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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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