waited for him to finish his soup from her tin pail. - -“I tell you, Pa-Jeff, its neva been no thief in the Bedaut family. My pa -say he couldn’ hole up his head if he think I been a thief, me. An’ -maman say it would make her sick in bed, she don’ know she could ever -git up. Sosthène tell me the chil’en been cryin’ fo’ me up yonda. Li’le -Lulu cry so hard M’sieur Valtour want sen’ afta me, an’ Ma’me Valtour -say no.” - -And with this, Agapie flung herself at length upon the gallery with her -face buried in her arms, and began to cry so hysterically as seriously -to alarm Pa-Jeff. It was well he had finished his soup, for he could not -have eaten another mouthful. - -“Hole up yo’ head, chile. God save us! W’at you kiarrin’ on dat away?” -he exclaimed in great distress. “You gwine to take a fit? Hole up yo’ -head.” - -Agapie rose slowly to her feet, and drying her eyes upon the sleeve of -her “josie,” reached out for the tin bucket. Pa-Jeff handed it to her, -but without relinquishing his hold upon it. - -“War hit you w’at tuck it?” he questioned in a whisper. “I isn’ gwine -tell; you knows I isn’ gwine tell.” She only shook her head, attempting -to draw the pail forcibly away from the old man. - -“Le’ me go, Pa-Jeff. W’at you doin’! Gi’ me my bucket!” - -He kept his old blinking eyes fastened for a while questioningly upon -her disturbed and tear-stained face. Then he let her go and she turned -and ran swiftly away towards her home. - -He sat very still watching her disappear; only his furrowed old face -twitched convulsively, moved by an unaccustomed train of reasoning that -was at work in him. - -“She w’ite, I is black,” he muttered calculatingly. “She young, I is -ole; sho I is ole. She good to Pa-Jeff like I her own kin an’ color.” -This line of thought seemed to possess him to the exclusion of every -other. Late in the night he was still muttering. - -“Sho I is ole. She good to Pa-Jeff, yas.” - -A few days later, when Pa-Jeff happened to be feeling comparatively -well, he presented himself at the house just as the family had assembled -at their early dinner. Looking up suddenly, Monsieur Valtour was -astonished to see him standing there in the room near the open door. He -leaned upon his cane and his grizzled head was bowed upon his breast. -There was general satisfaction expressed at seeing Pa-Jeff on his legs -once more. - -“Why, old man, I’m glad to see you out again,” exclaimed the planter, -cordially, pouring a glass of wine, which he instructed Viny to hand to -the old fellow. Pa-Jeff accepted the glass and set it solemnly down upon -a small table near by. - -“Marse Albert,” he said, “I is come heah to-day fo’ to make a statement -of de rights an’ de wrongs w’at is done hang heavy on my soul dis heah -long time. Arter you heahs me an’ de missus heahs me an’ de chillun an’ -ev’-body, den ef you says: ‘Pa-Jeff you kin tech yo’ lips to dat glass -o’ wine,’ all well an’ right.’” - -His manner was impressive and caused the family to exchange surprised -and troubled glances. Foreseeing that his recital might be long, a chair -was offered to him, but he declined it. - -“One day,” he began, “w’en I ben hoein’ de madam’s flower bed close to -de fence, Sosthéne he ride up, he say: ‘Heah, Pa-Jeff, heah de mail.’ I -takes de mail f’on ’im an’ I calls out to Viny w’at settin’ on de -gallery: ‘Heah Marse Albert’s mail, gal; come git it.’ - -“But Viny she answer, pert-like—des like Viny: ‘You is got two laigs, -Pa-Jeff, des well as me.’ I ain’t no ban’ fo’ disputin’ wid gals, so I -brace up an’ I come ’long to de house an’ goes on in dat settin’-room -dah, naix’ to de dinin’-room. I lays dat mail down on Marse Albert’s -table; den I looks roun’. - -“Ev’thing do look putty, sho! De lace cu’tains was a-flappin’ an’ de -flowers was a-smellin’ sweet, an’ de pictures a-settin’ back on de wall. -I keep on lookin’ roun’. To reckly my eye hit fall on de li’le gal w’at -al’ays sets on de een’ o’ de mantel-shelf. She do look mighty sassy dat -day, wid ’er toe a-stickin’ out, des so; an’ holdin’ her skirt des dat -away; an’ lookin’ at me wid her head twis’. - -“I laff out. Viny mus’ heahed me. I say, ‘g’long ’way f’om dah, gal.’ -She keep on smilin’. I reaches out my han’. Den Satan an’ de good -Sperrit, dey begins to wrastle in me. De Sperrit say: ‘You ole -fool-nigga, you; mine w’at you about.’ Satan keep on shovin’ my han’—des -so—keep on shovin’. Satan he mighty powerful dat day, an’ he win de -fight. I kiar dat li’le trick home in my pocket.” - -Pa-Jeff lowered his head for a moment in bitter confusion. His hearers -were moved with distressful astonishment. They would have had him stop -the recital right there, but Pa-Jeff resumed, with an effort: - -“Come dat night I heah tell how dat li’le trick, we’th heap money; how -madam, she cryin’ ’cause her li’le blessed lamb was use’ to play wid -dat, an’ kiar-on ov’ it. Den I git scared. I say, ‘w’at I gwine do?’ An’ -up jump Satan an’ de Sperrit a-wrastlin’ again. - -“De Sperrit say: ‘Kiar hit back whar it come f’om, Pa-Jeff.’ Satan ’low: -‘Fling it in de bayeh, you ole fool.’ De Sperrit say: ‘You won’t fling -dat in de bayeh, whar de madam kain’t neva sot eyes on hit no mo’?’ Den -Satan he kine give in; he ’low he plumb sick o’ disputin’ so long; tell -me go hide it some ’eres whar dey nachelly gwine fine it. Satan he win -dat fight. - -“Des w’en de day g’ine break, I creeps out an’ goes ’long de fiel’ road. -I pass by Ma’me Bedaut’s house. I riclic how dey says li’le Bedaut gal -ben in de sittin’-room, too, day befo’. De winda war open. Ev’body -sleep-in’. I tres’ in my head, des like a dog w’at shame hisse’f. I sees -dat box o’ rags befo’ my eyes; an’ I drops dat li’le imp’dence ’mongst -dem rags. - -“Mebby yo’ all t’ink Satan an’ de Sperrit lef’ me ’lone, arter dat?” -continued Pa-Jeff, straightening himself from the relaxed position in -which his members seemed to have settled. - -“No, suh; dey ben desputin’ straight ’long. Las’ night dey come nigh -onto en’in’ me up. De Sperrit cay: ‘Come ’long, I gittin’ tired dis -heah, you g’long up yonda an’ tell de truf an’ shame de devil.’ Satan -’low: ‘Stay whar you is; you heah me!’ Dey clutches me. Dey twis’es an’ -twines me. Dey dashes me down an’ jerks me up. But de Sperrit he win dat -fight in de en’, an’ heah I is, mist’ess, master, chillun’; heah I is.” - -Years later Pa-Jeff was still telling the story of his temptation and -fall. The negroes especially seemed never to tire of hearing him relate -it. He enlarged greatly upon the theme as he went, adding new and -dramatic features which gave fresh interest to its every telling. - -Agapie grew up to deserve the confidence and favors of the family. She -redoubled her acts of kindness toward Pa-Jeff; but somehow she could not -look into his face again. - -Yet she need not have feared. Long before the end came, poor old -Pa-Jeff, confused, bewildered, believed the story himself as firmly as -those who had heard him tell it over and over for so many years. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Nég Créol - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Nég Créol - -[Illustration] - - -At the remote period of his birth he had been named César François -Xavier, but no one ever thought of calling him anything but Chicot, or -Nég, or Maringouin. Down at the French market, where he worked among the -fishmongers, they called him Chicot, when they were not calling him -names that are written less freely than they are spoken. But one felt -privileged to call him almost anything, he was so black, lean, lame, and -shriveled. He wore a head-kerchief, and whatever other rags the -fishermen and their wives chose to bestow upon him. Throughout one whole -winter he wore a woman’s discarded jacket with puffed sleeves. - -Among some startling beliefs entertained by Chicot was one that “Michié -St. Pierre et Michié St. Paul” had created him. Of “Michié bon Dieu” he -held his own private opinion, and not a too flattering one at that. This -fantastic notion concerning the origin of his being he owed to the early -teaching of his young master, a lax believer, and a great _farceur_ in -his day. Chicot had once been thrashed by a robust young Irish priest -for expressing his religious views, and at another time knifed by a -Sicilian. So he had come to hold his peace upon that subject. - -Upon another theme he talked freely and harped continuously. For years -he had tried to convince his associates that his master had left a -progeny, rich, cultured, powerful, and numerous beyond belief. This -prosperous race of beings inhabited the most imposing mansions in the -city of New Orleans. Men of note and position, whose names were familiar -to the public, he swore were grandchildren, great-grandchildren, or, -less frequently, distant relatives of his master, long deceased, Ladies -who came to the market in carriages, or whose elegance of attire -attracted the attention and admiration of the fishwomen, were all _des -’tites cousines_ to his former master, Jean Boisduré. He never looked -for recognition from any of these superior beings, but delighted to -discourse by the hour upon their dignity and pride of birth and wealth. - -Chicot always carried an old gunny-sack, and into this went his -earnings. He cleaned stalls at the market, scaled fish, and did many odd -offices for the itinerant merchants, who usually paid in trade for his -service. Occasionally he saw the color of silver and got his clutch upon -a coin, but he accepted anything, and seldom made terms. He was glad to -get a handkerchief from the Hebrew, and grateful if the Choctaws would -trade him a bottle of _filé_ it. The butcher flung him a soup bone, and -the fishmonger a few crabs or a paper bag of shrimps. It was the big -_mulatresse_, _vendeuse de café_, who cared for his inner man. - -Once Chicot was accused by a shoe-vender of attempting to steal a pair -of ladies’ shoes. He declared he was only examining them. The clamor -raised in the market was terrific. Young Dagoes assembled and squealed -like rats; a couple of Gascon butchers bellowed like bulls. Matteo’s -wife shook her fist in the accuser’s face and called him -incomprehensible names. The Choctaw women, where they squatted, turned -their slow eyes in the direction of the fray, taking no further notice; -while a policeman jerked Chicot around by the puffed sleeve and -brandished a club. It was a narrow escape. - -Nobody knew where Chicot lived. A man—even a nég créol—who lives among -the reeds and willows of Bayou St. John, in a deserted chicken-coop -constructed chiefly of tarred paper, is not going to boast of his -habitation or to invite attention to his domestic appointments. When, -after market hours, he vanished in the direction of St. Philip street, -limping, seemingly bent under the weight of his gunny-bag, it was like -the disappearance from the stage of some petty actor whom the audience -does not follow in imagination beyond the wings, or think of till his -return in another scene. - -There was one to whom Chicot’s coming or going meant more than this. In -_la maison grise_ they called her La Chouette, for no earthly reason -unless that she perched high under the roof of the old rookery and -scolded in shrill sudden outbursts. Forty or fifty years before, when -for a little while she acted minor parts with a company of French -players (an escapade that had brought her grandmother to the grave), she -was known as Mademoiselle de Montallaine. Seventy-five years before she -had been christened Aglaé Boisduré. - -No matter at what hour the old negro appeared at her threshold, Mamzelle -Aglaé always kept him waiting till she finished her prayers. She opened -the door for him and silently motioned him to a seat, returning to -prostrate herself upon her knees before a crucifix, and a shell filled -with holy water that stood on a small table; it represented in her -imagination an altar. Chicot knew that she did it to aggravate him; he -was convinced that she timed her devotions to begin when she heard his -footsteps on the stairs. He would sit with sullen eyes contemplating her -long, spare, poorly clad figure as she knelt and read from her book or -finished her prayers. Bitter was the religious warfare that had raged -for years between them, and Mamzelle Aglaé had grown, on her side, as -intolerant as Chicot. She had come to hold St. Peter and St. Paul in -such utter detestation that she had cut their pictures out of her -prayer-book. - -Then Mamzelle Aglaé pretended not to care what Chicot had in his bag. He -drew forth a small hunk of beef and laid it in her basket that stood on -the bare floor. She looked from the corner of her eye, and went on -dusting the table. He brought out a handful of potatoes, some pieces of -sliced fish, a few herbs, a yard of calico, and a small pat of butter -wrapped in lettuce leaves. He was proud of the butter, and wanted her to -notice it. He held it out and asked her for something to put it on. She -handed him a saucer, and looked indifferent and resigned, with lifted -eyebrows. - -“Pas d’ sucre, Nég?” - -Chicot shook his head and scratched it, and looked like a black picture -of distress and mortification. No sugar! But tomorrow he would get a -pinch here and a pinch there, and would bring as much as a cupful. - -Mamzelle Aglaé then sat down, and talked to Chicot uninterruptedly and -confidentially. She complained bitterly, and it was all about a pain -that lodged in her leg; that crept and acted like a live, stinging -serpent, twining about her waist and up her spine, and coiling round the -shoulder-blade. And then _les rheumatismes_ in her fingers! He could see -for himself how they were knotted. She could not bend them; she could -hold nothing in her hands, and had let a saucer fall that morning and -broken it in pieces. And if she were to tell him that she had slept a -wink through the night, she would be a liar, deserving of perdition. She -had sat at the window _la nuit blanche_, hearing the hours strike and -the market-wagons rumble. Chicot nodded, and kept up a running fire of -sympathetic comment and suggestive remedies for rheumatism and insomnia: -herbs, or _tisanes_, or _grigris_, or all three. As if he knew! There -was Purgatory Mary, a perambulating soul whose office in life was to -pray for the shades in purgatory,—she had brought Mamzelle Aglaé a -bottle of _eau de Lourdes_, but so little of it! She might have kept her -water of Lourdes, for all the good it did,—a drop! Not so much as would -cure a fly or a mosquito! Mamzelle Aglaé was going to show Purgatory -Mary the door when she came again, not only because of her avarice with -the Lourdes water, but, beside that, she brought in on her feet dirt -that could only be removed with a shovel after she left. - -And Mamzelle Aglaé wanted to inform Chicot that there would be slaughter -and bloodshed in _la maison grise_ if the people below stairs did not -mend their ways. She was convinced that they lived for no other purpose -than to torture and molest her. The woman kept a bucket of dirty water -constantly on the landing with the hope of Mamzelle Aglaé falling over -it or into it. And she knew that the children were instructed to gather -in the hall and on the stairway, and scream and make a noise and jump up -and down like galloping horses, with the intention of driving her to -suicide. Chicot should notify the policeman on the beat, and have them -arrested, if possible, and thrust into the parish prison, where they -belonged. - -Chicot would have been extremely alarmed if he had ever chanced to find -Mamzelle Aglaé in an uncomplaining mood. It never occurred to him that -she might be otherwise. He felt that she had a right to quarrel with -fate, if ever mortal had. Her poverty was a disgrace, and he hung his -head before it and felt ashamed. - -One day he found Mamzelle Aglaé stretched on the bed, with her head tied -up in a handkerchief. Her sole complaint that day was, “Aïe—aïe—aïe! -Aïe—aïe—aïe!” uttered with every breath. He had seen her so before, -especially when the weather was damp. - -“Vous pas bézouin tisane, Mamzelle Aglaé? Vous pas veux mo cri gagni -docteur?” - -She desired nothing. “Aïe—aïe—aïe!” - -He emptied his bag very quietly, so as not to disturb her; and he wanted -to stay there with her and lie down on the floor in case she needed him, -but the woman from below had come up. She was an Irishwoman with rolled -sleeves. - -“It’s a shtout shtick I’m afther giving her, Nég, and she do but knock -on the flure it’s me or Janie or wan of us that’ll be hearing her.” - -“You too good, Brigitte. Aïe—aïe—aïe! Une goutte d’eau sucré, Nég! That -Purg’tory Marie,—you see hair, ma bonne Brigitte, you tell hair go say -li’le prayer là-bas au Cathédral. Aïe—aïe—aïe!” - -Nég could hear her lamentation as he descended the stairs. It followed -him as he limped his way through the city streets, and seemed part of -the city’s noise; he could hear it in the rumble of wheels and jangle of -car-*bells, and in the voices of those passing by. - -He stopped at Mimotte the Voudou’s shanty and bought a _grigri_—a cheap -one for fifteen cents. Mimotte held her charms at all prices. This he -intended to introduce next day into Mamzelle Anglaé’s room,—somewhere -about the altar,—to the confusion and discomfort of “Michié bon Dieu,” -who persistently declined to concern himself with the welfare of a -Boisduré. - -At night, among the reeds on the bayou, Chicot could still hear the -woman’s wail, mingled now with the croaking of the frogs. If he could -have been convinced that giving up his life down there in the water -would in any way have bettered her condition, he would not have -hesitated to sacrifice the remnant of his existence that was wholly -devoted to her. He lived but to serve her. He did not know it himself; -but Chicot knew so little, and that little in such a distorted way! He -could scarcely have been expected, even in his most lucid moments, to -give himself over to self-analysis. - -Chicot gathered an uncommon amount of dainties at market the following -day. He had to work hard, and scheme and whine a little; but he got hold -of an orange and a lump of ice and a _chou-fleur_. He did not drink his -cup of _café au lait_, but asked Mimi Lambeau to put it in the little -new tin pail that the Hebrew notion-vender had just given him in -exchange for a mess of shrimps. This time, however, Chicot had his -trouble for nothing. When he reached the upper room of _la maison -grise_, it was to find that Mamzelle Aglaé had died during the night. He -set his bag down in the middle of the floor, and stood shaking, and -whined low like a dog in pain. - -Everything had been done. The Irishwoman had gone for the doctor, and -Purgatory Mary had summoned a priest. Furthermore, the woman had -arranged Mamzelle Aglaé decently. She had covered the table with a white -cloth, and had placed it at the head of the bed, with the crucifix and -two lighted candles in silver candlesticks upon it; the little bit of -ornamentation brightened and embellished the poor room. Purgatory Mary, -dressed in shabby black, fat and breathing hard, sat reading half -audibly from a prayer-book. She was watching the dead and the silver -candlesticks, which she had borrowed from a benevolent society, and for -which she held herself responsible. A young man was just leaving,—a -reporter snuffing the air for items, who had scented one up there in the -top room of _la maison grise_. - -All the morning Janie had been escorting a procession of street Arabs up -and down the stairs to view the remains. One of them—a little girl, who -had had her face washed and had made a species of toilet for the -occasion—refused to be dragged away. She stayed seated as if at an -entertainment, fascinated alternately by the long, still figure of -Mamzelle Aglaé, the mumbling lips of Purgatory Mary, and the silver -candlesticks. - -“Will ye get down on yer knees, man, and say a prayer for the dead!” -commanded the woman. - -But Chicot only shook his head, and refused to obey. He approached the -bed, and laid a little black paw for a moment on the stiffened body of -Mamzelle Aglaé. There was nothing for him to do here. He picked up his -old ragged hat and his bag and went away. - -“The black h’athen!” the woman muttered. “Shut the dure, child.” - -The little girl slid down from her chair, and went on tiptoe to shut the -door which Chicot had left open. Having resumed her seat, she fastened -her eyes upon Purgatory Mary’s heaving chest. - -“You, Chicot!” cried Matteo’s wife the next morning. “My man, he read in -paper ’bout woman name’ Boisduré, use’ b’long to big-a famny. She die -roun’ on St. Philip—po’, same-a like church rat. It’s any them Boisdurés -you alla talk ’bout?” - -Chicot shook his head in slow but emphatic denial. No, indeed, the woman -was not of kin to his Boisdurés. He surely had told Matteo’s wife often -enough—how many times did he have to repeat it!—of their wealth, their -social standing. It was doubtless some Boisduré of _les Attakapas_; it -was none of his. - -The next day there was a small funeral procession passing a little -distance away,—a hearse and a carriage or two. There was the priest who -had attended Mamzelle Aglaé, and a benevolent Creole gentleman whose -father had known the Boisdurés in his youth. There was a couple of -player-folk, who, having got wind of the story, had thrust their hands -into their pockets. - -“Look, Chicot!” cried Matteo’s wife. “Yonda go the fune’al. Mus-a be -that-a Boisduré woman we talken ’bout yesaday.” - -But Chicot paid no heed. What was to him the funeral of a woman who had -died in St. Philip street? He did not even turn his head in the -direction of the moving procession. He went on scaling his red-snapper. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - The Lilies - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - The Lilies - -[Illustration] - - -That little vagabond Mamouche amused himself one afternoon by letting -down the fence rails that protected Mr. Billy’s young crop of cotton and -corn. He had first looked carefully about him to make sure there was no -witness to this piece of rascality. Then he crossed the lane and did the -same with the Widow Angèle’s fence, thereby liberating Toto, the white -calf who stood disconsolately penned up on the other side. - -It was not ten seconds before Toto was frolicking madly in Mr. Billy’s -crop, and Mamouche—the young scamp—was running swiftly down the lane, -laughing fiendishly to himself as he went. - -He could not at first decide whether there could be more fun in letting -Toto demolish things at his pleasure, or in warning Mr. Billy of the -calf’s presence in the field. But the latter course commended itself as -possessing a certain refinement of perfidy. - -“Ho, the’a, you!” called out Mamouche to one of Mr. Billy’s hands, when -he got around to where the men were at work; “you betta go yon’a an’ see -’bout that calf o’ Ma’me Angèle; he done broke in the fiel’ an’ ’bout to -finish the crop, him.” Then Mamouche went and sat behind a big tree, -where, unobserved, he could laugh to his heart’s content. - -Mr. Billy’s fury was unbounded when he learned that Madame Angèle’s calf -was eating up and trampling down his corn. At once he sent a detachment -of men and boys to expel the animal from the field. Others were required -to repair the damaged fence; while he himself, boiling with wrath, rode -up the lane on his wicked black charger. - -But merely to look upon the devastation was not enough for Mr. Billy. He -dismounted from his horse, and strode belligerently up to Madame -Angèle’s door, upon which he gave, with his riding-whip, a couple of -sharp raps that plainly indicated the condition of his mind. - -Mr. Billy looked taller and broader than ever as he squared himself on -the gallery of Madame Angèle’s small and modest house. She herself -half-opened the door, a pale, sweet-looking woman, somewhat bewildered, -and holding a piece of sewing in her hands. Little Marie Louise was -beside her, with big, inquiring, frightened eyes. - -“Well, Madam!” blustered Mr. Billy, “this is a pretty piece of work! -That young beast of yours is a fence-breaker, Madam, and ought to be -shot.” - -“Oh, non, non, M’sieur. Toto’s too li’le; I’m sho he can’t break any -fence, him.” - -“Don’t contradict me, Madam. I say he’s a fence-breaker. There’s the -proof before your eyes. He ought to be shot, I say, and—don’t let it -occur again, Madam.” And Mr. Billy turned and stamped down the steps -with a great clatter of spurs as he went. - -Madame Angèle was at the time in desperate haste to finish a young -lady’s Easter dress, and she could not afford to let Toto’s escapade -occupy her to any extent, much as she regretted it. But little Marie -Louise was greatly impressed by the affair. She went out in the yard to -Toto, who was under the fig-tree, looking not half so shamefaced as he -ought. The child, with arms clasped around the little fellow’s white -shaggy neck, scolded him roundly. - -“Ain’t you shame’, Toto, to go eat up Mr. Billy’s cotton an’ co’n? W’at -Mr. Billy ev’a done to you, to go do him that way? If you been hungry, -Toto, w’y you did’n’ come like always an’ put yo’ head in the winda? I’m -goin’ tell yo’ maman w’en she come back f’om the woods to ’s’evenin’, -M’sieur. - -Marie Louise only ceased her mild rebuke when she fancied she saw a -penitential look in Toto’s big soft eyes. - -She had a keen instinct of right and justice for so young a little maid. -And all the afternoon, and long into the night, she was disturbed by the -thought of the unfortunate accident. Of course, there could be no -question of repaying Mr. Billy with money; she and her mother had none. -Neither had they cotton and corn with which to make good the loss he had -sustained through them. - -But had they not something far more beautiful and precious than cotton -and corn? Marie Louise thought with delight of that row of Easter lilies -on their tall green stems, ranged thick along the sunny side of the -house. - -The assurance that she would, after all, be able to satisfy Mr. Billy’s -just anger, was a very sweet one. And soothed by it, Marie Louise soon -fell asleep and dreamt a grotesque dream: that the lilies were having a -stately dance on the green in the moonlight, and were inviting Mr. Billy -to join them. - -The following day, when it was nearing noon, Marie Louise said to her -mamma: “Maman, can I have some of the Easter lily, to do with like I -want?” - -Madame Angèle was just then testing the heat of an iron with which to -press out the seams in the young lady’s Easter dress, and she answered a -shade impatiently: - -“Yes, yes; va t’en, chérie,” thinking that her little girl wanted to -pluck a lily or two. - -So the child took a pair of old shears from her mother’s basket, and out -she went to where the tall, perfumed lilies were nodding, and shaking -off from their glistening petals the rain-drops with which a passing -cloud had just laughingly pelted them. - -Snip, snap, went the shears here and there, and never did Marie Louise -stop plying them till scores of those long-stemmed lilies lay upon the -ground. There were far more than she could hold in her small hands, so -she literally clasped the great bunch in her arms, and staggered to her -feet with it. - -Marie Louise was intent upon her purpose, and lost no time in its -accomplishment. She was soon trudging earnestly down the lane with her -sweet burden, never stopping, and only once glancing aside to cast a -reproachful look at Toto, whom she had not wholly forgiven. - -She did not in the least mind that the dogs barked, or that the darkies -laughed at her. She went straight on to Mr. Billy’s big house, and right -into the dining-room, where Mr. Billy sat eating his dinner all alone. - -It was a finely-furnished room, but disorderly—very disorderly, as an -old bachelor’s personal surroundings sometimes are. A black boy stood -waiting upon the table. When little Marie Louise suddenly appeared, with -that armful of lilies, Mr. Billy seemed for a moment transfixed at the -sight. - -“Well—bless—my soul! what’s all this? What’s all this?” he questioned, -with staring eyes. - -Marie Louise had already made a little courtesy. Her sunbonnet had -fallen back, leaving exposed her pretty round head; and her sweet brown -eyes were full of confidence as they looked into Mr. Billy’s. - -“I’m bring some lilies to pay back fo’ yo’ cotton an’ co’n w’at Toto eat -all up, M’sieur.” - -Mr. Billy turned savagely upon Pompey. “What are you laughing at, you -black rascal? Leave the room!” - -Pompey, who out of mistaken zeal had doubled himself with merriment, was -too accustomed to the admonition to heed it literally, and he only made -a pretense of withdrawing from Mr. Billy’s elbow. - -“Lilies! well, upon my—isn’t it the little one from across the lane?” - -“Dat’s who,” affirmed Pompey, cautiously insinuating himself again into -favor. - -“Lilies! who ever heard the like? Why, the baby’s buried under ’em. Set -’em down somewhere, little one; anywhere.” And Marie Louise, glad to be -relieved from the weight of the great cluster, dumped them all on the -table close to Mr. Billy. - -The perfume that came from the damp, massed flowers was heavy and almost -sickening in its pungency. Mr. Billy quivered a little, and drew -involuntarily back, as if from an unexpected assailant, when the odor -reached him. He had been making cotton and corn for so many years, he -had forgotten there were such things as lilies in the world. - -“Kiar ’em out? fling ’em ’way?” questioned Pompey, who had observed his -master cunningly. - -“Let ’em alone! Keep your hands off them! Leave the room, you outlandish -black scamp! What are you standing there for? Can’t you set the Mamzelle -a place at table, and draw up a chair?” - -So Marie Louise—perched upon a fine old-fashioned chair, supplemented by -a Webster’s Unabridged—sat down to dine with Mr. Billy. - -She had never eaten in company with so peculiar a gentleman before; so -irascible toward the inoffensive Pompey, and so courteous to herself. -But she was not ill at ease, and conducted herself properly as her mamma -had taught her how. - -Mr. Billy was anxious that she should enjoy her dinner, and began by -helping her generously to Jambalaya. When she had tasted it she made no -remark, only laid down her fork, and looked composedly before her. - -“Why, bless me! what ails the little one? You don’t eat your rice.” - -“It ain’t cook’, M’sieur,” replied Marie Louise politely. - -Pompey nearly strangled in his attempt to smother an explosion. - -“Of course it isn’t cooked,” echoed Mr. Billy, excitedly, pushing away -his plate. “What do you mean, setting a mess of that sort before human -beings? Do you take us for a couple of—of rice-birds? What are you -standing there for; can’t you look up some jam or something to keep the -young one from starving? Where’s all that jam I saw stewing a while -back, here?” - -Pompey withdrew, and soon returned with a platter of black-looking jam. -Mr. Billy ordered cream for it. Pompey reported there was none. - -“No cream, with twenty-five cows on the plantation if there’s one!” -cried Mr. Billy, almost springing from his chair with indignation. - -“Aunt Printy ’low she sot de pan o’ cream on de winda-sell, suh, an’ -Unc’ Jonah come ’long an’ tu’n it cl’ar ova; neva lef’ a drap in de -pan.” - -But evidently the jam, with or without cream, was as distasteful to -Marie Louise as the rice was; for after tasting it gingerly she laid -away her spoon as she had done before. - -“O, no! little one; you don’t tell me it isn’t cooked this time,” -laughed Mr. Billy. “I saw the thing boiling a day and a half. Wasn’t it -a day and a half, Pompey? if you know how to tell the truth.” - -“Aunt Printy alluz do cooks her p’esarves tell dey plumb done, sho,” -agreed Pompey. - -“It’s burn’, M’sieur,” said Marie Louise, politely, but decidedly, to -the utter confusion of Mr. Billy, who was as mortified as could be at -the failure of his dinner to please his fastidious little visitor. - -Well, Mr. Billy thought of Marie Louise a good deal after that; as long -as the lilies lasted. And they lasted long, for he had the whole -household employed in taking care of them. Often he would chuckle to -himself: “The little rogue, with her black eyes and her lilies! And the -rice wasn’t cooked, if you please; and the jam was burnt. And the best -of it is, she was right.” - -But when the lilies withered finally, and had to be thrown away, Mr. -Billy donned his best suit, a starched shirt and fine silk necktie. Thus -attired, he crossed the lane to carry his somewhat tardy apologies to -Madame Angèle and Mamzelle Marie Louise, and to pay them a first visit. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Azélie - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Azélie - -[Illustration] - - -Azélie crossed the yard with slow, hesitating steps. She wore a pink -sunbonnet and a faded calico dress that had been made the summer before, -and was now too small for her in every way. She carried a large tin pail -on her arm. When within a few yards of the house she stopped under a -chinaberry-tree, quite still, except for the occasional slow turning of -her head from side to side. - -Mr. Mathurin, from his elevation upon the upper gallery, laughed when he -saw her; for he knew she would stay there, motionless, till some one -noticed and questioned her. - -The planter was just home from the city, and was therefore in an -excellent humor, as he always was, on getting back to what he called _le -grand air_, the space and stillness of the country, and the scent of the -fields. He was in shirtsleeves, walking around the gallery that -encircled the big square white house. Beneath was a brick-paved portico -upon which the lower rooms opened. At wide intervals were large -whitewashed pillars that supported the upper gallery. - -In one corner of the lower house was the store, which was in no sense a -store for the general public, but maintained only to supply the needs of -Mr. Mathurin’s “hands.” - -“Eh bien! what do you want, Azélie?” the planter finally called out to -the girl in French. She advanced a few paces, and, pushing back her -sunbonnet, looked up at him with a gentle, inoffensive face—“to which -you would give the good God without confession,” he once described it. - -“Bon jou’, M’si’ Mathurin,” she replied; and continued in English: “I -come git a li’le piece o’ meat. We plumb out o’ meat home.” - -“Well, well, the meat is n’ going to walk to you, my chile: it has n’ -got feet. Go fine Mr. ’Polyte. He’s yonda mending his buggy unda the -shed.” She turned away with an alert little step, and went in search of -Mr. ’Polyte. - -“That’s you again!” the young man exclaimed, with a pretended air of -annoyance, when he saw her. He straightened himself, and looked down at -her and her pail with a comprehending glance. The sweat was standing in -shining beads on his brown, good-looking face. He was in his -shirt-sleeves, and the legs of his trousers were thrust into the tops of -his fine, high-heeled boots. He wore his straw hat very much on one -side, and had an air that was altogether _fanfaron_. He reached to a -back pocket for the store key, which was as large as the pistol that he -sometimes carried in the same place. She followed him across the thick, -tufted grass of the yard with quick, short steps that strove to keep -pace with his longer, swinging ones. - -When he had unlocked and opened the heavy door of the store, there -escaped from the close room the strong, pungent odor of the varied wares -and provisions massed within. Azélie seemed to like the odor, and, -lifting her head, snuffed the air as people sometimes do upon entering a -conservatory filled with fragrant flowers. - -A broad ray of light streamed in through the open door, illumining the -dingy interior. The double wooden shutters of the windows were all -closed, and secured on the inside by iron hooks. - -“Well, w’at you want, Azélie?” asked ’Polyte, going behind the counter -with an air of hurry and importance. “I ain’t got time to fool. Make -has’e; say w’at you want.” - -Her reply was precisely the same that she had made to Mr. Mathurin. - -“I come git a li’le piece o’ meat. We plumb out o’ meat home.” - -He seemed exasperated. - -“Bonté! w’at you all do with meat yonda? You don’t reflec’ you about to -eat up yo’ crop befo’ it’s good out o’ the groun’, you all. I like to -know w’y yo’ pa don’t go he’p with the killin’ once aw’ile, an’ git some -fresh meat fo’ a change.” - -She answered in an unshaded, unmodulated voice that was penetrating, -like a child’s: “Popa he do go he’p wid the killin’; but he say he can’t -work ’less he got salt meat. He got plenty to feed—him. He’s got to hire -he’p wid his crop, an’ he’s boun’ to feed ’em; they won’t year no -diffe’nt. An’ he’s got gra’ma to feed, an’ Sauterelle, an’ me—” - -“An’ all the lazy-bone ’Cadians in the country that know w’ere they -goin’ to fine the coffee-pot always in the corna of the fire,” grumbled -’Polyte. - -With an iron hook he lifted a small piece of salt meat from the pork -barrel, weighed it, and placed it in her pail. Then she wanted a little -coffee. He gave it to her reluctantly. He was still more loath to let -her have sugar; and when she asked for lard, he refused flatly. - -She had taken off her sunbonnet, and was fanning herself with it, as she -leaned with her elbows upon the counter, and let her eyes travel -lingeringly along the well-lined shelves. ’Polyte stood staring into her -face with a sense of aggravation that her presence, her manner, always -stirred up in him. - -The face was colorless but for the red, curved line of the lips. Her -eyes were dark, wide, innocent, questioning eyes, and her black hair was -plastered smooth back from the forehead and temples. There was no trace -of any intention of coquetry in her manner. He resented this as a token -of indifference toward his sex, and thought it inexcusable. - -“Well, Azélie, if it’s anything you don’t see, ask fo’ it,” he -suggested, with what he flattered himself was humor. But there was no -responsive humor in Azélie’s composition. She seriously drew a small -flask from her pocket. - -“Popa say, if you want to let him have a li’le dram, ’count o’ his pains -that’s ’bout to cripple him.” - -“Yo’ pa knows as well as I do we don’t sell w’isky. Mr. Mathurin don’t -carry no license.” - -“I know. He say if you want to give ’im a li’le dram, he’s willin’ to do -some work fo’ you.” - -“No! Once fo’ all, no!” And ’Polyte reached for the day-book, in which -to enter the articles he had given to her. - -But Azélie’s needs were not yet satisfied. She wanted tobacco; he would -not give it to her. A spool of thread; he rolled one up, together with -two sticks of peppermint candy, and placed it in her pail. When she -asked for a bottle of coal-oil, he grudgingly consented, but assured her -it would be useless to cudgel her brain further, for he would positively -let her have nothing more. He disappeared toward the coal-oil tank, -which was hidden from view behind the piled-up boxes on the counter. -When she heard him searching for an empty quart bottle, and making a -clatter with the tin funnels, she herself withdrew from the counter -against which she had been leaning. - -After they quitted the store, ’Polyte, with a perplexed expression upon -his face, leaned for a moment against one of the whitewashed pillars, -watching the girl cross the yard. She had folded her sunbonnet into a -pad, which she placed beneath the heavy pail that she balanced upon her -head. She walked upright, with a slow, careful tread. Two of the yard -dogs that had stood a moment before upon the threshold of the store -door, quivering and wagging their tails, were following her now, with a -little businesslike trot. ’Polyte called them back. - -The cabin which the girl occupied with her father, her grandmother, and -her little brother Sauterelle, was removed some distance from the -plantation house, and only its pointed roof could be discerned like a -speck far away across the field of cotton, which was all in bloom. Her -figure soon disappeared from view, and ’Polyte emerged from the shelter -of the gallery, and started again toward his interrupted task. He turned -to say to the planter, who was keeping up his measured tramp above: - -“Mr. Mathurin, ain’t it ’mos’ time to stop givin’ credit to Arsène -Pauché. Look like that crop o’ his ain’t goin’ to start to pay his -account. I don’t see, me, anyway, how you come to take that triflin’ -Li’le river gang on the place.” - -“I know it was a mistake, ’Polyte, but que voulez-vous?” the planter -returned, with a good-natured shrug. “Now they are yere, we can’t let -them starve, my frien’. Push them to work all you can. Hole back all -supplies that are not necessary, an’ nex’ year we will let some one else -enjoy the privilege of feeding them,” he ended, with a laugh. - -“I wish they was all back on Li’le river,” ’Polyte muttered under his -breath as he turned and walked slowly away. - -Directly back of the store was the young man’s sleeping-room. He had -made himself quite comfortable there in his corner. He had screened his -windows and doors; planted Madeira vines, which now formed a thick green -curtain between the two pillars that faced his room; and had swung a -hammock out there, in which he liked well to repose himself after the -fatigues of the day. - -He lay long in the hammock that evening, thinking over the day’s -happenings and the morrow’s work, half dozing, half dreaming, and wholly -possessed by the charm of the night, the warm, sweeping air that blew -through the long corridor, and the almost unbroken stillness that -enveloped him. - -At times his random thoughts formed themselves into an almost inaudible -speech: “I wish she would go ’way f’om yere.” - -One of the dogs came and thrust his cool, moist muzzle against ’Polyte’s -cheek. He caressed the fellow’s shaggy head. “I don’t know w’at’s the -matta with her,” he sighed; “I don’ b’lieve she’s got good sense.” - -It was a long time afterward that he murmured again: “I wish to God -she’d go ’way f’om yere!” - -The edge of the moon crept up—a keen, curved blade of light above the -dark line of the cotton-field. ’Polyte roused himself when he saw it. “I -didn’ know it was so late,” he said to himself—or to his dog. He entered -his room at once, and was soon in bed, sleeping soundly. - -It was some hours later that ’Polyte was roused from his sleep by—he did -not know what; his senses were too scattered and confused to determine -at once. There was at first no sound; then so faint a one that he -wondered how he could have heard it. A door of his room communicated -with the store, but this door was never used, and was almost completely -blocked by wares piled up on the other side. The faint noise that -’Polyte heard, and which came from within the store, was followed by a -flare of light that he could discern through the chinks, and that lasted -as long as a match might burn. - -He was now fully aware that some one was in the store. How the intruder -had entered he could not guess, for the key was under his pillow with -his watch and his pistol. - -As cautiously as he could he donned an extra garment, thrust his bare -feet into slippers, and crept out into the portico, pistol in hand. - -The shutters of one of the store windows were open. He stood close to -it, and waited, which he considered surer and safer than to enter the -dark and crowded confines of the store to engage in what might prove a -bootless struggle with the intruder. - -He had not long to wait. In a few moments some one darted through the -open window as nimbly as a cat. ’Polyte staggered back as if a heavy -blow had stunned him. His first thought and his first exclamation were: -“My God! how close I come to killin’ you!” - -It was Azélie. She uttered no cry, but made one quick effort to run when -she saw him. He seized her arm and held her with a brutal grip. He put -the pistol back into his pocket. He was shaking like a man with the -palsy. One by one he took from her the parcels she was carrying, and -flung them back into the store. There were not many: some packages of -tobacco, a cheap pipe, some fishing-tackle, and the flask which she had -brought with her in the afternoon. This he threw into the yard. It was -still empty, for she had not been able to find the “key” to the -whisky-barrel. - -“So—so, you a thief!” he muttered savagely under his breath. - -“You hurtin’ me, Mr. ’Polyte,” she complained, squirming. He somewhat -relaxed, but did not relinquish, his hold upon her. - -“I ain’t no thief,” she blurted. - -“You was stealin’,” he contradicted her sharply. - -“I wasn’ stealin’. I was jus’ takin’ a few li’le things you all too mean -to gi’ me. You all treat my popa like he was a dog. It’s on’y las’ week -Mr. Mathurin sen’ ’way to the city to fetch a fine buckboa’d fo’ Son -Ambroise, an’ he’s on’y a nigga, après tout. An’ my popa he want a -picayune tobacca? It’s ‘No’—” She spoke loud in her monotonous, shrill -voice. ’Polyte kept saying: “Hush, I tell you! Hush! Somebody’ll year -you. Hush! It’s enough you broke in the sto’—how you got in the sto’?” -he added, looking from her to the open window. - -“It was w’en you was behine the boxes to the coal-oil tank—I unhook’ -it,” she explained sullenly. - -“An’ you don’ know I could sen’ you to Baton Rouge fo’ that?” He shook -her as though trying to rouse her to a comprehension of her grievous -fault. - -“Jus’ fo’ a li’le picayune o’ tobacca!” she whimpered. - -He suddenly abandoned his hold upon her, and left her free. She -mechanically rubbed the arm that he had grasped so violently. - -Between the long row of pillars the moon was sending pale beams of -light. In one of these they were standing. - -“Azélie,” he said, “go ’way f’om yere quick; some one might fine you -yere. W’en you want something in the sto’, fo’ yo’se’f or fo’ yo’ pa—I -don’ care—ask me fo’ it. But you—but you can’t neva set yo’ foot inside -that sto’ again. Co ’way f’on yere quick as you can, I tell you!” - -She tried in no way to conciliate him. She turned and walked away over -the same ground she had crossed before. One of the big dogs started to -follow her. ’Polyte did not call him back this time. He knew no harm -could come to her, going through those lonely fields, while the animal -was at her side. - -He went at once to his room for the store key that was beneath his -pillow. He entered the store, and refastened the window. When he had -made everything once more secure, he sat dejectedly down upon a bench -that was in the portico. He sat for a long time motionless. Then, -overcome by some powerful feeling that was at work within him, he buried -his face in his hands and wept, his whole body shaken by the violence of -his sobs. - -After that night ’Polyte loved Azélie desperately. The very action which -should have revolted him had seemed, on the contrary, to inflame him -with love. He felt that love to be a degradation—something that he was -almost ashamed to acknowledge to himself; and he knew that he was -hopelessly unable to stifle it. - -He watched now in a tremor for her coming. She came very often, for she -remembered every word he had said; and she did not hesitate to ask him -for those luxuries which she considered necessities to her “popa’s” -existence. She never attempted to enter the store, but always waited -outside, of her own accord, laughing, and playing with the dogs. She -seemed to have no shame or regret for what she had done, and plainly did -not realize that it was a disgraceful act. ’Polyte often shuddered with -disgust to discern in her a being so wholly devoid of moral sense. - -He had always been an industrious, bustling fellow, never idle. Now -there were hours and hours in which he did nothing but long for the -sight of Azélie. Even when at work there was that gnawing want at his -heart to see her, often so urgent that he would leave everything to -wander down by her cabin with the hope of seeing her. It was even -something if he could catch a glimpse of Sauterelle playing in the -weeds, or of Arsène lazily dragging himself about, and smoking the pipe -which rarely left his lips now that he was kept so well supplied with -tobacco. - -Once, down the bank of the bayou, when ’Polyte came upon Azélie -unexpectedly, and was therefore unprepared to resist the shock of her -sudden appearance, he seized her in his arms, and covered her face with -kisses. She was not indignant; she was not flustered or agitated, as -might have been a susceptible, coquettish girl; she was only astonished, -and annoyed. - -“W’at you doin’, Mr. ’Polyte?” she cried, struggling. “Leave me ’lone, I -say! Leave me go!” - -“I love you, I love you, I love you!” he stammered helplessly over and -over in her face. - -“You mus’ los’ yo’ head,” she told him, red from the effort of the -struggle, when he released her. - -“You right, Azélie; I b’lieve I los’ my head,” and he climbed up the -bank of the bayou as fast as he could. - -After that his behavior was shameful, and he knew it, and he did not -care. He invented pretexts that would enable him to touch her hand with -his. He wanted to kiss her again, and told her she might come into the -store as she used to do. There was no need for her to unhook a window -now; he gave her whatever she asked for, charging it always to his own -account on the books. She permitted his caresses without returning them, -and yet that was all he seemed to live for now. He gave her a little -gold ring. - -He was looking eagerly forward to the close of the season, when Arsène -would go back to Little River. He had arranged to ask Azélie to marry -him. He would keep her with him when the others went away. He longed to -rescue her from what he felt to be the demoralizing influences of her -family and her surroundings. ’Polyte believed he would be able to awaken -Azélie to finer, better impulses when he should have her apart to -himself. - -But when the time came to propose it, Azélie looked at him in amazement. -“Ah, b’en, no. I ain’t goin’ to stay yere wid you, Mr. ’Polyte; I’m -goin’ yonda on Li’le river wid my popa.” - -This resolve frightened him, but he pretended not to believe it. - -“You jokin’, Azélie; you mus’ care a li’le about me. It looked to me all -along like you cared some about me.” - -“An’ my popa, donc? Ah, b’en, no.” - -“You don’ rememba how lonesome it is on Li’le river, Azélie,” he -pleaded. “W’enever I think ’bout Li’le river it always make me sad—like -I think about a graveyard. To me it’s like a person mus’ die, one way or -otha, w’en they go on Li’le river. Oh, I hate it! Stay with me, Azélie; -don’ go ’way f’om me.” - -She said little, one way or the other, after that, when she had fully -understood his wishes, and her reserve led him to believe, since he -hoped it, that he had prevailed with her and that she had determined to -stay with him and be his wife. - -It was a cool, crisp morning in December that they went away. In a -ramshackle wagon, drawn by an ill-mated team, Arsène Pauché and his -family left Mr. Mathurin’s plantation for their old familiar haunts on -Little river. The grandmother, looking like a witch, with a black shawl -tied over her head, sat upon a roll of bedding in the bottom of the -wagon. Sauterelle’s bead-like eyes glittered with mischief as he peeped -over the side. Azélie, with the pink sunbonnet completely hiding her -round young face, sat beside her father, who drove. - -’Polyte caught one glimpse of the group as they passed in the road. -Turning, he hurried into his room, and locked himself in. - -It soon became evident that ’Polyte’s services were going to count for -little. He himself was the first to realize this. One day he approached -the planter, and said: “Mr. Mathurin, befo’ we start anotha year -togetha, I betta tell you I’m goin’ to quit.” ’Polyte stood upon the -steps, and leaned back against the railing. The planter was a little -above on the gallery. - -“W’at in the name o’ sense are you talking about, ’Polyte!” he exclaimed -in astonishment. - -“It’s jus’ that; I’m boun’ to quit.” - -“You had a better offer?” - -“No; I ain’t had no offa.” - -“Then explain yo’se’f, my frien’—explain yo’se’f,” requested Mr. -Mathurin, with something of offended dignity. “If you leave me, w’ere -are you going?” - -’Polyte was beating his leg with his limp felt hat. “I reckon I jus’ as -well go yonda on Li’le river—w’ere Azélie,” he said. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Mamouche - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Mamouche - -[Illustration] - - -Mamouche stood within the open doorway, which he had just entered. It -was night; the rain was falling in torrents, and the water trickled from -him as it would have done from an umbrella, if he had carried one. - -Old Doctor John-Luis, who was toasting his feet before a blazing -hickory-wood fire, turned to gaze at the youngster through his -spectacles. Marshall, the old negro who had opened the door at the boy’s -knock, also looked down at him, and indignantly said: - -“G’long back on de gall’ry an’ drip yo’se’f! W’at Cynthy gwine say -tomorrow w’en she see dat flo’ mess’ up dat away?” - -“Come to the fire and sit down,” said Doctor John-Luis. - -Doctor John-Luis was a bachelor. He was small and thin; he wore -snuff-colored clothes that were a little too large for him, and -spectacles. Time had not deprived him of an abundant crop of hair that -had once been red, and was not now more than half-bleached. - -The boy looked irresolutely from master to man; then went and sat down -beside the fire on a splint-bottom chair. He sat so close to the blaze -that had he been an apple he would have roasted. As he was but a small -boy, clothed in wet rags, he only steamed. - -Marshall grumbled audibly, and Doctor John-Luis continued to inspect the -boy through his glasses. - -“Marsh, bring him something to eat,” he commanded, tentatively. - -Marshall hesitated, and challenged the child with a speculating look. - -“Is you w’ite o’ is you black?” he asked. “Dat w’at I wants ter know -’fo’ I kiar’ victuals to yo in de settin’-room.” - -“I’m w’ite, me,” the boy responded, promptly. - -“I ain’t disputin’; go ahead. All right fer dem w’at wants ter take yo’ -wud fer it.” Doctor John-Luis coughed behind his hand and said nothing. - -Marshall brought a platter of cold food to the boy, who rested the dish -upon his knees and ate from it with keen appetite. - -“Where do you come from?” asked Doctor John-Luis, when his caller -stopped for breath. Mamouche turned a pair of big, soft, dark eyes upon -his questioner. - -“I come frum Cloutierville this mo’nin’. I been try to git to the -twenty-fo’-mile ferry w’en de rain ketch me.” - -“What were you going to do at the twenty-four-mile ferry?” - -The boy gazed absently into the fire. “I don’ know w’at I was goin’ to -do yonda to the twenty-fo’-mile ferry,” he said. - -“Then you must be a tramp, to be wandering aimlessly about the country -in that way!” exclaimed the doctor. - -“No; I don’ b’lieve I’m a tramp, me.” Mamouche was wriggling his toes -with enjoyment of the warmth and palatable food. - -“Well, what’s your name?” continued Doctor John-Luis. - -“My name it’s Mamouche.” - -“‘Mamouche.’ Fiddlesticks! That’s no name.” - -The boy looked as if he regretted the fact, while not being able to help -it. - -“But my pa, his name it was Mathurin Peloté,” he offered in some -palliation. - -“Peloté! Peloté!” mused Doctor John-Luis. “Any kin to Théodule Peloté -who lived formerly in Avoyelles parish?” - -“W’y, yas!” laughed Mamouche. “Théodule Peloté, it was my gran’pa.” - -“Your grandfather? Well, upon my word!” He looked again, critically, at -the youngster’s rags. “Then Stéphanie Galopin must have been your -grandmother!” - -“Yas,” responded Mamouche, complacently; “that who was my gran’ma. She -die two year ago down by Alexandria.” - -“Marsh,” called Doctor John-Luis, turning in his chair, “bring him a mug -of milk and another piece of pie!” - -When Mamouche had eaten all the good things that were set before him, he -found that one side of him was quite dry, and he transferred himself -over to the other corner of the fire so as to turn to the blaze the side -which was still wet. - -The action seemed to amuse Doctor John-Luis, whose old head began to -fill with recollections. - -“That reminds me of Théodule,” he laughed. “Ah, he was a great fellow, -your father, Théodule!” - -“My gran’pa,” corrected Mamouche. - -“Yes, yes, your grandfather. He was handsome; I tell you, he was -good-looking. And the way he could dance and play the fiddle and sing! -Let me see, how did that song go that he used to sing when we went out -serenading: ‘A ta—à ta—’ - - ‘A ta fenêtre - Daignes paraître—tra la la la!’” - -Doctor John-Luis’s voice, even in his youth, could not have been -agreeable; and now it bore no resemblance to any sound that Mamouche had -ever heard issue from a human throat. The boy kicked his heels and -rolled sideward on his chair with enjoyment. Doctor John-Luis laughed -even more heartily, finished the stanza, and sang another one through. - -“That’s what turned the girls’ heads, I tell you, my boy,” said he, when -he had recovered his breath; “that fiddling and dancing and tra la la.” - -During the next hour the old man lived again through his youth; through -any number of alluring experiences with his friend Théodule, that merry -fellow who had never done a steady week’s work in his life; and -Stéphanie, the pretty Acadian girl, whom he had never wholly understood, -even to this day. - -It was quite late when Doctor John-Luis climbed the stairs that led from -the sitting-room up to his bedchamber. As he went, followed by the ever -attentive Marshall, he was singing: - - “A ta fenêtre - Daignes paraître,” - -but very low, so as not to awaken Mamouche, whom he left sleeping upon a -bed that Marshall at his order had prepared for the boy beside the -sitting-room fire. - -At a very early hour next morning Marshall appeared at his master’s -bedside with the accustomed morning coffee. - -“What is he doing?” asked Doctor John-Luis, as he sugared and stirred -the tiny cup of black coffee. - -“Who dat, sah?” - -“Why, the boy, Mamouche. What is he doing?” - -“He gone, sah. He done gone.” - -“Gone!” - -“Yas, sah. He roll his bed up in de corner; he onlock de do’; he gone. -But de silver an’ ev’thing dah; he ain’t kiar’ nuttin’ off.” - -“Marshall,” snapped Doctor John-Luis, ill-humoredly, “there are times -when you don’t seem to have sense and penetration enough to talk about! -I think I’ll take another nap,” he grumbled, as he turned his back upon -Marshall. “Wake me at seven.” - -It was no ordinary thing for Doctor John-Luis to be in a bad humor, and -perhaps it is not strictly true to say that he was now. He was only in a -little less amiable mood than usual when he pulled on his high rubber -boots and went splashing out in the wet to see what his people were -doing. - -He might have owned a large plantation had he wished to own one, for a -long life of persistent, intelligent work had left him with a -comfortable fortune in his old age; but he preferred the farm on which -he lived contentedly and raised an abundance to meet his modest wants. - -He went down to the orchard, where a couple of men were busying -themselves in setting out a line of young fruit-trees. - -“Tut, tut, tut!” They were doing it all wrong; the line was not -straight; the holes were not deep. It was strange that he had to come -down there and discover such things with his old eyes! - -He poked his head into the kitchen to complain to Prudence about the -ducks that she had not seasoned properly the day before, and to hope -that the accident would never occur again. - -He tramped over to where a carpenter was working on a gate; securing -it—as he meant to secure all the gates upon his place—with great patent -clamps and ingenious hinges, intended to baffle utterly the designs of -the evil-disposed persons who had lately been tampering with them. For -there had been a malicious spirit abroad, who played tricks, it seemed, -for pure wantonness upon the farmers and planters, and caused them -infinite annoyance. - -As Dr. John-Luis contemplated the carpenter at work, and remembered how -his gates had recently all been lifted from their hinges one night and -left lying upon the ground, the provoking nature of the offense dawned -upon him as it had not done before. He turned swiftly, prompted by a -sudden determination, and re-entered the house. - -Then he proceeded to write out in immense black characters a half-dozen -placards. It was an offer of twenty-five dollars’ reward for the capture -of the person guilty of the malicious offence already described. These -placards were sent abroad with the same eager haste that had conceived -and executed them. - -After a day or two, Doctor John-Luis’ ill humor had resolved itself into -a pensive melancholy. - -“Marsh,” he said, “you know, after all, it’s rather dreary to be living -alone as I do, without any companion—of my own color, you understand.” - -“I knows dat, sah. It sho’ am lonesome,” replied the sympathetic -Marshall. - -“You see, Marsh, I’ve been thinking lately,” and Doctor John-Luis -coughed, for he disliked the inaccuracy of that “lately.” “I’ve been -thinking that this property and wealth that I’ve worked so hard to -accumulate, are after all doing no permanent, practical good to any one. -Now, if I could find some well-disposed boy whom I might train to work, -to study, to lead a decent, honest life—a boy of good heart who would -care for me in my old age; for I am still comparatively—hem—not old? -hey, Marsh?” - -“Dey ain’t one in de pa’ish hole yo’ own like you does, sah.” - -“That’s it. Now, can you think of such a boy? Try to think.” - -Marshall slowly scratched his head and looked reflective. - -“If you can think of such a boy,” said Doctor John-Luis, “you might -bring him here to spend an evening with me, you know, without hinting at -my intentions, of course. In that way I could sound him; study him up, -as it were. For a step of such importance is not to be taken without due -consideration, Marsh.” - -Well, the first whom Marshall brought was one of Baptiste Choupic’s -boys. He was a very timid child, and sat on the edge of his chair, -fearfully. He replied in jerky mono-*syllables when Doctor John-Luis -spoke to him, “Yas, sah—no, sah,” as the case might be; with a little -nervous bob of the head. - -His presence made the doctor quite uncomfortable. He was glad to be rid -of the boy at nine o’clock, when he sent him home with some oranges and -a few sweetmeats. - -Then Marshall had Theodore over; an unfortunate selection that evinced -little judgment on Marshall’s part. Not to mince matters, the boy was -painfully forward. He monopolized the conversation; asked impertinent -questions and handled and inspected everything in the room. Dr. -John-Luis sent him home with an orange and not a single sweet. - -Then there was Hyppolite, who was too ugly to be thought of; and Cami, -who was heavy and stupid, and fell asleep in his chair with his mouth -wide open. And so it went. If Doctor John-Luis had hoped in the company -of any of these boys to repeat the agreeable evening he had passed with -Mamouche, he was sadly deceived. - -At last he instructed Marshall to discontinue the search of that ideal -companion he had dreamed of. He was resigned to spend the remainder of -his days without one. - -Then, one day when it was raining again, and very muddy and chill, a -red-faced man came driving up to Doctor John-Luis’ door in a dilapidated -buggy. He lifted a boy from the vehicle, whom he held with a vise-like -clutch, and whom he straightway dragged into the astonished presence of -Doctor John-Luis. - -“Here he is, sir,” shouted the red-faced man. “We’ve got him at last! -Here he is.” - -It was Mamouche, covered with mud, the picture of misery. Doctor -John-Luis stood with his back to the fire. He was startled, and visibly -and painfully moved at the sight of the boy. - -“Is it possible!” he exclaimed. “Then it was you, Mamouche, who did this -mischievous thing to me? Lifting my gates from their hinges; letting the -chickens in among my flowers to ruin them; and the hogs and cattle to -trample and uproot my vegetables!” - -“Ha! ha!” laughed the red-faced man, “that game’s played out, now;” and -Doctor John-Luis looked as if he wanted to strike him. - -Mamouche seemed unable to reply. His lower lip was quivering. - -“Yas, it’s me!” he burst out. “It’s me w’at take yo’ gates off the -hinge. It’s me w’at turn loose Mr. Morgin’s hoss, w’en Mr. Morgin was -passing _veillée_ wid his sweetheart. It’s me w’at take down Ma’ame -Angèle’s fence, an’ lef her calf loose to tramp in Mr. Billy’s cotton. -It’s me w’at play like a ghos’ by the graveyard las’ Toussaint to scare -the darkies passin’ in the road. It’s me w’at—” - -The confession had burst out from the depth of Mamouche’s heart like a -torrent, and there is no telling when it would have stopped if Doctor -John-Luis had not enjoined silence. - -“And pray tell me,” he asked, as severely as he could, “why you left my -house like a criminal, in the morning, secretly?” - -The tears had begun to course down Mamouche’s brown cheeks. - -“I was ’shame’ of myse’f, that’s w’y. If you wouldn’ gave me no suppa, -an’ no bed, an’ no fire, I don’ say.’ I wouldn’ been ’shame’ then.” - -“Well, sir,” interrupted the red-faced man, “you’ve got a pretty square -case against him, I see. Not only for malicious trespass, but of theft. -See this bolt?” producing a piece of iron from his coat pocket. “That’s -what gave him away.” - -“I en’t no thief!” blurted Mamouche, indignantly. “It’s one piece o’ -iron w’at I pick up in the road.” - -“Sir,” said Doctor John-Luis with dignity, “I can understand how the -grandson of Théodule Peloté might be guilty of such mischievous pranks -as this boy has confessed to. But I know that the grandson of Stéphanie -Galopin could not be a thief.” - -And he at once wrote out the check for twenty-five dollars, and handed -it to the red-faced man with the tips of his fingers. - -It seemed very good to Doctor John-Luis to have the boy sitting again at -his fireside; and so natural, too. He seemed to be the incarnation of -unspoken hopes; the realization of vague and fitful memories of the -past. - -When Mamouche kept on crying, Doctor John-Luis wiped away the tears with -his own brown silk handkerchief. - -“Mamouche,” he said, “I want you to stay here; to live here with me -always. To learn how to work; to learn how to study; to grow up to be an -honorable man. An honorable man, Mamouche, for I want you for my own -child.” - -His voice was pretty low and husky when he said that. - -“I shall not take the key from the door to-*night,” he continued. “If -you do not choose to stay and be all this that I say, you may open the -door and walk out. I shall use no force to keep you.” - - -“What is he doing, Marsh?” asked Doctor John-Luis the following morning, -when he took the coffee that Marshall had brought to him in bed. - -“Who dat, sah?” - -“Why, the boy Mamouche, of course. What is he doing?” - -Marshall laughed. - -“He kneelin’ down dah on de flo’. He keep on sayin’, ‘Hail, Mary, full -o’ grace, de Lord is wid dee. Hail, Mary, full o’ grace’—t’ree, fo’ -times, sah. I tell ’im, ‘W’at you sayin’ yo’ prayer dat away, boy?’ He -’low dat w’at his gran’ma lam ’im, ter keep outen mischief. W’en de -devil say, ‘Take dat gate offen de hinge; do dis; do dat,’ he gwine say -t’ree Hail Mary, an’ de devil gwine tu’n tail an’ run.” - -“Yes, yes,” laughed Doctor John-Luis. “That’s Stéphanie all over.” - -“An’ I tell ’im: See heah, boy, you drap a couple o’ dem Hail Mary, an’ -quit studyin’ ’bout de devil, an’ sot yo’se’f down ter wuk. Dat the -oniest way to keep outen mischief.” - -“What business is it of yours to interfere?” broke in Doctor John-Luis, -irritably. “Let the boy do as his grandmother instructed him.” - -“I ain’t desputin’, sah,” apologized Marshall. - -“But you know, Marsh,” continued the doctor, recovering his usual -amiability. “I think we’ll be able to do something with the boy. I’m -pretty sure of it. For, you see, he has his grandmother’s eyes; and his -grandmother was a very intelligent woman; a clever woman, Marsh. Her one -great mistake was when she married Théodule Peloté.” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - A Sentimental Soul - - A Sentimental Soul - - I. - -Lacodie stayed longer than was his custom in Mamzelle Fleurette’s little -store that evening. He had been tempted by the vapid utterances of a -conservative bellhanger to loudly voice his radical opinions upon the -rights and wrongs of humanity when he finally laid his picayune down -upon Mamzelle Fleurette’s counter and helped himself to _l’Abeille_ from -the top of the diminished pile of newspapers which stood there. - -He was small, frail and hollow-chested, but his head was magnificent -with its generous adornment of waving black hair; its sunken eyes that -glowed darkly and steadily and sometimes flamed, and its moustaches -which were formidable. - -“Eh bien, Mamzelle Fleurette, à demain, à demain!” and he waved a -nervous good-bye as he let himself quickly and noiselessly out. - -However violent Lacodie might be in his manner toward conservatives, he -was always gentle, courteous and low-voiced with Mamzelle Fleurette, who -was much older than he, much taller; who held no opinions, and whom he -pitied, and even in a manner revered. Mamzelle Fleurette at once -dismissed the bell-hanger, with whom, on general principles, she had no -sympathy. - -She wanted to close the store, for she was going over to the cathedral -to confession. She stayed a moment in the doorway watching Lacodie walk -down the opposite side of the street. His step was something between a -spring and a jerk, which to her partial eyes seemed the perfection of -motion. She watched him until he entered his own small low doorway, over -which hung a huge wooden key painted red, the emblem of his trade. - -For many months now, Lacodie had been coming daily to Mamzelle -Fleurette’s little notion store to buy the morning paper, which he only -bought and read, however, in the afternoon. Once he had crossed over -with his box of keys and tools to open a cupboard, which would unlock -for no inducements of its owner. He would not suffer her to pay him for -the few moments’ work; it was nothing, he assured her; it was a -pleasure; he would not dream of accepting payment for so trifling a -service from a camarade and fellow-worker. But she need not fear that he -would lose by it, he told her with a laugh; he would only charge an -extra quarter to the rich lawyer around the corner, or to the top-lofty -druggist down the street when these might happen to need his services, -as they sometimes did. This was an alternative which seemed far from -right and honest to Mamzelle Fleurette. But she held a vague -understanding that men were wickeder in many ways than women; that -ungodliness was constitutional with them, like their sex, and -inseparable from it. - -Having watched Lacodie until he disappeared within his shop, she retired -to her room, back of the store, and began her preparations to go out. -She brushed carefully the black alpaca skirt, which hung in long nunlike -folds around her spare figure. She smoothed down the brown, ill-fitting -basque, and readjusted the old-fashioned, rusty black lace collar which -she always wore. Her sleek hair was painfully and suspiciously black. -She powdered her face abundantly with poudre de riz before starting out, -and pinned a dotted black lace veil over her straw bonnet. There was -little force or character or anything in her withered face, except a -pathetic desire and appeal to be permitted to exist. - -Mamzelle Fleurette did not walk down Chartres street with her usual -composed tread; she seemed preoccupied and agitated. When she passed the -locksmith’s shop over the way and heard his voice within, she grew -tremulously self-conscious, fingering her veil, swishing the black -alpaca and waving her prayer book about with meaningless intention. - -Mamzelle Fleurette was in great trouble; trouble which was so bitter, so -sweet, so bewildering, so terrifying! It had come so stealthily upon her -she had never suspected what it might be. She thought the world was -growing brighter and more beautiful; she thought the flowers had -redoubled their sweetness and the birds their song, and that the voices -of her fellow-creatures had grown kinder and their faces truer. - -The day before Lacodie had not come to her for his paper. At six o’clock -he was not there, at seven he was not there, nor at eight, and then she -knew he would not come. At first, when it was only a little past the -time of his coming, she had sat strangely disturbed and distressed in -the rear of the store, with her back to the door. When the door opened -she turned with fluttering expectancy. It was only an unhappy-looking -child, who wanted to buy some foolscap, a pencil and an eraser. The next -to come in was an old mulatresse, who was bringing her prayer beads for -Mamzelle Fleurette to mend. The next was a gentleman, to buy the Courier -des Etats Unis, and then a young girl, who wanted a holy picture for her -favorite nun at the Ursulines; it was everybody but Lacodie. - -A temptation assailed Mamzelle Fleurette, almost fierce in its -intensity, to carry the paper over to his shop herself, when he was not -there at seven. She conquered it from sheer moral inability to do -anything so daring, so unprecedented. But to-day, when he had come back -and had stayed so long discoursing with the bellhanger, a contentment, a -rapture, had settled upon her being which she could no longer ignore or -mistake. She loved Lacodie. That fact was plain to her now, as plain as -the conviction that every reason existed why she should not love him. He -was the husband of another woman. To love the husband of another woman -was one of the deepest sins which Mamzelle Fleurette knew; murder was -perhaps blacker, but she was not sure. She was going to confession now. -She was going to tell her sin to Almighty God and Father Fochelle, and -ask their forgiveness. She was going to pray and beg the saints and the -Holy Virgin to remove the sweet and subtle poison from her soul. It was -surely a poison, and a deadly one, which could make her feel that her -youth had come back and taken her by the hand. - - II. - -Mamzelle Fleurette had been confessing for many years to old Father -Fochelle. In his secret heart he often thought it a waste of his time -and her own that she should come with her little babblings, her little -nothings to him, calling them sins. He felt that a wave of the hand -might brush them away, and that it in a manner compromised the dignity -of holy absolution to pronounce the act over so innocent a soul. - -To-day she had whispered all her shortcomings into his ear through the -grating of the confessional; he knew them so well! There were many other -penitents waiting to be heard, and he was about to dismiss her with a -hasty blessing when she arrested him, and in hesitating, faltering -accents told him of her love for the locksmith, the husband of another -woman. A slap in the face would not have startled Father Fochelle more -forcibly or more painfully. What soul was there on earth, he wondered, -so hedged about with innocence as to be secure from the machinations of -Satan! Oh, the thunder of indignation that descended upon Mamzelle -Fleurette’s head! She bowed down, beaten to earth beneath it. Then came -questions, one, two, three, in quick succession, that made Mamzelle -Fleurette gasp and clutch blindly before her. Why was she not a shadow, -a vapor, that she might dissolve from before those angry, penetrating -eyes; or a small insect, to creep into some crevice and there hide -herself forevermore? - -“Oh, father! no, no, no!” she faltered, “he knows nothing, nothing. I -would die a hundred deaths before he should know, before anyone should -know, besides yourself and the good God of whom I implore pardon.” - -Father Fochelle breathed more freely, and mopped his face with a flaming -bandana, which he took from the ample pocket of his soutane. But he -scolded Mamzelle Fleurette roundly, unpityingly; for being a fool, for -being a sentimentalist. She had not committed mortal sin, but the -occasion was ripe for it; and look to it she must that she keep Satan at -bay with watchfulness and prayer. “Go, my child, and sin no more.” - -Mamzelle Fleurette made a détour in regaining her home by which she -would not have to pass the locksmith’s shop. She did not even look in -that direction when she let herself in at the glass door of her store. - -Some time before, when she was yet ignorant of the motive which prompted -the act, she had cut from a newspaper a likeness of Lacodie, who had -served as foreman of the jury during a prominent murder trial. The -likeness happened to be good, and quite did justice to the locksmith’s -fine physiognomy with its leonine hirsute adornment. This picture -Mamzelle Fleurette had kept hitherto between the pages of her prayer -book. Here, twice a day, it looked out at her; as she turned the leaves -of the holy mass in the morning, and when she read her evening devotions -before her own little home altar, over which hung a crucifix and a -picture of the Empress Eugénie. - -Her first action upon entering her room, even before she unpinned the -dotted veil, was to take Lacodie’s picture from her prayer book and -place it at random between the leaves of a “Dictionnaire de la Langue -Francaise,” which was the undermost of a pile of old books that stood on -the corner of the mantelpiece. Between night and morning, when she would -approach the holy sacrament, Mamzelle Fleurette felt it to be her duty -to thrust Lacodie from her thoughts by every means and device known to -her. - -The following day was Sunday, when there was no occasion or opportunity -for her to see the locksmith. Moreover, after partaking of holy -communion, Mamzelle Fleurette felt invigorated; she was conscious of a -new, if fictitious, strength to combat Satan and his wiles. - -On Monday, as the hour approached for Lacodie to appear, Mamzelle -Fleurette became harassed by indecision. Should she call in the young -girl, the neighbor who relieved her on occasion, and deliver the store -into the girl’s hands for an hour or so? This might be well enough for -once in a while, but she could not conveniently resort to this -subterfuge daily. After all, she had her living to make, which -consideration was paramount. She finally decided that she would retire -to her little back room and when she heard the store door open she would -call out: - -“Is it you, Monsieur Lacodie? I am very busy; please take your paper and -leave your cinq sous on the counter.” If it happened not to be Lacodie -she would come forward and serve the customer in person. She did not, of -course, expect to carry out this performance each day; a fresh device -would no doubt suggest itself for tomorrow. Mamzelle Fleurette proceeded -to carry out her programme to the letter. - -“Is it you, Monsieur Lacodie?” she called out from the little back room, -when the front door opened. “I am very busy; please take your paper—” - -“Ce n’est pas Lacodie, Mamzelle Fleurette. C’est moi, Augustine.” - -It was Lacodie’s wife, a fat, comely young woman, wearing a blue veil -thrown carelessly over her kinky black hair, and carrying some grocery -parcels clasped close in her arms. Mamzelle Fleurette emerged from the -back room, a prey to the most contradictory emotions; relief and -disappointment struggling for the mastery with her. - -“No Lacodie to-day, Mamzelle Fleurette,” Augustine announced with a -certain robust ill-humor; “he is there at home shaking with a chill till -the very window panes rattle. He had one last Friday” (the day he had -not come for his paper) “and now another and a worse one to-day. God -knows, if it keeps on-well, let me have the paper; he will want to read -it to-night when his chill is past.” - -Mamzelle Fleurette handed the paper to Augustine, feeling like an old -woman in a dream handing a newspaper to a young woman in a dream. She -had never thought of Lacodie having chills or being ill. It seemed very -strange. And Augustine was no sooner gone than all the ague remedies she -had ever heard of came crowding to Mamzelle Fleurette’s mind; an egg in -black coffee—or was it a lemon in black coffee? or an egg in vinegar? -She rushed to the door to call Augustine back, but the young woman was -already far down the street. - - III. - -Augustine did not come the next day, nor the next, for the paper. The -unhappy looking child who had returned for more foolscap, informed -Mamzelle Fleurette that he had heard his mother say that Monsieur -Lacodie was very sick, and the bellhanger had sat up all night with him. -The following day Mamzelle Fleurette saw Choppin’s coupé pass clattering -over the cobblestones and stop before the locksmith’s door. She knew -that with her class it was only in a case of extremity that the famous -and expensive physician was summoned. For the first time she thought of -death. She prayed all day, silently, to herself, even while waiting upon -customers. - -In the evening she took an _Abeille_ from the top of the pile on the -counter, and throwing a light shawl over her head, started with the -paper over to the locksmith’s shop. She did not know if she were -committing a sin in so doing. She would ask Father Fochelle on Saturday, -when she went to confession. She did not think it could be a sin; she -would have called long before on any other sick neighbor, and she -intuitively felt that in this distinction might lie the possibility of -sin. - -The shop was deserted except for the presence of Lacodie’s little boy of -five, who sat upon the floor playing with the tools and contrivances -which all his days he had coveted, and which all his days had been -denied to him. Mamzelle Fleurette mounted the narrow stairway in the -rear of the shop which led to an upper landing and then into the room of -the married couple. She stood a while hesitating upon this landing -before venturing to knock softly upon the partly open door through which -she could hear their voices. - -“I thought,” she remarked apologetically to Augustine, “that perhaps -Monsieur Lacodie might like to look at the paper and you had no time to -come for it, so I brought it myself.” - -“Come in, come in, Mamzelle Fleurette. It’s Mamzelle Fleurette who comes -to inquire about you, Lacodie,” Augustine called out loudly to her -husband, whose half consciousness she somehow confounded with deafness. - -Mamzelle Fleurette drew mincingly forward, clasping her thin hands -together at the waist line, and she peeped timorously at Lacodie lying -lost amid the bedclothes. His black mane was tossed wildly over the -pillow and lent a fictitious pallor to the yellow waxiness of his drawn -features. An approaching chill was sending incipient shudders through -his frame, and making his teeth claque. But he still turned his head -courteously in Mamzelle Fleurette’s direction. - -“Bien bon de votre part, Mamzelle Fleurette—mais c’est fini. J’suis -flambé, flambé, flambé!” - -Oh, the pain of it! to hear him in such extremity thanking her for her -visit, assuring her in the same breath that all was over with him. She -wondered how Augustine could hear it so composedly. She whisperingly -inquired if a priest had been summoned. - -“Inutile; il n’en veut pas,” was Augustine’s reply. So he would have no -priest at his bedside, and here was a new weight of bitterness for -Mamzelle Fleurette to carry all her days. - -She flitted back to her store through the darkness, herself like a slim -shadow. The November evening was chill and misty. A dull aureole shot -out from the feeble gas jet at the corner, only faintly and for an -instant illumining her figure as it glided rapidly and noiselessly along -the banquette. Mamzelle Fleurette slept little and prayed much that -night. Saturday morning Lacodie died. On Sunday he was buried and -Mamzelle Fleurette did not go to the funeral, because Father Fochelle -told her plainly she had no business there. - -It seemed inexpressibly hard to Mamzelle Fleurette that she was not -permitted to hold Lacodie in tender remembrance now that he was dead. -But Father Fochelle, with his practical insight, made no compromise with -sentimentality; and she did not question his authority, or his ability -to master the subtleties of a situation utterly beyond reach of her own -powers. - -It was no longer a pleasure for Mamzelle Fleurette to go to confession -as it had formerly been. Her heart went on loving Lacodie and her soul -went on struggling; for she made this delicate and puzzling distinction -between heart and soul, and pictured the two as set in a very death -struggle against each other. - -“I cannot help it, father. I try, but I cannot help it. To love him is -like breathing; I do not know how to help it. I pray, and pray, and it -does no good, for half of my prayers are for the repose of his soul. It -surely cannot be a sin, to pray for the repose of his soul?” - -Father Fochelle was heartily sick and tired of Mamzelle Fleurette and -her stupidities. Oftentimes he was tempted to drive her from the -confessional, and forbid her return until she should have regained a -rational state of mind. But he could not withhold absolution from a -penitent who, week after week, acknowledged her shortcoming and strove -with all her faculties to overcome it and atone for it. - - IV. - -Augustine had sold out the locksmith’s shop and the business, and had -removed further down the street over a bakery. Out of her window she had -hung a sign, “Blanchisseuse de Fin.” Often, in passing by, Mamzelle -Fleurette would catch a glimpse of Augustine up at the window, plying -the irons; her sleeves rolled to the elbows, baring her round, white -arms, and the little black curls all moist and tangled about her face. -It was early spring then, and there was a languor in the air; an odor of -jasmine in every passing breeze; the sky was blue, unfathomable, and -fleecy white; and people along the narrow street laughed, and sang, and -called to one another from windows and doorways. Augustine had set a pot -of rose-geranium on her window sill and hung out a bird cage. - -Once, Mamzelle Fleurette in passing on her way to confession heard her -singing roulades, vying with the bird in the cage. Another time she saw -the young woman leaning with half her body from the window, exchanging -pleasantries with the baker standing beneath on the banquette. - -Still, a little later, Mamzelle Fleurette began to notice a handsome -young fellow often passing the store. He was jaunty and debonnaire and -wore a rich watchchain, and looked prosperous. She knew him quite well -as a fine young Gascon, who kept a stall in the French Market, and from -whom she had often bought charcuterie. The neighbors told her the young -Gascon was paying his addresses to Mme. Lacodie. Mamzelle Fleurette -shuddered. She wondered if Lacodie knew! The whole situation seemed -suddenly to shift its base, causing Mamzelle Fleurette to stagger. What -ground would her poor heart and soul have to do battle upon now? - -She had not yet had time to adjust her conscience to the altered -conditions when one Saturday afternoon, as she was about to start out to -confession, she noticed an unusual movement down the street. The -bellhanger, who happened to be presenting himself in the character of a -customer, informed her that it was nothing more nor less than Mme. -Lacodie returning from her wedding with the Gascon. He was black and -bitter with indignation, and thought she might at least have waited for -the year to be out. But the charivari was already on foot; and Mamzelle -need not feel alarmed if, in the night, she heard sounds and clamor to -rouse the dead as far away as Metairie ridge. - -Mamzelle Fleurette sank down in a chair, trembling in all her members. -She faintly begged the bellhanger to pour her a glass of water from the -stone pitcher behind the counter. She fanned herself and loosened her -bonnet strings. She sent the bell hanger away. - -She nervously pulled off her rusty black kid gloves, and ten times more -nervously drew them on again. To a little customer, who came in for -chewing gum, she handed a paper of pins. - -There was a great, a terrible upheaval taking place in Mamzelle -Fleurette’s soul. She was preparing for the first time in her life to -take her conscience into her own keeping. - -When she felt herself sufficiently composed to appear decently upon the -street, she started out to confession. She did not go to Father -Fochelle. She did not even go to the Cathedral; but to a church which -was much farther away, and to reach which she had to spend a picayune -for car fare. - -Mamzelle Fleurette confessed herself to a priest who was utterly new and -strange to her. She told him all her little venial sins, which she had -much difficulty in bringing to a number of any dignity and importance -whatever. Not once did she mention her love for Lacodie, the dead -husband of another woman. - -Mamzelle Fleurette did not ride back to her home; she walked. The -sensation of walking on air was altogether delicious; she had never -experienced it before. A long time she stood contemplative before a shop -window in which were displayed wreaths, mottoes, emblems, designed for -the embellishment of tombstones. What a sweet comfort it would be, she -reflected, on the 1st of November to carry some such delicate offering -to Lacodie’s last resting place. Might not the sole care of his tomb -devolve upon her, after all! The possibility thrilled her and moved her -to the heart. What thought would the merry Augustine and her -lover-husband have for the dead lying in cemeteries! - -When Mamzelle Fleurette reached home she went through the store directly -into her little back room. The first thing which she did, even before -unpinning the dotted lace veil, was to take the “Dictionnaire de La -Langue Francaise” from beneath the pile of old books on the mantelpiece. -It was not easy to find Lacodie’s picture hidden somewhere in its -depths. But the search afforded her almost a sensuous pleasure; turning -the leaves slowly back and forth. - -When she had secured the likeness she went into the store and from her -showcase selected a picture frame—the very handsomest there; one of -those which sold for thirty-five cents. - -Into the frame Mamzelle Fleurette neatly and deftly pasted Lacodie’s -picture. Then she re-entered her room and deliberately hung it upon the -wall—between the crucifix and the portrait of Empress Eugènie—and she -did not care if the Gascon’s wife ever saw it or not. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Dead Men’s Shoes - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Dead Men’s Shoes - -[Illustration] - - -It never occurred to any person to wonder what would befall Gilma now -that “le vieux Gamiche” was dead. After the burial people went their -several ways, some to talk over the old man and his eccentricities, -others to forget him before nightfall, and others to wonder what would -become of his very nice property, the hundred-acre farm on which he had -lived for thirty years, and on which he had just died at the age of -seventy. - -If Gilma had been a child, more than one motherly heart would have gone -out to him. This one and that one would have bethought them of carrying -him home with them; to concern themselves with his present comfort, if -not his future welfare. But Gilma was not a child. He was a strapping -fellow of nineteen, measuring six feet in his stockings, and as strong -as any healthy youth need be. For ten years he had lived there on the -plantation with Monsieur Gamiche; and he seemed now to have been the -only one with tears to shed at the old man’s funeral. - -Gamiche’s relatives had come down from Caddo in a wagon the day after -his death, and had settled themselves in his house. There was Septime, -his nephew, a cripple, so horribly afflicted that it was distressing to -look at him. And there was Septime’s widowed sister, Ma’me Brozé, with -her two little girls. They had remained at the house during the burial, -and Gilma found them still there upon his return. - -The young man went at once to his room to seek a moment’s repose. He had -lost much sleep during Monsieur Gamiche’s illness; yet, he was in fact -more worn by the mental than the bodily strain of the past week. - -But when he entered his room, there was something so changed in its -aspect that it seemed no longer to belong to him. In place of his own -apparel which he had left hanging on the row of pegs, there were a few -shabby little garments and two battered straw hats, the property of the -Brozé children. The bureau drawers were empty, there was not a vestige -of anything belonging to him remaining in the room. His first impression -was that Ma’me Brozé had been changing things around and had assigned -him to some other room. - -But Gilma understood the situation better when he discovered every scrap -of his personal effects piled up on a bench outside the door, on the -back or “false” gallery. His boots and shoes were under the bench, while -coats, trousers and underwear were heaped in an indiscriminate mass -together. - -The blood mounted to his swarthy face and made him look for the moment -like an Indian. He had never thought of this. He did not know what he -had been thinking of; but he felt that he ought to have been prepared -for anything; and it was his own fault if he was not. But it hurt. This -spot was “home” to him against the rest of the world. Every tree, every -shrub was a friend; he knew every patch in the fences; and the little -old house, gray and weather-beaten, that had been the shelter of his -youth, he loved as only few can love inanimate things. A great enmity -arose in him against Ma’me Brozé. She was walking about the yard, with -her nose in the air, and a shabby black dress trailing behind her. She -held the little girls by the hand. - -Gilma could think of nothing better to do than to mount his horse and -ride away—anywhere. The horse was a spirited animal of great value. -Monsieur Gamiche had named him “Jupiter” on account of his proud -bearing, and Gilma had nicknamed him “Jupe,” which seemed to him more -endearing and expressive of his great attachment to the fine creature. -With the bitter resentment of youth, he felt that “Jupe” was the only -friend remaining to him on earth. - -He had thrust a few pieces of clothing in his saddlebags and had -requested Ma’me Brozé, with assumed indifference, to put his remaining -effects in a place of safety until he should be able to send for them. - -As he rode around by the front of the house, Septime, who sat on the -gallery all doubled up in his uncle Gamiche’s big chair, called out: - -“Hé, Gilma! w’ere you boun’ fo’?” - -“I’m goin’ away,” replied Gilma, curtly, reining his horse. - -“That’s all right; but I reckon you might jus’ as well leave that hoss -behine you.” - -“The hoss is mine,” returned Gilma, as quickly as he would have returned -a blow. - -“We’ll see ’bout that li’le later, my frien’. I reckon you jus’ well -turn ’im loose.” - -Gilma had no more intention of giving up his horse than he had of -parting with his own right hand. But Monsieur Gamiche had taught him -prudence and respect for the law. He did not wish to invite disagreeable -complications. So, controlling his temper by a supreme effort, Gilma -dismounted, unsaddled the horse then and there, and led it back to the -stable. But as he started to leave the place on foot, he stopped to say -to Septime: - -“You know, Mr. Septime, that hoss is mine; I can collec’ a hundred -aff’davits to prove it. I’ll bring them yere in a few days with a -statement f’om a lawyer; an’ I’ll expec’ the hoss an’ saddle to be -turned over to me in good condition.” - -“That’s all right. We’ll see ’bout that. Won’t you stay fo’ dinna?” - -“No, I thank you, sah; Ma’me Brozé already ask’ me.” And Gilma strode -away, down the beaten footpath that led across the sloping grassplot -toward the outer road. - -A definite destination and a settled purpose ahead of him seemed to have -revived his flagging energies of an hour before. It was with no trace of -fatigue that he stepped out bravely along the wagon-road that skirted -the bayou. - -It was early spring, and the cotton had already a good stand. In some -places the negroes were hoeing. Gilma stopped alongside the rail fence -and called to an old negress who was plying her hoe at no great -distance. - -“Hello, Aunt Hal’fax! see yere.” - -She turned, and immediately quitted her work to go and join him, -bringing her hoe with her across her shoulder. She was large-boned and -very black. She was dressed in the deshabille of the field. - -“I wish you’d come up to yo’ cabin with me a minute, Aunt Hally,” he -said; “I want to get an aff’davit f’om you.” - -She understood, after a fashion, what an affidavit was; but she couldn’t -see the good of it. - -“I ain’t got no aff’davis, boy; you g’long an’ don’ pesta me.” - -“’Twon’t take you any time, Aunt Hal’fax. I jus’ want you to put yo’ -mark to a statement I’m goin’ to write to the effec’ that my hoss, Jupe, -is my own prop’ty; that you know it, an’ willin’ to swear to it.” - -“Who say Jupe don’ b’long to you?” she questioned cautiously, leaning on -her hoe. - -He motioned toward the house. - -“Who? Mista Septime and them?” - -“Yes.” - -“Well, I reckon!” she exclaimed, sympathetically. - -“That’s it,” Gilma went on; “an’ nex’ thing they’ll be sayin’ yo’ ole -mule, Policy, don’t b’long to you.” - -She started violently. - -“Who say so?” - -“Nobody. But I say, nex’ thing, that’ w’at they’ll be sayin’.” - -She began to move along the inside of the fence, and he turned to keep -pace with her, walking on the grassy edge of the road. - -“I’ll jus’ write the aff’davit, Aunt Hally, an’ all you got to do”— - -“You know des well as me dat mule mine. I done paid ole Mista Gamiche -fo’ ’im in good cotton; dat year you falled outen de puckhorn tree; an’ -he write it down hisse’f in his ’count book.” - -Gilma did not linger a moment after obtaining the desired statement from -Aunt Halifax. With the first of those “hundred affidavits” that he hoped -to secure, safe in his pocket, he struck out across the country, seeking -the shortest way to town. - -Aunt Halifax stayed in the cabin door. - -“’Relius,” she shouted to a little black boy out in the road, “does you -see Pol’cy anywhar? G’long, see ef he ’roun’ de ben’. Wouldn’ s’prise me -ef he broke de fence an’ got in yo’ pa’s corn ag’in.” And, shading her -eyes to scan the surrounding country, she muttered, uneasily: “Whar dat -mule?” - -The following morning Gilma entered town and proceeded at once to Lawyer -Paxton’s office. He had had no difficulty in obtaining the testimony of -blacks and whites regarding his ownership of the horse; but he wanted to -make his claim as secure as possible by consulting the lawyer and -returning to the plantation armed with unassailable evidence. - -The lawyer’s office was a plain little room opening upon the street. -Nobody was there, but the door was open; and Gilma entered and took a -seat at the bare round table and waited. It was not long before the -lawyer came in; he had been in conversation with some one across the -street. - -“Good-morning, Mr. Pax’on,” said Gilma, rising. - -The lawyer knew his face well enough, but could not place him, and only -returned: “Good-morning, sir—good-morning.” - -“I come to see you,” began Gilma plunging at once into business, and -drawing his handful of nondescript affidavits from his pocket, “about a -matter of prope’ty, about regaining possession of my hoss that Mr. -Septime, ole Mr. Gamiche’s nephew, is holdin’ f’om me yonder.” - -The lawyer took the papers and, adjusting his eye-glasses, began to look -them through. - -“Yes, yes,” he said; “I see.” - -“Since Mr. Gamiche died on Tuesday”—began Gilma. - -“Gamiche died!” repeated Lawyer Paxton, with astonishment. “Why, you -don’t mean to tell me that vieux Gamiche is dead? Well, well. I hadn’t -heard of it; I just returned from Shreveport this morning. So le vieux -Gamiche is dead, is he? And you say you want to get possession of a -horse. What did you say your name was?” drawing a pencil from his -pocket. - -“Gilma Germain is my name, suh.” - -“Gilma Germain,” repeated the lawyer, a little meditatively, scanning -his visitor closely. “Yes, I recall your face now. You are the young -fellow whom le vieux Gamiche took to live with him some ten or twelve -years ago.” - -“Ten years ago las’ November, suh.” - -Lawyer Paxton arose and went to his safe, from which, after unlocking -it, he took a legal-looking document that he proceeded to read carefully -through to himself. - -“Well, Mr. Germain, I reckon there won’t be any trouble about regaining -possession of the horse,” laughed Lawyer Paxton. “I’m pleased to inform -you, my dear sir, that our old friend, Gamiche, has made you sole heir -to his property; that is, his plantation, including live stock, farming -implements, machinery, household effects, etc. Quite a pretty piece of -property,” he proclaimed leisurely, seating himself comfortably for a -long talk. “And I may add, a pretty piece of luck, Mr. Germain, for a -young fellow just starting out in life; nothing but to step into a dead -man’s shoes! A great chance—great chance. Do you know, sir, the moment -you mentioned your name, it came back to me like a flash, how le vieux -Gamiche came in here one day, about three years ago, and wanted to make -his will”— And the loquacious lawyer went on with his reminiscences and -interesting bits of information, of which Gilma heard scarcely a word. - -He was stunned, drunk, with the sudden joy of possession; the thought of -what seemed to him great wealth, all his own—his own! It seemed as if a -hundred different sensations were holding him at once, and as if a -thousand intentions crowded upon him. He felt like another being who -would have to readjust himself to the new conditions, presenting -themselves so unexpectedly. The narrow confines of the office were -stifling, and it seemed as if the lawyer’s flow of talk would never -stop. Gilma arose abruptly, and with a half-uttered apology, plunged -from the room into the outer air. - -Two days later Gilma stopped again before Aunt Halifax’s cabin, on his -way back to the plantation. He was walking as before, having declined to -avail himself of any one of the several offers of a mount that had been -tendered him in town and on the way. A rumor of Gilma’s great good -fortune had preceded him, and Aunt Halifax greeted him with an almost -triumphal shout as he approached. - -“God knows you desarve it, Mista Gilma! De Lord knows you does, suh! -Come in an’ res’ yo’se’f, suh. You, ’Relius! git out dis heah cabin; -crowdin’ up dat away!” She wiped off the best chair available and -offered it to Gilma. - -He was glad to rest himself and glad to accept Aunt Halifax’s proffer of -a cup of coffee, which she was in the act of dripping before a small -fire. He sat as far as he could from the fire, for the day was warm; he -mopped his face, and fanned himself with his broad-rimmed hat. - -“I des’ can’t he’p laughin’ w’en I thinks ’bout it,” said the old woman, -fairly shaking, as she leaned over the hearth. “I wakes up in de night, -even, an’ has to laugh.” - -“How’s that, Aunt Hal’fax,” asked Gilma, almost tempted to laugh himself -at he knew not what. - -“G’long, Mista Gilma! like you don’ know! It’s w’en I thinks ’bout -Septime an’ them like I gwine see ’em in dat wagon to-mor’ mo’nin’, on’ -dey way back to Caddo. Oh, lawsy!” - -“That isn’ so ver’ funny, Aunt Hal’fax,” returned Gilma, feeling himself -ill at ease as he accepted the cup of coffee which she presented to him -with much ceremony on a platter. “I feel pretty sorry for Septime, -myse’f.” - -“I reckon he know now who Jupe b’long to,” she went on, ignoring his -expression of sympathy; “no need to tell him who Pol’cy b’long to, -nuther. An’ I tell you, Mista Gilma,” she went on, leaning upon the -table without seating herself, “dey gwine back to hard times in Caddo. I -heah tell dey nuva gits ’nough to eat, yonda. Septime, he can’t do -nuttin’ ’cep’ set still all twis’ up like a sarpint. An’ Ma’me Brozé, -she do some kine sewin’; but don’t look like she got sense ’nough to do -dat halfway. An’ dem li’le gals, dey ’bleege to run bar’foot mos’ all -las’ winta’, twell dat li’les’ gal, she got her heel plum fros’ bit, so -dey tells me. Oh, lawsy! How dey gwine look to-mor’, all trapsin’ back -to Caddo!” - -Gilma had never found Aunt Halifax’s company so intensely disagreeable -as at that moment. He thanked her for the coffee, and went away so -suddenly as to startle her. But her good humor never flagged. She called -out to him from the doorway: - -“Oh, Mista Gilma! You reckon dey knows who Pol’cy b’longs to now?” - -He somehow did not feel quite prepared to face Septime; and he lingered -along the road. He even stopped a while to rest, apparently, under the -shade of a huge cottonwood tree that overhung the bayou. From the very -first, a subtle uneasiness, a self-dissatisfaction had mingled with his -elation, and he was trying to discover what it meant. - -To begin with, the straightforwardness of his own nature had inwardly -resented the sudden change in the bearing of most people toward himself. -He was trying to recall, too, something which the lawyer had said; a -little phrase, out of that multitude of words, that had fallen in his -consciousness. It had stayed there, generating a little festering sore -place that was beginning to make itself irritatingly felt. What was it, -that little phrase? Something about—in his excitement he had only half -heard it—something about dead men’s shoes. - -The exuberant health and strength of his big body; the courage, -virility, endurance of his whole nature revolted against the expression -in itself, and the meaning which it conveyed to him. Dead men’s shoes! -Were they not for such afflicted beings as Septime? as that helpless, -dependent woman up there? as those two little ones, with their poorly -fed, poorly clad bodies and sweet, appealing eyes? Yet he could not -determine how he would act and what he would say to them. - -But there was no room left in his heart for hesitancy when he came to -face the group. Septime was still crouched in his uncle’s chair; he -seemed never to have left it since the day of the funeral. Ma’me Brozé -had been crying, and so had the children—out of sympathy, perhaps. - -“Mr. Septime,” said Gilma, approaching, “I brought those aff’davits -about the hoss. I hope you about made up yo’ mind to turn it over -without further trouble.” - -Septime was trembling, bewildered, almost speechless. - -“Wat you mean?” he faltered, looking up with a shifting, sideward -glance. “The whole place b’longs to you. You tryin’ to make a fool out -o’ me?” - -“Fo’ me,” returned Gilma, “the place can stay with Mr. Gamiche’s own -flesh an’ blood. I’ll see Mr. Pax’on again an’ make that according to -the law. But I want my hoss.” - -Gilma took something besides his horse—a picture of le vieux Gamiche, -which had stood on his mantelpiece. He thrust it into his pocket. He -also took his old benefactor’s walking-stick and a gun. - -As he rode out of the gate, mounted upon his well-beloved “Jupe,” the -faithful dog following, Gilma felt as if he had awakened from an -intoxicating but depressing dream. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - At Chenière Caminada - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - At Chêniere Caminada - - - I. - -There was no clumsier looking fellow in church that Sunday morning than -Antoine Bocaze—the one they called Tonie. But Tonie did not really care -if he were clumsy or not. He felt that he could speak intelligibly to no -woman save his mother; but since he had no desire to inflame the hearts -of any of the island maidens, what difference did it make? - -He knew there was no better fisherman on the Chênière Caminada than -himself, if his face was too long and bronzed, his limbs too -unmanageable and his eyes too earnest—almost too honest. - -It was a midsummer day, with a lazy, scorching breeze blowing from the -Gulf straight into the church windows. The ribbons on the young girls’ -hats fluttered like the wings of birds, and the old women clutched the -flapping ends of the veils that covered their heads. - -A few mosquitoes, floating through the blistering air, with their -nipping and humming fretted the people to a certain degree of attention -and consequent devotion. The measured tones of the priest at the altar -rose and fell like a song: “Credo in unum Deum patrem omnipotentem” he -chanted. And then the people all looked at one another, suddenly -electrified. - -Some one was playing upon the organ whose notes no one on the whole -island was able to awaken; whose tones had not been heard during the -many months since a passing stranger had one day listlessly dragged his -fingers across its idle keys. A long, sweet strain of music floated down -from the loft and filled the church. - -It seemed to most of them—it seemed to Tonie standing there beside his -old mother—that some heavenly being must have descended upon the Church -of Our Lady of Lourdes and chosen this celestial way of communicating -with its people. - -But it was no creature from a different sphere; it was only a young lady -from Grand Isle. A rather pretty young person with blue eyes and -nut-brown hair, who wore a dotted lawn of fine texture and fashionable -make, and a white Leghorn sailor-hat. - -Tonie saw her standing outside of the church after mass, receiving the -priest’s voluble praises and thanks for her graceful service. - -She had come over to mass from Grand Isle in Baptiste Beaudelet’s -lugger, with a couple of young men, and two ladies who kept a pension -over there. Tonie knew these two ladies—the widow Lebrun and her old -mother—but he did not attempt to speak with them; he would not have -known what to say. He stood aside gazing at the group, as others were -doing, his serious eyes fixed earnestly upon the fair organist. - -Tonie was late at dinner that day. His mother must have waited an hour -for him, sitting patiently with her coarse hands folded in her lap, in -that little still room with its “brick-painted” floor, its gaping -chimney and homely furnishings. - -He told her that he had been walking—walking he hardly knew where, and -he did not know why. He must have tramped from one end of the island to -the other; but he brought her no bit of news or gossip. He did not know -if the Cotures had stopped for dinner with the Avendettes; whether old -Pierre François was worse, or better, or dead, or if lame Philibert was -drinking again this morning. He knew nothing; yet he had crossed the -village, and passed every one of its small houses that stood close -together in a long, jagged line facing the sea; they were gray and -battered by time and the rude buffets of the salt sea winds. - -He knew nothing, though the Cotures had all bade him “good day” as they -filed into Avendette’s, where a steaming plate of crab gumbo was waiting -for each. He had heard some woman screaming, and others saying it was -because old Pierre François had just passed away. But he did not -remember this, nor did he recall the fact that lame Philibert had -staggered against him when he stood absently watching a “fiddler” -sidling across the sun-baked sand. He could tell his mother nothing of -all this; but he said he had noticed that the wind was fair and must -have driven Baptiste’s boat, like a flying bird, across the water. - -Well, that was something to talk about, and old Ma’me Antoine, who was -fat, leaned comfortably upon the table after she had helped Tonie to his -courtbouillon, and remarked that she found Madame was getting old. Tonie -thought that perhaps she was aging and her hair was getting whiter. He -seemed glad to talk about her, and reminded his mother of old Madame’s -kindness and sympathy at the time his father and brothers had perished. -It was when he was a little fellow, ten years before, during a squall in -Barataria Bay. - -Ma’me Antoine declared that she could never forget that sympathy, if she -lived till Judgment Day; but all the same she was sorry to see that -Madame Lebrun was also not so young or fresh as she used to be. Her -chances of getting a husband were surely lessening every year; -especially with the young girls around her, budding each spring like -flowers to be plucked. The one who had played upon the organ was -Mademoiselle Duvigné, Claire Duvigné, a great belle, the daughter of the -Rampart street. Ma’me Antoine had found that out during the ten minutes -she and others had stopped after mass to gossip with the priest. - -“Claire Duvigné,” muttered Tonie, not even making a pretense to taste -his courtbouillon, but picking little bits from the half loaf of crusty -brown bread that lay beside his plate. “Claire Duvigné; that is a pretty -name. Don’t you think so, mother? I can’t think of anyone on the -Chênière who has so pretty a one, nor at Grand Isle, either, for that -matter. And you say she lives on Rampart street?” - -It appeared to him a matter of great importance that he should have his -mother repeat all that the priest had told her. - -II. - -Early the following morning Tonie went out in search of lame Philibert, -than whom there was no cleverer workman on the island when he could be -caught sober. - -Tonie had tried to work on his big lugger that lay bottom upward under -the shed, but it had seemed impossible. His mind, his hands, his tools -refused to do their office, and in sudden desperation he desisted. He -found Philibert and set him to work in his own place under the shed. -Then he got into his small boat with the red lateen-sail and went over -to Grand Isle. - -There was no one at hand to warn Tonie that he was acting the part of a -fool. He had, singularly, never felt those premonitory symptoms of love -which afflict the greater portion of mankind before they reach the age -which he had attained. He did not at first recognize this powerful -impulse that had, without warning, possessed itself of his entire being. -He obeyed it without a struggle, as naturally as he would have obeyed -the dictates of hunger and thirst. - -Tonie left his boat at the wharf and proceeded at once to Mme. Lebrun’s -pension, which consisted of a group of plain, stoutly built cottages -that stood in mid island, about half a mile from the sea. - -The day was bright and beautiful with soft, velvety gusts of wind -blowing from the water. From a cluster of orange trees a flock of doves -ascended, and Tonie stopped to listen to the beating of their wings and -follow their flight toward the water oaks whither he himself was moving. - -He walked with a dragging, uncertain step through the yellow, fragrant -chamomile, his thoughts traveling before him. In his mind was always the -vivid picture of the girl as it had stamped itself there yesterday, -connected in some mystical way with that celestial music which had -thrilled him and was vibrating yet in his soul. - -But she did not look the same to-day. She was returning from the beach -when Tonie first saw her, leaning upon the arm of one of the men who had -accompanied her yesterday. She was dressed differently—in a dainty blue -cotton gown. Her companion held a big white sunshade over them both. -They had exchanged hats and were laughing with great abandonment. - -Two young men walked behind them and were trying to engage her -attention. She glanced at Tonie, who was leaning against a tree when the -group passed by; but of course she did not know him. She was speaking -English, a language which he hardly understood. - -There were other young people gathered under the water oaks—girls who -were, many of them, more beautiful than Mlle. Duvigné; but for Tonie -they simply did not exist. His whole universe had suddenly become -converted into a glamorous background for the person of Mlle. Duvigné, -and the shadowy figures of men who were about her. - -Tonie went to Mme. Lebrun and told her he would bring her oranges next -day from the Chênière. She was well pleased, and commissioned him to -bring her other things from the stores there, which she could not -procure at Grand Isle. She did not question his presence, knowing that -these summer days were idle ones for the Chênière fishermen. Nor did she -seem surprised when he told her that his boat was at the wharf, and -would be there every day at her service. She knew his frugal habits, and -supposed he wished to hire it, as others did. He intuitively felt that -this could be the only way. - -And that is how it happened that Tonie spent so little of his time at -the Chênière Caminada that summer. Old Ma’me Antoine grumbled enough -about it. She herself had been twice in her life to Grand Isle and once -to Grand Terre, and each time had been more than glad to get back to the -Chênière. And why Tonie should want to spend his days, and even his -nights, away from home, was a thing she could not comprehend, especially -as he would have to be away the whole winter; and meantime there was -much work to be done at his own hearthside and in the company of his own -mother. She did not know that Tonie had much, much more to do at Grand -Isle than at the Chênière Caminada. - -He had to see how Claire Duvigné sat upon the gallery in the big rocking -chair that she kept in motion by the impetus of her slender, slippered -foot; turning her head this way and that way to speak to the men who -were always near her. He had to follow her lithe motions at tennis or -croquet, that she often played with the children under the trees. Some -days he wanted to see how she spread her bare, white arms, and walked -out to meet the foam-*crested waves. Even here there were men with her. -And then at night, standing alone like a still shadow under the stars, -did he not have to listen to her voice when she talked and laughed and -sang? Did he not have to follow her slim figure whirling through the -dance, in the arms of men who must have loved her and wanted her as he -did. He did not dream that they could help it more than he could help -it. But the days when she stepped into his boat, the one with the red -lateen sail, and sat for hours within a few feet of him, were days that -he would have given up for nothing else that he could think of. - -III. - -There were always others in her company at such times, young people with -jests and laughter on their lips. Only once she was alone. - -She had foolishly brought a book with her, thinking she would want to -read. But with the breath of the sea stinging her she could not read a -line. She looked precisely as she had looked the day he first saw her, -standing outside of the church at Chênière Caminada. - -She laid the book down in her lap, and let her soft eyes sweep dreamily -along the line of the horizon where the sky and water met. Then she -looked straight at Tonie, and for the first time spoke directly to him. - -She called him Tonie, as she had heard others do, and questioned him -about his boat and his work. He trembled, and answered her vaguely and -stupidly. She did not mind, but spoke to him anyhow, satisfied to talk -herself when she found that he could not or would not. She spoke French, -and talked about the Chênière Caminada, its people and its church. She -talked of the day she had played upon the organ there, and complained of -the instrument being woefully out of tune. - -Tonie was perfectly at home in the familiar task of guiding his boat -before the wind that bellied its taut, red sail. He did not seem clumsy -and awkward as when he sat in church. The girl noticed that he appeared -as strong as an ox. - -As she looked at him and surprised one of his shifting glances, a -glimmer of the truth began to dawn faintly upon her. She remembered how -she had encountered him daily in her path, with his earnest, devouring -eyes always seeking her out. She recalled—but there was no need to -recall anything. There are women whose perception of passion is very -keen; they are the women who most inspire it. - -A feeling of complacency took possession of her with this conviction. -There was some softness and sympathy mingled with it. She would have -liked to lean over and pat his big, brown hand, and tell him she felt -sorry and would have helped it if she could. With this belief he ceased -to be an object of complete indifference in her eyes. She had thought, -awhile before, of having him turn about and take her back home. But now -it was really piquant to pose for an hour longer before a man—even a -rough fisherman—to whom she felt herself to be an object of silent and -consuming devotion. She could think of nothing more interesting to do on -shore. - -She was incapable of conceiving the full force and extent of his -infatuation. She did not dream that under the rude, calm exterior before -her a man’s heart was beating clamorously, and his reason yielding to -the savage instinct of his blood. - -“I hear the Angelus ringing at Chênière, Tonie,” she said. “I didn’t -know it was so late; let us go back to the island.” There had been a -long silence which her musical voice interrupted. - -Tonie could now faintly hear the Angelus bell himself. A vision of the -church came with it, the odor of incense and the sound of the organ. The -girl before him was again that celestial being whom our Lady of Lourdes -had once offered to his immortal vision. - -It was growing dusk when they landed at the pier, and frogs had begun to -croak among the reeds in the pools. There were two of Mlle. Duvigné’s -usual attendants anxiously awaiting her return. But she chose to let -Tonie assist her out of the boat. The touch of her hand fired his blood -again. - -She said to him very low and half-laughing, “I have no money tonight, -Tonie; take this instead,” pressing into his palm a delicate silver -chain, which she had worn twined about her bare wrist. It was purely a -spirit of coquetry that prompted the action, and a touch of the -sentimentality which most women possess. She had read in some romance of -a young girl doing something like that. - -As she walked away between her two attendants she fancied Tonie pressing -the chain to his lips. But he was standing quite still, and held it -buried in his tightly-closed hand; wanting to hold as long as he might -the warmth of the body that still penetrated the bauble when she thrust -it into his hand. - -He watched her retreating figure like a blotch against the fading sky. -He was stirred by a terrible, an overmastering regret, that he had not -clasped her in his arms when they were out there alone, and sprung with -her into the sea. It was what he had vaguely meant to do when the sound -of the Angelus had weakened and palsied his resolution. Now she was -going from him, fading away into the mist with those figures on either -side of her, leaving him alone. He resolved, within himself that if ever -again she were out there on the sea at his mercy, she would have to -perish in his arms. He would go far, far out where the sound of no bell -could reach him. There was some comfort for him in the thought. - -But as it happened, Mlle. Duvigné never went out alone in the boat with -Tonie again. - -IV. - -It was one morning in January. Tonie had been collecting a bill from one -of the fishmongers at the French Market, in New Orleans, and had turned -his steps toward St. Philip street. The day was chilly; a keen wind was -blowing. Tonie mechanically buttoned his rough, warm coat and crossed -over into the sun. - -There was perhaps not a more wretched-hearted being in the whole -district, that morning, than he. For months the woman he so hopelessly -loved had been lost to his sight. But all the more she dwelt in his -thoughts, preying upon his mental and bodily forces until his unhappy -condition became apparent to all who knew him. Before leaving his home -for the winter fishing grounds he had opened his whole heart to his -mother, and told her of the trouble that was killing him. She hardly -expected that he would ever come back to her when he went away. She -feared that he would not, for he had spoken wildly of the rest and peace -that could only come to him with death. - -That morning when Tonie had crossed St. Philip street he found himself -accosted by Madame Lebrun and her mother. He had not noticed them -approaching, and, moreover, their figures in winter garb appeared -unfamiliar to him. He had never seen them elsewhere than at Grand Isle -and the Chênière during the summer. They were glad to meet him, and -shook his hand cordially. He stood as usual a little helplessly before -them. A pulse in his throat was beating and almost choking him, so -poignant were the recollections which their presence stirred up. - -They were staying in the city this winter, they told him. They wanted to -hear the opera as often as possible, and the island was really too -dreary with everyone gone. Madame Lebrun had left her son there to keep -order and superintend repairs, and so on. - -“You are both well?” stammered Tonie. - -“In perfect health, my dear Tonie,” Madame Lebrun replied. She was -wondering at his haggard eyes and thin, gaunt cheeks; but possessed too -much tact to mention them. - -“And—the young lady who used to go sailing—is she well?” he inquired -lamely. - -“You mean Mlle. Favette? She was married just after leaving Grand Isle.” - -“No; I mean the one you called Claire—Mamzelle Duvigné—is she well?” - -Mother and daughter exclaimed together: “Impossible! You haven’t heard? -Why, Tonie,” madame continued, “Mlle. Duvigné died three weeks ago. But -that was something sad, I tell you!... Her family heartbroken.... Simply -from a cold caught by standing in thin slippers, waiting for her -carriage after the opera.... What a warning!” - -The two were talking at once. Tonie kept looking from one to the other. -He did not know what they were saying, after madame had told him, “Elle -est morte.” - -As in a dream he finally heard that they said good-by to him, and sent -their love to his mother. - -He stood still in the middle of the banquette when they had left him, -watching them go toward the market. He could not stir. Something had -happened to him—he did not know what. He wondered if the news was -killing him. - -Some women passed by, laughing coarsely. He noticed how they laughed and -tossed their heads. A mockingbird was singing in a cage which hung from -a window above his head. He had not heard it before. - -Just beneath the window was the entrance to a barroom. Tonie turned and -plunged through its swinging doors. He asked the bartender for whisky. -The man thought he was already drunk, but pushed the bottle toward him -nevertheless. Tonie poured a great quantity of the fiery liquor into a -glass and swallowed it at a draught. The rest of the day he spent among -the fishermen and Barataria oystermen; and that night he slept soundly -and peacefully until morning. - -He did not know why it was so; he could not understand. But from that -day he felt that he began to live again, to be once more a part of the -moving world about him. He would ask himself over and over again why it -was so, and stay bewildered before this truth that he could not answer -or explain, and which he began to accept as a holy mystery. - -One day in early spring Tonie sat with his mother upon a piece of -drift-wood close to the sea. - -He had returned that day to the Chênière Caminada. At first she thought -he was like his former self again, for all his old strength and courage -had returned. But she found that there was a new brightness in his face -which had not been there before. It made her think of the Holy Ghost -descending and bringing some kind of light to a man. - -She knew that Mademoiselle Duvigné was dead, and all along had feared -that this knowledge would be the death of Tonie. When she saw him come -back to her like a new being, at once she dreaded that he did not know. -All day the doubt had been fretting her, and she could bear the -uncertainty no longer. - -“You know, Tonie—that young lady whom you cared for—well, some one read -it to me in the papers—she died last winter.” She had tried to speak as -cautiously as she could. - -“Yes, I know she is dead. I am glad.” - -It was the first time he had said this in words, and it made his heart -beat quicker. - -Ma’me Antoine shuddered and drew aside from him. To her it was somehow -like murder to say such a thing. - -“What do you mean? Why are you glad?” she demanded, indignantly. - -Tonie was sitting with his elbows on his knees. He wanted to answer his -mother, but it would take time; he would have to think. He looked out -across the water that glistened gem-like with the sun upon it, but there -was nothing there to open his thought. He looked down into his open palm -and began to pick at the callous flesh that was hard as a horse’s hoof. -Whilst he did this his ideas began to gather and take form. - -“You see, while she lived I could never hope for anything,” he began, -slowly feeling his way. “Despair was the only thing for me. There were -always men about her. She walked and sang and danced with them. I knew -it all the time, even when I didn’t see her. But I saw her often enough. -I knew that some day one of them would please her and she would give -herself to him—she would marry him. That thought haunted me like an evil -spirit.” - -Tonie passed his hand across his forehead as if to sweep away anything -of the horror that might have remained there. - -“It kept me awake at night,” he went on. “But that was not so bad; the -worst torture was to sleep, for then I would dream that it was all true. - -“Oh, I could see her married to one of them—his wife—coming year after -year to Grand Isle and bringing her little children with her! I can’t -tell you all that I saw—all that was driving me mad! But now”—and Tonie -clasped his hands together and smiled as he looked again across the -water—“she is where she belongs; there is no difference up there; the -curé has often told us there is no difference between men. It is with -the soul that we approach each other there. Then she will know who has -loved her best. That is why I am so contented. Who knows what may happen -up there?” - -Ma’me Antoine could not answer. She only took her son’s big, rough hand -and pressed it against her. - -“And now, ma mère,” he exclaimed, cheerfully, rising, “I shall go light -the fire for your bread; it is a long time since I have done anything -for you,” and he stooped and pressed a warm kiss on her withered old -cheek. - -With misty eyes she watched him walk away in the direction of the big -brick oven that stood open-mouthed under the lemon trees. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Odalie Misses Mass - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Odalie Misses Mass - -[Illustration] - - -Odalie sprang down from the mule-cart, shook out her white skirts, and -firmly grasping her parasol, which was blue to correspond with her sash, -entered Aunt Pinky’s gate and proceeded towards the old woman’s cabin. -She was a thick-waisted young thing who walked with a firm tread and -carried her head with a determined poise. Her straight brown hair had -been rolled up over night in papillotes, and the artificial curls stood -out in clusters, stiff and uncompromising beneath the rim of her white -chip hat. Her mother, sister and brother remained seated in the cart -before the gate. - -It was the fifteenth of August, the great feast of the Assumption, so -generally observed in the Catholic parishes of Louisiana. The Chotard -family were on their way to mass, and Odalie had insisted upon stopping -to “show herself” to her old friend and protegée, Aunt Pinky. - -The helpless, shrivelled old negress sat in the depths of a large, -rudely-fashioned chair. A loosely hanging unbleached cotton gown -enveloped her mite of a figure. What was visible of her hair beneath the -bandana turban, looked like white sheep’s wool. She wore round, -silver-rimmed spectacles, which gave her an air of wisdom and -respectability, and she held in her hand the branch of a hickory -sapling, with which she kept mosquitoes and flies at bay, and even -chickens and pigs that sometimes penetrated the heart of her domain. - -Odalie walked straight up to the old woman and kissed her on the cheek. - -“Well, Aunt Pinky, yere I am,” she announced with evident -self-complacency, turning herself slowly and stiffly around like a -mechanical dummy. In one hand she held her prayer-book, fan and -handkerchief, in the other the blue parasol, still open; and on her -plump hands were blue cotton mitts. Aunt Pinky beamed and chuckled; -Odalie hardly expected her to be able to do more. - -“Now you saw me,” the child continued. “I reckon you satisfied. I mus’ -go; I ain’t got a minute to was’e.” But at the threshold she turned to -inquire, bluntly: - -“W’ere’s Pug?” - -“Pug,” replied Aunt Pinky, in her tremulous old-woman’s voice. “She’s -gone to chu’ch; done gone; she done gone,” nodding her head in seeming -approval of Pug’s action. - -“To church!” echoed Odalie with a look of consternation settling in her -round eyes. - -“She gone to chu’ch,” reiterated Aunt Pinky. “Say she kain’t miss chu’ch -on de fifteent’; de debble gwine pester her twell jedgment, she miss -chu’ch on de fifteent’.” - -Odalie’s plump cheeks fairly quivered with indignation and she stamped -her foot. She looked up and down the long, dusty road that skirted the -river. Nothing was to be seen save the blue cart with its dejected -looking mule and patient occupants. She walked to the end of the gallery -and called out to a negro boy whose black bullet-head showed up in bold -relief against the white of the cotton patch: - -“He, Baptiste! w’ere’s yo’ ma? Ask yo’ ma if she can’t come set with -Aunt Pinky.” - -“Mammy, she gone to chu’ch,” screamed Baptiste in answer. - -“Bonté! w’at’s taken you all darkies with yo’ ‘church’ to-day? You come -along yere Baptiste an’ set with Aunt Pinky. That Pug! I’m goin’ to make -yo’ ma wear her out fo’ that trick of hers—leavin’ Aunt Pinky like -that.” - -But at the first intimation of what was wanted of him, Baptiste dipped -below the cotton like a fish beneath water, leaving no sight nor sound -of himself to answer Odalie’s repeated calls. Her mother and sister were -beginning to show signs of impatience. - -“But, I can’t go,” she cried out to them. “It’s nobody to stay with Aunt -Pinky. I can’t leave Aunt Pinky like that, to fall out of her chair, -maybe, like she already fell out once.” - -“You goin’ to miss mass on the fifteenth, you, Odalie! W’at you thinkin’ -about?” came in shrill rebuke from her sister. But her mother offering -no objection, the boy lost not a moment in starting the mule forward at -a brisk trot. She watched them disappear in a cloud of dust; and turning -with a dejected, almost tearful countenance, re-entered the room. - -Aunt Pinky seemed to accept her reappearance as a matter of course; and -even evinced no surprise at seeing her remove her hat and mitts, which -she laid carefully, almost religiously, on the bed, together with her -book, fan and handkerchief. - -Then Odalie went and seated herself some distance from the old woman in -her own small, low rocking-chair. She rocked herself furiously, making a -great clatter with the rockers over the wide, uneven boards of the cabin -floor; and she looked out through the open door. - -“Puggy, she done gone to chu’ch; done gone. Say de debble gwine pester -her twell jedgment—” - -“You done tole me that, Aunt Pinky; neva mine; don’t le’s talk about -it.” - -Aunt Pinky thus rebuked, settled back into silence and Odalie continued -to rock and stare out of the door. - -Once she arose, and taking the hickory branch from Aunt Pinky’s -nerveless hand, made a bold and sudden charge upon a little pig that -seemed bent upon keeping her company. She pursued him with flying heels -and loud cries as far as the road. She came back flushed and breathless -and her curls hanging rather limp around her face; she began again to -rock herself and gaze silently out of the door. - -“You gwine make yo’ fus’ c’mmunion?” - -This seemingly sober inquiry on the part of Aunt Pinky at once shattered -Odalie’s ill-humor and dispelled every shadow of it. She leaned back and -laughed with wild abandonment. - -“Mais w’at you thinkin’ about, Aunt Pinky? How you don’t remember I made -my firs’ communion las’ year, with this same dress w’at maman let out -the tuck,” holding up the altered skirt for Aunt Pinky’s inspection. -“An’ with this same petticoat w’at maman added this ruffle an’ crochet’ -edge; excep’ I had a w’ite sash.” - -These evidences proved beyond question convincing and seemed to satisfy -Aunt Pinky. Odalie rocked as furiously as ever, but she sang now, and -the swaying chair had worked its way nearer to the old woman. - -“You gwine git mar’ied?” - -“I declare, Aunt Pinky,” said Odalie, when she had ceased laughing and -was wiping her eyes, “I declare, sometime’ I think you gittin’ plumb -foolish. How you expec’ me to git married w’en I’m on’y thirteen?” - -Evidently Aunt Pinky did not know why or how she expected anything so -preposterous; Odalie’s holiday attire that filled her with contemplative -rapture, had doubtless incited her to these vagaries. - -The child now drew her chair quite close to the old woman’s knee after -she had gone out to the rear of the cabin to get herself some water and -had brought a drink to Aunt Pinky in the gourd dipper. - -There was a strong, hot breeze blowing from the river, and it swept -fitfully and in gusts through the cabin, bringing with it the weedy -smell of cacti that grew thick on the bank, and occasionally a shower of -reddish dust from the road. Odalie for a while was greatly occupied in -keeping in place her filmy skirt, which every gust of wind swelled -balloon-like about her knees. Aunt Pinky’s little black, scrawny hand -had found its way among the droopy curls, and strayed often caressingly -to the child’s plump neck and shoulders. - -“You riclics, honey, dat day yo’ granpappy say it wur pinchin’ times an’ -he reckin he bleege to sell Yallah Tom an’ Susan an’ Pinky? Don’ know -how come he think ’bout Pinky, ’less caze he sees me playin’ an’ -trapsin’ roun’ wid you alls, day in an’ out. I riclics yit how you tu’n -w’ite like milk an’ fling yo’ arms roun’ li’le black Pinky; an’ you -cries out you don’ wan’ no saddle-mar’; you don’ wan’ no silk dresses -and fing’ rings an’ sich; an’ don’ wan’ no idication; des wants Pinky. -An’ you cries an’ screams an’ kicks, an’ ’low you gwine kill fus’ pusson -w’at dar come an’ buy Pinky an’ kiars her off. You riclics dat, honey?” - -Odalie had grown accustomed to these flights of fancy on the part of her -old friend; she liked to humor her as she chose to sometimes humor very -small children; so she was quite used to impersonating one dearly -beloved but impetuous, “Paulette,” who seemed to have held her place in -old Pinky’s heart and imagination through all the years of her suffering -life. - -“I rec’lec’ like it was yesterday, Aunt Pinky. How I scream an’ kick an’ -maman gave me some med’cine; an’ how you scream an’ kick an’ Susan took -you down to the quarters an’ give you ‘twenty.’” - -“Das so, honey; des like you says,” chuckled Aunt Pinky. “But you don’ -riclic dat time you cotch Pinky cryin’ down in de holler behine de gin; -an’ you say you gwine give me ‘twenty’ ef I don’ tell you w’at I cryin’ -’bout?” - -“I rec’lec’ like it happen’d to-day, Aunt Pinky. You been cryin’ because -you want to marry Hiram, ole Mr. Benitou’s servant.” - -“Das true like you says, Miss Paulette; an’ you goes home an’ cries and -kiars on an’ won’ eat, an’ breaks dishes, an’ pesters yo’ gran’pap ’tell -he bleedge to buy Hi’um f’om de Benitous.” - -“Don’t talk, Aunt Pink! I can see all that jus’ as plain!” responded -Odalie sympathetically, yet in truth she took but a languid interest in -these reminiscences which she had listened to so often before. - -She leaned her flushed cheek against Aunt Pinky’s knee. - -The air was rippling now, and hot and caressing. There was the hum of -bumble bees outside; and busy mud-daubers kept flying in and out through -the door. Some chickens had penetrated to the very threshold in their -aimless roamings, and the little pig was approaching more cautiously. -Sleep was fast overtaking the child, but she could still hear through -her drowsiness the familiar tones of Aunt Pinky’s voice. - -“But Hi’um, he done gone; he nuva come back; an’ Yallah Tom nuva come -back; an’ ole Marster an’ de chillun—all gone—nuva come back. Nobody -nuva come back to Pinky ’cep you, my honey. You ain’ gwine ’way f’om -Pinky no mo’, is you, Miss Paulette?” - -“Don’ fret, Aunt Pinky—I’m goin’—to stay with—you.” - -“No pussun nuva come back ’cep’ you.” - -Odalie was fast asleep. Aunt Pinky was asleep with her head leaning back -on her chair and her fingers thrust into the mass of tangled brown hair -that swept across her lap. The chickens and little pig walked fearlessly -in and out. The sunlight crept close up to the cabin door and stole away -again. - -Odalie awoke with a start. Her mother was standing over her arousing her -from sleep. She sprang up and rubbed her eyes. “Oh, I been asleep!” she -exclaimed. The cart was standing in the road waiting. “An’ Aunt Pinky, -she’s asleep, too.” - -“Yes, chérie, Aunt Pinky is asleep,” replied her mother, leading Odalie -away. But she spoke low and trod softly as gentle-souled women do, in -the presence of the dead. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Cavanelle - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Cavanelle - -[Illustration] - - -I was always sure of hearing something pleasant from Cavanelle across -the counter. If he was not mistaking me for the freshest and prettiest -girl in New Orleans, he was reserving for me some bit of silk, or lace, -or ribbon of a nuance marvelously suited to my complexion, my eyes or my -hair! What an innocent, delightful humbug Cavanelle was! How well I knew -it and how little I cared! For when he had sold me the confection or bit -of dry-goods in question, he always began to talk to me of his sister -Mathilde, and then I knew that Cavanelle was an angel. - -I had known him long enough to know why he worked so faithfully, so -energetically and without rest—it was because Mathilde had a voice. It -was because of her voice that his coats were worn till they were out of -fashion and almost out at elbows. But for a sister whose voice needed -only a little training to rival that of the nightingale, one might do -such things without incurring reproach. - -“You will believe, madame, that I did not know you las’ night at the -opera? I remark’ to Mathilde, ‘tiens! Mademoiselle Montreville,’ an’ I -only rec’nize my mistake when I finally adjust my opera glass.... I -guarantee you will be satisfied, madame. In a year from now you will -come an’ thank me for having secu’ you that bargain in a -poult-desoie.... Yes, yes; as you say, Tolville was in voice. But,” with -a shrug of the narrow shoulders and a smile of commiseration that -wrinkled the lean olive cheeks beneath the thin beard, “but to hear that -cavatina render’ as I have heard it render’ by Mathilde, is another -affair! A quality, madame, that moves, that penetrates. Perhaps not yet -enough volume, but that will accomplish itself with time, when she will -become more robus’ in health. It is my intention to sen’ her for the -summer to Gran’ Isle; that good air an’ surf bathing will work miracles. -An artiste, voyez vous, it is not to be treated like a human being of -every day; it needs des petits soins; perfec’ res’ of body an’ mind; -good red wine an’ plenty ... oh yes, madame, the stage; that is our -intention; but never with my consent in light opera. Patience is what I -counsel to Mathilde. A little more stren’th; a little dev’lopment of the -chest to give that soupçon of compass which is lacking, an’ gran’ opera -is what I aspire for my sister.” - -I was curious to know Mathilde and to hear her sing; and thought it a -great pity that a voice so marvelous as she doubtless possessed should -not gain the notice that might prove the step toward the attainment of -her ambition. It was such curiosity and a half-formed design or desire -to interest myself in her career that prompted me to inform Cavanelle -that I should greatly like to meet his sister; and I asked permission to -call upon her the following Sunday afternoon. - -Cavanelle was charmed. He otherwise would not have been Cavanelle. Over -and over I was given the most minute directions for finding the house. -The green car—or was it the yellow or blue one? I can no longer -remember. But it was near Goodchildren street, and would I kindly walk -this way and turn that way? At the corner was an ice dealer’s. In the -middle of the block, their house—one-story; painted yellow; a knocker; a -banana tree nodding over the side fence. But indeed, I need not look for -the banana tree, the knocker, the number or anything, for if I but turn -the corner in the neighborhood of five o’clock I would find him planted -at the door awaiting me. - -And there he was! Cavanelle himself; but seeming to me not himself; -apart from the entourage with which I was accustomed to associate him. -Every line of his mobile face, every gesture emphasized the welcome -which his kind eyes expressed as he ushered me into the small parlor -that opened upon the street. - -“Oh, not that chair, madame! I entreat you. This one, by all means. -Thousan’ times more comfortable.” - -“Mathilde! Strange; my sister was here but an instant ago. Mathilde! Où -es tu donc?” Stupid Cavanelle! He did not know when I had already -guessed it—that Mathilde had retired to the adjoining room at my -approach, and would appear after a sufficient delay to give an -appropriate air of ceremony to our meeting. - -And what a frail little piece of mortality she was when she did appear! -At beholding her I could easily fancy that when she stepped outside of -the yellow house, the zephyrs would lift her from her feet and, given a -proper adjustment of the balloon sleeves, gently waft her in the -direction of Goodchildren street, or wherever else she might want to go. - -Hers was no physique for grand opera—certainly no stage presence; -apparently so slender a hold upon life that the least tension might snap -it. The voice which could hope to overcome these glaring disadvantages -would have to be phenomenal. - -Mathilde spoke English imperfectly, and with embarrassment, and was glad -to lapse into French. Her speech was languid, unaffectedly so; and her -manner was one of indolent repose; in this respect offering a striking -contrast to that of her brother. Cavanelle seemed unable to rest. Hardly -was I seated to his satisfaction than he darted from the room and soon -returned followed by a limping old black woman bringing in a sirop -d’orgeat and layer cake on a tray. - -Mathilde’s face showed feeble annoyance at her brother’s want of savoir -vivre in thus introducing the refreshments at so early a stage of my -visit. - -The servant was one of those cheap black women who abound in the French -quarter, who speak Creole patois in preference to English, and who would -rather work in a petit ménage in Goodchildren street for five dollars a -month than for fifteen in the fourth district. Her presence, in some -unaccountable manner, seemed to reveal to me much of the inner working -of this small household. I pictured her early morning visit to the -French market, where picayunes were doled out sparingly, and lagniappes -gathered in with avidity. - -I could see the neatly appointed dinner table; Cavanelle extolling his -soup and bouillie in extravagant terms; Mathilde toying with her -papabotte or chicken-wing, and pouring herself a demi-verre from her -very own half-bottle of St. Julien; Pouponne, as they called her, -mumbling and grumbling through habit, and serving them as faithfully as -a dog through instinct. I wondered if they knew that Pouponne “played -the lottery” with every spare “quarter” gathered from a judicious -management of lagniappe. Perhaps they would not have cared, or have -minded, either, that she as often consulted the Voudoo priestess around -the corner as her father confessor. - -My thoughts had followed Pouponne’s limping figure from the room, and it -was with an effort I returned to Cavanelle twirling the piano stool this -way and that way. Mathilde was languidly turning over musical scores, -and the two warmly discussing the merits of a selection which she had -evidently decided upon. - -The girl seated herself at the piano. Her hands were thin and anæmic, -and she touched the keys without firmness or delicacy. When she had -played a few introductory bars, she began to sing. Heaven only knows -what she sang; it made no difference then, nor can it make any now. - -The day was a warm one, but that did not prevent a creepy chilliness -seizing hold of me. The feeling was generated by disappointment, anger, -dismay and various other disagreeable sensations which I cannot find -names for. Had I been intentionally deceived and misled? Was this some -impertinent pleasantry on the part of Cavanelle? Or rather had not the -girl’s voice undergone some hideous transformation since her brother had -listened to it? I dreaded to look at him, fearing to see horror and -astonishment depicted on his face. When I did look, his expression was -earnestly attentive and beamed approval of the strains to which he -measured time by a slow, satisfied motion of the hand. - -The voice was thin to attenuation, I fear it was not even true. Perhaps -my disappointment exaggerated its simple deficiencies into monstrous -defects. But it was an unsympathetic voice that never could have been a -blessing to possess or to listen to. - -I cannot recall what I said at parting—doubtless conventional things -which were not true. Cavanelle politely escorted me to the car, and -there I left him with a hand-clasp which from my side was tender with -sympathy and pity. - -“Poor Cavanelle! poor Cavanelle!” The words kept beating time in my -brain to the jingle of the car bells and the regular ring of the mules’ -hoofs upon the cobble stones. One moment I resolved to have a talk with -him in which I would endeavor to open his eyes to the folly of thus -casting his hopes and the substance of his labor to the winds. The next -instant I had decided that chance would possibly attend to Cavanelle’s -affair less clumsily than I could. “But all the same,” I wondered, “is -Cavanelle a fool? is he a lunatic? is he under a hypnotic spell?” And -then—strange that I did not think of it before—I realized that Cavanelle -loved Mathilde intensely, and we all know that love is blind, but a god -just the same. - - -Two years passed before I saw Cavanelle again. I had been absent that -length of time from the city. In the meanwhile Mathilde had died. She -and her little voice—the apotheosis of insignificance—were no more. It -was perhaps a year after my visit to her that I read an account of her -death in a New Orleans paper. Then came a momentary pang of -commiseration for my good Cavanelle. Chance had surely acted here the -part of a skillful though merciless surgeon; no temporizing, no half -measures. A deep, sharp thrust of the scalpel; a moment of agonizing -pain; then rest, rest; convalescence; health; happiness! Yes, Mathilde -had been dead a year and I was prepared for great changes in Cavanelle. - -He had lived like a hampered child who does not recognize the -restrictions hedging it about, and lives a life of pathetic contentment -in the midst of them. But now all that was altered. He was, doubtless, -regaling himself with the half-bottles of St. Julien, which were never -before for him; with, perhaps, an occasional petit souper at Moreau’s, -and there was no telling what little pleasures beside. - -Cavanelle would certainly have bought himself a suit of clothes or two -of modern fit and finish. I would find him with a brightened eye, a -fuller cheek, as became a man of his years; perchance, even, a waxed -moustache! So did my imagination run rampant with me. - -And after all, the hand which I clasped across the counter was that of -the self-same Cavanelle I had left. It was no fuller, no firmer. There -were even some additional lines visible through the thin, brown beard. - -“Ah, my poor Cavanelle! you have suffered a grievous loss since we -parted.” I saw in his face that he remembered the circumstances of our -last meeting, so there was no use in avoiding the subject. I had rightly -conjectured that the wound had been a cruel one, but in a year such -wounds heal with a healthy soul. - -He could have talked for hours of Mathilde’s unhappy taking-off, and if -the subject had possessed for me the same touching fascination which it -held for him, doubtless, we would have done so, but— - -“And how is it now, mon ami? Are you living in the same place? running -your little ménage as before, my poor Cavanelle?” - -“Oh, yes, madame, except that my Aunt Félicie is making her home with me -now. You have heard me speak of my aunt—No? You never have heard me -speak of my Aunt Félicie Cavanelle of Terrebonne! That, madame, is a -noble woman who has suffer’ the mos’ cruel affliction, and deprivation, -since the war.—No, madame, not in good health, unfortunately, by any -means. It is why I esteem that a blessed privilege to give her declining -years those little comforts, ces petits soins, that is a woman’s right -to expec’ from men.” - -I knew what “des petits soins” meant with Cavanelle; doctors’ visits, -little jaunts across the lake, friandises of every description showered -upon “Aunt Félicie,” and he himself relegated to the soup and bouillie -which typified his prosaic existence. - -I was unreasonably exasperated with the man for awhile, and would not -even permit myself to notice the beauty in texture and design of the -mousseline de laine which he had spread across the counter in tempting -folds. I was forced to restrain a brutal desire to say something -stinging and cruel to him for his fatuity. - -However, before I had regained the street, the conviction that Cavanelle -was a hopeless fool seemed to reconcile me to the situation and also -afforded me some diversion. - -But even this estimate of my poor Cavanelle was destined not to last. By -the time I had seated myself in the Prytania street car and passed up my -nickel, I was convinced that Cavanelle was an angel. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Tante Cat’rinette - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Tante Cat’rinette - -[Illustration] - -It happened just as every one had predicted. Tante Cat’rinette was -beside herself with rage and indignation when she learned that the town -authorities had for some reason condemned her house and intended to -demolish it. - -“Dat house w’at Vieumaite gi’ me his own se’f, out his own mout’, w’en -he gi’ me my freedom! All wrote down en règle befo’ de cote! Bon dieu -Seigneur, w’at dey talkin’ ’bout!” - -Tante Cat’rinette stood in the doorway of her home, resting a gaunt -black hand against the jamb. In the other hand she held her corn-cob -pipe. She was a tall, large-boned woman of a pronounced Congo type. The -house in question had been substantial enough in its time. It contained -four rooms: the lower two of brick, the upper ones of adobe. A -dilapidated gallery projected from the upper story and slanted over the -narrow banquette, to the peril of passers-by. - -“I don’t think I ever heard why the property was given to you in the -first place, Tante Cat’rinette,” observed Lawyer Paxton, who had stopped -in passing, as so many others did, to talk the matter over with the old -negress. The affair was attracting some attention in town, and its -development was being watched with a good deal of interest. Tante -Cat’rinette asked nothing better than to satisfy the lawyer’s curiosity. - -“Vieumaite all time say. Cat’rinette wort’ gole to ’im; de way I make -dem nigga’ walk chalk. But,” she continued, with recovered seriousness, -“w’en I nuss ’is li’le gal w’at all de doctor’ ’low it ’s goin’ die, an’ -I make it well, me, den Vieumaite, he can’t do ’nough, him. He name’ dat -li’le gal Cat’rine fo’ me. Das Miss Kitty w’at marry Miché Raymond yon’ -by Gran’ Eco’. Den he gi’ me my freedom; he got plenty slave’, him; one -don’ count in his pocket. An’ he gi’ me dat house w’at I’m stan’in’ in -de do’; he got plenty house’ an’ lan’, him. Now dey want pay me t’ousan’ -dolla’, w’at I don’ axen’ fo’, an’ tu’n me out dat house! I waitin’ fo’ -’em, Miché Paxtone,” and a wicked gleam shot into the woman’s small, -dusky eyes. “I got my axe grine fine. Fus’ man w’at touch Cat’rinette -fo’ tu’n her out dat house, he git ’is head bus’ like I bus’ a gode.” - -“Dat’s nice day, ainty, Miché Paxtone? Fine wedda fo’ dry my close.” -Upon the gallery above hung an array of shirts, which gleamed white in -the sunshine, and flapped in the rippling breeze. - -The spectacle of Tante Cat’rinette defying the authorities was one which -offered much diversion to the children of the neighborhood. They played -numberless pranks at her expense; daily serving upon her fictitious -notices purporting to be to the last degree official. One youngster, in -a moment of inspiration, composed a couplet, which they recited, sang, -shouted at all hours, beneath her windows. - - “Tante Cat’rinette, she go in town; - Wen she come back, her house pull’ down.” - -So ran the production. She heard it many times during the day, but, far -from offending her, she accepted it as a warning,—a prediction, as it -were,—and she took heed not to offer to fate the conditions for its -fulfillment. She no longer quitted her house even for a moment, so great -was her fear and so firm her belief that the town authorities were lying -in wait to possess themselves of it. She would not cross the street to -visit a neighbor. She waylaid passers-by and pressed them into service -to do her errands and small shopping. She grew distrustful and -suspicious, ever on the alert to scent a plot in the most innocent -endeavor to induce her to leave the house. - -One morning, as Tante Cat’rinette was hanging out her latest batch of -washing, Eusèbe, a “free mulatto” from Red River, stopped his pony -beneath her gallery. - -“Hé, Tante Cat’rinette!” he called up to her. - -She turned to the railing just as she was, in her bare arms and neck -that gleamed ebony-like against the unbleached cotton of her chemise. A -coarse skirt was fastened about her waist, and a string of many-colored -beads knotted around her throat. She held her smoking pipe between her -yellow teeth. - -“How you all come on, Miché Eusèbe?” she questioned, pleasantly. - -“We all middlin’, Tante Cat’rinette. But Miss Kitty, she putty bad off -out yon’a. I see Mista Raymond dis mo’nin’ w’en I pass by his house; he -say look like de feva don’ wan’ to quit ’er. She been axen’ fo’ you all -t’rough de night. He ’low he reckon I betta tell you. Nice wedda we got -fo’ plantin’, Tante Cat’rinette.” - -“Nice wedda fo’ lies, Miché Eusèbe,” and she spat contemptuously down -upon the banquette. She turned away without noticing the man further, -and proceeded to hang one of Lawyer Paxton’s fine linen shirts upon the -line. - -“She been axen’ fo’ you all t’rough de night.” - -Somehow Tante Cat’rinette could not get that refrain out of her head. -She would not willingly believe that Eusèbe had spoken the truth, but— -“She been axen fo’ you all t’rough de night—all t’rough de night.” The -words kept ringing in her ears, as she came and went about her daily -tasks. But by degrees she dismissed Eusèbe and his message from her -mind. It was Miss Kitty’s voice that she could hear in fancy following -her, calling out through the night, “W’ere Tante Cat’rinette? W’y Tante -Cat’rinette don’ come? W’y she don’ come—w’y she don’ come?” - -All day the woman muttered and mumbled to herself in her Creole patois; -invoking council of “Vieumaite,” as she always did in her troubles. -Tante Cat’rinette’s religion was peculiarly her own; she turned to -heaven with her grievances, it is true, but she felt that there was no -one in Paradise with whom she was quite so well acquainted as with -“Vieumaite.” - -Late in the afternoon she went and stood on her doorstep, and looked -uneasily and anxiously out upon the almost deserted street. When a -little girl came walking by,—a sweet child with a frank and innocent -face, upon whose word she knew she could rely,—Tante Cat’rinette invited -her to enter. - -“Come yere see Tante Cat’rinette, Lolo. It’s long time you en’t come see -Tante Cat’rine; you gittin’ proud.” She made the little one sit down, -and offered her a couple of cookies, which the child accepted with -pretty avidity. - -“You putty good li’le gal, you, Lolo. You keep on go confession all de -time?” - -“Oh, yes. I’m goin’ make my firs’ communion firs’ of May, Tante -Cat’rinette.” A dog-eared catechism was sticking out of Lolo’s apron -pocket. - -“Das right; be good li’le gal. Mine yo’ maman ev’t’ing she say; an’ neva -tell no story. It’s nuttin’ bad in dis worl’ like tellin’ lies. You know -Eusèbe?” - -“Eusèbe?” - -“Yas; dat li’le ole Red River free m’latto. Uh, uh! dat one man w’at kin -tell lies, yas! He come tell me Miss Kitty down sick yon’a. You ev’ -yeard such big story like dat, Lolo?” - -The child looked a little bewildered, but she answered promptly, “’Taint -no story, Tante Cat’rinette. I yeard papa sayin’, dinner time, Mr. -Raymond sen’ fo’ Dr. Chalon. An’ Dr. Chalon says he ain’t got time to go -yonda. An’ papa says it’s because Dr. Chalon on’y want to go w’ere it’s -rich people; an’ he’s ’fraid Mista Raymond ain’ goin’ pay ’im.” - -Tante Cat’rinette admired the little girl’s pretty gingham dress, and -asked her who had ironed it. She stroked her brown curls, and talked of -all manner of things quite foreign to the subject of Eusèbe and his -wicked propensity for telling lies. - -She was not restless as she had been during the early part of the day, -and she no longer mumbled and muttered as she had been doing over her -work. - -At night she lighted her coal-oil lamp, and placed it near a window -where its light could be seen from the street through the half-closed -shutters. Then she sat herself down, erect and motionless, in a chair. - -When it was near upon midnight, Tante Cat’rinette arose, and looked -cautiously, very cautiously, out of the door. Her house lay in the line -of deep shadow that extended along the street. The other side was bathed -in the pale light of the declining moon. The night was agreeably mild, -profoundly still, but pregnant with the subtle quivering life of early -spring. The earth seemed asleep and breathing,—a scent-laden breath that -blew in soft puffs against Tante Cat’rinette’s face as she emerged from -the house. She closed and locked her door noiselessly; then she crept -slowly away, treading softly, stealthily as a cat, in the deep shadow. - -There were but few people abroad at that hour. Once she ran upon a gay -party of ladies and gentlemen who had been spending the evening over -cards and anisette. They did not notice Tante Cat’rinette almost -effacing herself against the black wall of the cathedral. She breathed -freely and ventured from her retreat only when they had disappeared from -view. Once a man saw her quite plainly, as she darted across a narrow -strip of moonlight. But Tante Cat’rinette need not have gasped with -fright as she did. He was too drunk to know if she were a thing of -flesh, or only one of the fantastic, maddening shadows that the moon was -casting across his path to bewilder him. When she reached the outskirts -of the town, and had to cross the broad piece of open country which -stretched out toward the pine wood, an almost paralyzing terror came -over her. But she crouched low, and hurried through the marsh and weeds, -avoiding the open road. She could have been mistaken for one of the -beasts browsing there where she passed. - -But once in the Grand Ecore road that lay through the pine wood, she -felt secure and free to move as she pleased. Tante Cat’rinette -straightened herself, stiffened herself in fact, and unconsciously -assuming the attitude of the professional sprinter, she sped rapidly -beneath the Gothic interlacing branches of the pines. She talked -constantly to herself as she went, and to the animate and inanimate -objects around her. But her speech, far from intelligent, was hardly -intelligible. - -She addressed herself to the moon, which she apostrophized as an -impertinent busybody spying upon her actions. She pictured all manner of -troublesome animals, snakes, rabbits, frogs, pursuing her, but she -defied them to catch Cat’rinette, who was hurrying toward Miss Kitty. -“Pa capab trapé Cat’rinette, vouzot; mo pé couri vite coté Miss Kitty.” -She called up to a mocking-bird warbling upon a lofty limb of a pine -tree, asking why it cried out so, and threatening to secure it and put -it into a cage. “Ca to pé crié comme ça, ti céléra? Arete, mo trapé -zozos la, mo mété li dan ain bon lacage.” Indeed, Tante Cat’rinette -seemed on very familiar terms with the night, with the forest, and with -all the flying, creeping, crawling things that inhabit it. At the speed -with which she traveled she soon had covered the few miles of wooded -road, and before long had reached her destination. - -The sleeping-room of Miss Kitty opened upon the long outside gallery, as -did all the rooms of the unpretentious frame house which was her home. -The place could hardly be called a plantation; it was too small for -that. Nevertheless Raymond was trying to plant; trying to teach school -between times, in the end room; and sometimes, when he found himself in -a tight place, trying to clerk for Mr. Jacobs over in Campte, across Red -River. - -Tante Cat’rinette mounted the creaking steps, crossed the gallery, and -entered Miss Kitty’s room as though she were returning to it after a few -moments’ absence. There was a lamp burning dimly upon the high -mantelpiece. Raymond had evidently not been to bed; he was in shirt -sleeves, rocking the baby’s cradle. It was the same mahogany cradle -which had held Miss Kitty thirty-five years before, when Tante -Cat’rinette had rocked it. The cradle had been bought then to match the -bed,—that big, beautiful bed on which Miss Kitty lay now in a restless -half slumber. There was a fine French clock on the mantel, still telling -the hours as it had told them years ago. But there were no carpets or -rugs on the floors. There was no servant in the house. - -Raymond uttered an exclamation of amazement when he saw Tante -Cat’rinette enter. - -“How you do, Miché Raymond?” she said, quietly. “I yeard Miss Kitty been -sick; Eusèbe tell me dat dis mo’nin’.” - -She moved toward the bed as lightly as though shod with velvet, and -seated herself there. Miss Kitty’s hand lay outside the coverlid; a -shapely hand, which her few days of illness and rest had not yet -softened. The negress laid her own black hand upon it. At the touch Miss -Kitty instinctively turned her palm upward. - -“It’s Tante Cat’rinette!” she exclaimed, with a note of satisfaction in -her feeble voice. “W’en did you come, Tante Cat’rinette? They all said -you wouldn’ come.” - -“I’m goin’ come ev’y night, cher coeur, ev’y night tell you be well. -Tante Cat’rinette can’t come daytime no mo’.” - -“Raymond tole me about it. They doin’ you mighty mean in town, Tante -Cat’rinette.” - -“Nev’ mine, ti chou. I know how take care dat w’at Vieumaite gi’ me. You -go sleep now. Cat’rinette goin’ set yere an’ mine you. She goin’ make -you well like she all time do. We don’ wan’ no céléra doctor. We drive -’em out wid a stick, dey come roun’ yere.” - -Miss Kitty was soon sleeping more restfully than she had done since her -illness began. Raymond had finally succeeded in quieting the baby, and -he tiptoed into the adjoining room, where the other children lay, to -snatch a few hours of much-needed rest for himself. Cat’rinette sat -faithfully beside her charge, administering at intervals to the sick -woman’s wants. - -But the thought of regaining her home before daybreak, and of the urgent -necessity for doing so, did not leave Tante Cat’rinette’s mind for an -instant. - -In the profound darkness, the deep stillness of the night that comes -before dawn, she was walking again through the woods, on her way back to -town. - -The mocking-birds were asleep, and so were the frogs and the snakes; and -the moon was gone, and so was the breeze. She walked now in utter -silence but for the heavy guttural breathing that accompanied her rapid -footsteps. She walked with a desperate determination along the road, -every foot of which was familiar to her. - -When she at last emerged from the woods, the earth about her was -faintly, very faintly, beginning to reveal itself in the tremulous, -gray, uncertain light of approaching day. She staggered and plunged -onward with beating pulses quickened by fear. - -A sudden turn, and Tante Cat’rinette stood facing the river. She stopped -abruptly, as if at command of some unseen power that forced her. For an -instant she pressed a black hand against her tired, burning eyes, and -stared fixedly ahead of her. - -Tante Cat’rinette had always believed that Paradise was up there -overhead where the sun and stars and moon are, and that “Vieumaite” -inhabited that region of splendor. She never for a moment doubted this. -It would be difficult, perhaps unsatisfying, to explain why Tante -Cat’rinette, on that particular morning, when a vision of the rising day -broke suddenly upon her, should have believed that she stood in face of -a heavenly revelation. But why not, after all? Since she talked so -familiarly herself to the unseen, why should it not respond to her when -the time came? - -Across the narrow, quivering line of water, the delicate budding -branches of young trees were limned black against the gold, orange,—what -word is there to tell the color of that morning sky! And steeped in the -splendor of it hung one pale star; there was not another in the whole -heaven. - -Tante Cat’rinette stood with her eyes fixed intently upon that star, -which held her like a hypnotic spell. She stammered breathlessly: - -“Mo pé couté, Vieumaite. Cat’rinette pé couté.” (I am listening, -Vieumaite. Cat’rinette hears you.) - -She stayed there motionless upon the brink of the river till the star -melted into the brightness of the day and became part of it. - -When Tante Cat’rinette entered Miss Kitty’s room for the second time, -the aspect of things had changed somewhat. Miss Kitty was with much -difficulty holding the baby while Raymond mixed a saucer of food for the -little one. Their oldest daughter, a child of twelve, had come into the -room with an apronful of chips from the woodpile, and was striving to -start a fire on the hearth, to make the morning coffee. The room seemed -bare and almost squalid in the daylight. - -“Well, yere Tante Cat’rinette come back,” she said, quietly announcing -herself. - -They could not well understand why she was back; but it was good to have -her there, and they did not question. - -She took the baby from its mother, and, seating herself, began to feed -it from the saucer which Raymond placed beside her on a chair. - -“Yas,” she said, “Cat’rinette goin’ stay; dis time she en’t nev’ goin’ -’way no mo’.” - -Husband and wife looked at each other with surprised, questioning eyes. - -“Miché Raymond,” remarked the woman, turning her head up to him with a -certain comical shrewdness in her glance, “if somebody want len’ you -t’ousan’ dolla’, w’at you goin’ say? Even if it’s ole nigga ’oman?” - -The man’s face flushed with sudden emotion. “I would say that person was -our bes’ frien’, Tante Cat’rinette. An’,” he added, with a smile, “I -would give her a mortgage on the place, of co’se, to secu’ her f’om -loss.” - -“Das right,” agreed the woman practically. “Den Cat’rinette goin’ len’ -you t’ousan’ dolla’. Dat w’at Vieumaite give her, dat b’long to her; -don’ b’long to nobody else. An’ we go yon’a to town, Miché Raymond, you -an’ me. You care me befo’ Miché Paxtone. I want ’im fo’ put down in -writin’ befo’ de cote dat w’at Cat’rinette got, it fo’ Miss Kitty w’en I -be dead.” - -Miss Kitty was crying softly in the depths of her pillow. - -“I en’t got no head fo’ all dat, me,” laughed Tante Cat’rinette, good -humoredly, as she held a spoonful of pap up to the baby’s eager lips. -“It’s Vieumaite tell me all dat clair an’ plain dis mo’nin’, w’en I -comin’ ’long de Gran’ Eco’ road.” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - A Respectable Woman - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - A Respectable Woman - -[Illustration] - - -Mrs. Baroda was a little provoked to learn that her husband expected his -friend, Gouvernail, up to spend a week or two on the plantation. - -They had entertained a good deal during the winter; much of the time had -also been passed in New Orleans in various forms of mild dissipation. -She was looking forward to a period of unbroken rest, now, and -undisturbed tête-a-tête with her husband, when he informed her that -Gouvernail was coming up to stay a week or two. - -This was a man she had heard much of but never seen. He had been her -husband’s college friend; was now a journalist, and in no sense a -society man or “a man about town,” which were, perhaps, some of the -reasons she had never met him. But she had unconsciously formed an image -of him in her mind. She pictured him tall, slim, cynical; with -eye-glasses, and his hands in his pockets; and she did not like him. -Gouvernail was slim enough, but he wasn’t very tall nor very cynical; -neither did he wear eye-glasses nor carry his hands in his pockets. And -she rather liked him when he first presented himself. - -But why she liked him she could not explain satisfactorily to herself -when she partly attempted to do so. She could discover in him none of -those brilliant and promising traits which Gaston, her husband, had -often assured her that he possessed. On the contrary, he sat rather mute -and receptive before her chatty eagerness to make him feel at home and -in face of Gaston’s frank and wordy hospitality. His manner was as -courteous toward her as the most exacting woman could require; but he -made no direct appeal to her approval or even esteem. - -Once settled at the plantation he seemed to like to sit upon the wide -portico in the shade of one of the big Corinthian pillars, smoking his -cigar lazily and listening attentively to Gaston’s experience as a sugar -planter. - -“This is what I call living,” he would utter with deep satisfaction, as -the air that swept across the sugar field caressed him with its warm and -scented velvety touch. It pleased him also to get on familiar terms with -the big dogs that came about him, rubbing themselves sociably against -his legs. He did not care to fish, and displayed no eagerness to go out -and kill grosbecs when Gaston proposed doing so. - -Gouvernail’s personality puzzled Mrs. Baroda, but she liked him. Indeed, -he was a lovable, inoffensive fellow. After a few days, when she could -understand him no better than at first, she gave over being puzzled and -remained piqued. In this mood she left her husband and her guest, for -the most part, alone together. Then finding that Gouvernail took no -manner of exception to her action, she imposed her society upon him, -accompanying him in his idle strolls to the mill and walks along the -batture. She persistently sought to penetrate the reserve in which he -had unconsciously enveloped himself. - -“When is he going—your friend?” she one day asked her husband. “For my -part, he tires me frightfully.” - -“Not for a week yet, dear. I can’t understand; he gives you no trouble.” - -“No. I should like him better if he did; if he were more like others, -and I had to plan somewhat for his comfort and enjoyment.” - -Gaston took his wife’s pretty face between his hands and looked tenderly -and laughingly into her troubled eyes. They were making a bit of toilet -sociably together in Mrs. Baroda’s dressing-room. - -“You are full of surprises, ma belle,” he said to her. “Even I can never -count upon how you are going to act under given conditions.” He kissed -her and turned to fasten his cravat before the mirror. - -“Here you are,” he went on, “taking poor Gouvernail seriously and making -a commotion over him, the last thing he would desire or expect.” - -“Commotion!” she hotly resented. “Nonsense! How can you say such a -thing? Commotion, indeed! But, you know, you said he was clever.” - -“So he is. But the poor fellow is run down by overwork now. That’s why I -asked him here to take a rest.” - -“You used to say he was a man of ideas,” she retorted, unconciliated. “I -expected him to be interesting, at least. I’m going to the city in the -morning to have my spring gowns fitted. Let me know when Mr. Gouvernail -is gone; I shall be at my Aunt Octavie’s.” - -That night she went and sat alone upon a bench that stood beneath a live -oak tree at the edge of the gravel walk. - -She had never known her thoughts or her intentions to be so confused. -She could gather nothing from them but the feeling of a distinct -necessity to quit her home in the morning. - -Mrs. Baroda heard footsteps crunching the gravel; but could discern in -the darkness only the approaching red point of a lighted cigar. She knew -it was Gouvernail, for her husband did not smoke. She hoped to remain -unnoticed, but her white gown revealed her to him. He threw away his -cigar and seated himself upon the bench beside her; without a suspicion -that she might object to his presence. - -“Your husband told me to bring this to you, Mrs. Baroda,” he said, -handing her a filmy, white scarf with which she sometimes enveloped her -head and shoulders. She accepted the scarf from him with a murmur of -thanks, and let it lie in her lap. - -He made some commonplace observation upon the baneful effect of the -night air at that season. Then as his gaze reached out into the -darkness, he murmured, half to himself: - - “‘Night of south winds—night of the large few stars! - Still nodding night——’” - -She made no reply to this apostrophe to the night, which indeed, was not -addressed to her. - -Gouvernail was in no sense a diffident man, for he was not a -self-conscious one. His periods of reserve were not constitutional, but -the result of moods. Sitting there beside Mrs. Baroda, his silence -melted for the time. - -He talked freely and intimately in a low, hesitating drawl that was not -unpleasant to hear. He talked of the old college days when he and Gaston -had been a good deal to each other; of the days of keen and blind -ambitions and large intentions. Now there was left with him, at least, a -philosophic acquiescence to the existing order—only a desire to be -permitted to exist, with now and then a little whiff of genuine life, -such as he was breathing now. - -Her mind only vaguely grasped what he was saying. Her physical being was -for the moment predominant. She was not thinking of his words, only -drinking in the tones of his voice. She wanted to reach out her hand in -the darkness and touch him with the sensitive tips of her fingers upon -the face or the lips. She wanted to draw close to him and whisper -against his cheek—she did not care what—as she might have done if she -had not been a respectable woman. - -The stronger the impulse grew to bring herself near him, the further, in -fact, did she draw away from him. As soon as she could do so without an -appearance of too great rudeness, she rose and left him there alone. - -Before she reached the house, Gouvernail had lighted a fresh cigar and -ended his apostrophe to the night. - -Mrs. Baroda was greatly tempted that night to tell her husband—who was -also her friend—of this folly that had seized her. But she did not yield -to the temptation. Beside being a respectable woman she was a very -sensible one; and she knew there are some battles in life which a human -being must fight alone. - -When Gaston arose in the morning, his wife had already departed. She had -taken an early morning train to the city. She did not return till -Gouvernail was gone from under her roof. - -There was some talk of having him back during the summer that followed. -That is, Gaston greatly desired it; but this desire yielded to his -wife’s strenuous opposition. - -However, before the year ended, she proposed, wholly from herself, to -have Gouvernail visit them again. Her husband was surprised and -delighted with the suggestion coming from her. - -“I am glad, chère amie, to know that you have finally overcome your -dislike for him; truly he did not deserve it.” - -“Oh,” she told him, laughingly, after pressing a long, tender kiss upon -his lips, “I have overcome everything! you will see. This time I shall -be very nice to him.” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Ripe Figs - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Ripe Figs - -[Illustration] - - -Maman-Nainaine said that when the figs were ripe Babette might go to -visit her cousins down on the Bayou-Lafourche where the sugar cane -grows. Not that the ripening of figs had the least thing to do with it, -but that is the way Maman-Nainaine was. - -It seemed to Babette a very long time to wait; for the leaves upon the -trees were tender yet, and the figs were like little hard, green -marbles. - -But warm rains came along and plenty of strong sunshine, and though -Maman-Nainaine was as patient as the statue of la Madone, and Babette as -restless as a humming-bird, the first thing they both knew it was hot -summer-time. Every day Babette danced out to where the fig-trees were in -a long line against the fence. She walked slowly beneath them, carefully -peering between the gnarled, spreading branches. But each time she came -disconsolate away again. What she saw there finally was something that -made her sing and dance the whole long day. - -When Maman-Nainaine sat down in her stately way to breakfast, the -following morning, her muslin cap standing like an aureole about her -white, placid face, Babette approached. She bore a dainty porcelain -platter, which she set down before her godmother. It contained a dozen -purple figs, fringed around with their rich, green leaves. - -“Ah,” said Maman-Nainaine, arching her eyebrows, “how early the figs -have ripened this year!” - -“Oh,” said Babette, “I think they have ripened very late.” - -“Babette,” continued Maman-Nainaine, as she peeled the very plumpest -figs with her pointed silver fruit-knife, “you will carry my love to -them all down on Bayou-Lafourche. And tell your Tante Frosine I shall -look for her at Toussaint—when the chrysanthemums are in bloom.” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Ozème’s Holiday - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Ozème’s Holiday - -[Illustration] - - -Ozème often wondered why there was not a special dispensation of -providence to do away with the necessity for work. There seemed to him -so much created for man’s enjoyment in this world, and so little time -and opportunity to profit by it. To sit and do nothing but breathe was a -pleasure to Ozème; but to sit in the company of a few choice companions, -including a sprinkling of ladies, was even a greater delight; and the -joy which a day’s hunting or fishing or picnicking afforded him is -hardly to be described. Yet he was by no means indolent. He worked -faithfully on the plantation the whole year long, in a sort of -methodical way; but when the time came around for his annual week’s -holiday, there was no holding him back. It was often decidedly -inconvenient for the planter that Ozème usually chose to take his -holiday during some very busy season of the year. - -He started out one morning in the beginning of October. He had borrowed -Mr. Laballière’s buckboard and Padue’s old gray mare, and a harness from -the negro Sévérin. He wore a light blue suit which had been sent all the -way from St. Louis, and which had cost him ten dollars; he had paid -almost as much again for his boots; and his hat was a broad-rimmed gray -felt which he had no cause to be ashamed of. When Ozème went “broading,” -he dressed—well, regardless of cost. His eyes were blue and mild; his -hair was light, and he wore it rather long; he was clean shaven, and -really did not look his thirty-five years. - -Ozème had laid his plans weeks beforehand. He was going visiting along -Cane River; the mere contemplation filled him with pleasure. He counted -upon reaching Fédeaus’ about noon, and he would stop and dine there. -Perhaps they would ask him to stay all night. He really did not hold to -staying all night, and was not decided to accept if they did ask him. -There were only the two old people, and he rather fancied the notion of -pushing on to Beltrans’, where he would stay a night, or even two, if -urged. He was quite sure that there would be something agreeable going -on at Beltrans’, with all those young people—perhaps a fish-fry, or -possibly a ball! - -Of course he would have to give a day to Tante Sophie and another to -Cousine Victoire; but none to the St. Annes unless entreated—after St. -Anne reproaching him last year with being a fainéant for broading at -such a season! At Cloutierville, where he would linger as long as -possible, he meant to turn and retrace his course, zigzagging back and -forth across Cane River so as to take in the Duplans, the Velcours, and -others that he could not at the moment recall. A week seemed to Ozème a -very, very little while in which to crowd so much pleasure. - -There were steam-gins at work; he could hear them whistling far and -near. On both sides of the river the fields were white with cotton, and -everybody in the world seemed busy but Ozème. This reflection did not -distress or disturb him in the least; he pursued his way at peace with -himself and his surroundings. - -At Lamérie’s cross-roads store, where he stopped to buy a cigar, he -learned that there was no use heading for Fédeaus’, as the two old -people had gone to town for a lengthy visit, and the house was locked -up. It was at Fédeaus’ that Ozème had intended to dine. - -He sat in the buckboard, given up to a moment or two of reflection. The -result was that he turned away from the river, and entered the road that -led between two fields back to the woods and into the heart of the -country. He had determined upon taking a short cut to the Beltrans’ -plantation, and on the way he meant to keep an eye open for old Aunt -Tildy’s cabin, which he knew lay in some remote part of this cut-off. He -remembered that Aunt Tildy could cook an excellent meal if she had the -material at hand. He would induce her to fry him a chicken, drip a cup -of coffee, and turn him out a pone of corn-bread, which he thought would -be sumptuous enough fare for the occasion. - -Aunt Tildy dwelt in the not unusual log cabin, of one room, with its -chimney of mud and stone, and its shallow gallery formed by the jutting -of the roof. In close proximity to the cabin was a small cotton-field, -which from a long distance looked like a field of snow. The cotton was -bursting and overflowing foam-like from bolls on the drying stalk. On -the lower branches it was hanging ragged and tattered, and much of it -had already fallen to the ground. There were a few chinaberry-trees in -the yard before the hut, and under one of them an ancient and -rusty-looking mule was eating corn from a wood trough. Some common -little Creole chickens were scratching about the mule’s feet and -snatching at the grains of corn that occasionally fell from the trough. - -Aunt Tildy was hobbling across the yard when Ozème drew up before the -gate. One hand was confined in a sling; in the other she carried a tin -pan, which she let fall noisily to the ground when she recognized him. -She was broad, black, and misshapen, with her body bent forward almost -at an acute angle. She wore a blue cottonade of large plaids, and a -bandana awkwardly twisted around her head. - -“Good God A’mighty, man! Whar you come from?” was her startled -exclamation at beholding him. - -“F’om home, Aunt Tildy; w’ere else do you expec’?” replied Ozème, -dismounting composedly. - -He had not seen the old woman for several years—since she was cooking in -town for the family with which he boarded at the time. She had washed -and ironed for him, atrociously, it is true, but her intentions were -beyond reproach if her washing was not. She had also been clumsily -attentive to him during a spell of illness. He had paid her with an -occasional bandana, a calico dress, or a checked apron, and they had -always considered the account between themselves square, with no -sentimental feeling of gratitude remaining on either side. - -“I like to know,” remarked Ozème, as he took the gray mare from the -shafts, and led her up to the trough where the mule was—“I like to know -w’at you mean by makin’ a crop like that an’ then lettin’ it go to -was’e? Who you reckon’s goin’ to pick that cotton? You think maybe the -angels goin’ to come down an’ pick it fo’ you, an’ gin it an’ press it, -an’ then give you ten cents a poun’ fo’ it, hein?” - -“Ef de Lord don’ pick it, I don’ know who gwine pick it, Mista Ozème. I -tell you, me an’ Sandy we wuk dat crap day in an’ day out; it’s him done -de mos’ of it.” - -“Sandy? That little—” - -“He ain’ dat li’le Sandy no mo’ w’at you rec’lec’s; he ’mos’ a man, an’ -he wuk like a man now. He wuk mo’ ’an fittin’ fo’ his strenk, an’ now he -layin’ in dah sick—God A’mighty knows how sick. An’ me wid a risin’ -twell I bleeged to walk de flo’ o’ nights, an’ don’ know ef I ain’ gwine -to lose de han’ atter all.” - -“W’y, in the name o’ conscience, you don’ hire somebody to pick?” - -“Whar I got money to hire? An’ you knows well as me ev’y chick an’ chile -is pickin’ roun’ on de plantations an’ gittin’ good pay.” - -The whole outlook appeared to Ozème very depressing, and even menacing, -to his personal comfort and peace of mind. He foresaw no prospect of -dinner unless he should cook it himself. And there was that Sandy—he -remembered well the little scamp of eight, always at his grandmother’s -heels when she was cooking or washing. Of course he would have to go in -and look at the boy, and no doubt dive into his traveling-bag for -quinine, without which he never traveled. - -Sandy was indeed very ill, consumed with fever. He lay on a cot covered -up with a faded patchwork quilt. His eyes were half closed, and he was -muttering and rambling on about hoeing and bedding and cleaning and -thinning out the cotton; he was hauling it to the gin, wrangling about -weight and bagging and ties and the price offered per pound. That bale -or two of cotton had not only sent Sandy to bed, but had pursued him -there, holding him through his fevered dreams, and threatening to end -him. Ozème would never have known the black boy, he was so tall, so -thin, and seemingly so wasted, lying there in bed. - -“See yere, Aunt Tildy,” said Ozème, after he had, as was usual with him -when in doubt, abandoned himself to a little reflection; “between us—you -an’ me—we got to manage to kill an’ cook one o’ those chickens I see -scratchin’ out yonda, fo’ I’m jus’ about starved. I reckon you ain’t got -any quinine in the house? No; I didn’t suppose an instant you had. Well, -I’m goin’ to give Sandy a good dose o’ quinine to-night, an’ I’m goin’ -stay an’ see how that’ll work on ’im. But sun-up, min’ you, I mus’ get -out o’ yere.” - -Ozème had spent more comfortable nights than the one passed in Aunt -Tildy’s bed, which she considerately abandoned to him. - -In the morning Sandy’s fever was somewhat abated, but had not taken a -decided enough turn to justify Ozème in quitting him before noon, unless -he was willing “to feel like a dog,” as he told himself. He appeared -before Aunt Tildy stripped to the undershirt, and wearing his -second-best pair of trousers. - -“That’s a nice pickle o’ fish you got me in, ol’ woman. I guarantee, -nex’ time I go abroad, ’tain’t me that’ll take any cut-off. W’ere’s that -cotton-basket an’ cotton-sack o’ yo’s?” - -“I knowed it!” chanted Aunt Tildy—“I knowed de Lord war gwine sen’ -somebody to holp me out. He war n’ gwine let de crap was’e atter he give -Sandy an’ me de strenk to make hit. De Lord gwine shove you ’long de -row, Mista Ozème. De Lord gwine give you plenty mo’ fingers an’ han’s to -pick dat cotton nimble an’ clean.” - -“Neva you min’ w’at the Lord’s goin’ to do; go get me that cotton-sack. -An’ you put that poultice like I tol’ you on yo’ han’, an’ set down -there an’ watch Sandy. It looks like you are ’bout as helpless as a’ ol’ -cow tangled up in a potato-vine.” - -Ozème had not picked cotton for many years, and he took to it a little -awkwardly at first; but by the time he had reached the end of the first -row the old dexterity of youth had come back to his hands, which flew -rapidly back and forth with the motion of a weaver’s shuttle; and his -ten fingers became really nimble in clutching the cotton from its dry -shell. By noon he had gathered about fifty pounds. Sandy was not then -quite so well as he had promised to be, and Ozème concluded to stay that -day and one more night. If the boy were no better in the morning, he -would go off in search of a doctor for him, and he himself would -continue on down to Tante Sophie’s; the Beltrans’ was out of the -question now. - -Sandy hardly needed a doctor in the morning. Ozème’s doctoring was -beginning to tell favorably; but he would have considered it criminal -indifference and negligence to go away and leave the boy to Aunt Tildy’s -awkward ministrations just at the critical moment when there was a turn -for the better; so he stayed that day out, and picked his hundred and -fifty pounds. - -On the third day it looked like rain, and a heavy rain just then would -mean a heavy loss to Aunt Tildy and Sandy, and Ozème again went to the -field, this time urging Aunt Tildy with him to do what she might with -her one good hand. - -“Aunt Tildy,” called out Ozème to the bent old woman moving ahead of him -between the white rows of cotton, “if the Lord gets me safe out o’ this -ditch, ’t ain’t to-morro’ I’ll fall in anotha with my eyes open, I bet -you.” - -“Keep along, Mista Ozème; don’ grumble, don’ stumble; de Lord’s -a-watchin’ you. Look at yo’ Aunt Tildy; she doin’ mo’ wid her one han’ -’an you doin’ wid yo’ two, man. Keep right along, honey. Watch dat -cotton how it fallin’ in yo’ Aunt Tildy’s bag.” - -“I am watchin’ you, ol’ woman; you don’ fool me. You got to work that -han’ o’ yo’s spryer than you doin’, or I’ll take the rawhide. You done -fo’got w’at the rawhide tas’e like, I reckon”—a reminder which amused -Aunt Tildy so powerfully that her big negro-laugh resounded over the -whole cotton-patch, and even caused Sandy, who heard it, to turn in his -bed. - -The weather was still threatening on the succeeding day, and a sort of -dogged determination or characteristic desire to see his undertakings -carried to a satisfactory completion urged Ozème to continue his efforts -to drag Aunt Tildy out of the mire into which circumstances seemed to -have thrust her. - -One night the rain did come, and began to beat softly on the roof of the -old cabin. Sandy opened his eyes, which were no longer brilliant with -the fever flame. “Granny,” he whispered, “de rain! Des listen, granny; -de rain a-comin’, an’ I ain’ pick dat cotton yit. W’at time it is? Gi’ -me my pants—I got to go—” - -“You lay whar you is, chile alive. Dat cotton put aside clean and dry. -Me an’ de Lord an’ Mista Ozème done pick dat cotton.” - -Ozème drove away in the morning looking quite as spick and span as the -day he left home in his blue suit and his light felt drawn a little over -his eyes. - -“You want to take care o’ that boy,” he instructed Aunt Tildy at -parting, “an’ get ’im on his feet. An’, let me tell you, the nex’ time I -start out to broad, if you see me passin’ in this yere cut-off, put on -yo’ specs an’ look at me good, because it won’t be me; it’ll be my -ghos’, ol’ woman.” - -Indeed, Ozème, for some reason or other, felt quite shamefaced as he -drove back to the plantation. When he emerged from the lane which he had -entered the week before, and turned into the river road, Lamérie, -standing in the store door, shouted out: - -“Hé, Ozème! you had good times yonda? I bet you danced holes in the sole -of them new boots.” - -“Don’t talk, Lamérie!” was Ozème’s rather ambiguous reply, as he -flourished the remainder of a whip over the old gray mare’s sway-back, -urging her to a gentle trot. - -When he reached home, Bodé, one of Padue’s boys, who was assisting him -to unhitch, remarked: - -“How come you didn’ go yonda down de coas’ like you said, Mista Ozème? -Nobody didn’ see you in Cloutierville, an’ Mailitte say you neva cross’ -de twenty-fo’-mile ferry, an’ nobody didn’ see you no place.” - -Ozème returned, after his customary moment of reflection: - -“You see, it’s ’mos’ always the same thing on Cane riva, my boy; a man -gets tired o’ that à la fin. This time I went back in the woods, ’way -yonda in the Fédeau cut-off kin’ o’ campin’ an’ roughin’ like, you might -say. I tell you, it was sport, Bodé.” - - - - - - - - - PRESS OF -STROMBERG, ALLEN & CO. - CHICAGO - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Transcriber’s Note - -Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and -are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original. -The following issues should be noted, along with the resolutions. - - 17.24 they considered in[s]trusive Removed. - 24.3 a sudden knife thrust[.] Added. - 220.14 and only on[c]e glancing aside Inserted. - 234.3 with what he flat[t]ered himself was humor Inserted. - 257.15 I’ll take another nap[,]” Inserted. - 289.15 begged the bell[ ]hanger Removed. - 382.15 be[g]inning to reveal itself Inserted. - 399.14 Maman-Nai[n]aine was as patient Inserted. - 408.5 with which he boarded at the time[.] Added. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Night in Acadie, by Kate Chopin - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A NIGHT IN ACADIE *** - -***** This file should be named 63025-0.txt or 63025-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/0/2/63025/ - -Produced by KD Weeks, Mary Glenn Krause, Charlene Taylor, -University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll -have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using -this ebook. - - - -Title: A Night in Acadie - -Author: Kate Chopin - -Illustrator: Frank Hazenplug - Eric Pape - -Release Date: August 23, 2020 [EBook #63025] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A NIGHT IN ACADIE *** - - - - -Produced by KD Weeks, Mary Glenn Krause, Charlene Taylor, -University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> -<div class='tnotes'> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div>Transcriber’s Note:</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c001'>Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please -see the transcriber’s <a href='#endnote'>note</a> at the end of this text -for details regarding the handling of any textual issues encountered -during its preparation.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The cover image has been created from basic title page information and -is hereby placed in the public domain.</p> - -<div class='htmlonly'> - -<p class='c001'>Any corrections are indicated using an <ins class='correction' title='original'>underline</ins> -highlight. Placing the cursor over the correction will produce the -original text in a small popup.</p> - -<div class='figcenter id001'> -<img src='images/cover.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -</div> -<div class='epubonly'> - -<p class='c001'>Any corrections are indicated as hyperlinks, which will navigate the -reader to the corresponding entry in the corrections table in the -note at the end of the text.</p> - -</div> - -</div> - -<hr class='double' /> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xxlarge'>A Night in Acadie</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<hr class='double' /> - -<div class='figcenter id001'> -<img src='images/i_004.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<div> - <h1 class='c003'><span class='xxlarge'>A NIGHT IN ACADIE</span></h1> -</div> - -<hr class='double' /> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'><i>By KATE CHOPIN</i></span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<hr class='double' /> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='large'>AUTHOR OF “BAYOU FOLK”</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<hr class='double' /> -<div class='figcenter id002'> -<img src='images/i_titlepage-detail.jpg' alt='Published by Way & Williams, CHICAGO' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<hr class='double' /> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='large'>MDCCCXCVII</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<hr class='double' /> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div>Copyright, 1897, by Way & Williams.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<hr class='double' /> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c006'>Contents</h2> -</div> - -<table class='table0' summary=''> -<colgroup> -<col width='10%' /> -<col width='80%' /> -<col width='10%' /> -</colgroup> - <tr> - <td class='c007'> </td> - <td class='c008'> </td> - <td class='c009'>PAGE</td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>I.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Night in Acadie</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_1'>1</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>II.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Athénaïse</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_39'>39</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>III.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>After the Winter</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_107'>107</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>IV.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Polydore</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_127'>127</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>V.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Regret</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_145'>145</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>VI.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Matter of Prejudice</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_155'>155</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>VII.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Caline</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_173'>173</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>VIII.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Dresden Lady in Dixie</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_181'>181</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>IX.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Nég Créol</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_199'>199</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>X.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Lilies</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_215'>215</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>XI.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Azélie</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_229'>229</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>XII.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Mamouche</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_251'>251</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>XIII.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Sentimental Soul</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_271'>271</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>XIV.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Dead Men’s Shoes</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_295'>295</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>XV.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>At Chenière Caminada</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_315'>315</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>XVI.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Odalie Misses Mass</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_341'>341</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>XVII.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Cavanelle</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_355'>355</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>XVIII.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Tante Cat’rinette</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_369'>369</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>XIX.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Respectable Woman</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_389'>389</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>XX.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Ripe Figs</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_399'>399</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>XXI.</td> - <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Ozème’s Holiday</span></td> - <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_403'>403</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c010'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>A Night in Acadie</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_1'>1</span> - <h2 class='c006'>A Night in Acadie</h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_3_0_4 c011'>There was nothing to do on the plantation -so Telèsphore, having a few dollars -in his pocket, thought he would go -down and spend Sunday in the vicinity of -Marksville.</p> - -<p class='c001'>There was really nothing more to do in the -vicinity of Marksville than in the neighborhood -of his own small farm; but Elvina would -not be down there, nor Amaranthe, nor any -of Ma’me Valtour’s daughters to harass him -with doubt, to torture him with indecision, to -turn his very soul into a weather-cock for love’s -fair winds to play with.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Telèsphore at twenty-eight had long felt the -need of a wife. His home without one was -like an empty temple in which there is no altar, -no offering. So keenly did he realize the necessity -that a dozen times at least during the -past year he had been on the point of proposing -marriage to almost as many different young -<span class='pageno' id='Page_2'>2</span>women of the neighborhood. Therein lay the -difficulty, the trouble which Telèsphore experienced -in making up his mind. Elvina’s eyes -were beautiful and had often tempted him to -the verge of a declaration. But her skin was -over swarthy for a wife; and her movements -were slow and heavy; he doubted she had Indian -blood, and we all know what Indian blood -is for treachery. Amaranthe presented in her -person none of these obstacles to matrimony. -If her eyes were not so handsome as Elvina’s, -her skin was fine, and being slender to a fault, -she moved swiftly about her household affairs, -or when she walked the country lanes in going -to church or to the store. Telèsphore had once -reached the point of believing that Amaranthe -would make him an excellent wife. He had -even started out one day with the intention of -declaring himself, when, as the god of chance -would have it, Ma’me Valtour espied him passing -in the road and enticed him to enter and -partake of coffee and “baignés.” He would -have been a man of stone to have resisted, or -to have remained insensible to the charms and -accomplishments of the Valtour girls. Finally -there was Ganache’s widow, seductive rather -<span class='pageno' id='Page_3'>3</span>than handsome, with a good bit of property in -her own right. While Telèsphore was considering -his chances of happiness or even success -with Ganache’s widow, she married a -younger man.</p> - -<p class='c001'>From these embarrassing conditions, Telèsphore -sometimes felt himself forced to escape; -to change his environment for a day or two -and thereby gain a few new insights by shifting -his point of view.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was Saturday morning that he decided to -spend Sunday in the vicinity of Marksville, and -the same afternoon found him waiting at the -country station for the south-bound train.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He was a robust young fellow with good, -strong features and a somewhat determined expression--despite -his vacillations in the choice -of a wife. He was dressed rather carefully in -navy-blue “store clothes” that fitted well because -anything would have fitted Telèsphore. -He had been freshly shaved and trimmed and -carried an umbrella. He wore—a little tilted -over one eye—a straw hat in preference to the -conventional gray felt; for no other reason -than that his uncle Telèsphore would have -worn a felt, and a battered one at that. His -<span class='pageno' id='Page_4'>4</span>whole conduct of life had been planned on lines -in direct contradistinction to those of his uncle -Telèsphore, whom he was thought in early -youth to greatly resemble. The elder Telèsphore -could not read nor write, therefore the -younger had made it the object of his existence -to acquire these accomplishments. The -uncle pursued the avocations of hunting, fishing -and moss-picking; employments which the -nephew held in detestation. And as for carrying -an umbrella, “Nonc“ Telèsphore would -have walked the length of the parish in a deluge -before he would have so much as thought -of one. In short, Telèsphore, by advisedly -shaping his course in direct opposition to that -of his uncle, managed to lead a rather orderly, -industrious, and respectable existence.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was a little warm for April but the car -was not uncomfortably crowded and Telèsphore -was fortunate enough to secure the last -available window-seat on the shady side. He -was not too familiar with railway travel, his expeditions -being usually made on horse-back or -in a buggy, and the short trip promised to interest -him.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span>There was no one present whom he knew -well enough to speak to: the district attorney, -whom he knew by sight, a French priest from -Natchitoches and a few faces that were familiar -only because they were native.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But he did not greatly care to speak to anyone. -There was a fair stand of cotton and -corn in the fields and Telèsphore gathered satisfaction -in silent contemplation of the crops, -comparing them with his own.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was toward the close of his journey that -a young girl boarded the train. There had -been girls getting on and off at intervals and -it was perhaps because of the bustle attending -her arrival that this one attracted Telèsphore’s -attention.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She called good-bye to her father from the -platform and waved good-bye to him through -the dusty, sun-lit window pane after entering, -for she was compelled to seat herself on the -sunny side. She seemed inwardly excited and -preoccupied save for the attention which she -lavished upon a large parcel that she carried -religiously and laid reverentially down upon -the seat before her.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>She was neither tall nor short, nor stout nor -slender; nor was she beautiful, nor was she -plain. She wore a figured lawn, cut a little low -in the back, that exposed a round, soft nuque -with a few little clinging circlets of soft, brown -hair. Her hat was of white straw, cocked up -on the side with a bunch of pansies, and she -wore gray lisle-thread gloves. The girl seemed -very warm and kept mopping her face. She -vainly sought her fan, then she fanned herself -with her handkerchief, and finally made an attempt -to open the window. She might as well -have tried to move the banks of Red river.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Telèsphore had been unconsciously watching -her the whole time and perceiving her -straight he arose and went to her assistance. -But the window could not be opened. -When he had grown red in the face and -wasted an amount of energy that would -have driven the plow for a day, he offered -her his seat on the shady side. She demurred—there -would be no room for the bundle. He -suggested that the bundle be left where it was -and agreed to assist her in keeping an eye -upon it. She accepted Telèsphore’s place at the -shady window and he seated himself beside her.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>He wondered if she would speak to him. -He feared she might have mistaken him for a -Western drummer, in which event he knew that -she would not; for the women of the country -caution their daughters against speaking to -strangers on the trains. But the girl was not -one to mistake an Acadian farmer for a Western -traveling man. She was not born in -Avoyelles parish for nothing.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I wouldn’ want anything to happen to it,” -she said.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“It’s all right w’ere it is,” he assured her, -following the direction of her glance, that was -fastened upon the bundle.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“The las’ time I came over to Foché’s ball -I got caught in the rain on my way up to my -cousin’s house, an’ my dress! J’ vous réponds! -it was a sight. Li’le mo’, I would miss the ball. -As it was, the dress looked like I’d wo’ it weeks -without doin’-up.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No fear of rain to-day,” he reassured her, -glancing out at the sky, “but you can have -my umbrella if it does rain; you jus’ as well -take it as not.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Oh, no! I wrap’ the dress roun’ in toile-cirée -this time. You goin’ to Foché’s ball? -<span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>Didn’ I meet you once yonda on Bayou Derbanne? -Looks like I know yo’ face. You -mus’ come f’om Natchitoches pa’ish.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“My cousins, the Fédeau family, live yonda. -Me, I live on my own place in Rapides since -’92.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>He wondered if she would follow up her inquiry -relative to Foché’s ball. If she did, he -was ready with an answer, for he had decided -to go to the ball. But her thoughts evidently -wandered from the subject and were occupied -with matters that did not concern him, -for she turned away and gazed silently out of -the window.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was not a village; it was not even a hamlet -at which they descended. The station was set -down upon the edge of a cotton field. Near -at hand was the post office and store; there -was a section house; there were a few cabins -at wide intervals, and one in the distance -the girl informed him was the home of her -cousin, Jules Trodon. There lay a good bit -of road before them and she did not hesitate to -accept Telèsphore’s offer to bear her bundle -on the way.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>She carried herself boldly and stepped out -freely and easily, like a negress. There was -an absence of reserve in her manner; yet there -was no lack of womanliness. She had the -air of a young person accustomed to decide -for herself and for those about her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You said yo’ name was Fédeau?” she -asked, looking squarely at Telèsphore. Her -eyes were penetrating—not sharply penetrating, -but earnest and dark, and a little searching. -He noticed that they were handsome -eyes; not so large as Elvina’s, but finer in -their expression. They started to walk down -the track before turning into the lane leading -to Trodon’s house. The sun was sinking and -the air was fresh and invigorating by contrast -with the stifling atmosphere of the train.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You said yo’ name was Fédeau?” she -asked.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No,” he returned. “My name is Telèsphore -Baquette.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“An’ my name; it’s Zaïda Trodon. It looks -like you ought to know me; I don’ know w’y.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“It looks that way to me, somehow,” he replied. -They were satisfied to recognize this -<span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>feeling—almost conviction—of pre-acquaintance, -without trying to penetrate its cause.</p> - -<p class='c001'>By the time they reached Trodon’s house -he knew that she lived over on Bayou de Glaize -with her parents and a number of younger -brothers and sisters. It was rather dull where -they lived and she often came to lend a hand -when her cousin’s wife got tangled in domestic -complications; or, as she was doing now, when -Foché’s Saturday ball promised to be unusually -important and brilliant. There would be -people there even from Marksville, she -thought; there were often gentlemen from -Alexandria. Telèsphore was as unreserved as -she, and they appeared like old acquaintances -when they reached Trodon’s gate.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Trodon’s wife was standing on the gallery -with a baby in her arms, watching for Zaïda; -and four little bare-footed children were sitting -in a row on the step, also waiting; but terrified -and struck motionless and dumb at sight -of a stranger. He opened the gate for the girl -but stayed outside himself. Zaïda presented -him formally to her cousin’s wife, who insisted -upon his entering.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>“Ah, b’en, pour ça! you got to come in. -It’s any sense you goin’ to walk yonda to -Foché’s! Ti Jules, run call yo’ pa.” As if Ti -Jules could have run or walked even, or moved -a muscle!</p> - -<p class='c001'>But Telèsphore was firm. He drew forth his -silver watch and looked at it in a business-like -fashion. He always carried a watch; his uncle -Telèsphore always told the time by the sun, or -by instinct, like an animal. He was quite determined -to walk on to Foché’s, a couple of -miles away, where he expected to secure supper -and a lodging, as well as the pleasing distraction -of the ball.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Well, I reckon I see you all to-night,” he -uttered in cheerful anticipation as he moved -away.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You’ll see Zaïda; yes, an’ Jules,” called out -Trodon’s wife good-humoredly. “Me, I got -no time to fool with balls, J’ vous réponds! -with all them chil’ren.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“He’s good-lookin’; yes,” she exclaimed, -when Telèsphore was out of ear-shot. “An’ -dressed! it’s like a prince. I didn’ know you -knew any Baquettes, you, Zaïda.”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>“It’s strange you don’ know ’em yo’ se’f, -cousine.” Well, there had been no question -from Ma’me Trodon, so why should there be -an answer from Zaïda?</p> - -<p class='c001'>Telèsphore wondered as he walked why he -had not accepted the invitation to enter. He -was not regretting it; he was simply wondering -what could have induced him to decline. For -it surely would have been agreeable to sit there -on the gallery waiting while Zaïda prepared -herself for the dance; to have partaken of supper -with the family and afterward accompanied -them to Foché’s. The whole situation was so -novel, and had presented itself so unexpectedly -that Telèsphore wished in reality to become acquainted -with it, accustomed to it. He wanted -to view it from this side and that in comparison -with other, familiar situations. The girl -had impressed him—affected him in some way; -but in some new, unusual way, not as the others -always had. He could not recall details of -her personality as he could recall such details -of Amaranthe or the Valtours, of any of them. -When Telèsphore tried to think of her he could -not think at all. He seemed to have absorbed -her in some way and his brain was not so -<span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>occupied with her as his senses were. At that -moment he was looking forward to the ball; -there was no doubt about that. Afterwards, he -did not know what he would look forward to; -he did not care; afterward made no difference. -If he had expected the crash of doom to come -after the dance at Foché’s, he would only -have smiled in his thankfulness that it was not -to come before.</p> - -<p class='c012'>There was the same scene every Saturday at -Foché’s! A scene to have aroused the guardians -of the peace in a locality where such commodities -abound. And all on account of the -mammoth pot of gumbo that bubbled, bubbled, -bubbled out in the open air. Foché in -shirt-sleeves, fat, red and enraged, swore -and reviled, and stormed at old black Douté -for her extravagance. He called her every -kind of a name of every kind of animal that -suggested itself to his lurid imagination. And -every fresh invective that he fired at her she -hurled it back at him while into the pot went -the chickens and the pans-full of minced ham, -and the fists-full of onion and sage and piment -rouge and piment vert. If he wanted her to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>cook for pigs he had only to say so. She -knew how to cook for pigs and she knew -how to cook for people of les Avoyelles.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The gumbo smelled good, and Telèsphore -would have liked a taste of it. Douté was -dragging from the fire a stick of wood that -Foché had officiously thrust beneath the simmering -pot, and she muttered as she hurled it -smouldering to one side:</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Vaux mieux y s’méle ces affairs, lui; si -non!” But she was all courtesy as she dipped -a steaming plate for Telèsphore; though she -assured him it would not be fit for a Christian -or a gentleman to taste till midnight.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Telèsphore having brushed, “spruced” and -refreshed himself, strolled about, taking a view -of the surroundings. The house, big, bulky -and weather-beaten, consisted chiefly of galleries -in every stage of decrepitude and dilapidation. -There were a few chinaberry trees -and a spreading live oak in the yard. Along -the edge of the fence, a good distance away, -was a line of gnarled and distorted mulberry -trees; and it was there, out in the road, that -the people who came to the ball tied their -ponies, their wagons and carts.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>Dusk was beginning to fall and Telèsphore, -looking out across the prairie, could see them -coming from all directions. The little Creole -ponies galloping in a line looked like hobby -horses in the faint distance; the mule-carts -were like toy wagons. Zaïda might be among -those people approaching, flying, crawling -ahead of the darkness that was creeping out of -the far wood. He hoped so, but he did not -believe so; she would hardly have had time to -dress.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Foché was noisily lighting lamps, with the -assistance of an inoffensive mulatto boy whom -he intended in the morning to butcher, to -cut into sections, to pack and salt down in a -barrel, like the Colfax woman did to her old -husband—a fitting destiny for so stupid a pig -as the mulatto boy. The negro musicians had -arrived: two fiddlers and an accordion player, -and they were drinking whiskey from a black -quart bottle which was passed socially from -one to the other. The musicians were really -never at their best till the quart bottle had -been consumed.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The girls who came in wagons and on -ponies from a distance wore, for the most -<span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>part, calico dresses and sun-bonnets. Their -finery they brought along in pillow-slips or -pinned up in sheets and towels. With these -they at once retired to an upper room; later to -appear be-ribboned and be-furbelowed; their -faces masked with starch powder, but never a -touch of rouge.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Most of the guests had assembled when -Zaïda arrived—“dashed up” would better express -her coming—in an open, two-seated -buckboard, with her cousin Jules driving. He -reined the pony suddenly and viciously before -the time-eaten front steps, in order to produce -an impression upon those who were gathered -around. Most of the men had halted their -vehicles outside and permitted their women -folk to walk up from the mulberry trees.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But the real, the stunning effect was produced -when Zaïda stepped upon the gallery -and threw aside her light shawl in the full glare -of half a dozen kerosene lamps. She was white -from head to foot—literally, for her slippers -even were white. No one would have believed, -let alone suspected that they were a pair of old -black ones which she had covered with pieces -of her first communion sash. There is no describing -<span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>her dress, it was fluffy, like a fresh -powder-puff, and stood out. No wonder she -had handled it so reverentially! Her white fan -was covered with spangles that she herself had -sewed all over it; and in her belt and in her -brown hair were thrust small sprays of orange -blossom.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Two men leaning against the railing uttered -long whistles expressive equally of wonder and -admiration.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Tiens! t’es pareille comme ain mariée, -Zaïda;” cried out a lady with a baby in her -arms. Some young women tittered and Zaïda -fanned herself. The women’s voices were almost -without exception shrill and piercing; the -men’s, soft and low-pitched.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The girl turned to Telèsphore, as to an old -and valued friend:</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Tiens! c’est vous?” He had hesitated -at first to approach, but at this friendly sign -of recognition he drew eagerly forward and -held out his hand. The men looked at him -suspiciously, inwardly resenting his stylish appearance, -which they considered <a id='corr17.24'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='instrusive'>intrusive</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_17.24'><ins class='correction' title='instrusive'>intrusive</ins></a></span>, offensive -and demoralizing.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>How Zaïda’s eyes sparkled now! What very -pretty teeth Zaïda had when she laughed, and -what a mouth! Her lips were a revelation, a -promise; something to carry away and remember -in the night and grow hungry thinking of -next day. Strictly speaking, they may not have -been quite all that; but in any event, that is the -way Telèsphore thought about them. He began -to take account of her appearance: her -nose, her eyes, her hair. And when she left -him to go in and dance her first dance with -cousin Jules, he leaned up against a post and -thought of them: nose, eyes, hair, ears, lips and -round, soft throat.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Later it was like Bedlam.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The musicians had warmed up and were -scraping away indoors and calling the figures. -Feet were pounding through the dance; dust -was flying. The women’s voices were piped -high and mingled discordantly, like the confused, -shrill clatter of waking birds, while the -men laughed boisterously. But if some one had -only thought of gagging Foché, there would -have been less noise. His good humor permeated -everywhere, like an atmosphere. He -was louder than all the noise; he was more -<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>visible than the dust. He called the young -mulatto (destined for the knife) “my boy” and -sent him flying hither and thither. He beamed -upon Douté as he tasted the gumbo and congratulated -her: “C’est toi qui s’y connais, ma -fille! ’cré tonnerre!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Telèsphore danced with Zaïda and then he -leaned out against the post; then he danced -with Zaïda, and then he leaned against the -post. The mothers of the other girls decided -that he had the manners of a pig.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was time to dance again with Zaïda and -he went in search of her. He was carrying -her shawl, which she had given him to hold.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“W’at time it is?” she asked him when he -had found and secured her. They were under -one of the kerosene lamps on the front gallery -and he drew forth his silver watch. She -seemed to be still laboring under some suppressed -excitement that he had noticed before.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“It’s fo’teen minutes pas’ twelve,” he told -her exactly.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I wish you’d fine out w’ere Jules is. Go -look yonda in the card-room if he’s there, an’ -come tell me.” Jules had danced with all the -prettiest girls. She knew it was his custom -<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>after accomplishing this agreeable feat, to retire -to the card-room,</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You’ll wait yere till I come back?” he -asked.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I’ll wait yere; you go on.” She waited but -drew back a little into the shadow. Telèsphore -lost no time.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Yes, he’s yonda playin’ cards with Foché -an’ some others I don’ know,” he reported -when he had discovered her in the shadow. -There had been a spasm of alarm when he did -not at once see her where he had left her under -the lamp.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Does he look—look like he’s fixed yonda -fo’ good?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“He’s got his coat off. Looks like he’s fixed -pretty comf’table fo’ the nex’ hour or two.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Gi’ me my shawl.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You cole?” offering to put it around her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No, I ain’t cole.” She drew the shawl about -her shoulders and turned as if to leave him. -But a sudden generous impulse seemed to -move her, and she added:</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Come along yonda with me.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>They descended the few rickety steps that -led down to the yard. He followed rather than -<span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>accompanied her across the beaten and trampled -sward. Those who saw them thought they -had gone out to take the air. The beams of -light that slanted out from the house were fitful -and uncertain, deepening the shadows. The -embers under the empty gumbo-pot glared red -in the darkness. There was a sound of quiet -voices coming from under the trees.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Zaïda, closely accompanied by Telèsphore, -went out where the vehicles and horses were -fastened to the fence. She stepped carefully -and held up her skirts as if dreading the -least speck of dew or of dust.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Unhitch Jules’ ho’se an’ buggy there an’ -turn ’em ’roun’ this way, please.” He did as -instructed, first backing the pony, then leading -it out to where she stood in the half-made -road.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You goin’ home?” he asked her, “betta let -me water the pony.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Neva mine.” She mounted and seating -herself grasped the reins. “No, I aint goin’ -home,” she added. He, too, was holding the -reins gathered in one hand across the pony’s -back.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>“W’ere you goin’?” he demanded.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Neva you mine w’ere I’m goin’.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You ain’t goin’ anyw’ere this time o’ night -by yo’se’f?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“W’at you reckon I’m ’fraid of?” she -laughed. “Turn loose that ho’se,” at the same -time urging the animal forward. The little -brute started away with a bound and Telèsphore, -also with a bound, sprang into the buckboard -and seated himself beside Zaïda.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You ain’t goin’ anyw’ere this time o’ night -by yo’se’f.” It was not a question now, but an -assertion, and there was no denying it. There -was even no disputing it, and Zaïda recognizing -the fact drove on in silence.</p> - -<p class='c001'>There is no animal that moves so swiftly -across a ’Cadian prairie as the little Creole -pony. This one did not run nor trot; he -seemed to reach out in galloping bounds. The -buckboard creaked, bounced, jolted and -swayed. Zaïda clutched at her shawl while -Telèsphore drew his straw hat further down -over his right eye and offered to drive. But he -did not know the road and she would not let -him. They had soon reached the woods.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>If there is any animal that can creep more -slowly through a wooded road than the little -Creole pony, that animal has not yet been discovered -in Acadie. This particular animal -seemed to be appalled by the darkness of the -forest and filled with dejection. His head -drooped and he lifted his feet as if each hoof -were weighted with a thousand pounds of lead. -Any one unacquainted with the peculiarities of -the breed would sometimes have fancied that -he was standing still. But Zaïda and Telèsphore -knew better. Zaïda uttered a deep sigh -as she slackened her hold on the reins and -Telèsphore, lifting his hat, let it swing from -the back of his head.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“How you don’ ask me w’ere I’m goin’?” -she said finally. These were the first words -she had spoken since refusing his offer to drive.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Oh, it don’ make any diff’ence w’ere you -goin’.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Then if it don’ make any diff’ence w’ere -I’m goin’, I jus’ as well tell you.” She hesitated, -however. He seemed to have no curiosity -and did not urge her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I’m goin’ to get married,” she said.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>He uttered some kind of an exclamation; it -was nothing articulate—more like the tone of -an animal that gets a sudden knife <a id='corr24.3'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='thrust'>thrust.</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_24.3'><ins class='correction' title='thrust'>thrust.</ins></a></span> And -now he felt how dark the forest was. An instant -before it had seemed a sweet, black paradise; -better than any heaven he had ever -heard of.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“W’y can’t you get married at home?” This -was not the first thing that occurred to him to -say, but this was the first thing he said.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Ah, b’en oui! with perfec’ mules fo’ a father -an’ mother! it’s good enough to talk.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“W’y couldn’ he come an’ get you? W’at -kine of a scound’el is that to let you go -through the woods at night by yo’se’f?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You betta wait till you know who you -talkin’ about. He didn’ come an’ get me because -he knows I ain’t ’fraid; an’ because he’s -got too much pride to ride in Jules Trodon’s -buckboard afta he done been put out o’ Jules -Trodon’s house.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“W’at’s his name an’ w’ere you goin’ to fine -’im?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Yonda on the other side the woods up at -ole Wat Gibson’s—a kine of justice the peace -or something. Anyhow he’s goin’ to marry us. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>An’ afta we done married those têtes-de-mulets -yonda on bayou de Glaize can say w’at they -want.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“W’at’s his name?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“André Pascal.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>The name meant nothing to Telèsphore. For -all he knew, André Pascal might be one of the -shining lights of Avoyelles; but he doubted it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You betta turn ’roun’,” he said. It was an -unselfish impulse that prompted the suggestion. -It was the thought of this girl married -to a man whom even Jules Trodon would not -suffer to enter his house.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I done give my word,” she answered.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“W’at’s the matta with ’im? W’y don’t yo’ -father and mother want you to marry ’im?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“W’y? Because it’s always the same tune! -W’en a man’s down eve’ybody’s got stones to -throw at ’im. They say he’s lazy. A man that -will walk from St. Landry plumb to Rapides -lookin’ fo’ work; an’ they call that lazy! Then, -somebody’s been spreadin’ yonda on the -Bayou that he drinks. I don’ b’lieve it. I -neva saw ’im drinkin’, me. Anyway, he won’t -drink afta he’s married to me; he’s too fon’ -<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>of me fo’ that. He say he’ll blow out his -brains if I don’ marry ’im.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I reckon you betta turn roun’.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No, I done give my word.” And they went -creeping on through the woods in silence.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“W’at time is it?” she asked after an interval. -He lit a match and looked at his watch.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“It’s quarta to one. W’at time did he say?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I tole ’im I’d come about one o’clock. I -knew that was a good time to get away f’om -the ball.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>She would have hurried a little but the pony -could not be induced to do so. He dragged -himself, seemingly ready at any moment to -give up the breath of life. But once out of the -woods he made up for lost time. They were -on the open prairie again, and he fairly ripped -the air; some flying demon must have changed -skins with him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was a few minutes of one o’clock when -they drew up before Wat Gibson’s house. It -was not much more than a rude shelter, and -in the dim starlight it seemed isolated, as if -standing alone in the middle of the black, far-reaching -prairie. As they halted at the gate -a dog within set up a furious barking; and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>an old negro who had been smoking his pipe -at that ghostly hour, advanced toward them -from the shelter of the gallery. Telèsphore -descended and helped his companion to alight.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“We want to see Mr. Gibson,” spoke up -Zaïda. The old fellow had already opened the -gate. There was no light in the house.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Marse Gibson, he yonda to ole Mr. Bodel’s -playin’ kairds. But he neva’ stay atter one -o’clock. Come in, ma’am; come in, suh; walk -right ’long in.” He had drawn his own conclusions -to explain their appearance. They -stood upon the narrow porch waiting while he -went inside to light the lamp.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Although the house was small, as it comprised -but one room, that room was comparatively -a large one. It looked to Telèsphore -and Zaïda very large and gloomy when they -entered it. The lamp was on a table that stood -against the wall, and that held further a rusty -looking ink bottle, a pen and an old blank -book. A narrow bed was off in the corner. -The brick chimney extended into the room -and formed a ledge that served as mantel shelf. -From the big, low-hanging rafters swung an -assortment of fishing tackle, a gun, some discarded -<span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>articles of clothing and a string of red -peppers. The boards of the floor were broad, -rough and loosely joined together.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Telèsphore and Zaïda seated themselves on -opposite sides of the table and the negro went -out to the wood pile to gather chips and pieces -of bois-gras with which to kindle a small fire.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was a little chilly; he supposed the two -would want coffee and he knew that Wat Gibson -would ask for a cup the first thing on his -arrival.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I wonder w’at’s keepin’ ’im,” muttered Zaïda -impatiently. Telèsphore looked at his -watch. He had been looking at it at intervals -of one minute straight along.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“It’s ten minutes pas’ one,” he said. He offered -no further comment.</p> - -<p class='c001'>At twelve minutes past one Zaïda’s restlessness -again broke into speech.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I can’t imagine, me, w’at’s become of André! -He said he’d be yere sho’ at one.” The -old negro was kneeling before the fire that he -had kindled, contemplating the cheerful blaze. -He rolled his eyes toward Zaïda.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>“You talkin’ ’bout Mr. André Pascal? No -need to look fo’ him. Mr. Andre he b’en down -to de P’int all day raisin’ Cain.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“That’s a lie,” said Zaïda. Telèsphore said -nothing.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Tain’t no lie, ma’am; he b’en sho’ raisin’ -de ole Nick.” She looked at him, too contemptuous -to reply.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The negro told no lie so far as his bald -statement was concerned. He was simply mistaken -in his estimate of André Pascal’s ability -to “raise Cain” during an entire afternoon and -evening and still keep a rendezvous with a -lady at one o’clock in the morning. For André -was even then at hand, as the loud and -menacing howl of the dog testified. The negro -hastened out to admit him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>André did not enter at once; he stayed a -while outside abusing the dog and communicating -to the negro his intention of coming -out to shoot the animal after he had attended -to more pressing business that was awaiting -him within.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Zaïda arose, a little flurried and excited -when he entered. Telèsphore remained seated.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Pascal was partially sober. There had evidently -<span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>been an attempt at dressing for the occasion -at some early part of the previous day, -but such evidences had almost wholly vanished. -His linen was soiled and his whole appearance -was that of a man who, by an effort, -had aroused himself from a debauch. He was -a little taller than Telèsphore, and more loosely -put together. Most women would have called -him a handsomer man. It was easy to imagine -that when sober, he might betray by some subtle -grace of speech or manner, evidences of -gentle blood.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“W’y did you keep me waitin’, André? w’en -you knew—” she got no further, but backed up -against the table and stared at him with earnest, -startled eyes.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Keep you waiting, Zaïda? my dear li’le -Zaïdé, how can you say such a thing! I -started up yere an hour ago an’ that—w’ere’s -that damned ole Gibson?” He had approached -Zaïda with the evident intention of -embracing her, but she seized his wrist and -held him at arm’s length away. In casting his -eyes about for old Gibson his glance alighted -upon Telèsphore.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>The sight of the ’Cadian seemed to fill him -with astonishment. He stood back and began -to contemplate the young fellow and lose himself -in speculation and conjecture before him, -as if before some unlabeled wax figure. He -turned for information to Zaïda.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Say, Zaïda, w’at you call this? Wat kine -of damn fool you got sitting yere? Who let -him in? W’at you reckon he’s lookin’ fo’? -trouble?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Telèsphore said nothing; he was awaiting -his cue from Zaïda.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“André Pascal,” she said, “you jus’ as well -take the do’ an’ go. You might stan’ yere -till the day o’ judgment on yo’ knees befo’ -me; an’ blow out yo’ brains if you a mine to. -I ain’t neva goin’ to marry you.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“The hell you ain’t!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>He had hardly more than uttered the words -when he lay prone on his back. Telèsphore -had knocked him down. The blow seemed -to complete the process of sobering that had -begun in him. He gathered himself together -and rose to his feet; in doing so he reached -back for his pistol. His hold was not yet -steady, however, and the weapon slipped from -<span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>his grasp and fell to the floor. Zaïda picked it -up and laid it on the table behind her. She -was going to see fair play.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The brute instinct that drives men at each -other’s throat was awake and stirring in these -two. Each saw in the other a thing to be -wiped out of his way—out of existence if need -be. Passion and blind rage directed the blows -which they dealt, and steeled the tension of -muscles and clutch of fingers. They were not -skillful blows, however.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The fire blazed cheerily; the kettle which -the negro had placed upon the coals was -steaming and singing. The man had gone in -search of his master. Zaïda had placed the -lamp out of harm’s way on the high mantel -ledge and she leaned back with her hands behind -her upon the table.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She did not raise her voice or lift her finger -to stay the combat that was acting before her. -She was motionless, and white to the lips; -only her eyes seemed to be alive and burning -and blazing. At one moment she felt that André -must have strangled Telèsphore; but she -said nothing. The next instant she could hardly -doubt that the blow from Telèsphore’s -<span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>doubled fist could be less than a killing one; -but she did nothing.</p> - -<p class='c001'>How the loose boards swayed and creaked -beneath the weight of the struggling men! the -very old rafters seemed to groan; and she felt -that the house shook.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The combat, if fierce, was short, and it ended -out on the gallery whither they had staggered -through the open door—or one had dragged -the other—she could not tell. But she knew -when it was over, for there was a long moment -of utter stillness. Then she heard one -of the men descend the steps and go away, for -the gate slammed after him. The other went -out to the cistern; the sound of the tin bucket -splashing in the water reached her where she -stood. He must have been endeavoring to remove -traces of the encounter.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Presently Telèsphore entered the room. The -elegance of his apparel had been somewhat -marred; the men over at the ’Cadian ball -would hardly have taken exception now to his -appearance.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“W’ere is André?” the girl asked.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“He’s gone,” said Telèsphore.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>She had never changed her position and -now when she drew herself up her wrists ached -and she rubbed them a little. She was no longer -pale; the blood had come back into her -cheeks and lips, staining them crimson. She -held out her hand to him. He took it gratefully -enough, but he did not know what to do with -it; that is, he did not know what he might -dare to do with it, so he let it drop gently away -and went to the fire.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I reckon we betta be goin’, too,” she said. -He stooped and poured some of the bubbling -water from the kettle upon the coffee which -the negro had set upon the hearth.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I’ll make a li’le coffee firs’,” he proposed, -“an’ anyhow we betta wait till ole man w’at’shis-name -comes back. It wouldn’t look well -to leave his house that way without some kine -of excuse or explanation.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>She made no reply, but seated herself submissively -beside the table.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Her will, which had been overmastering and -aggressive, seemed to have grown numb under -the disturbing spell of the past few hours. An -illusion had gone from her, and had carried -her love with it. The absence of regret revealed -<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>this to her. She realized, but could not -comprehend it, not knowing that the love had -been part of the illusion. She was tired in -body and spirit, and it was with a sense of restfulness -that she sat all drooping and relaxed -and watched Telèsphore make the coffee.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He made enough for them both and a cup -for old Wat Gibson when he should come in, -and also one for the negro. He supposed the -cups, the sugar and spoons were in the safe -over there in the corner, and that is where he -found them.</p> - -<p class='c001'>When he finally said to Zaïda, “Come, I’m -going to take you home now,” and drew her -shawl around her, pinning it under the chin, -she was like a little child and followed whither -he led in all confidence.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was Telèsphore who drove on the way -back, and he let the pony cut no capers, but -held him to a steady and tempered gait. The -girl was still quiet and silent; she was thinking -tenderly—a little tearfully of those two old -têtes-de-mulets yonder on Bayou de Glaize.</p> - -<p class='c001'>How they crept through the woods! and -how dark it was and how still!</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>“W’at time it is?” whispered Zaïda. Alas! -he could not tell her; his watch was broken. -But almost for the first time in his life, Telèsphore -did not care what time it was.</p> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c010'> - <div><span class='large'>Athénaïse</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span> - <h2 class='c006'>Athénaïse</h2> -</div> - -<h3 class='c013'>I.</h3> - -<p class='c014'>Athénaïse went away in the morning -to make a visit to her parents, ten -miles back on rigolet de Bon Dieu. -She did not return in the evening, and -Cazeau, her husband, fretted not a little. -He did not worry much about Athénaïse, -who, he suspected, was resting only -too content in the bosom of her family; his chief -solicitude was manifestly for the pony she had -ridden. He felt sure those “lazy pigs,” her -brothers, were capable of neglecting it seriously. -This misgiving Cazeau communicated -to his servant, old Félicité, who waited upon -him at supper.</p> - -<p class='c001'>His voice was low pitched, and even softer -than Félicité’s. He was tall, sinewy, swarthy, -and altogether severe looking. His thick black -hair waved, and it gleamed like the breast of -a crow. The sweep of his mustache, which -<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>was not so black, outlined the broad contour -of the mouth. Beneath the under lip grew a -small tuft which he was much given to twisting, -and which he permitted to grow, apparently -for no other purpose. Cazeau’s eyes -were dark blue, narrow and overshadowed. -His hands were coarse and stiff from close acquaintance -with farming tools and implements, -and he handled his fork and knife clumsily. -But he was distinguished looking, and succeeded -in commanding a good deal of respect, -and even fear sometimes.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He ate his supper alone, by the light of a -single coal-oil lamp that but faintly illuminated -the big room, with its bare floor and huge -rafters, and its heavy pieces of furniture that -loomed dimly in the gloom of the apartment. -Félicité, ministering to his wants, hovered -about the table like a little, bent, restless -shadow.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She served him with a dish of sunfish fried -crisp and brown. There was nothing else set -before him beside the bread and butter and -the bottle of red wine which she locked carefully -in the buffet after he had poured his second -glass. She was occupied with her mistress’s -<span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>absence, and kept reverting to it after -he had expressed his solicitude about the pony.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Dat beat me! on’y marry two mont’, an’ -got de head turn’ a’ready to go ’broad. C’est -pas Chrétien, ténez!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Cazeau shrugged his shoulders for answer, -after he had drained his glass and pushed aside -his plate. Félicité’s opinion of the unchristian-like -behavior of his wife in leaving him thus -alone after two months of marriage weighed -little with him. He was used to solitude, and -did not mind a day or a night or two of it. -He had lived alone ten years, since his first -wife died, and Félicité might have known better -than to suppose that he cared. He told her -she was a fool. It sounded like a compliment -in his modulated, caressing voice. She grumbled -to herself as she set about clearing the -table, and Cazeau arose and walked outside on -the gallery; his spur, which he had not removed -upon entering the house, jangled at -every step.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The night was beginning to deepen, and to -gather black about the clusters of trees and -shrubs that were grouped in the yard. In the -beam of light from the open kitchen door a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>black boy stood feeding a brace of snarling, -hungry dogs; further away, on the steps of a -cabin, some one was playing the accordion; -and in still another direction a little negro baby -was crying lustily. Cazeau walked around to -the front of the house, which was square, squat -and one-story.</p> - -<p class='c001'>A belated wagon was driving in at the gate, -and the impatient driver was swearing hoarsely -at his jaded oxen. Félicité stepped out on the -gallery, glass and polishing towel in hand, to -investigate, and to wonder, too, who could be -singing out on the river. It was a party of -young people paddling around, waiting for the -moon to rise, and they were singing Juanita, -their voices coming tempered and melodious -through the distance and the night.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Cazeau’s horse was waiting, saddled, ready -to be mounted, for Cazeau had many things to -attend to before bed-time; so many things that -there was not left to him a moment in which -to think of Athénaïse. He felt her absence, -though, like a dull, insistent pain.</p> - -<p class='c001'>However, before he slept that night he was -visited by the thought of her, and by a vision -of her fair young face with its drooping lips -<span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>and sullen and averted eyes. The marriage -had been a blunder; he had only to look into -her eyes to feel that, to discover her growing -aversion. But it was a thing not by any possibility -to be undone. He was quite prepared -to make the best of it, and expected no less -than a like effort on her part. The less she -revisited the rigolet, the better. He would -find means to keep her at home hereafter.</p> - -<p class='c001'>These unpleasant reflections kept Cazeau -awake far into the night, notwithstanding the -craving of his whole body for rest and sleep. -The moon was shining, and its pale effulgence -reached dimly into the room, and with it a -touch of the cool breath of the spring night. -There was an unusual stillness abroad; no -sound to be heard save the distant, tireless, -plaintive notes of the accordion.</p> - -<h3 class='c013'>II.</h3> - -<p class='c014'>Athénaïse did not return the following day, -even though her husband sent her word to do -so by her brother, Montéclin, who passed on -his way to the village early in the morning.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>On the third day Cazeau saddled his horse -and went himself in search of her. She had -sent no word, no message, explaining her absence, -and he felt that he had good cause to -be offended. It was rather awkward to have -to leave his work, even though late in the afternoon,—Cazeau -had always so much to do; -but among the many urgent calls upon him, -the task of bringing his wife back to a sense of -her duty seemed to him for the moment paramount.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The Michés, Athénaïse’s parents, lived on -the old Gotrain place. It did not belong to -them; they were “running” it for a merchant -in Alexandria. The house was far too big -for their use. One of the lower rooms served -for the storing of wood and tools; the person -“occupying” the place before Miché having -pulled up the flooring in despair of being able -to patch it. Upstairs, the rooms were so large, -so bare, that they offered a constant temptation -to lovers of the dance, whose importunities -Madame Miché was accustomed to meet with -amiable indulgence. A dance at Miché’s and -a plate of Madame Miché’s gumbo filé at midnight -were pleasures not to be neglected or -<span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>despised, unless by such serious souls as Cazeau.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Long before Cazeau reached the house his -approach had been observed, for there was -nothing to obstruct the view of the outer road; -vegetation was not yet abundantly advanced, -and there was but a patchy, straggling stand of -cotton and corn in Miché’s field.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Madame Miché, who had been seated on -the gallery in a rocking-chair, stood up to -greet him as he drew near. She was short and -fat, and wore a black skirt and loose muslin -sack fastened at the throat with a hair brooch. -Her own hair, brown and glossy, showed but -a few threads of silver. Her round pink face -was cheery, and her eyes were bright and good -humored. But she was plainly perturbed and -ill at ease as Cazeau advanced.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Montéclin, who was there too, was not ill -at ease, and made no attempt to disguise the -dislike with which his brother-in-law inspired -him. He was a slim, wiry fellow of twenty-five, -short of stature like his mother, and resembling -her in feature. He was in shirtsleeves, -half leaning, half sitting, on the insecure -<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>railing of the gallery, and fanning himself -with his broad-rimmed felt hat.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Cochon!” he muttered under his breath -as Cazeau mounted the stairs,—“sacré cochon!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Cochon” had sufficiently characterized the -man who had once on a time declined to lend -Montéclin money. But when this same man -had had the presumption to propose marriage -to his well-beloved sister, Athénaïse, and the -honor to be accepted by her, Montéclin felt -that a qualifying epithet was needed fully to -express his estimate of Cazeau.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Miché and his oldest son were absent. They -both esteemed Cazeau highly, and talked much -of his qualities of head and heart, and thought -much of his excellent standing with city merchants.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Athénaïse had shut herself up in her room. -Cazeau had seen her rise and enter the house -at perceiving him. He was a good deal mystified, -but no one could have guessed it when -he shook hands with Madame Miché. He had -only nodded to Montéclin, with a muttered -“Comment ça va?”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>“Tiens! something tole me you were coming -to-day!” exclaimed Madame Miché, with a little -blustering appearance of being cordial and -at ease, as she offered Cazeau a chair.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He ventured a short laugh as he seated himself.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You know, nothing would do,” she went -on, with much gesture of her small, plump -hands, “nothing would do but Athénaïse mus’ -stay las’ night fo’ a li’le dance. The boys -wouldn’ year to their sister leaving.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Cazeau shrugged his shoulders significantly, -telling as plainly as words that he knew nothing -about it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Comment. Montéclin didn’ tell you we -were going to keep Athénaïse?” Montéclin -had evidently told nothing.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“An’ how about the night befo’,” questioned -Cazeau, “an’ las’ night? It isn’t possible you -dance every night out yere on the Bon Dieu!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Madame Miché laughed, with amiable appreciation -of the sarcasm; and turning to her -son, “Montéclin, my boy, go tell yo’ sister that -Monsieur Cazeau is yere.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Montéclin did not stir except to shift his position -and settle himself more securely on the -railing.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>“Did you year me, Montéclin?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Oh yes, I yeard you plain enough,” responded -her son, “but you know as well as -me it’s no use to tell ’Thénaïse anything. You -been talkin’ to her yo’se’f since Monday; an’ -pa’s preached himse’f hoa’se on the subject; -an’ you even had uncle Achille down yere -yesterday to reason with her. Wen ’Thénaïse -said she wasn’ goin’ to set her foot back in -Cazeau’s house, she meant it.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>This speech, which Montéclin delivered with -thorough unconcern, threw his mother into a -condition of painful but dumb embarrassment. -It brought two fiery red spots to Cazeau’s -cheeks, and for the space of a moment he -looked wicked.</p> - -<p class='c001'>What Montéclin had spoken was quite true, -though his taste in the manner and choice of -time and place in saying it were not of the best. -Athénaïse, upon the first day of her arrival, -had announced that she came to stay, having -no intention of returning under Cazeau’s roof. -The announcement had scattered consternation, -as she knew it would. She had been implored, -scolded, entreated, stormed at, until she -felt herself like a dragging sail that all the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>winds of heaven had beaten upon. Why in -the name of God had she married Cazeau? -Her father had lashed her with the question -a dozen times. Why indeed? It was difficult -now for her to understand why, unless because -she supposed it was customary for girls -to marry when the right opportunity came. -Cazeau, she knew, would make life more comfortable -for her; and again, she had liked him, -and had even been rather flustered when he -pressed her hands and kissed them, and kissed -her lips and cheeks and eyes, when she accepted -him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Montéclin himself had taken her aside to talk -the thing over. The turn of affairs was delighting -him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Come, now, ’Thénaïse, you mus’ explain to -me all about it, so we can settle on a good -cause, an’ secu’ a separation fo’ you. Has he -been mistreating an’ abusing you, the sacré -cochon?” They were alone together in her -room, whither she had taken refuge from the -angry domestic elements.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You please to reserve yo’ disgusting expressions, -Montéclin. No, he has not abused -me in any way that I can think.”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>“Does he drink? Come ’Thénaïse, think -well over it. Does he ever get drunk?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Drunk! Oh, mercy, no,—Cazeau never -gets drunk.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I see; it’s jus’ simply you feel like me; you -hate him.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No, I don’t hate him,” she returned reflectively; -adding with a sudden impulse, “It’s -jus’ being married that I detes’ an’ despise. -I hate being Mrs. Cazeau, an’ would want to -be Athénaïse Miché again. I can’t stan’ to -live with a man; to have him always there; his -coats an’ pantaloons hanging in my room; his -ugly bare feet—washing them in my tub, befo’ -my very eyes, ugh!” She shuddered with recollections, -and resumed, with a sigh that was -almost a sob: “Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! Sister -Marie Angélique knew w’at she was saying; -she knew me better than myse’f w’en she said -God had sent me a vocation an’ I was turning -deaf ears. W’en I think of a blessed life in -the convent, at peace! Oh, w’at was I dreaming -of!” and then the tears came.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Montéclin felt disconcerted and greatly disappointed -at having obtained evidence that -would carry no weight with a court of justice. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>The day had not come when a young woman -might ask the court’s permission to return to -her mamma on the sweeping ground of a constitutional -disinclination for marriage. But if -there was no way of untying this Gordian knot -of marriage, there was surely a way of cutting -it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Well, ’Thénaïse, I’m mighty durn sorry yo -got no better groun’s ’an w’at you say. But -you can count on me to stan’ by you w’atever -you do. God knows I don’ blame you fo’ not -wantin’ to live with Cazeau.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>And now there was Cazeau himself, with the -red spots flaming in his swarthy cheeks, looking -and feeling as if he wanted to thrash -Montéclin into some semblance of decency. He -arose abruptly, and approaching the room -which he had seen his wife enter, thrust open -the door after a hasty preliminary knock. Athénaïse, -who was standing erect at a far window, -turned at his entrance.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She appeared neither angry nor frightened, -but thoroughly unhappy, with an appeal in her -soft dark eyes and a tremor on her lips that -seemed to him expressions of unjust reproach, -that wounded and maddened him at once. But -<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>whatever he might feel, Cazeau knew only one -way to act toward a woman.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Athénaïse, you are not ready?” he asked in -his quiet tones. “It’s getting late; we havn’ -any time to lose.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>She knew that Montéclin had spoken out, -and she had hoped for a wordy interview, a -stormy scene, in which she might have held -her own as she had held it for the past three -days against her family, with Montéclin’s aid. -But she had no weapon with which to combat -subtlety. Her husband’s looks, his tones, -his mere presence, brought to her a sudden -sense of hopelessness, an instinctive realization -of the futility of rebellion against a social -and sacred institution.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Cazeau said nothing further, but stood waiting -in the doorway. Madame Miché had -walked to the far end of the gallery, and pretended -to be occupied with having a chicken -driven from her parterre. Montéclin stood by, -exasperated, fuming, ready to burst out.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Athénaïse went and reached for her riding -skirt that hung against the wall. She was -rather tall, with a figure which, though not robust, -seemed perfect in its fine proportions. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>“La fille de son père,” she was often called, -which was a great compliment to Miché. Her -brown hair was brushed all fluffily back from -her temples and low forehead, and about her -features and expression lurked a softness, a -prettiness, a dewiness, that were perhaps too -childlike, that savored of immaturity.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She slipped the riding-skirt, which was of -black alpaca, over her head, and with impatient -fingers hooked it at the waist over her pink -linen-lawn. Then she fastened on her white -sunbonnet and reached for her gloves on the -mantelpiece.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“If you don’ wan’ to go, you know w’at you -got to do, ’Thénaïse,” fumed Montéclin. “You -don’ set yo’ feet back on Cane River, by God, -unless you want to,—not w’ile I’m alive.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Cazeau looked at him as if he were a monkey -whose antics fell short of being amusing.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Athénaïse still made no reply, said not a -word. She walked rapidly past her husband, -past her brother; bidding good-bye to no one, -not even to her mother. She descended the -stairs, and without assistance from any one -mounted the pony, which Cazeau had ordered -to be saddled upon his arrival. In this way -<span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>she obtained a fair start of her husband, whose -departure was far more leisurely, and for the -greater part of the way she managed to keep an -appreciable gap between them. She rode almost -madly at first, with the wind inflating her -skirt balloon-like about her knees, and her sunbonnet -falling back between her shoulders.</p> - -<p class='c001'>At no time did Cazeau make an effort to -overtake her until traversing an old fallow -meadow that was level and hard as a table. -The sight of a great solitary oak-tree, with -its seemingly immutable outlines, that had -been a landmark for ages—or was it the odor -of elderberry stealing up from the gully to the -south? or what was it that brought vividly -back to Cazeau, by some association of ideas, -a scene of many years ago? He had passed -that old live-oak hundreds of times, but it -was only now that the memory of one day -came back to him. He was a very small boy -that day, seated before his father on horseback. -They were proceeding slowly, and -Black Gabe was moving on before them at a -little dog-trot. Black Gabe had run away, and -had been discovered back in the Gotrain -swamp. They had halted beneath this big oak -<span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>to enable the negro to take breath; for Cazeau’s -father was a kind and considerate master, and -every one had agreed at the time that Black -Gabe was a fool, a great idiot indeed, for wanting -to run away from him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The whole impression was for some reason -hideous, and to dispel it Cazeau spurred his -horse to a swift gallop. Overtaking his wife, -he rode the remainder of the way at her side in -silence.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was late when they reached home. Félicité -was standing on the grassy edge of the -road, in the moonlight, waiting for them.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Cazeau once more ate his supper alone; for -Athénaïse went to her room, and there she -was crying again.</p> - -<h3 class='c013'>III.</h3> - -<p class='c014'>Athénaïse was not one to accept the inevitable -with patient resignation, a talent born in the -souls of many women; neither was she the one -to accept it with philosophical resignation, like -her husband. Her sensibilities were alive and -keen and responsive. She met the pleasurable -things of life with frank, open appreciation, -and against distasteful conditions she rebelled. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>Dissimulation was as foreign to her nature as -guile to the breast of a babe, and her rebellious -outbreaks, by no means rare, had hitherto been -quite open and aboveboard. People often said -that Athénaïse would know her own mind -some day, which was equivalent to saying that -she was at present unacquainted with it. If -she ever came to such knowledge, it would be -by no intellectual research, by no subtle analyses -or tracing the motives of actions to their -source. It would come to her as the song -to the bird, the perfume and color to the flower.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Her parents had hoped—not without reason -and justice—that marriage would bring the -poise, the desirable pose, so glaringly lacking -in Athénaïse’s character. Marriage they knew -to be a wonderful and powerful agent in the -development and formation of a woman’s character; -they had seen its effect too often to -doubt it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“And if this marriage does nothing else,” -exclaimed Miché in an outburst of sudden exasperation, -“it will rid us of Athénaïse; for I -am at the end of my patience with her! You -have never had the firmness to manage her,”—he -was speaking to his wife,—“I have not had -<span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>the time, the leisure, to devote to her training; -and what good we might have accomplished, -that maudit Montéclin—Well, Cazeau is the -one! It takes just such a steady hand to guide -a disposition like Athénaïse’s, a master hand, a -strong will that compels obedience.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>And now, when they had hoped for so much, -here was Athénaïse, with gathered and fierce -vehemence, beside which her former outbursts -appeared mild, declaring that she would not, -and she would not, and she would not continue -to enact the rôle of wife to Cazeau. If she -had had a reason! as Madame Miché lamented; -but it could not be discovered that she had -any sane one. He had never scolded, or called -names, or deprived her of comforts, or been -guilty of any of the many reprehensible acts -commonly attributed to objectionable husbands. -He did not slight nor neglect her. Indeed, -Cazeau’s chief offense seemed to be that -he loved her, and Athénaïse was not the woman -to be loved against her will. She called -marriage a trap set for the feet of unwary and -unsuspecting girls, and in round, unmeasured -terms reproached her mother with treachery -and deceit.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>“I told you Cazeau was the man,” chuckled -Miché, when his wife had related the scene -that had accompanied and influenced Athénaïse’s -departure.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Athénaïse again hoped, in the morning, that -Cazeau would scold or make some sort of a -scene, but he apparently did not dream of it. -It was exasperating that he should take her -acquiescence so for granted. It is true he had -been up and over the fields and across the -river and back long before she was out of bed, -and he may have been thinking of something -else, which was no excuse, which was even in -some sense an aggravation. But he did say -to her at breakfast, “That brother of yo’s, that -Montéclin, is unbearable.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Montéclin? Par exemple!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Athénaïse, seated opposite to her husband, -was attired in a white morning wrapper. She -wore a somewhat abused, long face, it is true,—an -expression of countenance familiar to -some husbands,—but the expression was not -sufficiently pronounced to mar the charm of her -youthful freshness. She had little heart to eat, -only playing with the food before her, and she -<span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>felt a pang of resentment at her husband’s -healthy appetite.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Yes, Montéclin,” he reasserted. “He’s developed -into a firs’-class nuisance; an’ you better -tell him, Athénaïse,—unless you want me -to tell him,—to confine his energies after this -to matters that concern him. I have no use -fo’ him or fo’ his interference in w’at regards -you an’ me alone.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>This was said with unusual asperity. It was -the little breach that Athénaïse had been -watching for, and she charged rapidly: “It’s -strange, if you detes’ Montéclin so heartily, -that you would desire to marry his sister.” She -knew it was a silly thing to say, and was not -surprised when he told her so. It gave her -a little foothold for further attack, however. “I -don’t see, anyhow, w’at reason you had to -marry me, w’en there were so many others,” -she complained, as if accusing him of persecution -and injury. “There was Marianne running -after you fo’ the las’ five years till it was -disgraceful; an’ any one of the Dortrand girls -would have been glad to marry you. But no, -nothing would do; you mus’ come out on the -rigolet fo’ me.” Her complaint was pathetic, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>and at the same time so amusing that Cazeau -was forced to smile.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I can’t see w’at the Dortrand girls or Marianne -have to do with it,” he rejoined; adding, -with no trace of amusement, “I married you -because I loved you; because you were the -woman I wanted to marry, an’ the only one. -I reckon I tole you that befo’. I thought—of -co’se I was a fool fo’ taking things fo’ granted—but -I did think that I might make you -happy in making things easier an’ mo’ comfortable -fo’ you. I expected—I was even that -big a fool—I believed that yo’ coming yere -to me would be like the sun shining out of the -clouds, an’ that our days would be like w’at the -story-books promise after the wedding. I was -mistaken. But I can’t imagine w’at induced -you to marry me. W’atever it was, I reckon -you foun’ out you made a mistake, too. I -don’ see anything to do but make the best of -a bad bargain, an’ shake han’s over it.” He -had arisen from the table, and, approaching, -held out his hand to her. What he had said -was commonplace enough, but it was significant, -coming from Cazeau, who was not often -so unreserved in expressing himself.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>Athénaïse ignored the hand held out to her. -She was resting her chin in her palm, and kept -her eyes fixed moodily upon the table. He -rested his hand, that she would not touch, upon -her head for an instant, and walked away out -of the room.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She heard him giving orders to workmen -who had been waiting for him out on the gallery, -and she heard him mount his horse and -ride away. A hundred things would distract -him and engage his attention during the day. -She felt that he had perhaps put her and her -grievance from his thoughts when he crossed -the threshold; whilst she—</p> - -<p class='c001'>Old Félicité was standing there holding a -shining tin pail, asking for flour and lard and -eggs from the storeroom, and meal for the -chicks.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Athénaïse seized the bunch of keys which -hung from her belt and flung them at -Félicité’s feet.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Tiens! tu vas les garder comme tu as jadis -fait. Je ne veux plus de ce train là, moi!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>The old woman stooped and picked up the -keys from the floor. It was really all one to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>her that her mistress returned them to her -keeping, and refused to take further account -of the ménage.</p> - -<h3 class='c013'>IV.</h3> - -<p class='c014'>It seemed now to Athénaïse that Montéclin -was the only friend left to her in the world. -Her father and mother had turned from her in -what appeared to be her hour of need. Her -friends laughed at her, and refused to take seriously -the hints which she threw out,—feeling -her way to discover if marriage were as distasteful -to other women as to herself. Montéclin -alone understood her. He alone had always -been ready to act for her and with her, to comfort -and solace her with his sympathy and his -support. Her only hope for rescue from her -hateful surroundings lay in Montéclin. Of -herself she felt powerless to plan, to act, even -to conceive a way out of this pitfall into which -the whole world seemed to have conspired to -thrust her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She had a great desire to see her brother, -and wrote asking him to come to her. But it -better suited Montéclin’s spirit of adventure to -appoint a meeting-place at the turn of the lane, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>where Athénaïse might appear to be walking -leisurely for health and recreation, and where -he might seem to be riding along, bent on -some errand of business or pleasure.</p> - -<p class='c001'>There had been a shower, a sudden downpour, -short as it was sudden, that had laid the -dust in the road. It had freshened the pointed -leaves of the live-oaks, and brightened up the -big fields of cotton on either side of the lane -till they seemed carpeted with green, glittering -gems.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Athénaïse walked along the grassy edge of -the road, lifting her crisp skirts with one hand, -and with the other twirling a gay sunshade -over her bare head. The scent of the fields -after the rain was delicious. She inhaled long -breaths of their freshness and perfume, that -soothed and quieted her for the moment. -There were birds splashing and spluttering in -the pools, pluming themselves on the fence-*rails, -and sending out little sharp cries, twitters, -and shrill rhapsodies of delight.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She saw Montéclin approaching from a -great distance,—almost as far away as the turn -of the woods. But she could not feel sure it -was he; it appeared too tall for Montéclin, but -<span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>that was because he was riding a large horse. -She waved her parasol to him; she was so glad -to see him. She had never been so glad to -see Montéclin before; not even the day when -he had taken her out of the convent, against -her parents’ wishes, because she had expressed -a desire to remain there no longer. He -seemed to her, as he drew near, the embodiment -of kindness, of bravery, of chivalry, even -of wisdom; for she had never known Montéclin -at a loss to extricate himself from a disagreeable -situation.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He dismounted, and, leading his horse by -the bridle, started to walk beside her, after he -had kissed her affectionately and asked her -what she was crying about. She protested that -she was not crying, for she was laughing, -though drying her eyes at the same time on -her handkerchief, rolled in a soft mop for the -purpose.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She took Montéclin’s arm, and they strolled -slowly down the lane; they could not seat -themselves for a comfortable chat, as they -would have liked, with the grass all sparkling -and bristling wet.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>Yes, she was quite as wretched as ever, she -told him. The week which had gone by since she -saw him had in no wise lightened the burden -of her discontent. There had even been some -additional provocations laid upon her, and she -told Montéclin all about them,—about the -keys, for instance, which in a fit of temper she -had returned to Félicité’s keeping; and she -told how Cazeau had brought them back to -her as if they were something she had accidentally -lost, and he had recovered; and how -he had said, in that aggravating tone of his, -that it was not the custom on Cane river for -the negro servants to carry the keys, when -there was a mistress at the head of the household.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But Athénaïse could not tell Montéclin anything -to increase the disrespect which he already -entertained for his brother-in-law; and -it was then he unfolded to her a plan which he -had conceived and worked out for her deliverance -from this galling matrimonial yoke.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was not a plan which met with instant -favor, which she was at once ready to accept, -for it involved secrecy and dissimulation, hateful -alternatives, both of them. But she was -<span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>filled with admiration for Montéclin’s resources -and wonderful talent for contrivance. She accepted -the plan; not with the immediate determination -to act upon it, rather with the intention -to sleep and to dream upon it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Three days later she wrote to Montéclin that -she had abandoned herself to his counsel. Displeasing -as it might be to her sense of honesty, -it would yet be less trying than to live -on with a soul full of bitterness and revolt, as -she had done for the past two months.</p> - -<h3 class='c013'>V.</h3> - -<p class='c014'>When Cazeau awoke, one morning at his -usual very early hour, it was to find the place -at his side vacant. This did not surprise him until -he discovered that Athénaïse was not in the -adjoining room, where he had often found her -sleeping in the morning on the lounge. She -had perhaps gone out for an early stroll, he reflected, -for her jacket and hat were not on the -rack where she had hung them the night before. -But there were other things absent,—a -gown or two from the armoire; and there -was a great gap in the piles of lingerie on the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>shelf; and her traveling-bag was missing, and -so were her bits of jewelry from the toilet tray—and -Athénaïse was gone!</p> - -<p class='c001'>But the absurdity of going during the night, -as if she had been a prisoner, and he the keeper -of a dungeon! So much secrecy and mystery, -to go sojourning out on the Bon Dieu? Well, -the Michés might keep their daughter after -this. For the companionship of no woman on -earth would he again undergo the humiliating -sensation of baseness that had overtaken him -in passing the old oak-tree in the fallow meadow.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But a terrible sense of loss overwhelmed -Cazeau. It was not new or sudden; he had felt -it for weeks growing upon him, and it seemed -to culminate with Athénaïse’s flight from -home. He knew that he could again compel -her return as he had done once before,—compel -her to return to the shelter of his roof, -compel her cold and unwilling submission to -his love and passionate transports; but the -loss of self-respect seemed to him too dear a -price to pay for a wife.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He could not comprehend why she had -seemed to prefer him above others; why she -<span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>had attracted him with eyes, with voice, with -a hundred womanly ways, and finally distracted -him with love which she seemed, in her timid, -maidenly fashion, to return. The great sense -of loss came from the realization of having -missed a chance for happiness,—a chance that -would come his way again only through a -miracle. He could not think of himself loving -any other woman, and could not think of -Athénaïse ever—even at some remote date—caring -for him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He wrote her a letter, in which he disclaimed -any further intention of forcing his commands -upon her. He did not desire her presence -ever again in his home unless she came of her -free will, uninfluenced by family or friends; -unless she could be the companion he had -hoped for in marrying her, and in some measure -return affection and respect for the love -which he continued and would always continue -to feel for her. This letter he sent out to the -rigolet by a messenger early in the day. But -she was not out on the rigolet, and had not -been there.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The family turned instinctively to Montéclin, -and almost literally fell upon him for an -<span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>explanation; he had been absent from home all -night. There was much mystification in his -answers, and a plain desire to mislead in his -assurances of ignorance and innocence.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But with Cazeau there was no doubt or speculation -when he accosted the young fellow. -“Montéclin, w’at have you done with Athénaïse?” -he questioned bluntly. They had met -in the open road on horseback, just as Cazeau -ascended the river bank before his house.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“W’at have you done to Athénaïse?” returned -Montéclin for answer.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I don’t reckon you’ve considered yo’ conduct -by any light of decency an’ propriety in -encouraging yo’ sister to such an action, but -let me tell you”—</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Voyons! you can let me alone with yo’ decency -an’ morality an’ fiddlesticks. I know -you mus’ ’a’ done Athénaïse pretty mean that -she can’t live with you; an’ fo’ my part, I’m -mighty durn glad she had the spirit to quit -you.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I ain’t in the humor to take any notice of -yo’ impertinence, Montéclin; but let me remine -you that Athénaïse is nothing but a chile -in character; besides that, she’s my wife, an’ -<span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>I hole you responsible fo’ her safety an’ welfare. -If any harm of any description happens -to her, I’ll strangle you, by God, like a rat, and -fling you in Cane river, if I have to hang fo’ -it!” He had not lifted his voice. The only sign -of anger was a savage gleam in his eyes.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I reckon you better keep yo’ big talk fo’ -the women, Cazeau,” replied Montéclin, riding -away.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But he went doubly armed after that, and intimated -that the precaution was not needless, -in view of the threats and menaces that were -abroad touching his personal safety.</p> - -<h3 class='c013'>VI.</h3> - -<p class='c014'>Athénaïse reached her destination sound of -skin and limb, but a good deal flustered, a little -frightened, and altogether excited and interested -by her unusual experiences.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Her destination was the house of Sylvie, on -Dauphine Street, in New Orleans,—a three-story -gray brick, standing directly on the banquette, -with three broad stone steps leading to -the deep front entrance. From the second-story -balcony swung a small sign, conveying to passers-by -<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>the intelligence that within were “<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>chambres -garnies</i>.</span>”</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was one morning in the last week of April -that Athénaïse presented herself at the Dauphine -Street house. Sylvie was expecting her, -and introduced her at once to her apartment, -which was in the second story of the back -ell, and accessible by an open, outside gallery. -There was a yard below, paved with broad -stone flagging; many fragrant flowering shrubs -and plants grew in a bed along the side of the -opposite wall, and others were distributed about -in tubs and green boxes.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was a plain but large enough room into -which Athénaïse was ushered, with matting on -the floor, green shades and Nottingham-lace -curtains at the windows that looked out on the -gallery, and furnished with a cheap walnut -suit. But everything looked exquisitely clean, -and the whole place smelled of cleanliness.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Athénaïse at once fell into the rocking-chair, -with the air of exhaustion and intense relief of -one who has come to the end of her troubles. -Sylvie, entering behind her, laid the big traveling-bag -on the floor and deposited the jacket -on the bed.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>She was a portly quadroon of fifty or thereabout, -clad in an ample <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>volante</i></span> of the old-fashioned -purple calico so much affected by her -class. She wore large golden hoop-earrings, -and her hair was combed plainly, with every -appearance of effort to smooth out the kinks. -She had broad, coarse features, with a nose -that turned up, exposing the wide nostrils, and -that seemed to emphasize the loftiness and command -of her bearing,—a dignity that in the -presence of white people assumed a character -of respectfulness, but never of obsequiousness. -Sylvie believed firmly in maintaining the color-line, -and would not suffer a white person, even -a child, to call her “Madame Sylvie,”—a title -which she exacted religiously, however, from -those of her own race.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I hope you be please’ wid yo’ room, madame,” -she observed amiably. “Dat’s de same -room w’at yo’ brother, M’sieur Miché, all time -like w’en he come to New Orlean’. He well, -M’sieur Miché? I receive’ his letter las’ week, -an’ dat same day a gent’man want I give ’im -dat room. I say, ‘No, dat room already ingage’.’ -Ev-body like dat room on ’count it so -quite (quiet). M’sieur Gouvernail, dere in nax’ -<span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>room, you can’t pay ’im! He been stay t’ree -year’ in dat room; but all fix’ up fine wid his -own furn’ture an’ books, ’tel you can’t see! I -say to ’im plenty time’, ‘M’sieur Gouvernail, -w’y you don’t take dat t’ree-story front, now, -long it’s empty?’ He tells me, ‘Leave me ’lone, -Sylvie; I know a good room w’en I fine it, -me.’”</p> - -<p class='c001'>She had been moving slowly and majestically -about the apartment, straightening and -smoothing down bed and pillows, peering into -ewer and basin, evidently casting an eye -around to make sure that everything was as -it should be.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I sen’ you some fresh water, madame,” she -offered upon retiring from the room. “An’ -w’en you want an’t’ing, you jus’ go out on de -gall’ry an’ call Pousette: she year you plain,—she -right down dere in de kitchen.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Athénaïse was really not so exhausted as she -had every reason to be after that interminable -and circuitous way by which Montéclin had -seen fit to have her conveyed to the city.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Would she ever forget that dark and truly -dangerous midnight ride along the “coast” to -the mouth of Cane river! There Montéclin -<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>had parted with her, after seeing her aboard -the St. Louis and Shreveport packet which he -knew would pass there before dawn. She had -received instructions to disembark at the -mouth of Red river, and there transfer to the -first south-bound steamer for New Orleans; all -of which instructions she had followed implicitly, -even to making her way at once to Sylvie’s -upon her arrival in the city. Montéclin -had enjoined secrecy and much caution; the -clandestine nature of the affair gave it a savor -of adventure which was highly pleasing to -him. Eloping with his sister was only a little -less engaging than eloping with some one -else’s sister.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But Montéclin did not do the <i>grand seigneur</i> -by halves. He had paid Sylvie a whole month -in advance for Athénaïse’s board and lodging. -Part of the sum he had been forced to borrow, -it is true, but he was not niggardly.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Athénaïse was to take her meals in the -house, which none of the other lodgers did; -the one exception being that Mr. Gouvernail -was served with breakfast on Sunday mornings.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>Sylvie’s clientèle came chiefly from the -southern parishes; for the most part, people -spending but a few days in the city. She prided -herself upon the quality and highly respectable -character of her patrons, who came and -went unobtrusively.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The large parlor opening upon the front balcony -was seldom used. Her guests were permitted -to entertain in this sanctuary of elegance,—but -they never did. She often rented -it for the night to parties of respectable and -discreet gentlemen desiring to enjoy a quiet -game of cards outside the bosom of their families. -The second-story hall also led by a long -window out on the balcony. And Sylvie advised -Athénaïse, when she grew weary of her -back room, to go and sit on the front balcony, -which was shady in the afternoon, and -where she might find diversion in the sounds -and sights of the street below.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Athénaïse refreshed herself with a bath, and -was soon unpacking her few belongings, which -she ranged neatly away in the bureau drawers -and the armoire.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She had revolved certain plans in her mind -during the past hour or so. Her present intention -<span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>was to live on indefinitely in this big, -cool, clean back room on Dauphine street. She -had thought seriously, for moments, of the convent, -with all readiness to embrace the vows -of poverty and chastity; but what about obedience? -Later, she intended, in some round-*about -way, to give her parents and her husband -the assurance of her safety and welfare; -reserving the right to remain unmolested and -lost to them. To live on at the expense of -Montéclin’s generosity was wholly out of the -question, and Athénaïse meant to look about -for some suitable and agreeable employment.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The imperative thing to be done at present, -however, was to go out in search of material -for an inexpensive gown or two; for she found -herself in the painful predicament of a young -woman having almost literally nothing to wear. -She decided upon pure white for one, and some -sort of a sprigged muslin for the other.</p> - -<h3 class='c013'>VII.</h3> - -<p class='c014'>On Sunday morning, two days after Athénaïse’s -arrival in the city, she went in to breakfast -somewhat later than usual, to find two -<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>covers laid at table instead of the one to which -she was accustomed. She had been to mass, -and did not remove her hat, but put her fan, -parasol, and prayer-book aside. The dining-room -was situated just beneath her own apartment, -and, like all rooms of the house, was -large and airy; the floor was covered with a -glistening oil-cloth.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The small, round table, immaculately set, -was drawn near the open window. There were -some tall plants in boxes on the gallery outside; -and Pousette, a little, old, intensely black -woman, was splashing and dashing buckets of -water on the flagging, and talking loud in her -Creole patois to no one in particular.</p> - -<p class='c001'>A dish piled with delicate river-shrimps and -crushed ice was on the table; a caraffe of -crystal-clear water, a few <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>hors d’œuvres</i></span>, beside -a small golden-brown crusty loaf of French -bread at each plate. A half-bottle of wine and -the morning paper were set at the place opposite -Athénaïse.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She had almost completed her breakfast -when Gouvernail came in and seated himself -at table. He felt annoyed at finding his cherished -privacy invaded. Sylvie was removing -<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>the remains of a mutton-chop from before -Athénaïse, and serving her with a cup of café -au lait.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“M’sieur Gouvernail,” offered Sylvie in her -most insinuating and impressive manner, “you -please leave me make you acquaint’ wid Madame -Cazeau. Dat’s M’sieur Miché’s sister; -you meet ’im two t’ree time’, you rec’lec’, an’ -been one day to de race wid ’im. Madame -Cazeau, you please leave me make you acquaint’ -wid M’sieur Gouvernail.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Gouvernail expressed himself greatly pleased -to meet the sister of Monsieur Miché, of whom -he had not the slightest recollection. He inquired -after Monsieur Miché’s health, and politely -offered Athénaïse a part of his newspaper,—the -part which contained the Woman’s -Page and the social gossip.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Athénaïse faintly remembered that Sylvie -had spoken of a Monsieur Gouvernail occupying -the room adjoining hers, living amid luxurious -surroundings and a multitude of books. -She had not thought of him further than to -picture him a stout, middle-aged gentleman, -with a bushy beard turning gray, wearing large -gold-rimmed spectacles, and stooping somewhat -<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>from much bending over books and writing -material. She had confused him in her -mind with the likeness of some literary celebrity -that she had run across in the advertising -pages of a magazine.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Gouvernail’s appearance was, in truth, in no -sense striking. He looked older than thirty -and younger than forty, was of medium height -and weight, with a quiet, unobtrusive manner -which seemed to ask that he be let alone. His -hair was light brown, brushed carefully and -parted in the middle. His mustache was -brown, and so were his eyes, which had a mild, -penetrating quality. He was neatly dressed in -the fashion of the day; and his hands seemed -to Athénaïse remarkably white and soft for a -man’s.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He had been buried in the contents of his -newspaper, when he suddenly realized that -some further little attention might be due to -Miché’s sister. He started to offer her a glass -of wine, when he was surprised and relieved -to find that she had quietly slipped away while -he was absorbed in his own editorial on Corrupt -Legislation.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>Gouvernail finished his paper and smoked -his cigar out on the gallery. He lounged -about, gathered a rose for his buttonhole, and -had his regular Sunday-morning confab with -Pousette, to whom he paid a weekly stipend -for brushing his shoes and clothing. He made -a great pretense of haggling over the transaction, -only to enjoy her uneasiness and garrulous -excitement.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He worked or read in his room for a few -hours, and when he quitted the house, at three -in the afternoon, it was to return no more till -late at night. It was his almost invariable -custom to spend Sunday evenings out in the -American quarter, among a congenial set of -men and women,—<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>des esprits forts</i></span>, all of them, -whose lives were irreproachable, yet whose -opinions would startle even the traditional “<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">sapeur,</span>“ -for whom “nothing is sacred.” But for -all his “advanced” opinions, Gouvernail was a -liberal-minded fellow; a man or woman lost -nothing of his respect by being married.</p> - -<p class='c001'>When he left the house in the afternoon, -Athénaïse had already ensconced herself on -the front balcony. He could see her through -the jalousies when he passed on his way to the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>front entrance. She had not yet grown lonesome -or homesick; the newness of her surroundings -made them sufficiently entertaining. -She found it diverting to sit there on the front -balcony watching people pass by, even though -there was no one to talk to. And then the comforting, -comfortable sense of not being married!</p> - -<p class='c001'>She watched Gouvernail walk down the -street, and could find no fault with his bearing. -He could hear the sound of her rockers -for some little distance. He wondered what -the “poor little thing” was doing in the city, -and meant to ask Sylvie about her when he -should happen to think of it.</p> - -<h3 class='c013'>VIII.</h3> - -<p class='c014'>The following morning, towards noon, when -Gouvernail quitted his room, he was confronted -by Athénaïse, exhibiting some confusion and -trepidation at being forced to request a favor -of him at so early a stage of their acquaintance. -She stood in her doorway, and had evidently -been sewing, as the thimble on her finger testified, -as well as a long-threaded needle thrust in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>the bosom of her gown. She held a stamped -but unaddressed letter in her hand.</p> - -<p class='c001'>And would Mr. Gouvernail be so kind as to -address the letter to her brother, Mr. Montéclin -Miché? She would hate to detain him -with explanations this morning,—another time, -perhaps,—but now she begged that he would -give himself the trouble.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He assured her that it made no difference, -that it was no trouble whatever; and he drew -a fountain pen from his pocket and addressed -the letter at her dictation, resting it on the inverted -rim of his straw hat. She wondered a -little at a man of his supposed erudition stumbling -over the spelling of “Montéclin” and -“Miché.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>She demurred at overwhelming him with the -additional trouble of posting it, but he succeeded -in convincing her that so simple a task -as the posting of a letter would not add an iota -to the burden of the day. Moreover, he promised -to carry it in his hand, and thus avoid any -possible risk of forgetting it in his pocket.</p> - -<p class='c001'>After that, and after a second repetition of -the favor, when she had told him that she had -had a letter from Montéclin, and looked as if -<span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>she wanted to tell him more, he felt that he -knew her better. He felt that he knew her -well enough to join her out on the balcony, one -night, when he found her sitting there alone. -He was not one who deliberately sought the -society of women, but he was not wholly a -bear. A little commiseration for Athénaïse’s -aloneness, perhaps some curiosity to know further -what manner of woman she was, and the -natural influence of her feminine charm were -equal unconfessed factors in turning his steps -towards the balcony when he discovered the -shimmer of her white gown through the open -hall window.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was already quite late, but the day had -been intensely hot, and neighboring balconies -and doorways were occupied by chattering -groups of humanity, loath to abandon the -grateful freshness of the outer air. The voices -about her served to reveal to Athénaïse the -feeling of loneliness that was gradually coming -over her. Notwithstanding certain dormant -impulses, she craved human sympathy -and companionship.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She shook hands impulsively with Gouvernail, -and told him how glad she was to see -<span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>him. He was not prepared for such an admission, -but it pleased him immensely, detecting -as he did that the expression was as sincere -as it was outspoken. He drew a chair -up within comfortable conversational distance -of Athénaïse, though he had no intention of -talking more than was barely necessary to encourage -Madame— He had actually forgotten -her name!</p> - -<p class='c001'>He leaned an elbow on the balcony rail, and -would have offered an opening remark about -the oppressive heat of the day, but Athénaïse -did not give him the opportunity. How glad -she was to talk to some one, and how she -talked!</p> - -<p class='c001'>An hour later she had gone to her room, -and Gouvernail stayed smoking on the balcony. -He knew her quite well after that hour’s talk. -It was not so much what she had said as what -her half saying had revealed to his quick intelligence. -He knew that she adored Montéclin, -and he suspected that she adored Cazeau -without being herself aware of it. He had -gathered that she was self-willed, impulsive, innocent, -ignorant, unsatisfied, dissatisfied; for -had she not complained that things seemed all -<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>wrongly arranged in this world, and no one -was permitted to be happy in his own way? -And he told her he was sorry she had discovered -that primordial fact of existence so early -in life.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He commiserated her loneliness, and scanned -his bookshelves next morning for something to -lend her to read, rejecting everything that offered -itself to his view: Philosophy was out -of the question, and so was poetry; that is, -such poetry as he possessed. He had not -sounded her literary tastes, and strongly suspected -she had none; that she would have rejected -The Duchess as readily as Mrs. Humphry -Ward. He compromised on a magazine.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It had entertained her passably, she admitted, -upon returning it. A New England story had -puzzled her, it was true, and a Creole tale had -offended her, but the pictures had pleased her -greatly, especially one which had reminded her -so strongly of Montéclin after a hard day’s -ride that she was loath to give it up. It was -one of Remington’s Cowboys, and Gouvernail -insisted upon her keeping it,—keeping the -magazine.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>He spoke to her daily after that, and was always -eager to render her some service or to -do something towards her entertainment.</p> - -<p class='c001'>One afternoon he took her out to the lake -end. She had been there once, some years before, -but in winter, so the trip was comparatively -new and strange to her. The large expanse -of water studded with pleasure-boats, the -sight of children playing merrily along the -grassy palisades, the music, all enchanted her. -Gouvernail thought her the most beautiful woman -he had ever seen. Even her gown—the -sprigged muslin—appeared to him the most -charming one imaginable. Nor could anything -be more becoming than the arrangement of -her brown hair under the white sailor hat, all -rolled back in a soft puff from her radiant face. -And she carried her parasol and lifted her skirts -and used her fan in ways that seemed quite -unique and peculiar to herself, and which he -considered almost worthy of study and imitation.</p> - -<p class='c001'>They did not dine out there at the water’s -edge, as they might have done, but returned -early to the city to avoid the crowd. Athénaïse -wanted to go home, for she said Sylvie -<span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>would have dinner prepared and would be expecting -her. But it was not difficult to persuade -her to dine instead in the quiet little -restaurant that he knew and liked, with its -sanded floor, its secluded atmosphere, its delicious -menu, and its obsequious waiter wanting -to know what he might have the honor -of serving to “<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">monsieur et madame.</span>” No -wonder he made the mistake, with Gouvernail -assuming such an air of proprietorship! But -Athénaïse was very tired after it all; the sparkle -went out of her face, and she hung draggingly -on his arm in walking home.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He was reluctant to part from her when she -bade him good-night at her door and thanked -him for the agreeable evening. He had hoped -she would sit outside until it was time for him -to regain the newspaper office. He knew that -she would undress and get into her peignoir -and lie upon her bed; and what he wanted to -do, what he would have given much to do, was -to go and sit beside her, read to her something -restful, soothe her, do her bidding, whatever -it might be. Of course there was no use in -thinking of that. But he was surprised at his -<span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>growing desire to be serving her. She gave -him an opportunity sooner than he looked for.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Mr. Gouvernail,” she called from her room, -“will you be so kine as to call Pousette an’ -tell her she fo’got to bring my ice-water?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>He was indignant at Pousette’s negligence, -and called severely to her over the banisters. -He was sitting before his own door, smoking. -He knew that Athénaïse had gone to -bed, for her room was dark, and she had -opened the slats of the door and windows. Her -bed was near a window.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Pousette came flopping up with the ice-water, -and with a hundred excuses: “Mo pa -oua vou à tab c’te lanuite, mo cri vou pé gagni -déja là-bas; parole! Vou pas cri conté ça Madame -Sylvie?” She had not seen Athénaïse at -table, and thought she was gone. She swore -to this, and hoped Madame Sylvie would not -be informed of her remissness.</p> - -<p class='c001'>A little later Athénaïse lifted her voice -again: “Mr. Gouvernail, did you remark that -young man sitting on the opposite side from -us, coming in, with a gray coat an’ a blue ban’ -aroun’ his hat?”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>Of course Gouvernail had not noticed any -such individual, but he assured Athénaïse that -he had observed the young fellow particularly.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Don’t you think he looked something,—not -very much, of co’se,—but don’t you think -he had a little faux-air of Montéclin?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I think he looked strikingly like Montéclin,” -asserted Gouvernail, with the one idea -of prolonging the conversation. “I meant to -call your attention to the resemblance, and -something drove it out of my head.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“The same with me,” returned Athénaïse. -“Ah, my dear Montéclin! I wonder w’at he -is doing now?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Did you receive any news, any letter from -him to-day?” asked Gouvernail, determined -that if the conversation ceased it should not be -through lack of effort on his part to sustain it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Not to-day, but yesterday. He tells me -that maman was so distracted with uneasiness -that finally, to pacify her, he was fo’ced to confess -that he knew w’ere I was, but that he was -boun’ by a vow of secrecy not to reveal it. -But Cazeau has not noticed him or spoken to -him since he threaten’ to throw po’ Montéclin -in Cane river. You know Cazeau wrote me a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>letter the morning I lef’, thinking I had gone -to the rigolet. An’ maman opened it, an’ said -it was full of the mos’ noble sentiments, an’ she -wanted Montéclin to sen’ it to me; but Montéclin -refuse’ poin’ blank, so he wrote to me.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Gouvernail preferred to talk of Montéclin. -He pictured Cazeau as unbearable, and did not -like to think of him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>A little later Athénaïse called out, “Good-night, -Mr. Gouvernail.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Good-night,” he returned reluctantly. And -when he thought that she was sleeping, he got -up and went away to the midnight pandemonium -of his newspaper office.</p> - -<h3 class='c013'>IX.</h3> - -<p class='c014'>Athénaïse could not have held out through -the month had it not been for Gouvernail. With -the need of caution and secrecy always uppermost -in her mind, she made no new acquaintances, -and she did not seek out persons already -known to her; however, she knew so few, -it required little effort to keep out of their way. -As for Sylvie, almost every moment of her -time was occupied in looking after her house; -<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>and, moreover, her deferential attitude towards -her lodgers forbade anything like the gossipy -chats in which Athénaïse might have condescended -sometimes to indulge with her landlady. -The transient lodgers, who came and -went, she never had occasion to meet. Hence -she was entirely dependent upon Gouvernail -for company.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He appreciated the situation fully; and every -moment that he could spare from his work he -devoted to her entertainment. She liked to be -out of doors, and they strolled together in the -summer twilight through the mazes of the old -French quarter. They went again to the lake -end, and stayed for hours on the water; returning -so late that the streets through which they -passed were silent and deserted. On Sunday -morning he arose at an unconscionable hour to -take her to the French market, knowing that -the sights and sounds there would interest her. -And he did not join the intellectual coterie in -the afternoon, as he usually did, but placed -himself all day at the disposition and service of -Athénaïse.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Notwithstanding all, his manner toward her -was tactful, and evinced intelligence and a deep -<span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>knowledge of her character, surprising upon -so brief an acquaintance. For the time he was -everything to her that she would have him; -he replaced home and friends. Sometimes she -wondered if he had ever loved a woman. She -could not fancy him loving any one passionately, -rudely, offensively, as Cazeau loved her. -Once she was so naïve as to ask him outright -if he had ever been in love, and he assured her -promptly that he had not. She thought it an -admirable trait in his character, and esteemed -him greatly therefor.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He found her crying one night, not openly -or violently. She was leaning over the gallery -rail, watching the toads that hopped about in -the moonlight, down on the damp flagstones of -the courtyard. There was an oppressively -sweet odor rising from the cape jessamine. -Pousette was down there, mumbling and quarreling -with some one, and seeming to be having -it all her own way,—as well she might, -when her companion was only a black cat that -had come in from a neighboring yard to keep -her company.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Athénaïse did admit feeling heart-sick, body-sick, -when he questioned her; she supposed it -<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>was nothing but homesick. A letter from Montéclin -had stirred her all up. She longed for -her mother, for Montéclin; she was sick for a -sight of the cotton-fields, the scent of the -ploughed earth, for the dim, mysterious charm -of the woods, and the old tumble-down home -on the Bon Dieu.</p> - -<p class='c001'>As Gouvernail listened to her, a wave of pity -and tenderness swept through him. He took -her hands and pressed them against him. He -wondered what would happen if he were to -put his arms around her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He was hardly prepared for what happened, -but he stood it courageously. She twined her -arms around his neck and wept outright on -his shoulder; the hot tears scalding his cheek -and neck, and her whole body shaken in his -arms. The impulse was powerful to strain her -to him; the temptation was fierce to seek her -lips; but he did neither.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He understood a thousand times better than -she herself understood it that he was acting as -substitute for Montéclin. Bitter as the conviction -was, he accepted it. He was patient; -he could wait. He hoped some day to hold -<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>her with a lover’s arms. That she was married -made no particle of difference to Gouvernail. -He could not conceive or dream of it making -a difference. When the time came that she -wanted him,—as he hoped and believed it -would come,—he felt he would have a right -to her. So long as she did not want him, he -had no right to her,—no more than her husband -had. It was very hard to feel her warm -breath and tears upon his cheek, and her struggling -bosom pressed against him and her soft -arms clinging to him and his whole body and -soul aching for her, and yet to make no sign.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He tried to think what Montéclin would -have said and done, and to act accordingly. -He stroked her hair, and held her in a -gentle embrace, until the tears dried and the -sobs ended. Before releasing herself she kissed -him against the neck; she had to love somebody -in her own way! Even that he endured -like a stoic. But it was well he left her, to -plunge into the thick of rapid, breathless, exacting -work till nearly dawn.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Athénaïse was greatly soothed, and slept -well. The touch of friendly hands and caressing -<span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>arms had been very grateful. Henceforward -she would not be lonely and unhappy, -with Gouvernail there to comfort her.</p> - -<h3 class='c013'>X.</h3> - -<p class='c014'>The fourth week of Athénaïse’s stay in the -city was drawing to a close. Keeping in view -the intention which she had of finding some -suitable and agreeable employment, she had -made a few tentatives in that direction. But -with the exception of two little girls who had -promised to take piano lessons at a price that -would be embarrassing to mention, these attempts -had been fruitless. Moreover, the -homesickness kept coming back, and Gouvernail -was not always there to drive it away.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She spent much of her time weeding and -pottering among the flowers down in the -courtyard. She tried to take an interest in the -black cat, and a mockingbird that hung in a -cage outside the kitchen door, and a disreputable -parrot that belonged to the cook next -door, and swore hoarsely all day long in bad -French.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>Beside, she was not well; she was not herself, -as she told Sylvie. The climate of New Orleans -did not agree with her. Sylvie was distressed -to learn this, as she felt in some measure -responsible for the health and well-being of -Monsieur Miché’s sister; and she made it her -duty to inquire closely into the nature and -character of Athénaïse’s malaise.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Sylvie was very wise, and Athénaïse was -very ignorant. The extent of her ignorance -and the depth of her subsequent enlightenment -were bewildering. She stayed a long, long -time quite still, quite stunned, after her interview -with Sylvie, except for the short, -uneven breathing that ruffled her bosom. -Her whole being was steeped in a wave of -ecstasy. When she finally arose from the -chair in which she had been seated, and looked -at herself in the mirror, a face met hers which -she seemed to see for the first time, so transfigured -was it with wonder and rapture.</p> - -<p class='c001'>One mood quickly followed another, in this -new turmoil of her senses, and the need of action -became uppermost. Her mother must -know at once, and her mother must tell Montéclin. -And Cazeau must know. As she -<span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>thought of him, the first purely sensuous tremor -of her life swept over her. She half whispered -his name, and the sound of it brought red -blotches into her cheeks. She spoke it over -and over, as if it were some new, sweet sound -born out of darkness and confusion, and reaching -her for the first time. She was impatient -to be with him. Her whole passionate nature -was aroused as if by a miracle.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She seated herself to write to her husband. -The letter he would get in the morning, and -she would be with him at night. What would -he say? How would he act? She knew that -he would forgive her, for had he not written a -letter?—and a pang of resentment toward -Montéclin shot through her. What did he -mean by withholding that letter? How dared -he not have sent it?</p> - -<p class='c001'>Athénaïse attired herself for the street, and -went out to post the letter which she had -penned with a single thought, a spontaneous -impulse. It would have seemed incoherent to -most people, but Cazeau would understand.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She walked along the street as if she had -fallen heir to some magnificent inheritance. On -her face was a look of pride and satisfaction -<span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>that passers-by noticed and admired. She -wanted to talk to some one, to tell some person; -and she stopped at the corner and told -the oyster-woman, who was Irish, and who -God-blessed her, and wished prosperity to the -race of Cazeaus for generations to come. She -held the oyster-woman’s fat, dirty little baby in -her arms and scanned it curiously and observingly, -as if a baby were a phenomenon that she -encountered for the first time in life. She even -kissed it!</p> - -<p class='c001'>Then what a relief it was to Athénaïse to -walk the streets without dread of being seen -and recognized by some chance acquaintance -from Red river! No one could have said now -that she did not know her own mind.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She went directly from the oyster-woman’s -to the office of Harding & Offdean, her husband’s -merchants; and it was with such an air -of partnership, almost proprietorship, that she -demanded a sum of money on her husband’s -account, they gave it to her as unhesitatingly as -they would have handed it over to Cazeau himself. -When Mr. Harding, who knew her, -asked politely after her health, she turned so -rosy and looked so conscious, he thought it a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>great pity for so pretty a woman to be such a -little goose.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Athénaïse entered a dry-goods store and -bought all manner of things,—little presents for -nearly everybody she knew. She bought -whole bolts of sheerest, softest, downiest white -stuff; and when the clerk, in trying to meet -her wishes, asked if she intended it for infant’s -use, she could have sunk through the floor, -and wondered how he might have suspected it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>As it was Montéclin who had taken her away -from her husband, she wanted it to be Montéclin -who should take her back to him. So she -wrote him a very curt note,—in fact it was a -postal card,—asking that he meet her at the -train on the evening following. She felt convinced -that after what had gone before, Cazeau -would await her at their own home; and she -preferred it so.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Then there was the agreeable excitement of -getting ready to leave, of packing up her -things. Pousette kept coming and going, -coming and going; and each time that she -quitted the room it was with something that -Athénaïse had given her,—a handkerchief, a -petticoat, a pair of stockings with two tiny -<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>holes at the toes, some broken prayer-beads, -and finally a silver dollar.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Next it was Sylvie who came along bearing -a gift of what she called “a set of pattern’,”—things -of complicated design which never -could have been obtained in any new-fangled -bazaar or pattern-store, that Sylvie had acquired -of a foreign lady of distinction whom -she had nursed years before at the St. Charles -hotel. Athénaïse accepted and handled them -with reverence, fully sensible of the great compliment -and favor, and laid them religiously -away in the trunk which she had lately acquired.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She was greatly fatigued after the day of -unusual exertion, and went early to bed and to -sleep. All day long she had not once thought -of Gouvernail, and only did think of him when -aroused for a brief instant by the sound of his -foot-falls on the gallery, as he passed in going -to his room. He had hoped to find her up, -waiting for him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But the next morning he knew. Some one -must have told him. There was no subject -known to her which Sylvie hesitated to discuss -<span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>in detail with any man of suitable years and -discretion.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Athénaïse found Gouvernail waiting with a -carriage to convey her to the railway station. -A momentary pang visited her for having forgotten -him so completely, when he said to her, -“Sylvie tells me you are going away this morning.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>He was kind, attentive, and amiable, as -usual, but respected to the utmost the new dignity -and reserve that her manner had developed -since yesterday. She kept looking -from the carriage window, silent, and embarrassed -as Eve after losing her ignorance. He -talked of the muddy streets and the murky -morning, and of Montéclin. He hoped she -would find everything comfortable and pleasant -in the country, and trusted she would inform -him whenever she came to visit the city -again. He talked as if afraid or mistrustful of -silence and himself.</p> - -<p class='c001'>At the station she handed him her purse, and -he bought her ticket, secured for her a comfortable -section, checked her trunk, and got all -the bundles and things safely aboard the train. -She felt very grateful. He pressed her hand -<span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>warmly, lifted his hat, and left her. He was -a man of intelligence, and took defeat gracefully; -that was all. But as he made his way -back to the carriage, he was thinking, “By -heaven, it hurts, it hurts!”</p> - -<h3 class='c013'>XI.</h3> - -<p class='c014'>Athénaïse spent a day of supreme happiness -and expectancy. The fair sight of the country -unfolding itself before her was balm to her -vision and to her soul. She was charmed with -the rather unfamiliar, broad, clean sweep of -the sugar plantations, with their monster sugar-houses, -their rows of neat cabins like little villages -of a single street, and their impressive -homes standing apart amid clusters of trees. -There were sudden glimpses of a bayou curling -between sunny, grassy banks, or creeping -sluggishly out from a tangled growth of wood, -and brush, and fern, and poison-vines, and palmettos. -And passing through the long -stretches of monotonous woodlands, she would -close her eyes and taste in anticipation the -moment of her meeting with Cazeau. She -could think of nothing but him.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>It was night when she reached her station. -There was Montéclin, as she had expected, -waiting for her with a two-seated buggy, to -which he had hitched his own swift-footed, -spirited pony. It was good, he felt, to have -her back on any terms; and he had no fault -to find since she came of her own choice. He -more than suspected the cause of her coming; -her eyes and her voice and her foolish little -manner went far in revealing the secret that -was brimming over in her heart. But after he -had deposited her at her own gate, and as he -continued his way toward the rigolet, he could -not help feeling that the affair had taken a -very disappointing, an ordinary, a most commonplace -turn, after all. He left her in Cazeau’s -keeping.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Her husband lifted her out of the buggy, -and neither said a word until they stood together -within the shelter of the gallery. Even -then they did not speak at first. But Athénaïse -turned to him with an appealing gesture. -As he clasped her in his arms, he felt the yielding -of her whole body against him. He felt -her lips for the first time respond to the passion -of his own.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>The country night was dark and warm and -still, save for the distant notes of an accordion -which some one was playing in a cabin away -off. A little negro baby was crying somewhere. -As Athénaïse withdrew from her husband’s -embrace, the sound arrested her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Listen, Cazeau! How Juliette’s baby is -crying! Pauvre ti chou, I wonder w’at is the -matter with it?”</p> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>After the Winter</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span> - <h2 class='c006'>After the Winter</h2> -</div> - -<h3 class='c013'>I.</h3> - -<p class='c014'>Trézinie, the blacksmith’s daughter, -stepped out upon the gallery just as -M’sieur Michel passed by. He did not -notice the girl but walked straight on down -the village street.</p> - -<p class='c001'>His seven hounds skulked, as usual, about -him. At his side hung his powder-horn, and -on his shoulder a gunny-bag slackly filled with -game that he carried to the store. A broad -felt hat shaded his bearded face and in his -hand he carelessly swung his old-fashioned -rifle. It was doubtless the same with which -he had slain so many people, Trézinie shudderingly -reflected. For Cami, the cobbler’s -son—who must have known—had often related -to her how this man had killed two Choctaws, -as many Texans, a free mulatto and numberless -blacks, in that vague locality known as -“the hills.”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>Older people who knew better took little -trouble to correct this ghastly record that a -younger generation had scored against him. -They themselves had come to half-believe that -M’sieur Michel might be capable of anything, -living as he had, for so many years, apart -from humanity, alone with his hounds in a kennel -of a cabin on the hill. The time seemed to -most of them fainter than a memory when, a -lusty young fellow of twenty-five, he had cultivated -his strip of land across the lane from -Les Chêniers; when home and toil and wife -and child were so many benedictions that he -humbly thanked heaven for having given him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But in the early ’60’s he went with his -friend Duplan and the rest of the “Louisiana -Tigers.” He came back with some of them. -He came to find—well, death may lurk in a -peaceful valley lying in wait to ensnare the -toddling feet of little ones. Then, there are -women—there are wives with thoughts that -roam and grow wanton with roaming; women -whose pulses are stirred by strange voices and -eyes that woo; women who forget the claims of -yesterday, the hopes of to-morrow, in the impetuous -clutch of to-day.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>But that was no reason, some people -thought, why he should have cursed men who -found their blessings where they had left them—cursed -God, who had abandoned him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Persons who met him upon the road had -long ago stopped greeting him. What was the -use? He never answered them; he spoke to -no one; he never so much as looked into men’s -faces. When he bartered his game and fish at -the village store for powder and shot and such -scant food as he needed, he did so with few -words and less courtesy. Yet feeble as it was, -this was the only link that held him to his fellow-beings.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Strange to say, the sight of M’sieur Michel, -though more forbidding than ever that delightful -spring afternoon, was so suggestive to Trézinie -as to be almost an inspiration.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was Easter eve and the early part of April. -The whole earth seemed teeming with new, -green, vigorous life everywhere—except the -arid spot that immediately surrounded Trézinie. -It was no use; she had tried. Nothing -would grow among those cinders that filled the -yard; in that atmosphere of smoke and flame -that was constantly belching from the forge -<span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>where her father worked at his trade. There -were wagon wheels, bolts and bars of iron, -plowshares and all manner of unpleasant-looking -things littering the bleak, black yard; -nothing green anywhere except a few weeds -that would force themselves into fence corners. -And Trézinie knew that flowers belong to -Easter time, just as dyed eggs do. She had -plenty of eggs; no one had more or prettier -ones; she was not going to grumble about that. -But she did feel distressed because she had not -a flower to help deck the altar on Easter morning. -And every one else seemed to have them -in such abundance! There was ’Dame Suzanne -among her roses across the way. She -must have clipped a hundred since noon. An -hour ago Trézinie had seen the carriage from -Les Chêniers pass by on its way to church with -Mamzelle Euphrasie’s pretty head looking like -a picture enframed with the Easter lilies that -filled the vehicle.</p> - -<p class='c001'>For the twentieth time Trézinie walked out -upon the gallery. She saw M’sieur Michel -and thought of the pine hill. When she -thought of the hill she thought of the flowers -that grew there—free as sunshine. The girl -<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>gave a joyous spring that changed to a farandole -as her feet twinkled across the rough, -loose boards of the gallery.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Hé, Cami!” she cried, clapping her hands -together.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Cami rose from the bench where he sat pegging -away at the clumsy sole of a shoe, and -came lazily to the fence that divided his abode -from Trézinie’s.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Well, w’at?” he inquired with heavy amiability. -She leaned far over the railing to better -communicate with him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You’ll go with me yonda on the hill to pick -flowers fo’ Easter, Cami? I’m goin’ to take -La Fringante along, too, to he’p with the -baskets. W’at you say?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No!” was the stolid reply. “I’m boun’ to -finish them shoe’, if it is fo’ a nigga.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Not now,” she returned impatiently; “to-morrow -mo’nin’ at sun-up. An’ I tell you, -Cami, my flowers’ll beat all! Look yonda at -’Dame Suzanne pickin’ her roses a’ready. An’ -Mamzelle Euphraisie she’s car’ied her lilies an’ -gone, her. You tell me all that’s goin’ be fresh -to-moro’!”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>“Jus’ like you say,” agreed the boy, turning -to resume his work. “But you want to -mine out fo’ the ole possum up in the wood. -Let M’sieu Michel set eyes on you!” and he -raised his arms as if aiming with a gun. “Pim, -pam, poum! No mo’ Trézinie, no mo’ Cami, -no mo’ La Fringante—all stretch’!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>The possible risk which Cami so vividly -foreshadowed but added a zest to Trézinie’s -projected excursion.</p> - -<h3 class='c013'>II.</h3> - -<p class='c014'>It was hardly sun-up on the following morning -when the three children—Trézinie, Cami -and the little negress, La Fringante—were filling -big, flat Indian baskets from the abundance -of brilliant flowers that studded the hill.</p> - -<p class='c001'>In their eagerness they had ascended the -slope and penetrated deep into the forest without -thought of M’sieur Michel or of his abode. -Suddenly, in the dense wood, they came upon -his hut—low, forbidding, seeming to scowl rebuke -upon them for their intrusion.</p> - -<p class='c001'>La Fringante dropped her basket, and, with -a cry, fled. Cami looked as if he wanted to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>do the same. But Trézinie, after the first tremor, -saw that the ogre himself was away. The -wooden shutter of the one window was closed. -The door, so low that even a small man must -have stooped to enter it, was secured with a -chain. Absolute silence reigned, except for -the whirr of wings in the air, the fitful notes of -a bird in the treetop.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Can’t you see it’s nobody there!” cried Trézinie -impatiently.</p> - -<p class='c001'>La Fringante, distracted between curiosity -and terror, had crept cautiously back again. -Then they all peeped through the wide chinks -between the logs of which the cabin was built.</p> - -<p class='c001'>M’sieur Michel had evidently begun the construction -of his house by felling a huge tree, -whose remaining stump stood in the centre of -the hut, and served him as a table. This primitive -table was worn smooth by twenty-five -years of use. Upon it were such humble utensils -as the man required. Everything within -the hovel, the sleeping bunk, the one seat, -were as rude as a savage would have fashioned -them.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The stolid Cami could have stayed for hours -with his eyes fastened to the aperture, morbidly -<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>seeking some dead, mute sign of that awful -pastime with which he believed M’sieur Michel -was accustomed to beguile his solitude. But -Trézinie was wholly possessed by the thought -of her Easter offerings. She wanted flowers -and flowers, fresh with the earth and crisp with -dew.</p> - -<p class='c001'>When the three youngsters scampered down -the hill again there was not a purple verbena -left about M’sieur Michel’s hut; not a May -apple blossom, not a stalk of crimson phlox—hardly -a violet.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He was something of a savage, feeling that -the solitude belonged to him. Of late there -had been forming within his soul a sentiment -toward man, keener than indifference, bitter as -hate. He was coming to dread even that brief -intercourse with others into which his traffic -forced him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>So when M’sieur Michel returned to his hut, -and with his quick, accustomed eye saw that -his woods had been despoiled, rage seized him. -It was not that he loved the flowers that were -gone more than he loved the stars, or the wind -that trailed across the hill, but they belonged -to and were a part of that life which he had -<span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>made for himself, and which he wanted to live -alone and unmolested.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Did not those flowers help him to keep his -record of time that was passing? They had no -right to vanish until the hot May days were -upon him. How else should he know? Why -had these people, with whom he had nothing in -common, intruded upon his privacy and violated -it? What would they not rob him of -next?</p> - -<p class='c001'>He knew well enough it was Easter; he had -heard and seen signs yesterday in the store -that told him so. And he guessed that his -woods had been rifled to add to the mummery -of the day.</p> - -<p class='c001'>M’sieur Michel sat himself moodily down -beside his table—centuries old—and brooded. -He did not even notice his hounds that were -pleading to be fed. As he revolved in his -mind the event of the morning—innocent as it -was in itself—it grew in importance and assumed -a significance not at first apparent. He -could not remain passive under pressure of its -disturbance. He rose to his feet, every impulse -aggressive, urging him to activity. He -would go down among those people all gathered -<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>together, blacks and whites, and face them -for once and all. He did not know what he -would say to them, but it would be defiance—something -to voice the hate that oppressed -him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The way down the hill, then across a piece of -flat, swampy woodland and through the lane -to the village was so familiar that it required -no attention from him to follow it. His -thoughts were left free to revel in the humor -that had driven him from his kennel.</p> - -<p class='c001'>As he walked down the village street he saw -plainly that the place was deserted save for the -appearance of an occasional negress, who -seemed occupied with preparing the midday -meal. But about the church scores of horses -were fastened; and M’sieur Michel could see -that the edifice was thronged to the very threshold.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He did not once hesitate, but obeying the -force that impelled him to face the people wherever -they might be, he was soon standing with -the crowd within the entrance of the church. -His broad, robust shoulders had forced space -for himself, and his leonine head stood higher -than any there.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>“Take off yo’ hat!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was an indignant mulatto who addressed -him. M’sieur Michel instinctively did as he -was bidden. He saw confusedly that there was -a mass of humanity close to him, whose contact -and atmosphere affected him strangely. -He saw his wild-flowers, too. He saw them -plainly, in bunches and festoons, among the -Easter lilies and roses and geraniums. He was -going to speak out, now; he had the right to -and he would, just as soon as that clamor overhead -would cease.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Bonté divine! M’sieur Michel!” whispered -’Dame Suzanne tragically to her neighbor. -Trézinie heard. Cami saw. They exchanged -an electric glance, and tremblingly bowed their -heads low.</p> - -<p class='c001'>M’sieur Michel looked wrathfully down at -the puny mulatto who had ordered him to remove -his hat. Why had he obeyed? That -initial act of compliance had somehow weakened -his will, his resolution. But he would -regain firmness just as soon as that clamor -above gave him chance to speak.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was the organ filling the small edifice with -volumes of sound. It was the voices of men -<span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>and women mingling in the “Gloria in excelsis -Deo!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>The words bore no meaning for him apart -from the old familiar strain which he had -known as a child and chanted himself in that -same organ-loft years ago. How it went on -and on. Would it never cease? It was like -a menace; like a voice reaching out from the -dead past to taunt him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Gloria in excelsis Deo!” over and over! -How the deep basso rolled it out! How the -tenor and alto caught it up and passed it on to -be lifted by the high, flute-like ring of the soprano, -till all mingled again in the wild pæan, -“Gloria in excelsis!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>How insistent was the refrain! and where, -what, was that mysterious, hidden quality in -it; the power which was overcoming M’sieur -Michel, stirring within him a turmoil that bewildered -him?</p> - -<p class='c001'>There was no use in trying to speak, or in -wanting to. His throat could not have uttered -a sound. He wanted to escape, that was all. -“Bonæ voluntatis,”—he bent his head as if before -a beating storm. “Gloria! Gloria! Gloria!” -He must fly; he must save himself, regain -<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>his hill where sights and odors and sounds -and saints or devils would cease to molest him. -“In excelsis Deo!” He retreated, forcing his -way backward to the door. He dragged his -hat down over his eyes and staggered away -down the road. But the refrain pursued him—“ax! -pax! pax!”—fretting him like a lash. -He did not slacken his pace till the tones grew -fainter than an echo, floating, dying away in -an “in excelsis!” When he could hear it no -longer he stopped and breathed a sigh of rest -and relief.</p> - -<h3 class='c013'>III.</h3> - -<p class='c014'>All day long M’sieur Michel stayed about -his hut engaged in some familiar employment -that he hoped might efface the unaccountable -impressions of the morning. But his restlessness -was unbounded. A longing had sprung -up within him as sharp as pain and not to be -appeased. At once, on this bright, warm Easter -morning the voices that till now had filled his -solitude became meaningless. He stayed mute -and uncomprehending before them. Their significance -had vanished before the driving want -<span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>for human sympathy and companionship that -had reawakened in his soul.</p> - -<p class='c001'>When night came on he walked through the -woods down the slant of the hill again.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“It mus’ be all fill’ up with weeds,” muttered -M’sieur Michel to himself as he went. -“Ah, Bon Dieu! with trees, Michel, with trees—in -twenty-five years, man.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>He had not taken the road to the village, -but was pursuing a different one in which his -feet had not walked for many days. It led him -along the river bank for a distance. The narrow -stream, stirred by the restless breeze, -gleamed in the moonlight that was flooding the -land.</p> - -<p class='c001'>As he went on and on, the scent of the new-plowed -earth that had been from the first -keenly perceptible, began to intoxicate him. He -wanted to kneel and bury his face in it. He -wanted to dig into it; turn it over. He -wanted to scatter the seed again as he had done -long ago, and watch the new, green life spring -up as if at his bidding.</p> - -<p class='c001'>When he turned away from the river and -had walked a piece down the lane that divided -Joe Duplan’s plantation from that bit of land -<span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>that had once been his, he wiped his eyes to -drive away the mist that was making him see -things as they surely could not be.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He had wanted to plant a hedge that time -before he went away, but he had not done so. -Yet there was the hedge before him, just as -he had meant it to be, and filling the night -with fragrance. A broad, low gate divided -its length, and over this he leaned and looked -before him in amazement. There were no -weeds as he had fancied; no trees except the -scattered live oaks that he remembered.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Could that row of hardy fig trees, old, squat -and gnarled, be the twigs that he himself had -set one day into the ground? One raw December -day when there was a fine, cold mist -falling. The chill of it breathed again upon -him; the memory was so real. The land did -not look as if it ever had been plowed for a -field. It was a smooth, green meadow, with -cattle huddled upon the cool sward, or moving -with slow, stately tread as they nibbled the -tender shoots.</p> - -<p class='c001'>There was the house unchanged, gleaming -white in the moon, seeming to invite him beneath -its calm shelter. He wondered who -<span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>dwelt within it now. Whoever it was he would -not have them find him, like a prowler, there -at the gate. But he would come again and -again like this at nighttime, to gaze and refresh -his spirit.</p> - -<p class='c001'>A hand had been laid upon M’sieur Michel’s -shoulder and some one called his name. Startled, -he turned to see who accosted him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Duplan!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>The two men who had not exchanged speech -for so many years stood facing each other for -a long moment in silence.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I knew you would come back some day, -Michel. It was a long time to wait, but you -have come home at last.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>M’sieur Michel cowered instinctively and -lifted his hands with expressive deprecatory -gesture. “No, no; it’s no place for me, Joe; -no place!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Isn’t a man’s home a place for him, Michel?” -It seemed less a question than an assertion, -charged with gentle authority.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Twenty-five years, Duplan; twenty-five -years! It’s no use; it’s too late.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You see, I have used it,” went on the planter, -quietly, ignoring M’sieur Michel’s protestations. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>“Those are my cattle grazing off there. -The house has served me many a time to lodge -guests or workmen, for whom I had no room -at Les Chêniers. I have not exhausted the -soil with any crops. I had not the right to -do that. Yet am I in your debt, Michel, and -ready to settle en bon ami.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>The planter had opened the gate and entered -the inclosure, leading M’sieur Michel -with him. Together they walked toward the -house.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Language did not come readily to either—one -so unaccustomed to hold intercourse with -men; both so stirred with memories that would -have rendered any speech painful. When they -had stayed long in a silence which was eloquent -of tenderness, Joe Duplan spoke:</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You know how I tried to see you, Michel, -to speak with you, and you never would.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>M’sieur Michel answered with but a gesture -that seemed a supplication.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Let the past all go, Michel. Begin your -new life as if the twenty-five years that are -gone had been a long night, from which you -have only awakened. Come to me in the -morning,” he added with quick resolution, “for -<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>a horse and a plow.” He had taken the key -of the house from his pocket and placed it in -M’sieur Michel’s hand.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“A horse?” M’sieur Michel repeated uncertainly; -“a plow! Oh, it’s too late, Duplan; too -late.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“It isn’t too late. The land has rested all -these years, man; it’s fresh, I tell you; and rich -as gold. Your crop will be the finest in the -land.” He held out his hand and M’sieur -Michel pressed it without a word in reply, -save a muttered “Mon ami.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Then he stood there watching the planter -disappear behind the high, clipped hedge.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He held out his arms. He could not have -told if it was toward the retreating figure, or in -welcome to an infinite peace that seemed to -descend upon him and envelop him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>All the land was radiant except the hill far -off that was in black shadow against the sky.</p> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>Polydore</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span> - <h2 class='c006'>Polydore</h2> -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_storybreak.png' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>It was often said that Polydore was the -stupidest boy to be found “from the -mouth of Cane river plumb to Natchitoches.” -Hence it was an easy matter to persuade -him, as meddlesome and mischievous -people sometimes tried to do, that he was an -overworked and much abused individual.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It occurred one morning to Polydore to -wonder what would happen if he did not get -up. He hardly expected the world to stop -turning on its axis; but he did in a way believe -that the machinery of the whole plantation -would come to a standstill.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He had awakened at the usual hour,—about -daybreak,—and instead of getting up at once, -as was his custom, he re-settled himself between -the sheets. There he lay, peering out -through the dormer window into the gray -morning that was deliciously cool after the hot -<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>summer night, listening to familiar sounds that -came from the barn-yard, the fields and woods -beyond, heralding the approach of day.</p> - -<p class='c001'>A little later there were other sounds, no -less familiar or significant; the roll of the wagon-wheels; -the distant call of a negro’s voice; -Aunt Siney’s shuffling step as she crossed the -gallery, bearing to Mamzelle Adélaïde and old -Monsieur José their early coffee.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Polydore had formed no plan and had -thought only vaguely upon results. He lay in a -half-slumber awaiting developments, and philosophically -resigned to any turn which the -affair might take. Still he was not quite ready -with an answer when Jude came and thrust -his head in at the door.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Mista Polydore! O Mista Polydore! You -’sleep?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“W’at you want?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Dan ’low he ain’ gwine wait yonda wid de -wagon all day. Say does you inspect ’im to -pack dat freight f’om de landing by hisse’f?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I reckon he got it to do, Jude. I ain’ going -to get up, me.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You ain’ gwine git up?”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>“No; I’m sick. I’m going stay in bed. Go -’long and le’ me sleep.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>The next one to invade Polydore’s privacy -was Mamzelle Adélaïde herself. It was no -small effort for her to mount the steep, narrow -stairway to Polydore’s room. She seldom -penetrated to these regions under the roof. He -could hear the stairs creak beneath her weight, -and knew that she was panting at every step. -Her presence seemed to crowd the small room; -for she was stout and rather tall, and her flowing -muslin wrapper swept majestically from -side to side as she walked.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mamzelle Adélaïde had reached middle age, -but her face was still fresh with its mignon -features; and her brown eyes at the moment -were round with astonishment and alarm.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“W’at’s that I hear, Polydore? They tell -me you’re sick!” She went and stood beside -the bed, lifting the mosquito bar that settled -upon her head and fell about her like a veil.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Polydore’s eyes blinked, and he made no attempt -to answer. She felt his wrist softly with -the tips of her fingers, and rested her hand for -a moment on his low forehead beneath the -shock of black hair.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>“But you don’t seem to have any fever, -Polydore!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No,” hesitatingly, feeling himself forced to -make some reply. “It’s a kine of—a kine of -pain, like you might say. It kitch me yere in -the knee, and it goes ’long like you stickin’ -a knife clean down in my heel. Aie! Oh, la-la!” -expressions of pain wrung from him by -Mamzelle Adélaïde gently pushing aside the -covering to examine the afflicted member.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“My patience! but that leg is swollen, yes, -Polydore.” The limb, in fact, seemed dropsical, -but if Mamzelle Adélaïde had bethought -her of comparing it with the other one, she -would have found the two corresponding in -their proportions to a nicety. Her kind face -expressed the utmost concern, and she quitted -Polydore feeling pained and ill at ease.</p> - -<p class='c001'>For one of the aims of Mamzelle Adélaïde’s -existence was to do the right thing by this boy, -whose mother, a ’Cadian hill woman, had -begged her with dying breath to watch over -the temporal and spiritual welfare of her son; -above all, to see that he did not follow in the -slothful footsteps of an over-indolent father.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>Polydore’s scheme worked so marvellously -to his comfort and pleasure that he wondered -at not having thought of it before. He ate -with keen relish the breakfast which Jude -brought to him on a tray. Even old Monsieur -José was concerned, and made his way up to -Polydore, bringing a number of picture-papers -for his entertainment, a palm-leaf fan and a -cow-bell, with which to summon Jude when -necessary and which he placed within easy -reach.</p> - -<p class='c001'>As Polydore lay on his back fanning luxuriously, -it seemed to him that he was enjoying -a foretaste of paradise. Only once did he -shudder with apprehension. It was when he -heard Aunt Siney, with lifted voice, recommending -to “wrop the laig up in bacon fat; -de oniest way to draw out de misery.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>The thought of a healthy leg swathed in -bacon fat on a hot day in July was enough to -intimidate a braver heart than Polydore’s. -But the suggestion was evidently not adopted, -for he heard no more of the bacon fat. In -its stead he became acquainted with the not -unpleasant sting of a soothing liniment which -<span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>Jude rubbed into the leg at intervals during -the day.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He kept the limb propped on a pillow, stiff -and motionless, even when alone and unobserved. -Toward evening he fancied that it -really showed signs of inflammation, and he -was quite sure it pained him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was a satisfaction to all to see Polydore -appear down-stairs the following afternoon. He -limped painfully, it is true, and clutched wildly -at anything in his way that offered a momentary -support. His acting was clumsily overdrawn; -and by less guileless souls than Mamzelle -Adélaïde and her father would have surely -been suspected. But these two only thought -with deep concern of means to make him comfortable.</p> - -<p class='c001'>They seated him on the shady back gallery -in an easy-chair, with his leg propped up before -him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“He inhe’its dat rheumatism,” proclaimed -Aunt Siney, who affected the manner of an -oracle. “I see dat boy’s granpap, many times, -all twis’ up wid rheumatism twell his head sot -down on his body, hine side befo’. He got -<span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>to keep outen de jew in de mo’nin’s, and he -’bleege to w’ar red flannen.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Monsieur José, with flowing white locks enframing -his aged face, leaned upon his cane -and contemplated the boy with unflagging attention. -Polydore was beginning to believe -himself a worthy object as a center of interest.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mamzelle Adélaïde had but just returned -from a long drive in the open buggy, from a -mission which would have fallen to Polydore -had he not been disabled by this unlooked-for -illness. She had thoughtlessly driven across -the country at an hour when the sun was hottest, -and now she sat panting and fanning -herself; her face, which she mopped incessantly -with her handkerchief, was inflamed from the -heat.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mamzelle Adélaïde ate no supper that night, -and went to bed early, with a compress of <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>eau -sédative</i></span> bound tightly around her head. She -thought it was a simple headache, and that she -would be rid of it in the morning; but she was -not better in the morning.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She kept her bed that day, and late in the -afternoon Jude rode over to town for the doctor, -and stopped on the way to tell Mamzelle -<span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>Adélaïde’s married sister that she was quite ill, -and would like to have her come down to the -plantation for a day or two.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Polydore made round, serious eyes and forgot -to limp. He wanted to go for the doctor -in Jude’s stead; but Aunt Siney, assuming a -brief authority, forced him to sit still by the -kitchen door and talked further of bacon fat.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Old Monsieur José moved about uneasily -and restlessly, in and out of his daughter’s -room. He looked vacantly at Polydore now, -as if the stout young boy in blue jeans and -a calico shirt were a sort of a transparency.</p> - -<p class='c001'>A dawning anxiety, coupled to the inertia of -the past two days, deprived Polydore of his -usual healthful night’s rest. The slightest -noises awoke him. Once it was the married -sister breaking ice down on the gallery. One -of the hands had been sent with the cart for -ice late in the afternoon; and Polydore himself -had wrapped the huge chunk in an old -blanket and set it outside of Mamzelle Adélaïde’s -door.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Troubled and wakeful, he arose from bed -and went and stood by the open window. -There was a round moon in the sky, shedding -<span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>its pale glamor over all the country; and the -live-oak branches, stirred by the restless -breeze, flung quivering, grotesque shadows -slanting across the old roof. A mocking-bird -had been singing for hours near Polydore’s -window, and farther away there were frogs -croaking. He could see as through a silvery -gauze the level stretch of the cotton-field, ripe -and white; a gleam of water beyond,—that was -the bend of the river,—and farther yet, the -gentle rise of the pine hill.</p> - -<p class='c001'>There was a cabin up there on the hill that -Polydore remembered well. Negroes were -living in it now, but it had been his home once. -Life had been pinched and wretched enough -up there with the little chap. The bright days -had been the days when his godmother, Mamzelle -Adélaïde, would come driving her old -white horse over the pine needles and crackling -fallen twigs of the deserted hill-road. Her -presence was connected with the earliest recollections -of whatever he had known of comfort -and well-being.</p> - -<p class='c001'>And one day when death had taken his -mother from him, Mamzelle Adélaïde had -brought him home to live with her always. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>Now she was sick down there in her room; -very sick, for the doctor had said so, and the -married sister had put on her longest face.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Polydore did not think of these things in -any connected or very intelligent way. They -were only impressions that penetrated him and -made his heart swell, and the tears well up to -his eyes. He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of -his night-gown. The mosquitoes were stinging -him and raising great welts on his brown -legs. He went and crept back under the mosquito-bar, -and soon he was asleep and dreaming -that his <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>nénaine</i></span> was dead and he left alone -in the cabin upon the pine hill.</p> - -<p class='c001'>In the morning, after the doctor had seen -Mamzelle Adélaïde, he went and turned his -horse into the lot and prepared to stay with his -patient until he could feel it would be prudent -to leave her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Polydore tiptoed into her room and stood -at the foot of the bed. Nobody noticed now -whether he limped or not. She was talking -very loud, and he could not believe at first that -she could be as ill as they said, with such -strength of voice. But her tones were unnatural, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>and what she said conveyed no meaning -to his ears.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He understood, however, when she thought -she was talking to his mother. She was in a -manner apologizing for his illness; and seemed -to be troubled with the idea that she had in a -way been the indirect cause of it by some oversight -or neglect.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Polydore felt ashamed, and went outside and -stood by himself near the cistern till some one -told him to go and attend to the doctor’s -horse.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Then there was confusion in the household, -when mornings and afternoons seemed turned -around; and meals, which were scarcely tasted, -were served at irregular and unseasonable -hours. And there came one awful night, when -they did not know if Mamzelle Adélaïde would -live or die.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Nobody slept. The doctor snatched moments -of rest in the hammock. He and the -priest, who had been summoned, talked a little -together with professional callousness about -the dry weather and the crops.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Old monsieur walked, walked, like a restless, -caged animal. The married sister came out -<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>on the gallery every now and then and leaned -up against the post and sobbed in her handkerchief. -There were many negroes around, -sitting on the steps and standing in small -groups in the yard.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Polydore crouched on the gallery. It had -finally come to him to comprehend the cause -of his <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>nénaine’s</i></span> sickness—that drive in the -sweltering afternoon, when he was shamming -illness. No one there could have comprehended -the horror of himself, the terror that -possessed him, squatting there outside her door -like a savage. If she died—but he could not -think of that. It was the point at which his -reason was stunned and seemed to swoon.</p> - -<p class='c012'>A week or two later Mamzelle Adélaïde was -sitting outside for the first time since her convalescence -began. They had brought her own -rocker around to the side where she could get -a sight and whiff of the flower-garden and the -blossom-laden rose-vine twining in and out of -the banisters. Her former plumpness had not -yet returned, and she looked much older, for -the wrinkles were visible.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>She was watching Polydore cross the yard. -He had been putting up his pony. He approached -with his heavy, clumsy walk; his -round, simple face was hot and flushed from -the ride. When he had mounted to the gallery -he went and leaned against the railing, -facing Mamzelle Adélaïde, mopping his face, -his hands and neck with his handkerchief. -Then he removed his hat and began to fan -himself with it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You seem to be perfec’ly cu’ed of yo’ rheumatism, -Polydore. It doesn’ hurt you any -mo’, my boy?” she questioned.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He stamped the foot and extended the leg -violently, in proof of its perfect soundness.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You know w’ere I been, <i>nénaine</i>?” he said. -“I been to confession.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“That’s right. Now you mus’ rememba and -not take a drink of water to-morrow morning, -as you did las’ time, and miss yo’ communion, -my boy. You are a good child, Polydore, to -go like that to confession without bein told.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No, I ain’ good,” he returned, doggedly. -He began to twirl his hat on one finger. “Père -Cassimelle say he always yeard I was stupid, -but he never knew befo’ how bad I been.”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>“Indeed!” muttered Mamzelle Adélaïde, not -over well pleased with the priest’s estimate of -her protégé.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“He gave me a long penance,” continued -Polydore. “The ‘Litany of the Saint’ and the -‘Litany of the Blessed Virgin,’ and three ‘Our -Father’ and three ‘Hail Mary’ to say ev’ry -mo’ning fo’ a week. But he say’ that ain’ -enough.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“My patience! W’at does he expec’ mo’ -from you, I like to know?” Polydore was now -creasing and scanning his hat attentively.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“He say’ w’at I need, it’s to be wo’ out with -the raw-hide. He say’ he knows M’sieur José -is too ole and feeble to give it to me like I deserve; -and if you want, he say’ he’s willing to -give me a good tas’e of the raw-hide himse’f.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mamzelle Adélaïde found it impossible to -disguise her indignation:</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Père Cassimelle sho’ly fo’gets himse’f, Polydore. -Don’t repeat to me any further his inconsid’ate -remarks.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“He’s right, <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>nénaine</i></span>. Père Cassimelle is -right.”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>Since the night he crouched outside her -door, Polydore had lived with the weight of -his unconfessed fault oppressing every moment -of existence. He had tried to rid himself of it -in going to Father Cassimelle; but that had -only helped by indicating the way. He was -awkward and unaccustomed to express emotions -with coherent speech. The words would -not come.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Suddenly he flung his hat to the ground, -and falling on his knees, began to sob, with his -face pressed down in Mamzelle Adélaïde’s lap. -She had never seen him cry before, and in her -weak condition it made her tremble.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Then somehow he got it out; he told the -whole story of his deceit. He told it simply, -in a way that bared his heart to her for the -first time. She said nothing; only held his -hand close and stroked his hair. But she felt -as if a kind of miracle had happened. Hitherto -her first thought in caring for this boy had -been a desire to fulfill his dead mother’s wishes.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But now he seemed to belong to herself, and -to be her very own. She knew that a bond of -love had been forged that would hold them -together always.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>“I know I can’t he’p being stupid,” sighed -Polydore, “but it’s no call fo’ me to be bad.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Neva mine, Polydore; neva mine, my boy,” -and she drew him close to her and kissed him -as mothers kiss.</p> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>Regret</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span> - <h2 class='c006'>Regret</h2> -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_storybreak.png' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>Mamzelle Aurélie possessed a good -strong figure, ruddy cheeks, hair that -was changing from brown to gray, and -a determined eye. She wore a man’s hat -about the farm, and an old blue army overcoat -when it was cold, and sometimes top-boots.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mamzelle Aurélie had never thought of marrying. -She had never been in love. At the -age of twenty she had received a proposal, -which she had promptly declined, and at the -age of fifty she had not yet lived to regret it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>So she was quite alone in the world, except -for her dog Ponto, and the negroes who -lived in her cabins and worked her crops, and -the fowls, a few cows, a couple of mules, her -gun (with which she shot chicken-hawks), and -her religion.</p> - -<p class='c001'>One morning Mamzelle Aurélie stood upon -her gallery, contemplating, with arms akimbo, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>a small band of very small children who, to all -intents and purposes, might have fallen from -the clouds, so unexpected and bewildering -was their coming, and so unwelcome. They -were the children of her nearest neighbor, -Odile, who was not such a near neighbor, after -all.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The young woman had appeared but five -minutes before, accompanied by these four children. -In her arms she carried little Elodie; -she dragged Ti Nomme by an unwilling hand; -while Marcéline and Marcélette followed with -irresolute steps.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Her face was red and disfigured from tears -and excitement. She had been summoned to -a neighboring parish by the dangerous illness -of her mother; her husband was away in Texas—it -seemed to her a million miles away; and -Valsin was waiting with the mule-cart to drive -her to the station.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“It’s no question, Mamzelle Aurélie; you jus’ -got to keep those youngsters fo’ me tell I -come back. Dieu sait, I would n’ botha you -with ’em if it was any otha way to do! Make -’em mine you, Mamzelle Aurélie; don’ spare -’em. Me, there, I’m half crazy between the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>chil’ren, an’ Léon not home, an’ maybe not -even to fine po’ maman alive encore!”—a harrowing -possibility which drove Odile to take -a final hasty and convulsive leave of her disconsolate -family.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She left them crowded into the narrow strip -of shade on the porch of the long, low house; -the white sunlight was beating in on the white -old boards; some chickens were scratching in -the grass at the foot of the steps, and one had -boldly mounted, and was stepping heavily, -solemnly, and aimlessly across the gallery. -There was a pleasant odor of pinks in the air, -and the sound of negroes’ laughter was coming -across the flowering cotton-field.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mamzelle Aurélie stood contemplating the -children. She looked with a critical eye upon -Marcéline, who had been left staggering beneath -the weight of the chubby Elodie. She -surveyed with the same calculating air Marcélette -mingling her silent tears with the audible -grief and rebellion of Ti Nomme. During -those few contemplative moments she was -collecting herself, determining upon a line of -action which should be identical with a line -of duty. She began by feeding them.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>If Mamzelle Aurélie’s responsibilities might -have begun and ended there, they could easily -have been dismissed; for her larder was amply -provided against an emergency of this nature. -But little children are not little pigs; they require -and demand attentions which were wholly -unexpected by Mamzelle Aurélie, and which -she was ill prepared to give.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She was, indeed, very inapt in her management -of Odile’s children during the first few -days. How could she know that Marcélette -always wept when spoken to in a loud and -commanding tone of voice? It was a peculiarity -of Marcélette’s. She became acquainted -with Ti Nomme’s passion for flowers only -when he had plucked all the choicest gardenias -and pinks for the apparent purpose of critically -studying their botanical construction.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Tain’t enough to tell ’im, Mamzelle Aurélie,” -Marcéline instructed her; “you got to tie -’im in a chair. It’s w’at maman all time do -w’en he’s bad: she tie ’im in a chair.” The -chair in which Mamzelle Aurélie tied Ti -Nomme was roomy and comfortable, and he -seized the opportunity to take a nap in it, the -afternoon being warm.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>At night, when she ordered them one and -all to bed as she would have shooed the chickens -into the hen-house, they stayed uncomprehending -before her. What about the little -white nightgowns that had to be taken from -the pillow-slip in which they were brought -over, and shaken by some strong hand till they -snapped like ox-whips? What about the tub -of water which had to be brought and set in -the middle of the floor, in which the little tired, -dusty, sunbrowned feet had every one to be -washed sweet and clean? And it made Marcéline -and Marcélette laugh merrily—the idea -that Mamzelle Aurélie should for a moment -have believed that Ti Nomme could fall asleep -without being told the story of <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>Croque-mitaine</i></span> -or <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>Loup-garou</i></span>, or both; or that Elodie could -fall asleep at all without being rocked and sung -to.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I tell you, Aunt Ruby,” Mamzelle Aurélie -informed her cook in confidence; “me, I’d -rather manage a dozen plantation’ than fo’ chil’ren. -It’s terrassent! Bonté! Don’t talk to -me about chil’ren!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“’Tain’ ispected sich as you would know -airy thing ’bout ’em, Mamzelle Aurélie. I see -<span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>dat plainly yistiddy w’en I spy dat li’le chile -playin’ wid yo’ baskit o’ keys. You don’ know -dat makes chillun grow up hard-headed, to -play wid keys? Des like it make ’em teeth -hard to look in a lookin’-glass. Them’s the -things you got to know in the raisin’ an’ manigement -o’ chillun.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mamzelle Aurélie certainly did not pretend -or aspire to such subtle and far-reaching -knowledge on the subject as Aunt Ruby possessed, -who had “raised five an’ bared (buried) -six” in her day. She was glad enough to learn -a few little mother-tricks to serve the moment’s -need.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Ti Nomme’s sticky fingers compelled her to -unearth white aprons that she had not worn -for years, and she had to accustom herself to -his moist kisses—the expressions of an affectionate -and exuberant nature. She got down -her sewing-basket, which she seldom used, from -the top shelf of the armoire, and placed it within -the ready and easy reach which torn slips and -buttonless waists demanded. It took her some -days to become accustomed to the laughing, -the crying, the chattering that echoed through -the house and around it all day long. And it -<span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>was not the first or the second night that she -could sleep comfortably with little Elodie’s hot, -plump body pressed close against her, and the -little one’s warm breath beating her cheek like -the fanning of a bird’s wing.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But at the end of two weeks Mamzelle Aurélie -had grown quite used to these things, and -she no longer complained.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was also at the end of two weeks that -Mamzelle Aurélie, one evening, looking away -toward the crib where the cattle were being -fed, saw Valsin’s blue cart turning the bend -of the road. Odile sat beside the mulatto, upright -and alert. As they drew near, the young -woman’s beaming face indicated that her homecoming -was a happy one.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But this coming, unannounced and unexpected, -threw Mamzelle Aurélie into a flutter -that was almost agitation. The children had -to be gathered. Where was Ti Nomme? Yonder -in the shed, putting an edge on his knife -at the grindstone. And Marcéline and Marcélette? -Cutting and fashioning doll-rags in -the corner of the gallery. As for Elodie, she -was safe enough in Mamzelle Aurélie’s arms; -and she had screamed with delight at sight of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>the familiar blue cart which was bringing her -mother back to her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The excitement was all over, and they were -gone. How still it was when they were gone! -Mamzelle Aurélie stood upon the gallery, looking -and listening. She could no longer see the -cart; the red sunset and the blue-gray twilight -had together flung a purple mist across the -fields and road that hid it from her view. She -could no longer hear the wheezing and creaking -of its wheels. But she could still faintly -hear the shrill, glad voices of the children.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She turned into the house. There was much -work awaiting her, for the children had left a -sad disorder behind them; but she did not at -once set about the task of righting it. Mamzelle -Aurélie seated herself beside the table. -She gave one slow glance through the room, -into which the evening shadows were creeping -and deepening around her solitary figure. -She let her head fall down upon her bended -arm, and began to cry. Oh, but she cried! -Not softly, as women often do. She cried like -a man, with sobs that seemed to tear her very -soul. She did not notice Ponto licking her -hand.</p> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>A Matter of Prejudice</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span> - <h2 class='c006'>A Matter of Prejudice</h2> -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_storybreak.png' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>Madame Carambeau wanted it strictly -understood that she was not to be -disturbed by Gustave’s birthday party. -They carried her big rocking-chair from the -back gallery, that looked out upon the garden -where the children were going to play, around -to the front gallery, which closely faced the -green levee bank and the Mississippi coursing -almost flush with the top of it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The house—an old Spanish one, broad, low -and completely encircled by a wide gallery—was -far down in the French quarter of New -Orleans. It stood upon a square of ground -that was covered thick with a semi-tropical -growth of plants and flowers. An impenetrable -board fence, edged with a formidable row -of iron spikes, shielded the garden from the -prying glances of the occasional passer-by.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>Madame Carambeau’s widowed daughter, -Madame Cécile Lalonde, lived with her. This -annual party, given to her little son, Gustave, -was the one defiant act of Madame Lalonde’s -existence. She persisted in it, to her own astonishment -and the wonder of those who -knew her and her mother.</p> - -<p class='c001'>For old Madame Carambeau was a woman -of many prejudices—so many, in fact, that it -would be difficult to name them all. She detested -dogs, cats, organ-grinders, white servants -and children’s noises. She despised -Americans, Germans and all people of a different -faith from her own. Anything not -French had, in her opinion, little right to existence.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She had not spoken to her son Henri for -ten years because he had married an American -girl from Prytania street. She would not -permit green tea to be introduced into her -house, and those who could not or would not -drink coffee might drink tisane of <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>fleur de -Laurier</i></span> for all she cared.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Nevertheless, the children seemed to be -having it all their own way that day, and the -organ-grinders were let loose. Old madame, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>in her retired corner, could hear the screams, -the laughter and the music far more distinctly -than she liked. She rocked herself noisily, -and hummed “<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Partant pour la Syrie.</span>”</p> - -<p class='c001'>She was straight and slender. Her hair -was white, and she wore it in puffs on the -temples. Her skin was fair and her eyes blue -and cold.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Suddenly she became aware that footsteps -were approaching, and threatening to invade -her privacy—not only footsteps, but screams! -Then two little children, one in hot pursuit of -the other, darted wildly around the corner -near which she sat.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The child in advance, a pretty little girl, -sprang excitedly into Madame Carambeau’s -lap, and threw her arms convulsively around -the old lady’s neck. Her companion lightly -struck her a “last tag,” and ran laughing gleefully -away.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The most natural thing for the child to do -then would have been to wriggle down from -madame’s lap, without a “thank you” or a -“by your leave,” after the manner of small -and thoughtless children. But she did not -<span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>do this. She stayed there, panting and fluttering, -like a frightened bird.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Madame was greatly annoyed. She moved -as if to put the child away from her, and -scolded her sharply for being boisterous and -rude. The little one, who did not understand -French, was not disturbed by the reprimand, -and stayed on in madame’s lap. She rested -her plump little cheek, that was hot and -flushed, against the soft white linen of the old -lady’s gown.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Her cheek was very hot and very flushed. -It was dry, too, and so were her hands. The -child’s breathing was quick and irregular. -Madame was not long in detecting these signs -of disturbance.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Though she was a creature of prejudice, -she was nevertheless a skillful and accomplished -nurse, and a connoisseur in all matters -pertaining to health. She prided herself upon -this talent, and never lost an opportunity of -exercising it. She would have treated an organ-grinder -with tender consideration if one -had presented himself in the character of an -invalid.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>Madame’s manner toward the little one -changed immediately. Her arms and her lap -were at once adjusted so as to become the -most comfortable of resting places. She -rocked very gently to and fro. She fanned the -child softly with her palm leaf fan, and sang -“<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Partant pour la Syrie</span>” in a low and agreeable -tone.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The child was perfectly content to lie still -and prattle a little in that language which madame -thought hideous. But the brown eyes -were soon swimming in drowsiness, and the -little body grew heavy with sleep in madame’s -clasp.</p> - -<p class='c001'>When the little girl slept Madame Carambeau -arose, and treading carefully and deliberately, -entered her room, that opened near at -hand upon the gallery. The room was large, -airy and inviting, with its cool matting upon -the floor, and its heavy, old, polished mahogany -furniture. Madame, with the child still -in her arms, pulled a bell-cord; then she stood -waiting, swaying gently back and forth. Presently -an old black woman answered the summons. -She wore gold hoops in her ears, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>a bright bandanna knotted fantastically on -her head.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Louise, turn down the bed,” commanded -madame. “Place that small, soft pillow below -the bolster. Here is a poor little unfortunate -creature whom Providence must have -driven into my arms.” She laid the child -carefully down.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Ah, those Americans! Do they deserve to -have children? Understanding as little as they -do how to take care of them!” said madame, -while Louise was mumbling an accompanying -assent that would have been unintelligible to -any one unacquainted with the negro patois.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“There, you see, Louise, she is burning -up,” remarked madame; —“she is consumed. -Unfasten the little bodice while I lift her. Ah, -talk to me of such parents! So stupid as not -to perceive a fever like that coming on, but -they must dress their child up like a monkey -to go play and dance to the music of organ-grinders.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Haven’t you better sense, Louise, than to -take off a child’s shoe as if you were removing -the boot from the leg of a cavalry officer?” -Madame would have required fairy fingers -<span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>to minister to the sick. “Now go to Mamzelle -Cécile, and tell her to send me one of -those old, soft, thin nightgowns that Gustave -wore two summers ago.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>When the woman retired, madame busied -herself with concocting a cooling pitcher of -orange-flower water, and mixing a fresh supply -of <i>eau sédative</i> with which agreeably to -sponge the little invalid.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Madame Lalonde came herself with the old, -soft nightgown. She was a pretty, blonde, -plump little woman, with the deprecatory air -of one whose will has become flaccid from -want of use. She was mildly distressed at -what her mother had done.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“But, mamma! But, mamma, the child’s -parents will be sending the carriage for her -in a little while. Really, there was no use. -Oh dear! oh dear!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>If the bedpost had spoken to Madame Carambeau, -she would have paid more attention, -for speech from such a source would have -been at least surprising if not convincing. -Madame Lalonde did not possess the faculty -of either surprising or convincing her mother.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>“Yes, the little one will be quite comfortable -in this,” said the old lady, taking the garment -from her daughter’s irresolute hands.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“But, mamma! What shall I say, what shall -I do when they send? Oh, dear; oh, dear!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“That is your business,” replied madame, -with lofty indifference. “My concern is solely -with a sick child that happens to be under my -roof. I think I know my duty at this time of -life, Cécile.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>As Madame Lalonde predicted, the carriage -soon came, with a stiff English coachman -driving it, and a red-cheeked Irish nurse-maid -seated inside. Madame would not even permit -the maid to see her little charge. She had -an original theory that the Irish voice is distressing -to the sick.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Madame Lalonde sent the girl away with a -long letter of explanation that must have satisfied -the parents; for the child was left undisturbed -in Madame Carambeau’s care. She was -a sweet child, gentle and affectionate. And, -though she cried and fretted a little throughout -the night for her mother, she seemed, after -all, to take kindly to madame’s gentle -nursing. It was not much of a fever that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>afflicted her, and after two days she was well -enough to be sent back to her parents.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Madame, in all her varied experience with -the sick, had never before nursed so objectionable -a character as an American child. -But the trouble was that after the little one -went away, she could think of nothing really -objectionable against her except the accident -of her birth, which was, after all, her misfortune; -and her ignorance of the French language, -which was not her fault.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But the touch of the caressing baby arms; -the pressure of the soft little body in the -night; the tones of the voice, and the feeling -of the hot lips when the child kissed her, believing -herself to be with her mother, were -impressions that had sunk through the crust -of madame’s prejudice and reached her heart.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She often walked the length of the gallery, -looking out across the wide, majestic river. -Sometimes she trod the mazes of her garden -where the solitude was almost that of a tropical -jungle. It was during such moments that -the seed began to work in her soul—the seed -planted by the innocent and undesigning -hands of a little child.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>The first shoot that it sent forth was Doubt. -Madame plucked it away once or twice. But -it sprouted again, and with it Mistrust and -Dissatisfaction. Then from the heart of the -seed, and amid the shoots of Doubt and Misgiving, -came the flower of Truth. It was a -very beautiful flower, and it bloomed on -Christmas morning.</p> - -<p class='c001'>As Madame Carambeau and her daughter -were about to enter her carriage on that -Christmas morning, to be driven to church, -the old lady stopped to give an order to her -black coachman, François. François had -been driving these ladies every Sunday morning -to the French Cathedral for so many years—he -had forgotten exactly how many, but -ever since he had entered their service, when -Madame Lalonde was a little girl. His astonishment -may therefore be imagined when -Madame Carambeau said to him:</p> - -<p class='c001'>“François, to-day you will drive us to one -of the American churches.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Plait-il, madame?” the negro stammered, -doubting the evidence of his hearing.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I say, you will drive us to one of the American -churches. Any one of them,” she added, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>with a sweep of her hand. “I suppose they -are all alike,” and she followed her daughter -into the carriage.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Madame Lalonde’s surprise and agitation -were painful to see, and they deprived her of -the ability to question, even if she had possessed -the courage to do so.</p> - -<p class='c001'>François, left to his fancy, drove them to -St. Patrick’s Church on Camp street. Madame -Lalonde looked and felt like the proverbial -fish out of its element as they entered -the edifice. Madame Carambeau, on the contrary, -looked as if she had been attending St. -Patrick’s church all her life. She sat with unruffled -calm through the long service and -through a lengthy English sermon, of which -she did not understand a word.</p> - -<p class='c001'>When the mass was ended and they were -about to enter the carriage again, Madame -Carambeau turned, as she had done before, to -the coachman.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“François,” she said, coolly, “you will now -drive us to the residence of my son, M. Henri -Carambeau. No doubt Mamzelle Cécile can -inform you where it is,” she added, with a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>sharply penetrating glance that caused Madame -Lalonde to wince.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Yes, her daughter Cécile knew, and so did -François, for that matter. They drove out -St. Charles avenue—very far out. It was -like a strange city to old madame, who had -not been in the American quarter since the -town had taken on this new and splendid -growth.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The morning was a delicious one, soft and -mild; and the roses were all in bloom. They -were not hidden behind spiked fences. Madame -appeared not to notice them, or the -beautiful and striking residences that lined -the avenue along which they drove. She held -a bottle of smelling-salts to her nostrils, as -though she were passing through the most -unsavory instead of the most beautiful quarter -of New Orleans.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Henri’s house was a very modern and very -handsome one, standing a little distance away -from the street. A well-kept lawn, studded -with rare and charming plants, surrounded -it. The ladies, dismounting, rang the bell, -and stood out upon the banquette, waiting -for the iron gate to be opened.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>A white maid-servant admitted them. Madame -did not seem to mind. She handed her -a card with all proper ceremony, and followed -with her daughter to the house.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Not once did she show a sign of weakness; -not even when her son, Henri, came and took -her in his arms and sobbed and wept upon -her neck as only a warm-hearted Creole could. -He was a big, good-looking, honest-faced -man, with tender brown eyes like his dead -father’s and a firm mouth like his mother’s.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Young Mrs. Carambeau came, too, her -sweet, fresh face transfigured with happiness. -She led by the hand her little daughter, the -“American child” whom madame had nursed -so tenderly a month before, never suspecting -the little one to be other than an alien to her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“What a lucky chance was that fever! What -a happy accident!” gurgled Madame Lalonde.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Cécile, it was no accident, I tell you; it -was Providence,” spoke madame, reprovingly, -and no one contradicted her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>They all drove back together to eat Christmas -dinner in the old house by the river. -Madame held her little granddaughter upon -<span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>her lap; her son Henri sat facing her, and beside -her was her daughter-in-law.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Henri sat back in the carriage and could -not speak. His soul was possessed by a pathetic -joy that would not admit of speech. -He was going back again to the home where -he was born, after a banishment of ten long -years.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He would hear again the water beat against -the green levee-bank with a sound that was -not quite like any other that he could remember. -He would sit within the sweet and solemn -shadow of the deep and overhanging -roof; and roam through the wild, rich solitude -of the old garden, where he had played -his pranks of boyhood and dreamed his -dreams of youth. He would listen to his -mother’s voice calling him, “<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">mon fils</span>,” as it -had always done before that day he had -to choose between mother and wife. No; he -could not speak.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But his wife chatted much and pleasantly—in -a French, however, that must have been -trying to old madame to listen to.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I am so sorry, ma mère,” she said, “that -our little one does not speak French. It is -<span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>not my fault, I assure you,” and she flushed -and hesitated a little. “It—it was Henri who -would not permit it.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“That is nothing,” replied madame, amiably, -drawing the child close to her. “Her -grandmother will teach her French; and she -will teach her grandmother English. You -see, I have no prejudices. I am not like my -son. Henri was always a stubborn boy. -Heaven only knows how he came by such a -character!”</p> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>Caline</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span> - <h2 class='c006'>Caline</h2> -</div> -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_storybreak.png' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>The sun was just far enough in the west -to send inviting shadows. In the centre -of a small field, and in the shade of a -haystack which was there, a girl lay sleeping. -She had slept long and soundly, when something -awoke her as suddenly as if it had been a -blow. She opened her eyes and stared a moment -up in the cloudless sky. She yawned -and stretched her long brown legs and arms, -lazily. Then she arose, never minding the -bits of straw that clung to her black hair, to -her red bodice, and the blue cotonade skirt -that did not reach her naked ankles.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The log cabin in which she dwelt with her -parents was just outside the enclosure in -which she had been sleeping. Beyond was a -small clearing that did duty as a cotton field. -All else was dense wood, except the long -stretch that curved round the brow of the hill, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>and in which glittered the steel rails of the -Texas and Pacific road.</p> - -<p class='c001'>When Caline emerged from the shadow she -saw a long train of passenger coaches standing -in view, where they must have stopped -abruptly. It was that sudden stopping which -had awakened her; for such a thing had not -happened before within her recollection, and -she looked stupid, at first, with astonishment. -There seemed to be something wrong with -the engine; and some of the passengers who -dismounted went forward to investigate the -trouble. Others came strolling along in the -direction of the cabin, where Caline stood under -an old gnarled mulberry tree, staring. -Her father had halted his mule at the end of -the cotton row, and stood staring also, leaning -upon his plow.</p> - -<p class='c001'>There were ladies in the party. They walked -awkwardly in their high-heeled boots over -the rough, uneven ground, and held up their -skirts mincingly. They twirled parasols over -their shoulders, and laughed immoderately at -the funny things which their masculine companions -were saying.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>They tried to talk to Caline, but could not -understand the French patois with which she -answered them.</p> - -<p class='c001'>One of the men—a pleasant-faced youngster—drew -a sketch book from his pocket and -began to make a picture of the girl. She -stayed motionless, her hands behind her, and -her wide eyes fixed earnestly upon him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Before he had finished there was a summons -from the train; and all went scampering -hurriedly away. The engine screeched, it -sent a few lazy puffs into the still air, and in -another moment or two had vanished, bearing -its human cargo with it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Caline could not feel the same after that. -She looked with new and strange interest -upon the trains of cars that passed so swiftly -back and forth across her vision, each day; -and wondered whence these people came, and -whither they were going.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Her mother and father could not tell her, -except to say that they came from “<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">loin là -bas</span>,” and were going “<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Djieu sait é où</span>.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>One day she walked miles down the track -to talk with the old flagman, who stayed -down there by the big water tank. Yes, he -<span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>knew. Those people came from the great cities -in the north, and were going to the city -in the south. He knew all about the city; it -was a grand place. He had lived there once. -His sister lived there now; and she would be -glad enough to have so fine a girl as Caline -to help her cook and scrub, and tend the -babies. And he thought Caline might earn -as much as five dollars a month, in the city.</p> - -<p class='c001'>So she went; in a new cotonade, and her -Sunday shoes; with a sacredly guarded scrawl -that the flagman sent to his sister.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The woman lived in a tiny, stuccoed house, -with green blinds, and three wooden steps -leading down to the banquette. There seemed -to be hundreds like it along the street. Over -the house tops loomed the tall masts of ships, -and the hum of the French market could be -heard on a still morning.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Caline was at first bewildered. She had to -readjust all her preconceptions to fit the reality -of it. The flagman’s sister was a kind -and gentle task-mistress. At the end of a -week or two she wanted to know how the girl -liked it all. Caline liked it very well, for it -was pleasant, on Sunday afternoons, to stroll -<span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>with the children under the great, solemn -sugar sheds; or to sit upon the compressed -cotton bales, watching the stately steamers, -the graceful boats, and noisy little tugs that -plied the waters of the Mississippi. And it -filled her with agreeable excitement to go -to the French market, where the handsome -Gascon butchers were eager to present their -compliments and little Sunday bouquets to the -pretty Acadian girl; and to throw fistfuls of -<i>lagniappe</i> into her basket.</p> - -<p class='c001'>When the woman asked her again after another -week if she were still pleased, she was -not so sure. And again when she questioned -Caline the girl turned away, and went to sit -behind the big, yellow cistern, to cry unobserved. -For she knew now that it was not the -great city and its crowds of people she had -so eagerly sought; but the pleasant-faced boy, -who had made her picture that day under the -mulberry tree.</p> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>A Dresden Lady in Dixie</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span> - <h2 class='c006'>A Dresden Lady in Dixie</h2> -</div> -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_storybreak.png' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_3_0_4 c011'>Madame Valtour had been in the sitting-room -some time before she noticed -the absence of the Dresden china -figure from the corner of the mantel-piece, -where it had stood for years. Aside from the -intrinsic value of the piece, there were some -very sad and tender memories associated with -it. A baby’s lips that were now forever still -had loved once to kiss the painted “pitty ’ady”; -and the baby arms had often held it in a close -and smothered embrace.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Madame Valtour gave a rapid, startled -glance around the room, to see perchance if -it had been misplaced; but she failed to discover -it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Viny, the house-maid, when summoned, remembered -having carefully dusted it that -morning, and was rather indignantly positive -<span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>that she had not broken the thing to bits and -secreted the pieces.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Who has been in the room during my -absence?” questioned Madame Valtour, with -asperity. Viny abandoned herself to a moment’s -reflection.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Pa-Jeff comed in yere wid de mail—” If -she had said St. Peter came in with the mail, -the fact would have had as little bearing on -the case from Madame Valtour’s point of -view.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Pa-Jeff’s uprightness and honesty were so -long and firmly established as to have become -proverbial on the plantation. He had -not served the family faithfully since boyhood -and been all through the war with “old -Marse Valtour” to descend at his time of life -to tampering with household bric-a-brac.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Has any one else been here?” Madame -Valtour naturally inquired.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“On’y Agapie w’at brung you some Creole -aiggs. I tole ’er to sot ’em down in de hall. -I don’ know she comed in de settin’-room -o’ not.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Yes, there they were; eight, fresh “Creole -eggs” reposing on the muslin in the sewing -<span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>basket. Viny herself had been seated on the -gallery brushing her mistress’ gowns during -the hours of that lady’s absence, and could -think of no one else having penetrated to the -sitting-room.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Madame Valtour did not entertain the -thought that Agapie had stolen the relic. Her -worst fear was, that the girl, finding herself -alone in the room, had handled the frail bit -of porcelain and inadvertently broken it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Agapie came often to the house to play -with the children and amuse them—she loved -nothing better. Indeed, no other spot known -to her on earth so closely embodied her confused -idea of paradise, as this home with its -atmosphere of love, comfort and good -cheer. She was, herself, a cheery bit of humanity, -overflowing with kind impulses and -animal spirits.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Madame Valtour recalled the fact that -Agapie had often admired this Dresden figure -(but what had she not admired!); and she remembered -having heard the girl’s assurance -that if ever she became possessed of “fo’ bits” -to spend as she liked, she would have some -<span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span>one buy her just such a china doll in town -or in the city.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Before night, the fact that the Dresden lady -had strayed from her proud eminence on the -sitting-room mantel, became, through Viny’s -indiscreet babbling, pretty well known on the -place.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The following morning Madame Valtour -crossed the field and went over to the Bedauts’ -cabin. The cabins on the plantation -were not grouped; but each stood isolated -upon the section of land which its occupants -cultivated. Pa-Jeff’s cabin was the only one -near enough to the Bedauts to admit of neighborly -intercourse.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Seraphine Bedaut was sitting on her small -gallery, stringing red peppers, when Madame -Valtour approached.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I’m so distressed, Madame Bedaut,” began -the planter’s wife, abruptly. But the -’Cadian woman arose politely and interrupted, -offering her visitor a chair.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Come in, set down, Ma’me Valtour.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No, no; it’s only for a moment. You know, -Madame Bedaut, yesterday when I returned -from making a visit, I found that an ornament -<span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>was missing from my sitting-room mantel-piece. -It’s a thing I prize very, very much—” -with sudden tears filling her eyes—“and I -would not willingly part with it for many -times its value.” Seraphine Bedaut was listening, -with her mouth partly open, looking, -in truth, stupidly puzzled.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No one entered the room during my absence,” -continued Madame Valtour, “but -Agapie.” Seraphine’s mouth snapped like a -steel trap and her black eyes gleamed with a -flash of anger.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You wan’ say Agapie stole some’in’ in yo’ -house!” she cried out in a shrill voice, tremulous -from passion.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No; oh no! I’m sure Agapie is an honest -girl and we all love her; but you know how -children are. It was a small Dresden figure. -She may have handled and broken the thing -and perhaps is afraid to say so. She may -have thoughtlessly misplaced it; oh, I don’t -know what! I want to ask if she saw it.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Come in; you got to come in, Ma’me Valtour,” -stubbornly insisted Seraphine, leading -the way into the cabin. “I sen’ ’er to de -house yistiddy wid some Creole aiggs,” she -<span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>went on in her rasping voice, “like I all time -do, because you all say you can’t eat dem sto’ -aiggs no mo’. Yere de basket w’at I sen’ -’em in,” reaching for an Indian basket which -hung against the wall—and which was partly -filled with cotton seed.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Oh, never mind,” interrupted Madame -Valtour, now thoroughly distressed at witnessing -the woman’s agitation.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Ah, bien non. I got to show you, Agapie -en’t no mo’ thief ’an yo’ own child’en is.” She -led the way into the adjoining room of the hut.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Yere all her things w’at she ’muse herse’f -wid,” continued Seraphine, pointing to a soapbox -which stood on the floor just beneath -the open window. The box was filled with -an indescribable assortment of odds and ends, -mostly doll-rags. A catechism and a blue-*backed -speller poked dog-eared corners from -out of the confusion; for the Valtour children -were making heroic and patient efforts toward -Agapie’s training.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Seraphine cast herself upon her knees before -the box and dived her thin brown hands -among its contents. “I wan’ show you; I -<span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>goin’ show you,” she kept repeating excitedly. -Madame Valtour was standing beside her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Suddenly the woman drew forth from -among the rags, the Dresden lady, as dapper, -sound, and smiling as ever. Seraphine’s hand -shook so violently that she was in danger of -letting the image fall to the floor. Madame -Valtour reached out and took it very quietly -from her. Then Seraphine rose tremblingly -to her feet and broke into a sob that was pitiful -to hear.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Agapie was approaching the cabin. She -was a chubby girl of twelve. She walked -with bare, callous feet over the rough ground -and bare-headed under the hot sun. Her -thick, short, black hair covered her head like -a mane. She had been dancing along the -path, but slackened her pace upon catching -sight of the two women who had returned to -the gallery. But when she perceived that her -mother was crying she darted impetuously -forward. In an instant she had her arms -around her mother’s neck, clinging so tenaciously -in her youthful strength as to make -the frail woman totter.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>Agapie had seen the Dresden figure in -Madame Valtour’s possession and at once -guessed the whole accusation.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“It en’t so! I tell you, maman, it en’t so! -I neva touch’ it. Stop cryin’; stop cryin’!” -and she began to cry most piteously herself.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“But Agapie, we fine it in yo’ box,” moaned -Seraphine through her sobs.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Then somebody put it there. Can’t you -see somebody put it there? ’Ten’t so, I tell -you.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>The scene was extremely painful to Madame -Valtour. Whatever she might tell these -two later, for the time she felt herself powerless -to say anything befitting, and she walked -away. But she turned to remark, with a -hardness of expression and intention which -she seldom displayed: “No one will know of -this through me. But, Agapie, you must not -come into my house again; on account of the -children; I could not allow it.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>As she walked away she could hear Agapie -comforting her mother with renewed protestations -of innocence.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>Pa-Jeff began to fail visibly that year. No -wonder, considering his great age, which he -computed to be about one hundred. It was, -in fact, some ten years less than that, but a -good old age all the same. It was seldom -that he got out into the field; and then, never -to do any heavy work—only a little light hoeing. -There were days when the “misery” -doubled him up and nailed him down to his -chair so that he could not set foot beyond -the door of his cabin. He would sit there -courting the sunshine and blinking, as he -gazed across the fields with the patience of -the savage.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The Bedauts seemed to know almost instinctively -when Pa-Jeff was sick. Agapie -would shade her eyes and look searchingly -towards the old man’s cabin.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I don’ see Pa-Jeff this mo’nin’,” or “Pa-Jeff -en’t open his winda,” or “I didn’ see no -smoke yet yonda to Pa-Jeff’s.” And in a little -while the girl would be over there with a -pail of soup or coffee, or whatever there was -at hand which she thought the old negro -might fancy. She had lost all the color out -of her cheeks and was pining like a sick bird.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>She often sat on the steps of the gallery -and talked with the old man while she waited -for him to finish his soup from her tin pail.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I tell you, Pa-Jeff, its neva been no thief -in the Bedaut family. My pa say he couldn’ -hole up his head if he think I been a thief, -me. An’ maman say it would make her sick -in bed, she don’ know she could ever git up. -Sosthène tell me the chil’en been cryin’ fo’ -me up yonda. Li’le Lulu cry so hard M’sieur -Valtour want sen’ afta me, an’ Ma’me Valtour -say no.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>And with this, Agapie flung herself at -length upon the gallery with her face buried -in her arms, and began to cry so hysterically -as seriously to alarm Pa-Jeff. It was well -he had finished his soup, for he could not -have eaten another mouthful.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Hole up yo’ head, chile. God save us! -W’at you kiarrin’ on dat away?” he exclaimed -in great distress. “You gwine to take a fit? -Hole up yo’ head.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Agapie rose slowly to her feet, and drying -her eyes upon the sleeve of her “josie,” -reached out for the tin bucket. Pa-Jeff -<span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>handed it to her, but without relinquishing his -hold upon it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“War hit you w’at tuck it?” he questioned -in a whisper. “I isn’ gwine tell; you knows -I isn’ gwine tell.” She only shook her head, -attempting to draw the pail forcibly away -from the old man.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Le’ me go, Pa-Jeff. W’at you doin’! Gi’ -me my bucket!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>He kept his old blinking eyes fastened for -a while questioningly upon her disturbed and -tear-stained face. Then he let her go and she -turned and ran swiftly away towards her -home.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He sat very still watching her disappear; -only his furrowed old face twitched convulsively, -moved by an unaccustomed train of -reasoning that was at work in him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“She w’ite, I is black,” he muttered calculatingly. -“She young, I is ole; sho I is ole. -She good to Pa-Jeff like I her own kin an’ -color.” This line of thought seemed to possess -him to the exclusion of every other. -Late in the night he was still muttering.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Sho I is ole. She good to Pa-Jeff, yas.”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>A few days later, when Pa-Jeff happened to -be feeling comparatively well, he presented -himself at the house just as the family had assembled -at their early dinner. Looking up -suddenly, Monsieur Valtour was astonished -to see him standing there in the room near -the open door. He leaned upon his cane and -his grizzled head was bowed upon his breast. -There was general satisfaction expressed at -seeing Pa-Jeff on his legs once more.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Why, old man, I’m glad to see you out -again,” exclaimed the planter, cordially, pouring -a glass of wine, which he instructed -Viny to hand to the old fellow. Pa-Jeff accepted -the glass and set it solemnly down -upon a small table near by.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Marse Albert,” he said, “I is come heah -to-day fo’ to make a statement of de rights an’ -de wrongs w’at is done hang heavy on my -soul dis heah long time. Arter you heahs me -an’ de missus heahs me an’ de chillun an’ ev’-body, -den ef you says: ‘Pa-Jeff you kin tech -yo’ lips to dat glass o’ wine,’ all well an’ -right.’”</p> - -<p class='c001'>His manner was impressive and caused the -family to exchange surprised and troubled -<span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>glances. Foreseeing that his recital might be -long, a chair was offered to him, but he declined -it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“One day,” he began, “w’en I ben hoein’ de -madam’s flower bed close to de fence, Sosthéne -he ride up, he say: ‘Heah, Pa-Jeff, -heah de mail.’ I takes de mail f’on ’im an’ -I calls out to Viny w’at settin’ on de gallery: -‘Heah Marse Albert’s mail, gal; come git it.’</p> - -<p class='c001'>“But Viny she answer, pert-like—des like -Viny: ‘You is got two laigs, Pa-Jeff, des well -as me.’ I ain’t no ban’ fo’ disputin’ wid gals, -so I brace up an’ I come ’long to de house -an’ goes on in dat settin’-room dah, naix’ to -de dinin’-room. I lays dat mail down on -Marse Albert’s table; den I looks roun’.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Ev’thing do look putty, sho! De lace cu’tains -was a-flappin’ an’ de flowers was a-smellin’ -sweet, an’ de pictures a-settin’ back on de -wall. I keep on lookin’ roun’. To reckly -my eye hit fall on de li’le gal w’at al’ays sets -on de een’ o’ de mantel-shelf. She do look -mighty sassy dat day, wid ’er toe a-stickin’ -out, des so; an’ holdin’ her skirt des dat away; -an’ lookin’ at me wid her head twis’.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>“I laff out. Viny mus’ heahed me. I say, -‘g’long ’way f’om dah, gal.’ She keep on -smilin’. I reaches out my han’. Den Satan -an’ de good Sperrit, dey begins to wrastle in -me. De Sperrit say: ‘You ole fool-nigga, -you; mine w’at you about.’ Satan keep on -shovin’ my han’—des so—keep on shovin’. -Satan he mighty powerful dat day, an’ he -win de fight. I kiar dat li’le trick home in -my pocket.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Pa-Jeff lowered his head for a moment in -bitter confusion. His hearers were moved -with distressful astonishment. They would -have had him stop the recital right there, but -Pa-Jeff resumed, with an effort:</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Come dat night I heah tell how dat li’le -trick, we’th heap money; how madam, she -cryin’ ’cause her li’le blessed lamb was use’ to -play wid dat, an’ kiar-on ov’ it. Den I git -scared. I say, ‘w’at I gwine do?’ An’ up -jump Satan an’ de Sperrit a-wrastlin’ again.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“De Sperrit say: ‘Kiar hit back whar it -come f’om, Pa-Jeff.’ Satan ’low: ‘Fling it -in de bayeh, you ole fool.’ De Sperrit say: -‘You won’t fling dat in de bayeh, whar de -madam kain’t neva sot eyes on hit no mo’?’ -<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>Den Satan he kine give in; he ’low he plumb -sick o’ disputin’ so long; tell me go hide it -some ’eres whar dey nachelly gwine fine it. -Satan he win dat fight.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Des w’en de day g’ine break, I creeps out -an’ goes ’long de fiel’ road. I pass by Ma’me -Bedaut’s house. I riclic how dey says li’le -Bedaut gal ben in de sittin’-room, too, day -befo’. De winda war open. Ev’body sleep-in’. -I tres’ in my head, des like a dog w’at -shame hisse’f. I sees dat box o’ rags befo’ -my eyes; an’ I drops dat li’le imp’dence -’mongst dem rags.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Mebby yo’ all t’ink Satan an’ de Sperrit -lef’ me ’lone, arter dat?” continued Pa-Jeff, -straightening himself from the relaxed position -in which his members seemed to have settled.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No, suh; dey ben desputin’ straight ’long. -Las’ night dey come nigh onto en’in’ me up. -De Sperrit cay: ‘Come ’long, I gittin’ tired -dis heah, you g’long up yonda an’ tell de truf -an’ shame de devil.’ Satan ’low: ‘Stay whar -you is; you heah me!’ Dey clutches me. Dey -twis’es an’ twines me. Dey dashes me down -an’ jerks me up. But de Sperrit he win dat -<span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>fight in de en’, an’ heah I is, mist’ess, master, -chillun’; heah I is.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Years later Pa-Jeff was still telling the story -of his temptation and fall. The negroes especially -seemed never to tire of hearing him relate -it. He enlarged greatly upon the theme -as he went, adding new and dramatic features -which gave fresh interest to its every telling.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Agapie grew up to deserve the confidence -and favors of the family. She redoubled her -acts of kindness toward Pa-Jeff; but somehow -she could not look into his face again.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Yet she need not have feared. Long before -the end came, poor old Pa-Jeff, confused, -bewildered, believed the story himself as firmly -as those who had heard him tell it over -and over for so many years.</p> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>Nég Créol</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span> - <h2 class='c006'>Nég Créol</h2> -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_storybreak.png' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_3_0_4 c011'>At the remote period of his birth he -had been named César François Xavier, -but no one ever thought of calling him -anything but Chicot, or Nég, or Maringouin. -Down at the French market, where he worked -among the fishmongers, they called him Chicot, -when they were not calling him names -that are written less freely than they are spoken. -But one felt privileged to call him almost -anything, he was so black, lean, lame, -and shriveled. He wore a head-kerchief, and -whatever other rags the fishermen and their -wives chose to bestow upon him. Throughout -one whole winter he wore a woman’s discarded -jacket with puffed sleeves.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Among some startling beliefs entertained -by Chicot was one that “Michié St. Pierre et -Michié St. Paul” had created him. Of -“Michié bon Dieu” he held his own private -<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>opinion, and not a too flattering one at that. -This fantastic notion concerning the origin of -his being he owed to the early teaching of his -young master, a lax believer, and a great -<i>farceur</i> in his day. Chicot had once been -thrashed by a robust young Irish priest for -expressing his religious views, and at another -time knifed by a Sicilian. So he had come to -hold his peace upon that subject.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Upon another theme he talked freely and -harped continuously. For years he had tried -to convince his associates that his master had -left a progeny, rich, cultured, powerful, and -numerous beyond belief. This prosperous -race of beings inhabited the most imposing -mansions in the city of New Orleans. Men -of note and position, whose names were familiar -to the public, he swore were grandchildren, -great-grandchildren, or, less frequently, distant -relatives of his master, long deceased, -Ladies who came to the market in carriages, -or whose elegance of attire attracted the attention -and admiration of the fishwomen, were -all <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>des ’tites cousines</i></span> to his former master, -Jean Boisduré. He never looked for recognition -from any of these superior beings, but -<span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>delighted to discourse by the hour upon their -dignity and pride of birth and wealth.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Chicot always carried an old gunny-sack, -and into this went his earnings. He cleaned -stalls at the market, scaled fish, and did many -odd offices for the itinerant merchants, who -usually paid in trade for his service. Occasionally -he saw the color of silver and got his -clutch upon a coin, but he accepted anything, -and seldom made terms. He was glad to get -a handkerchief from the Hebrew, and grateful -if the Choctaws would trade him a bottle of -<i>filé</i> it. The butcher flung him a soup bone, -and the fishmonger a few crabs or a paper -bag of shrimps. It was the big <i>mulatresse</i>, -<i>vendeuse de café</i>, who cared for his inner -man.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Once Chicot was accused by a shoe-vender -of attempting to steal a pair of ladies’ shoes. -He declared he was only examining them. -The clamor raised in the market was terrific. -Young Dagoes assembled and squealed like -rats; a couple of Gascon butchers bellowed -like bulls. Matteo’s wife shook her fist in the -accuser’s face and called him incomprehensible -names. The Choctaw women, where they -<span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>squatted, turned their slow eyes in the direction -of the fray, taking no further notice; while -a policeman jerked Chicot around by the -puffed sleeve and brandished a club. It was -a narrow escape.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Nobody knew where Chicot lived. A man—even -a nég créol—who lives among the -reeds and willows of Bayou St. John, in a -deserted chicken-coop constructed chiefly of -tarred paper, is not going to boast of his habitation -or to invite attention to his domestic -appointments. When, after market hours, he -vanished in the direction of St. Philip street, -limping, seemingly bent under the weight of -his gunny-bag, it was like the disappearance -from the stage of some petty actor whom the -audience does not follow in imagination beyond -the wings, or think of till his return in -another scene.</p> - -<p class='c001'>There was one to whom Chicot’s coming or -going meant more than this. In <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>la maison -grise</i></span> they called her La Chouette, for no -earthly reason unless that she perched high -under the roof of the old rookery and scolded -in shrill sudden outbursts. Forty or fifty years -before, when for a little while she acted minor -<span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>parts with a company of French players (an -escapade that had brought her grandmother -to the grave), she was known as Mademoiselle -de Montallaine. Seventy-five years before she -had been christened Aglaé Boisduré.</p> - -<p class='c001'>No matter at what hour the old negro appeared -at her threshold, Mamzelle Aglaé always -kept him waiting till she finished her -prayers. She opened the door for him and -silently motioned him to a seat, returning to -prostrate herself upon her knees before a crucifix, -and a shell filled with holy water that -stood on a small table; it represented in her -imagination an altar. Chicot knew that she -did it to aggravate him; he was convinced -that she timed her devotions to begin when -she heard his footsteps on the stairs. He -would sit with sullen eyes contemplating her -long, spare, poorly clad figure as she knelt -and read from her book or finished her -prayers. Bitter was the religious warfare that -had raged for years between them, and Mamzelle -Aglaé had grown, on her side, as intolerant -as Chicot. She had come to hold St. -Peter and St. Paul in such utter detestation -<span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>that she had cut their pictures out of her -prayer-book.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Then Mamzelle Aglaé pretended not to -care what Chicot had in his bag. He drew -forth a small hunk of beef and laid it in her -basket that stood on the bare floor. She looked -from the corner of her eye, and went on dusting -the table. He brought out a handful -of potatoes, some pieces of sliced fish, a few -herbs, a yard of calico, and a small pat of butter -wrapped in lettuce leaves. He was proud -of the butter, and wanted her to notice it. He -held it out and asked her for something to put -it on. She handed him a saucer, and looked -indifferent and resigned, with lifted eyebrows.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Pas d’ sucre, Nég?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Chicot shook his head and scratched it, and -looked like a black picture of distress and -mortification. No sugar! But tomorrow he -would get a pinch here and a pinch there, and -would bring as much as a cupful.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mamzelle Aglaé then sat down, and talked -to Chicot uninterruptedly and confidentially. -She complained bitterly, and it was all about -a pain that lodged in her leg; that crept and -acted like a live, stinging serpent, twining -<span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>about her waist and up her spine, and coiling -round the shoulder-blade. And then <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>les -rheumatismes</i></span> in her fingers! He could see -for himself how they were knotted. She could -not bend them; she could hold nothing in her -hands, and had let a saucer fall that morning -and broken it in pieces. And if she were to -tell him that she had slept a wink through the -night, she would be a liar, deserving of perdition. -She had sat at the window <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>la nuit -blanche</i></span>, hearing the hours strike and the market-wagons -rumble. Chicot nodded, and kept -up a running fire of sympathetic comment -and suggestive remedies for rheumatism and -insomnia: herbs, or <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>tisanes</i></span>, or <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>grigris</i></span>, or all -three. As if he knew! There was Purgatory -Mary, a perambulating soul whose office in -life was to pray for the shades in purgatory,—she -had brought Mamzelle Aglaé a bottle of -<i>eau de Lourdes</i>, but so little of it! She might -have kept her water of Lourdes, for all the -good it did,—a drop! Not so much as would -cure a fly or a mosquito! Mamzelle Aglaé -was going to show Purgatory Mary the door -when she came again, not only because of -her avarice with the Lourdes water, but, beside -<span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span>that, she brought in on her feet dirt that -could only be removed with a shovel after -she left.</p> - -<p class='c001'>And Mamzelle Aglaé wanted to inform Chicot -that there would be slaughter and bloodshed -in <i>la maison grise</i> if the people below -stairs did not mend their ways. She was convinced -that they lived for no other purpose -than to torture and molest her. The woman -kept a bucket of dirty water constantly on the -landing with the hope of Mamzelle Aglaé falling -over it or into it. And she knew that the -children were instructed to gather in the hall -and on the stairway, and scream and make a -noise and jump up and down like galloping -horses, with the intention of driving her to -suicide. Chicot should notify the policeman -on the beat, and have them arrested, if possible, -and thrust into the parish prison, where -they belonged.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Chicot would have been extremely alarmed -if he had ever chanced to find Mamzelle Aglaé -in an uncomplaining mood. It never occurred -to him that she might be otherwise. -He felt that she had a right to quarrel with -fate, if ever mortal had. Her poverty was a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>disgrace, and he hung his head before it and -felt ashamed.</p> - -<p class='c001'>One day he found Mamzelle Aglaé -stretched on the bed, with her head tied up in -a handkerchief. Her sole complaint that day -was, “Aïe—aïe—aïe! Aïe—aïe—aïe!” uttered -with every breath. He had seen her so before, -especially when the weather was damp.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Vous pas bézouin tisane, Mamzelle Aglaé? -Vous pas veux mo cri gagni docteur?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>She desired nothing. “Aïe—aïe—aïe!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>He emptied his bag very quietly, so as not -to disturb her; and he wanted to stay there -with her and lie down on the floor in case she -needed him, but the woman from below had -come up. She was an Irishwoman with rolled -sleeves.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“It’s a shtout shtick I’m afther giving her, -Nég, and she do but knock on the flure it’s -me or Janie or wan of us that’ll be hearing -her.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You too good, Brigitte. Aïe—aïe—aïe! -Une goutte d’eau sucré, Nég! That Purg’tory -Marie,—you see hair, ma bonne Brigitte, -you tell hair go say li’le prayer là-bas au Cathédral. -Aïe—aïe—aïe!”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>Nég could hear her lamentation as he -descended the stairs. It followed him as he -limped his way through the city streets, and -seemed part of the city’s noise; he could hear -it in the rumble of wheels and jangle of car-*bells, -and in the voices of those passing by.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He stopped at Mimotte the Voudou’s -shanty and bought a <i>grigri</i>—a cheap one for -fifteen cents. Mimotte held her charms at -all prices. This he intended to introduce next -day into Mamzelle Anglaé’s room,—somewhere -about the altar,—to the confusion and -discomfort of “<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Michié bon Dieu,</span>” who persistently -declined to concern himself with the -welfare of a Boisduré.</p> - -<p class='c001'>At night, among the reeds on the bayou, -Chicot could still hear the woman’s wail, -mingled now with the croaking of the frogs. -If he could have been convinced that giving -up his life down there in the water would in -any way have bettered her condition, he would -not have hesitated to sacrifice the remnant of -his existence that was wholly devoted to her. -He lived but to serve her. He did not know it -himself; but Chicot knew so little, and that -little in such a distorted way! He could -<span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>scarcely have been expected, even in his most -lucid moments, to give himself over to self-analysis.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Chicot gathered an uncommon amount of -dainties at market the following day. He had -to work hard, and scheme and whine a little; -but he got hold of an orange and a lump of ice -and a <i>chou-fleur</i>. He did not drink his cup -of <i>café au lait</i>, but asked Mimi Lambeau to -put it in the little new tin pail that the Hebrew -notion-vender had just given him in exchange -for a mess of shrimps. This time, however, -Chicot had his trouble for nothing. When -he reached the upper room of <i>la maison grise</i>, -it was to find that Mamzelle Aglaé had died -during the night. He set his bag down in the -middle of the floor, and stood shaking, and -whined low like a dog in pain.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Everything had been done. The Irishwoman -had gone for the doctor, and Purgatory -Mary had summoned a priest. Furthermore, -the woman had arranged Mamzelle Aglaé -decently. She had covered the table with -a white cloth, and had placed it at the head -of the bed, with the crucifix and two lighted -candles in silver candlesticks upon it; the little -<span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>bit of ornamentation brightened and embellished -the poor room. Purgatory Mary, -dressed in shabby black, fat and breathing -hard, sat reading half audibly from a prayer-book. -She was watching the dead and the -silver candlesticks, which she had borrowed -from a benevolent society, and for which she -held herself responsible. A young man was -just leaving,—a reporter snuffing the air for -items, who had scented one up there in the -top room of <i>la maison grise</i>.</p> - -<p class='c001'>All the morning Janie had been escorting a -procession of street Arabs up and down the -stairs to view the remains. One of them—a -little girl, who had had her face washed and -had made a species of toilet for the occasion—refused -to be dragged away. She stayed -seated as if at an entertainment, fascinated alternately -by the long, still figure of Mamzelle -Aglaé, the mumbling lips of Purgatory Mary, -and the silver candlesticks.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Will ye get down on yer knees, man, and -say a prayer for the dead!” commanded the -woman.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But Chicot only shook his head, and refused -to obey. He approached the bed, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>laid a little black paw for a moment on the -stiffened body of Mamzelle Aglaé. There was -nothing for him to do here. He picked up -his old ragged hat and his bag and went -away.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“The black h’athen!” the woman muttered. -“Shut the dure, child.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>The little girl slid down from her chair, -and went on tiptoe to shut the door which Chicot -had left open. Having resumed her seat, -she fastened her eyes upon Purgatory Mary’s -heaving chest.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You, Chicot!” cried Matteo’s wife the next -morning. “My man, he read in paper ’bout -woman name’ Boisduré, use’ b’long to big-a -famny. She die roun’ on St. Philip—po’, -same-a like church rat. It’s any them Boisdurés -you alla talk ’bout?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Chicot shook his head in slow but emphatic -denial. No, indeed, the woman was not of -kin to his Boisdurés. He surely had told Matteo’s -wife often enough—how many times did -he have to repeat it!—of their wealth, their -social standing. It was doubtless some Boisduré -of <i>les Attakapas</i>; it was none of his.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>The next day there was a small funeral procession -passing a little distance away,—a -hearse and a carriage or two. There was the -priest who had attended Mamzelle Aglaé, and -a benevolent Creole gentleman whose father -had known the Boisdurés in his youth. There -was a couple of player-folk, who, having got -wind of the story, had thrust their hands into -their pockets.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Look, Chicot!” cried Matteo’s wife. -“Yonda go the fune’al. Mus-a be that-a Boisduré -woman we talken ’bout yesaday.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>But Chicot paid no heed. What was to -him the funeral of a woman who had died in -St. Philip street? He did not even turn his -head in the direction of the moving procession. -He went on scaling his red-snapper.</p> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>The Lilies</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span> - <h2 class='c006'>The Lilies</h2> -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_storybreak.png' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>That little vagabond Mamouche amused -himself one afternoon by letting -down the fence rails that protected Mr. -Billy’s young crop of cotton and corn. He -had first looked carefully about him to make -sure there was no witness to this piece of rascality. -Then he crossed the lane and did the -same with the Widow Angèle’s fence, thereby -liberating Toto, the white calf who stood disconsolately -penned up on the other side.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was not ten seconds before Toto was -frolicking madly in Mr. Billy’s crop, and Mamouche—the -young scamp—was running -swiftly down the lane, laughing fiendishly to -himself as he went.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He could not at first decide whether there -could be more fun in letting Toto demolish -things at his pleasure, or in warning Mr. Billy -of the calf’s presence in the field. But the latter -<span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span>course commended itself as possessing a -certain refinement of perfidy.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Ho, the’a, you!” called out Mamouche to -one of Mr. Billy’s hands, when he got around -to where the men were at work; “you betta -go yon’a an’ see ’bout that calf o’ Ma’me Angèle; -he done broke in the fiel’ an’ ’bout to -finish the crop, him.” Then Mamouche went -and sat behind a big tree, where, unobserved, -he could laugh to his heart’s content.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mr. Billy’s fury was unbounded when he -learned that Madame Angèle’s calf was eating -up and trampling down his corn. At once -he sent a detachment of men and boys to expel -the animal from the field. Others were -required to repair the damaged fence; while -he himself, boiling with wrath, rode up the -lane on his wicked black charger.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But merely to look upon the devastation -was not enough for Mr. Billy. He dismounted -from his horse, and strode belligerently up -to Madame Angèle’s door, upon which he -gave, with his riding-whip, a couple of sharp -raps that plainly indicated the condition of -his mind.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span>Mr. Billy looked taller and broader than -ever as he squared himself on the gallery of -Madame Angèle’s small and modest house. -She herself half-opened the door, a pale, -sweet-looking woman, somewhat bewildered, -and holding a piece of sewing in her hands. -Little Marie Louise was beside her, with big, -inquiring, frightened eyes.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Well, Madam!” blustered Mr. Billy, “this -is a pretty piece of work! That young beast -of yours is a fence-breaker, Madam, and ought -to be shot.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Oh, non, non, M’sieur. Toto’s too li’le; -I’m sho he can’t break any fence, him.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Don’t contradict me, Madam. I say he’s -a fence-breaker. There’s the proof before -your eyes. He ought to be shot, I say, and—don’t -let it occur again, Madam.” And -Mr. Billy turned and stamped down the steps -with a great clatter of spurs as he went.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Madame Angèle was at the time in desperate -haste to finish a young lady’s Easter -dress, and she could not afford to let Toto’s -escapade occupy her to any extent, much as -she regretted it. But little Marie Louise was -greatly impressed by the affair. She went out -<span class='pageno' id='Page_218'>218</span>in the yard to Toto, who was under the fig-tree, -looking not half so shamefaced as he -ought. The child, with arms clasped around -the little fellow’s white shaggy neck, scolded -him roundly.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Ain’t you shame’, Toto, to go eat up Mr. -Billy’s cotton an’ co’n? W’at Mr. Billy ev’a -done to you, to go do him that way? If you -been hungry, Toto, w’y you did’n’ come like -always an’ put yo’ head in the winda? I’m -goin’ tell yo’ maman w’en she come back -f’om the woods to ’s’evenin’, M’sieur.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Marie Louise only ceased her mild rebuke -when she fancied she saw a penitential look in -Toto’s big soft eyes.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She had a keen instinct of right and justice -for so young a little maid. And all the afternoon, -and long into the night, she was disturbed -by the thought of the unfortunate accident. -Of course, there could be no question -of repaying Mr. Billy with money; she and -her mother had none. Neither had they cotton -and corn with which to make good the -loss he had sustained through them.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But had they not something far more beautiful -and precious than cotton and corn? -<span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span>Marie Louise thought with delight of that -row of Easter lilies on their tall green stems, -ranged thick along the sunny side of the -house.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The assurance that she would, after all, be -able to satisfy Mr. Billy’s just anger, was a -very sweet one. And soothed by it, Marie -Louise soon fell asleep and dreamt a grotesque -dream: that the lilies were having a -stately dance on the green in the moonlight, -and were inviting Mr. Billy to join them.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The following day, when it was nearing noon, -Marie Louise said to her mamma: “Maman, -can I have some of the Easter lily, to do with -like I want?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Madame Angèle was just then testing the -heat of an iron with which to press out the -seams in the young lady’s Easter dress, and -she answered a shade impatiently:</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Yes, yes; va t’en, chérie,” thinking that -her little girl wanted to pluck a lily or two.</p> - -<p class='c001'>So the child took a pair of old shears from -her mother’s basket, and out she went to -where the tall, perfumed lilies were nodding, -and shaking off from their glistening petals -<span class='pageno' id='Page_220'>220</span>the rain-drops with which a passing cloud had -just laughingly pelted them.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Snip, snap, went the shears here and there, -and never did Marie Louise stop plying them -till scores of those long-stemmed lilies lay -upon the ground. There were far more than -she could hold in her small hands, so she -literally clasped the great bunch in her arms, -and staggered to her feet with it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Marie Louise was intent upon her purpose, -and lost no time in its accomplishment. She -was soon trudging earnestly down the lane -with her sweet burden, never stopping, and -only <a id='corr220.14'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='one'>once</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_220.14'><ins class='correction' title='one'>once</ins></a></span> glancing aside to cast a reproachful -look at Toto, whom she had not wholly forgiven.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She did not in the least mind that the dogs -barked, or that the darkies laughed at her. -She went straight on to Mr. Billy’s big house, -and right into the dining-room, where Mr. -Billy sat eating his dinner all alone.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was a finely-furnished room, but disorderly—very -disorderly, as an old bachelor’s -personal surroundings sometimes are. A -black boy stood waiting upon the table. When -little Marie Louise suddenly appeared, with -<span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span>that armful of lilies, Mr. Billy seemed for a -moment transfixed at the sight.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Well—bless—my soul! what’s all this? -What’s all this?” he questioned, with staring -eyes.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Marie Louise had already made a little -courtesy. Her sunbonnet had fallen back, -leaving exposed her pretty round head; and -her sweet brown eyes were full of confidence -as they looked into Mr. Billy’s.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I’m bring some lilies to pay back fo’ yo’ -cotton an’ co’n w’at Toto eat all up, M’sieur.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mr. Billy turned savagely upon Pompey. -“What are you laughing at, you black rascal? -Leave the room!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Pompey, who out of mistaken zeal had -doubled himself with merriment, was too accustomed -to the admonition to heed it literally, -and he only made a pretense of withdrawing -from Mr. Billy’s elbow.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Lilies! well, upon my—isn’t it the little one -from across the lane?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Dat’s who,” affirmed Pompey, cautiously -insinuating himself again into favor.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Lilies! who ever heard the like? Why, the -baby’s buried under ’em. Set ’em down -<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span>somewhere, little one; anywhere.” And -Marie Louise, glad to be relieved from the -weight of the great cluster, dumped them all -on the table close to Mr. Billy.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The perfume that came from the damp, -massed flowers was heavy and almost sickening -in its pungency. Mr. Billy quivered a -little, and drew involuntarily back, as if from -an unexpected assailant, when the odor -reached him. He had been making cotton -and corn for so many years, he had forgotten -there were such things as lilies in the world.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Kiar ’em out? fling ’em ’way?” questioned -Pompey, who had observed his master cunningly.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Let ’em alone! Keep your hands off -them! Leave the room, you outlandish black -scamp! What are you standing there for? -Can’t you set the Mamzelle a place at table, -and draw up a chair?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>So Marie Louise—perched upon a fine old-fashioned -chair, supplemented by a Webster’s -Unabridged—sat down to dine with Mr. -Billy.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She had never eaten in company with so -peculiar a gentleman before; so irascible toward -<span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>the inoffensive Pompey, and so courteous -to herself. But she was not ill at ease, -and conducted herself properly as her mamma -had taught her how.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mr. Billy was anxious that she should enjoy -her dinner, and began by helping her generously -to Jambalaya. When she had tasted -it she made no remark, only laid down her -fork, and looked composedly before her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Why, bless me! what ails the little one? -You don’t eat your rice.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“It ain’t cook’, M’sieur,” replied Marie -Louise politely.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Pompey nearly strangled in his attempt to -smother an explosion.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Of course it isn’t cooked,” echoed Mr. -Billy, excitedly, pushing away his plate. “What -do you mean, setting a mess of that sort before -human beings? Do you take us for a -couple of—of rice-birds? What are you standing -there for; can’t you look up some jam -or something to keep the young one from -starving? Where’s all that jam I saw stewing -a while back, here?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Pompey withdrew, and soon returned with -a platter of black-looking jam. Mr. Billy ordered -<span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span>cream for it. Pompey reported there -was none.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No cream, with twenty-five cows on the -plantation if there’s one!” cried Mr. Billy, almost -springing from his chair with indignation.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Aunt Printy ’low she sot de pan o’ cream -on de winda-sell, suh, an’ Unc’ Jonah come -’long an’ tu’n it cl’ar ova; neva lef’ a drap in -de pan.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>But evidently the jam, with or without -cream, was as distasteful to Marie Louise as -the rice was; for after tasting it gingerly she -laid away her spoon as she had done before.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“O, no! little one; you don’t tell me it isn’t -cooked this time,” laughed Mr. Billy. “I saw -the thing boiling a day and a half. Wasn’t it -a day and a half, Pompey? if you know how -to tell the truth.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Aunt Printy alluz do cooks her p’esarves -tell dey plumb done, sho,” agreed Pompey.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“It’s burn’, M’sieur,” said Marie Louise, politely, -but decidedly, to the utter confusion of -Mr. Billy, who was as mortified as could be at -the failure of his dinner to please his fastidious -little visitor.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>Well, Mr. Billy thought of Marie Louise a -good deal after that; as long as the lilies lasted. -And they lasted long, for he had the whole -household employed in taking care of them. -Often he would chuckle to himself: “The little -rogue, with her black eyes and her lilies! -And the rice wasn’t cooked, if you please; -and the jam was burnt. And the best of it is, -she was right.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>But when the lilies withered finally, and -had to be thrown away, Mr. Billy donned his -best suit, a starched shirt and fine silk necktie. -Thus attired, he crossed the lane to carry -his somewhat tardy apologies to Madame Angèle -and Mamzelle Marie Louise, and to pay -them a first visit.</p> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>Azélie</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span> - <h2 class='c006'>Azélie</h2> -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_storybreak.png' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>Azélie crossed the yard with slow, hesitating -steps. She wore a pink sunbonnet -and a faded calico dress that had -been made the summer before, and was now -too small for her in every way. She carried a -large tin pail on her arm. When within a few -yards of the house she stopped under a chinaberry-tree, -quite still, except for the occasional -slow turning of her head from side to side.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mr. Mathurin, from his elevation upon the -upper gallery, laughed when he saw her; for -he knew she would stay there, motionless, till -some one noticed and questioned her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The planter was just home from the city, -and was therefore in an excellent humor, as -he always was, on getting back to what he -called <i>le grand air</i>, the space and stillness of -the country, and the scent of the fields. He -was in shirtsleeves, walking around the gallery -<span class='pageno' id='Page_230'>230</span>that encircled the big square white house. -Beneath was a brick-paved portico upon which -the lower rooms opened. At wide intervals -were large whitewashed pillars that supported -the upper gallery.</p> - -<p class='c001'>In one corner of the lower house was the -store, which was in no sense a store for the -general public, but maintained only to supply -the needs of Mr. Mathurin’s “hands.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Eh bien! what do you want, Azélie?” the -planter finally called out to the girl in French. -She advanced a few paces, and, pushing back -her sunbonnet, looked up at him with a gentle, -inoffensive face—“to which you would give -the good God without confession,” he once -described it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Bon jou’, M’si’ Mathurin,” she replied; -and continued in English: “I come git a li’le -piece o’ meat. We plumb out o’ meat home.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Well, well, the meat is n’ going to walk -to you, my chile: it has n’ got feet. Go fine -Mr. ’Polyte. He’s yonda mending his buggy -unda the shed.” She turned away with an -alert little step, and went in search of Mr. -’Polyte.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span>“That’s you again!” the young man -exclaimed, with a pretended air of annoyance, -when he saw her. He straightened himself, -and looked down at her and her pail with a -comprehending glance. The sweat was -standing in shining beads on his brown, good-looking -face. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and -the legs of his trousers were thrust into the -tops of his fine, high-heeled boots. He wore -his straw hat very much on one side, and -had an air that was altogether <i>fanfaron</i>. He -reached to a back pocket for the store key, which was -as large as the pistol that he sometimes -carried in the same place. She followed -him across the thick, tufted grass of the yard -with quick, short steps that strove to keep -pace with his longer, swinging ones.</p> - -<p class='c001'>When he had unlocked and opened the -heavy door of the store, there escaped from -the close room the strong, pungent odor of -the varied wares and provisions massed within. -Azélie seemed to like the odor, and, lifting -her head, snuffed the air as people sometimes -do upon entering a conservatory filled -with fragrant flowers.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_232'>232</span>A broad ray of light streamed in through -the open door, illumining the dingy interior. -The double wooden shutters of the windows -were all closed, and secured on the inside by -iron hooks.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Well, w’at you want, Azélie?” asked ’Polyte, -going behind the counter with an air of -hurry and importance. “I ain’t got time to -fool. Make has’e; say w’at you want.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Her reply was precisely the same that she -had made to Mr. Mathurin.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I come git a li’le piece o’ meat. We plumb -out o’ meat home.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>He seemed exasperated.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Bonté! w’at you all do with meat yonda? -You don’t reflec’ you about to eat up yo’ crop -befo’ it’s good out o’ the groun’, you all. I -like to know w’y yo’ pa don’t go he’p with the -killin’ once aw’ile, an’ git some fresh meat fo’ -a change.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>She answered in an unshaded, unmodulated -voice that was penetrating, like a child’s: -“Popa he do go he’p wid the killin’; but he -say he can’t work ’less he got salt meat. He -got plenty to feed—him. He’s got to hire -he’p wid his crop, an’ he’s boun’ to feed ’em; -<span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span>they won’t year no diffe’nt. An’ he’s got -gra’ma to feed, an’ Sauterelle, an’ me—”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“An’ all the lazy-bone ’Cadians in the country -that know w’ere they goin’ to fine the coffee-pot -always in the corna of the fire,” grumbled -’Polyte.</p> - -<p class='c001'>With an iron hook he lifted a small piece of -salt meat from the pork barrel, weighed it, -and placed it in her pail. Then she wanted a -little coffee. He gave it to her reluctantly. -He was still more loath to let her have sugar; -and when she asked for lard, he refused flatly.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She had taken off her sunbonnet, and was -fanning herself with it, as she leaned with her -elbows upon the counter, and let her eyes -travel lingeringly along the well-lined shelves. -’Polyte stood staring into her face with a sense -of aggravation that her presence, her manner, -always stirred up in him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The face was colorless but for the red, -curved line of the lips. Her eyes were dark, -wide, innocent, questioning eyes, and her -black hair was plastered smooth back from -the forehead and temples. There was no -trace of any intention of coquetry in her manner. -He resented this as a token of indifference -<span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span>toward his sex, and thought it inexcusable.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Well, Azélie, if it’s anything you don’t see, -ask fo’ it,” he suggested, with what he <a id='corr234.3'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='flatered'>flattered</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_234.3'><ins class='correction' title='flatered'>flattered</ins></a></span> -himself was humor. But there was no -responsive humor in Azélie’s composition. She -seriously drew a small flask from her pocket.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Popa say, if you want to let him have a -li’le dram, ’count o’ his pains that’s ’bout to -cripple him.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Yo’ pa knows as well as I do we don’t -sell w’isky. Mr. Mathurin don’t carry no license.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I know. He say if you want to give ’im -a li’le dram, he’s willin’ to do some work fo’ -you.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No! Once fo’ all, no!” And ’Polyte -reached for the day-book, in which to enter -the articles he had given to her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But Azélie’s needs were not yet satisfied. -She wanted tobacco; he would not give it to -her. A spool of thread; he rolled one up, together -with two sticks of peppermint candy, -and placed it in her pail. When she asked -for a bottle of coal-oil, he grudgingly consented, -but assured her it would be useless to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>cudgel her brain further, for he would positively -let her have nothing more. He disappeared -toward the coal-oil tank, which was -hidden from view behind the piled-up boxes -on the counter. When she heard him searching -for an empty quart bottle, and making a -clatter with the tin funnels, she herself withdrew -from the counter against which she had -been leaning.</p> - -<p class='c001'>After they quitted the store, ’Polyte, with a -perplexed expression upon his face, leaned for -a moment against one of the whitewashed -pillars, watching the girl cross the yard. She -had folded her sunbonnet into a pad, which -she placed beneath the heavy pail that she -balanced upon her head. She walked upright, -with a slow, careful tread. Two of the yard -dogs that had stood a moment before upon -the threshold of the store door, quivering and -wagging their tails, were following her now, -with a little businesslike trot. ’Polyte called -them back.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The cabin which the girl occupied with her -father, her grandmother, and her little brother -Sauterelle, was removed some distance from -the plantation house, and only its pointed roof -<span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>could be discerned like a speck far away across -the field of cotton, which was all in bloom. -Her figure soon disappeared from view, and -’Polyte emerged from the shelter of the gallery, -and started again toward his interrupted -task. He turned to say to the planter, who -was keeping up his measured tramp above:</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Mr. Mathurin, ain’t it ’mos’ time to stop -givin’ credit to Arsène Pauché. Look like -that crop o’ his ain’t goin’ to start to pay his -account. I don’t see, me, anyway, how you -come to take that triflin’ Li’le river gang on -the place.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I know it was a mistake, ’Polyte, but que -voulez-vous?” the planter returned, with a -good-natured shrug. “Now they are yere, we -can’t let them starve, my frien’. Push them -to work all you can. Hole back all supplies -that are not necessary, an’ nex’ year we will -let some one else enjoy the privilege of feeding -them,” he ended, with a laugh.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I wish they was all back on Li’le river,” -’Polyte muttered under his breath as he -turned and walked slowly away.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Directly back of the store was the young -man’s sleeping-room. He had made himself -<span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>quite comfortable there in his corner. He had -screened his windows and doors; planted Madeira -vines, which now formed a thick green -curtain between the two pillars that faced his -room; and had swung a hammock out there, in which -he liked well to repose himself after -the fatigues of the day.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He lay long in the hammock that evening, -thinking over the day’s happenings and the -morrow’s work, half dozing, half dreaming, -and wholly possessed by the charm of the -night, the warm, sweeping air that blew -through the long corridor, and the almost unbroken -stillness that enveloped him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>At times his random thoughts formed themselves -into an almost inaudible speech: “I -wish she would go ’way f’om yere.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>One of the dogs came and thrust his cool, -moist muzzle against ’Polyte’s cheek. He caressed -the fellow’s shaggy head. “I don’t -know w’at’s the matta with her,” he sighed; -“I don’ b’lieve she’s got good sense.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was a long time afterward that he murmured -again: “I wish to God she’d go ’way -f’om yere!”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>The edge of the moon crept up—a keen, -curved blade of light above the dark line of -the cotton-field. ’Polyte roused himself when -he saw it. “I didn’ know it was so late,” he -said to himself—or to his dog. He entered -his room at once, and was soon in bed, sleeping -soundly.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was some hours later that ’Polyte was -roused from his sleep by—he did not know -what; his senses were too scattered and confused -to determine at once. There was at -first no sound; then so faint a one that he wondered -how he could have heard it. A door of -his room communicated with the store, but -this door was never used, and was almost -completely blocked by wares piled up on the -other side. The faint noise that ’Polyte heard, -and which came from within the store, was -followed by a flare of light that he could discern -through the chinks, and that lasted as -long as a match might burn.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He was now fully aware that some one was -in the store. How the intruder had entered -he could not guess, for the key was under -his pillow with his watch and his pistol.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span>As cautiously as he could he donned an -extra garment, thrust his bare feet into slippers, -and crept out into the portico, pistol in -hand.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The shutters of one of the store windows -were open. He stood close to it, and waited, -which he considered surer and safer than to -enter the dark and crowded confines of the -store to engage in what might prove a bootless -struggle with the intruder.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He had not long to wait. In a few moments -some one darted through the open window -as nimbly as a cat. ’Polyte staggered -back as if a heavy blow had stunned him. His -first thought and his first exclamation were: -“My God! how close I come to killin’ you!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was Azélie. She uttered no cry, but -made one quick effort to run when she saw -him. He seized her arm and held her with -a brutal grip. He put the pistol back into -his pocket. He was shaking like a man with -the palsy. One by one he took from her the -parcels she was carrying, and flung them -back into the store. There were not many: -some packages of tobacco, a cheap pipe, some -fishing-tackle, and the flask which she had -<span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>brought with her in the afternoon. This he -threw into the yard. It was still empty, for -she had not been able to find the “key” to -the whisky-barrel.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“So—so, you a thief!” he muttered savagely -under his breath.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You hurtin’ me, Mr. ’Polyte,” she complained, -squirming. He somewhat relaxed, -but did not relinquish, his hold upon her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I ain’t no thief,” she blurted.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You was stealin’,” he contradicted her -sharply.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I wasn’ stealin’. I was jus’ takin’ a few -li’le things you all too mean to gi’ me. You -all treat my popa like he was a dog. It’s on’y -las’ week Mr. Mathurin sen’ ’way to the city -to fetch a fine buckboa’d fo’ Son Ambroise, -an’ he’s on’y a nigga, après tout. An’ my popa -he want a picayune tobacca? It’s ‘No’—” -She spoke loud in her monotonous, shrill -voice. ’Polyte kept saying: “Hush, I tell -you! Hush! Somebody’ll year you. Hush! -It’s enough you broke in the sto’—how you -got in the sto’?” he added, looking from her -to the open window.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span>“It was w’en you was behine the boxes to -the coal-oil tank—I unhook’ it,” she explained -sullenly.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“An’ you don’ know I could sen’ you to -Baton Rouge fo’ that?” He shook her as -though trying to rouse her to a comprehension -of her grievous fault.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Jus’ fo’ a li’le picayune o’ tobacca!” she -whimpered.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He suddenly abandoned his hold upon her, -and left her free. She mechanically rubbed -the arm that he had grasped so violently.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Between the long row of pillars the moon -was sending pale beams of light. In one of -these they were standing.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Azélie,” he said, “go ’way f’om yere quick; -some one might fine you yere. W’en you want -something in the sto’, fo’ yo’se’f or fo’ yo’ pa—I -don’ care—ask me fo’ it. But you—but -you can’t neva set yo’ foot inside that sto’ -again. Co ’way f’on yere quick as you can, -I tell you!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>She tried in no way to conciliate him. She -turned and walked away over the same ground -she had crossed before. One of the big dogs -started to follow her. ’Polyte did not call him -<span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>back this time. He knew no harm could -come to her, going through those lonely -fields, while the animal was at her side.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He went at once to his room for the store -key that was beneath his pillow. He entered -the store, and refastened the window. When -he had made everything once more secure, -he sat dejectedly down upon a bench that was -in the portico. He sat for a long time motionless. -Then, overcome by some powerful -feeling that was at work within him, he buried -his face in his hands and wept, his whole body -shaken by the violence of his sobs.</p> - -<p class='c001'>After that night ’Polyte loved Azélie desperately. -The very action which should have -revolted him had seemed, on the contrary, to -inflame him with love. He felt that love to -be a degradation—something that he was almost -ashamed to acknowledge to himself; and -he knew that he was hopelessly unable to -stifle it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He watched now in a tremor for her coming. -She came very often, for she remembered -every word he had said; and she did not -hesitate to ask him for those luxuries which -she considered necessities to her “popa’s” existence. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span>She never attempted to enter the -store, but always waited outside, of her own -accord, laughing, and playing with the dogs. -She seemed to have no shame or regret for -what she had done, and plainly did not realize -that it was a disgraceful act. ’Polyte often -shuddered with disgust to discern in her a being -so wholly devoid of moral sense.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He had always been an industrious, bustling -fellow, never idle. Now there were hours and -hours in which he did nothing but long for -the sight of Azélie. Even when at work -there was that gnawing want at his heart to -see her, often so urgent that he would leave -everything to wander down by her cabin with -the hope of seeing her. It was even something -if he could catch a glimpse of Sauterelle -playing in the weeds, or of Arsène lazily dragging -himself about, and smoking the pipe -which rarely left his lips now that he was kept -so well supplied with tobacco.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Once, down the bank of the bayou, when -’Polyte came upon Azélie unexpectedly, and -was therefore unprepared to resist the shock -of her sudden appearance, he seized her in his -arms, and covered her face with kisses. She -<span class='pageno' id='Page_244'>244</span>was not indignant; she was not flustered or -agitated, as might have been a susceptible, -coquettish girl; she was only astonished, and -annoyed.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“W’at you doin’, Mr. ’Polyte?” she cried, -struggling. “Leave me ’lone, I say! Leave me -go!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I love you, I love you, I love you!” he -stammered helplessly over and over in her -face.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You mus’ los’ yo’ head,” she told him, -red from the effort of the struggle, when he -released her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You right, Azélie; I b’lieve I los’ my -head,” and he climbed up the bank of the -bayou as fast as he could.</p> - -<p class='c001'>After that his behavior was shameful, and -he knew it, and he did not care. He invented -pretexts that would enable him to touch her -hand with his. He wanted to kiss her again, -and told her she might come into the store as -she used to do. There was no need for her -to unhook a window now; he gave her whatever -she asked for, charging it always to his -own account on the books. She permitted -his caresses without returning them, and yet -<span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span>that was all he seemed to live for now. He -gave her a little gold ring.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He was looking eagerly forward to the -close of the season, when Arsène would go -back to Little River. He had arranged to ask -Azélie to marry him. He would keep her -with him when the others went away. He -longed to rescue her from what he felt to be -the demoralizing influences of her family and -her surroundings. ’Polyte believed he would -be able to awaken Azélie to finer, better impulses -when he should have her apart to himself.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But when the time came to propose it, -Azélie looked at him in amazement. “Ah, -b’en, no. I ain’t goin’ to stay yere wid you, -Mr. ’Polyte; I’m goin’ yonda on Li’le river -wid my popa.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>This resolve frightened him, but he pretended -not to believe it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You jokin’, Azélie; you mus’ care a li’le -about me. It looked to me all along like you -cared some about me.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“An’ my popa, donc? Ah, b’en, no.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You don’ rememba how lonesome it is -on Li’le river, Azélie,” he pleaded. “W’enever -<span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>I think ’bout Li’le river it always make -me sad—like I think about a graveyard. To -me it’s like a person mus’ die, one way or -otha, w’en they go on Li’le river. Oh, I hate -it! Stay with me, Azélie; don’ go ’way f’om -me.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>She said little, one way or the other, after -that, when she had fully understood his -wishes, and her reserve led him to believe, -since he hoped it, that he had prevailed with -her and that she had determined to stay with -him and be his wife.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was a cool, crisp morning in December -that they went away. In a ramshackle -wagon, drawn by an ill-mated team, Arsène -Pauché and his family left Mr. Mathurin’s -plantation for their old familiar haunts on Little -river. The grandmother, looking like a -witch, with a black shawl tied over her head, -sat upon a roll of bedding in the bottom of -the wagon. Sauterelle’s bead-like eyes glittered -with mischief as he peeped over the -side. Azélie, with the pink sunbonnet completely -hiding her round young face, sat beside -her father, who drove.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span>’Polyte caught one glimpse of the group as -they passed in the road. Turning, he hurried -into his room, and locked himself in.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It soon became evident that ’Polyte’s services -were going to count for little. He himself -was the first to realize this. One day he -approached the planter, and said: “Mr. -Mathurin, befo’ we start anotha year togetha, -I betta tell you I’m goin’ to quit.” ’Polyte -stood upon the steps, and leaned back against -the railing. The planter was a little above on -the gallery.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“W’at in the name o’ sense are you talking -about, ’Polyte!” he exclaimed in astonishment.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“It’s jus’ that; I’m boun’ to quit.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You had a better offer?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No; I ain’t had no offa.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Then explain yo’se’f, my frien’—explain -yo’se’f,” requested Mr. Mathurin, with something -of offended dignity. “If you leave me, -w’ere are you going?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>’Polyte was beating his leg with his limp -felt hat. “I reckon I jus’ as well go yonda on -Li’le river—w’ere Azélie,” he said.</p> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>Mamouche</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span> - <h2 class='c006'>Mamouche</h2> -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_storybreak.png' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>Mamouche stood within the open -doorway, which he had just entered. -It was night; the rain was falling in -torrents, and the water trickled from him as -it would have done from an umbrella, if he -had carried one.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Old Doctor John-Luis, who was toasting -his feet before a blazing hickory-wood fire, -turned to gaze at the youngster through his -spectacles. Marshall, the old negro who -had opened the door at the boy’s knock, also -looked down at him, and indignantly said:</p> - -<p class='c001'>“G’long back on de gall’ry an’ drip yo’se’f! -W’at Cynthy gwine say tomorrow w’en she -see dat flo’ mess’ up dat away?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Come to the fire and sit down,” said Doctor -John-Luis.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Doctor John-Luis was a bachelor. He was -small and thin; he wore snuff-colored clothes -<span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span>that were a little too large for him, and spectacles. -Time had not deprived him of an -abundant crop of hair that had once been red, and -was not now more than half-bleached.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The boy looked irresolutely from master to -man; then went and sat down beside the fire -on a splint-bottom chair. He sat so close to -the blaze that had he been an apple he would -have roasted. As he was but a small boy, -clothed in wet rags, he only steamed.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Marshall grumbled audibly, and Doctor -John-Luis continued to inspect the boy -through his glasses.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Marsh, bring him something to eat,” he -commanded, tentatively.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Marshall hesitated, and challenged the child -with a speculating look.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Is you w’ite o’ is you black?” he asked. -“Dat w’at I wants ter know ’fo’ I kiar’ victuals -to yo in de settin’-room.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I’m w’ite, me,” the boy responded, -promptly.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I ain’t disputin’; go ahead. All right fer -dem w’at wants ter take yo’ wud fer it.” Doctor -John-Luis coughed behind his hand and -said nothing.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>Marshall brought a platter of cold food to -the boy, who rested the dish upon his knees -and ate from it with keen appetite.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Where do you come from?” asked Doctor -John-Luis, when his caller stopped for breath. -Mamouche turned a pair of big, soft, dark -eyes upon his questioner.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I come frum Cloutierville this mo’nin’. I -been try to git to the twenty-fo’-mile ferry -w’en de rain ketch me.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“What were you going to do at the twenty-four-mile -ferry?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>The boy gazed absently into the fire. “I -don’ know w’at I was goin’ to do yonda to the -twenty-fo’-mile ferry,” he said.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Then you must be a tramp, to be wandering -aimlessly about the country in that -way!” exclaimed the doctor.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No; I don’ b’lieve I’m a tramp, me.” Mamouche -was wriggling his toes with enjoyment -of the warmth and palatable food.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Well, what’s your name?” continued Doctor -John-Luis.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“My name it’s Mamouche.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“‘Mamouche.’ Fiddlesticks! That’s no -name.”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span>The boy looked as if he regretted the fact, -while not being able to help it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“But my pa, his name it was Mathurin Peloté,” -he offered in some palliation.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Peloté! Peloté!” mused Doctor John-Luis. -“Any kin to Théodule Peloté who lived -formerly in Avoyelles parish?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“W’y, yas!” laughed Mamouche. “Théodule -Peloté, it was my gran’pa.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Your grandfather? Well, upon my word!” -He looked again, critically, at the youngster’s -rags. “Then Stéphanie Galopin must have -been your grandmother!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Yas,” responded Mamouche, complacently; -“that who was my gran’ma. She die two -year ago down by Alexandria.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Marsh,” called Doctor John-Luis, turning -in his chair, “bring him a mug of milk and -another piece of pie!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>When Mamouche had eaten all the good -things that were set before him, he found that -one side of him was quite dry, and he transferred -himself over to the other corner of the -fire so as to turn to the blaze the side which -was still wet.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span>The action seemed to amuse Doctor John-Luis, -whose old head began to fill with recollections.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“That reminds me of Théodule,” he -laughed. “Ah, he was a great fellow, your -father, Théodule!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“My gran’pa,” corrected Mamouche.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Yes, yes, your grandfather. He was handsome; -I tell you, he was good-looking. And -the way he could dance and play the fiddle -and sing! Let me see, how did that song go -that he used to sing when we went out serenading: -‘A ta—à ta—’</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c015'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">‘A ta fenêtre</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Daignes paraître—tra la la la!’</span>”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c014'>Doctor John-Luis’s voice, even in his youth, -could not have been agreeable; and now it -bore no resemblance to any sound that Mamouche -had ever heard issue from a human -throat. The boy kicked his heels and rolled -sideward on his chair with enjoyment. Doctor -John-Luis laughed even more heartily, -finished the stanza, and sang another one -through.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“That’s what turned the girls’ heads, I tell -you, my boy,” said he, when he had recovered -<span class='pageno' id='Page_256'>256</span>his breath; “that fiddling and dancing and tra -la la.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>During the next hour the old man lived -again through his youth; through any number -of alluring experiences with his friend -Théodule, that merry fellow who had never -done a steady week’s work in his life; and -Stéphanie, the pretty Acadian girl, whom he -had never wholly understood, even to this -day.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was quite late when Doctor John-Luis -climbed the stairs that led from the sitting-room -up to his bedchamber. As he went, followed -by the ever attentive Marshall, he was -singing:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c015'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">“A ta fenêtre</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Daignes paraître,”</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c016'>but very low, so as not to awaken Mamouche, -whom he left sleeping upon a bed that Marshall -at his order had prepared for the boy -beside the sitting-room fire.</p> - -<p class='c001'>At a very early hour next morning Marshall -appeared at his master’s bedside with the -accustomed morning coffee.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span>“What is he doing?” asked Doctor John-Luis, -as he sugared and stirred the tiny cup -of black coffee.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Who dat, sah?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Why, the boy, Mamouche. What is he -doing?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“He gone, sah. He done gone.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Gone!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Yas, sah. He roll his bed up in de corner; -he onlock de do’; he gone. But de silver an’ -ev’thing dah; he ain’t kiar’ nuttin’ off.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Marshall,” snapped Doctor John-Luis, ill-humoredly, -“there are times when you don’t -seem to have sense and penetration enough to -talk about! I think I’ll take another <a id='corr257.15'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='nap'>nap,</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_257.15'><ins class='correction' title='nap'>nap,</ins></a></span>” -he grumbled, as he turned his back upon Marshall. -“Wake me at seven.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was no ordinary thing for Doctor John-Luis -to be in a bad humor, and perhaps it is -not strictly true to say that he was now. He -was only in a little less amiable mood than -usual when he pulled on his high rubber boots -and went splashing out in the wet to see what -his people were doing.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He might have owned a large plantation -had he wished to own one, for a long life of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_258'>258</span>persistent, intelligent work had left him with -a comfortable fortune in his old age; but he -preferred the farm on which he lived contentedly -and raised an abundance to meet his -modest wants.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He went down to the orchard, where a -couple of men were busying themselves in -setting out a line of young fruit-trees.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Tut, tut, tut!” They were doing it all -wrong; the line was not straight; the holes -were not deep. It was strange that he had to -come down there and discover such things -with his old eyes!</p> - -<p class='c001'>He poked his head into the kitchen to complain -to Prudence about the ducks that she -had not seasoned properly the day before, and -to hope that the accident would never occur -again.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He tramped over to where a carpenter was -working on a gate; securing it—as he meant -to secure all the gates upon his place—with -great patent clamps and ingenious hinges, intended -to baffle utterly the designs of the evil-disposed -persons who had lately been tampering -with them. For there had been a malicious -spirit abroad, who played tricks, it -<span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span>seemed, for pure wantonness upon the farmers -and planters, and caused them infinite annoyance.</p> - -<p class='c001'>As Dr. John-Luis contemplated the carpenter -at work, and remembered how his gates -had recently all been lifted from their hinges -one night and left lying upon the ground, the -provoking nature of the offense dawned upon -him as it had not done before. He turned -swiftly, prompted by a sudden determination, -and re-entered the house.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Then he proceeded to write out in immense -black characters a half-dozen placards. It -was an offer of twenty-five dollars’ reward for -the capture of the person guilty of the malicious -offence already described. These placards -were sent abroad with the same eager -haste that had conceived and executed them.</p> - -<p class='c001'>After a day or two, Doctor John-Luis’ ill -humor had resolved itself into a pensive melancholy.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Marsh,” he said, “you know, after all, it’s -rather dreary to be living alone as I do, without -any companion—of my own color, you -understand.”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>“I knows dat, sah. It sho’ am lonesome,” -replied the sympathetic Marshall.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You see, Marsh, I’ve been thinking lately,” -and Doctor John-Luis coughed, for he disliked -the inaccuracy of that “lately.” “I’ve -been thinking that this property and wealth -that I’ve worked so hard to accumulate, are -after all doing no permanent, practical good -to any one. Now, if I could find some well-disposed -boy whom I might train to work, to -study, to lead a decent, honest life—a boy of -good heart who would care for me in my old -age; for I am still comparatively—hem—not -old? hey, Marsh?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Dey ain’t one in de pa’ish hole yo’ own -like you does, sah.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“That’s it. Now, can you think of such a -boy? Try to think.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Marshall slowly scratched his head and -looked reflective.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“If you can think of such a boy,” said Doctor -John-Luis, “you might bring him here to -spend an evening with me, you know, without -hinting at my intentions, of course. In -that way I could sound him; study him up, as -it were. For a step of such importance is not -<span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span>to be taken without due consideration, -Marsh.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Well, the first whom Marshall brought was -one of Baptiste Choupic’s boys. He was a -very timid child, and sat on the edge of his -chair, fearfully. He replied in jerky mono-*syllables -when Doctor John-Luis spoke to -him, “Yas, sah—no, sah,” as the case might -be; with a little nervous bob of the head.</p> - -<p class='c001'>His presence made the doctor quite uncomfortable. -He was glad to be rid of the boy -at nine o’clock, when he sent him home with -some oranges and a few sweetmeats.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Then Marshall had Theodore over; an unfortunate -selection that evinced little judgment -on Marshall’s part. Not to mince matters, the boy -was painfully forward. He monopolized -the conversation; asked impertinent -questions and handled and inspected everything -in the room. Dr. John-Luis sent him -home with an orange and not a single sweet.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Then there was Hyppolite, who was too -ugly to be thought of; and Cami, who was -heavy and stupid, and fell asleep in his chair -with his mouth wide open. And so it went. -If Doctor John-Luis had hoped in the company -<span class='pageno' id='Page_262'>262</span>of any of these boys to repeat the agreeable -evening he had passed with Mamouche, -he was sadly deceived.</p> - -<p class='c001'>At last he instructed Marshall to discontinue -the search of that ideal companion he -had dreamed of. He was resigned to spend -the remainder of his days without one.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Then, one day when it was raining again, and very -muddy and chill, a red-faced man -came driving up to Doctor John-Luis’ door -in a dilapidated buggy. He lifted a boy from -the vehicle, whom he held with a vise-like -clutch, and whom he straightway dragged -into the astonished presence of Doctor John-Luis.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Here he is, sir,” shouted the red-faced -man. “We’ve got him at last! Here he is.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was Mamouche, covered with mud, the -picture of misery. Doctor John-Luis stood -with his back to the fire. He was startled, -and visibly and painfully moved at the sight -of the boy.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Is it possible!” he exclaimed. “Then it -was you, Mamouche, who did this mischievous -thing to me? Lifting my gates from -their hinges; letting the chickens in among -<span class='pageno' id='Page_263'>263</span>my flowers to ruin them; and the hogs and -cattle to trample and uproot my vegetables!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Ha! ha!” laughed the red-faced man, “that -game’s played out, now;” and Doctor John-Luis -looked as if he wanted to strike him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mamouche seemed unable to reply. His -lower lip was quivering.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Yas, it’s me!” he burst out. “It’s me w’at -take yo’ gates off the hinge. It’s me w’at turn -loose Mr. Morgin’s hoss, w’en Mr. Morgin -was passing <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>veillée</i></span> wid his sweetheart. It’s -me w’at take down Ma’ame Angèle’s fence, -an’ lef her calf loose to tramp in Mr. Billy’s -cotton. It’s me w’at play like a ghos’ by the -graveyard las’ Toussaint to scare the darkies -passin’ in the road. It’s me w’at—”</p> - -<p class='c001'>The confession had burst out from the depth -of Mamouche’s heart like a torrent, and there -is no telling when it would have stopped if -Doctor John-Luis had not enjoined silence.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“And pray tell me,” he asked, as severely -as he could, “why you left my house like a -criminal, in the morning, secretly?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>The tears had begun to course down Mamouche’s -brown cheeks.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_264'>264</span>“I was ’shame’ of myse’f, that’s w’y. If -you wouldn’ gave me no suppa, an’ no bed, -an’ no fire, I don’ say.’ I wouldn’ been ’shame’ -then.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Well, sir,” interrupted the red-faced man, -“you’ve got a pretty square case against him, -I see. Not only for malicious trespass, but -of theft. See this bolt?” producing a piece -of iron from his coat pocket. “That’s what -gave him away.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I en’t no thief!” blurted Mamouche, indignantly. -“It’s one piece o’ iron w’at I pick up -in the road.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Sir,” said Doctor John-Luis with dignity, -“I can understand how the grandson of Théodule -Peloté might be guilty of such mischievous -pranks as this boy has confessed to. But -I know that the grandson of Stéphanie Galopin -could not be a thief.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>And he at once wrote out the check for -twenty-five dollars, and handed it to the red-faced -man with the tips of his fingers.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It seemed very good to Doctor John-Luis -to have the boy sitting again at his fireside; -and so natural, too. He seemed to be the incarnation -<span class='pageno' id='Page_265'>265</span>of unspoken hopes; the realization -of vague and fitful memories of the past.</p> - -<p class='c001'>When Mamouche kept on crying, Doctor -John-Luis wiped away the tears with his own -brown silk handkerchief.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Mamouche,” he said, “I want you to stay -here; to live here with me always. To learn -how to work; to learn how to study; to grow -up to be an honorable man. An honorable -man, Mamouche, for I want you for my own -child.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>His voice was pretty low and husky when -he said that.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I shall not take the key from the door to-*night,” -he continued. “If you do not choose -to stay and be all this that I say, you may -open the door and walk out. I shall use no -force to keep you.”</p> - -<p class='c012'>“What is he doing, Marsh?” asked Doctor -John-Luis the following morning, when he -took the coffee that Marshall had brought to -him in bed.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Who dat, sah?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Why, the boy Mamouche, of course. What -is he doing?”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_266'>266</span>Marshall laughed.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“He kneelin’ down dah on de flo’. He -keep on sayin’, ‘Hail, Mary, full o’ grace, de -Lord is wid dee. Hail, Mary, full o’ grace’—t’ree, -fo’ times, sah. I tell ’im, ‘W’at you -sayin’ yo’ prayer dat away, boy?’ He ’low dat -w’at his gran’ma lam ’im, ter keep outen mischief. -W’en de devil say, ‘Take dat gate offen -de hinge; do dis; do dat,’ he gwine say t’ree -Hail Mary, an’ de devil gwine tu’n tail an’ -run.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Yes, yes,” laughed Doctor John-Luis. -“That’s Stéphanie all over.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“An’ I tell ’im: See heah, boy, you drap -a couple o’ dem Hail Mary, an’ quit studyin’ -’bout de devil, an’ sot yo’se’f down ter wuk. -Dat the oniest way to keep outen mischief.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“What business is it of yours to interfere?” -broke in Doctor John-Luis, irritably. “Let -the boy do as his grandmother instructed -him.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I ain’t desputin’, sah,” apologized Marshall.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“But you know, Marsh,” continued the -doctor, recovering his usual amiability. “I -think we’ll be able to do something with the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span>boy. I’m pretty sure of it. For, you see, he -has his grandmother’s eyes; and his grandmother -was a very intelligent woman; a clever -woman, Marsh. Her one great mistake was -when she married Théodule Peloté.”</p> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>A Sentimental Soul</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span> - <h2 class='c006'>A Sentimental Soul</h2> -</div> - -<h3 class='c013'>I.</h3> - -<p class='c014'>Lacodie stayed longer than was his -custom in Mamzelle Fleurette’s little -store that evening. He had been -tempted by the vapid utterances of a conservative -bellhanger to loudly voice his radical -opinions upon the rights and wrongs of humanity -when he finally laid his picayune down upon -Mamzelle Fleurette’s counter and helped himself -to <cite>l’Abeille</cite> from the top of the diminished -pile of newspapers which stood there.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He was small, frail and hollow-chested, but -his head was magnificent with its generous -adornment of waving black hair; its sunken -eyes that glowed darkly and steadily and -sometimes flamed, and its moustaches which -were formidable.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_272'>272</span>“Eh bien, Mamzelle Fleurette, à demain, à -demain!” and he waved a nervous good-bye -as he let himself quickly and noiselessly out.</p> - -<p class='c001'>However violent Lacodie might be in his -manner toward conservatives, he was always -gentle, courteous and low-voiced with Mamzelle -Fleurette, who was much older than he, -much taller; who held no opinions, and whom -he pitied, and even in a manner revered. -Mamzelle Fleurette at once dismissed the bell-hanger, -with whom, on general principles, she -had no sympathy.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She wanted to close the store, for she was -going over to the cathedral to confession. -She stayed a moment in the doorway watching -Lacodie walk down the opposite side of -the street. His step was something between -a spring and a jerk, which to her partial eyes -seemed the perfection of motion. She watched -him until he entered his own small low doorway, -over which hung a huge wooden key -painted red, the emblem of his trade.</p> - -<p class='c001'>For many months now, Lacodie had been -coming daily to Mamzelle Fleurette’s little notion -store to buy the morning paper, which -he only bought and read, however, in the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span>afternoon. Once he had crossed over with -his box of keys and tools to open a cupboard, -which would unlock for no inducements of -its owner. He would not suffer her to pay -him for the few moments’ work; it was nothing, -he assured her; it was a pleasure; he -would not dream of accepting payment for so -trifling a service from a camarade and fellow-worker. -But she need not fear that he would -lose by it, he told her with a laugh; he would -only charge an extra quarter to the rich lawyer -around the corner, or to the top-lofty -druggist down the street when these might -happen to need his services, as they sometimes -did. This was an alternative which seemed -far from right and honest to Mamzelle Fleurette. -But she held a vague understanding -that men were wickeder in many ways than -women; that ungodliness was constitutional -with them, like their sex, and inseparable -from it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Having watched Lacodie until he disappeared -within his shop, she retired to her -room, back of the store, and began her preparations -to go out. She brushed carefully the -black alpaca skirt, which hung in long nunlike -<span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>folds around her spare figure. She -smoothed down the brown, ill-fitting basque, -and readjusted the old-fashioned, rusty black -lace collar which she always wore. Her sleek -hair was painfully and suspiciously black. She -powdered her face abundantly with poudre de -riz before starting out, and pinned a dotted -black lace veil over her straw bonnet. There -was little force or character or anything in -her withered face, except a pathetic desire and -appeal to be permitted to exist.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mamzelle Fleurette did not walk down -Chartres street with her usual composed tread; -she seemed preoccupied and agitated. When -she passed the locksmith’s shop over the way -and heard his voice within, she grew tremulously -self-conscious, fingering her veil, -swishing the black alpaca and waving her -prayer book about with meaningless intention.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mamzelle Fleurette was in great trouble; -trouble which was so bitter, so sweet, so bewildering, -so terrifying! It had come so -stealthily upon her she had never suspected -what it might be. She thought the world was -growing brighter and more beautiful; she -thought the flowers had redoubled their sweetness -<span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span>and the birds their song, and that the -voices of her fellow-creatures had grown -kinder and their faces truer.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The day before Lacodie had not come to -her for his paper. At six o’clock he was not -there, at seven he was not there, nor at eight, -and then she knew he would not come. At -first, when it was only a little past the time of -his coming, she had sat strangely disturbed -and distressed in the rear of the store, with her -back to the door. When the door opened she -turned with fluttering expectancy. It was -only an unhappy-looking child, who wanted -to buy some foolscap, a pencil and an eraser. -The next to come in was an old mulatresse, -who was bringing her prayer beads for Mamzelle -Fleurette to mend. The next was a -gentleman, to buy the Courier des Etats Unis, -and then a young girl, who wanted a holy picture -for her favorite nun at the Ursulines; it -was everybody but Lacodie.</p> - -<p class='c001'>A temptation assailed Mamzelle Fleurette, -almost fierce in its intensity, to carry the paper -over to his shop herself, when he was not -there at seven. She conquered it from sheer -moral inability to do anything so daring, so -<span class='pageno' id='Page_276'>276</span>unprecedented. But to-day, when he had -come back and had stayed so long discoursing -with the bellhanger, a contentment, a rapture, -had settled upon her being which she -could no longer ignore or mistake. She loved -Lacodie. That fact was plain to her now, as -plain as the conviction that every reason existed -why she should not love him. He was -the husband of another woman. To love the -husband of another woman was one of the -deepest sins which Mamzelle Fleurette knew; -murder was perhaps blacker, but she was not -sure. She was going to confession now. She -was going to tell her sin to Almighty God -and Father Fochelle, and ask their forgiveness. -She was going to pray and beg the -saints and the Holy Virgin to remove the -sweet and subtle poison from her soul. It -was surely a poison, and a deadly one, which -could make her feel that her youth had come -back and taken her by the hand.</p> - -<h3 class='c013'>II.</h3> - -<p class='c014'>Mamzelle Fleurette had been confessing for -many years to old Father Fochelle. In his -secret heart he often thought it a waste of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_277'>277</span>his time and her own that she should come -with her little babblings, her little nothings to -him, calling them sins. He felt that a wave -of the hand might brush them away, and that -it in a manner compromised the dignity of -holy absolution to pronounce the act over so -innocent a soul.</p> - -<p class='c001'>To-day she had whispered all her shortcomings -into his ear through the grating of -the confessional; he knew them so well! There -were many other penitents waiting to be -heard, and he was about to dismiss her with -a hasty blessing when she arrested him, and in -hesitating, faltering accents told him of her -love for the locksmith, the husband of another -woman. A slap in the face would not have -startled Father Fochelle more forcibly or -more painfully. What soul was there on -earth, he wondered, so hedged about with innocence -as to be secure from the machinations -of Satan! Oh, the thunder of indignation that -descended upon Mamzelle Fleurette’s head! -She bowed down, beaten to earth beneath it. -Then came questions, one, two, three, in quick -succession, that made Mamzelle Fleurette -gasp and clutch blindly before her. Why was -<span class='pageno' id='Page_278'>278</span>she not a shadow, a vapor, that she might dissolve -from before those angry, penetrating -eyes; or a small insect, to creep into some -crevice and there hide herself forevermore?</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Oh, father! no, no, no!” she faltered, “he -knows nothing, nothing. I would die a hundred -deaths before he should know, before -anyone should know, besides yourself and the -good God of whom I implore pardon.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Father Fochelle breathed more freely, and -mopped his face with a flaming bandana, -which he took from the ample pocket of his -soutane. But he scolded Mamzelle Fleurette -roundly, unpityingly; for being a fool, for being -a sentimentalist. She had not committed -mortal sin, but the occasion was ripe for it; -and look to it she must that she keep Satan -at bay with watchfulness and prayer. “Go, -my child, and sin no more.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mamzelle Fleurette made a détour in regaining -her home by which she would not -have to pass the locksmith’s shop. She did -not even look in that direction when she let -herself in at the glass door of her store.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Some time before, when she was yet ignorant -of the motive which prompted the act, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_279'>279</span>she had cut from a newspaper a likeness of -Lacodie, who had served as foreman of the -jury during a prominent murder trial. The -likeness happened to be good, and quite did -justice to the locksmith’s fine physiognomy -with its leonine hirsute adornment. This picture -Mamzelle Fleurette had kept hitherto between -the pages of her prayer book. Here, -twice a day, it looked out at her; as she turned -the leaves of the holy mass in the morning, -and when she read her evening devotions before -her own little home altar, over which -hung a crucifix and a picture of the Empress -Eugénie.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Her first action upon entering her room, -even before she unpinned the dotted veil, was -to take Lacodie’s picture from her prayer book -and place it at random between the leaves of a -“<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Dictionnaire de la Langue Francaise</span>,” which -was the undermost of a pile of old books that -stood on the corner of the mantelpiece. Between -night and morning, when she would -approach the holy sacrament, Mamzelle Fleurette -felt it to be her duty to thrust Lacodie -from her thoughts by every means and device -known to her.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_280'>280</span>The following day was Sunday, when there -was no occasion or opportunity for her to see -the locksmith. Moreover, after partaking of -holy communion, Mamzelle Fleurette felt invigorated; -she was conscious of a new, if -fictitious, strength to combat Satan and his -wiles.</p> - -<p class='c001'>On Monday, as the hour approached for Lacodie -to appear, Mamzelle Fleurette became -harassed by indecision. Should she call in -the young girl, the neighbor who relieved her -on occasion, and deliver the store into the -girl’s hands for an hour or so? This might -be well enough for once in a while, but she -could not conveniently resort to this subterfuge -daily. After all, she had her living to -make, which consideration was paramount. -She finally decided that she would retire to -her little back room and when she heard the -store door open she would call out:</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Is it you, Monsieur Lacodie? I am very -busy; please take your paper and leave your -cinq sous on the counter.” If it happened not -to be Lacodie she would come forward and -serve the customer in person. She did not, -of course, expect to carry out this performance -<span class='pageno' id='Page_281'>281</span>each day; a fresh device would no doubt -suggest itself for tomorrow. Mamzelle Fleurette -proceeded to carry out her programme -to the letter.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Is it you, Monsieur Lacodie?” she called -out from the little back room, when the front -door opened. “I am very busy; please take -your paper—”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Ce n’est pas Lacodie, Mamzelle Fleurette. -C’est moi, Augustine.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was Lacodie’s wife, a fat, comely young -woman, wearing a blue veil thrown carelessly -over her kinky black hair, and carrying some -grocery parcels clasped close in her arms. -Mamzelle Fleurette emerged from the back -room, a prey to the most contradictory emotions; -relief and disappointment struggling for -the mastery with her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No Lacodie to-day, Mamzelle Fleurette,” -Augustine announced with a certain robust -ill-humor; “he is there at home shaking with -a chill till the very window panes rattle. He -had one last Friday” (the day he had not come -for his paper) “and now another and a worse -one to-day. God knows, if it keeps on-well, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_282'>282</span>let me have the paper; he will want to -read it to-night when his chill is past.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mamzelle Fleurette handed the paper to Augustine, -feeling like an old woman in a dream -handing a newspaper to a young woman in a -dream. She had never thought of Lacodie -having chills or being ill. It seemed very -strange. And Augustine was no sooner gone -than all the ague remedies she had ever heard -of came crowding to Mamzelle Fleurette’s -mind; an egg in black coffee—or was it a -lemon in black coffee? or an egg in vinegar? -She rushed to the door to call Augustine back, -but the young woman was already far down -the street.</p> - -<h3 class='c013'>III.</h3> - -<p class='c014'>Augustine did not come the next day, nor -the next, for the paper. The unhappy looking -child who had returned for more foolscap, informed -Mamzelle Fleurette that he had heard -his mother say that Monsieur Lacodie was -very sick, and the bellhanger had sat up all -night with him. The following day Mamzelle -Fleurette saw Choppin’s coupé pass clattering -over the cobblestones and stop before the locksmith’s -<span class='pageno' id='Page_283'>283</span>door. She knew that with her class -it was only in a case of extremity that the -famous and expensive physician was summoned. -For the first time she thought of -death. She prayed all day, silently, to herself, -even while waiting upon customers.</p> - -<p class='c001'>In the evening she took an <i>Abeille</i> from the -top of the pile on the counter, and throwing -a light shawl over her head, started with the -paper over to the locksmith’s shop. She did -not know if she were committing a sin in so -doing. She would ask Father Fochelle on -Saturday, when she went to confession. She -did not think it could be a sin; she would -have called long before on any other sick -neighbor, and she intuitively felt that in this -distinction might lie the possibility of sin.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The shop was deserted except for the presence -of Lacodie’s little boy of five, who sat -upon the floor playing with the tools and contrivances -which all his days he had coveted, -and which all his days had been denied to him. -Mamzelle Fleurette mounted the narrow stairway -in the rear of the shop which led to an -upper landing and then into the room of the -married couple. She stood a while hesitating -<span class='pageno' id='Page_284'>284</span>upon this landing before venturing to knock -softly upon the partly open door through -which she could hear their voices.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I thought,” she remarked apologetically to -Augustine, “that perhaps Monsieur Lacodie -might like to look at the paper and you had -no time to come for it, so I brought it myself.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Come in, come in, Mamzelle Fleurette. -It’s Mamzelle Fleurette who comes to inquire -about you, Lacodie,” Augustine called out -loudly to her husband, whose half consciousness -she somehow confounded with deafness.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mamzelle Fleurette drew mincingly forward, -clasping her thin hands together at the -waist line, and she peeped timorously at Lacodie -lying lost amid the bedclothes. His -black mane was tossed wildly over the pillow -and lent a fictitious pallor to the yellow waxiness -of his drawn features. An approaching -chill was sending incipient shudders through -his frame, and making his teeth claque. But -he still turned his head courteously in Mamzelle -Fleurette’s direction.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_285'>285</span>“Bien bon de votre part, Mamzelle Fleurette—mais -c’est fini. J’suis flambé, flambé, -flambé!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Oh, the pain of it! to hear him in such extremity -thanking her for her visit, assuring -her in the same breath that all was over with -him. She wondered how Augustine could -hear it so composedly. She whisperingly inquired -if a priest had been summoned.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Inutile; il n’en veut pas,” was Augustine’s -reply. So he would have no priest at his bedside, -and here was a new weight of bitterness -for Mamzelle Fleurette to carry all her days.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She flitted back to her store through the -darkness, herself like a slim shadow. The -November evening was chill and misty. A -dull aureole shot out from the feeble gas jet -at the corner, only faintly and for an instant -illumining her figure as it glided rapidly and -noiselessly along the banquette. Mamzelle -Fleurette slept little and prayed much that -night. Saturday morning Lacodie died. On -Sunday he was buried and Mamzelle Fleurette -did not go to the funeral, because Father Fochelle -told her plainly she had no business -there.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_286'>286</span>It seemed inexpressibly hard to Mamzelle -Fleurette that she was not permitted to hold -Lacodie in tender remembrance now that he -was dead. But Father Fochelle, with his practical -insight, made no compromise with sentimentality; -and she did not question his authority, -or his ability to master the subtleties -of a situation utterly beyond reach of her own -powers.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was no longer a pleasure for Mamzelle -Fleurette to go to confession as it had formerly -been. Her heart went on loving Lacodie -and her soul went on struggling; for she made -this delicate and puzzling distinction between -heart and soul, and pictured the two as set -in a very death struggle against each other.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I cannot help it, father. I try, but I cannot -help it. To love him is like breathing; -I do not know how to help it. I pray, and -pray, and it does no good, for half of my prayers -are for the repose of his soul. It surely -cannot be a sin, to pray for the repose of his -soul?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Father Fochelle was heartily sick and tired -of Mamzelle Fleurette and her stupidities. -Oftentimes he was tempted to drive her from -<span class='pageno' id='Page_287'>287</span>the confessional, and forbid her return until -she should have regained a rational state of -mind. But he could not withhold absolution -from a penitent who, week after week, acknowledged -her shortcoming and strove with -all her faculties to overcome it and atone for it.</p> - -<h3 class='c013'>IV.</h3> - -<p class='c014'>Augustine had sold out the locksmith’s shop -and the business, and had removed further -down the street over a bakery. Out of her -window she had hung a sign, “Blanchisseuse -de Fin.” Often, in passing by, Mamzelle -Fleurette would catch a glimpse of Augustine -up at the window, plying the irons; her sleeves -rolled to the elbows, baring her round, white -arms, and the little black curls all moist and -tangled about her face. It was early spring -then, and there was a languor in the air; an -odor of jasmine in every passing breeze; the -sky was blue, unfathomable, and fleecy white; -and people along the narrow street laughed, -and sang, and called to one another from windows -and doorways. Augustine had set a pot -of rose-geranium on her window sill and hung -out a bird cage.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_288'>288</span>Once, Mamzelle Fleurette in passing on her -way to confession heard her singing roulades, -vying with the bird in the cage. Another -time she saw the young woman leaning with -half her body from the window, exchanging -pleasantries with the baker standing beneath -on the banquette.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Still, a little later, Mamzelle Fleurette began -to notice a handsome young fellow often -passing the store. He was jaunty and debonnaire -and wore a rich watchchain, and -looked prosperous. She knew him quite well -as a fine young Gascon, who kept a stall in the -French Market, and from whom she had often -bought charcuterie. The neighbors told her -the young Gascon was paying his addresses to -Mme. Lacodie. Mamzelle Fleurette shuddered. -She wondered if Lacodie knew! The -whole situation seemed suddenly to shift its -base, causing Mamzelle Fleurette to stagger. -What ground would her poor heart and soul -have to do battle upon now?</p> - -<p class='c001'>She had not yet had time to adjust her conscience -to the altered conditions when one -Saturday afternoon, as she was about to start -out to confession, she noticed an unusual -<span class='pageno' id='Page_289'>289</span>movement down the street. The bellhanger, -who happened to be presenting himself in the -character of a customer, informed her that it -was nothing more nor less than Mme. Lacodie -returning from her wedding with the Gascon. -He was black and bitter with indignation, and -thought she might at least have waited for the -year to be out. But the charivari was already -on foot; and Mamzelle need not feel -alarmed if, in the night, she heard sounds and -clamor to rouse the dead as far away as Metairie -ridge.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mamzelle Fleurette sank down in a chair, -trembling in all her members. She faintly -begged the <a id='corr289.15'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='bell hanger'>bellhanger</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_289.15'><ins class='correction' title='bell hanger'>bellhanger</ins></a></span> to pour her a glass of -water from the stone pitcher behind the -counter. She fanned herself and loosened her -bonnet strings. She sent the bell hanger -away.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She nervously pulled off her rusty black -kid gloves, and ten times more nervously drew -them on again. To a little customer, who -came in for chewing gum, she handed a paper -of pins.</p> - -<p class='c001'>There was a great, a terrible upheaval taking -place in Mamzelle Fleurette’s soul. She -<span class='pageno' id='Page_290'>290</span>was preparing for the first time in her life to -take her conscience into her own keeping.</p> - -<p class='c001'>When she felt herself sufficiently composed -to appear decently upon the street, she started -out to confession. She did not go to Father -Fochelle. She did not even go to the Cathedral; -but to a church which was much farther -away, and to reach which she had to spend a -picayune for car fare.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mamzelle Fleurette confessed herself to a -priest who was utterly new and strange to her. -She told him all her little venial sins, which -she had much difficulty in bringing to a number -of any dignity and importance whatever. -Not once did she mention her love for Lacodie, -the dead husband of another woman.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mamzelle Fleurette did not ride back to her -home; she walked. The sensation of walking -on air was altogether delicious; she had never -experienced it before. A long time she stood -contemplative before a shop window in which -were displayed wreaths, mottoes, emblems, designed -for the embellishment of tombstones. -What a sweet comfort it would be, she reflected, -on the 1st of November to carry some -such delicate offering to Lacodie’s last resting -<span class='pageno' id='Page_291'>291</span>place. Might not the sole care of his tomb -devolve upon her, after all! The possibility -thrilled her and moved her to the heart. What -thought would the merry Augustine and her -lover-husband have for the dead lying in -cemeteries!</p> - -<p class='c001'>When Mamzelle Fleurette reached home -she went through the store directly into her -little back room. The first thing which she -did, even before unpinning the dotted lace -veil, was to take the “<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Dictionnaire de La -Langue Francaise</span>” from beneath the pile of -old books on the mantelpiece. It was not -easy to find Lacodie’s picture hidden somewhere -in its depths. But the search afforded -her almost a sensuous pleasure; turning the -leaves slowly back and forth.</p> - -<p class='c001'>When she had secured the likeness she went -into the store and from her showcase selected -a picture frame—the very handsomest there; -one of those which sold for thirty-five cents.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Into the frame Mamzelle Fleurette neatly -and deftly pasted Lacodie’s picture. Then she -re-entered her room and deliberately hung it -upon the wall—between the crucifix and the -portrait of Empress Eugènie—and she did not -care if the Gascon’s wife ever saw it or not.</p> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>Dead Men’s Shoes</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_295'>295</span> - <h2 class='c006'>Dead Men’s Shoes</h2> -</div> -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_storybreak.png' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_4_0_4 c011'>It never occurred to any person to wonder -what would befall Gilma now that “le -vieux Gamiche” was dead. After the -burial people went their several ways, some -to talk over the old man and his eccentricities, -others to forget him before nightfall, and -others to wonder what would become of -his very nice property, the hundred-acre farm -on which he had lived for thirty years, and -on which he had just died at the age of seventy.</p> - -<p class='c001'>If Gilma had been a child, more than one -motherly heart would have gone out to him. -This one and that one would have bethought -them of carrying him home with them; to -concern themselves with his present comfort, -if not his future welfare. But Gilma was not -a child. He was a strapping fellow of nineteen, -measuring six feet in his stockings, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_296'>296</span>as strong as any healthy youth need be. For -ten years he had lived there on the plantation -with Monsieur Gamiche; and he seemed now -to have been the only one with tears to shed -at the old man’s funeral.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Gamiche’s relatives had come down from -Caddo in a wagon the day after his death, and -had settled themselves in his house. There -was Septime, his nephew, a cripple, so horribly -afflicted that it was distressing to look at -him. And there was Septime’s widowed sister, -Ma’me Brozé, with her two little girls. -They had remained at the house during the -burial, and Gilma found them still there upon -his return.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The young man went at once to his room -to seek a moment’s repose. He had lost -much sleep during Monsieur Gamiche’s illness; -yet, he was in fact more worn by the -mental than the bodily strain of the past week.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But when he entered his room, there was -something so changed in its aspect that it -seemed no longer to belong to him. In place -of his own apparel which he had left hanging -on the row of pegs, there were a few shabby -little garments and two battered straw hats, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_297'>297</span>the property of the Brozé children. The bureau -drawers were empty, there was not a -vestige of anything belonging to him remaining -in the room. His first impression was -that Ma’me Brozé had been changing things -around and had assigned him to some other -room.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But Gilma understood the situation better -when he discovered every scrap of his personal -effects piled up on a bench outside the -door, on the back or “false” gallery. His -boots and shoes were under the bench, while -coats, trousers and underwear were heaped -in an indiscriminate mass together.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The blood mounted to his swarthy face and -made him look for the moment like an Indian. -He had never thought of this. He did -not know what he had been thinking of; but -he felt that he ought to have been prepared -for anything; and it was his own fault if he -was not. But it hurt. This spot was “home” -to him against the rest of the world. Every -tree, every shrub was a friend; he knew every -patch in the fences; and the little old house, -gray and weather-beaten, that had been the -shelter of his youth, he loved as only few -<span class='pageno' id='Page_298'>298</span>can love inanimate things. A great enmity -arose in him against Ma’me Brozé. She was -walking about the yard, with her nose in the -air, and a shabby black dress trailing behind -her. She held the little girls by the hand.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Gilma could think of nothing better to do -than to mount his horse and ride away—anywhere. -The horse was a spirited animal of -great value. Monsieur Gamiche had named -him “Jupiter” on account of his proud bearing, -and Gilma had nicknamed him “Jupe,” -which seemed to him more endearing and expressive -of his great attachment to the fine -creature. With the bitter resentment of -youth, he felt that “Jupe” was the only friend -remaining to him on earth.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He had thrust a few pieces of clothing in -his saddlebags and had requested Ma’me -Brozé, with assumed indifference, to put his -remaining effects in a place of safety until -he should be able to send for them.</p> - -<p class='c001'>As he rode around by the front of the house, -Septime, who sat on the gallery all doubled -up in his uncle Gamiche’s big chair, called -out:</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_299'>299</span>“Hé, Gilma! w’ere you boun’ fo’?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I’m goin’ away,” replied Gilma, curtly, -reining his horse.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“That’s all right; but I reckon you might -jus’ as well leave that hoss behine you.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“The hoss is mine,” returned Gilma, as -quickly as he would have returned a blow.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“We’ll see ’bout that li’le later, my frien’. I -reckon you jus’ well turn ’im loose.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Gilma had no more intention of giving up -his horse than he had of parting with his own -right hand. But Monsieur Gamiche had -taught him prudence and respect for the law. -He did not wish to invite disagreeable complications. -So, controlling his temper by a -supreme effort, Gilma dismounted, unsaddled -the horse then and there, and led it back to -the stable. But as he started to leave the -place on foot, he stopped to say to Septime:</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You know, Mr. Septime, that hoss is mine; -I can collec’ a hundred aff’davits to prove it. -I’ll bring them yere in a few days with a statement -f’om a lawyer; an’ I’ll expec’ the hoss an’ -saddle to be turned over to me in good condition.”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_300'>300</span>“That’s all right. We’ll see ’bout that. -Won’t you stay fo’ dinna?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No, I thank you, sah; Ma’me Brozé already -ask’ me.” And Gilma strode away, -down the beaten footpath that led across the -sloping grassplot toward the outer road.</p> - -<p class='c001'>A definite destination and a settled purpose -ahead of him seemed to have revived his flagging -energies of an hour before. It was with -no trace of fatigue that he stepped out bravely -along the wagon-road that skirted the bayou.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was early spring, and the cotton had already -a good stand. In some places the negroes -were hoeing. Gilma stopped alongside -the rail fence and called to an old negress -who was plying her hoe at no great distance.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Hello, Aunt Hal’fax! see yere.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>She turned, and immediately quitted her -work to go and join him, bringing her hoe -with her across her shoulder. She was large-boned -and very black. She was dressed in the -deshabille of the field.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I wish you’d come up to yo’ cabin with me -a minute, Aunt Hally,” he said; “I want to -get an aff’davit f’om you.”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_301'>301</span>She understood, after a fashion, what an -affidavit was; but she couldn’t see the good -of it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I ain’t got no aff’davis, boy; you g’long an’ -don’ pesta me.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“’Twon’t take you any time, Aunt Hal’fax. -I jus’ want you to put yo’ mark to a statement -I’m goin’ to write to the effec’ that my -hoss, Jupe, is my own prop’ty; that you know -it, an’ willin’ to swear to it.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Who say Jupe don’ b’long to you?” she -questioned cautiously, leaning on her hoe.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He motioned toward the house.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Who? Mista Septime and them?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Yes.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Well, I reckon!” she exclaimed, sympathetically.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“That’s it,” Gilma went on; “an’ nex’ thing -they’ll be sayin’ yo’ ole mule, Policy, don’t -b’long to you.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>She started violently.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Who say so?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Nobody. But I say, nex’ thing, that’ w’at -they’ll be sayin’.”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_302'>302</span>She began to move along the inside of the -fence, and he turned to keep pace with her, -walking on the grassy edge of the road.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I’ll jus’ write the aff’davit, Aunt Hally, an’ -all you got to do”—</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You know des well as me dat mule mine. -I done paid ole Mista Gamiche fo’ ’im in good -cotton; dat year you falled outen de puckhorn -tree; an’ he write it down hisse’f in his ’count -book.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Gilma did not linger a moment after obtaining -the desired statement from Aunt Halifax. -With the first of those “hundred affidavits” -that he hoped to secure, safe in his pocket, he -struck out across the country, seeking the -shortest way to town.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Aunt Halifax stayed in the cabin door.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“’Relius,” she shouted to a little black boy -out in the road, “does you see Pol’cy anywhar? -G’long, see ef he ’roun’ de ben’. -Wouldn’ s’prise me ef he broke de fence an’ -got in yo’ pa’s corn ag’in.” And, shading her -eyes to scan the surrounding country, she -muttered, uneasily: “Whar dat mule?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>The following morning Gilma entered town -and proceeded at once to Lawyer Paxton’s -<span class='pageno' id='Page_303'>303</span>office. He had had no difficulty in obtaining -the testimony of blacks and whites regarding -his ownership of the horse; but he wanted to -make his claim as secure as possible by consulting -the lawyer and returning to the plantation -armed with unassailable evidence.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The lawyer’s office was a plain little room -opening upon the street. Nobody was there, -but the door was open; and Gilma entered -and took a seat at the bare round table and -waited. It was not long before the lawyer -came in; he had been in conversation with -some one across the street.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Good-morning, Mr. Pax’on,” said Gilma, -rising.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The lawyer knew his face well enough, but -could not place him, and only returned: -“Good-morning, sir—good-morning.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I come to see you,” began Gilma plunging -at once into business, and drawing his handful -of nondescript affidavits from his pocket, -“about a matter of prope’ty, about regaining -possession of my hoss that Mr. Septime, ole -Mr. Gamiche’s nephew, is holdin’ f’om me -yonder.”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_304'>304</span>The lawyer took the papers and, adjusting -his eye-glasses, began to look them through.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Yes, yes,” he said; “I see.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Since Mr. Gamiche died on Tuesday”—began -Gilma.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Gamiche died!” repeated Lawyer Paxton, -with astonishment. “Why, you don’t mean -to tell me that vieux Gamiche is dead? Well, -well. I hadn’t heard of it; I just returned -from Shreveport this morning. So le vieux -Gamiche is dead, is he? And you say you -want to get possession of a horse. What did -you say your name was?” drawing a pencil -from his pocket.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Gilma Germain is my name, suh.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Gilma Germain,” repeated the lawyer, a -little meditatively, scanning his visitor closely. -“Yes, I recall your face now. You are the -young fellow whom le vieux Gamiche took to -live with him some ten or twelve years ago.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Ten years ago las’ November, suh.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Lawyer Paxton arose and went to his safe, -from which, after unlocking it, he took a -legal-looking document that he proceeded to -read carefully through to himself.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_305'>305</span>“Well, Mr. Germain, I reckon there won’t -be any trouble about regaining possession of -the horse,” laughed Lawyer Paxton. “I’m -pleased to inform you, my dear sir, that our -old friend, Gamiche, has made you sole heir -to his property; that is, his plantation, including -live stock, farming implements, machinery, -household effects, etc. Quite a -pretty piece of property,” he proclaimed leisurely, -seating himself comfortably for a long -talk. “And I may add, a pretty piece of luck, -Mr. Germain, for a young fellow just starting -out in life; nothing but to step into a dead -man’s shoes! A great chance—great chance. -Do you know, sir, the moment you mentioned -your name, it came back to me like a flash, -how le vieux Gamiche came in here one day, -about three years ago, and wanted to make -his will”— And the loquacious lawyer went -on with his reminiscences and interesting bits -of information, of which Gilma heard scarcely -a word.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He was stunned, drunk, with the sudden -joy of possession; the thought of what seemed -to him great wealth, all his own—his own! -It seemed as if a hundred different sensations -<span class='pageno' id='Page_306'>306</span>were holding him at once, and as if a thousand -intentions crowded upon him. He felt -like another being who would have to readjust -himself to the new conditions, presenting -themselves so unexpectedly. The narrow -confines of the office were stifling, and it -seemed as if the lawyer’s flow of talk would -never stop. Gilma arose abruptly, and with a -half-uttered apology, plunged from the room -into the outer air.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Two days later Gilma stopped again before -Aunt Halifax’s cabin, on his way back to the -plantation. He was walking as before, having -declined to avail himself of any one of -the several offers of a mount that had been -tendered him in town and on the way. A -rumor of Gilma’s great good fortune had preceded -him, and Aunt Halifax greeted him -with an almost triumphal shout as he approached.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“God knows you desarve it, Mista Gilma! -De Lord knows you does, suh! Come in an’ -res’ yo’se’f, suh. You, ’Relius! git out dis -heah cabin; crowdin’ up dat away!” She -wiped off the best chair available and offered -it to Gilma.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_307'>307</span>He was glad to rest himself and glad to -accept Aunt Halifax’s proffer of a cup of coffee, -which she was in the act of dripping before -a small fire. He sat as far as he could -from the fire, for the day was warm; he -mopped his face, and fanned himself with his -broad-rimmed hat.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I des’ can’t he’p laughin’ w’en I thinks -’bout it,” said the old woman, fairly shaking, -as she leaned over the hearth. “I wakes up -in de night, even, an’ has to laugh.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“How’s that, Aunt Hal’fax,” asked Gilma, -almost tempted to laugh himself at he knew -not what.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“G’long, Mista Gilma! like you don’ know! -It’s w’en I thinks ’bout Septime an’ them like -I gwine see ’em in dat wagon to-mor’ mo’nin’, -on’ dey way back to Caddo. Oh, lawsy!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“That isn’ so ver’ funny, Aunt Hal’fax,” -returned Gilma, feeling himself ill at ease as -he accepted the cup of coffee which she presented -to him with much ceremony on a platter. -“I feel pretty sorry for Septime, myse’f.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I reckon he know now who Jupe b’long -to,” she went on, ignoring his expression of -sympathy; “no need to tell him who Pol’cy -<span class='pageno' id='Page_308'>308</span>b’long to, nuther. An’ I tell you, Mista Gilma,” -she went on, leaning upon the table without -seating herself, “dey gwine back to hard -times in Caddo. I heah tell dey nuva gits -’nough to eat, yonda. Septime, he can’t do -nuttin’ ’cep’ set still all twis’ up like a sarpint. -An’ Ma’me Brozé, she do some kine sewin’; -but don’t look like she got sense ’nough to -do dat halfway. An’ dem li’le gals, dey ’bleege -to run bar’foot mos’ all las’ winta’, twell dat -li’les’ gal, she got her heel plum fros’ bit, so -dey tells me. Oh, lawsy! How dey gwine -look to-mor’, all trapsin’ back to Caddo!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Gilma had never found Aunt Halifax’s company -so intensely disagreeable as at that moment. -He thanked her for the coffee, and -went away so suddenly as to startle her. But -her good humor never flagged. She called -out to him from the doorway:</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Oh, Mista Gilma! You reckon dey knows -who Pol’cy b’longs to now?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>He somehow did not feel quite prepared to -face Septime; and he lingered along the road. -He even stopped a while to rest, apparently, -under the shade of a huge cottonwood tree -that overhung the bayou. From the very -<span class='pageno' id='Page_309'>309</span>first, a subtle uneasiness, a self-dissatisfaction -had mingled with his elation, and he was trying -to discover what it meant.</p> - -<p class='c001'>To begin with, the straightforwardness of -his own nature had inwardly resented the sudden -change in the bearing of most people toward -himself. He was trying to recall, too, -something which the lawyer had said; a little -phrase, out of that multitude of words, that -had fallen in his consciousness. It had stayed -there, generating a little festering sore place -that was beginning to make itself irritatingly -felt. What was it, that little phrase? Something -about—in his excitement he had only -half heard it—something about dead men’s -shoes.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The exuberant health and strength of his -big body; the courage, virility, endurance of -his whole nature revolted against the expression -in itself, and the meaning which it conveyed -to him. Dead men’s shoes! Were they -not for such afflicted beings as Septime? as -that helpless, dependent woman up there? as -those two little ones, with their poorly fed, -poorly clad bodies and sweet, appealing eyes? -<span class='pageno' id='Page_310'>310</span>Yet he could not determine how he would act -and what he would say to them.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But there was no room left in his heart for -hesitancy when he came to face the group. -Septime was still crouched in his uncle’s chair; -he seemed never to have left it since the day -of the funeral. Ma’me Brozé had been crying, -and so had the children—out of sympathy, -perhaps.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Mr. Septime,” said Gilma, approaching, “I -brought those aff’davits about the hoss. I -hope you about made up yo’ mind to turn it -over without further trouble.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Septime was trembling, bewildered, almost -speechless.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Wat you mean?” he faltered, looking up -with a shifting, sideward glance. “The whole -place b’longs to you. You tryin’ to make a -fool out o’ me?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Fo’ me,” returned Gilma, “the place can -stay with Mr. Gamiche’s own flesh an’ blood. -I’ll see Mr. Pax’on again an’ make that according -to the law. But I want my hoss.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Gilma took something besides his horse—a -picture of le vieux Gamiche, which had stood -on his mantelpiece. He thrust it into his -<span class='pageno' id='Page_311'>311</span>pocket. He also took his old benefactor’s -walking-stick and a gun.</p> - -<p class='c001'>As he rode out of the gate, mounted upon -his well-beloved “Jupe,” the faithful dog following, -Gilma felt as if he had awakened from -an intoxicating but depressing dream.</p> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>At Chenière Caminada</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_315'>315</span> - <h2 class='c006'>At Chêniere Caminada</h2> -</div> - -<h3 class='c013'>I.</h3> - -<p class='drop-capa0_3_0_4 c017'>There was no clumsier looking fellow -in church that Sunday morning than -Antoine Bocaze—the one they called -Tonie. But Tonie did not really care if -he were clumsy or not. He felt that he -could speak intelligibly to no woman save his -mother; but since he had no desire to inflame -the hearts of any of the island maidens, what -difference did it make?</p> - -<p class='c001'>He knew there was no better fisherman on -the Chênière Caminada than himself, if his -face was too long and bronzed, his limbs too -unmanageable and his eyes too earnest—almost -too honest.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was a midsummer day, with a lazy, -scorching breeze blowing from the Gulf -straight into the church windows. The ribbons -on the young girls’ hats fluttered like -the wings of birds, and the old women -<span class='pageno' id='Page_316'>316</span>clutched the flapping ends of the veils that -covered their heads.</p> - -<p class='c001'>A few mosquitoes, floating through the blistering -air, with their nipping and humming -fretted the people to a certain degree of attention -and consequent devotion. The measured -tones of the priest at the altar rose and -fell like a song: “<span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Credo in unum Deum patrem -omnipotentem</span>” he chanted. And then -the people all looked at one another, suddenly -electrified.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Some one was playing upon the organ whose -notes no one on the whole island was able to -awaken; whose tones had not been heard during -the many months since a passing stranger -had one day listlessly dragged his fingers -across its idle keys. A long, sweet strain of -music floated down from the loft and filled -the church.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It seemed to most of them—it seemed to -Tonie standing there beside his old mother—that -some heavenly being must have descended -upon the Church of Our Lady of Lourdes and -chosen this celestial way of communicating -with its people.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_317'>317</span>But it was no creature from a different -sphere; it was only a young lady from Grand -Isle. A rather pretty young person with blue -eyes and nut-brown hair, who wore a dotted -lawn of fine texture and fashionable make, -and a white Leghorn sailor-hat.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Tonie saw her standing outside of the -church after mass, receiving the priest’s voluble -praises and thanks for her graceful service.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She had come over to mass from Grand Isle -in Baptiste Beaudelet’s lugger, with a couple -of young men, and two ladies who kept a pension -over there. Tonie knew these two ladies—the -widow Lebrun and her old mother—but -he did not attempt to speak with them; he -would not have known what to say. He stood -aside gazing at the group, as others were doing, -his serious eyes fixed earnestly upon the -fair organist.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Tonie was late at dinner that day. His -mother must have waited an hour for him, -sitting patiently with her coarse hands folded -in her lap, in that little still room with its -“brick-painted” floor, its gaping chimney and -homely furnishings.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_318'>318</span>He told her that he had been walking—walking -he hardly knew where, and he did -not know why. He must have tramped from -one end of the island to the other; but he -brought her no bit of news or gossip. He did -not know if the Cotures had stopped for dinner -with the Avendettes; whether old Pierre -François was worse, or better, or dead, or if -lame Philibert was drinking again this morning. -He knew nothing; yet he had crossed -the village, and passed every one of its small -houses that stood close together in a long, -jagged line facing the sea; they were gray -and battered by time and the rude buffets of -the salt sea winds.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He knew nothing, though the Cotures had -all bade him “good day” as they filed into -Avendette’s, where a steaming plate of crab -gumbo was waiting for each. He had heard -some woman screaming, and others saying -it was because old Pierre François had just -passed away. But he did not remember this, -nor did he recall the fact that lame Philibert -had staggered against him when he stood absently -watching a “fiddler” sidling across the -sun-baked sand. He could tell his mother -<span class='pageno' id='Page_319'>319</span>nothing of all this; but he said he had noticed -that the wind was fair and must have driven -Baptiste’s boat, like a flying bird, across the -water.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Well, that was something to talk about, and -old Ma’me Antoine, who was fat, leaned comfortably -upon the table after she had helped -Tonie to his courtbouillon, and remarked that -she found Madame was getting old. Tonie -thought that perhaps she was aging and her -hair was getting whiter. He seemed glad to -talk about her, and reminded his mother of -old Madame’s kindness and sympathy at the -time his father and brothers had perished. It -was when he was a little fellow, ten years before, -during a squall in Barataria Bay.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Ma’me Antoine declared that she could -never forget that sympathy, if she lived till -Judgment Day; but all the same she was sorry -to see that Madame Lebrun was also not so -young or fresh as she used to be. Her chances -of getting a husband were surely lessening -every year; especially with the young girls -around her, budding each spring like flowers -to be plucked. The one who had played upon -the organ was Mademoiselle Duvigné, Claire -<span class='pageno' id='Page_320'>320</span>Duvigné, a great belle, the daughter of the -Rampart street. Ma’me Antoine had found -that out during the ten minutes she and -others had stopped after mass to gossip with -the priest.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Claire Duvigné,” muttered Tonie, not even -making a pretense to taste his courtbouillon, -but picking little bits from the half loaf of -crusty brown bread that lay beside his plate. -“Claire Duvigné; that is a pretty name. Don’t -you think so, mother? I can’t think of anyone -on the Chênière who has so pretty a one, -nor at Grand Isle, either, for that matter. And -you say she lives on Rampart street?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>It appeared to him a matter of great importance -that he should have his mother repeat -all that the priest had told her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>II.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Early the following morning Tonie went out -in search of lame Philibert, than whom there -was no cleverer workman on the island when -he could be caught sober.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Tonie had tried to work on his big lugger -that lay bottom upward under the shed, but -<span class='pageno' id='Page_321'>321</span>it had seemed impossible. His mind, his -hands, his tools refused to do their office, and -in sudden desperation he desisted. He found -Philibert and set him to work in his own -place under the shed. Then he got into his -small boat with the red lateen-sail and went -over to Grand Isle.</p> - -<p class='c001'>There was no one at hand to warn Tonie -that he was acting the part of a fool. He -had, singularly, never felt those premonitory -symptoms of love which afflict the greater portion -of mankind before they reach the age -which he had attained. He did not at first -recognize this powerful impulse that had, without -warning, possessed itself of his entire being. -He obeyed it without a struggle, as naturally -as he would have obeyed the dictates -of hunger and thirst.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Tonie left his boat at the wharf and proceeded -at once to Mme. Lebrun’s pension, -which consisted of a group of plain, stoutly -built cottages that stood in mid island, about -half a mile from the sea.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The day was bright and beautiful with soft, -velvety gusts of wind blowing from the water. -From a cluster of orange trees a flock of doves -<span class='pageno' id='Page_322'>322</span>ascended, and Tonie stopped to listen to the -beating of their wings and follow their flight -toward the water oaks whither he himself was -moving.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He walked with a dragging, uncertain step -through the yellow, fragrant chamomile, his -thoughts traveling before him. In his mind -was always the vivid picture of the girl as it -had stamped itself there yesterday, connected -in some mystical way with that celestial music -which had thrilled him and was vibrating yet -in his soul.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But she did not look the same to-day. She -was returning from the beach when Tonie first -saw her, leaning upon the arm of one of the -men who had accompanied her yesterday. She -was dressed differently—in a dainty blue cotton -gown. Her companion held a big white -sunshade over them both. They had exchanged -hats and were laughing with great -abandonment.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Two young men walked behind them and -were trying to engage her attention. She -glanced at Tonie, who was leaning against a -tree when the group passed by; but of course -she did not know him. She was speaking -<span class='pageno' id='Page_323'>323</span>English, a language which he hardly understood.</p> - -<p class='c001'>There were other young people gathered -under the water oaks—girls who were, many -of them, more beautiful than Mlle. Duvigné; -but for Tonie they simply did not exist. His -whole universe had suddenly become converted -into a glamorous background for the -person of Mlle. Duvigné, and the shadowy -figures of men who were about her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Tonie went to Mme. Lebrun and told her -he would bring her oranges next day from the -Chênière. She was well pleased, and commissioned -him to bring her other things from -the stores there, which she could not procure -at Grand Isle. She did not question his presence, -knowing that these summer days were -idle ones for the Chênière fishermen. Nor -did she seem surprised when he told her that -his boat was at the wharf, and would be there -every day at her service. She knew his frugal -habits, and supposed he wished to hire it, as -others did. He intuitively felt that this could -be the only way.</p> - -<p class='c001'>And that is how it happened that Tonie -spent so little of his time at the Chênière Caminada -<span class='pageno' id='Page_324'>324</span>that summer. Old Ma’me Antoine -grumbled enough about it. She herself had -been twice in her life to Grand Isle and once -to Grand Terre, and each time had been more -than glad to get back to the Chênière. And -why Tonie should want to spend his days, and -even his nights, away from home, was a thing -she could not comprehend, especially as he -would have to be away the whole winter; and -meantime there was much work to be done at -his own hearthside and in the company of his -own mother. She did not know that Tonie -had much, much more to do at Grand Isle -than at the Chênière Caminada.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He had to see how Claire Duvigné sat upon -the gallery in the big rocking chair that she -kept in motion by the impetus of her slender, -slippered foot; turning her head this way and -that way to speak to the men who were always -near her. He had to follow her lithe motions -at tennis or croquet, that she often played -with the children under the trees. Some days -he wanted to see how she spread her bare, -white arms, and walked out to meet the foam-*crested -waves. Even here there were men -with her. And then at night, standing alone -<span class='pageno' id='Page_325'>325</span>like a still shadow under the stars, did he not -have to listen to her voice when she talked -and laughed and sang? Did he not have to -follow her slim figure whirling through the -dance, in the arms of men who must have -loved her and wanted her as he did. He did -not dream that they could help it more than he -could help it. But the days when she stepped -into his boat, the one with the red lateen sail, -and sat for hours within a few feet of him, -were days that he would have given up for -nothing else that he could think of.</p> - -<p class='c001'>III.</p> - -<p class='c001'>There were always others in her company -at such times, young people with jests and -laughter on their lips. Only once she was -alone.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She had foolishly brought a book with her, -thinking she would want to read. But with -the breath of the sea stinging her she could -not read a line. She looked precisely as she -had looked the day he first saw her, standing -outside of the church at Chênière Caminada.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She laid the book down in her lap, and let -her soft eyes sweep dreamily along the line -<span class='pageno' id='Page_326'>326</span>of the horizon where the sky and water met. -Then she looked straight at Tonie, and for -the first time spoke directly to him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She called him Tonie, as she had heard -others do, and questioned him about his boat -and his work. He trembled, and answered her -vaguely and stupidly. She did not mind, but -spoke to him anyhow, satisfied to talk herself -when she found that he could not or would -not. She spoke French, and talked about the -Chênière Caminada, its people and its church. -She talked of the day she had played upon the -organ there, and complained of the instrument -being woefully out of tune.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Tonie was perfectly at home in the familiar -task of guiding his boat before the wind that -bellied its taut, red sail. He did not seem -clumsy and awkward as when he sat in -church. The girl noticed that he appeared as -strong as an ox.</p> - -<p class='c001'>As she looked at him and surprised one of -his shifting glances, a glimmer of the truth -began to dawn faintly upon her. She remembered -how she had encountered him daily in -her path, with his earnest, devouring eyes always -seeking her out. She recalled—but -<span class='pageno' id='Page_327'>327</span>there was no need to recall anything. There -are women whose perception of passion is -very keen; they are the women who most inspire -it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>A feeling of complacency took possession -of her with this conviction. There was some -softness and sympathy mingled with it. She -would have liked to lean over and pat his big, -brown hand, and tell him she felt sorry and -would have helped it if she could. With this -belief he ceased to be an object of complete -indifference in her eyes. She had thought, -awhile before, of having him turn about and -take her back home. But now it was really -piquant to pose for an hour longer before a -man—even a rough fisherman—to whom she -felt herself to be an object of silent and consuming -devotion. She could think of nothing -more interesting to do on shore.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She was incapable of conceiving the full -force and extent of his infatuation. She did -not dream that under the rude, calm exterior -before her a man’s heart was beating clamorously, -and his reason yielding to the savage -instinct of his blood.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_328'>328</span>“I hear the Angelus ringing at Chênière, -Tonie,” she said. “I didn’t know it was so -late; let us go back to the island.” There had -been a long silence which her musical voice -interrupted.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Tonie could now faintly hear the Angelus -bell himself. A vision of the church came -with it, the odor of incense and the sound of -the organ. The girl before him was again -that celestial being whom our Lady of -Lourdes had once offered to his immortal -vision.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was growing dusk when they landed at -the pier, and frogs had begun to croak among -the reeds in the pools. There were two of -Mlle. Duvigné’s usual attendants anxiously -awaiting her return. But she chose to let -Tonie assist her out of the boat. The touch -of her hand fired his blood again.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She said to him very low and half-laughing, -“I have no money tonight, Tonie; take this instead,” -pressing into his palm a delicate silver -chain, which she had worn twined about her -bare wrist. It was purely a spirit of coquetry -that prompted the action, and a touch of the -sentimentality which most women possess. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_329'>329</span>She had read in some romance of a young girl -doing something like that.</p> - -<p class='c001'>As she walked away between her two attendants -she fancied Tonie pressing the chain -to his lips. But he was standing quite still, -and held it buried in his tightly-closed hand; -wanting to hold as long as he might the -warmth of the body that still penetrated the -bauble when she thrust it into his hand.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He watched her retreating figure like a -blotch against the fading sky. He was stirred -by a terrible, an overmastering regret, that he -had not clasped her in his arms when they -were out there alone, and sprung with her -into the sea. It was what he had vaguely -meant to do when the sound of the Angelus -had weakened and palsied his resolution. Now -she was going from him, fading away into -the mist with those figures on either side of -her, leaving him alone. He resolved, within -himself that if ever again she were out there -on the sea at his mercy, she would have to -perish in his arms. He would go far, far out -where the sound of no bell could reach him. -There was some comfort for him in the -thought.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_330'>330</span>But as it happened, Mlle. Duvigné never -went out alone in the boat with Tonie again.</p> - -<p class='c001'>IV.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was one morning in January. Tonie had -been collecting a bill from one of the fishmongers -at the French Market, in New Orleans, -and had turned his steps toward St. -Philip street. The day was chilly; a keen -wind was blowing. Tonie mechanically buttoned -his rough, warm coat and crossed over -into the sun.</p> - -<p class='c001'>There was perhaps not a more wretched-hearted -being in the whole district, that morning, -than he. For months the woman he so -hopelessly loved had been lost to his sight. -But all the more she dwelt in his thoughts, -preying upon his mental and bodily forces until -his unhappy condition became apparent to -all who knew him. Before leaving his home -for the winter fishing grounds he had opened -his whole heart to his mother, and told her -of the trouble that was killing him. She hardly -expected that he would ever come back to -her when he went away. She feared that he -would not, for he had spoken wildly of the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_331'>331</span>rest and peace that could only come to him -with death.</p> - -<p class='c001'>That morning when Tonie had crossed St. -Philip street he found himself accosted by -Madame Lebrun and her mother. He had -not noticed them approaching, and, moreover, -their figures in winter garb appeared unfamiliar -to him. He had never seen them elsewhere -than at Grand Isle and the Chênière -during the summer. They were glad to meet -him, and shook his hand cordially. He stood -as usual a little helplessly before them. A -pulse in his throat was beating and almost -choking him, so poignant were the recollections -which their presence stirred up.</p> - -<p class='c001'>They were staying in the city this winter, -they told him. They wanted to hear the -opera as often as possible, and the island was -really too dreary with everyone gone. Madame -Lebrun had left her son there to keep order -and superintend repairs, and so on.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You are both well?” stammered Tonie.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“In perfect health, my dear Tonie,” Madame -Lebrun replied. She was wondering at -his haggard eyes and thin, gaunt cheeks; but -possessed too much tact to mention them.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_332'>332</span>“And—the young lady who used to go sailing—is -she well?” he inquired lamely.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You mean Mlle. Favette? She was married -just after leaving Grand Isle.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No; I mean the one you called Claire—Mamzelle -Duvigné—is she well?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mother and daughter exclaimed together: -“Impossible! You haven’t heard? Why, Tonie,” -madame continued, “Mlle. Duvigné died -three weeks ago. But that was something -sad, I tell you!... Her family heartbroken.... -Simply from a cold caught by standing in thin -slippers, waiting for her carriage after the -opera.... What a warning!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>The two were talking at once. Tonie kept -looking from one to the other. He did not -know what they were saying, after madame -had told him, “Elle est morte.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>As in a dream he finally heard that they -said good-by to him, and sent their love to -his mother.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He stood still in the middle of the banquette -when they had left him, watching them -go toward the market. He could not stir. -Something had happened to him—he did not -<span class='pageno' id='Page_333'>333</span>know what. He wondered if the news was -killing him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Some women passed by, laughing coarsely. -He noticed how they laughed and tossed their -heads. A mockingbird was singing in a cage -which hung from a window above his head. -He had not heard it before.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Just beneath the window was the entrance -to a barroom. Tonie turned and plunged -through its swinging doors. He asked the -bartender for whisky. The man thought he -was already drunk, but pushed the bottle toward -him nevertheless. Tonie poured a great -quantity of the fiery liquor into a glass and -swallowed it at a draught. The rest of the -day he spent among the fishermen and Barataria -oystermen; and that night he slept -soundly and peacefully until morning.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He did not know why it was so; he could -not understand. But from that day he felt -that he began to live again, to be once more -a part of the moving world about him. He -would ask himself over and over again why it -was so, and stay bewildered before this truth -that he could not answer or explain, and -which he began to accept as a holy mystery.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_334'>334</span>One day in early spring Tonie sat with his -mother upon a piece of drift-wood close to the -sea.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He had returned that day to the Chênière -Caminada. At first she thought he was like -his former self again, for all his old strength -and courage had returned. But she found -that there was a new brightness in his face -which had not been there before. It made her -think of the Holy Ghost descending and -bringing some kind of light to a man.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She knew that Mademoiselle Duvigné was -dead, and all along had feared that this knowledge -would be the death of Tonie. When she -saw him come back to her like a new being, -at once she dreaded that he did not know. -All day the doubt had been fretting her, and -she could bear the uncertainty no longer.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You know, Tonie—that young lady whom -you cared for—well, some one read it to me in -the papers—she died last winter.” She had -tried to speak as cautiously as she could.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Yes, I know she is dead. I am glad.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was the first time he had said this in -words, and it made his heart beat quicker.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_335'>335</span>Ma’me Antoine shuddered and drew aside -from him. To her it was somehow like murder -to say such a thing.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“What do you mean? Why are you glad?” -she demanded, indignantly.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Tonie was sitting with his elbows on his -knees. He wanted to answer his mother, but -it would take time; he would have to think. -He looked out across the water that glistened -gem-like with the sun upon it, but there was -nothing there to open his thought. He looked -down into his open palm and began to pick -at the callous flesh that was hard as a horse’s -hoof. Whilst he did this his ideas began to -gather and take form.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You see, while she lived I could never -hope for anything,” he began, slowly feeling -his way. “Despair was the only thing for -me. There were always men about her. She -walked and sang and danced with them. I -knew it all the time, even when I didn’t see -her. But I saw her often enough. I knew -that some day one of them would please her -and she would give herself to him—she would -marry him. That thought haunted me like -an evil spirit.”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_336'>336</span>Tonie passed his hand across his forehead -as if to sweep away anything of the horror that -might have remained there.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“It kept me awake at night,” he went on. -“But that was not so bad; the worst torture -was to sleep, for then I would dream that it -was all true.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Oh, I could see her married to one of -them—his wife—coming year after year to -Grand Isle and bringing her little children with -her! I can’t tell you all that I saw—all that was -driving me mad! But now”—and Tonie -clasped his hands together and smiled as he -looked again across the water—“she is where -she belongs; there is no difference up there; -the curé has often told us there is no difference -between men. It is with the soul that -we approach each other there. Then she will -know who has loved her best. That is why -I am so contented. Who knows what may -happen up there?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Ma’me Antoine could not answer. She -only took her son’s big, rough hand and -pressed it against her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“And now, ma mère,” he exclaimed, cheerfully, -rising, “I shall go light the fire for your -<span class='pageno' id='Page_337'>337</span>bread; it is a long time since I have done anything -for you,” and he stooped and pressed a -warm kiss on her withered old cheek.</p> - -<p class='c001'>With misty eyes she watched him walk -away in the direction of the big brick oven -that stood open-mouthed under the lemon -trees.</p> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>Odalie Misses Mass</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_341'>341</span> - <h2 class='c006'>Odalie Misses Mass</h2> -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_storybreak.png' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_3_0_4 c011'>Odalie sprang down from the mule-cart, -shook out her white skirts, and -firmly grasping her parasol, which was -blue to correspond with her sash, entered -Aunt Pinky’s gate and proceeded towards the -old woman’s cabin. She was a thick-waisted -young thing who walked with a firm tread -and carried her head with a determined poise. -Her straight brown hair had been rolled up -over night in papillotes, and the artificial curls -stood out in clusters, stiff and uncompromising -beneath the rim of her white chip hat. -Her mother, sister and brother remained -seated in the cart before the gate.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It was the fifteenth of August, the great feast -of the Assumption, so generally observed in -the Catholic parishes of Louisiana. The Chotard -family were on their way to mass, and -Odalie had insisted upon stopping to “show -<span class='pageno' id='Page_342'>342</span>herself” to her old friend and protegée, Aunt -Pinky.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The helpless, shrivelled old negress sat in -the depths of a large, rudely-fashioned chair. -A loosely hanging unbleached cotton gown -enveloped her mite of a figure. What was -visible of her hair beneath the bandana turban, -looked like white sheep’s wool. She wore -round, silver-rimmed spectacles, which gave -her an air of wisdom and respectability, and -she held in her hand the branch of a hickory -sapling, with which she kept mosquitoes and -flies at bay, and even chickens and pigs that -sometimes penetrated the heart of her domain.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Odalie walked straight up to the old woman -and kissed her on the cheek.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Well, Aunt Pinky, yere I am,” she announced -with evident self-complacency, turning -herself slowly and stiffly around like a -mechanical dummy. In one hand she held -her prayer-book, fan and handkerchief, in the -other the blue parasol, still open; and on her -plump hands were blue cotton mitts. Aunt -Pinky beamed and chuckled; Odalie hardly -expected her to be able to do more.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_343'>343</span>“Now you saw me,” the child continued. -“I reckon you satisfied. I mus’ go; I ain’t -got a minute to was’e.” But at the threshold -she turned to inquire, bluntly:</p> - -<p class='c001'>“W’ere’s Pug?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Pug,” replied Aunt Pinky, in her tremulous -old-woman’s voice. “She’s gone to -chu’ch; done gone; she done gone,” nodding -her head in seeming approval of Pug’s action.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“To church!” echoed Odalie with a look of -consternation settling in her round eyes.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“She gone to chu’ch,” reiterated Aunt -Pinky. “Say she kain’t miss chu’ch on de -fifteent’; de debble gwine pester her twell -jedgment, she miss chu’ch on de fifteent’.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Odalie’s plump cheeks fairly quivered with -indignation and she stamped her foot. She -looked up and down the long, dusty road that -skirted the river. Nothing was to be seen -save the blue cart with its dejected looking -mule and patient occupants. She walked to -the end of the gallery and called out to a -negro boy whose black bullet-head showed -up in bold relief against the white of the cotton -patch:</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_344'>344</span>“He, Baptiste! w’ere’s yo’ ma? Ask yo’ -ma if she can’t come set with Aunt Pinky.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Mammy, she gone to chu’ch,” screamed -Baptiste in answer.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Bonté! w’at’s taken you all darkies with -yo’ ‘church’ to-day? You come along yere -Baptiste an’ set with Aunt Pinky. That Pug! -I’m goin’ to make yo’ ma wear her out fo’ that -trick of hers—leavin’ Aunt Pinky like that.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>But at the first intimation of what was -wanted of him, Baptiste dipped below the cotton -like a fish beneath water, leaving no sight -nor sound of himself to answer Odalie’s repeated -calls. Her mother and sister were beginning -to show signs of impatience.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“But, I can’t go,” she cried out to them. -“It’s nobody to stay with Aunt Pinky. I -can’t leave Aunt Pinky like that, to fall out -of her chair, maybe, like she already fell out -once.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You goin’ to miss mass on the fifteenth, -you, Odalie! W’at you thinkin’ about?” came -in shrill rebuke from her sister. But her -mother offering no objection, the boy lost not -a moment in starting the mule forward at a -brisk trot. She watched them disappear in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_345'>345</span>a cloud of dust; and turning with a dejected, -almost tearful countenance, re-entered the -room.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Aunt Pinky seemed to accept her reappearance -as a matter of course; and even evinced -no surprise at seeing her remove her hat and -mitts, which she laid carefully, almost religiously, -on the bed, together with her book, -fan and handkerchief.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Then Odalie went and seated herself some -distance from the old woman in her own small, -low rocking-chair. She rocked herself furiously, -making a great clatter with the rockers -over the wide, uneven boards of the cabin -floor; and she looked out through the open -door.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Puggy, she done gone to chu’ch; done -gone. Say de debble gwine pester her twell -jedgment—”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You done tole me that, Aunt Pinky; neva -mine; don’t le’s talk about it.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Aunt Pinky thus rebuked, settled back into -silence and Odalie continued to rock and -stare out of the door.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Once she arose, and taking the hickory -branch from Aunt Pinky’s nerveless hand, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_346'>346</span>made a bold and sudden charge upon a little -pig that seemed bent upon keeping her company. -She pursued him with flying heels and -loud cries as far as the road. She came back -flushed and breathless and her curls hanging -rather limp around her face; she began again -to rock herself and gaze silently out of the -door.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You gwine make yo’ fus’ c’mmunion?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>This seemingly sober inquiry on the part of -Aunt Pinky at once shattered Odalie’s ill-humor -and dispelled every shadow of it. She -leaned back and laughed with wild abandonment.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Mais w’at you thinkin’ about, Aunt Pinky? -How you don’t remember I made my firs’ -communion las’ year, with this same dress -w’at maman let out the tuck,” holding up the -altered skirt for Aunt Pinky’s inspection. “An’ -with this same petticoat w’at maman added -this ruffle an’ crochet’ edge; excep’ I had a -w’ite sash.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>These evidences proved beyond question -convincing and seemed to satisfy Aunt Pinky. -Odalie rocked as furiously as ever, but she -<span class='pageno' id='Page_347'>347</span>sang now, and the swaying chair had worked -its way nearer to the old woman.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You gwine git mar’ied?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I declare, Aunt Pinky,” said Odalie, when -she had ceased laughing and was wiping her -eyes, “I declare, sometime’ I think you gittin’ -plumb foolish. How you expec’ me to git -married w’en I’m on’y thirteen?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Evidently Aunt Pinky did not know why -or how she expected anything so preposterous; -Odalie’s holiday attire that filled her with -contemplative rapture, had doubtless incited -her to these vagaries.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The child now drew her chair quite close -to the old woman’s knee after she had gone -out to the rear of the cabin to get herself -some water and had brought a drink to Aunt -Pinky in the gourd dipper.</p> - -<p class='c001'>There was a strong, hot breeze blowing -from the river, and it swept fitfully and in -gusts through the cabin, bringing with it the -weedy smell of cacti that grew thick on the -bank, and occasionally a shower of reddish -dust from the road. Odalie for a while was -greatly occupied in keeping in place her filmy -skirt, which every gust of wind swelled balloon-like -<span class='pageno' id='Page_348'>348</span>about her knees. Aunt Pinky’s little -black, scrawny hand had found its way -among the droopy curls, and strayed often -caressingly to the child’s plump neck and -shoulders.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You riclics, honey, dat day yo’ granpappy -say it wur pinchin’ times an’ he reckin he -bleege to sell Yallah Tom an’ Susan an’ -Pinky? Don’ know how come he think ’bout -Pinky, ’less caze he sees me playin’ an’ trapsin’ -roun’ wid you alls, day in an’ out. I -riclics yit how you tu’n w’ite like milk an’ -fling yo’ arms roun’ li’le black Pinky; an’ you -cries out you don’ wan’ no saddle-mar’; you -don’ wan’ no silk dresses and fing’ rings an’ -sich; an’ don’ wan’ no idication; des wants -Pinky. An’ you cries an’ screams an’ kicks, -an’ ’low you gwine kill fus’ pusson w’at dar -come an’ buy Pinky an’ kiars her off. You -riclics dat, honey?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Odalie had grown accustomed to these -flights of fancy on the part of her old friend; -she liked to humor her as she chose to sometimes -humor very small children; so she was -quite used to impersonating one dearly beloved -but impetuous, “Paulette,” who seemed -<span class='pageno' id='Page_349'>349</span>to have held her place in old Pinky’s heart -and imagination through all the years of her -suffering life.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I rec’lec’ like it was yesterday, Aunt -Pinky. How I scream an’ kick an’ maman -gave me some med’cine; an’ how you scream -an’ kick an’ Susan took you down to the quarters -an’ give you ‘twenty.’”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Das so, honey; des like you says,” chuckled -Aunt Pinky. “But you don’ riclic dat -time you cotch Pinky cryin’ down in de holler -behine de gin; an’ you say you gwine give -me ‘twenty’ ef I don’ tell you w’at I cryin’ -’bout?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I rec’lec’ like it happen’d to-day, Aunt -Pinky. You been cryin’ because you want to -marry Hiram, ole Mr. Benitou’s servant.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Das true like you says, Miss Paulette; an’ -you goes home an’ cries and kiars on an’ won’ -eat, an’ breaks dishes, an’ pesters yo’ gran’pap -’tell he bleedge to buy Hi’um f’om de Benitous.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Don’t talk, Aunt Pink! I can see all that -jus’ as plain!” responded Odalie sympathetically, -yet in truth she took but a languid interest -<span class='pageno' id='Page_350'>350</span>in these reminiscences which she had -listened to so often before.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She leaned her flushed cheek against Aunt -Pinky’s knee.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The air was rippling now, and hot and caressing. -There was the hum of bumble bees -outside; and busy mud-daubers kept flying in -and out through the door. Some chickens -had penetrated to the very threshold in their -aimless roamings, and the little pig was approaching -more cautiously. Sleep was fast -overtaking the child, but she could still hear -through her drowsiness the familiar tones of -Aunt Pinky’s voice.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“But Hi’um, he done gone; he nuva come -back; an’ Yallah Tom nuva come back; an’ -ole Marster an’ de chillun—all gone—nuva -come back. Nobody nuva come back to Pinky -’cep you, my honey. You ain’ gwine ’way f’om -Pinky no mo’, is you, Miss Paulette?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Don’ fret, Aunt Pinky—I’m goin’—to stay -with—you.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No pussun nuva come back ’cep’ you.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Odalie was fast asleep. Aunt Pinky was -asleep with her head leaning back on her chair -and her fingers thrust into the mass of tangled -<span class='pageno' id='Page_351'>351</span>brown hair that swept across her lap. The -chickens and little pig walked fearlessly in -and out. The sunlight crept close up to the -cabin door and stole away again.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Odalie awoke with a start. Her mother -was standing over her arousing her from -sleep. She sprang up and rubbed her eyes. -“Oh, I been asleep!” she exclaimed. The cart -was standing in the road waiting. “An’ Aunt -Pinky, she’s asleep, too.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Yes, chérie, Aunt Pinky is asleep,” replied -her mother, leading Odalie away. But she -spoke low and trod softly as gentle-souled -women do, in the presence of the dead.</p> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>Cavanelle</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_355'>355</span> - <h2 class='c006'>Cavanelle</h2> -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_storybreak.png' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>I was always sure of hearing something -pleasant from Cavanelle across the -counter. If he was not mistaking me -for the freshest and prettiest girl in New Orleans, -he was reserving for me some bit of -silk, or lace, or ribbon of a nuance marvelously -suited to my complexion, my eyes or -my hair! What an innocent, delightful humbug -Cavanelle was! How well I knew it and -how little I cared! For when he had sold me -the confection or bit of dry-goods in question, -he always began to talk to me of his sister -Mathilde, and then I knew that Cavanelle was -an angel.</p> - -<p class='c001'>I had known him long enough to know -why he worked so faithfully, so energetically -and without rest—it was because Mathilde -had a voice. It was because of her voice that -his coats were worn till they were out of fashion -<span class='pageno' id='Page_356'>356</span>and almost out at elbows. But for a sister -whose voice needed only a little training to -rival that of the nightingale, one might do -such things without incurring reproach.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You will believe, madame, that I did not -know you las’ night at the opera? I remark’ -to Mathilde, ‘tiens! Mademoiselle Montreville,’ -an’ I only rec’nize my mistake when I -finally adjust my opera glass.... I guarantee -you will be satisfied, madame. In a year -from now you will come an’ thank me for -having secu’ you that bargain in a poult-desoie.... -Yes, yes; as you say, Tolville was -in voice. But,” with a shrug of the narrow -shoulders and a smile of commiseration that -wrinkled the lean olive cheeks beneath the -thin beard, “but to hear that cavatina render’ -as I have heard it render’ by Mathilde, -is another affair! A quality, madame, that -moves, that penetrates. Perhaps not yet -enough volume, but that will accomplish itself -with time, when she will become more robus’ -in health. It is my intention to sen’ her for the -summer to Gran’ Isle; that good air an’ surf -bathing will work miracles. An artiste, voyez -vous, it is not to be treated like a human being -<span class='pageno' id='Page_357'>357</span>of every day; it needs des petits soins; -perfec’ res’ of body an’ mind; good red wine -an’ plenty ... oh yes, madame, the stage; -that is our intention; but never with my consent -in light opera. Patience is what I counsel -to Mathilde. A little more stren’th; a little -dev’lopment of the chest to give that -soupçon of compass which is lacking, an’ -gran’ opera is what I aspire for my sister.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>I was curious to know Mathilde and to hear -her sing; and thought it a great pity that a -voice so marvelous as she doubtless possessed -should not gain the notice that might prove -the step toward the attainment of her ambition. -It was such curiosity and a half-formed -design or desire to interest myself in her career -that prompted me to inform Cavanelle -that I should greatly like to meet his sister; -and I asked permission to call upon her the -following Sunday afternoon.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Cavanelle was charmed. He otherwise -would not have been Cavanelle. Over and -over I was given the most minute directions -for finding the house. The green car—or was -it the yellow or blue one? I can no longer remember. -But it was near Goodchildren -<span class='pageno' id='Page_358'>358</span>street, and would I kindly walk this way and -turn that way? At the corner was an ice -dealer’s. In the middle of the block, their -house—one-story; painted yellow; a knocker; -a banana tree nodding over the side fence. -But indeed, I need not look for the banana -tree, the knocker, the number or anything, -for if I but turn the corner in the neighborhood -of five o’clock I would find him -planted at the door awaiting me.</p> - -<p class='c001'>And there he was! Cavanelle himself; but -seeming to me not himself; apart from the -entourage with which I was accustomed to -associate him. Every line of his mobile face, -every gesture emphasized the welcome which -his kind eyes expressed as he ushered me into -the small parlor that opened upon the street.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Oh, not that chair, madame! I entreat -you. This one, by all means. Thousan’ times -more comfortable.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Mathilde! Strange; my sister was here -but an instant ago. Mathilde! Où es tu -donc?” Stupid Cavanelle! He did not know -when I had already guessed it—that Mathilde -had retired to the adjoining room at my approach, -and would appear after a sufficient delay -<span class='pageno' id='Page_359'>359</span>to give an appropriate air of ceremony to -our meeting.</p> - -<p class='c001'>And what a frail little piece of mortality she -was when she did appear! At beholding her -I could easily fancy that when she stepped -outside of the yellow house, the zephyrs would -lift her from her feet and, given a proper adjustment -of the balloon sleeves, gently waft -her in the direction of Goodchildren street, or -wherever else she might want to go.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Hers was no physique for grand opera—certainly -no stage presence; apparently so -slender a hold upon life that the least tension -might snap it. The voice which could hope -to overcome these glaring disadvantages -would have to be phenomenal.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mathilde spoke English imperfectly, and -with embarrassment, and was glad to lapse -into French. Her speech was languid, unaffectedly -so; and her manner was one of indolent -repose; in this respect offering a striking -contrast to that of her brother. Cavanelle -seemed unable to rest. Hardly was I seated -to his satisfaction than he darted from the -room and soon returned followed by a limping -<span class='pageno' id='Page_360'>360</span>old black woman bringing in a sirop -d’orgeat and layer cake on a tray.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mathilde’s face showed feeble annoyance -at her brother’s want of savoir vivre in thus -introducing the refreshments at so early a -stage of my visit.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The servant was one of those cheap black -women who abound in the French quarter, -who speak Creole patois in preference to English, -and who would rather work in a petit -ménage in Goodchildren street for five dollars -a month than for fifteen in the fourth district. -Her presence, in some unaccountable manner, -seemed to reveal to me much of the inner -working of this small household. I pictured -her early morning visit to the French market, -where picayunes were doled out sparingly, -and lagniappes gathered in with avidity.</p> - -<p class='c001'>I could see the neatly appointed dinner table; -Cavanelle extolling his soup and bouillie -in extravagant terms; Mathilde toying with -her papabotte or chicken-wing, and pouring -herself a demi-verre from her very own half-bottle -of St. Julien; Pouponne, as they called -her, mumbling and grumbling through habit, -and serving them as faithfully as a dog -<span class='pageno' id='Page_361'>361</span>through instinct. I wondered if they knew -that Pouponne “played the lottery” with every -spare “quarter” gathered from a judicious -management of lagniappe. Perhaps they -would not have cared, or have minded, either, -that she as often consulted the Voudoo priestess -around the corner as her father confessor.</p> - -<p class='c001'>My thoughts had followed Pouponne’s -limping figure from the room, and it was with -an effort I returned to Cavanelle twirling the -piano stool this way and that way. Mathilde -was languidly turning over musical scores, -and the two warmly discussing the merits of -a selection which she had evidently decided -upon.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The girl seated herself at the piano. Her -hands were thin and anæmic, and she touched -the keys without firmness or delicacy. When -she had played a few introductory bars, she -began to sing. Heaven only knows what she -sang; it made no difference then, nor can it -make any now.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The day was a warm one, but that did not -prevent a creepy chilliness seizing hold of me. -The feeling was generated by disappointment, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_362'>362</span>anger, dismay and various other disagreeable -sensations which I cannot find names for. -Had I been intentionally deceived and misled? -Was this some impertinent pleasantry on the -part of Cavanelle? Or rather had not the -girl’s voice undergone some hideous transformation -since her brother had listened to it? -I dreaded to look at him, fearing to see horror -and astonishment depicted on his face. When -I did look, his expression was earnestly attentive -and beamed approval of the strains to -which he measured time by a slow, satisfied -motion of the hand.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The voice was thin to attenuation, I fear it -was not even true. Perhaps my disappointment -exaggerated its simple deficiencies into -monstrous defects. But it was an unsympathetic -voice that never could have been a -blessing to possess or to listen to.</p> - -<p class='c001'>I cannot recall what I said at parting—doubtless -conventional things which were not -true. Cavanelle politely escorted me to the -car, and there I left him with a hand-clasp -which from my side was tender with sympathy -and pity.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Poor Cavanelle! poor Cavanelle!” The -words kept beating time in my brain to the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_363'>363</span>jingle of the car bells and the regular ring of -the mules’ hoofs upon the cobble stones. One -moment I resolved to have a talk with him -in which I would endeavor to open his eyes -to the folly of thus casting his hopes and the -substance of his labor to the winds. The next -instant I had decided that chance would possibly -attend to Cavanelle’s affair less clumsily -than I could. “But all the same,” I wondered, -“is Cavanelle a fool? is he a lunatic? is he -under a hypnotic spell?” And then—strange -that I did not think of it before—I realized -that Cavanelle loved Mathilde intensely, and -we all know that love is blind, but a god just -the same.</p> - -<p class='c012'>Two years passed before I saw Cavanelle -again. I had been absent that length of time -from the city. In the meanwhile Mathilde had -died. She and her little voice—the apotheosis -of insignificance—were no more. It was perhaps -a year after my visit to her that I read an -account of her death in a New Orleans paper. -Then came a momentary pang of commiseration -for my good Cavanelle. Chance had -surely acted here the part of a skillful though -<span class='pageno' id='Page_364'>364</span>merciless surgeon; no temporizing, no half -measures. A deep, sharp thrust of the scalpel; -a moment of agonizing pain; then rest, rest; -convalescence; health; happiness! Yes, Mathilde -had been dead a year and I was prepared -for great changes in Cavanelle.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He had lived like a hampered child who -does not recognize the restrictions hedging it -about, and lives a life of pathetic contentment -in the midst of them. But now all that was -altered. He was, doubtless, regaling himself -with the half-bottles of St. Julien, which were -never before for him; with, perhaps, an occasional -petit souper at Moreau’s, and there -was no telling what little pleasures beside.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Cavanelle would certainly have bought himself -a suit of clothes or two of modern fit and -finish. I would find him with a brightened -eye, a fuller cheek, as became a man of his -years; perchance, even, a waxed moustache! -So did my imagination run rampant with me.</p> - -<p class='c001'>And after all, the hand which I clasped -across the counter was that of the self-same -Cavanelle I had left. It was no fuller, no -firmer. There were even some additional lines -visible through the thin, brown beard.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_365'>365</span>“Ah, my poor Cavanelle! you have suffered -a grievous loss since we parted.” I saw -in his face that he remembered the circumstances -of our last meeting, so there was -no use in avoiding the subject. I had rightly -conjectured that the wound had been a cruel -one, but in a year such wounds heal with a -healthy soul.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He could have talked for hours of Mathilde’s -unhappy taking-off, and if the subject -had possessed for me the same touching fascination -which it held for him, doubtless, we -would have done so, but—</p> - -<p class='c001'>“And how is it now, mon ami? Are you -living in the same place? running your little -ménage as before, my poor Cavanelle?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Oh, yes, madame, except that my Aunt -Félicie is making her home with me now. You -have heard me speak of my aunt—No? You -never have heard me speak of my Aunt Félicie -Cavanelle of Terrebonne! That, madame, -is a noble woman who has suffer’ the -mos’ cruel affliction, and deprivation, since the -war.—No, madame, not in good health, unfortunately, -by any means. It is why I esteem -that a blessed privilege to give her declining -<span class='pageno' id='Page_366'>366</span>years those little comforts, ces petits -soins, that is a woman’s right to expec’ from -men.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>I knew what “des petits soins” meant with -Cavanelle; doctors’ visits, little jaunts across -the lake, friandises of every description -showered upon “Aunt Félicie,” and he himself -relegated to the soup and bouillie which -typified his prosaic existence.</p> - -<p class='c001'>I was unreasonably exasperated with the -man for awhile, and would not even permit -myself to notice the beauty in texture and design -of the mousseline de laine which he had -spread across the counter in tempting folds. -I was forced to restrain a brutal desire to say -something stinging and cruel to him for his -fatuity.</p> - -<p class='c001'>However, before I had regained the street, -the conviction that Cavanelle was a hopeless -fool seemed to reconcile me to the situation -and also afforded me some diversion.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But even this estimate of my poor Cavanelle -was destined not to last. By the time -I had seated myself in the Prytania street car -and passed up my nickel, I was convinced that -Cavanelle was an angel.</p> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>Tante Cat’rinette</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_369'>369</span> - <h2 class='c006'>Tante Cat’rinette</h2> -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_storybreak.png' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_4_0_4 c011'>It happened just as every one had predicted. -Tante Cat’rinette was beside -herself with rage and indignation when -she learned that the town authorities had for -some reason condemned her house and intended -to demolish it.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Dat house w’at Vieumaite gi’ me his own -se’f, out his own mout’, w’en he gi’ me my -freedom! All wrote down en règle befo’ de -cote! Bon dieu Seigneur, w’at dey talkin’ -’bout!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Tante Cat’rinette stood in the doorway of -her home, resting a gaunt black hand against -the jamb. In the other hand she held her corn-cob -pipe. She was a tall, large-boned woman -of a pronounced Congo type. The house in -question had been substantial enough in its -time. It contained four rooms: the lower two -of brick, the upper ones of adobe. A dilapidated -<span class='pageno' id='Page_370'>370</span>gallery projected from the upper story -and slanted over the narrow banquette, to the -peril of passers-by.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I don’t think I ever heard why the property -was given to you in the first place, Tante -Cat’rinette,” observed Lawyer Paxton, who -had stopped in passing, as so many others did, -to talk the matter over with the old negress. -The affair was attracting some attention in -town, and its development was being watched -with a good deal of interest. Tante Cat’rinette -asked nothing better than to satisfy the lawyer’s -curiosity.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Vieumaite all time say. Cat’rinette wort’ -gole to ’im; de way I make dem nigga’ walk -chalk. But,” she continued, with recovered -seriousness, “w’en I nuss ’is li’le gal w’at all -de doctor’ ’low it ’s goin’ die, an’ I make it -well, me, den Vieumaite, he can’t do ’nough, -him. He name’ dat li’le gal Cat’rine fo’ me. -Das Miss Kitty w’at marry Miché Raymond -yon’ by Gran’ Eco’. Den he gi’ me my freedom; -he got plenty slave’, him; one don’ -count in his pocket. An’ he gi’ me dat house -w’at I’m stan’in’ in de do’; he got plenty -house’ an’ lan’, him. Now dey want pay me -<span class='pageno' id='Page_371'>371</span>t’ousan’ dolla’, w’at I don’ axen’ fo’, an’ tu’n -me out dat house! I waitin’ fo’ ’em, Miché -Paxtone,” and a wicked gleam shot into the -woman’s small, dusky eyes. “I got my axe -grine fine. Fus’ man w’at touch Cat’rinette -fo’ tu’n her out dat house, he git ’is head bus’ -like I bus’ a gode.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Dat’s nice day, ainty, Miché Paxtone? -Fine wedda fo’ dry my close.” Upon the gallery -above hung an array of shirts, which -gleamed white in the sunshine, and flapped in -the rippling breeze.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The spectacle of Tante Cat’rinette defying -the authorities was one which offered much -diversion to the children of the neighborhood. -They played numberless pranks at her expense; -daily serving upon her fictitious notices -purporting to be to the last degree official. -One youngster, in a moment of inspiration, -composed a couplet, which they recited, sang, -shouted at all hours, beneath her windows.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c015'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“Tante Cat’rinette, she go in town;</div> - <div class='line'>Wen she come back, her house pull’ down.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c016'>So ran the production. She heard it many -times during the day, but, far from offending -her, she accepted it as a warning,—a prediction, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_372'>372</span>as it were,—and she took heed not to -offer to fate the conditions for its fulfillment. -She no longer quitted her house even for a -moment, so great was her fear and so firm her -belief that the town authorities were lying in -wait to possess themselves of it. She would -not cross the street to visit a neighbor. She -waylaid passers-by and pressed them into service -to do her errands and small shopping. -She grew distrustful and suspicious, ever on -the alert to scent a plot in the most innocent -endeavor to induce her to leave the house.</p> - -<p class='c001'>One morning, as Tante Cat’rinette was -hanging out her latest batch of washing, Eusèbe, -a “free mulatto” from Red River, -stopped his pony beneath her gallery.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Hé, Tante Cat’rinette!” he called up to -her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She turned to the railing just as she was, -in her bare arms and neck that gleamed -ebony-like against the unbleached cotton of -her chemise. A coarse skirt was fastened -about her waist, and a string of many-colored -beads knotted around her throat. She held -her smoking pipe between her yellow teeth.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_373'>373</span>“How you all come on, Miché Eusèbe?” -she questioned, pleasantly.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“We all middlin’, Tante Cat’rinette. But -Miss Kitty, she putty bad off out yon’a. I -see Mista Raymond dis mo’nin’ w’en I pass -by his house; he say look like de feva don’ -wan’ to quit ’er. She been axen’ fo’ you all -t’rough de night. He ’low he reckon I betta -tell you. Nice wedda we got fo’ plantin’, -Tante Cat’rinette.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Nice wedda fo’ lies, Miché Eusèbe,” and -she spat contemptuously down upon the banquette. -She turned away without noticing -the man further, and proceeded to hang one -of Lawyer Paxton’s fine linen shirts upon the -line.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“She been axen’ fo’ you all t’rough de -night.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Somehow Tante Cat’rinette could not get -that refrain out of her head. She would not -willingly believe that Eusèbe had spoken the -truth, but— “She been axen fo’ you all -t’rough de night—all t’rough de night.” The -words kept ringing in her ears, as she came -and went about her daily tasks. But by degrees -she dismissed Eusèbe and his message -<span class='pageno' id='Page_374'>374</span>from her mind. It was Miss Kitty’s voice -that she could hear in fancy following her, -calling out through the night, “W’ere Tante -Cat’rinette? W’y Tante Cat’rinette don’ -come? W’y she don’ come—w’y she don’ -come?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>All day the woman muttered and mumbled -to herself in her Creole patois; invoking council -of “Vieumaite,” as she always did in her -troubles. Tante Cat’rinette’s religion was peculiarly -her own; she turned to heaven with -her grievances, it is true, but she felt that -there was no one in Paradise with whom she -was quite so well acquainted as with “Vieumaite.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Late in the afternoon she went and stood on -her doorstep, and looked uneasily and anxiously -out upon the almost deserted street. -When a little girl came walking by,—a sweet -child with a frank and innocent face, upon -whose word she knew she could rely,—Tante -Cat’rinette invited her to enter.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Come yere see Tante Cat’rinette, Lolo. It’s -long time you en’t come see Tante Cat’rine; -you gittin’ proud.” She made the little one -<span class='pageno' id='Page_375'>375</span>sit down, and offered her a couple of cookies, -which the child accepted with pretty avidity.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You putty good li’le gal, you, Lolo. You -keep on go confession all de time?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Oh, yes. I’m goin’ make my firs’ communion -firs’ of May, Tante Cat’rinette.” A -dog-eared catechism was sticking out of Lolo’s -apron pocket.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Das right; be good li’le gal. Mine yo’ -maman ev’t’ing she say; an’ neva tell no -story. It’s nuttin’ bad in dis worl’ like tellin’ -lies. You know Eusèbe?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Eusèbe?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Yas; dat li’le ole Red River free m’latto. -Uh, uh! dat one man w’at kin tell lies, yas! -He come tell me Miss Kitty down sick yon’a. -You ev’ yeard such big story like dat, Lolo?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>The child looked a little bewildered, but she -answered promptly, “’Taint no story, Tante -Cat’rinette. I yeard papa sayin’, dinner time, -Mr. Raymond sen’ fo’ Dr. Chalon. An’ Dr. -Chalon says he ain’t got time to go yonda. -An’ papa says it’s because Dr. Chalon on’y -want to go w’ere it’s rich people; an’ he’s -’fraid Mista Raymond ain’ goin’ pay ’im.”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_376'>376</span>Tante Cat’rinette admired the little girl’s -pretty gingham dress, and asked her who had -ironed it. She stroked her brown curls, and -talked of all manner of things quite foreign -to the subject of Eusèbe and his wicked propensity -for telling lies.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She was not restless as she had been during -the early part of the day, and she no longer -mumbled and muttered as she had been doing -over her work.</p> - -<p class='c001'>At night she lighted her coal-oil lamp, and -placed it near a window where its light could -be seen from the street through the half-closed -shutters. Then she sat herself down, erect and -motionless, in a chair.</p> - -<p class='c001'>When it was near upon midnight, Tante -Cat’rinette arose, and looked cautiously, very -cautiously, out of the door. Her house lay in -the line of deep shadow that extended along -the street. The other side was bathed in the -pale light of the declining moon. The night -was agreeably mild, profoundly still, but -pregnant with the subtle quivering life of early -spring. The earth seemed asleep and breathing,—a scent-laden -breath that blew in soft -puffs against Tante Cat’rinette’s face as she -<span class='pageno' id='Page_377'>377</span>emerged from the house. She closed and -locked her door noiselessly; then she crept -slowly away, treading softly, stealthily as a -cat, in the deep shadow.</p> - -<p class='c001'>There were but few people abroad at that -hour. Once she ran upon a gay party of ladies -and gentlemen who had been spending -the evening over cards and anisette. They -did not notice Tante Cat’rinette almost effacing -herself against the black wall of the cathedral. -She breathed freely and ventured -from her retreat only when they had disappeared -from view. Once a man saw her quite -plainly, as she darted across a narrow strip of -moonlight. But Tante Cat’rinette need not -have gasped with fright as she did. He was -too drunk to know if she were a thing of flesh, -or only one of the fantastic, maddening shadows -that the moon was casting across his path -to bewilder him. When she reached the outskirts -of the town, and had to cross the broad -piece of open country which stretched out toward -the pine wood, an almost paralyzing terror -came over her. But she crouched low, -and hurried through the marsh and weeds, -avoiding the open road. She could have been -<span class='pageno' id='Page_378'>378</span>mistaken for one of the beasts browsing there -where she passed.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But once in the Grand Ecore road that lay -through the pine wood, she felt secure and -free to move as she pleased. Tante Cat’rinette -straightened herself, stiffened herself in fact, -and unconsciously assuming the attitude of the -professional sprinter, she sped rapidly beneath -the Gothic interlacing branches of the pines. -She talked constantly to herself as she went, -and to the animate and inanimate objects -around her. But her speech, far from intelligent, -was hardly intelligible.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She addressed herself to the moon, which -she apostrophized as an impertinent busybody -spying upon her actions. She pictured all -manner of troublesome animals, snakes, rabbits, -frogs, pursuing her, but she defied them -to catch Cat’rinette, who was hurrying toward -Miss Kitty. “Pa capab trapé Cat’rinette, vouzot; -mo pé couri vite coté Miss Kitty.” She -called up to a mocking-bird warbling upon a -lofty limb of a pine tree, asking why it cried -out so, and threatening to secure it and put -it into a cage. “Ca to pé crié comme ça, ti -céléra? Arete, mo trapé zozos la, mo -<span class='pageno' id='Page_379'>379</span>mété li dan ain bon lacage.” Indeed, -Tante Cat’rinette seemed on very familiar -terms with the night, with the forest, and with -all the flying, creeping, crawling things that -inhabit it. At the speed with which she traveled -she soon had covered the few miles of -wooded road, and before long had reached her -destination.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The sleeping-room of Miss Kitty opened -upon the long outside gallery, as did all the -rooms of the unpretentious frame house which -was her home. The place could hardly be -called a plantation; it was too small for that. -Nevertheless Raymond was trying to plant; -trying to teach school between times, in the -end room; and sometimes, when he found -himself in a tight place, trying to clerk for -Mr. Jacobs over in Campte, across Red River.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Tante Cat’rinette mounted the creaking -steps, crossed the gallery, and entered Miss -Kitty’s room as though she were returning to -it after a few moments’ absence. There was -a lamp burning dimly upon the high mantelpiece. -Raymond had evidently not been to -bed; he was in shirt sleeves, rocking the baby’s -cradle. It was the same mahogany cradle -<span class='pageno' id='Page_380'>380</span>which had held Miss Kitty thirty-five -years before, when Tante Cat’rinette had -rocked it. The cradle had been bought then -to match the bed,—that big, beautiful bed on -which Miss Kitty lay now in a restless half -slumber. There was a fine French clock on -the mantel, still telling the hours as it had told -them years ago. But there were no carpets or -rugs on the floors. There was no servant in -the house.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Raymond uttered an exclamation of amazement -when he saw Tante Cat’rinette enter.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“How you do, Miché Raymond?” she said, -quietly. “I yeard Miss Kitty been sick; Eusèbe -tell me dat dis mo’nin’.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>She moved toward the bed as lightly as -though shod with velvet, and seated herself -there. Miss Kitty’s hand lay outside the -coverlid; a shapely hand, which her few days -of illness and rest had not yet softened. The -negress laid her own black hand upon it. At -the touch Miss Kitty instinctively turned her -palm upward.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“It’s Tante Cat’rinette!” she exclaimed, -with a note of satisfaction in her feeble voice. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_381'>381</span>“W’en did you come, Tante Cat’rinette? They -all said you wouldn’ come.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I’m goin’ come ev’y night, cher coeur, ev’y -night tell you be well. Tante Cat’rinette -can’t come daytime no mo’.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Raymond tole me about it. They doin’ -you mighty mean in town, Tante Cat’rinette.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Nev’ mine, ti chou. I know how take care -dat w’at Vieumaite gi’ me. You go sleep now. -Cat’rinette goin’ set yere an’ mine you. She -goin’ make you well like she all time do. We -don’ wan’ no céléra doctor. We drive ’em -out wid a stick, dey come roun’ yere.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Miss Kitty was soon sleeping more restfully -than she had done since her illness began. -Raymond had finally succeeded in quieting -the baby, and he tiptoed into the adjoining -room, where the other children lay, to snatch -a few hours of much-needed rest for himself. -Cat’rinette sat faithfully beside her charge, -administering at intervals to the sick woman’s -wants.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But the thought of regaining her home before -daybreak, and of the urgent necessity for -doing so, did not leave Tante Cat’rinette’s -mind for an instant.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_382'>382</span>In the profound darkness, the deep stillness -of the night that comes before dawn, she was -walking again through the woods, on her way -back to town.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The mocking-birds were asleep, and so -were the frogs and the snakes; and the moon -was gone, and so was the breeze. She walked -now in utter silence but for the heavy guttural -breathing that accompanied her rapid footsteps. -She walked with a desperate determination -along the road, every foot of which -was familiar to her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>When she at last emerged from the woods, -the earth about her was faintly, very faintly, -<a id='corr382.15'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='beinning'>beginning</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_382.15'><ins class='correction' title='beinning'>beginning</ins></a></span> to reveal itself in the tremulous, -gray, uncertain light of approaching day. She -staggered and plunged onward with beating -pulses quickened by fear.</p> - -<p class='c001'>A sudden turn, and Tante Cat’rinette stood -facing the river. She stopped abruptly, as if -at command of some unseen power that forced -her. For an instant she pressed a black hand -against her tired, burning eyes, and stared -fixedly ahead of her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Tante Cat’rinette had always believed that -Paradise was up there overhead where the sun -<span class='pageno' id='Page_383'>383</span>and stars and moon are, and that “Vieumaite” -inhabited that region of splendor. She never -for a moment doubted this. It would be difficult, -perhaps unsatisfying, to explain why -Tante Cat’rinette, on that particular morning, -when a vision of the rising day broke suddenly -upon her, should have believed that she -stood in face of a heavenly revelation. But -why not, after all? Since she talked so familiarly -herself to the unseen, why should it not -respond to her when the time came?</p> - -<p class='c001'>Across the narrow, quivering line of water, -the delicate budding branches of young trees -were limned black against the gold, orange,—what -word is there to tell the color of that -morning sky! And steeped in the splendor of -it hung one pale star; there was not another -in the whole heaven.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Tante Cat’rinette stood with her eyes fixed -intently upon that star, which held her like a -hypnotic spell. She stammered breathlessly:</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Mo pé couté, Vieumaite. Cat’rinette -pé couté.” (I am listening, Vieumaite. Cat’rinette -hears you.)</p> - -<p class='c001'>She stayed there motionless upon the brink -of the river till the star melted into the brightness -of the day and became part of it.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_384'>384</span>When Tante Cat’rinette entered Miss Kitty’s -room for the second time, the aspect of -things had changed somewhat. Miss Kitty -was with much difficulty holding the baby -while Raymond mixed a saucer of food for -the little one. Their oldest daughter, a child -of twelve, had come into the room with an -apronful of chips from the woodpile, and was -striving to start a fire on the hearth, to make -the morning coffee. The room seemed bare -and almost squalid in the daylight.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Well, yere Tante Cat’rinette come back,” -she said, quietly announcing herself.</p> - -<p class='c001'>They could not well understand why she -was back; but it was good to have her there, -and they did not question.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She took the baby from its mother, and, -seating herself, began to feed it from the saucer -which Raymond placed beside her on a -chair.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Yas,” she said, “Cat’rinette goin’ stay; dis -time she en’t nev’ goin’ ’way no mo’.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Husband and wife looked at each other with -surprised, questioning eyes.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Miché Raymond,” remarked the woman, -turning her head up to him with a certain -<span class='pageno' id='Page_385'>385</span>comical shrewdness in her glance, “if somebody -want len’ you t’ousan’ dolla’, w’at you -goin’ say? Even if it’s ole nigga ’oman?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>The man’s face flushed with sudden emotion. -“I would say that person was our bes’ -frien’, Tante Cat’rinette. An’,” he added, with -a smile, “I would give her a mortgage on the -place, of co’se, to secu’ her f’om loss.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Das right,” agreed the woman practically. -“Den Cat’rinette goin’ len’ you t’ousan’ -dolla’. Dat w’at Vieumaite give her, dat -b’long to her; don’ b’long to nobody else. An’ -we go yon’a to town, Miché Raymond, you -an’ me. You care me befo’ Miché Paxtone. -I want ’im fo’ put down in writin’ befo’ de -cote dat w’at Cat’rinette got, it fo’ Miss Kitty -w’en I be dead.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Miss Kitty was crying softly in the depths of -her pillow.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I en’t got no head fo’ all dat, me,” laughed -Tante Cat’rinette, good humoredly, as she -held a spoonful of pap up to the baby’s eager -lips. “It’s Vieumaite tell me all dat clair an’ -plain dis mo’nin’, w’en I comin’ ’long de Gran’ -Eco’ road.”</p> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>A Respectable Woman</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_389'>389</span> - <h2 class='c006'>A Respectable Woman</h2> -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_storybreak.png' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_3_0_4 c011'>Mrs. Baroda was a little provoked to -learn that her husband expected his -friend, Gouvernail, up to spend a week -or two on the plantation.</p> - -<p class='c001'>They had entertained a good deal during -the winter; much of the time had also been -passed in New Orleans in various forms of -mild dissipation. She was looking forward to -a period of unbroken rest, now, and undisturbed -tête-a-tête with her husband, when he -informed her that Gouvernail was coming up -to stay a week or two.</p> - -<p class='c001'>This was a man she had heard much of but -never seen. He had been her husband’s college -friend; was now a journalist, and in no -sense a society man or “a man about town,” -which were, perhaps, some of the reasons she -had never met him. But she had unconsciously -formed an image of him in her mind. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_390'>390</span>She pictured him tall, slim, cynical; with eye-glasses, -and his hands in his pockets; and -she did not like him. Gouvernail was slim -enough, but he wasn’t very tall nor very cynical; -neither did he wear eye-glasses nor carry -his hands in his pockets. And she rather liked -him when he first presented himself.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But why she liked him she could not explain -satisfactorily to herself when she partly -attempted to do so. She could discover in -him none of those brilliant and promising -traits which Gaston, her husband, had often -assured her that he possessed. On the contrary, -he sat rather mute and receptive before -her chatty eagerness to make him feel at home -and in face of Gaston’s frank and wordy hospitality. -His manner was as courteous toward -her as the most exacting woman could -require; but he made no direct appeal to her -approval or even esteem.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Once settled at the plantation he seemed to -like to sit upon the wide portico in the shade -of one of the big Corinthian pillars, smoking -his cigar lazily and listening attentively to -Gaston’s experience as a sugar planter.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“This is what I call living,” he would utter -<span class='pageno' id='Page_391'>391</span>with deep satisfaction, as the air that swept -across the sugar field caressed him with its -warm and scented velvety touch. It pleased -him also to get on familiar terms with the big -dogs that came about him, rubbing themselves -sociably against his legs. He did not care to -fish, and displayed no eagerness to go out and -kill grosbecs when Gaston proposed doing -so.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Gouvernail’s personality puzzled Mrs. Baroda, -but she liked him. Indeed, he was a -lovable, inoffensive fellow. After a few days, -when she could understand him no better than -at first, she gave over being puzzled and remained -piqued. In this mood she left her -husband and her guest, for the most part, -alone together. Then finding that Gouvernail -took no manner of exception to her action, she -imposed her society upon him, accompanying -him in his idle strolls to the mill and walks -along the batture. She persistently sought -to penetrate the reserve in which he had unconsciously -enveloped himself.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“When is he going—your friend?” she one -day asked her husband. “For my part, he -tires me frightfully.”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_392'>392</span>“Not for a week yet, dear. I can’t understand; -he gives you no trouble.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“No. I should like him better if he did; -if he were more like others, and I had to plan -somewhat for his comfort and enjoyment.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Gaston took his wife’s pretty face between -his hands and looked tenderly and laughingly -into her troubled eyes. They were making a -bit of toilet sociably together in Mrs. Baroda’s -dressing-room.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You are full of surprises, ma belle,” he -said to her. “Even I can never count upon -how you are going to act under given conditions.” -He kissed her and turned to fasten -his cravat before the mirror.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Here you are,” he went on, “taking poor -Gouvernail seriously and making a commotion -over him, the last thing he would desire -or expect.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Commotion!” she hotly resented. “Nonsense! -How can you say such a thing? Commotion, -indeed! But, you know, you said he -was clever.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“So he is. But the poor fellow is run down -by overwork now. That’s why I asked him -here to take a rest.”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_393'>393</span>“You used to say he was a man of ideas,” -she retorted, unconciliated. “I expected him -to be interesting, at least. I’m going to the -city in the morning to have my spring gowns -fitted. Let me know when Mr. Gouvernail -is gone; I shall be at my Aunt Octavie’s.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>That night she went and sat alone upon a -bench that stood beneath a live oak tree at -the edge of the gravel walk.</p> - -<p class='c001'>She had never known her thoughts or her -intentions to be so confused. She could -gather nothing from them but the feeling of -a distinct necessity to quit her home in the -morning.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mrs. Baroda heard footsteps crunching the -gravel; but could discern in the darkness only -the approaching red point of a lighted cigar. -She knew it was Gouvernail, for her husband -did not smoke. She hoped to remain unnoticed, -but her white gown revealed her to -him. He threw away his cigar and seated -himself upon the bench beside her; without a -suspicion that she might object to his presence.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Your husband told me to bring this to -you, Mrs. Baroda,” he said, handing her a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_394'>394</span>filmy, white scarf with which she sometimes -enveloped her head and shoulders. She accepted -the scarf from him with a murmur of -thanks, and let it lie in her lap.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He made some commonplace observation -upon the baneful effect of the night air at that -season. Then as his gaze reached out into -the darkness, he murmured, half to himself:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c015'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“‘Night of south winds—night of the large few stars!</div> - <div class='line in2'>Still nodding night——’”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c014'>She made no reply to this apostrophe to the -night, which indeed, was not addressed to her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Gouvernail was in no sense a diffident man, -for he was not a self-conscious one. His periods -of reserve were not constitutional, but -the result of moods. Sitting there beside Mrs. -Baroda, his silence melted for the time.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He talked freely and intimately in a low, -hesitating drawl that was not unpleasant to -hear. He talked of the old college days when -he and Gaston had been a good deal to each -other; of the days of keen and blind ambitions -and large intentions. Now there was left with -him, at least, a philosophic acquiescence to -the existing order—only a desire to be permitted -<span class='pageno' id='Page_395'>395</span>to exist, with now and then a little -whiff of genuine life, such as he was breathing -now.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Her mind only vaguely grasped what he -was saying. Her physical being was for the -moment predominant. She was not thinking -of his words, only drinking in the tones of his -voice. She wanted to reach out her hand in -the darkness and touch him with the sensitive -tips of her fingers upon the face or the lips. -She wanted to draw close to him and whisper -against his cheek—she did not care what—as -she might have done if she had not been a -respectable woman.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The stronger the impulse grew to bring -herself near him, the further, in fact, did she -draw away from him. As soon as she could -do so without an appearance of too great rudeness, -she rose and left him there alone.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Before she reached the house, Gouvernail -had lighted a fresh cigar and ended his apostrophe -to the night.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Mrs. Baroda was greatly tempted that night -to tell her husband—who was also her friend—of -this folly that had seized her. But she -did not yield to the temptation. Beside being -<span class='pageno' id='Page_396'>396</span>a respectable woman she was a very sensible -one; and she knew there are some battles in -life which a human being must fight alone.</p> - -<p class='c001'>When Gaston arose in the morning, his wife -had already departed. She had taken an early -morning train to the city. She did not return -till Gouvernail was gone from under her roof.</p> - -<p class='c001'>There was some talk of having him back -during the summer that followed. That is, -Gaston greatly desired it; but this desire yielded -to his wife’s strenuous opposition.</p> - -<p class='c001'>However, before the year ended, she proposed, -wholly from herself, to have Gouvernail -visit them again. Her husband was surprised -and delighted with the suggestion coming -from her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I am glad, chère amie, to know that you -have finally overcome your dislike for him; -truly he did not deserve it.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Oh,” she told him, laughingly, after pressing -a long, tender kiss upon his lips, “I have -overcome everything! you will see. This time -I shall be very nice to him.”</p> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>Ripe Figs</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_399'>399</span> - <h2 class='c006'>Ripe Figs</h2> -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_storybreak.png' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_3_0_4 c011'>Maman-Nainaine said that when the -figs were ripe Babette might go to visit -her cousins down on the Bayou-Lafourche -where the sugar cane grows. Not that -the ripening of figs had the least thing to do -with it, but that is the way Maman-Nainaine -was.</p> - -<p class='c001'>It seemed to Babette a very long time to -wait; for the leaves upon the trees were tender -yet, and the figs were like little hard, -green marbles.</p> - -<p class='c001'>But warm rains came along and plenty of -strong sunshine, and though <a id='corr399.14'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='Maman-Naiaine'>Maman-Nainaine</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_399.14'><ins class='correction' title='Maman-Naiaine'>Maman-Nainaine</ins></a></span> -was as patient as the statue of la Madone, -and Babette as restless as a humming-bird, -the first thing they both knew it was hot summer-time. -Every day Babette danced out to -where the fig-trees were in a long line against -the fence. She walked slowly beneath them, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_400'>400</span>carefully peering between the gnarled, spreading -branches. But each time she came disconsolate -away again. What she saw there finally -was something that made her sing and dance -the whole long day.</p> - -<p class='c001'>When Maman-Nainaine sat down in her -stately way to breakfast, the following morning, -her muslin cap standing like an aureole -about her white, placid face, Babette approached. -She bore a dainty porcelain platter, -which she set down before her godmother. -It contained a dozen purple figs, fringed -around with their rich, green leaves.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Ah,” said Maman-Nainaine, arching her -eyebrows, “how early the figs have ripened -this year!”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Oh,” said Babette, “I think they have ripened -very late.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Babette,” continued Maman-Nainaine, as -she peeled the very plumpest figs with her -pointed silver fruit-knife, “you will carry my -love to them all down on Bayou-Lafourche. -And tell your Tante Frosine I shall look for -her at Toussaint—when the chrysanthemums -are in bloom.”</p> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='xlarge'>Ozème’s Holiday</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_403'>403</span> - <h2 class='c006'>Ozème’s Holiday</h2> -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/i_storybreak.png' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_3_0_4 c011'>Ozème often wondered why there was -not a special dispensation of providence -to do away with the necessity for work. -There seemed to him so much created for -man’s enjoyment in this world, and so little -time and opportunity to profit by it. To sit -and do nothing but breathe was a -pleasure to Ozème; but to sit in the company -of a few choice companions, including a -sprinkling of ladies, was even a greater delight; -and the joy which a day’s hunting or -fishing or picnicking afforded him is hardly to -be described. Yet he was by no means indolent. -He worked faithfully on the plantation -the whole year long, in a sort of methodical -way; but when the time came around for his -annual week’s holiday, there was no holding -him back. It was often decidedly inconvenient -for the planter that Ozème usually chose -<span class='pageno' id='Page_404'>404</span>to take his holiday during some very busy -season of the year.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He started out one morning in the beginning -of October. He had borrowed Mr. Laballière’s -buckboard and Padue’s old gray -mare, and a harness from the negro Sévérin. -He wore a light blue suit which had been sent -all the way from St. Louis, and which had -cost him ten dollars; he had paid almost as -much again for his boots; and his hat was a -broad-rimmed gray felt which he had no cause -to be ashamed of. When Ozème went -“broading,” he dressed—well, regardless of -cost. His eyes were blue and mild; his hair -was light, and he wore it rather long; he was -clean shaven, and really did not look his -thirty-five years.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Ozème had laid his plans weeks beforehand. -He was going visiting along Cane River; the -mere contemplation filled him with pleasure. -He counted upon reaching Fédeaus’ about -noon, and he would stop and dine there. Perhaps -they would ask him to stay all night. He -really did not hold to staying all night, and -was not decided to accept if they did ask him. -There were only the two old people, and he -<span class='pageno' id='Page_405'>405</span>rather fancied the notion of pushing on to -Beltrans’, where he would stay a night, or -even two, if urged. He was quite sure that -there would be something agreeable going on -at Beltrans’, with all those young people—perhaps -a fish-fry, or possibly a ball!</p> - -<p class='c001'>Of course he would have to give a day to -Tante Sophie and another to Cousine Victoire; -but none to the St. Annes unless entreated—after -St. Anne reproaching him last -year with being a fainéant for broading at -such a season! At Cloutierville, where he -would linger as long as possible, he meant to -turn and retrace his course, zigzagging back -and forth across Cane River so as to take in -the Duplans, the Velcours, and others that -he could not at the moment recall. A week -seemed to Ozème a very, very little while in -which to crowd so much pleasure.</p> - -<p class='c001'>There were steam-gins at work; he could -hear them whistling far and near. On both -sides of the river the fields were white with -cotton, and everybody in the world seemed -busy but Ozème. This reflection did not distress -or disturb him in the least; he pursued -his way at peace with himself and his surroundings.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_406'>406</span>At Lamérie’s cross-roads store, where he -stopped to buy a cigar, he learned that there -was no use heading for Fédeaus’, as the two -old people had gone to town for a lengthy -visit, and the house was locked up. It was at -Fédeaus’ that Ozème had intended to dine.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He sat in the buckboard, given up to a -moment or two of reflection. The result was -that he turned away from the river, and entered -the road that led between two fields back -to the woods and into the heart of the country. -He had determined upon taking a short cut -to the Beltrans’ plantation, and on the way he -meant to keep an eye open for old Aunt Tildy’s -cabin, which he knew lay in some remote -part of this cut-off. He remembered that -Aunt Tildy could cook an excellent meal if -she had the material at hand. He would induce -her to fry him a chicken, drip a cup of -coffee, and turn him out a pone of corn-bread, -which he thought would be sumptuous -enough fare for the occasion.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Aunt Tildy dwelt in the not unusual log -cabin, of one room, with its chimney of mud -and stone, and its shallow gallery formed by -the jutting of the roof. In close proximity to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_407'>407</span>the cabin was a small cotton-field, which from -a long distance looked like a field of snow. -The cotton was bursting and overflowing -foam-like from bolls on the drying stalk. On -the lower branches it was hanging ragged and -tattered, and much of it had already fallen to -the ground. There were a few chinaberry-trees -in the yard before the hut, and under one of -them an ancient and rusty-looking mule was -eating corn from a wood trough. Some common -little Creole chickens were scratching -about the mule’s feet and snatching at the -grains of corn that occasionally fell from the -trough.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Aunt Tildy was hobbling across the yard -when Ozème drew up before the gate. One -hand was confined in a sling; in the other she -carried a tin pan, which she let fall noisily -to the ground when she recognized him. She -was broad, black, and misshapen, with her -body bent forward almost at an acute angle. -She wore a blue cottonade of large plaids, and -a bandana awkwardly twisted around her -head.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Good God A’mighty, man! Whar you -come from?” was her startled exclamation at -beholding him.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_408'>408</span>“F’om home, Aunt Tildy; w’ere else do you -expec’?” replied Ozème, dismounting composedly.</p> - -<p class='c001'>He had not seen the old woman for several -years—since she was cooking in town for the -family with which he boarded at the <a id='corr408.5'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='time'>time.</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_408.5'><ins class='correction' title='time'>time.</ins></a></span> -She had washed and ironed for him, atrociously, -it is true, but her intentions were -beyond reproach if her washing was not. She -had also been clumsily attentive to him during -a spell of illness. He had paid her with -an occasional bandana, a calico dress, or a -checked apron, and they had always considered -the account between themselves square, -with no sentimental feeling of gratitude remaining -on either side.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I like to know,” remarked Ozème, as he -took the gray mare from the shafts, and led -her up to the trough where the mule was—“I -like to know w’at you mean by makin’ a -crop like that an’ then lettin’ it go to was’e? -Who you reckon’s goin’ to pick that cotton? -You think maybe the angels goin’ to come -down an’ pick it fo’ you, an’ gin it an’ press -it, an’ then give you ten cents a poun’ fo’ it, -hein?”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_409'>409</span>“Ef de Lord don’ pick it, I don’ know who -gwine pick it, Mista Ozème. I tell you, me -an’ Sandy we wuk dat crap day in an’ day -out; it’s him done de mos’ of it.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Sandy? That little—”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“He ain’ dat li’le Sandy no mo’ w’at you -rec’lec’s; he ’mos’ a man, an’ he wuk like a -man now. He wuk mo’ ’an fittin’ fo’ his -strenk, an’ now he layin’ in dah sick—God -A’mighty knows how sick. An’ me wid a -risin’ twell I bleeged to walk de flo’ o’ nights, -an’ don’ know ef I ain’ gwine to lose de han’ -atter all.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“W’y, in the name o’ conscience, you don’ -hire somebody to pick?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Whar I got money to hire? An’ you -knows well as me ev’y chick an’ chile is pickin’ -roun’ on de plantations an’ gittin’ good -pay.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>The whole outlook appeared to Ozème very -depressing, and even menacing, to his personal -comfort and peace of mind. He foresaw -no prospect of dinner unless he should -cook it himself. And there was that Sandy—he -remembered well the little scamp of -eight, always at his grandmother’s heels when -<span class='pageno' id='Page_410'>410</span>she was cooking or washing. Of course he -would have to go in and look at the boy, and -no doubt dive into his traveling-bag for quinine, -without which he never traveled.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Sandy was indeed very ill, consumed with -fever. He lay on a cot covered up with a -faded patchwork quilt. His eyes were half -closed, and he was muttering and rambling on -about hoeing and bedding and cleaning and -thinning out the cotton; he was hauling it to -the gin, wrangling about weight and bagging -and ties and the price offered per pound. -That bale or two of cotton had not only sent -Sandy to bed, but had pursued him there, -holding him through his fevered dreams, and -threatening to end him. Ozème would never -have known the black boy, he was so tall, so -thin, and seemingly so wasted, lying there in -bed.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“See yere, Aunt Tildy,” said Ozème, after -he had, as was usual with him when in doubt, -abandoned himself to a little reflection; “between -us—you an’ me—we got to manage to -kill an’ cook one o’ those chickens I see -scratchin’ out yonda, fo’ I’m jus’ about -starved. I reckon you ain’t got any quinine -<span class='pageno' id='Page_411'>411</span>in the house? No; I didn’t suppose an instant -you had. Well, I’m goin’ to give Sandy a -good dose o’ quinine to-night, an’ I’m goin’ -stay an’ see how that’ll work on ’im. But -sun-up, min’ you, I mus’ get out o’ yere.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Ozème had spent more comfortable nights -than the one passed in Aunt Tildy’s bed, -which she considerately abandoned to him.</p> - -<p class='c001'>In the morning Sandy’s fever was somewhat -abated, but had not taken a decided enough -turn to justify Ozème in quitting him before -noon, unless he was willing “to feel like a -dog,” as he told himself. He appeared before -Aunt Tildy stripped to the undershirt, -and wearing his second-best pair of trousers.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“That’s a nice pickle o’ fish you got me in, -ol’ woman. I guarantee, nex’ time I go -abroad, ’tain’t me that’ll take any cut-off. -W’ere’s that cotton-basket an’ cotton-sack o’ -yo’s?”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“I knowed it!” chanted Aunt Tildy—“I -knowed de Lord war gwine sen’ somebody to -holp me out. He war n’ gwine let de crap -was’e atter he give Sandy an’ me de strenk -to make hit. De Lord gwine shove you ’long -de row, Mista Ozème. De Lord gwine give -<span class='pageno' id='Page_412'>412</span>you plenty mo’ fingers an’ han’s to pick dat -cotton nimble an’ clean.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Neva you min’ w’at the Lord’s goin’ to -do; go get me that cotton-sack. An’ you put -that poultice like I tol’ you on yo’ han’, an’ -set down there an’ watch Sandy. It looks like -you are ’bout as helpless as a’ ol’ cow tangled -up in a potato-vine.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Ozème had not picked cotton for many -years, and he took to it a little awkwardly at -first; but by the time he had reached the end -of the first row the old dexterity of youth -had come back to his hands, which flew rapidly -back and forth with the motion of a weaver’s -shuttle; and his ten fingers became really -nimble in clutching the cotton from its dry -shell. By noon he had gathered about fifty -pounds. Sandy was not then quite so well as -he had promised to be, and Ozème concluded -to stay that day and one more night. If the -boy were no better in the morning, he would -go off in search of a doctor for him, and he -himself would continue on down to Tante -Sophie’s; the Beltrans’ was out of the question -now.</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_413'>413</span>Sandy hardly needed a doctor in the morning. -Ozème’s doctoring was beginning to tell -favorably; but he would have considered it -criminal indifference and negligence to go -away and leave the boy to Aunt Tildy’s awkward -ministrations just at the critical moment -when there was a turn for the better; -so he stayed that day out, and picked his -hundred and fifty pounds.</p> - -<p class='c001'>On the third day it looked like rain, and a -heavy rain just then would mean a heavy loss -to Aunt Tildy and Sandy, and Ozème again -went to the field, this time urging Aunt Tildy -with him to do what she might with her one -good hand.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Aunt Tildy,” called out Ozème to the bent -old woman moving ahead of him between the -white rows of cotton, “if the Lord gets me -safe out o’ this ditch, ’t ain’t to-morro’ I’ll -fall in anotha with my eyes open, I bet you.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Keep along, Mista Ozème; don’ grumble, -don’ stumble; de Lord’s a-watchin’ you. Look -at yo’ Aunt Tildy; she doin’ mo’ wid her one -han’ ’an you doin’ wid yo’ two, man. Keep -right along, honey. Watch dat cotton how -it fallin’ in yo’ Aunt Tildy’s bag.”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_414'>414</span>“I am watchin’ you, ol’ woman; you don’ -fool me. You got to work that han’ o’ yo’s -spryer than you doin’, or I’ll take the rawhide. -You done fo’got w’at the rawhide tas’e -like, I reckon”—a reminder which amused -Aunt Tildy so powerfully that her big negro-laugh -resounded over the whole cotton-patch, -and even caused Sandy, who heard it, to turn -in his bed.</p> - -<p class='c001'>The weather was still threatening on the -succeeding day, and a sort of dogged determination -or characteristic desire to see his -undertakings carried to a satisfactory completion -urged Ozème to continue his efforts -to drag Aunt Tildy out of the mire into which -circumstances seemed to have thrust her.</p> - -<p class='c001'>One night the rain did come, and began to -beat softly on the roof of the old cabin. Sandy -opened his eyes, which were no longer brilliant -with the fever flame. “Granny,” he whispered, -“de rain! Des listen, granny; de rain -a-comin’, an’ I ain’ pick dat cotton yit. W’at -time it is? Gi’ me my pants—I got to go—”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You lay whar you is, chile alive. Dat cotton -put aside clean and dry. Me an’ de Lord -an’ Mista Ozème done pick dat cotton.”</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_415'>415</span>Ozème drove away in the morning looking -quite as spick and span as the day he left -home in his blue suit and his light felt drawn -a little over his eyes.</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You want to take care o’ that boy,” he -instructed Aunt Tildy at parting, “an’ get ’im -on his feet. An’, let me tell you, the nex’ -time I start out to broad, if you see me passin’ -in this yere cut-off, put on yo’ specs an’ look -at me good, because it won’t be me; it’ll be -my ghos’, ol’ woman.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Indeed, Ozème, for some reason or other, -felt quite shamefaced as he drove back to the -plantation. When he emerged from the lane -which he had entered the week before, and -turned into the river road, Lamérie, standing -in the store door, shouted out:</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Hé, Ozème! you had good times yonda? I -bet you danced holes in the sole of them new -boots.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>“Don’t talk, Lamérie!” was Ozème’s rather -ambiguous reply, as he flourished the remainder -of a whip over the old gray mare’s -sway-back, urging her to a gentle trot.</p> - -<p class='c001'>When he reached home, Bodé, one of Padue’s -boys, who was assisting him to unhitch, -remarked:</p> - -<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_416'>416</span>“How come you didn’ go yonda down de -coas’ like you said, Mista Ozème? Nobody -didn’ see you in Cloutierville, an’ Mailitte -say you neva cross’ de twenty-fo’-mile ferry, -an’ nobody didn’ see you no place.”</p> - -<p class='c001'>Ozème returned, after his customary moment -of reflection:</p> - -<p class='c001'>“You see, it’s ’mos’ always the same thing -on Cane riva, my boy; a man gets tired o’ -that à la fin. This time I went back in the -woods, ’way yonda in the Fédeau cut-off -kin’ o’ campin’ an’ roughin’ like, you might -say. I tell you, it was sport, Bodé.”</p> - -<div class='lg-container-l c018'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in5'><span class='small'>PRESS OF</span></div> - <div class='line'><span class='small'>STROMBERG, ALLEN & CO.</span></div> - <div class='line in5'><span class='small'>CHICAGO</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> -<p class='c001'><a id='endnote'></a></p> -<div class='tnotes'> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><span class='large'>Transcriber’s Note</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c001'>The Creole dialogue is an admixture of French and English. Generally -speaking, these were not italicized, and so have not been marked as -French. Where French words or phrases are italicized or enclosed -in quotation marks in the narrative itself, the appropriate -language markers have been added.</p> - -<p class='c001'>Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and -are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original. -The following issues should be noted, along with the resolutions.</p> - -<table class='table1' summary=''> -<colgroup> -<col width='12%' /> -<col width='69%' /> -<col width='18%' /> -</colgroup> - <tr> - <td class='c008'><a id='c_17.24'></a><a href='#corr17.24'>17.24</a></td> - <td class='c008'>they considered in[s]trusive</td> - <td class='c019'>Removed.</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c008'><a id='c_24.3'></a><a href='#corr24.3'>24.3</a></td> - <td class='c008'>a sudden knife thrust[.]</td> - <td class='c019'>Added.</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c008'><a id='c_220.14'></a><a href='#corr220.14'>220.14</a></td> - <td class='c008'>and only on[c]e glancing aside</td> - <td class='c019'>Inserted.</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c008'><a id='c_234.3'></a><a href='#corr234.3'>234.3</a></td> - <td class='c008'>with what he flat[t]ered himself was humor</td> - <td class='c019'>Inserted.</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c008'><a id='c_257.15'></a><a href='#corr257.15'>257.15</a></td> - <td class='c008'>I’ll take another nap[,]”</td> - <td class='c019'>Inserted.</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c008'><a id='c_289.15'></a><a href='#corr289.15'>289.15</a></td> - <td class='c008'>begged the bell[ ]hanger</td> - <td class='c019'>Removed.</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c008'><a id='c_382.15'></a><a href='#corr382.15'>382.15</a></td> - <td class='c008'>be[g]inning to reveal itself</td> - <td class='c019'>Inserted.</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c008'><a id='c_399.14'></a><a href='#corr399.14'>399.14</a></td> - <td class='c008'>Maman-Nai[n]aine was as patient</td> - <td class='c019'>Inserted.</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c008'><a id='c_408.5'></a><a href='#corr408.5'>408.5</a></td> - <td class='c008'>with which he boarded at the time[.]</td> - <td class='c019'>Added.</td> - </tr> -</table> - -</div> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Night in Acadie, by Kate Chopin - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A NIGHT IN ACADIE *** - -***** This file should be named 63025-h.htm or 63025-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/0/2/63025/ - -Produced by KD Weeks, Mary Glenn Krause, Charlene Taylor, -University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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