Bayou Folk ...........................................................................................................................................................1

Kate Chopin.............................................................................................................................................1

ONE agreeable afternoon in late autumn two young men stood together on Canal Street, closing a

conversation that had evidently begun within the clubhouse which they had just quitted.

"There 's big money in it, Offdean," said the elder of the two. "I would n't have you touch it if there was n't.

Why, they tell me Patchly 's pulled a hundred thousand out of the concern a'ready."

"That may be," replied Offdean, who had been politely attentive to the words addressed to him, but whose

face bore a look indicating that he was closed to conviction. He leaned back upon the clumsy stick which he

carried, and continued: "It 's all true, I dare say, Fitch; but a decision of that sort would mean more to me than

you 'd believe if I were to tell you. The beggarly twentyfive thousand 's all I have, and I want to sleep with it

"You 'll drop it into Harding Offdean's mill to grind out the pitiful two and a half per cent commission racket;

"Perhaps I shall; but it 's more than likely I shan't. We 'll talk about it when I get back. You know I 'm off to

"Not so far as that. But don't expect to hear from me till you see me. I can't say when that will be."

Then they shook hands and parted. The rather portly Fitch boarded a Prytania Street car, and Mr. Wallace

Offdean hurried to the bank in order to replenish his portemonnaie, which had been materially lightened at

He was a surefooted fellow, this young Offdean, despite an occasional fall in slippery places. What he

wanted, now that he had reached his twentysixth year and his inheritance, was to get his feet well planted on

With his early youth he had had certain shadowy intentions of shaping his life on intellectual lines. That is, he

wanted to; and he meant to use his faculties intelligently, which means more than is at once apparent. Above

all, he would keep clear of the maelstroms of sordid work and senseless pleasure in which the average

American business man may be said alternately to exist, and which reduce him, naturally, to a rather ragged

Offdean had done, in a temperate way, the usual things which young men do who happen to belong to good

society, and are possessed of moderate means and healthy instincts. He had gone to college, had traveled a

little at home and abroad, had frequented society and the clubs, and had worked in his uncle's

commissionhouse; in all of which employments he had expended much time and a modicum of energy.

But he felt all through that he was simply in a preliminary stage of being, one that would develop later into

something tangible and intelligent, as he liked to tell himself. With his patrimony of twentyfive thousand

dollars came what he felt to be the turningpoint in his life, the time when it behooved him to choose a

course, and to get himself into proper trim to follow it manfully and consistently.

When Messrs. Harding Offdean determined to have some one look after what they called "a troublesome

piece of land on Red River," Wallace Offdean requested to be intrusted with that special commission of

A shadowy, illdefined piece of land in an unfamiliar part of his native State, might, he hoped, prove a sort of

closet into which he could retire and take counsel with his inner and better self.

What Harding Offdean had called a piece of land on Red River was better known to the people of

In the days of Lucien Santien and his 1. Pronounced Nacketosh. hundred slaves, it had been very splendid

in the wealth of its thousand acres. But the war did its work, of course. Then Jules Santien was not the man to

mend such damage as the war had left. His three sons were even less able than he had been to bear the

weighty inheritance of debt that came to them with the dismantled plantation; so it was a deliverance to all

when Harding Offdean, the New Orleans creditors, relieved them of the place with the responsibility and

Hector, the eldest, and Grégoire, the youngest of these Santien boys, had gone each his way. Placide alone

tried to keep a desultory foothold upon the land which had been his and his forefathers'. But he too was given

to wandering within a radius, however, which rarely took him so far that he could not reach the old place in

There were acres of open land cultivated in a slovenly fashion, but so rich that cotton and corn and weed and

"cocoagrass" grew rampant if they had only the semblance of a chance. The negro quarters were at the far

end of this open stretch, and consisted of a long row of old and very crippled cabins. Directly back of these a

dense wood grew, and held much mystery, and witchery of sound and shadow, and strange lights when the

sun shone. Of a ginhouse there was left scarcely a trace; only so much as could serve as inadequate shelter

A dozen rods or more from the Red River bank stood the dwellinghouse, and nowhere upon the plantation

had time touched so sadly as here. The steep, black, mosscovered roof sat like an extinguisher above the

eight large rooms that it covered, and had come to do its office so poorly that not more than half of these were

habitable when the rain fell. Perhaps the liveoaks made too thick and close a shelter about it. The verandas

were long and broad and inviting; but it was well to know that the brick pillar was crumbling away under one

corner, that the railing was insecure at another, and that still another had long ago been condemned as unsafe.

But that, of course, was not the corner in which Wallace Offdean sat the day following his arrival at the

Santien place. This one was comparatively secure. A gloiredeDijon, thickleaved and charged with huge

creamy blossoms, grew and spread here like a hardy vine upon the wires that stretched from post to post. The

scent of the blossoms was delicious; and the stillness that surrounded Offdean agreeably fitted his humor that

asked for rest. His old host, Pierre Manton, the manager of the place, sat talking to him in a soft, rhythmic

monotone; but his speech was hardly more of an interruption than the hum of the bees among the roses. He

"If it would been me myse'f, I would nevair grumb'. W'en a chimbly breck, I take one, two de boys; we patch

'im up bes' we know how. We keep on men' de fence', firs' one place, anudder; an' if it would n' be fer dem

mule' of Lacroix tonnerre! I don' wan' to talk 'bout dem mule'. But me, I would n' grumb'. It 's Euphrasie,

hair. She say dat 's all fool nonsense fer rich man lack Hardin'Offde'n to let a piece o' lan' goin' lack dat."

"Euphrasie?" questioned Offdean, in some surprise; for he had not yet heard of any such person.

"Euphrasie, my li'le chile. Escuse me one minute," Pierre added, remembering that he was in his

shirtsleeves, and rising to reach for his coat, which hung upon a peg near by. He was a small, square man,

with mild, kindly face, brown and roughened from healthy exposure. His hair hung gray and long beneath the

"Where is your little child? I haven't seen her," inwardly marveling that a little child should have uttered such

"She yonder to Mme. Duplan on Cane River. I been kine espectin' hair sence yistiday hair an' Placide,"

casting an unconscious glance down the long plantation road. "But Mme. Duplan she nevair want to let

Euphrasie go. You know it 's hair raise' Euphrasie sence hair po' ma die', Mr. Offde'n. She teck dat li'le chile,

an' raise it, sem lack she raisin' Ninette. But it 's mo' 'an a year now Euphrasie say dat 's all fool nonsense to

leave me livin' 'lone lack dat, wid nuttin' 'cep' dem nigger' an' Placide once a w'ile. An' she came yair

bossin'! My goodness!" The old man chuckled, "Dat 's hair been writin' all dem letter' to Hardin'Offde'n. If it

Placide seemed to have had a foreboding of ill from the start when he found that Euphrasie began to interest

herself in the condition of the plantation. This ill feeling voiced itself partly when he told her it was none of

her lookout if the place went to the dogs. "It 's good enough for Joe Duplan to run things en grand seigneur,

Placide might have done much singlehanded to keep the old place in better trim, if he had wished. For there

was no one more clever than he to do a hand's turn at any and every thing. He could mend a saddle or bridle

while he stood whistling a tune. If a wagon required a brace or a bolt, it was nothing for him to step into a

shop and turn out one as deftly as the most skilled blacksmith. Any one seeing him at work with plane and

rule and chisel would have declared him a born carpenter. And as for mixing paints, and giving a fine and

lasting coat to the side of a house or barn, he had not his equal in the country. This last talent he exercised

little in his native parish. It was in a neighboring one, where he spent the greater part of his time, that his

fame as a painter was established. There, in the village of Orville, he owned a little shell of a house, and

during odd times it was Placide's great delight to tinker at this small home, inventing daily new beauties and

conveniences to add to it. Lately it had become a precious possession to him, for in the spring he was to bring

Maybe it was because of his talent, and his indifference in turning it to good, that he was often called "a

noaccount creole " by thriftier souls than himself. But noaccount creole or not, painter, carpenter,

blacksmith, and whatever else he might be at times, he was a Santien always, with the best blood in the

country running in his veins. And many thought his choice had fallen in very low places when he engaged

himself to marry little Euphrasie, the daughter of old Pierre Manton and a problematic mother a good deal

Placide might have married almost any one, too; for it was the easiest thing in the world for a girl to fall in

love with him, sometimes the hardest thing in the world not to, he was such a splendid fellow, such a

careless, happy, handsome fellow. And he did not seem to mind in the least that young men who had grown

up with him were lawyers now, and planters, and members of Shakespeare clubs in town. No one ever

expected anything quite so humdrum as that of the Santien boys. As youngsters, all three had been the despair

of the country schoolmaster; then of the private tutor who had come to shackle them, and had failed in his

design. And the state of mutiny and revolt that they had brought about at the college of Grand Coteau when

their father, in a moment of weak concession to prejudice, had sent them there, is a thing yet remembered in

And now Placide was going to marry Euphrasie. He could not recall the time when he had not loved her.

Somehow he felt that it began the day when he was six years old, and Pierre, his father's overseer, had called

him from play to come and make her acquaintance. He was permitted to hold her in his arms a moment, and it

was with silent awe that he did so. She was the first whitefaced baby he remembered having seen, and he

straightway believed she had been sent to him as a birthday gift to be his little playmate and friend. If he

loved her, there was no great wonder; every one did, from the time she took her first dainty step, which was a

She was the gentlest little lady ever born in old Natchitoches parish, and the happiest and merriest. She never

cried or whimpered for a hurt. Placide never did, why should she? When she wept, it was when she did what

was wrong, or when he did; for that was to be a coward, she felt. When she was ten, and her mother was

dead, Mme. Duplan, the Lady Bountiful of the parish, had driven across from her plantation, Les Chêniers, to

old Pierre's very door, and there had gathered up this precious little maid, and carried her away, to do with as

And she did with the child much as she herself had been done by. Euphrasie went to the convent soon, and

was taught all gentle things, the pretty arts of manner and speech that the ladies of the "Sacred Heart" can

teach so well. When she quitted them, she left a trail of love behind her; she always did. Placide continued to

see her at intervals, and to love her always. One day he told her so; he could not help it. She stood under one

of the big oaks at Les Chêniers. It was midsummer time, and the tangled sunbeams had enmeshed her in a

golden fretwork. When he saw her standing there in the sun's glamour, which was like a glory upon her, he

trembled. He seemed to see her for the first time. He could only look at her, and wonder why her hair

gleamed so, as it fell in those thick chestnut waves about her ears and neck. He had looked a thousand times

into her eyes before; was it only today they held that sleepy, wistful light in them that invites love? How had

he not seen it before? Why had he not known before that her lips were red, and cut in fine, strong curves? that

her flesh was like cream? How had he not seen that she was beautiful? "Euphrasie," he said, taking her hands,

She looked at him with a little astonishment. "Yes; I know, Placide." She spoke with the soft intonation of the

Perhaps he did only what was natural when he asked her next if she loved him. He still held her hands. She

Only a few months before this, Euphrasie had returned to live with her father. The step had cut her off from

everything that girls of eighteen call pleasure. If it cost her one regret, no one could have guessed it. She went

often to visit the Duplans, however; and Placide had gone to bring her home from Les Chêniers the very day

They had traveled by rail to Natchitoches, where they found Pierre's notop buggy awaiting them, for there

was a drive of five miles to be made through the pine woods before the plantation was reached. When they

were at their journey's end, and had driven some distance up the long plantation road that led to the house in

"It looks like some one f'om town. It mus' be Mr. Gus Adams; but I don' see his horse."

" 'T ain't no one f'om town that I know. It 's boun' to be some one f'om the city."

"Oh, Placide, I should n' wonder if Harding Offdean have sent some one to look after the place at las'," she

They were near enough to see that the stranger was a young man of very pleasing appearance. Without

Wallace Offdean remembered Euphrasie at once as a young person whom he had assisted to a very high

perch on his club house balcony the previous Mardi Gras night. He had thought her pretty and attractive then,

and for the space of a day or two wondered who she might be. But he had not made even so fleeting an

impression upon her; seeing which, he did not refer to any former meeting when Pierre introduced them. She

took the chair which he offered her, and asked him very simply when he had come, if his journey had been

pleasant, and if he had not found the road from Natchitoches in very good condition.

"Mr. Offde'n only come sence yistiday, Euphrasie," interposed Pierre. "We been talk' plenty 'bout de place,

him an' me. I been tole 'im all 'bout it va! An' if Mr. Offde'n want to escuse me now, I b'lieve I go he'p

Placide wid dat hoss an' buggy;" and he descended the steps slowly, and walked lazily with his bent figure in

the direction of the shed beneath which Placide had driven, after depositing Euphrasie at the door.

"I dare say you find it strange," began Offdean, "that the owners of this place have neglected it so long and

shamefully. But you see," he added, smiling, "the management of a plantation does n't enter into the routine

of a commission merchant's business. The place has already cost them more than they hope to get from it, and

naturally they have n't the wish to sink further money in it." He did not know why he was saying these things

to a mere girl, but he went on: "I 'm authorized to sell the plantation if I can get anything like a reasonable

price for it." Euphrasie laughed in a way that made him uncomfortable, and he thought he would say no more

"Well," she said in a very decided fashion, "I know you 'll fin' one or two persons in town who 'll begin by

running down the lan' till you would n' want it as a gif', Mr. Offdean; and who will en' by offering to take it

They both laughed, and Placide, who was approaching, scowled. But before he reached the steps his

instinctive sense of the courtesy due to a stranger had banished the look of ill humor. His bearing was so

frank and graceful, and his face such a marvel of beauty, with its dark, rich coloring and soft lines, that the

wellclipped and groomed Offdean felt his astonishment to be more than half admiration when they shook

hands. He knew that the Santiens had been the former owners of this plantation which he had come to look

after, and naturally he expected some sort of coöperation or direct assistance from Placide in his efforts at

reconstruction. But Placide proved noncommittal, and exhibited an indifference and ignorance concerning

He had positively nothing to say so long as the talk touched upon matters concerning Offdean's business

there. He was only a little less taciturn when more general topics were approached, and directly after supper

he saddled his horse and went away. He would not wait until morning, for the moon would be rising about

midnight, and he knew the road as well by night as by day. He knew just where the best fords were across the

bayous, and the safest paths across the hills. He knew for a certainty whose plantations he might traverse, and

whose fences he might derail. But, for that matter, he would derail what he liked, and cross where he pleased.

Euphrasie walked with him to the shed when he went for his horse. She was bewildered at his sudden

"I don' like that man," he admitted frankly; "I can't stan' him. Sen' me word w'en he 's gone, Euphrasie."

She was patting and rubbing the pony, which knew her well. Only their dim outlines were discernible in the

thick darkness. "You are foolish, Placide," she replied in French. "You would do better to stay and help him.

"The place is n't mine, and it 's nothing to me," he answered bitterly. He took her hands and kissed them

"Oh!" he exclaimed rapturously, "you do love me, Euphrasie?" His arms were holding her, and his lips

"Of co'se I love you, Placide. Ain't I going to marry you nex' spring? You foolish boy!" she replied,

When he was mounted, he stooped to say, "See yere, Euphrasie, don't have too much to do with that d

"But, Placide, he isn't a a 'd Yankee; ' he 's a Southerner, like you, a New Orleans man."

"Oh, well, he looks like a Yankee." But Placide laughed, for he was happy since Euphrasie had kissed him,

and he whistled softly as he urged his horse to a canter and disappeared in the darkness. The girl stood awhile

with clasped hands, trying to understand a little sigh that rose in her throat, and that was not one of regret.

When she regained the house, she went directly to her room, and left her father talking to Offdean in the quiet

When two weeks had passed, Offdean felt very much at home with old Pierre and his daughter, and found the

business that had called him to the country so engrossing that he had given no thought to those personal

The old man had driven him around in the notop buggy to show him how dismantled the fences and barns

were. He could see for himself that the house was a constant menace to human life. In the evenings the three

would sit out on the gallery and talk of the land and its strong points and its weak ones, till he came to know

Of the rickety condition of the cabins he got a fair notion, for he and Euphrasie passed them almost daily on

horseback, on their way to the woods. It was seldom that their appearance together did not rouse comment

La Chatte, a broad black woman with ends of white wool sticking out from under her tignon, stood with arms

akimbo watching them as they disappeared one day. Then she turned and said to a young woman who sat in

"Dat young man, ef he want to listen to me, he gwine quit dat ar caperin' roun' Miss 'Phrasie."

The young woman in the doorway laughed, and showed her white teeth, and tossed her head, and fingered the

blue beads at her throat, in a way to indicate that she was in hearty sympathy with any question that touched

"Law! La Chatte, you ain' gwine hinder a gemman f'om payin' intentions to a young lady w'en he a mine to."

"Dat all I got to say," returned La Chatte, seating herself lazily and heavily on the doorstep. "Nobody don'

know dem Sanchun boys bettah 'an I does. Did n' I done part raise 'em? W'at you reckon my ha'r all tu'n

plumb w'ite dataway ef it warn't dat Placide w'at done it?" "How come he make yo' ha'r tu'n w'ite, La

"Dev'ment, pu' dev'ment, Rose. Did n' he come in dat same cabin one day, w'en he warn't no bigga 'an dat

Pres'dent Hayes w'at you sees gwine 'long de road wid dat cotton sack 'crost 'im? He come an' sets down by

de do', on dat same t'reelaigged stool w'at you 's asettin' on now, wid his gun in his han', an' he say: 'La

Chatte, I wants some croquignoles, an' I wants 'em quick, too.' I 'low: 'G' 'way f'om dah, boy. Don' you see I 's

flutin' yo' ma's petticoat?' He say: 'La Chatte, put 'side dat ar flutin'i'on an' dat ar petticoat;' an' he cock dat

gun an' p'int it to my head. 'Dar de ba'el,' he say; 'git out dat flour, git out dat butta an' dat aigs; step roun' dah,

ole 'oman. Dis heah gun don' quit yo' head tell dem croquignoles is on de table, wid a w'ite tableclof an' a cup

o' coffee.' Ef I goes to de ba'el, de gun 's ap'intin'. Ef I goes to de fiah, de gun 's ap'intin'. W'en I rolls out de

dough, de gun 's ap'intin'; an' him neva say nuttin', an' me atrim'lin' like ole Uncle Noah w'en de mistry

"Lordy! w'at you reckon he do ef he tu'n roun' an' git mad wid dat young gemman f'om de city?" "I don'

"G' 'long 'bout yo' business; you 's axin' too many questions." And La Chatte arose slowly and went to gather

her partycolored wash that hung drying on the jagged and irregular points of a dilapidated picketfence.

But the darkies were mistaken in supposing that Offdean was paying attention to Euphrasie. Those little

jaunts in the wood were purely of a business character. Offdean had made a contract with a neighboring mill

for fencing, in exchange for a certain amount of uncut timber. He had made it his work with the assistance

of Euphrasie to decide upon what trees he wanted felled, and to mark such for the woodman's axe.

If they sometimes forgot what they had gone into the woods for, it was because there was so much to talk

about and to laugh about. Often, when Offdean had blazed a tree with the sharp hatchet which he carried at

his pommel, and had further discharged his duty by calling it "a fine piece of timber," they would sit upon

some fallen and decaying trunk, maybe to listen to a chorus of mockingbirds above their heads, or to

Euphrasie thought she had never heard any one talk quite so pleasantly as Offdean did. She could not decide

whether it was his manner or the tone of his voice, or the earnest glance of his dark and deepset blue eyes,

that gave such meaning to everything he said; for she found herself afterward thinking of his every word.

One afternoon it rained in torrents, and Rose was forced to drag buckets and tubs into Offdean's room to

catch the streams that threatened to flood it. Euphrasie said she was glad of it; now he could see for himself.

And when he had seen for himself, he went to join her out on a corner of the gallery, where she stood with a

cloak around her, close up against the house. He leaned against the house, too, and they stood thus together,

The whole landscape was gray, seen through the driving rain. Far away the dreary cabins seemed to sink and

sink to earth in abject misery. Above their heads the liveoak branches were beating with sad monotony

against the blackened roof. Great pools of water had formed in the yard, which was deserted by every living

thing; for the little darkies had scampered away to their cabins, the dogs had run to their kennels, and the hens

were puffing big with wretchedness under the scanty shelter of a fallen wagonbody.

Certainly a situation to make a young man groan with ennui, if he is used to his daily stroll on Canal Street,

and pleasant afternoons at the club. But Offdean thought it delightful. He only wondered that he had never

known, or some one had never told him, how charming a place an old, dismantled plantation can be when it

rains. But as well as he liked it, he could not linger there forever. Business called him back to New Orleans,

The interest which he felt in the improvement of this plantation was of so deep a nature, however, that he

found himself thinking of it constantly. He wondered if the timber had all been felled, and how the fencing

was coming on. So great was his desire to know such things that much correspondence was required between

himself and Euphrasie, and he watched for those letters that told him of her trials and vexations with

carpenters, bricklayers, and shinglebearers. But in the midst of it, Offdean suddenly lost interest in the

progress of work on the plantation. Singularly enough, it happened simultaneously with the arrival of a letter

from Euphrasie which announced in a modest postscript that she was going down to the city with the Duplans

When Offdean learned that Euphrasie was coming to New Orleans, he was delighted to think he would have

an opportunity to make some return for the hospitality which he had received from her father. He decided at

once that she must see everything: day processions and night parades, balls and tableaux, operas and plays.

He would arrange for it all, and he went to the length of begging to be relieved of certain duties that had been

assigned him at the club, in order that he might feel himself perfectly free to do so.

The evening following Euphrasie's arrival, Offdean hastened to call upon her, away to down on Esplanade

Street. She and the Duplans were staying there with old Mme. Carantelle, Mrs. Duplan's mother, a

delightfully conservative old lady who had not "crossed Canal Street" for many years.

He found a number of people gathered in the long highceiled drawingroom, young people and old

people, all talking French, and some talking louder than they would have done if Madame Carantelle had not

When Offdean entered, the old lady was greeting some one who had come in just before him. It was Placide,

and she was calling him Grégoire, and wanting to know how the crops were up on Red River. She met every

one from the country with this stereotyped inquiry, which placed her at once on the agreeable and easy

Somehow Offdean had not counted on finding Euphrasie so well provided with entertainment, and he spent

much of the evening in trying to persuade himself that the fact was a pleasing one in itself. But he wondered

why Placide was with her, and sat so, persistently beside her, and danced so repeatedly with her when Mrs.

Duplan played upon the piano. Then he could not see by what right these young creoles had already arranged

for the Proteus ball, and every other entertainment that he had meant to provide for her.

He went away without having had a word alone with the girl whom he had gone to see. The evening had

proved a failure. He did not go to the club as usual, but went to his rooms in a mood which inclined him to

read a few pages from a stoic philosopher whom he sometimes affected. But the words of wisdom that had

often before helped him over disagreeable places left no impress tonight. They were powerless to banish

from his thoughts the look of a pair of brown eyes, or to drown the tones of a girl's voice that kept singing in

Placide was not very well acquainted with the city; but that made no difference to him so long as he was at

Euphrasie's side. His brother Hector, who lived in some obscure corner of the town, would willingly have

made his knowledge a more intimate one, but Placide did not choose to learn the lessons that Hector was

ready to teach. He asked nothing better than to walk with Euphrasie along the streets, holding her parasol at

an agreeable angle over her pretty head, or to sit beside her in the evening at the play, sharing her frank

When the night of the Mardi Gras ball came, he felt like a lost spirit during the hours he was forced to remain

away from her. He stood in the dense crowd on the street gazing up at her, where she sat on the clubhouse

balcony amid a bevy of gayly dressed women. It was not easy to distinguish her, but he could think of no

more agreeable occupation than to stand down there on the street trying to do so.

She seemed during all this pleasant time to be entirely his own, too. It made him very fierce to think of the

possibility of her not being entirely his own. But he had no cause whatever to think this. She had grown

conscious and thoughtful of late about him and their relationship. She often communed with herself, and as a

result tried to act toward him as an engaged girl would toward her fiancé. Yet a wistful look came sometimes

into the brown eyes when she walked the streets with Placide, and eagerly scanned the faces of passersby.

Offdean had written her a note, very studied, very formal, asking to see her a certain day and hour, to consult

about matters on the plantation, saying he had found it so difficult to obtain a word with her, that he was

This seemed perfectly right to Euphrasie. She agreed to see him one afternoon the day before leaving town

It was a sleepy day, too warm for the season. Gusts of moist air were sweeping lazily through the long

corridors, rattling the slats of the halfclosed green shutters, and bringing a delicious perfume from the

courtyard where old Charlot was watering the spreading palms and brilliant parterres. A group of little

children had stood awhile quarreling noisily under the windows, but had moved on down the street and left

Offdean had not long to wait before Euphrasie came to him. She had lost some of that ease which had marked

her manner during their first acquaintance. Now, when she seated herself before him, she showed a

disposition to plunge at once into the subject that had brought him there. He was willing enough that it should

play some rôle, since it had been his pretext for coming; but he soon dismissed it, and with it much restraint

that had held him till now. He simply looked into her eyes, with a gaze that made her shiver a little, and

began to complain because she was going away next day and he had seen nothing of her; because he had

"You fo'get I 'm no stranger here," she told him. "I know many people. I 've been coming so often with Mme.

"Then you ought to have managed it; you could have done so. It 's it 's aggravating" he said, far more

bitterly than the subject warranted, "when a man has so set his heart upon something."

"But it was n' anything ver' important," she interposed; and they both laughed, and got safely over a situation

Waves of happiness were sweeping through the soul and body of the girl as she sat there in the drowsy

afternoon near the man whom she loved. It mattered not what they talked about, or whether they talked at all.

They were both scintillant with feeling. If Offdean had taken Euphrasie's hands in his and leaned forward and

kissed her lips, it would have seemed to both only the rational outcome of things that stirred them. But he did

not do this. He knew now that overwhelming passion was taking possession of him. He had not to heap more

coals upon the fire; on the contrary, it was a moment to put on the brakes, and he was a young gentleman able

However, he held her hand longer than he needed to when he bade her goodby. For he got entangled in

explaining why he should have to go back to the plantation to see how matters stood there, and he dropped

He left her sitting by the window in a big brocaded armchair. She drew the lace curtain aside to watch him

pass in the street. He lifted his hat and smiled when he saw her. Any other man she knew would have done

the same thing, but this simple act caused the blood to surge to her cheeks. She let the curtain drop, and sat

there like one dreaming. Her eyes, intense with the unnatural light that glowed in them, looked steadily into

vacancy, and her lips stayed parted in the halfsmile that did not want to leave them. Placide found her thus,

a good while afterward, when he came in, full of bustle, with theatre tickets in his pocket for the last night.

"W'ere have you been, Placide?" she asked with unsteady voice, placing her hands on his shoulders with a

He appeared to her suddenly as a refuge from something, she did not know what, and she rested her hot cheek

against his breast. This made him mad, and he lifted her face and kissed her passionately upon the lips.

She crept from his arms after that, and went away to her room, and locked herself in. Her poor little

inexperienced soul was torn and sore. She knelt down beside her bed, and sobbed a little and prayed a little.

She felt that she had sinned, she did not know exactly in what; but a fine nature warned her that it was in

The spring came early in Orville, and so subtly that no one could tell exactly when it began. But one morning

the roses were so luscious in Placide's sunny parterres, the peas and beanvines and borders of strawberries

so rank in his trim vegetable patches, that he called out lustily, "No mo' winta, Judge!" to the staid Judge

"There 's right smart o' folks don't know it, Santien," responded the judge, with occult meaning that might be

applied to certain indebted clients back on the bayou who had not broken land yet. Ten minutes later the

judge observed sententiously, and apropos of nothing, to a group that stood waiting for the postoffice to

"I see Santien's got that noo fence o' his painted. And a pretty piece o' work it is," he added reflectively.

"Look lack Placide goin' pent mo' 'an de fence," sagaciously snickered 'TitEdouard, a strolling

maigreéchine of indefinite occupation. "I seen 'im, me, pesterin' wid all kine o' pent on a piece o' bo'd

"I knows he gwine paint mo' 'an de fence," emphatically announced Uncle Abner, in a tone that carried

conviction. "He gwine paint de house; dat what he gwine do. Didn' Marse Luke Williams orda de paints? An'

didn' I done kyar' 'em up dah myse'f?" Seeing the deference with which this positive piece of knowledge was

received, the judge coolly changed the subject by announcing that Luke Williams's Durham bull had broken a

leg the night before in Luke's new pasture ditch, a piece of news that fell among his hearers with telling, if

But most people wanted to see for themselves these astonishing things that Placide was doing. And the young

ladies of the village strolled slowly by of afternoons in couples and arm in arm. If Placide happened to see

them, he would leave his work to hand them a fine rose or a bunch of geraniums over the dazzling white

fence. But if it chanced to be 'TitEdouard or Luke Williams, or any of the young men of Orville, he

pretended not to see them, or to hear the ingratiating cough that accompanied their lingering footsteps.

In his eagerness to have his home sweet and attractive for Euphrasie's coming, Placide had gone less

frequently than ever before up to Natchitoches. He worked and whistled and sang until the yearning for the

girl's presence became a driving need; then he would put away his tools and mount his horse as the day was

closing, and away he would go across bayous and hills and fields until he was with her again. She had never

seemed to Placide so lovable as she was then. She had grown more womanly and thoughtful. Her cheek had

lost much of its color, and the light in her eyes flashed less often. But her manner had gained a something of

pathetic tenderness toward her lover that moved him with an intoxicating happiness. He could hardly wait

with patience for that day in early April which would see the fulfillment of his lifelong hopes.

After Euphrasie's departure from New Orleans, Offdean told himself honestly that he loved the girl. But

being yet unsettled in life, he felt it was no time to think of marrying, and, like the worldlywise young

gentleman that he was, resolved to forget the little Natchitoches girl. He knew it would be an affair of some

The effort made him singularly irascible. At the office he was gloomy and taciturn; at the club he was a bear.

A few young ladies whom he called upon were astonished and distressed at the cynical views of life which he

had so suddenly adopted. When he had endured a week or more of such humor, and inflicted it upon others,

he abruptly changed his tactics. He decided not to fight against his love for Euphrasie. He would not marry

her, certainly not; but he would let himself love her to his heart's bent, until that love should die a natural

death, and not a violent one as he had designed. He abandoned himself completely to his passion, and

dreamed of the girl by day and thought of her by night. How delicious had been the scent of her hair, the

warmth of her breath, the nearness of her body, that rainy day when they stood close together upon the

veranda! He recalled the glance of her honest, beautiful eyes, that told him things which made his heart beat

fast now when he thought of them. And then her voice! Was there another like it when she laughed or when

she talked! Was there another woman in the world possessed of so alluring a charm as this one he loved!

He was not bearish now, with these sweet thoughts crowding his brain and thrilling his blood; but he sighed

One day he sat in his room puffing the air thick with sighs and smoke, when a thought came suddenly to him

an inspiration, a very message from heaven, to judge from the cry of joy with which he greeted it. He sent

his cigar whirling through the window, over the stone paving of the street, and he let his head fall down upon

It had happened to him, as it does to many, that the solution of a vexed question flashed upon him when he

was hoping least for it. He positively laughed aloud, and somewhat hysterically. In the space of a moment he

saw the whole delicious future which a kind fate had mapped out for him: those rich acres upon the Red

River his own, bought and embellished with his inheritance; and Euphrasie, whom he loved, his wife and

companion throughout a life such as he knew now he had craved for, a life that, imposing bodily activity,

Wallace Offdean was like one to whom a divinity had revealed his vocation in life, no less a divinity

because it was love. If doubts assailed him of Euphrasie's consent, they were soon stilled. For had they not

spoken over and over to each other the mute and subtile language of reciprocal love out under the forest

trees, and in the quiet nighttime on the plantation when the stars shone? And never so plainly as in the

stately old drawingroom down on Esplanade Street. Surely no other speech was needed then, save such as

their eyes told. Oh, he knew that she loved him; he was sure of it! The knowledge made him all the more

If Offdean had stopped in Natchitoches on his way to the plantation, he would have heard something there to

astonish him, to say the very least; for the whole town was talking of Euphrasie's wedding, which was to take

place in a few days. But he did not linger. After securing a horse at the stable, he pushed on with all the speed

of which the animal was capable, and only in such company as his eager thoughts afforded him.

The plantation was very quiet, with that stillness which broods over broad, clean acres that furnish no refuge

for so much as a bird that sings. The negroes were scattered about the fields at work, with hoe and plow,

Placide had arrived in the morning, after traveling all night, and had gone to his room for an hour or two of

rest. He had drawn the lounge close up to the window to get what air he might through the closed shutters. He

was just beginning to doze when he heard Euphrasie's light footsteps approaching. She stopped and seated

herself so near that he could have touched her if he had but reached out his hand. Her nearness banished all

The portion of the gallery on which Euphrasie sat was facing the river, and away from the road by which

Offdean had reached the house. After fastening his horse, he mounted the steps, and traversed the broad hall

that intersected the house from end to end, and that was open wide. He found Euphrasie engaged upon a piece

of sewing. She was hardly aware of his presence before he had seated himself beside her.

She could not speak. She only looked at him with frightened eyes, as if his presence were that of some

"Are you not glad that I have come?" he asked her. "Have I made a mistake in coming?" He was gazing into

"Am I glad?" she faltered. "I don' know. W'at has that to do? You 've come to see the work, of co'se. It 's it

's only half done, Mr. Offdean. They would n' listen to me or to papa, an' you didn' seem to care."

"I have n't come to see the work," he said, with a smile of love and confidence. "I am here only to see you,

She rose, half choking with words she could not utter. But he seized her hands and held her there.

"The plantation is mine, Euphrasie, or it will be when you say that you will be my wife," he went on

"I do not!" she exclaimed wildly. "W'at do you mean? How do you dare," she gasped, "to say such things

w'en you know that in two days I shall be married to Placide?" The last was said in a whisper; it was like a

wail. "Married to Placide!" he echoed, as if striving to understand, to grasp some part of his own

stupendous folly and blindness. "I knew nothing of it," he said hoarsely. "Married to Placide! I would never

have spoken to you as I did, if I had known. You believe me, I hope? Please say that you forgive me."

"Oh, there is n' anything to forgive. You 've only made a mistake. Please leave me, Mr. Offdean. Papa is out

in the fiel', I think, if you would like to speak with him. Placide is somew'ere on the place."

"I shall mount my horse and go see what work has been done," said Offdean, rising. An unusual pallor had

overspread his face, and his mouth was drawn with suppressed pain. "I must turn my fool's errand to some

practical good," he added, with a sad attempt at playfulness; and with no further word he walked quickly

She listened to his going. Then all the wretchedness of the past months, together with the sharp distress of the

moment, voiced itself in a sob: "O God O my God, he'p me!" But she could not stay out there in the broad

Placide heard her rise and go to her room. When he had heard the key turn in the lock, he got up, and with

quiet deliberation prepared to go out. He drew on his boots, then his coat. He took his pistol from the

dressingbureau, where he had placed it a while before, and after examining its chambers carefully, thrust it

into his pocket. He had certain work to do with the weapon before night. But for Euphrasie's presence he

might have accomplished it very surely a moment ago, when the hound as he called him stood outside his

window. He did not wish her to know anything of his movements, and he left his room as quietly as possible,

"La Chatte," called Placide to the old woman, who stood in her yard at the washtub, "w'ich way did that man

"W'at man dat? I is n' studyin' 'bout no mans; I got 'nough to do wid dis heah washin'. 'Fo' God, I don' know

"La Chatte, w'ich way did that man go? Quick, now!" with the deliberate tone and glance that had always

"Ef you 's talkin' 'bout dat Noo Orleans man, I could 'a' tole you dat. He done tuck de road to de

cocoapatch," plunging her black arms into the tub with unnecessary energy and disturbance.

"That 's enough. I know now he 's gone into the woods. You always was a liar, La Chatte."

"Dat his own lookout, de smoovetongue' raskil," soliloquized the woman a moment later. "I done said he

Placide was possessed by only one thought, which was a want as well, to put an end to this man who had

come between him and his love. It was the same brute passion that drives the beast to slay when he sees the

He had heard Euphrasie tell the man she did not love him, but what of that? Had he not heard her sobs, and

guessed what her distress was? It needed no very flexible mind to guess as much, when a hundred signs

besides, unheeded before, came surging to his memory. Jealousy held him, and rage and despair. Offdean, as

he rode along under the trees in apathetic despondency, heard some one approaching him on horseback, and

It was not a moment for punctilious scruples, and Placide had not been hindered by such from sending a

bullet into the back of his rival. The only thing that stayed him was that Offdean must know why he had to

"Mr. Offdean," Placide said, reining his horse with one hand, while he held his pistol openly in the other, "I

was in my room 'w'ile ago, and yeared w'at you said to Euphrasie. I would 'a' killed you then if she had n'

been 'longside o' you. I could 'a' killed you jus' now w'en I come up behine you."

"Well, why did n't you?" asked Offdean, meanwhile gathering his faculties to think how he had best deal with

"Mr. Santien, I suppose to a person in your frame of mind it will make no difference to know that I 'm

unarmed. But if you make any attempt upon my life, I shall certainly defend myself as best I can."

"You must be mad," said Offdean, quickly, and looking straight into Placide's eyes, "to want to soil your

happiness with murder. I thought a creole knew better than that how to love a woman."

"No, Placide," said Offdean eagerly, as they rode slowly along; "your own honor is going to tell you that. The

way to love a woman is to think first of her happiness. If you love Euphrasie, you must go to her clean. I love

her myself enough to want you to do that. I shall leave this place tomorrow; you will never see me again if I

can help it. Is n't that enough for you? I 'm going to turn here and leave you. Shoot me in the back if you like;

He stayed motionless watching Offdean ride away. He looked at the pistol in his hand, and replaced it slowly

in his pocket; then he removed the broad felt hat which he wore, and wiped away the moisture that had

Offdean's words had touched some chord within him and made it vibrant; but they made him hate the man no

"The way to love a woman is to think firs' of her happiness," he muttered reflectively. "He thought a creole

His face was white and set with despair now. The rage had all left it as he rode deeper on into the wood.

Offdean rose early, wishing to take the morning train to the city. But he was not before Euphrasie, whom he

found in the large hall arranging the breakfasttable. Old Pierre was there too, walking slowly about with

A restraint hung upon all of them, and the girl turned to her father and asked him if Placide were up,

seemingly for want of something to say. The old man fell heavily into a chair, and gazed upon her in the

deepest distress. "Oh, my po' li'le Euphrasie! my po' li'le chile! Mr. Offde'n, you ain't no stranger."

"Bon Dieu! Papa!" cried the girl sharply, seized with a vague terror. She quitted her occupation at the table,

"I yaired people say Placide was one no'count creole. I nevair want to believe dat, me. Now I know dat 's

"In de night," Pierre continued, "I yaired some noise on de winder. I go open, an' dere Placide standin' wid his

big boot' on, an' his w'ip w'at he knocked wid on de winder, an' his hoss all saddle'. Oh, my po' li'le chile! He

say, 'Pierre, I yaired say Mr. Luke William' want his house pent down in Orville. I reckon I go git de job befo'

somebody else teck it.' I say, 'You come straight back, Placide?' He say, 'Don' look fer me.' An' w'en I ax 'im

w'at I goin' tell to my li'le chile, he say, 'Tell Euphrasie Placide know better 'an anybody livin' w'at goin' make

her happy.' An' he start 'way; den he come back an' say, 'Tell dat man' I don' know who he was talk' 'bout

'tell 'im he ain't goin' learn nuttin' to a creole.' Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! I don' know w'at all dat mean."

"Don't don't say that again, papa," she whisperingly entreated, speaking in French. "Placide has saved me!"

"He has save' you f'om w'at, Euphrasie?" asked her father, in dazed astonishment.

"I don' know w'at all dat mean," the old man muttered, bewildered, as he arose and walked out on the gallery.

Offdean had taken coffee in his room, and would not wait for breakfast. When he went to bid Euphrasie

"Euphrasie," he asked eagerly, "I may come back? Say that I may after a while." She gave him no answer,

and he leaned down and pressed his cheek caressingly and entreatingly against her soft thick hair.

"May I, Euphrasie?" he begged. "So long as you do not tell me no, I shall come back, dearest one."

So he kissed her hand and her cheek, what he could touch of it, that peeped out from her folded arm, and

An hour later, when Offdean passed through Natchitoches, the old town was already ringing with the startling

news that Placide had been dismissed by his fiancée, and the wedding was off, information which the young

PRECISELY at eight o'clock every morning except Saturdays and Sundays, Mademoiselle Suzanne St.

Denys Godolph would cross the railroad trestle that spanned Bayou Boispourri. She might have crossed in

the flat which Mr. Alphonse Laballière kept for his own convenience; but the method was slow and

unreliable; so, every morning at eight, Mademoiselle St. Denys Godolph crossed the trestle.

She taught public school in a picturesque little white frame structure that stood upon Mr. Laballière's land,

Laballière himself was comparatively a newcomer in the parish. It was barely six months since he decided

one day to leave the sugar and rice to his brother Alcée, who had a talent for their cultivation, and to try his

hand at cottonplanting. That was why he was up in Natchitoches parish on a piece of rich, high, Cane River

land, knocking into shape a tumbleddown plantation that he had bought for next to nothing.

He had often during his perambulations observed the trim, graceful figure stepping cautiously over the ties,

and had sometimes shivered for its safety. He always exchanged a greeting with the girl, and once threw a

plank over a muddy pool for her to step upon. He caught but glimpses of her features, for she wore an

enormous sunbonnet to shield her complexion, that seemed marvelously fair; while looselyfitting leather

gloves protected her hands. He knew she was the schoolteacher, and also that she was the daughter of that

very pigheaded old Madame St. Denys Godolph who was hoarding her barren acres across the bayou as a

miser hoards gold. Starving over them, some people said. But that was nonsense; nobody starves on a

These things he knew, but he did not know why Mademoiselle St. Denys Godolph always answered his

salutation with an air of chilling hauteur that would easily have paralyzed a less sanguine man.

The reason was that Suzanne, like every one else, had heard the stories that were going the rounds about him.

People said he was entirely too much at home with the free mulattoes. 1 It seems a dreadful thing to say, and

When Laballière took possession of his land, he found the plantationhouse occupied by one Giestin and his

swarming family. It was past reckoning how long the free mulatto and his people had been there. The house

was a sixroom, long, shambling affair, shrinking together from decrepitude. There was not an entire pane of

glass in the structure; and the Turkeyred curtains flapped in and out of the broken apertures. But there is no

need to dwell upon details; it was wholly unfit to serve as a civilized human habitation; and Alphonse

Laballière would no sooner have disturbed its contented occupants than he would have scattered a family of

partridges nesting in a corner of his field. He established himself with a few belongings in the best cabin he

could find on the place, and, without further ado, proceeded to supervise the building of house, 1. A term still

applied in Louisiana to mulattoes who were never in slavery, and whose families in most instances were

themselves slave owners. of gin, of this, that, and the other, and to look into the hundred details that go to set

a neglected plantation in good working order. He took his meals at the free mulatto's, quite apart from the

family, of course; and they attended, not too skillfully, to his few domestic wants.

Some loafer whom he had snubbed remarked one day in town that Laballière had more use for a free mulatto

than he had for a white man. It was a sort of catching thing to say, and suggestive, and was repeated with the

One morning when Laballière sat eating his solitary breakfast, and being waited upon by the queenly

Madame Giestin and a brace of her weazened boys, Giestin himself came into the room. He was about half

the size of his wife, puny and timid. He stood beside the table, twirling his felt hat aimlessly and balancing

"Mr. Laballière," he said, "I reckon I tell you; it 's betta you git shed o' me en' my fambly. Jis like you want,

"What in the name of common sense are you talking about?" asked Laballière, looking up abstractedly from

his New Orleans paper. Giestin wriggled uncomfortably. "It 's heap o' story goin' roun' 'bout you, if you want

b'lieve me." And he snickered and looked at his wife, who thrust the end of her shawl into her mouth and

walked from the room with a tread like the Empress Eugenie's, in that elegant woman's palmiest days.

"Stories!" echoed Laballière, his face the picture of astonishment. "Who where what stories?"

"Yon'a in town en' all about. It 's heap o' tale goin' roun', yas. They say how come you mighty fon' o' mulatta.

You done shoshiate wid de mulatta down yon'a on de suga plantation, tell you can't res' lessen it 's mulatta

Laballière had a distressingly quick temper. His fist, which was a strong one, came down upon the wobbling

table with a crash that sent half of Madame Giestin's crockery bouncing and crashing to the floor. He swore

an oath that sent Madame Giestin and her father and grandmother, who were all listening in the next room,

"Oh, ho! so I 'm not to associate with whom I please in Natchitoches parish. We 'll see about that. Draw up

your chair, Giestin. Call your wife and your grandmother and the rest of the tribe, and we 'll breakfast

together. By thunder! if I want to hobnob with mulattoes, or negroes or Choctaw Indians or South Sea

"I don' know, me. It 's jis like I tell you, Mr. Laballière," and Giestin selected a huge key from an assortment

A half hour later, Laballière had not yet recovered his senses. He appeared suddenly at the door of the

schoolhouse, holding by the shoulder one of Giestin's boys. Mademoiselle St. Denys Godolph stood at the

opposite extremity of the room. Her sunbonnet hung upon the wall, now, so Laballière could have seen how

charming she was, had he not at the moment been blinded by stupidity. Her blue eyes that were fringed with

dark lashes reflected astonishment at seeing him there. Her hair was dark like her lashes, and waved softly

"Mademoiselle," began Laballière at once, "I have taken the liberty of bringing a new pupil to you."

Mademoiselle St. Denys Godolph paled suddenly and her voice was unsteady when she replied:

"You are too considerate, Monsieur. Will you be so kine to give me the name of the scholar whom you desire

"What 's your name, youngster? Out with it!" cried Laballière, striving to shake the little free mulatto into

"Then, Monsieur," she interrupted, "permit me to remine you that you have made a se'ious mistake. This is

not a school conducted fo' the education of the colored population. You will have to go elsew'ere with yo'

"I shall leave my protégé right here, Mademoiselle, and I trust you 'll give him the same kind attention you

seem to accord to the others;" saying which Laballiere bowed himself out of her presence. The little Giestin,

left to his own devices, took only the time to give a quick, wary glance round the room, and the next instant

he bounded through the open door, as the nimblest of fourfooted creatures might have done. Mademoiselle

St. Denys Godolph conducted school during the hours that remained, with a deliberate calmness that would

have seemed ominous to her pupils, had they been better versed in the ways of young women. When the hour

"Chil'ren," she began, assuming a resigned and dignified mien, "you all have been witness today of the

insult that has been offered to yo' teacher by the person upon whose lan' this schoolhouse stan's. I have

nothing further to say on that subjec'. I only shall add that tomorrow yo' teacher shall sen' the key of this

schoolhouse, together with her resignation, to the gentlemen who compose the schoolboa'd." There followed

"Nothing of the kine, Mathurin, you mus' take no such step, if only out of consideration fo' my wishes. The

person who has offered the affront I consider beneath my notice. André, on the other han', is a chile of good

impulse, an' by no means to blame. As you all perceive, he has shown mo' taste and judgment than those

She kissed them all, the little boys and the little girls, and had a kind word for each. "Et toi, mon petit Numa,

j'espère qu'un autre" She could not finish the sentence, for little Numa, her favorite, to whom she had never

been able to impart the first word of English, was blubbering at a turn of affairs which he had only miserably

She locked the schoolhouse door and walked away towards the bridge. By the time she reached it, the little

'Cadians had already disappeared like rabbits, down the road and through and over the fences.

Mademoiselle St. Denys Godolph did not cross the trestle the following day, nor the next nor the next.

Laballière watched for her; for his big heart was already sore and filled with shame. But more, it stung him

with remorse to realize that he had been the stupid instrument in taking the bread, as it were, from the mouth

He recalled how unflinchingly and haughtily her blue eyes had challenged his own. Her sweetness and charm

came back to him and he dwelt upon them and exaggerated them, till no Venus, so far unearthed, could in any

way approach Mademoiselle St. Denys Godolph. He would have liked to exterminate the Giestin family,

Perhaps Giesten suspected this unfavorable attitude, for one morning he piled his whole family and all his

effects into wagons, and went away; over into that part of the parish known as l'Isle des Mulâtres.

Laballière's really chivalrous nature told him, beside, that he owed an apology, at least, to the young lady who

had taken his whim so seriously. So he crossed the bayou one day and penetrated into the wilds where

An alluring little romance formed in his mind as he went; he fancied how easily it might follow the apology.

He was almost in love with Mademoiselle St. Denys Godolph when he quitted his plantation. By the time he

He was met by Madame mère, a sweeteyed, faded woman, upon whom old age had fallen too hurriedly to

completely efface all traces of youth. But the house was old beyond question; decay had eaten slowly to the

"I have come to see your daughter, madame," began Laballière, all too bluntly; for there is no denying he was

"Mademoiselle St. Denys Godolph is not presently at home, sir," madame replied. "She is at the time in New

Orleans. She fills there a place of high trus' an' employment, Monsieur Laballière."

When Suzanne had ever thought of New Orleans, it was always in connection with Hector Santien, because

he was the only soul she knew who dwelt there. He had had no share in obtaining for her the position she had

secured with one of the leading drygoods firms; yet it was to him she addressed herself when her

He did not wait for her train to reach the city, but crossed the river and met her at Gretna. The first thing he

did was to kiss her, as he had done eight years before when he left Natchitoches parish. An hour later he

would no more have thought of kissing Suzanne than he would have tendered an embrace to the Empress of

China. For by that time he had realized that she was no longer twelve nor he twentyfour.

She could hardly believe the man who met her to be the Hector of old. His black hair was dashed with gray

on the temples; he wore a short, parted beard and a small moustache that curled. From the crown of his glossy

silk hat down to his trimlygaitered feet, his attire was faultless. Suzanne knew her Natchitoches, and she had

been to Shreveport and even penetrated as far as Marshall, Texas, but in all her travels she had never met a

They entered a cab, and seemed to drive for an interminable time through the streets, mostly over

cobblestones that rendered conversation difficult. Nevertheless he talked incessantly, while she peered from

the windows to catch what glimpses she could, through the night, of that New Orleans of which she had heard

so much. The sounds were bewildering; so were the lights, that were uneven, too, serving to make the patches

She had not thought of asking him where he was taking her. And it was only after they crossed Canal and had

penetrated some distance into Royal Street, that he told her. He was taking her to a friend of his, the dearest

little woman in town. That was Maman Chavan, who was going to board and lodge her for a ridiculously

Maman Chavan lived within comfortable walking distance of Canal Street, on one of those narrow,

intersecting streets between Royal and Chartres. Her house was a tiny, singlestory one, with overhanging

gable, heavily shuttered door and windows and three wooden steps leading down to the banquette. A small

garden flanked it on one side, quite screened from outside view by a high fence, over which appeared the tops

She was waiting for them a lovable, freshlooking, whitehaired, blackeyed, small, fat little body, dressed

all in black. She understood no English; which made no difference. Suzanne and Hector spoke but French to

Hector did not tarry a moment longer than was needed to place his young friend and charge in the older

woman's care. He would not even stay to take a bite of supper with them. Maman Chavan watched him as he

hurried down the steps and out into the gloom. Then she said to Suzanne: "That man is an angel,

"Women, my dear Maman Chavan, you know how it is with me in regard to women. I have drawn a circle

round my heart, so at pretty long range, mind you and there is not one who gets through it, or over it or

"Blagueur, va!" laughed Maman Chavan, replenishing her glass from the bottle of sauterne.

It was Sunday morning. They were breakfasting together on the pleasant side gallery that led by a single step

down to the garden. Hector came every Sunday morning, an hour or so before noon, to breakfast with them.

He always brought a bottle of sauterne, a paté, or a mess of artichokes or some tempting bit of charcuterie.

Sometimes he had to wait till the two women returned from hearing mass at the cathedral. He did not go to

mass himself. They were both making a Novena on that account, and had even gone to the expense of

burning a round dozen of candles before the good St. Joseph, for his conversion. When Hector accidentally

discovered the fact, he offered to pay for the candles, and was distressed at not being permitted to do so.

Suzanne had been in the city more than a month. It was already the close of February, and the air was

"Let us hear no more about women!" cried Suzanne, impatiently. "Cher Maître! but Hector can be tiresome

"Quite right, my cousin; when I might have been saying how charming you are this morning. But don't think

that I have n't noticed it," and he looked at her with a deliberation that quite unsettled her. She took a letter

"Here, read all the nice things mamma has to say of you, and the love messages she sends to you." He

accepted the several closely written sheets from her and began to look over them.

"Ah, la bonne tante," he laughed, when he came to the tender passages that referred to himself. He had

pushed aside the glass of wine that he had only partly filled at the beginning of breakfast and that he had

scarcely touched. Maman Chavan again replenished her own. She also lighted a cigarette. So did Suzanne,

who was learning to smoke. Hector did not smoke; he did not use tobacco in any form, he always said to

Suzanne rested her elbows on the table, adjusted the ruffles about her wrists, puffed awkwardly at her

cigarette that kept going out, and hummed the Kyrie Eleison that she had heard so beautifully rendered an

hour before at the Cathedral, while she gazed off into the green depths of the garden. Maman Chavan slipped

a little silver medal toward her, accompanying the action with a pantomime that Suzanne readily understood.

She, in turn, secretly and adroitly transferred the medal to Hector's coatpocket. He noticed the action plainly

"Natchitoches has n't changed," he commented. "The everlasting cancans! when will they have done with

them? This is n't little Athénaîse Miché, getting married! Sapristi! but it makes one old! And old Papa

JeanPierre only dead now? I thought he was out of purgatory five years ago. And who is this Laballière?

"St. James, mon cher. Monsieur Alphonse Laballière; an aristocrat from the 'golden coast.' But it is a history,

if you will believe me. Figurez vous, Maman Chavan, pensez donc, mon ami" And with much dramatic

fire, during which the cigarette went irrevocably out, she proceeded to narrate her experiences with

"Impossible!" exclaimed Hector when the climax was reached; but his indignation was not so patent as she

"And to think of an affront like that going unpunished!" was Maman Chavan's more sympathetic comment.

"Oh, the scholars were only too ready to offer violence to poor little André, but that, you can understand, I

would not permit. And now, here is mamma gone completely over to him; entrapped, God only knows how!"

"Yes," agreed Hector, "I see he has been sending her tamales and boudin blanc." "Boudin blanc, my friend! If

it were only that! But I have a stack of letters, so high, I could show them to you, singing of Laballière,

Laballière, enough to drive one distracted. He visits her constantly. He is a man of attainment, she says, a

man of courage, a man of heart; and the best of company. He has sent her a bunch of fat robins as big as a

"There is something in that a good deal in that, mignonne," piped Maman Chavan, approvingly.

"And now boudin blanc! and she tells me it is the duty of a Christian to forgive. Ah, no; it 's no use; mamma's

Suzanne was never in Hector's company elsewhere than at Maman Chavan's. Beside the Sunday visit, he

looked in upon them sometimes at dusk, to chat for a moment or two. He often treated them to theatre tickets,

and even to the opera, when business was brisk. Business meant a little notebook that he carried in his pocket,

in which he sometimes dotted down orders from the country people for wine, that he sold on commission.

The women always went together, unaccompanied by any male escort; trotting along, arm in arm, and

That same Sunday afternoon Hector walked with them a short distance when they were on their way to

vespers. The three walking abreast almost occupied the narrow width of the banquette. A gentleman who had

just stepped out of the Hotel Royal stood aside to better enable them to pass. He lifted his hat to Suzanne, and

"A handsome fellow, all the same," nodded the little lady, approvingly. Hector thought so too. The

conversation again turned upon Laballière, and so continued till they reached the side door of the cathedral,

In the evening Laballière called upon Suzanne. Maman Chavan closed the front door carefully after he

entered the small parlor, and opened the side one that looked into the privacy of the garden. Then she lighted

The girl bowed a little stiffly, if it may be said that she did anything stiffly. "Monsieur Laballière." That was

"Mademoiselle St. Denys Godolph," and that was all he said. But ceremony did not sit easily upon him.

"Mademoiselle," he began, as soon as seated, "I am here as the bearer of a message from your mother. You

"I do understan', sir, that you an' maman have become very warm frien's during my absence," she returned, in

"It pleases me immensely to hear that from you," he responded, warmly; "to believe that Madame St. Denys

Suzanne coughed more affectedly than was quite nice, and patted her glossy braids. "The message, if you

"To be sure," pulling himself together from the momentary abstraction into which he had fallen in

contemplating her. "Well, it 's just this; your mother, you must know, has been good enough to sell me a fine

"Impossible! Mais w'at sorcery did you use to obtain such a thing of my mother, Mr. Laballiere? Lan' that has

"No sorcery whatever, Mademoiselle, only an appeal to your mother's intelligence and common sense; and

she is well supplied with both. She wishes me to say, further, that she desires your presence very urgently and

"My mother is unduly impatient, surely," replied Suzanne, with chilling politeness.

"May I ask, mademoiselle," he broke in, with an abruptness that was startling, "the name of the man with

She looked at him with unaffected astonishment, and told him: "I hardly understan' yo' question. That

gentleman is Mr. Hector Santien, of one of the firs' families of Natchitoches; a warm ole frien' an' far distant

"Oh, that 's his name, is it, Hector Santien? Well, please don't walk on the New Orleans streets again with Mr.

"Yo' remarks would be insulting if they were not so highly amusing, Mr. Laballiere."

"I beg your pardon if I am insulting; and I have no desire to be amusing," and then Laballière lost his head.

"You are at liberty to walk the streets with whom you please, of course," he blurted, with illsuppressed

passion, "but if I encounter Mr. Hector Santien in your company again, in public, I shall wring his neck, then

and there, as I would a chicken; I shall break every bone in his body" Suzanne had arisen.

"Not till oh, not till you have forgiven me," he cried impulsively, barring her exit; for repentance had come

But she did not forgive him. "I can wait," she said. Then he stepped aside and she passed by him without a

second glance. She sent word to Hector the following day to come to her. And when he was there, in the late

afternoon, they walked together to the end of the vinesheltered gallery, where the air was redolent with the

"Hector," she began, after a while, "some one has told me I should not be seen upon the streets of New

He was trimming a long rosestem with his sharp penknife. He did not stop nor start, nor look embarrassed,

"But, you know," she went on, "if the saints came down from heaven to tell me there was a reason for it, I

"You would n't believe them, ma petite Suzanne?" He was getting all the thorns off nicely, and stripping

"I want you to look me in the face, Hector, and tell me if there is any reason."

He snapped the knifeblade and replaced the knife in his pocket; then he looked in her eyes, so unflinchingly,

that she hoped and believed it presaged a confession of innocence that she would gladly have accepted. But

"Then I say there are not," she exclaimed excitedly; "you are amusing yourself laughing at me, as you

always do. There are no reasons that I will hear or believe. You will walk the streets with me, will you not,

Hector?" she entreated, "and go to church with me on Sunday; and, and oh, it 's nonsense, nonsense for you

He held the rose by its long, hardy stem, and swept it lightly and caressingly across her forehead, along her

cheek, and over her pretty mouth and chin, as a lover might have done with his lips. He noticed how the red

She had been standing, but now she sank upon the bench that was there, and buried her face in her palms. A

"Ah, Suzanne, Suzanne, you are not going to make yourself unhappy about a bon à rien like me. Come, look

at me; tell me that you are not." He drew her hands down from her face and held them a while, bidding her

goodby. His own face wore the quizzical look it often did, as if he were laughing at her.

"That work at the store is telling on your nerves, mignonne. Promise me that you will go back to the country.

"That is right, little cousin," and he patted her hands kindly, and laid them both down gently into her lap.

He did not return; neither during the week nor the following Sunday. Then Suzanne told Maman Chavan she

was going home. The girl was not too deeply in love with Hector; but imagination counts for something, and

Laballière was on the train with her. She felt, somehow, that he would be. And yet she did not dream that he

He went to her without preliminary of manner or speech, and held out his hand; she extended her own

unhesitatingly. She could not understand why, and she was a little too weary to strive to do so. It seemed as

He did not weary her with attentions during the time they were together. He sat apart from her, conversing for

the most time with friends and acquaintances who belonged in the sugar district through which they traveled

She wondered why he had ever left that section to go up into Natchitoches. Then she wondered if he did not

mean to speak to her at all. As if he had read the thought, he went and sat down beside her.

He showed her, away off across the country, where his mother lived, and his brother Alcée, and his cousin

On Sunday morning, when Maman Chavan strove to sound the depth of Hector's feeling for Suzanne, he told

her again: "Women, my dear Maman Chavan, you know how it is with me in regard to women," and he

"Farceur va!" and Maman Chavan laughed, and her fat shoulders quivered under the white volante she wore.

A day or two later, Hector was walking down Canal Street at four in the afternoon. He might have posed, as

he was, for a fashionplate. He looked not to the right nor to the left; not even at the women who passed by.

When he approached the corner of Royal, a young man who stood there nudged his companion.

"Well, you are an innocent. Why, that 's Deroustan, the most notorious gambler in New Orleans."

THE sight of a human habitation, even if it was a rude log cabin with a mud chimney at one end, was a very

He had come out of Natchitoches parish, and had been riding a great part of the day through the big lonesome

parish of Sabine. He was not following the regular Texas road, but, led by his erratic fancy, was pushing

As he approached the cabin in the clearing, he discerned behind a palisade of pine saplings an old negro man

"Howdy, Uncle," called out the young fellow, reining his horse. The negro looked up in blank amazement at

so unexpected an apparition, but he only answered: "How you do, suh," accompanying his speech by a series

"Hit 's Mas' Bud Aiken w'at live' heah, suh." "Well, if Mr. Bud Aiken c'n affo'd to hire a man to chop his

wood, I reckon he won't grudge me a bite o' suppa an' a couple hours' res' on his gall'ry. W'at you say, ole

"I say dit Mas' Bud Aiken don't hires me to chop 'ood. Ef I don't chop dis heah, his wife got it to do. Dat w'y I

chops 'ood, suh. Go right 'long in, suh; you g'ine fine Mas' Bud some'eres roun', ef he ain't drunk an' gone to

Grégoire, glad to stretch his legs, dismounted, and led his horse into the small inclosure which surrounded the

cabin. An unkempt, viciouslooking little Texas pony stopped nibbling the stubble there to look maliciously

at him and his fine sleek horse, as they passed by. Back of the hut, and running plumb up against the pine

Grégoire was rather undersized, with a square, wellknit figure, upon which his clothes sat well and easily.

His corduroy trousers were thrust into the legs of his boots; he wore a blue flannel shirt; his coat was thrown

across the saddle. In his keen black eyes had come a puzzled expression, and he tugged thoughtfully at the

He was trying to recall when and under what circumstances he had before heard the name of Bud Aiken. But

Bud Aiken himself saved Grégoire the trouble of further speculation on the subject. He appeared suddenly in

the small doorway, which his big body quite filled; and then Grégoire remembered. This was the disreputable

socalled "Texan" who a year ago had run away with and married Baptiste Choupic's pretty daughter, 'Tite

Reine, yonder on Bayou Pierre, in Natchitoches parish. A vivid picture of the girl as he remembered her

appeared to him: her trim rounded figure; her piquant face with its saucy black coquettish eyes, her little

exacting, imperious ways that had obtained for her the nickname of 'Tite Reine, little queen. Grégoire had

These pleasing recollections of 'Tite Reine lent a warmth that might otherwise have been lacking to

"I hope I fine you well, Mr. Aiken," he exclaimed cordially, as he approached and extended his hand.

"You find me damn' porely, suh; but you 've got the better o' me, ef I may so say." He was a big

goodlooking brute, with a strawcolored "horseshoe" moustache quite concealing his mouth, and a several

days' growth of stubble on his rugged face. He was fond of reiterating that women's admiration had wrecked

his life, quite forgetting to mention the early and sustained influence of "Pike's Magnolia" and other brands,

and wholly ignoring certain inborn propensities capable of wrecking unaided any ordinary existence. He had

"Santien, Grégoire Santien. I have the pleasure o' knowin' the lady you married, suh; an' I think I met you

"Oh," drawled Aiken, waking up, "one o' them Red River Sanchuns!" and his face brightened at the prospect

before him of enjoying the society of one of the Santien boys. "Mortimer!" he called in ringing chest tones

worthy a commander at the head of his troop. The negro had rested his axe and appeared to be listening to

"Mortimer, come along here an' take my frien' Mr. Sanchun's hoss. Git a move thar, git a move!" Then

turning toward the entrance of the cabin he called back through the open door: "Rain!" it was his way of

pronouncing 'Tite Reine's name. "Rain!" he cried again peremptorily; and turning to Grégoire: "she 's 'tendin'

to some or other housekeepin' truck." 'Tite Reine was back in the yard feeding the solitary pig which they

owned, and which Aiken had mysteriously driven up a few days before, saying he had bought it at Many.

Grégoire could hear her calling out as she approached: "I 'm comin', Bud. Yere I come. W'at you want, Bud?"

breathlessly, as she appeared in the door frame and looked out upon the narrow sloping gallery where stood

the two men. She seemed to Grégoire to have changed a good deal. She was thinner, and her eyes were

larger, with an alert, uneasy look in them; he fancied the startled expression came from seeing him there

unexpectedly. She wore cleanly homespun garments, the same she had brought with her from Bayou Pierre;

but her shoes were in shreds. She uttered only a low, smothered exclamation when she saw Grégoire.

"Well, is that all you got to say to my frien' Mr. Sanchun? That 's the way with them Cajuns," Aiken offered

apologetically to his guest; "ain't got sense enough to know a white man when they see one." Grégoire took

"I 'm mighty glad to see you, 'Tite Reine," he said from his heart. She had for some reason been unable to

"You mus' escuse me, Mista Grégoire. It 's the truth I did n' know you firs', stan'in' up there." A deep flush

had supplanted the former pallor of her face, and her eyes shone with tears and illconcealed excitement.

"I thought you all lived yonda in Grant," remarked Grégoire carelessly, making talk for the purpose of

diverting Aiken's attention away from his wife's evident embarrassment, which he himself was at a loss to

"Why, we did live a right smart while in Grant; but Grant ain't no parish to make a livin' in. Then I tried Winn

and Caddo a spell; they was n't no better. But I tell you, suh, Sabine 's a damn' sight worse than any of 'em.

Why, a man can't git a drink o' whiskey here without going out of the parish fer it, or across into Texas. I 'm

Bud Aiken's household belongings surely would not count for much in the contemplated "selling out." The

one room that constituted his home was extremely bare of furnishing, a cheap bed, a pine table, and a few

chairs, that was all. On a rough shelf were some paper parcels representing the larder. The mud daubing had

fallen out here and there from between the logs of the cabin; and into the largest of these apertures had been

thrust pieces of ragged bagging and wisps of cotton. A tin basin outside on the gallery offered the only

bathing facilities to be seen. Notwithstanding these drawbacks, Grégoire announced his intention of passing

"I 'm jus' goin' to ask the privilege o' layin' down yere on yo' gall'ry tonight, Mr. Aiken. My hoss ain't in

firs'class trim; an' a night's res' ain't goin' to hurt him o' me either." He had begun by declaring his intention

of pushing on across the Sabine, but an imploring look from 'Tite Reine's eyes had stayed the words upon his

lips. Never had he seen in a woman's eyes a look of such heartbroken entreaty. He resolved on the instant to

know the meaning of it before setting foot on Texas soil. Grégoire had never learned to steel his heart against

An old patchwork quilt folded double and a moss pillow which 'Tite Reine gave him out on the gallery made

a bed that was, after all, not too uncomfortable for a young fellow of rugged habits.

Grégoire slept quite soundly after he laid down upon his improvised bed at nine o'clock. He was awakened

toward the middle of the night by some one gently shaking him. It was 'Tite Reine stooping over him; he

could see her plainly, for the moon was shining. She had not removed the clothing she had worn during the

day; but her feet were bare and looked wonderfully small and white. He arose on his elbow, wide awake at

once. "W'y, 'Tite Reine! w'at the devil you mean? w'ere 's yo' husban'?" "The house kin fall on 'im, 't en goin'

wake up Bud w'en he 's sleepin'; he drink' too much." Now that she had aroused Grégoire, she stood up, and

sinking her face in her bended arm like a child, began to cry softly. In an instant he was on his feet.

"My God, 'Tite Reine! w'at 's the matta? you got to tell me w'at 's the matta." He could no longer recognize

the imperious 'Tite Reine, whose will had been the law in her father's household. He led her to the edge of the

Grégoire loved women. He liked their nearness, their atmosphere; the tones of their voices and the things they

said; their ways of moving and turning about; the brushing of their garments when they passed him by

pleased him. He was fleeing now from the pain that a woman had inflicted upon him. When any

overpowering sorrow came to Grégoire he felt a singular longing to cross the Sabine River and lose himself

in Texas. He had done this once before when his home, the old Santien place, had gone into the hands of

creditors. The sight of 'Tite Reine's distress now moved him painfully. "W'at is it, 'Tite Reine? tell me w'at it

is," he kept asking her. She was attempting to dry her eyes on her coarse sleeve. He drew a handkerchief from

"They all well, yonda?" she asked, haltingly, "my popa? my moma? the chil'en?" Grégoire knew no more of

the Baptiste Choupic family than the post beside him. Nevertheless he answered: "They all right well, 'Tite

"Well, I should say not! Yo' pa says they ain't anotha piece o' hossflesh in the pa'ish he 'd want to swap fo'

'Putty Girl.' " She turned to him with vague but fleeting amazement, "Putty Girl" was a cow!

The autumn night was heavy about them. The black forest seemed to have drawn nearer; its shadowy depths

were filled with the gruesome noises that inhabit a southern forest at night time.

"Ain't you 'fraid sometimes yere, 'Tite Reine?" Grégoire asked, as he felt a light shiver run through him at the

"Mista Grégoire," drawing close to him and whispering in his face, "Bud 's killin' me." He clasped her arm,

holding her near him, while an expression of profound pity escaped him. "Nobody don' know, 'cep' Unc'

Mort'mer," she went on. "I tell you, he beats me; my back an' arms you ought to see it 's all blue. He

would 'a' choke' me to death one day w'en he was drunk, if Unc' Mort'mer had n' make 'im lef go with his

axe ov' his head." Grégoire glanced back over his shoulder toward the room where the man lay sleeping. He

was wondering if it would really be a criminal act to go then and there and shoot the top of Bud Aiken's head

off. He himself would hardly have considered it a crime, but he was not sure of how others might regard the

act. "That 's w'y I wake you up, to tell you," she continued. "Then sometime' he plague me mos' crazy; he tell

me 't ent no preacher, it 's a Texas drummer w'at marry him an' me; an' w'en I don' know w'at way to turn no

mo', he say no, it 's a Meth'dis' archbishop, an' keep on laughin' 'bout me, an' I don' know w'at the truth!"

Then again, she told how Bud had induced her to mount the vicious little mustang "Buckeye," knowing that

the little brute would n't carry a woman; and how it had amused him to witness her distress and terror when

"If I would know how to read an' write, an' had some pencil an' paper, it 's long 'go I would wrote to my popa.

But it 's no pos'office, it 's no relroad, nothin' in Sabine. An' you know, Mista Grégoire, Bud say he 's goin'

carry me yonda to Vernon, an' fu'ther off yet, 'way yonda, an' he 's goin' turn me loose. Oh, don' leave me

yere, Mista Grégoire! don' leave me behine you!" she entreated, breaking once more into sobs.

" 'Tite Reine," he answered, "do you think I 'm such a lowdown scound'el as to leave you yere with that"

He finished the sentence mentally, not wishing to offend the ears of 'Tite Reine. They talked on a good while

after that. She would not return to the room where her husband lay; the nearness of a friend had already

emboldened her to inward revolt. Grégoire induced her to lie down and rest upon the quilt that she had given

He stayed seated on the edge of the gallery and began to smoke cigarettes which he rolled himself of périque

tobacco. He might have gone in and shared Bud Aiken's bed, but preferred to stay there near 'Tite Reine. He

watched the two horses, tramping slowly about the lot, cropping the dewy wet tufts of grass.

Grégoire smoked on. He only stopped when the moon sank down behind the pinetrees, and the long deep

shadow reached out and enveloped him. Then he could no longer see and follow the filmy smoke from his

cigarette, and he threw it away. Sleep was pressing heavily upon him. He stretched himself full length upon

Bud Aiken's satisfaction was very genuine when he learned that Grégoire proposed spending the day and

another night with him. He had already recognized in the young creole a spirit not altogether uncongenial to

'Tite Reine cooked breakfast for them. She made coffee; of course there was no milk to add to it, but there

was sugar. From a meal bag that stood in the corner of the room she took a measure of meal, and with it made

a pone of corn bread. She fried slices of salt pork. Then Bud sent her into the field to pick cotton with old

Uncle Mortimer. The negro's cabin was the counterpart of their own, but stood quite a distance away hidden

Early in the day Bud produced a grimy pack of cards from behind a parcel of sugar on the shelf. Grégoire

threw the cards into the fire and replaced them with a spic and span new "deck" that he took from his

saddlebags. He also brought forth from the same receptacle a bottle of whiskey, which he presented to his

host, saying that he himself had no further use for it, as he had "sworn off" since day before yesterday, when

They sat at the pine table smoking and playing cards all the morning, only desisting when 'Tite Reine came to

serve them with the gumbofilé that she had come out of the field to cook at noon. She could afford to treat a

guest to chicken gumbo, for she owned a half dozen chickens that Uncle Mortimer had presented to her at

various times. There were only two spoons, and 'Tite Reine had to wait till the men had finished before eating

her soup. She waited for Grégoire's spoon, though her husband was the first to get through. It was a very

In the afternoon she picked cotton again; and the men played cards, smoked, and Bud drank.

It was a very long time since Bud Aiken had enjoyed himself so well, and since he had encountered so

sympathetic and appreciative a listener to the story of his eventful career. The story of 'Tite Reine's fall from

the horse he told with much spirit, mimicking quite skillfully the way in which she had complained of never

being permitted "to teck a li'le pleasure," whereupon he had kindly suggested horseback riding. Grégoire

enjoyed the story amazingly, which encouraged Aiken to relate many more of a similar character. As the

afternoon wore on, all formality of address between the two had disappeared: they were "Bud" and

"Grégoire" to each other, and Grégoire had delighted Aiken's soul by promising to spend a week with him.

'Tite Reine was also touched by the spirit of recklessness in the air; it moved her to fry two chickens for

supper. She fried them deliciously in bacon fat. After supper she again arranged Grégoire's bed out on the

The night fell calm and beautiful, with the delicious odor of the pines floating upon the air. But the three did

not sit up to enjoy it. Before the stroke of nine, Aiken had already fallen upon his bed unconscious of

everything about him in the heavy drunken sleep that would hold him fast through the night. It even clutched

The sun was high when he awoke. He lifted his voice and called imperiously for 'Tite Reine, wondering that

the coffeepot was not on the hearth, and marveling still more that he did not hear her voice in quick

response with its, "I 'm comin', Bud. Yere I come." He called again and again. Then he arose and looked out

through the back door to see if she were picking cotton in the field, but she was not there. He dragged himself

to the front entrance. Grégoire's bed was still on the gallery, but the young fellow was nowhere to be seen.

Uncle Mortimer had come into the yard, not to cut wood this time, but to pick up the axe which was his own

"Mortimer," called out Aiken, "whur 's my wife?" at the same time advancing toward the negro. Mortimer

stood still, waiting for him. " Whur 's my wife an' that Frenchman? Speak out, I say, before I send you to h

Uncle Mortimer never had feared Bud Aiken; and with the trusty axe upon his shoulder, he felt a double

hardihood in the man's presence. The old fellow passed the back of his black, knotty hand unctuously over his

lips, as though he relished in advance the words that were about to pass them. He spoke carefully and

"Miss Reine," he said, "I reckon she mus' of done struck Natchitoches pa'ish sometime to'ard de middle o' de

night, on dat 'ar swif' hoss o' Mr. Sanchun's." Aiken uttered a terrific oath. "Saddle up Buckeye," he yelled,

"before I count twenty, or I 'll rip the black hide off yer. Quick, thar! Thur ain't nothin' fourfooted top o' this

earth that Buckeye can't run down." Uncle Mortimer scratched his head dubiously, as he answered:

"Yas, Mas' Bud, but you see, Mr. Sanchun, he done cross de Sabine befo' sunup on Buckeye."

WHEN the half dozen little ones were hungry, old Cléophas would take the fiddle from its flannel bag and

play a tune upon it. Perhaps it was to drown their cries, or their hunger, or his conscience, or all three. One

day Fifine, in a rage, stamped her small foot and clinched her little hands, and declared:

"It 's no two way'! I 'm goin' smash it, dat fiddle, some day in a t'ousan' piece'!"

"You mus' n' do dat, Fifine," expostulated her father. "Dat fiddle been ol'er 'an you an' me t'ree time' put

togedder. You done yaird me tell often 'nough 'bout dat Italien w'at give it to me w'en he die, 'long yonder

befo' de war. An' he say, 'Cléophas, dat fiddle dat one part my life w'at goin' live w'en I be dead Dieu

"Well, I 'm goin' do some'in' wid dat fiddle,va!" returned the daughter, only half mollified. "Mine w'at I say."

So once when there were great carryingson up at the big plantation no end of ladies and gentlemen from

the city, riding, driving, dancing, and making music upon all manner of instruments Fifine, with the fiddle

in its flannel bag, stole away and up to the big house where these festivities were in progress.

No one noticed at first the little barefoot girl seated upon a step of the veranda and watching, lynxeyed, for

"It 's one fiddle I got for sell," she announced, resolutely, to the first who questioned her.

It was very funny to have a shabby little girl sitting there wanting to sell a fiddle, and the child was soon

The lustreless instrument was brought forth and examined, first with amusement, but soon very seriously,

especially by three gentlelemen: one with very long hair that hung down, another with equally long hair that

These three turned the fiddle upside down and almost inside out. They thumped upon it, and listened. They

scraped upon it, and listened. They walked into the house with it, and out of the house with it, and into

remote corners with it. All this with much putting of heads together, and talking together in familiar and

unfamiliar languages. And, finally, they sent Fifine away with a fiddle twice as beautiful as the one she had

The child was dumb with astonishment, and away she flew. But when she stopped beneath a big

chinaberrytree, to further scan the roll of money, her wonder was redoubled. There was far more than she

could count, more than she had ever dreamed of possessing. Certainly enough to top the old cabin with new

shingles; to put shoes on all the little bare feet and food into the hungry mouths. Maybe enough and Fifine's

heart fairly jumped into her throat at the vision maybe enough to buy Blanchette and her tiny calf that Unc'

"It 's jis like you say, Fifine," murmured old Cléophas, huskily, when he had played upon the new fiddle that

night. "It 's one fine fiddle; an' like you say, it shine' like satin. But some way or udder, 't ain' de same. Yair,

Fifine, take it put it 'side. I b'lieve, me, I ain' goin' play de fiddle no mo'."

THE bayou curved like a crescent around the point of land on which La Folle's cabin stood. Between the

stream and the hut lay a big abandoned field, where cattle were pastured when the bayou supplied them with

water enough. Through the woods that spread back into unknown regions the woman had drawn an imaginary

line, and past this circle she never stepped. This was the form of her only mania.

She was now a large, gaunt black woman, past thirtyfive. Her real name was Jacqueline, but every one on

the plantation called her La Folle, because in childhood she had been frightened literally "out of her senses,"

It was when there had been skirmishing and sharpshooting all day in the woods. Evening was near when P'tit

Maître, black with powder and crimson with blood, had staggered into the cabin of Jacqueline's mother, his

pursuers close at his heels. The sight had stunned her childish reason. She dwelt alone in her solitary cabin,

for the rest of the quarters had long since been removed beyond her sight and knowledge. She had more

physical strength than most men, and made her patch of cotton and corn and tobacco like the best of them.

But of the world beyond the bayou she had long known nothing, save what her morbid fancy conceived.

People at Bellissime had grown used to her and her way, and they thought nothing of it. Even when "Old Mis'

" died, they did not wonder that La Folle had not crossed the bayou, but had stood upon her side of it, wailing

P'tit Maître was now the owner of Bellissime. He was a middleaged man, with a family of beautiful

daughters about him, and a little son whom La Folle loved as if he had been her own. She called him Chéri,

None of the girls had ever been to her, what Chéri was. They had each and all loved to be with her, and to

listen to her wondrous stories of things that always happened "yonda, beyon' de bayou."

But none of them had stroked her black hand quite as Chéri did, nor rested their heads against her knee so

confidingly, nor fallen asleep in her arms as he used to do. For Chéri hardly did such things now, since he had

That summer the summer Chéri gave La Folle two black curls tied with a knot of red ribbon the water ran

so low in the bayou that even the little children at Bellissime were able to cross it on foot, and the cattle were

sent to pasture down by the river. La Folle was sorry when they were gone, for she loved these dumb

companions well, and liked to feel that they were there, and to hear them browsing by night up to her own

It was Saturday afternoon, when the fields were deserted. The men had flocked to a neighboring village to do

their week's trading, and the women were occupied with household affairs, La Folle as well as the others. It

was then she mended and washed her handful of clothes, scoured her house, and did her baking.

In this last employment she never forgot Chéri. Today she had fashioned croquignoles of the most fantastic

and alluring shapes for him. So when she saw the boy come trudging across the old field with his gleaming

little new rifle on his shoulder, she called out gayly to him, " Chéri! Chéri!"

But Chéri did not need the summons, for he was coming straight to her. His pockets all bulged out with

almonds and raisins and an orange that he had secured for her from the very fine dinner which had been given

He was a sunnyfaced youngster of ten. When he had emptied his pockets, La Folle patted his round red

cheek, wiped his soiled hands on her apron, and smoothed his hair. Then she watched him as, with his cakes

in his hand, he crossed her strip of cotton back of the cabin, and disappeared into the wood.

"You think they got plenty deer in the wood, La Folle?" he had inquired, with the calculating air of an

"Non, non!" the woman laughed. " Don't you look fo' no deer, Chéri. Dat 's too big. But you bring La Folle

"One squirrel ain't a bite. I 'll bring you mo' 'an one, La Folle," he had boasted pompously as he went away.

When the woman, an hour later, heard the report of the boy's rifle close to the wood's edge, she would have

She withdrew her arms from the tub of suds in which they had been plunged, dried them upon her apron, and

as quickly as her trembling limbs would bear her, hurried to the spot whence the ominous report had come.

It was as she feared. There she found Chéri stretched upon the ground, with his rifle beside him. He moaned

"Non, non!" she exclaimed resolutely, as she knelt beside him. "Put you' arm 'roun La Folle's nake, Chéri. Dat

Chéri had carried his gun muzzledownward. He had stumbled, he did not know how. He only knew that

he had a ball lodged somewhere in his leg, and he thought that his end was at hand. Now, with his head upon

"Don't cry, mon bébé, mon bébé, mon Chéri!" the woman spoke soothingly as she covered the ground with

long strides. "La Folle goin' mine you; Doctor Bonfils goin' come make mon Chéri well agin."

She had reached the abandoned field. As she crossed it with her precious burden, she looked constantly and

restlessly from side to side. A terrible fear was upon her, the fear of the world beyond the bayou, the

When she was at the bayou's edge she stood there, and shouted for help as if a life depended upon it:

No voice responded. Chéri's hot tears were scalding her neck. She called for each and every one upon the

She shouted, she wailed; but whether her voice remained unheard or unheeded, no reply came to her frenzied

cries. And all the while Chéri moaned and wept and entreated to be taken home to his mother.

La Folle gave a last despairing look around her. Extreme terror was upon her. She clasped the child close

against her breast, where he could feel her heart beat like a muffled hammer. Then shutting her eyes, she ran

suddenly down the shallow bank of the bayou, and never stopped till she had climbed the opposite shore.

She stood there quivering an instant as she opened her eyes. Then she plunged into the footpath through the

She spoke no more to Chéri, but muttered constantly, "Bon Dieu, ayez pitié La Folle! Bon Dieu, ayez pitié

Instinct seemed to guide her. When the pathway spread clear and smooth enough before her, she again closed

A child, playing in some weeds, caught sight of her as she neared the quarters. The little one uttered a cry of

"La Folle!" she screamed, in her piercing treble. "La Folle done cross de bayer!"

Quickly the cry passed down the line of cabins. "Yonda, La Folle done cross de bayou!"

Children, old men, old women, young ones with infants in their arms, flocked to doors and windows to see

this aweinspiring spectacle. Most of them shuddered with superstitious dread of what it might portend. "She

Some of the more daring gathered about her, and followed at her heels, only to fall back with new terror

when she turned her distorted face upon them. Her eyes were bloodshot and the saliva had gathered in a white

Some one had run ahead of her to where P'tit Maître sat with his family and guests upon the gallery.

"P'tit Maître! La Folle done cross de bayou! Look her! Look her yonda totin' Chéri!" This startling intimation

She was now near at hand. She walked with long strides. Her eyes were fixed desperately before her, and she

At the foot of the stairway, which she could not have mounted, she laid the boy in his father's arms. Then the

world that had looked red to La Folle suddenly turned black, like that day she had seen powder and blood.

She reeled for an instant. Before a sustaining arm could reach her, she fell heavily to the ground.

When La Folle regained consciousness, she was at home again, in her own cabin and upon her own bed. The

moon rays, streaming in through the open door and windows, gave what light was needed to the old black

mammy who stood at the table concocting a tisane of fragrant herbs. It was very late.

Others who had come, and found that the stupor clung to her, had gone again. P'tit Maître had been there, and

But death had passed her by. The voice was very clear and steady with which she spoke to Tante Lizette,

"Ef you will give me one good drink tisane, Tante Lizette, I b'lieve I 'm goin' sleep, me."

And she did sleep; so soundly, so healthfully, that old Lizette without compunction stole softly away, to creep

The first touch of the cool gray morning awoke La Folle. She arose, calmly, as if no tempest had shaken and

She donned her new blue cottonade and white apron, for she remembered that this was Sunday. When she

had made for herself a cup of strong black coffee, and drunk it with relish, she quitted the cabin and walked

She did not stop there as she had always done before, but crossed with a long, steady stride as if she had done

When she had made her way through the brush and scrub cottonwoodtrees that lined the opposite bank, she

found herself upon the border of a field where the white, bursting cotton, with the dew upon it, gleamed for

La Folle drew a long, deep breath as she gazed across the country. She walked slowly and uncertainly, like

The cabins, that yesterday had sent a clamor of voices to pursue her, were quiet now. No one was yet astir at

Bellissime. Only the birds that darted here and there from hedges were awake, and singing their matins.

When La Folle came to the broad stretch of velvety lawn that surrounded the house, she moved slowly and

She stopped to find whence came those perfumes that were assailing her senses with memories from a time

There they were, stealing up to her from the thousand blue violets that peeped out from green, luxuriant beds.

There they were, showering down from the big waxen bells of the magnolias far above her head, and from the

There were roses, too, without number. To right and left palms spread in broad and graceful curves. It all

When La Folle had slowly and cautiously mounted the many steps that led up to the veranda, she turned to

look back at the perilous ascent she had made. Then she caught sight of the river, bending like a silver bow at

La Folle rapped softly upon a door near at hand. Chéri's mother soon cautiously opened it. Quickly and

"He is feeling easier, thank you, La Folle. Dr. Bonfils says it will be nothing serious. He 's sleeping now. Will

"Non, madame. I 'm goin' wait yair tell Chéri wake up." La Folle seated herself upon the topmost step of the

A look of wonder and deep content crept into her face as she watched for the first time the sun rise upon the

"Massa, I ain't never gwine to quit yer. I 'm gittin' ole an' feeble, an' my days is few in dis heah lan' o' sorrow

an' sin. All I axes is a li'le co'ner whar I kin set down an' wait peaceful fu de en'."

Monsieur and Madame were very much touched at this mark of affection and fidelity from Aunt Peggy. So,

in the general reconstruction of the plantation which immediately followed the surrender, a nice cabin,

pleasantly appointed, was set apart for the old woman. Madame did not even forget the very comfortable

rockingchair in which Aunt Peggy might "set down," as she herself feelingly expressed it, "an' wait fu de

At intervals of about two years Aunt Peggy hobbles up to the house, and delivers the stereotyped address

which has become more than familiar: "Mist'ess, I 's come to take a las' look at you all. Le' me look at you

good. Le' me look at de chillun, de big chillun an' de li'le chillun. Le' me look at de picters an' de

photygraphts an' de pianny, an' eve'ything 'fo' it 's too late. One eye is done gone, an' de udder' s agwine fas'.

After such a visit Aunt Peggy invariably returns to her cabin with a generously filled apron.

The scruple which Monsieur one time felt in supporting a woman for so many years in idleness has entirely

disappeared. Of late his attitude towards Aunt Peggy is simply one of profound astonishment, wonder at the

surprising age which an old black woman may attain when she sets her mind to it, for Aunt Peggy is a

MR. FRED BARTNER was sorely perplexed and annoyed to find that a wheel and tire of his buggy

"Ef you want," said the negro boy who drove him, "we kin stop yonda at ole M'sié Jean Ba's an' fix it; he got

"How come, suh, you don' know old M'sié Jean Baptiste Plochel? He ole, ole. He sorter quare in he head ev'

sence his son M'sié Alcibiade got kill' in de wah. Yonda he live'; whar you sees dat che'okee hedge takin' up

Little more than twelve years ago, before the "Texas and Pacific" had joined the cities of New Orleans and

Shreveport with its steel bands, it was a common thing to travel through miles of central Louisiana in a

buggy. Fred Bartner, a young commission merchant of New Orleans, on business bent, had made the trip in

this way by easy stages from his home to a point on Cane River, within a half day's journey of Natchitoches.

From the mouth of Cane River he had passed one plantation after another, large ones and small ones. There

was nowhere sight of anything like a town, except the little hamlet of Cloutierville, through which they had

sped in the gray dawn. "Dat town, hit 's ole, ole; mos' a hund'ed year' ole, dey say. Uh, uh, look to me like it

heap ol'r an' dat," the darkey had commented. Now they were within sight of Monsieur Jean Ba's towering

It was Christmas morning, but the sun was warm and the air so soft and mild that Bartner found the most

comfortable way to wear his light overcoat was across his knees. At the entrance to the plantation he

dismounted and the negro drove away toward the smithy which stood on the edge of the field.

From the end of the long avenue of magnolias that led to it, the house which confronted Bartner looked

grotesquely long in comparison with its height. It was one story, of pale, yellow stucco; its massive wooden

shutters were a faded green. A wide gallery, topped by the overhanging roof, encircled it.

At the head of the stairs a very old man stood. His figure was small and shrunken, his hair long and

snowwhite. He wore a broad, soft felt hat, and a brown plaid shawl across his bent shoulders. A tall,

graceful girl stood beside him; she was clad in a warmcolored blue stuff gown. She seemed to be

expostulating with the old gentleman, who evidently wanted to descend the stairs to meet the approaching

visitor. Before Bartner had had time to do more than lift his hat, Monsieur Jean Ba had thrown his trembling

arms about the young man and was exclaiming in his quavering old tones: "Á la fin! mon fils! à la fin!" Tears

started to the girl's eyes and she was rosy with confusion. "Oh, escuse him, sir; please escuse him," she

whisperingly entreated, gently striving to disengage the old gentleman's arms from around the astonished

Bartner. But a new line of thought seemed fortunately to take possession of Monsieur Jean Ba, for he moved

away and went quickly, pattering like a baby, down the gallery. His fleecy white hair streamed out on the soft

Bartner, left alone with the girl, proceeded to introduce himself and to explain his presence there.

"Oh! Mr. Fred Bartna of New Orleans? The commission merchant! " she exclaimed, cordially extending her

hand. "So well known in Natchitoches parish. Not our merchant, Mr. Bartna," she added, naîvely, "but jus' as

Bartner felt like kissing her, but he only bowed and seated himself in the big chair which she offered him. He

She sat before him with her hands pressed down into her lap, and with an eagerness and pretty air of being

confidential that were extremely engaging, explained the reasons for her grandfather's singular behavior.

Years ago, her uncle Alcibiade, in going away to the war, with the cheerful assurance of youth, had promised

his father that he would return to eat Christmas dinner with him. He never returned. And now, of late years,

since Monsieur Jean Ba had begun to fail in body and mind, that old, unspoken hope of long ago had come

back to live anew in his heart. Every Christmas Day he watched for the coming of Alcibiade.

"Ah! if you knew, Mr. Bartna, how I have endeavor' to distrac' his mine from that thought! Weeks ago, I tole

to all the negroes, big and li'le, 'If one of you dare to say the word, Christmas gif', in the hearing of Monsieur

"So las' night, Mr. Bartna, I said to grandpère, 'Pépère, you know tomorrow will be the great feas' of la

Trinité; we will read our litany together in the morning and say a chapelet.' He did not answer a word; il est

malin, oui. But this morning at daylight he was rapping his cane on the back gallery, calling together the

negroes. Did they not know it was Christmas Day, an' a great dinner mus' be prepare' for his son Alcibiade,

"And so he has mistaken me for his son Alcibiade. It is very unfortunate," said Bartner, sympathetically. He

was a goodlooking, honestfaced young fellow. The girl arose, quivering with an inspiration. She

"Let him believe, jus' for this one Christmas day, that you are his son. Let him have that Christmas dinner

Bartner's was not a puritanical conscience, but truthfulness was a habit as well as a principle with him, and he

winced. "It seems to me it would be cruel to deceive him; it would not be" he did not like to say "right," but

"Oh, for that," she laughed, "you may stay as w'ite as snow, Mr. Bartna. I will take all the sin on my

"Esmée!" the old man was calling as he came trotting back, " Esmée, my child," in his quavering French, "I

have ordered the dinner. Go see to the arrangements of the table, and have everything faultless."

The diningroom was at the end of the house, with windows opening upon the side and back galleries. There

was a high, simply carved wooden mantelpiece, bearing a wide, slanting, oldfashioned mirror that reflected

the table and its occupants. The table was laden with an overabundance. Monsieur Jean Ba sat at one end,

Two "grif" boys, a big black woman and a little mulatto girl waited upon them; there was a reserve force

outside within easy call, and the little black and yellow faces kept bobbing up constantly above the

windowsills. Windows and doors were open, and a fire of hickory branches blazed on the hearth.

Monsieur Jean Ba ate little, but that little greedily and rapidly; then he stayed in rapt contemplation of his

"You will notice, Alcibiade, the flavor of the turkey," he said. "It is dressed with pecans; those big ones from

the tree down on the bayou. I had them gathered expressly." The delicate and rich flavor of the nut was

Bartner had a stupid impression of acting on the stage, and had to pull himself together every now and then to

throw off the stiffness of the amateur actor. But this discomposure amounted almost to paralysis when he

"Mon Dieu! uncle Alcibiade, you are not eating! Mais w'ere have you lef' your appetite? Corbeau, fill your

young master's glass. Doralise, you are neglecting Monsieur Alcibiade; he is without bread."

Monsieur Jean Ba's feeble intelligence reached out very dimly; it was like a dream which clothes the

grotesque and unnatural with the semblance of reality. He shook his head up and down with pleased

approbation of Esmée's "Uncle Alcibiade," that tripped so glibly on her lips. When she arranged his

afterdinner brûlot, a lump of sugar in a flaming teaspoonful of brandy, dropped into a tiny cup of black

coffee, he reminded her, "Your Uncle Alcibiade takes two lumps, Esmée. The scamp! he is fond of sweets.

Two or three lumps, Esmée." Bartner would have relished his brûlot greatly, prepared so gracefully as it was

After dinner the girl arranged her grandfather comfortably in his big armchair on the gallery, where he loved

to sit when the weather permitted. She fastened his shawl about him and laid a second one across his knees.

She shook up the pillow for his head, patted his sunken cheek and kissed his forehead under the

softbrimmed hat. She left him there with the sun warming his feet and old shrunken knees.

Esmée and Bartner walked together under the magnolias. In walking they trod upon the violet borders that

grew rank and sprawling, and the subtle perfume of the crushed flowers scented the air deliciously. They

stooped and plucked handfuls of them. They gathered roses, too, that were blooming yet against the warm

south end of the house; and they chattered and laughed like children. When they sat in the sunlight upon the

low steps to arrange the flowers they had broken, Bartner's conscience began to prick him anew.

"You know," he said, "I can't stay here always, as well as I should like to. I shall have to leave presently; then

your grandfather will discover that we have been deceiving him, and you can see how cruel that will be."

"Mr. Bartna," answered Esmée, daintily holding a rosebud up to her pretty nose, "W'en I awoke this morning

an' said my prayers, I prayed to the good God that He would give one happy Christmas day to my gran'father.

He has answered my prayer; an' He does not sen' his gif's incomplete. He will provide.

"Mr. Bartna, this morning I agreed to take all responsibility on my shoulder', you remember? Now, I place all

Bartner was distracted with admiration; whether for this beautiful and consoling faith, or its charming votary,

Every now and then Monsieur Jean Ba would call out, "Alcibiade, mon fils !" and Bartner would hasten to his

side. Sometimes the old man had forgotten what he wanted to say. Once it was to ask if the salad had been to

"Alcibiade, mon fils!" Again Bartner amiably answered the summons. Monsieur Jean Ba took the young

man's hand affectionately in his, but limply, as children hold hands. Bartner's closed firmly around it.

"Alcibiade, I am going to take a little nap now. If Robert McFarlane comes while I am sleeping, with more

talk of wanting to buy Nég Sévérin, tell him I will sell none of my slaves; not the least little négrillon. Drive

him from the place with the shotgun. Don't be afraid to use the shotgun, Alcibiade, when I am asleep, if

Esmée and Bartner forgot that there was such a thing as time, and that it was passing. There were no more

calls of " Alcibiade, mon fils!" As the sun dipped lower and lower in the west, its light was creeping, creeping

up and illuming the still body of Monsieur Jean Ba. It lighted his waxen hands, folded so placidly in his lap;

it touched his shrunken bosom. When it reached his face, another brightness had come there before it, the

Bartner remained over night, of course, to add what assistance he could to that which kindly neighbors

In the early morning, before taking his departure, he was permitted to see Esmée. She was overcome with

sorrow, which he could hardly hope to assuage, even with the keen sympathy which he felt.

"And may I be permitted to ask, Mademoiselle, what will be your plans for the future?"

"Oh," she moaned, "I cannot any longer remain upon the ole plantation, which would not be home without

grandpère. I suppose I shall go to live in New Orleans with my tante Clémentine." The last was spoken in the

Bartner's heart bounded at this intelligence in a manner which he could not but feel was one of unbecoming

The sun was again shining brightly, but the morning was crisp and cool; a thin wafer of ice covered what had

yesterday been pools of water in the road. Bartner buttoned his coat about him closely. The shrill whistles of

steam cottongins sounded here and there. One or two shivering negroes were in the field gathering what

shreds of cotton were left on the dry, naked stalks. The horses snorted with satisfaction, and their strong

hoofbeats rang out against the hard ground. "Urge the horses," Bartner said; "they 've had a good rest and

Lolotte's brown eyes flamed. Her small frame quivered. She stood with her back turned to a meagre

suppertable, as if to guard it from the man who had just entered the cabin. She pointed toward the door, to

"You mighty cross tonight, Lolotte. You mus' got up wid de wrong foot to 's mo'nin'. Hein, Veveste? hein,

The two small urchins who sat at table giggled in sympathy with their father's evident good humor.

"I 'm wo' out, me!" the girl exclaimed, desperately, as she let her arms fall limp at her side. "Work, work! Fu

"Now, Lolotte, you think w'at you sayin'," expostulated her father. "Sylveste Bordon don' ax nobody to feed

'im." "W'en you brought a poun' of suga in de house?" his daughter retorted hotly, "or a poun' of coffee? W'en

did you brought a piece o' meat home, you? An' Nonomme all de time sick. Co'n bread an' po'k, dat 's good fu

She turned as if choking, and cut into the round, soggy "pone" of corn bread which was the main feature of

"Po' li'le Nonomme; we mus' fine some'in' to break dat fevah. You want to kill a chicken once a w'ile fu

"Didn' I done put de las' roostah in de pot?" she cried with exasperation. "Now you come axen me fu kill de

hen'! W'ere I goen to fine aigg' to trade wid, w'en de hen' be gone? Is I got one picayune in de house fu trade

"Papa," piped the young Jacques, "w'at dat I yeard you drive in de yard, w'ile go?"

"Dat 's it! W'en Lolotte would n' been talken' so fas', I could tole you 'bout dat job I got fu tomorrow. Dat

was Joe Duplan's team of mule' an' wagon, wid t'ree bale' of cotton, w'at you yaird. I got to go soon in de

mo'nin' wid dat load to de landin'. An' a man mus' eat w'at got to work; dat 's sho."

Lolotte's bare brown feet made no sound upon the rough boards as she entered the room where Nonomme lay

sick and sleeping. She lifted the coarse mosquito net from about him, sat down in the clumsy chair by the

Dusk was falling rapidly, as it does in the South. Lolotte's eyes grew round and big, as she watched the moon

creep up from branch to branch of the mossdraped liveoak just outside her window. Presently the weary

girl slept as profoundly as Nonomme. A little dog sneaked into the room, and socially licked her bare feet.

The cabin was dark and quiet. Nonomme was crying softly, because the mosquitoes were biting him. In the

room beyond, old Sylveste and the others slept. When Lolotte had quieted the child, she went outside to get a

pail of cool, fresh water at the cistern. Then she crept into bed beside Nonomme, who slept again.

Lolotte's dreams that night pictured her father returning from work, and bringing luscious oranges home in

When at the very break of day she heard him astir in his room, a certain comfort stole into her heart. She lay

and listened to the faint noises of his preparations to go out. When he had quitted the house, she waited to

She waited long, but heard no sound of horse's tread or wagonwheel. Anxious, she went to the cabin door

and looked out. The big mules were still where they had been fastened the night before. The wagon was

Her heart sank. She looked quickly along the low rafters supporting the roof of the narrow porch to where her

" 'T ain' no use, 't ain' no use," she said, as she turned into the house with a look of something like anguish in

When the spare breakfast was eaten and the dishes cleared away, Lolotte turned with resolute mien to the two

"Veveste," she said to the older, "go see if dey got co'n in dat wagon fu feed dem mule'."

"Den you goen he'p me hitch dem mule, to de wagon. Jacques, go down de lane an' ax Aunt Minty if she

Lolotte had evidently determined to undertake her father's work. Nothing could dissuade her; neither the

children's astonishment nor Aunt Minty's scathing disapproval. The fat black negress came laboring into the

"No, I ain't crazy; I 'm hungry, Aunt Minty. We all hungry. Somebody got fur work in dis fam'ly."

"Dat ain't no work fur a gal w'at ain't bar' seventeen year ole; drivin' Marse Duplan's mules! W'at I gwine tell

"Fu me, you kin tell 'im w'at you want. But you watch Nonomme. I done cook his rice an' set it 'side."

"Don't you bodda," replied Aunt Minty; "I got somepin heah fur my boy. I gwine 'ten' to him."

Lolotte had seen Aunt Minty put something out of sight when she came up, and made her produce it. It was a

"Sence w'en you start raisin' Brahma chicken', you?" Lolotte asked mistrustfully.

"My, but you is a cu'ious somebody! Ev'ything w'at got fedders on its laigs is Brahma chicken wid you. Dis

"All de same, you don't got fur give dat chicken to eat to Nonomme. You don't got fur cook 'im in my house."

Aunt Minty, unheeding, turned to the house with blustering inquiry for her boy, while Lolotte drove away

She knew, notwithstanding her injunction, that the chicken would be cooked and eaten. Maybe she herself

"Nax' thing I 'm goen be one rogue," she muttered; and the tears gathered and fell one by one upon her

"It do look like one Brahma, Aunt Mint," remarked the small and weazened Jacques, as he watched the

Then silence fell, but for a monotonous chant which the woman droned as she worked. Jacques opened his

"You mighty right, chile, dat ain't no sech kentry as dis heah. Yonda, in Kaintuck, w'en boys says de word

'Brahma chicken,' we takes an' gags 'em, an' ties dar han's behines 'em, an' fo'ces 'em ter stan' up watchin'

Jacques passed the back of his hand across his mouth; but lest the act should not place sufficient seal upon it,

he prudently stole away to go and sit beside Nonomme, and wait there as patiently as he could the coming

feast. And what a treat it was! The luscious soup, a great pot of it, golden yellow, thickened with the

flaky rice that Lolotte had set carefully on the shelf. Each mouthful of it seemed to carry fresh blood into the

And that was not all. The day brought abundance with it. Their father came home with glistening perch and

trout that Aunt Minty broiled deliciously over glowing embers, and basted with the rich chicken fat.

"You see," explained old Sylveste, "w'en I git up to 's mo'nin' an' see it was cloudy, I say to me, 'Sylveste,

w'en you go wid dat cotton, rememba you got no tarpaulin. Maybe it rain, an' de cotton was spoil. Betta you

go yonda to Lafirme Lake, w'ere de trout was bitin' fas'er 'an mosquito, an' so you git a good mess fur de

chil'en.' Lolotte w'at she goen do yonda? You ought stop Lolotte, Aunt Minty, w'en you see w'at she was

"Didn' I try to stop 'er? Didn' I ax 'er, 'W'at I gwine tell yo' pa?' An' she 'low, 'Tell 'im to go hang hisse'f, de

trifling ole rapscallion! I 's de one w'at 's runnin' dis heah fambly!' " "Dat don' soun' like Lolotte, Aunt Minty;

The quizzical look in his goodnatured features was irresistible. Nonomme fairly shook with merriment.

"My head feel so good," he declared. "I wish Lolotte would come, so I could tole 'er." And he turned in his

bed to look down the long, dusty lane, with the hope of seeing her appear as he had watched her go, sitting on

But no one came all through the hot morning. Only at noon a broadshouldered young negro appeared in

view riding through the dust. When he had dismounted at the cabin door, he stood leaning a shoulder lazily

"Well, heah you is," he grumbled, addressing Sylveste with no mark of respect. "Heah you is, settin' down

"Maybe it look like a joke to you, but 't aint no joke to him, man, to have one o' his wagons smoshed to

kindlin', an' his bes' team tearin' t'rough de country. You don't want to let 'im lay han's on you, joke o' no

"Malédiction!" howled Sylveste, as he staggered to his feet. He stood for one instant irresolute; then he

lurched past the man and ran wildly down the lane. He might have taken the horse that was there, but he went

tottering on afoot, a frightened look in his eyes, as if his soul gazed upon an inward picture that was horrible.

The road to the landing was little used. As Sylveste went he could readily trace the marks of Lolotte's

wagonwheels. For some distance they went straight along the road. Then they made a track as if a madman

had directed their course, over stump and hillock, tearing the bushes and barking the trees on either side.

At each new turn Sylveste expected to find Lolotte stretched senseless upon the ground, but there was never a

At last he reached the landing, which was a dreary spot, slanting down to the river and partly cleared to afford

room for what desultory freight might be left there from time to time. There were the wagontracks, clean

down to the river's edge and partly in the water, where they made a sharp and senseless turn. But Sylveste

"Lolotte! " the old man cried out into the stillness. "Lolotte, ma fille, Lolotte!" But no answer came; no sound

but the echo of his own voice, and the soft splash of the red water that lapped his feet.

Lolotte had disappeared as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed her. After a few days it

became the common belief that the girl had been drowned. It was thought that she must have been hurled

from the wagon into the water during the sharp turn that the wheeltracks indicated, and carried away by the

During the days of search, old Sylveste's excitement kept him up. When it was over, an apathetic despair

Madame Duplan, moved by sympathy, had taken the little fouryearold Nonomme to the plantation Les

Chêniers, where the child was awed by the beauty and comfort of things that surrounded him there. He

thought always that Lolotte would come back, and watched for her every day; for they did not tell him the sad

The other two boys were placed in the temporary care of Aunt Minty; and old Sylveste roamed like a

persecuted being through the country. He who had been a type of indolent content and repose had changed to

When he thought to eat, it was in some humble negro cabin that he stopped to ask for food, which was never

One morning very early he appeared before the planter with a disheveled and hunted look.

"M'sieur Duplan," he said, holding his hat in his hand and looking away into vacancy, "I been try ev'thing. I

been try settin' down still on de sto' gall'ry. I been walk, I been run; 't ain' no use. Dey got al'ays some'in' w'at

push me. I go fishin', an' it 's some'in' w'at push me worser 'an ever. By gracious! M'sieur Duplan, gi' me

The planter gave him at once a plow in hand, and no plow on the whole plantation dug so deep as that one,

nor so fast. Sylveste was the first in the field, as he was the last one there. From dawn to nightfall he worked,

People came to wonder, and the negroes began to whisper hints of demoniacal possession.

When Mr. Duplan gave careful thought to the subject of Lolotte's mysterious disappearance, an idea came to

him. But so fearful was he to arouse false hopes in the breasts of those who grieved for the girl that to no one

did he impart his suspicions save to his wife. It was on the eve of a business trip to New Orleans that he told

Upon his return, which happened not many days later, he went out to where old Sylveste was toiling in the

"Sylveste," said the planter, quietly, when he had stood a moment watching the man at work, "have you given

"I don' know, me; I don' know. Le' me work, M'sieur Duplan." "For my part, I believe the child is alive."

"I know it," Mr. Duplan muttered, as calmly as he could. "Hold up! Steady yourself, man! Come; come with

me to the house. There is some one there who knows it, too; some one who has seen her."

The room into which the planter led the old man was big, cool, beautiful, and sweet with the delicate odor of

flowers. It was shady, too, for the shutters were half closed; but not so darkened but Sylveste could at once

She was almost as white as the gown she wore. Her neatly shod feet rested upon a cushion, and her black

hair, that had been closely cut, was beginning to make little rings about her temples.

"Aie!" he cried sharply, at sight of her, grasping his seamed throat as he did so. Then he laughed like a

He only sobbed, kneeling upon the floor beside her, kissing her knees and her hands, that sought his. Little

Nonomme was close to her, with a health flush creeping into his cheek. Veveste and Jacques were there, and

"W'ere'bouts you find her, M'sieur Duplan?" Sylveste asked, when the first flush of his joy had spent itself,

"M'sieur Duplan find me 'way yonda to de city, papa, in de hospital," spoke Lolotte, before the planter could

steady his voice to reply. "I did n' know who ev'ybody was, me. I did n' know me, myse'f, tell I tu'n roun' one

"You was boun' to know M'sieur Duplan, Lolotte," laughed Sylveste, like a child.

"Yes, an' I know right 'way how dem mule was git frighten' w'en de boat w'istle fu stop, an' pitch me plumb

on de groun'. An' I rememba it was one mulûtresse w'at call herse'f one chembamed, all de time aside me."

"You must not talk too much, Lolotte," interposed Madame Duplan, coming to place her hand with gentle

solicitude upon the girl's forehead, and to feel how her pulse beat. Then to save the child further effort of

speech, she herself related how the boat had stopped at this lonely landing to take on a load of cottonseed.

Lolotte had been found stretched insensible by the river, fallen apparently from the clouds, and had been

The boat had changed its course into other waters after that trip, and had not returned to Duplan's Landing.

Those who had tended Lolotte and left her at the hospital supposed, no doubt, that she would make known

"An' dah you is!" almost shouted aunt Minty, whose black face gleamed in the doorway; "dah you is, settin'

"And now, Sylveste," said Mr. Duplan, as he rose and started to walk the floor, with hands in his pockets,

"listen to me. It will be a long time before Lolotte is strong again. Aunt Minty is going to look after things for

you till the child is fully recovered. But what I want to say is this: I shall trust these children into your hands

once more, and I want you never to forget again that you are their father do you hear? that you are a

Old Sylveste stood with his hand in Lolotte's, who rubbed it lovingly against her cheek.

"By gracious! M'sieur Duplan," he answered, "w'en God want to he'p me, I 'm goen try my bes'!"

OLD Uncle Oswald believed he belonged to the Bênitous, and there was no getting the notion out of his head.

Monsieur tried every way, for there was no sense in it. Why, it must have been fifty years since the Bênitous

owned him. He had belonged to others since, and had later been freed. Beside, there was not a Bênitou left in

the parish now, except one rather delicate woman, who lived with her little daughter in a corner of

Natchitoches town, and constructed "fashionable millinery." The family had dispersed, and almost vanished,

But that made no difference to Uncle Oswald. He was always running away from Monsieur who kept him

More than that, he was constantly getting injured in such attempts. Once he fell into the bayou and was nearly

drowned. Again he barely escaped being run down by an engine. But another time, when he had been lost

two days, and finally discovered in an unconscious and halfdead condition in the woods, Monsieur and

Doctor Bonfils reluctantly decided that it was time to "do something" with the old man.

So, one sunny spring morning, Monsieur took Uncle Oswald in the buggy, and drove over to Natchitoches

with him, intending to take the evening train for the institution in which the poor creature was to be cared for.

It was quite early in the afternoon when they reached town, and Monsieur found himself with several hours to

dispose of before traintime. He tied his horses in front of the hotel the quaintest old stuccoed house, too

absurdly unlike a "hotel" for anything and entered. But he left Uncle Oswald seated upon a shaded bench

There were people occasionally coming in and going out; but no one took the smallest notice of the old negro

drowsing over the cane that he held between his knees. The sight was common in Natchitoches.

One who passed in was a little girl about twelve, with dark, kind eyes, and daintily carrying a parcel. She was

dressed in blue calico, and wore a stiff white sunbonnet, extinguisher fashion, over her brown curls.

Just as she passed Uncle Oswald again, on her way out, the old man, half asleep, let fall his cane. She picked

"Oh, thankee, thankee, missy," stammered Uncle Oswald, all confused at being waited upon by this little

Instantly the old negro stumbled to his feet. Without a moment's hesitancy he followed the little one out

It was an hour later that Monsieur, after a distracted search, found him standing upon the gallery of the tiny

Mother and daughter were sorely perplexed to comprehend the intentions of the venerable servitor, who

Monsieur understood and appreciated the situation at once, and he has prevailed upon Madame Bênitou to

accept the gratuitous services of Uncle Oswald for the sake of the old darky's own safety and happiness.

Uncle Oswald never tries to run away now. He chops wood and hauls water. He cheerfully and faithfully

bears the parcels that Susanne used to carry; and makes an excellent cup of black coffee.

I met the old man the other day in Natchitoches, contentedly stumbling down St. Denis street with a basket of

"My name 's Oswal', Madam; Oswal' dat 's my name. I b'longs to de Bênitous," and some one told me his

As the day was pleasant, Madame Valmondé drove over to L'Abri to see Désirée and the baby.

It made her laugh to think of Désirée with a baby. Why, it seemed but yesterday that Désirée was little more

than a baby herself; when Monsieur in riding through the gateway of Valmondé had found her lying asleep in

The little one awoke in his arms and began to cry for "Dada." That was as much as she could do or say. Some

people thought she might have strayed there of her own accord, for she was of the toddling age. The

prevailing belief was that she had been purposely left by a party of Texans, whose canvascovered wagon,

late in the day, had crossed the ferry that Coton Maîs kept, just below the plantation. In time Madame

Valmondé abandoned every speculation but the one that Désirée had been sent to her by a beneficent

Providence to be the child of her affection, seeing that she was without child of the flesh. For the girl grew to

It was no wonder, when she stood one day against the stone pillar in whose shadow she had lain asleep,

eighteen years before, that Armand Aubigny riding by and seeing her there, had fallen in love with her. That

was the way all the Aubignys fell in love, as if struck by a pistol shot. The wonder was that he had not loved

her before; for he had known her since his father brought him home from Paris, a boy of eight, after his

mother died there. The passion that awoke in him that day, when he saw her at the gate, swept along like an

avalanche, or like a prairie fire, or like anything that drives headlong over all obstacles.

Monsieur Valmondé grew practical and wanted things well considered: that is, the girl's obscure origin.

Armand looked into her eyes and did not care. He was reminded that she was nameless. What did it matter

about a name when he could give her one of the oldest and proudest in Louisiana? He ordered the corbeille

from Paris, and contained himself with what patience he could until it arrived; then they were married.

Madame Valmondé had not seen Désirée and the baby for four weeks. When she reached L'Abri she

shuddered at the first sight of it, as she always did. It was a sad looking place, which for many years had not

known the gentle presence of a mistress, old Monsieur Aubigny having married and buried his wife in

France, and she having loved her own land too well ever to leave it. The roof came down steep and black like

a cowl, reaching out beyond the wide galleries that encircled the yellow stuccoed house. Big, solemn oaks

grew close to it, and their thickleaved, farreaching branches shadowed it like a pall. Young Aubigny's rule

was a strict one, too, and under it his negroes had forgotten how to be gay, as they had been during the old

The young mother was recovering slowly, and lay full length, in her soft white muslins and laces, upon a

couch. The baby was beside her, upon her arm, where he had fallen asleep, at her breast. The yellow nurse

woman sat beside a window fanning herself. Madame Valmondé bent her portly figure over Désirée and

kissed her, holding her an instant tenderly in her arms. Then she turned to the child.

"This is not the baby!" she exclaimed, in startled tones. French was the language spoken at Valmondé in

"I knew you would be astonished," laughed Désirée, "at the way he has grown. The little cochon de lait! Look

at his legs, mamma, and his hands and fingernails, real fingernails. Zandrine had to cut them this morning.

"And the way he cries," went on Désirée, "is deafening. Armand heard him the other day as far away as La

Madame Valmondé had never removed her eyes from the child. She lifted it and walked with it over to the

window that was lightest. She scanned the baby narrowly, then looked as searchingly at Zandrine, whose face

"Yes, the child has grown, has changed;" said Madame Valmondé, slowly, as she replaced it beside its

"Oh, Armand is the proudest father in the parish, I believe, chiefly because it is a boy, to bear his name;

though he says not, that he would have loved a girl as well. But I know it is n't true. I know he says that to

please me. And mamma," she added, drawing Madame Valmondé's head down to her, and speaking in a

whisper, "he has n't punished one of them not one of them since baby is born. Even Négrillon, who

pretended to have burnt his leg that he might rest from work he only laughed, and said Négrillon was a

What Désirée said was true. Marriage, and later the birth of his son, had softened Armand Aubigny's

imperious and exacting nature greatly. This was what made the gentle Désirée so happy, for she loved him

desperately. When he frowned she trembled, but loved him. When he smiled, she asked no greater blessing of

God. But Armand's dark, handsome face had not often been disfigured by frowns since the day he fell in love

When the baby was about three months old, Désirée awoke one day to the conviction that there was

something in the air menacing her peace. It was at first too subtle to grasp. It had only been a disquieting

suggestion; an air of mystery among the blacks; unexpected visits from faroff neighbors who could hardly

account for their coming. Then a strange, an awful change in her husband's manner, which she dared not ask

him to explain. When he spoke to her, it was with averted eyes, from which the old lovelight seemed to

have gone out. He absented himself from home; and when there, avoided her presence and that of her child,

without excuse. And the very spirit of Satan seemed suddenly to take hold of him in his dealings with the

She sat in her room, one hot afternoon, in her peignoir, listlessly drawing through her fingers the strands of

her long, silky brown hair that hung about her shoulders. The baby, half naked, lay asleep upon her own great

mahogany bed, that was like a sumptuous throne, with its satinlined halfcanopy. One of La Blanche's little

quadroon boys half naked too stood fanning the child slowly with a fan of peacock feathers. Désirée's

eyes had been fixed absently and sadly upon the baby, while she was striving to penetrate the threatening mist

that she felt closing about her. She looked from her child to the boy who stood beside him, and back again;

over and over. "Ah!" It was a cry that she could not help; which she was not conscious of having uttered. The

blood turned like ice in her veins, and a clammy moisture gathered upon her face.

She tried to speak to the little quadroon boy; but no sound would come, at first. When he heard his name

uttered, he looked up, and his mistress was pointing to the door. He laid aside the great, soft fan, and

She stayed motionless, with gaze riveted upon her child, and her face the picture of fright.

Presently her husband entered the room, and without noticing her, went to a table and began to search among

some papers which covered it. "Armand," she called to him, in a voice which must have stabbed him, if he

was human. But he did not notice. "Armand," she said again. Then she rose and tottered towards him.

"Armand," she panted once more, clutching his arm, "look at our child. What does it mean? tell me."

He coldly but gently loosened her fingers from about his arm and thrust the hand away from him. "Tell me

"It means," he answered lightly, "that the child is not white; it means that you are not white."

A quick conception of all that this accusation meant for her nerved her with unwonted courage to deny it. "It

is a lie; it is not true, I am white! Look at my hair, it is brown; and my eyes are gray, Armand, you know they

are gray. And my skin is fair," seizing his wrist. "Look at my hand; whiter than yours, Armand," she laughed

"As white as La Blanche's," he returned cruelly; and went away leaving her alone with their child.

When she could hold a pen in her hand, she sent a despairing letter to Madame Valmondé.

"My mother, they tell me I am not white. Armand has told me I am not white. For God's sake tell them it is

not true. You must know it is not true. I shall die. I I must die. I cannot be so unhappy, and live."

"My own Désirée: Come home to Valmondé; back to your mother who loves you Come with your child."

When the letter reached Désirée she went with it to her husband's study, and laid it open upon the desk before

which he sat. She was like a stone image: silent, white, motionless after she placed it there.

In silence he ran his cold eyes over the words. He said nothing. "Shall I go, Armand?" she asked in tones

He thought Almighty God had dealt cruelly and unjustly with him; and felt, somehow, that he was paying

Him back in kind when he stabbed thus into his wife's soul. Moreover he no longer loved her, because of the

She turned away like one stunned by a blow, and walked slowly towards the door, hoping he would call her

Désirée went in search of her child. Zandrine was pacing the sombre gallery with it. She took the little one

from the nurse's arms with no word of explanation, and descending the steps, walked away, under the

It was an October afternoon; the sun was just sinking. Out in the still fields the negroes were picking cotton.

Désirée had not changed the thin white garment nor the slippers which she wore. Her hair was uncovered and

the sun's rays brought a golden gleam from its brown meshes. She did not take the broad, beaten road which

led to the faroff plantation of Valmondé. She walked across a deserted field, where the stubble bruised her

tender feet, so delicately shod, and tore her thin gown to shreds. She disappeared among the reeds and

willows that grew thick along the banks of the deep, sluggish bayou; and she did not come back again.

Some weeks later there was a curious scene enacted at L'Abri. In the centre of the smoothly swept back yard

was a great bonfire. Armand Aubigny sat in the wide hallway that commanded a view of the spectacle; and it

was he who dealt out to a half dozen negroes the material which kept this fire ablaze.

A graceful cradle of willow, with all its dainty furbishings, was laid upon the pyre, which had already been

fed with the richness of a priceless layette. Then there were silk gowns, and velvet and satin ones added to

these; laces, too, and embroideries; bonnets and gloves; for the corbeille had been of rare quality.

The last thing to go was a tiny bundle of letters; innocent little scribblings that Désirée had sent to him during

the days of their espousal. There was the remnant of one back in the drawer from which he took them. But it

was not Désirée's; it was part of an old letter from his mother to his father. He read it. She was thanking God

"But, above all," she wrote, "night and day, I thank the good God for having so arranged our lives that our

dear Armand will never know that his mother, who adores him, belongs to the race that is cursed with the

THREE of Madame's finest bronze turkeys were missing from the brood. It was nearing Christmas, and that

was the reason, perhaps, that even Monsieur grew agitated when the discovery was made. The news was

brought to the house by Sévérin's boy, who had seen the troop at noon a half mile up the bayou three short.

Others reported the deficiency as even greater. So, at about two in the afternoon, though a cold drizzle had

begun to fall, popular feeling in the matter was so strong that all the household forces turned out to search for

Alice, the housemaid, went down the river, and Polisson, the yardboy, went up the bayou. Others crossed

Artemise is in some respects an extraordinary person. In age she is anywhere between ten and fifteen, with a

head not unlike in shape and appearance to a dark chocolatecolored Easteregg. She talks almost wholly in

monosyllables, and has big round glassy eyes, which she fixes upon one with the placid gaze of an Egyptian

The morning after my arrival at the plantation, I was awakened by the rattling of cups at my bedside. It was

"Is it cold out?" I asked, by way of conversation, as I sipped the tiny cup of inkblack coffee.

"Where do you sleep, Artemise?" I further inquired, with the same intention as before.

"In uh hole," was precisely what she said, with a pumplike motion of the arm that she habitually uses to

Again, another time, she came with an armful of wood, and having deposited it upon the hearth, turned to

"Did Madame send you to build a fire, Artemise?" I hastened to ask, feeling uncomfortable under the look.

There happened to be no matches in my room, and she evidently considered that all personal responsibility

ceased in face of this first and not very serious obstacle. Pages might be told of her unfathomable ways; but to

All afternoon the searching party kept returning, singly and in couples, and in a more or less bedraggled

condition. All brought unfavorable reports. Nothing could be seen of the missing fowls. Artemise had been

absent probably an hour when she glided into the hall where the family was assembled, and stood with

crossed hands and contemplative air beside the fire. We could see by the benign expression of her

countenance that she possibly had information to give, if any inducement were offered her in the shape of a

"You Artemise!" shouted Aunt Florindy, the cook, who was passing through the hall with a batch of newly

baked light bread. "She 's alyin', mist'ess, if dey ever was! You foun' dem turkeys?" turning upon the child.

"Whar was you at, de whole blesse' time? Warn't you stan'in' plank up agin de back o' de hen'ous'? Never

budged a inch? Don't jaw me down, gal; don't jaw me!" Artemise was only gazing at Aunt Florindy with

unruffled calm. "I warn't gwine tell on 'er, but arter dat untroof, I boun' to."

"Let her alone, Aunt Florindy," Madame interfered. "Where are the turkeys, Artemise?"

"Yon'a," she simply articulated, bringing the pumphandle motion of her arm into play.

Sure enough! The three missing turkeys had been accidentally locked up in the morning when the chickens

Artemise, for some unknown reason, had hidden herself during the search behind the henhouse, and had

MADAME CÉLESTIN always wore a neat and snugly fitting calico wrapper when she went out in the

morning to sweep her small gallery. Lawyer Paxton thought she looked very pretty in the gray one that was

made with a graceful Watteau fold at the back: and with which she invariably wore a bow of pink ribbon at

the throat. She was always sweeping her gallery when lawyer Paxton passed by in the morning on his way to

Sometimes he stopped and leaned over the fence to say goodmorning at his ease; to criticise or admire her

rosebushes; or, when he had time enough, to hear what she had to say. Madame Célestin usually had a good

deal to say. She would gather up the train of her calico wrapper in one hand, and balancing the broom

gracefully in the other, would go tripping down to where the lawyer leaned, as comfortably as he could, over

her picket fence. Of course she had talked to him of her troubles. Every one knew Madame Célestin's

"Really, madame," he told her once, in his deliberate, calculating, lawyertone, "it 's more than human nature

woman's nature should be called upon to endure. Here you are, working your fingers off" she glanced

down at two rosy fingertips that showed through the rents in her baggy doeskin gloves "taking in sewing;

giving music lessons; doing God knows what in the way of manual labor to support yourself and those two

little ones" Madame Célestin's pretty face beamed with satisfaction at this enumeration of her trials.

"You right, Judge. Not a picayune, not one, not one, have I lay my eyes on in the pas' fo' months that I can

"An' pourtant," she resumed, "they say he 's making money down roun' Alexandria w'en he wants to work."

"It 's good six month' since I see a sight of Célestin," she admitted. "That 's it, that 's what I say; he has

practically deserted you; fails to support you. It wouldn't surprise me a bit to learn that he has ill treated you."

"Well, you know, Judge," with an evasive cough, "a man that drinks w'at can you expec'? An' if you would

know the promises he has made me! Ah, if I had as many dolla' as I had promise from Célestin, I would n'

"And in my opinion, madame, you would be a foolish woman to endure it longer, when the divorce court is

"You spoke about that befo', Judge; I 'm goin' think about that divo'ce. I believe you right."

Madame Célestin thought about the divorce and talked about it, too; and lawyer Paxton grew deeply

"You know, about that divo'ce, Judge," Madame Célestin was waiting for him that morning, "I been talking

to my family an' my frien's, an' it 's me that tells you, they all plumb agains' that divo'ce."

"Certainly to be sure; that 's to be expected, madame, in this community of Creoles. I warned you that you

"Oh, don't fear, I 'm going to face it! Maman says it 's a disgrace like it 's neva been in the family. But it 's

good for Maman to talk, her. W'at trouble she ever had? She says I mus' go by all means consult with Père

Duchéron it 's my confessor, you undastan' Well, I 'll go, Judge, to please Maman. But all the confessor'

in the worl' ent goin' make me put up with that conduc' of Célestin any longa."

A day or two later, she was there waiting for him again. "You know, Judge, about that divo'ce."

"Yes, yes," responded the lawyer, well pleased to trace a new determination in her brown eyes and in the

curves of her pretty mouth. "I suppose you saw Père Duchéron and had to brave it out with him, too."

"Oh, fo' that, a perfec' sermon, I assho you. A talk of giving scandal an' bad example that I thought would

"You won't let the bishop dissuade you, I trust," stammered the lawyer more anxiously than he could well

understand. "You don't know me yet, Judge," laughed Madame Célestin with a turn of the head and a flirt of

"Well, Madame Célestin! And the bishop!" Lawyer Paxton was standing there holding to a couple of the

shaky pickets. She had not seen him. "Oh, it 's you, Judge?" and she hastened towards him with an

"Yes, I saw Monseigneur," she began. The lawyer had already gathered from her expressive countenance that

she had not wavered in her determination. "Ah, he 's a eloquent man. It 's not a mo' eloquent man in

Natchitoches parish. I was fo'ced to cry, the way he talked to me about my troubles; how he undastan's them,

an' feels for me. It would move even you, Judge, to hear how he talk' about that step I want to take; its danga,

its temptation. How it is the duty of a Catholic to stan' everything till the las' extreme. An' that life of

"But he has n't turned you from your resolve, I see," laughed the lawyer complacently. "For that, no," she

returned emphatically. "The bishop don't know w'at it is to be married to a man like Célestin, an' have to

endu' that conduc' like I have to endu' it. The Pope himse'f can't make me stan' that any longer, if you say I

A noticeable change had come over lawyer Paxton. He discarded his workday coat and began to wear his

Sunday one to the office. He grew solicitous as to the shine of his boots, his collar, and the set of his tie. He

brushed and trimmed his whiskers with a care that had not before been apparent. Then he fell into a stupid

habit of dreaming as he walked the streets of the old town. It would be very good to take unto himself a wife,

he dreamed. And he could dream of no other than pretty Madame Célestin filling that sweet and sacred office

as she filled his thoughts, now. Old Natchitoches would not hold them comfortably, perhaps; but the world

His heart beat in a strangely irregular manner as he neared Madame Célestin's house one morning, and

discovered her behind the rosebushes, as usual plying her broom. She had finished the gallery and steps and

"Ah, it 's you, Judge? Goodmorning." He waited. She seemed to be doing the same. Then she ventured, with

some hesitancy, "You know, Judge, about that divo'ce. I been thinking, I reckon you betta neva mine about

that divo'ce." She was making deep rings in the palm of her gloved hand with the end of the broomhandle,

and looking at them critically. Her face seemed to the lawyer to be unusually rosy; but maybe it was only the

reflection of the pink bow at the throat. "Yes, I reckon you need n' mine. You see, Judge, Célestin came home

las' night. An' he 's promise me on his word an' honor he 's going to turn ova a new leaf."

UPON the pleasant veranda of Père Antoine's cottage, that adjoined the church, a young girl had long been

seated, awaiting his return. It was the eve of Easter Sunday, and since early afternoon the priest had been

engaged in hearing the confessions of those who wished to make their Easters the following day. The girl did

not seem impatient at his delay; on the contrary, it was very restful to her to lie back in the big chair she had

found there, and peep through the thick curtain of vines at the people who occasionally passed along the

She was slender, with a frailness that indicated lack of wholesome and plentiful nourishment. A pathetic,

uneasy look was in her gray eyes, and even faintly stamped her features, which were fine and delicate. In lieu

of a hat, a barège veil covered her light brown and abundant hair. She wore a coarse white cotton "josie," and

As she sat there, she held carefully in her lap a parcel of eggs securely fastened in a red bandana

Twice already a handsome, stalwart young man in quest of the priest had entered the yard, and penetrated to

where she sat. At first they had exchanged the uncompromising "howdy" of strangers, and nothing more. The

second time, finding the priest still absent, he hesitated to go at once. Instead, he stood upon the step, and

narrowing his brown eyes, gazed beyond the river, off towards the west, where a murky streak of mist was

"You live yonda on the BonDieu, donc?" he asked, looking at her for the first time since he had spoken.

"Yas, by Nid d'Hibout, m'sieur." Instinctive courtesy held him from questioning her further. But he seated

himself on the step, evidently determined to wait there for the priest. He said no more, but sat scanning

critically the steps, the porch, and pillar beside him, from which he occasionally tore away little pieces of

A click at the side gate that communicated with the churchyard soon announced Père Antoine's return. He

came hurriedly across the gardenpath, between the tall, lusty rosebushes that lined either side of it, which

were now fragrant with blossoms. His long, flapping cassock added something of height to his undersized,

middleaged figure, as did the skullcap which rested securely back on his head. He saw only the young man

"Well, Azenor," he called cheerily in French, extending his hand. "How is this? I expected you all the week."

"Yes, monsieur; but I knew well what you wanted with me, and I was finishing the doors for GrosLéon's

new house;" saying which, he drew back, and indicated by a motion and look that some one was present who

"Ah, Lalie!" the priest exclaimed, when he had mounted to the porch, and saw her there behind the vines.

The priest, as he spoke, had drawn a chair, and seated himself beside her, with his hands comfortably

"And how is the grandmother?" he asked. "As cross and crabbed as ever? And with that" he added

reflectively "good for ten years yet! I said only yesterday to Butrand you know Butrand, he works on Le

Blôt's BonDieu place 'And that Madame Zidore: how is it with her, Butrand? I believe God has forgotten

her here on earth.' 'It is n't that, your reverence,' said Butrand, 'but it 's neither God nor the Devil that wants

her!' " And Père Antoine laughed with a jovial frankness that took all sting of illnature from his very pointed

Lalie did not reply when he spoke of her grandmother; she only pressed her lips firmly together, and picked

"I have come to ask, Monsieur Antoine," she began, lower than she needed to speak for Azenor had

withdrawn at once to the far end of the porch "to ask if you will give me a little scrap of paper a piece of

writing for Monsieur Chartrand at the store over there. I want new shoes and stockings for Easter, and I have

brought eggs to trade for them. He says he is willing, yes, if he was sure I would bring more every week till

With goodnatured indifference, Père Antoine wrote the order that the girl desired. He was too familiar with

distress to feel keenly for a girl who was able to buy Easter shoes and pay for them with eggs.

She went immediately away then, after shaking hands with the priest, and sending a quick glance of her

pathetic eyes towards Azenor, who had turned when he heard her rise, and nodded when he caught the look.

"How is it that you do not know Lalie Azenor? You surely must have seen her pass your house often. It lies

"No, I don't know her; I have never seen her," the young man replied, as he seated himself after the priest

and kept his eyes absently fixed on the store across the road, where he had seen her enter.

"Yes, yes. Well, you know, they say the old woman stole wood and things, I don't know how true it is,

"Yes, on Le Blôt's place, in a perfect wreck of a cabin. You see, she gets it for nothing; not a negro on the

"Surely, it can't be that old abandoned hovel near the swamp, that Michon occupied ages ago?" "That is the

"Old wretch to be sure, Azenor. But what can you expect from a woman who never crosses the threshold of

God's house who even tried to hinder the child doing so as well? But I went to her. I said: 'See here,

Madame Zidore,' you know it 's my way to handle such people without gloves, 'you may damn your soul

if you choose,' I told her, 'that is a privilege which we all have; but none of us has a right to imperil the

salvation of another. I want to see Lalie at mass hereafter on Sundays, or you will hear from me;' and I shook

my stick under her nose. Since then the child has never missed a Sunday. But she is half starved, you can see

that. You saw how shabby she is how broken her shoes are? She is at Chartrand's now, trading for new ones

with those eggs she brought, poor thing! There is no doubt of her being illtreated. Butraud says he thinks

Madame Zidore even beats the child. I don't know how true it is, for no power can make her utter a word

Azenor, whose face was a kind and sensitive one, had paled with distress as the priest spoke; and now at

these final words he quivered as though he felt the sting of a cruel blow upon his own flesh.

But no more was said of Lalie, for Père Antoine drew the young man's attention to the carpenterwork which

he wished to intrust to him. When they had talked the matter over in all its lengthy details, Azenor mounted

A moment's gallop carried him outside the village. Then came a halfmile strip along the river to cover. Then

the lane to enter, in which stood his dwelling midway, upon a low, pleasant knoll.

As Azenor turned into the lane, he saw the figure of Lalie far ahead of him. Somehow he had expected to find

her there, and he watched her again as he had done through Père Antoine's vines. When she passed his house,

he wondered if she would turn to look at it. But she did not. How could she know it was his? Upon reaching

it himself, he did not enter the yard, but stood there motionless, his eyes always fastened upon the girl's

figure. He could not see, away off there, how coarse her garments were. She seemed, through the distance

that divided them, as slim and delicate as a flowerstalk. He stayed till she reached the turn of the lane and

Mass had not yet begun when Azenor tiptoed into church on Easter morning. He did not take his place with

the congregation, but stood close to the holywater font, and watched the people who entered.

Almost every girl who passed him wore a white mull, a dotted swiss, or a freshstarched muslin at least.

They were bright with ribbons that hung from their persons, and flowers that bedecked their hats. Some

carried fans and cambric handkerchiefs. Most of them wore gloves, and were odorant of poudre de riz and

But there was one who came emptyhanded, save for the worn prayerbook which she bore. It was Lalie, the

veil upon her head, and wearing the blue print and cotton bodice which she had worn the day before.

He dipped his hand into the holy water when she came, and held it out to her, though he had not thought of

doing this for the others. She touched his fingers with the tips of her own, making a slight inclination as she

did so; and after a deep genuflection before the Blessed Sacrament, passed on to the side. He was not sure if

she had known him. He knew she had not looked into his eyes, for he would have felt it.

He was angered against other young women who passed him, because of their flowers and ribbons, when she

wore none. He himself did not care, but he feared she might, and watched her narrowly to see if she did.

But it was plain that Lalie did not care. Her face, as she seated herself, settled into the same restful lines it had

worn yesterday, when she sat in Père Antoine's big chair. It seemed good to her to be there. Sometimes she

looked up at the little colored panes through which the Easter sun was streaming; then at the flaming candles,

like stars; or at the embowered figures of Joseph and Mary, flanking the central tabernacle which shrouded

the risen Christ. Yet she liked just as well to watch the young girls in their spring freshness, or to sensuously

inhale the mingled odor of flowers and incense that filled the temple. Lalie was among the last to quit the

church. When she walked down the clean pathway that led from it to the road, she looked with pleased

curiosity towards the groups of men and maidens who were gayly matching their Eastereggs under the

Azenor was among them, and when he saw her coming solitary down the path, he approached her and, with a

smile, extended his hat, whose crown was quite lined with the pretty colored eggs.

But he urged them anew upon her. Much pleased, then, she bent her pretty head over the hat, and was

"Yere," he said, handing it to her, "I think this is the pretties'; an' it look' strong too. I 'm sho' it will break all

of the res'." And he playfully held out another, halfhidden in his fist, for her to try its strength upon. But she

refused to. She would not risk the ruin of her pretty egg. Then she walked away, without once having noticed

When he rejoined them, he was hardly prepared for their greeting; it startled him.

"How come you talk to that girl? She 's real canaille, her," was what one of them said to him.

"Who say' so? Who say she 's canaille? If it 's a man, I 'll smash 'is head!" he exclaimed, livid. They all

"An' if it 's a lady, Azenor? W'at you goin' to do 'bout it?" asked another, quizzingly.

"T ain' no lady. No lady would say that 'bout a po' girl, w'at she don't even know."

He turned away, and emptying all his eggs into the hat of a little urchin who stood near, walked out of the

churchyard. He did not stop to exchange another word with any one; neither with the men who stood all

endimanchés before the stores, nor the women who were mounting upon horses and into vehicles, or walking

in groups to their homes. He took a short cut across the cottonfield that extended back of the town, and

walking rapidly, soon reached his home. It was a pleasant house of few rooms and many windows, with fresh

air blowing through from every side; his workshop was beside it. A broad strip of greensward, studded here

Azenor entered the kitchen, where an amiable old black woman was chopping onion and sage at a table.

"Tranquiline," he said abruptly, "they 's a young girl goin' to pass yere afta a w'ile. She 's got a blue dress an'

w'ite josie on, an' a veil on her head. W'en you see her, I want you to go to the road an' make her res' there on

the bench, an' ask her if she don't want a cup o' coffee. I saw her go to communion, me; so she did n't eat any

breakfas'. Eve'ybody else f'om out o' town, that went to communion, got invited somew'ere another. It 's

"An' you want me ter go down to de gate, jis' so, an' ax 'er pineblank ef she wants some coffee?" asked the

bewildered Tranquiline. "I don't care if you ask her poin' blank o' not; but you do like I say." Tranquiline was

"Non; not yalla, an' not with black spot'. Mais I see one li'le w'ite calf tie by a rope, yonda 'roun' the ben'."

"Dat warn't hit. Dis heah one was yalla. I hope he done flung hisse'f down de bank an' broke his nake. Sarve

'im right! But whar you come f'om, chile? You look plum wo' out. Set down dah on dat bench, an' le' me

Azenor had already in his eagerness arranged a tray, upon which was a smoking cup of café au lait. He had

buttered and jellied generous slices of bread, and was searching wildly for something when Tranquiline

"W'at become o' that half of chickenpie, Tranquiline, that was yere in the garde manger yesterday?"

"W'at chickenpie? W'at garde manger?" blustered the woman. "Like we got mo' 'en one garde manger in the

"You jis' like ole Ma'ame Azenor use' to be, you is! You 'spec' chickenpie gwine las' etarnal? W'en some'pin

So Azenor resigned himself, what else could he do? and sent the tray, incomplete, as he fancied it, out to

He trembled at thought of what he did; he, whose nerves were usually as steady as some piece of steel

Would it anger her if she suspected? Would it please her if she knew? Would she say this or that to

As it was Sunday, Azenor did not work that afternoon. Instead, he took a book out under the trees, as he often

did, and sat reading it, from the first sound of the Vesper bell, that came faintly across the fields, till the

Angelus. All that time! He turned many a page, yet in the end did not know what he had read. With his pencil

. . . . . Another Sunday Azenor saw Lalie at Mass and again. Once he walked with her and showed her the

short cut across the cottonfield. She was very glad that day, and told him she was going to work her

grandmother said she might. She was going to hoe, up in the fields with Monsieur Le Blôt's hands. He

entreated her not to; and when she asked his reason, he could not tell her, but turned and tore shyly and

Then they stopped where she was going to cross the fence from the field into the lane. He wanted to tell her

that was his house which they could see not far away; but he did not dare to, since he had fed her there on the

"An' you say yo' gran'ma's goin' to let you work? She keeps you f'om workin', donc?" He wanted to question

"Po' ole grand'mère!" she answered. "I don' b'lieve she know mos' time w'at she 's doin'. Sometime she say' I

aint no betta an' one nigga, an' she fo'ce me to work. Then she say she know I 'm goin' be one canaille like

maman, an' she make me set down still, like she would want to kill me if I would move. Her, she on'y want'

to be out in the wood', day an' night, day an' night. She ain' got her right head, po' grand'mère. I know she

Lalie had spoken low and in jerks, as if every word gave her pain. Azenor could feel her distress as plainly as

he saw it. He wanted to say something to her to do something for her. But her mere presence paralyzed him

into inactivity except his pulses, that beat like hammers when he was with her. Such a poor, shabby little

"I 'm goin' to wait yere nex' Sunday fo' you, Lalie," he said, when the fence was between them. And he

But the next Sunday she did not come. She was neither at the appointed place of meeting in the lane, nor was

she at mass. Her absence so unexpected affected Azenor like a calamity. Late in the afternoon, when he

could stand the trouble and bewilderment of it no longer, he went and leaned over Père Antoine's fence. The

priest was picking the slugs from his roses on the other side. "That young girl from the BonDieu," said

Azenor "she was not at mass today. I suppose her grandmother has forgotten your warning."

"No," answered the priest. "The child is ill, I hear. Butrand tells me she has been ill for several days from

overwork in the fields. I shall go out tomorrow to see about her. I would go today, if I could."

"The child is ill," was all Azenor heard or understood of Père Antoine's words. He turned and walked

resolutely away, like one who determines suddenly upon action after meaningless hesitation.

He walked towards his home and past it, as if it were a spot that did not concern him. He went on down the

Here all was shadow, for the sun had dipped too low in the west to send a single ray through the dense foliage

Now that he found himself on the way to Lalie's home, he strove to understand why he had not gone there

before. He often visited other girls in the village and neighborhood, why not have gone to her, as well? The

answer lay too deep in his heart for him to be more than halfconscious of it. Fear had kept him, dread to

But now he was going to her at last. She was ill. He would stand upon that dismantled porch that he could

just remember. Doubtless Ma'ame Zidore would come out to know his will, and he would tell her that Père

Antoine had sent to inquire how Mamzelle Lalie was. No! Why drag in Père Antoine? He would simply stand

boldly and say, "Ma'ame Zidore, I learn that Lalie is ill. I have come to know if it is true, and to see her, if I

When Azenor reached the cabin where Lalie dwelt, all sign of day had vanished. Dusk had fallen swiftly after

the sunset. The moss that hung heavy from great liveoak branches was making fantastic silhouettes against

the eastern sky that the big, round moon was beginning to light. Off in the swamp beyond the bayou,

hundreds of dismal voices were droning a lullaby. Upon the hovel itself, a stillness like death rested.

Oftener than once Azenor tapped upon the door, which was closed as well as it could be, without obtaining a

reply. He finally approached one of the small unglazed windows, in which coarse mosquitonetting had been

By the moonlight slanting in he could see Lalie stretched upon a bed; but of Ma'ame Zidore there was no

The girl slightly moved her head upon the pillow. Then he boldly opened the door and entered.

Upon a wretched bed, over which was spread a cover of patched calico, Lalie lay, her frail body only half

concealed by the single garment that was upon it. One hand was plunged beneath her pillow; the other, which

was free, he touched. It was as hot as flame; so was her head. He knelt sobbing upon the floor beside her, and

called her his love and his soul. He begged her to speak a word to him, to look at him. But she only

muttered disjointedly that the cotton was all turning to ashes in the fields, and the blades of the corn were in

If he was choked with love and grief to see her so, he was moved by anger as well; rage against himself,

against Père Antoine, against the people upon the plantation and in the village, who had so abandoned a

helpless creature to misery and maybe death. Because she had been silent had not lifted her voice in

But surely the people could not be utterly without heart. There must be one somewhere with the spirit of

Christ. Père Antoine would tell him of such a one, and he would carry Lalie to her, out of this atmosphere

of death. He was in haste to be gone with her. He fancied every moment of delay was a fresh danger

He folded the rude bedcover over Lalie's naked limbs, and lifted her in his arms. She made no resistance.

She seemed only loath to withdraw her hand from beneath the pillow. When she did, he saw that she held

lightly but firmly clasped in her encircling fingers the pretty Easteregg he had given her! He uttered a low

cry of exultation as the full significance of this came over him. If she had hung for hours upon his neck

telling him that she loved him, he could not have known it more surely than by this sign. Azenor felt as if

some mysterious bond had all at once drawn them heart to heart and made them one.

No need now to go from door to door begging admittance for her. She was his. She belonged to him. He

knew now where her place was, whose roof must shelter her, and whose arms protect her.

So Azenor, with his loved one in his arms, walked through the forest, surefooted as a panther. Once, as he

walked, he could hear in the distance the weird chant which Ma'ame Zidore was crooning to the moon,

Once, where the water was trickling cool through rocks, he stopped to lave Lalie's hot cheeks and hands and

forehead. He had not once touched his lips to her. But now, when a sudden great fear came upon him because

she did not know him, instinctively he pressed his lips upon hers that were parched and burning. He held

Then she knew him. She did not tell him so, but her stiffened fingers relaxed their tense hold upon the Easter

bauble. It fell to the ground as she twined her arm around his neck; and he understood.

"Stay close by her, Tranquiline," said Azenor, when he had laid Lalie upon his own couch at home. "I 'm

goin' for the doctor en' for Père Antoine. Not because she is goin' to die," he added hastily, seeing the awe

that crept into the woman's face at mention of the priest. "She is goin' to live! Do you think I would let my

SHE was a halfbreed Indian girl, with hardly a rag to her back. To the ladies of the Band of United

Endeavor who questioned her, she said her name was Loka, and she did not know where she belonged, unless

She had appeared one day at the side door of Frobissaint's "oyster saloon" in Natchitoches, asking for food.

Frobissaint, a practical philanthropist, engaged her on the spot as tumblerwasher.

She was not successful at that; she broke too many tumblers. But, as Frobissaint charged her with the broken

glasses, he did not mind, until she began to break them over the heads of his customers. Then he seized her

by the wrist and dragged her before the Band of United Endeavor, then in session around the corner. This was

considerate on Frobissaint's part, for he could have dragged her just as well to the police station.

Loka was not beautiful, as she stood in her red calico rags before the scrutinizing band. Her coarse, black,

unkempt hair framed a broad, swarthy face without a redeeming feature, except eyes that were not bad; slow

She did not know how old she was. The minister's wife reckoned she might be sixteen. The judge's wife

thought that it made no difference. The doctor's wife suggested that the girl have a bath and change before

she be handled, even in discussion. The motion was not seconded. Loka's ultimate disposal was an urgent and

Madame Laballière, the planter's wife, knew a respectable family of 'Cadians living some miles below, who,

she thought, would give the girl a home, with benefit to all concerned. The 'Cadian woman was a deserving

one, with a large family of small children, who had all her own work to do. The husband cropped in a modest

way. Loka would not only be taught to work at the Padues', but would receive a good moral training beside.

That settled it. Every one agreed with the planter's wife that it was a chance in a thousand; and Loka was sent

to sit on the steps outside, while the band proceeded to the business next in order.

Loka was afraid of treading upon the little Padues when she first got amongst them, there were so many of

them, and her feet were like leaden weights, encased in the strong brogans with which the band had

Madame Padue, a small, blackeyed, aggressive woman, questioned her in a sharp, direct fashion peculiar to

"I kin talk English good 's anybody; an' lit' bit Choctaw, too," she offered, apologetically.

"Ma foi, you kin fo'git yo' Choctaw. Soona the betta for me. Now if you willin', an' ent too lazy an' sassy, we

'll git 'long somehow. Vrai sauvage ça," she muttered under her breath, as she turned to initiate Loka into

She herself was a worker. A good deal more fussy one than her easygoing husband and children thought

necessary or agreeable. Loka's slow ways and heavy motions aggravated her. It was in vain Monsieur Padue

"She 's vrai savage, that 's w'at. It 's got to be work out of her," was Tontine's only reply to such

The girl was indeed so deliberate about her tasks that she had to be urged constantly to accomplish the

amount of labor that Tontine required of her. Moreover, she carried to her work a stolid indifference that was

exasperating. Whether at the washtub, scrubbing the floors, weeding the garden, or learning her lessons and

It was only when intrusted with the care of little Bibine, the baby, that Loka crept somewhat out of her

apathy. She grew very fond of him. No wonder; such a baby as he was! So good, so fat, and complaisant! He

had such a way of clasping Loka's broad face between his pudgy fists and savagely biting her chin with his

hard, toothless gums! Such a way of bouncing in her arms as if he were mounted upon springs! At his antics

the girl would laugh a wholesome, ringing laugh that was good to hear. She was left alone to watch and nurse

him one day. An accommodating neighbor who had become the possessor of a fine new spring wagon passed

by just after the noonhour meal, and offered to take the whole family on a jaunt to town. The offer was all

the more tempting as Tontine had some longdelayed shopping to do; and the opportunity to equip the

children with shoes and summer hats could not be slighted. So away they all went. All but Bibine, who was

This branle consisted of a strong circular piece of cotton cloth, securely but slackly fastened to a large, stout

hoop suspended by three light cords to a hook in a rafter of the gallery. The baby who has not swung in a

branle does not know the quintessence of baby luxury. In each of the four rooms of the house was a hook

Often it was taken out under the trees. But today it swung in the shade of the open gallery; and Loka sat

beside it, giving it now and then a slight impetus that sent it circling in slow, sleepinspiring undulations.

Bibine kicked and cooed as long as he was able. But Loka was humming a monotonous lullaby; the branle

was swaying to and fro, the warm air fanning him deliciously; and Bibine was soon fast asleep.

Seeing this, Loka quietly let down the mosquito net, to protect the child's slumber from the intrusion of the

Singularly enough, there was no work for her to do; and Tontine, in her hurried departure, had failed to

provide for the emergency. The washing and ironing were over; the floors had been scrubbed, and the rooms

righted; the yard swept; the chickens fed; vegetables picked and washed. There was absolutely nothing to do,

As she sat comfortably back in the roomy rocker, she let her eyes sweep lazily across the country. Away off

to the right peeped up, from amid densely clustered trees, the pointed roofs and long pipe of the steamgin of

Laballière 's. No other habitation was visible except a few low, flat dwellings far over the river, that could

The immense plantation took up all the land in sight. The few acres that Baptiste Padue cultivated were his

own, that Laballière, out of friendly consideration, had sold to him. Baptiste's fine crop of cotton and corn

was "laid by" just now, waiting for rain; and Baptiste had gone with the rest of the family to town. Beyond

Loka's gaze, that had been slowly traveling along the edge of the horizon, finally fastened upon the woods,

and stayed there. Into her eyes came the absent look of one whose thought is projected into the future or the

past, leaving the present blank. She was seeing a vision. It had come with a whiff that the strong south breeze

She was seeing old Marot, the squaw who drank whiskey and plaited baskets and beat her. There was

something, after all, in being beaten, if only to scream out and fight back, as at that time in Natchitoches,

when she broke a glass on the head of a man who laughed at her and pulled her hair, and called her "fool

Old Marot wanted her to steal and cheat, to beg and lie, when they went out with the baskets to sell. Loka did

not want to. She did not like to. That was why she had run away and because she was beaten. But but ah!

the scent of the sassafras leaves hanging to dry in the shade! The pungent camomile! The sound of the bayou

tumbling over that old slimy log! Only to lie there for hours and watch the glistening lizards glide in and out

She knew the birds must be singing in chorus out there in the woods where the gray moss was hanging, and

the trumpetvine trailing from the trees, spangled with blossoms. In spirit she heard the songsters.

She wondered if Choctaw Joe and Sambite played dice every night by the campfire, as they used to do; and if

they still fought and slashed each other when wild with drink. How good it felt to walk with moccasined feet

over the springy turf, under the trees! What fun to trap the squirrels, to skin the otter; to take those swift

Loka sat motionless; only her breast heaved tumultuously. Her heart was aching with savage homesickness.

She could not feel just then that the sin and pain of that life were anything beside the joy of its freedom.

Loka was sick for the woods. She felt she must die if she could not get back to them, and to her vagabond

life. Was there anything to hinder her? She stooped and unlaced the brogans that were chafing her feet,

removed them and her stockings, and threw the things away from her. She stood up all aquiver, panting,

But there was a sound that stopped her. It was little Bibine, cooing, sputtering, battling hands and feet with

the mosquito net that he had dragged over his face. The girl uttered a sob as she reached down for the baby

she had grown to love so, and clasped him in her arms. She could not go and leave Bibine behind.

Tontine began to grumble at once when she discovered that Loka was not at hand to receive them on their

"Bon!" she exclaimed. "Now w'ere is that Loka? Ah, that girl, she aggravates me too much. Firs' thing she

knows I 'm goin' sen' her straight back to them ban' of lady w'ere she come frum."

"Loka!" she called, in short, sharp tones, as she traversed the house and peered into each room. "Lo ka!"

She cried loudly enough to be heard half a mile away when she got out upon the back gallery. Again and

Baptiste was exchanging the discomfort of his Sunday coat for the accustomed ease of shirt sleeves.

"Mais don't git so excite, Tontine," he implored. "I 'm sho she 's yonda to the crib shellin' co'n, or somew'ere

"Run, François, you, an' see to the crib," the mother commanded. "Bibine mus' be starve! Run to the

henhouse an' look, Juliette. Maybe she 's fall asleep in some corna. That 'll learn me 'notha time to go trus'

When it was discovered that Loka was nowhere in the immediate vicinity, Tontine was furious.

"I 'll saddle the hoss an' go see, Tontine," interposed Baptiste, who was beginning to share his wife's

"Go, go, Baptiste," she urged. "An' you, boys, run yonda down the road to ole Aunt Judy's cabin an' see." It

was found that Loka had not been seen at Laballière's, nor at Aunt Judy's cabin; that she had not taken the

boat, that was still fastened to its moorings down the bank. Then Tontine's excitement left her. She turned

pale and sat quietly down in her room, with an unnatural calm that frightened the children.

Some of them began to cry. Baptiste walked restlessly about, anxiously scanning the country in all directions.

A wretched hour dragged by. The sun had set, leaving hardly an afterglow, and in a little while the twilight

Baptiste was preparing to mount his horse, to start out again on the round he had already been over. Tontine

sat in the same state of intense abstraction when François, who had perched himself among the lofty branches

of a chinaberry tree, called out: "Ent that Loka 'way yon'a, jis' come out de wood? climbin' de fence down by

It was difficult to distinguish in the gathering dusk if the figure were that of man or beast. But the family was

not left long in suspense. Baptiste sped his horse away in the direction indicated by François, and in a little

while he was galloping back with Bibine in his arms; as fretful, sleepy and hungry a baby as ever was.

Loka came trudging on behind Baptiste. He did not wait for explanations; he was too eager to place the child

in the arms of its mother. The suspense over, Tontine began to cry; that followed naturally, of course.

Through her tears she managed to address Loka, who stood all tattered and disheveled in the doorway:

"Bibine an' me," answered Loka, slowly and awkwardly, "we was lonesome we been take lit' 'broad in de

"You didn' know no betta 'an to take 'way Bibine like that? W'at Ma'ame Laballière mean, anyhow, to sen' me

"You go'n' sen' me 'way?" asked Loka, passing her hand in a hopeless fashion over her frowzy hair.

"Par exemple! straight you march back to that ban' w'ere you come from. To give me such a fright like that!

"Go slow, Tontine; go slow," interposed Baptiste. "Don' sen' me 'way frum Bibine," entreated the girl, with a

"Today," she went on, in her dragging manner, "I want to run 'way bad, an' take to de wood; an' go yonda

back to Bayou Choctaw to steal an' lie agin. It 's on'y Bibine w'at hole me back. I could n' lef' 'im. I could n'

do dat. An' we jis' go take lit' 'broad in de wood, das all, him an' me. Don' sen' me 'way like dat!"

Baptiste led the girl gently away to the far end of the gallery, and spoke soothingly to her. He told her to be

good and brave, and he would right the trouble for her. He left her standing there and went back to his wife.

"Tontine," he began, with unusual energy, "you got to listen to the truth once fo' all." He had evidently

determined to profit by his wife's lachrymose and wilted condition to assert his authority.

"I want to say who 's masta in this house it 's me," he went on. Tontine did not protest; only clasped the

"You been grind that girl too much. She ent a bad girl I been watch her close, 'count of the chil'ren; she ent

bad. All she want, it 's li'le mo' rope. You can't drive a ox with the same gearin' you drive a mule. You got to

"That girl, she done tole us how she was temp' today to turn canaille like we all temp' sometime'. W'at was

it save her? That li'le chile w'at you hole in yo' arm. An' now you want to take her guarjun angel 'way f'om

her? Non, non, ma, femme," he said, resting his hand gently upon his wife's head. "We got to rememba she

WHEN Boulôt and Boulotte, the little pinywood twins, had reached the dignified age of twelve, it was

decided in family council that the time had come for them to put their little naked feet into shoes. They were

two brownskinned, blackeyed 'Cadian rolypolies, who lived with father and mother and a troop of

brothers and sisters halfway up the hill, in a neat log cabin that had a substantial mud chimney at one end.

They could well afford shoes now, for they had saved many a picayune through their industry of selling wild

grapes, blackberries, and "socoes" to ladies in the village who "put up" such things.

Boulôt and Boulotte were to buy the shoes themselves, and they selected a Saturday afternoon for the

important transaction, for that is the great shopping time in Natchitoches Parish. So upon a bright Saturday

afternoon Boulôt and Boulotte, hand in hand, with their quarters, their dimes, and their picayunes tied

carefully in a Sunday handkerchief, descended the hill, and disappeared from the gaze of the eager group that

Long before it was time for their return, this same small band, with ten year old Seraphine at their head,

holding a tiny Seraphin in her arms, had stationed themselves in a row before the cabin at a convenient point

Even before the two could be caught sight of, their chattering voices were heard down by the spring, where

they had doubtless stopped to drink. The voices grew more and more audible. Then, through the branches of

the young pines, Boulotte's blue sunbonnet appeared, and Boulôt's straw hat. Finally the twins, hand in

"You bof crazy donc, Boulôt an' Boulotte," screamed Seraphine. "You go buy shoes, an' come home barefeet

Boulôt flushed crimson. He silently hung his head, and looked sheepishly down at his bare feet, then at the

Boulotte also carried shoes, but of the glossiest, with the highest of heels and brightest of buttons. But she

"You 'spec' Boulôt an' me we got money fur was'e us?" she retorted, with withering condescension. "You

And they all walked into the house crestfallen; all but Boulotte, who was mistress of the situation, and

"AN' now, young man, w'at you want to remember is this an' take it fer yo' motto: 'No monkeyshines with

Uncle Sam.' You undastan'? You aware now o' the penalties attached to monkeyshinin' with Uncle Sam. I

reckon that 's 'bout all I got to say; so you be on han' promp' tomorrow mornin' at seven o'clock, to take

This formed the close of a very pompous address delivered by the postmaster of Cloutierville to young

Armand Verchette, who had been appointed to carry the mails from the village to the railway station three

Armand or Chouchoute, as every one chose to call him, following the habit of the Creoles in giving

Not so the negro boy who accompanied him. The child had listened with the deepest respect and awe to every

word of the rambling admonition. "How much you gwine git, Marse Chouchoute?" he asked, as they walked

down the village street together, the black boy a little behind. He was very black, and slightly deformed; a

small boy, scarcely reaching to the shoulder of his companion, whose castoff garments he wore. But

"W'y, I 'm goin' to git thirty dolla' a month, Wash; w'at you say to that? Betta 'an hoein' cotton, ain't it?" He

But Wash did not laugh; he was too much impressed by the importance of this new function, too much

bewildered by the vision of sudden wealth which thirty dollars a month meant to his understanding.

He felt, too, deeply conscious of the great weight of responsibility which this new office brought with it. The

"You gwine git all dat money? Sakes! W'at you reckon Ma'ame Verchette say? I know she gwine mos' take a

But Chonchoute's mother did not "mos' take a fit" when she heard of her son's good fortune. The white and

wasted hand which she rested upon the boy's black curls trembled a little, it is true, and tears of emotion came

into her tired eyes. This step seemed to her the beginning of better things for her fatherless boy.

They lived quite at the end of this little French village, which was simply two long rows of very old frame

Their home was a cottage, so small and so humble that it just escaped the reproach of being a cabin.

Every one was kind to Madame Verchette. Neighbors ran in of mornings to help her with her work she

could do so little for herself. And often the good priest, Père Antoine, came to sit with her and talk innocent

To say that Wash was fond of Madame Verchette and her son is to be poor in language to express devotion.

Chouchoute was a delightful young fellow; no one could help loving him. His heart was as warm and cheery

as his own southern sunbeams. If he was born with an unlucky trick of forgetfulness or better,

thoughtlessness no one ever felt much like blaming him for it, so much did it seem a part of his happy,

careless nature. And why was that faithful watchdog, Wash, always at Marse Chouchoute's heels, if it were

One beautiful spring night, Chouchoute, on his way to the station, was riding along the road that skirted the

river. The clumsy mailbag that lay before him across the pony was almost empty; for the Cloutierville mail

But he did not know this. He was not thinking of the mail, in fact; he was only feeling that life was very

There were cabins at intervals upon the road most of them darkened, for the hour was late. As he

approached one of these, which was more pretentious than the others, he heard the sound of a fiddle, and saw

It was so far from the road that when he stopped his horse and peered through the darkness he could not

recognize the dancers who passed before the open doors and windows. But he knew this was GrosLéon's

Why should he not go and stand in the doorway an instant and exchange a word with the dancers?

Chouchoute dismounted, fastened his horse to the fencepost, and proceeded towards the house.

The room, crowded with people young and old, was long and low, with rough beams across the ceiling,

blackened by smoke and time. Upon the high mantelpiece a single coaloil lamp burned, and none too

In a far corner, upon a platform of boards laid across two flour barrels, sat Uncle Ben, playing upon a

"S'lute yo' partnas!" Uncle Ben was thundering forth; and Chouchoute, with one hand gracefully behind him,

made a profound bow to Miss Léontine, as he offered her the other. Now Chouchoute was noted far and wide

for his skill as a dancer. The moment he stood upon the floor, a fresh spirit seemed to enter into all present. It

was with renewed vigor that Uncle Ben intoned his "Balancy all! Fus' fo' fo'ard an' back!"

The spectators drew close about the couples to watch Chouchoute's wonderful performance; his pointing of

"It take Chouchoute to show 'em de step, va!" proclaimed GrosLéon, with a fat satisfaction, to the audience

"Look 'im! look 'im yonda! Ole Ben got to work hard' 'an dat, if he want to keep up wid Chouchoute, I tell

So it was; encouragement and adulation on all sides, till, from the praise that was showered on him,

At the windows appeared the dusky faces of negroes, their bright eyes gleaming as they viewed the scene

within and mingled their loud guffaws with the medley of sound that was already deafening.

The time was speeding. The air was heavy in the room, but no one seemed to mind this. Uncle Ben was

Chouchoute turned with a smile to Miss Félicie on his left, his hand extended, when what should break upon

Before the sound ceased he had vanished from the room. Miss Félicie stood as he left her, with hand uplifted,

It was the train whistling for his station, and he a mile and more away! He knew he was too late, and that he

could not make the distance; but the sound had been a rude reminder that he was not at his post of duty.

However, he would do what he could now. He ran swiftly to the outer road, and to the spot where he had left

For an instant Chouchoute stood halfstunned with terror. Then, in one quick flash, came to his mind a vision

of possibilities that sickened him. Disgrace overtaking him in this position of trust; poverty his portion again;

He turned desperately to some negroes who had followed him, seeing his wild rush from the house:

"Who you reckon tech yo' hoss, boy?" grumbled Gustave, a sullenlooking mulatto. "You didn' have no call

" 'Pear to me like I heahed a hoss alopin' down de road jis' now; didn' you, Uncle Jake?" ventured a second.

"Neva heahed nuttin' nuttin' 't all, 'cep' dat bigmouf Ben yonda makin' mo' fuss 'an a t'undasto'm."

"Boys!" cried Chouchoute, excitedly, "bring me a hoss, quick, one of you. I 'm boun' to have one! I 'm boun'

Near at hand, in the "lot" that adjoined Uncle Jake's cabin, was his little creole pony, nibbling the cool, wet

The negro led the pony forth. With no further word, and with one bound, Chouchoute was upon the animal's

back. He wanted neither saddle nor bridle, for there were few horses in the neighborhood that had not been

Once mounted, he threw himself forward with a certain violent impulse, leaning till his cheek touched the

He uttered a sharp "Hei!" and at once, as if possessed by sudden frenzy, the horse dashed forward, leaving the

What a mad ride it was! On one side was the river bank, steep in places and crumbling away; on the other an

unbroken line of fencing; now in straight lines of neat planking, now treacherous barbed wire, sometimes the

The night was black, with only such faint light as the stars were shedding. No sound was to be heard save the

quick thud of the horse's hoofs upon the hard dirt road, the animal's heavy breathing, and the boy's feverish

Occasionally a marauding dog started from the obscurity to bark and give useless chase. "To the road, to the

road, Bonàrien!" panted Chouchoute, for the horse in his wild race had approached so closely to the river's

edge that the bank crumbled beneath his flying feet. It was only by a desperate lunge and bound that he saved

Chouchoute hardly knew what he was pursuing so madly. It was rather something that drove him; fear, hope,

He was rushing to the station, because it seemed to him, naturally, the first thing to do. There was the faint

hope that his own horse had broken rein and gone there of his own accord; but such hope was almost lost in a

wretched conviction that had seized him the instant he saw "Gustave the thief " among the men gathered at

The lights of the railway station were gleaming ahead, and Chouchoute's hot ride was almost at an end.

With sudden and strange perversity of purpose, Chouchoute, as he drew closer upon the station, slackened his

horse's speed. A low fence was in his way. Not long before, he would have cleared it at a bound, for

Bonàrien could do such things. Now he cantered easily to the end of it, to go through the gate which was

His courage was growing faint, and his heart sinking within him as he drew nearer and nearer.

He dismounted, and holding the pony by the mane, approached with some trepidation the young

stationmaster, who was taking note of some freight that had been deposited near the tracks.

"Mr. Hudson," faltered Chouchoute, "did you see my pony 'roun' yere anywhere? an' an' the mailsack?"

"Your pony 's safe in the woods, Chou'te. The mailbag 's on its way to New Orleans"

"But that poor little fool darkey of yours has about done it for himself, I guess."

"He 's inside there, on my mattress. He 's hurt, and he 's hurt bad; that 's what 's the matter. You see the ten

fortyfive had come in, and she did n't make much of a stop; she was just pushing out, when bless me if that

little chap of yours did n't come tearing along on Spunky as if Old Harry was behind him. "You know how

No. 22 can pull at the start; and there was that little imp keeping abreast of her 'most under the thing's wheels.

"I shouted at him. I could n't make out what he was up to, when blamed if he did n't pitch the mailbag clean

"Then Spunky, she shied; and Wash he bounced against the side of that car and back, like a rubber ball, and

"I 've wired down the road for Doctor Campbell to come up on 14 and do what he can for him."

Hudson had related these events to the distracted boy while they made their way toward the house.

Inside, upon a low pallet, lay the little negro, breathing heavily, his black face pinched and ashen with

approaching death. He had wanted no one to touch him further than to lay him upon the bed.

The few men and colored women gathered in the room were looking upon him with pity mingled with

When he saw Chouchoute he closed his eyes and a shiver passed through his small frame. Those about him

"Marse Chouchoute," the boy whispered, so low that no one could hear him but his friend, "I was gwine 'long

de big road, pas' Marse GrosLéon's, an' I seed Spunky tied dah wid de mail. Dar warn't a minute I 'clar',

Marse Chouchoute, dar warn't a minute to fotch you. W'at makes my head tu'n 'roun' dat away?"

"Dar warn't a minute, so I gits top o' Spunky I neva seed nuttin' cl'ar de road like dat. I come 'long side de

train an' fling de sack. I seed 'im kotch it, and I don' know nuttin' mo' 'cep' mis'ry, tell I see you acomin'

frough de do'. Mebby Ma'ame Armand know some'pin," he murmured faintly, "w'at gwine make my head

quit tu'nin' 'round dat away. I boun' to git well, 'ca'se who gwine watch Marse Chouchoute?"

EVERY one who came up from Avoyelles had the same story to tell of Mentine. Cher Maître! but she was

changed. And there were babies, more than she could well manage; as good as four already. Jules was not

kind except to himself. They seldom went to church, and never anywhere upon a visit. They lived as poorly

as pinewoods people. Doudouce had heard the story often, the last time no later than that morning.

"Hoa!" he shouted to his mule plumb in the middle of the cotton row. He had staggered along behind the

plow since early morning, and of a sudden he felt he had had enough of it. He mounted the mule and rode

away to the stable, leaving the plow with its polished blade thrust deep in the red Cane River soil. His head

felt like a windmill with the recollections and sudden intentions that had crowded it and were whirling

through his brain since he had heard the last story about Mentine. He knew well enough Mentine would have

married him seven years ago had not Jules Trodon come up from Avoyelles and captivated her with his

handsome eyes and pleasant speech. Doudouce was resigned then, for he held Mentine's happiness above his

own. But now she was suffering in a hopeless, common, exasperating way for the small comforts of life.

People had told him so. And somehow, today, he could not stand the knowledge passively. He felt he must

see those things they spoke of with his own eyes. He must strive to help her and her children if it were

Doudouce could not sleep that night. He lay with wakeful eyes watching the moonlight creep across the bare

floor of his room; listening to sounds that seemed unfamiliar and weird down among the rushes along the

bayou. But towards morning he saw Mentine as he had seen her last in her white wedding gown and veil. She

looked at him with appealing eyes and held out her arms for protection, for rescue, it seemed to him. That

Jules Trodon's home lay a mile or two from Marksville. It consisted of three rooms strung in a row and

opening upon a narrow gallery. The whole wore an aspect of poverty and dilapidation that summer day,

towards noon, when Doudouce approached it. His presence outside the gate aroused the frantic barking of

dogs that dashed down the steps as if to attack him. Two little brown barefooted children, a boy and girl,

stood upon the gallery staring stupidly at him. "Call off you' dogs," he requested; but they only continued to

"Down, Pluto! down, Achille!" cried the shrill voice of a woman who emerged from the house, holding upon

her arm a delicate baby of a year or two. There was only an instant of unrecognition.

"Mais Doudouce, that ent you, comment! Well, if any one would tole me this mornin'! Git a chair, 'Tit Jules.

That 's Mista Doudouce, f'om 'way yonda Natchitoches w'ere yo' maman use' to live. Mais, you ent change';

He shook hands in a slow, undemonstrative way, and seated himself clumsily upon the hidebottomed chair,

laying his broadrimmed felt hat upon the floor beside him. He was very uncomfortable in the cloth Sunday

coat which he wore. "I had business that call' me to Marksville," he began, "an' I say to myse'f, 'Tiens, you

"Par example! w'at Jules would said to that! Mais, you' lookin' well; you ent change', Doudouce."

"An' you' lookin' well, Mentine, Jis' the same Mentine." He regretted that he lacked talent to make the lie

She moved a little uneasily, and felt upon her shoulder for a pin with which to fasten the front of her old

gown where it lacked a button. She had kept the baby in her lap. Doudouce was wondering miserably if he

would have known her outside her home. He would have known her sweet, cheerful brown eyes, that were

not changed; but her figure, that had looked so trim in the wedding gown, was sadly misshapen. She was

brown, with skin like parchment, and piteously thin. There were lines, some deep as if old age had cut them,

"An' how you lef' 'em all, yonda?" she asked, in a high voice that had grown shrill from screaming at children

"They all well. It 's mighty li'le sickness in the country this yea'. But they been lookin' fo' you up yonda,

"Don't talk, Doudouce, it 's no chance; with that po' wo' out piece o' lan' w'at Jules got. He say, anotha yea'

The children were clutching her on either side, their persistent gaze always fastened upon Doudouce. He tried

without avail to make friends with them. Then Jules came home from the field, riding the mule with which he

"Yere 's Doudouce f'om Natchitoches, Jules," called out Mentine, "he stop' to tell us howdy, en passant." The

husband mounted to the gallery and the two men shook hands; Doudouce listlessly, as he had done with

"Well, you' a lucky man, you," he exclaimed with his swagger air, "able to broad like that, encore! You could

"Non, j'te garantis!" agreed Mentine, with a loud laugh. Doudouce winced, as he had done the instant before

at Jules's heartless implication. This husband of Mentine surely had not changed during the seven years,

After the midday dinner of boiled salt pork, corn bread and molasses, there was nothing for Doudouce but to

At the gate, the little boy was discovered in dangerous proximity to the mule's heels, and was properly

"I reckon he likes hosses," Doudouce remarked. "He take' afta you, Mentine. I got a li'le pony yonda home,"

he said, addressing the child, "w'at ent ne use to me. I 'm goin' sen' 'im down to you. He 's a good, tough li'le

mustang. You jis can let 'im eat grass an' feed 'im a handful 'o co'n, once a w'ile. An' he 's gentle, yes. You an'

"W'at you say, Jules?" demanded the father. "W'at you say?" echoed Mentine, who was balancing the baby

Doudouce shook hands all around, even with the baby, and walked off in the opposite direction to Jules, who

had mounted the mule. He was bewildered. He stumbled over the rough ground because of tears that were

He had loved Mentine long ago, when she was young and attractive, and he found that he loved her still. He

had tried to put all disturbing thought of her away, on that weddingday, and he supposed he had succeeded.

But he loved her now as he never had. Because she was no longer beautiful, he loved her. Because the

delicate bloom of her existence had been rudely brushed away; because she was in a manner fallen; because

she was Mentine, he loved her; fiercely, as a mother loves an addicted child. He would have liked to thrust

that man aside, and gather up her and her children, and hold them and keep them as long as life lasted.

After a moment or two Doudouce looked back at Mentine, standing at the gate with her baby. But her face

was turned away from him. She was gazing after her husband, who went in the direction of the field.

It was one afternoon in April, not long ago, only the other day, and the shadows had already begun to

Bertrand Delmandé, a fine, brightlooking boy of fourteen years, fifteen, perhaps, was mounted, and

riding along a pleasant country road, upon a little Creole pony, such as boys in Louisiana usually ride when

they have nothing better at hand. He had hunted, and carried his gun before him.

It is unpleasant to state that Bertrand was not so depressed as he should have been, in view of recent events

that had come about. Within the past week he had been recalled from the college of Grand Coteau to his

He had found his father and his grandmother depressed over money matters, awaiting certain legal

developments that might result in his permanent withdrawal from school. That very day, directly after the

early dinner, the two had driven to town, on this very business, to be absent till the late afternoon. Bertrand,

then, had saddled Picayune and gone for a long jaunt, such as his heart delighted in.

He was returning now, and had approached the beginning of the great tangled Cherokee hedge that marked

The pony started suddenly and violently at something there in the turn of the road, and just under the hedge.

It looked like a bundle of rags at first. But it was a tramp, seated upon a broad, flat stone.

Bertrand had no maudlin consideration for tramps as a species; he had only that morning driven from the

But this tramp was old and feeble. His beard was long, and as white as newginned cotton, and when

Bertrand saw him he was engaged in stanching a wound in his bare heel with a fistful of matted grass.

The tramp looked up at him with a bewildered glance, but did not answer. "Well," thought Bertrand, "since it

's decided that I 'm to be a physician some day, I can't begin to practice too early."

He dismounted, and examined the injured foot. It had an ugly gash. Bertrand acted mostly from impulse.

Fortunately his impulses were not bad ones. So, nimbly, and as quickly as he could manage it, he had the old

man astride Picayune, whilst he himself was leading the pony down the narrow lane.

The dark green hedge towered like a high and solid wall on one side. On the other was a broad, open field,

where here and there appeared the flash and gleam of uplifted, polished hoes, that negroes were plying

"Yes, I know it is. I 've been in all of them since Gettysburg. Sometimes it was too hot, and sometimes it was

too cold; and with that bullet in my head you don't remember? No, you don't remember Gettysburg." "Well,

"Where we 're going? Why, no, it 's the Delmandé plantation BonAccueil. Here we are. Wait, I 'll open the

This singular group entered the yard from the rear, and not far from the house. A big black woman, who sat

just without a cabin door, picking a pile of rustylooking moss, called out at sight of them:

"Fu' a boy w'at goes to school like you does whar 's yo' sense?" she went on, with a fine show of

indignation; then, muttering to herself, "Ma'ame Bertrand an' Marse St. Ange ain't gwine stan' dat, I knows

dey ain't. Dah! ef he ain't done sot 'im on de gall'ry, plumb down in his pa's rockin'cheer!"

Which the boy had done; seated the tramp in a pleasant corner of the veranda, while he went in search of

bandages for his wound. The servants showed high disapproval, the housemaid following Bertrand into his

"W'at you tearin' yo' gra'ma's closit to pieces dat away, boy?" she complained in her high soprano.

"Den w'y you don't ax fu' ban'ges, an' lef yo' gra'ma's closit 'lone? You want to listen to me; you gwine git

shed o' dat tramp settin' dah naxt to de dinin'room! W'en de silva be missin', 'tain' you w'at gwine git blame,

"The silver? Nonsense, 'Cindy; the man 's wounded, and can't you see he 's out of his head?"

"No mo' outen his head 'an I is. 'T ain' me w'at want to tres' [trust] 'im wid de sto'room key, ef he is outen his

But Bertrand's protégé proved so unapproachable in his longworn rags, that the boy concluded to leave him

unmolested till his father's return, and then ask permission to turn the forlorn creature into the bathhouse, and

array him afterward in clean, fresh garments. So there the old tramp sat in the veranda corner, stolidly

St. Ange was a dark, slender man of middle age, with a sensitive face, and a plentiful sprinkle of gray in his

thick black hair; his mother, a portly woman, and an active one for her sixtyfive years.

They were evidently in a despondent mood. Perhaps it was for the cheer of her sweet presence that they had

brought with them from town a little girl, the child of Madame Delmandé's only daughter, who was married,

Madame Delmandé and her son were astonished to find so uninviting an intruder in possession. But a few

earnest words from Bertrand reassured them, and partly reconciled them to the man's presence; and it was

with wholly indifferent though not unkindly glances that they passed him by when they entered. On any large

plantation there are always nooks and corners where, for a night or more, even such a man as this tramp may

When Bertrand went to bed that night, he lay long awake thinking of the man, and of what he had heard from

his lips in the hushed starlight. The boy had heard of the awfulness of Gettysburg, till it was like something

On that field of battle this man had received a new and tragic birth. For all his existence that went before was

a blank to him. There, in the black desolation of war, he was born again, without friends or kindred; without

even a name he could know was his own. Then he had gone forth a wanderer; living more than half the time

Strangely enough, he had addressed Bertrand as "St. Ange," not once, but every time he had spoken to him.

The boy wondered at this. Was it because he had heard Madame Delmandé address her son by that name, and

So this nameless wanderer had drifted far down to the plantation of BonAccueil, and at last had found a

When the family assembled at breakfast on the following morning, the tramp was already settled in the chair,

and in the corner which Bertrand's indulgence had made familiar to him. If he had turned partly around, he

would have faced the flower garden, with its graveled walks and trim parterres, where a tangle of color and

perfume were holding high revelry this April morning; but he liked better to gaze into the back yard, where

there was always movement: men and women coming and going, bearing implements of work; little negroes

in scanty garments, darting here and there, and kicking up the dust in their exuberance.

Madame Delmandé could just catch a glimpse of him through the long window that opened to the floor, and

Mr. Delmandéhad spoken to the man pleasantly, but he and his mother were wholly absorbed by their

trouble, and talked constantly of that, while Bertrand went back and forth ministering to the old man's wants.

The boy knew that the servants would have done the office with ill grace, and he chose to be cupbearer

himself to the unfortunate creature for whose presence he alone was responsible.

Once, when Bertrand went out to him with a second cup of coffee, steaming and fragrant, the old man

whispered: "What are they saying in there?" pointing over his shoulder to the diningroom.

"Oh, money troubles that will force us to economize for a while," answered the boy. "What father and

"No, no! St. Ange must go to school. The war 's over, the war 's over! St. Ange and Florentine must go to

"But if there 's no money," the boy insisted, smiling like one who humors the vagaries of a child.

His sleepy gaze had swept across the yard into the thick of the orchard beyond, and rested there.

Suddenly he pushed aside the light table that had been set before him, and rose, clutching Bertrand's arm.

"St. Ange, you must go to school!" he whispered. "The war 's over," looking furtively around. "Come. Don't

let them hear you. Don't let the negroes see us. Get a spade the little spade that Buck Williams was digging

Still clutching the boy, he dragged him down the steps as he said this, and traversed the yard with long,

From under a shed where such things were to be found, Bertrand selected a spade, since the tramp's whim

The grass was thick and tufted here, and wet with the morning dew. In long lines, forming pleasant avenues

between, were peachtrees growing, and pear and apple and plum. Close against the fence was the

pomegranate hedge, with its waxen blossoms, brickred. Far down in the centre of the orchard stood a huge

pecantree, twice the size of any other that was there, seeming to rule like an oldtime king.

Here Bertrand and his guide stopped. The tramp had not once hesitated in his movements since grasping the

arm of his young companion on the veranda. Now he went and leaned his back against the pecantree, where

there was a deep knot, and looking steadily before him he took ten paces forward. Turning sharply to the

right, he made five additional paces. Then pointing his finger downward, and looking at Bertrand, he

commanded: "There, dig. I would do it myself, but for my wounded foot. For I 've turned many a spade of

earth since Gettysburg. Dig, St. Ange, dig! The war 's over; you must go to school."

Is there a boy of fifteen under the sun who would not have dug, even knowing he was following the insane

dictates of a demented man? Bertrand entered with all the zest of his years and his spirit into the curious

adventure; and he dug and dug, throwing great spadefuls of the rich, fragrant earth from side to side.

The tramp, with body bent, and fingers like claws clasping his bony knees, stood watching with eager eyes,

"That 's it!" he muttered at intervals. "Dig, dig! The war 's over. You must go to school, St. Ange."

Deep down in the earth, too deep for any ordinary turning of the soil with spade or plow to have reached it,

was a box. It was of tin, apparently, something larger than a cigar box, and bound round and round with

The tramp showed no surprise at seeing it there; he simply knelt upon the ground and lifted it from its long

Bertrand had let the spade fall from his hands, and was quivering with the awe of the thing he saw. Who

could this wizard be that had come to him in the guise of a tramp, that walked in cabalistic paces upon his

own father's ground, and pointed his finger like a diviningrod to the spot where boxes may be treasures

And walking behind this whitehaired old man, who was again leading the way, something of childish

superstition crept back into Bertrand's heart. It was the same feeling with which he had often sat, long ago, in

the weird firelight of some negro's cabin, listening to tales of witches who came in the night to work uncanny

Madame Delmandé had never abandoned the custom of washing her own silver and dainty china. She sat,

when the breakfast was over, with a pail of warm suds before her that 'Cindy had brought to her, with an

abundance of soft linen cloths. Her little granddaughter stood beside her playing, as babies will, with the

bright spoons and forks, and ranging them in rows on the polished mahogany. St. Ange was at the window

The group in the diningroom were so employed when the old tramp came staggering in, Bertrand close

He went and stood at the foot of the table, opposite to where Madame Delmandésat, and let fall the box upon

The thing in falling shattered, and from its bursting sides gold came, clicking, spinning, gliding, some of it

like oil; rolling along the table and off it to the floor, but heaped up, the bulk of it, before the tramp.

"Here 's money!" he called out, plunging his old hand in the thick of it. "Who says St. Ange shall not go to

school? The war 's over here 's money! St. Ange, my boy," turning to Bertrand and speaking with quick

authority, "tell Buck Williams to hitch Black Bess to the buggy, and go bring Judge Parkerson here."

"Tell him that that" and the hand that was not in the gold went up to the withered forehead, "that

Bertrand Delmandé needs him!" Madame Delmandé, at sight of the man with his box and his gold, had given

a sharp cry, such as might follow the plunge of a knife. She lay now in her son's arms, panting hoarsely.

"Be calm, mother!" the man implored. "You had such sure proof of his death in that terrible battle, this may

"I know him! I know your father, my son!" and disengaging herself from the arms that held her, she dragged

His hand was still in the gold, and on his face was yet the flush which had come there when he shouted out

When the old man had looked long into the woman's imploring face, he made a courtly bow. "Madame," he

said, "an old soldier, wounded on the field of Gettysburg, craves for himself and his two little children your

WHEN the war began, there stood on Côte Joyeuse an imposing mansion of red brick, shaped like the

Thirty years later, only the thick walls were standing, with the dull red brick showing here and there through

a matted growth of clinging vines. The huge round pillars were intact; so to some extent was the stone

flagging of hall and portico. There had been no home so stately along the whole stretch of Côte Joyeuse.

Every one knew that, as they knew it had cost Philippe Valmêt sixty thousand dollars to build, away back in

1840. No one was in danger of forgetting that fact, so long as his daughter Pélagie survived. She was a

queenly, whitehaired woman of fifty. "Ma'ame Pélagie," they called her, though she was unmarried, as was

her sister Pauline, a child in Ma'ame Pélagie's eyes; a child of thirtyfive. The two lived alone in a

threeroomed cabin, almost within the shadow of the ruin. They lived for a dream, for Ma'ame Pélagie's

It would be pitiful to tell how their days were spent to accomplish this end; how the dollars had been saved

for thirty years and the picayunes hoarded; and yet, not half enough gathered! But Ma'ame Pélagie felt sure of

twenty years of life before her, and counted upon as many more for her sister. And what could not come to

Often, of pleasant afternoons, the two would drink their black coffee, seated upon the stoneflagged portico

whose canopy was the blue sky of Louisiana. They loved to sit there in the silence, with only each other and

the sheeny, prying lizards for company, talking of the old times and planning for the new; while light breezes

"We can never hope to have all just as it was, Pauline," Ma'ame Pélagie would say; "perhaps the marble

pillars of the salon will have to be replaced by wooden ones, and the crystal candelabra left out. Should you

"Oh, yes, Sesoeur, I shall be willing." It was always, "Yes, Sesoeur," or "No, Sesoeur," "Just as you please,

Sesoeur," with poor little Mam'selle Pauline. For what did she remember of that old life and that old

splendor? Only a faint gleam here and there; the halfconsciousness of a young, uneventful existence; and

then a great crash. That meant the nearness of war; the revolt of slaves; confusion ending in fire and flame

through which she was borne safely in the strong arms of Pélagie, and carried to the log cabin which was still

their home. Their brother, Léandre, had known more of it all than Pauline, and not so much as Pélagie. He

had left the management of the big plantation with all its memories and traditions to his older sister, and had

gone away to dwell in cities. That was many years ago. Now, Léandre's business called him frequently and

upon long journeys from home, and his motherless daughter was coming to stay with her aunts at Côte

They talked about it, sipping their coffee on the ruined portico. Mam'selle Pauline was terribly excited; the

flush that throbbed into her pale, nervous face showed it; and she locked her thin fingers in and out

"But what shall we do with La Petite, Sesoeur? Where shall we put her? How shall we amuse her? Ah,

"She will sleep upon a cot in the room next to ours," responded Ma'ame Pélagie, "and live as we do. She

knows how we live, and why we live; her father has told her. She knows we have money and could squander

Then Ma'ame Pélagie rose with stately deliberation and went to saddle her horse, for she had yet to make her

last daily round through the fields, and Mam'selle Pauline threaded her way slowly among the tangled grasses

The coming of La Petite, bringing with her as she did the pungent atmosphere of an outside and dimly known

world, was a shock to these two, living their dreamlife. The girl was quite as tall as her aunt Pélagie, with

dark eyes that reflected joy as a still pool reflects the light of stars; and her rounded cheek was tinged like the

pink crèpe myrtle. Mam'selle Pauline kissed her and trembled. Ma'ame Pélagie looked into her eyes with a

searching gaze, which seemed to seek a likeness of the past in the living present.

La Petite had determined upon trying to fit herself to the strange, narrow existence which she knew awaited

her at Côte Joyeuse. It went well enough at first. Sometimes she followed Ma'ame Pélagie into the fields to

note how the cotton was opening, ripe and white; or to count the ears of corn upon the hardy stalks. But

oftener she was with her aunt Pauline, assisting in household offices, chattering of her brief past, or walking

Mam'selle Pauline's steps grew very buoyant that summer, and her eyes were sometimes as bright as a bird's,

unless La Petite were away from her side, when they would lose all other light but one of uneasy expectancy.

The girl seemed to love her well in return, and called her endearingly Tan'tante. But as the time went by, La

Petite became very quiet, not listless, but thoughtful, and slow in her movements. Then her cheeks began to

pale, till they were tinged like the creamy plumes of the white crèpe myrtle that grew in the ruin.

One day when she sat within its shadow, between her aunts, holding a hand of each, she said: "Tante Pélagie,

I must tell you something, you and Tan'tante." She spoke low, but clearly and firmly. "I love you both,

please remember that I love you both. But I must go away from you. I can't live any longer here at Côte

A spasm passed through Mam'selle Pauline's delicate frame. La Petite could feel the twitch of it in the wiry

fingers that were intertwined with her own. Ma'ame Pélagie remained unchanged and motionless. No human

eye could penetrate so deep as to see the satisfaction which her soul felt. She said: "What do you mean,

Petite? Your father has sent you to us, and I am sure it is his wish that you remain."

"My father loves me, tante Pélagie, and such will not be his wish when he knows. Oh!" she continued with a

restless movement, "it is as though a weight were pressing me backward here. I must live another life, the life

I lived before. I want to know things that are happening from day to day over the world, and hear them talked

about. I want my music, my books, my companions. If I had known no other life but this one of privation, I

suppose it would be different. If I had to live this life, I should make the best of it. But I do not have to; and

you know, tante Pélagie, you do not need to. It seems to me," she added in a whisper, "that it is a sin against

It was nothing; only a slight feeling of faintness, that would soon pass. She entreated them to take no notice;

But that night, in the stillness of the room, Mam'selle Pauline sobbed and would not be comforted. Ma'ame

"Pauline, my little sister Pauline," she entreated, "I never have seen you like this before. Do you no longer

"Then she is dearer to you than I!" spoke Ma'ame Pélagie with sharp resentment. "Than I, who held you and

warmed you in my arms the day you were born; than I, your mother, father, sister, everything that could

"I can't explain it to you, Sesoeur. I don't understand it myself. I love you as I have always loved you; next to

God. But if La Petite goes away I shall die. I can't understand, help me, Sesoeur. She seems she seems

like a saviour; like one who had come and taken me by the hand and was leading me somewhere

Ma'ame Pélagie had been sitting beside the bed in her peignoir and slippers. She held the hand of her sister

who lay there, and smoothed down the woman's soft brown hair. She said not a word, and the silence was

broken only by Ma'mselle Pauline's continued sobs. Once Ma'ame Pélagie arose to drink of orangeflower

water, which she gave to her sister, as she would have offered it to a nervous, fretful child. Almost an hour

"Pauline, you must cease that sobbing, now, and sleep. You will make yourself ill. La Petite will not go away.

Mam'selle Pauline could not clearly comprehend, but she had great faith in the word of her sister, and soothed

by the promise and the touch of Ma'ame Pélagie's strong, gentle hand, she fell asleep.

Ma'ame Pélagie, when she saw that her sister slept, arose noiselessly and stepped outside upon the

lowroofed narrow gallery. She did not linger there, but with a step that was hurried and agitated, she crossed

The night was not a dark one, for the sky was clear and the moon resplendent. But light or dark would have

made no difference to Ma'ame Pélagie. It was not the first time she had stolen away to the ruin at nighttime,

when the whole plantation slept; but she never before had been there with a heart so nearly broken. She was

going there for the last time to dream her dreams; to see the visions that hitherto had crowded her days and

There was the first of them, awaiting her upon the very portal; a robust old whitehaired man, chiding her for

returning home so late. There are guests to be entertained. Does she not know it? Guests from the city and

from the near plantations. Yes, she knows it is late. She had been abroad with Félix, and they did not notice

how the time was speeding. Félix is there; he will explain it all. He is there beside her, but she does not want

Ma'ame Pélagie had sunk upon the bench where she and her sister so often came to sit. Turning, she gazed in

through the gaping chasm of the window at her side. The interior of the ruin is ablaze. Not with the

moonlight, for that is faint beside the other one the sparkle from the crystal candelabra, which negroes,

moving noiselessly and respectfully about, are lighting, one after the other. How the gleam of them reflects

The room holds a number of guests. There is old Monsieur Lucien Santien, leaning against one of the pillars,

and laughing at something which Monsieur Lafirme is telling him, till his fat shoulders shake. His son Jules is

with him Jules, who wants to marry her. She laughs. She wonders if Félix has told her father yet. There is

young Jerome Lafirme playing at checkers upon the sofa with Léandre. Little Pauline stands annoying them

and disturbing the game. Léandre reproves her. She begins to cry, and old black Clémentine, her nurse, who

is not far off, limps across the room to pick her up and carry her away. How sensitive the little one is! But she

trots about and takes care of herself better than she did a year or two ago, when she fell upon the stone hall

floor and raised a great "bobo" on her forehead. Pélagie was hurt and angry enough about it; and she

ordered rugs and buffalo robes to be brought and laid thick upon the tiles, till the little one's steps were surer.

"Il ne faut pas faire mal à Pauline." She was saying it aloud "faire mal à Pauline."

But she gazes beyond the salon, back into the big dining hall, where the white crèpe myrtle grows. Ha! how

low that bat has circled. It has struck Ma'ame Pélagie full on the breast. She does not know it. She is beyond

there in the dining hall, where her father sits with a group of friends over their wine. As usual they are talking

politics. How tiresome! She has heard them say "la guerre" oftener than once. La guerre. Bah! She and Félix

have something pleasanter to talk about, out under the oaks, or back in the shadow of the oleanders.

But they were right! The sound of a cannon, shot at Sumter, has rolled across the Southern States, and its

Yet Pélagie does not believe it. Not till La Ricaneuse stands before her with bare, black arms akimbo, uttering

a volley of vile abuse and of brazen impudence. Pélagie wants to kill her. But yet she will not believe. Not till

Félix comes to her in the chamber above the dining hall there where that trumpet vine hangs comes to say

goodby to her. The hurt which the big brass buttons of his new gray uniform pressed into the tender flesh of

her bosom has never left it. She sits upon the sofa, and he beside her, both speechless with pain. That room

would not have been altered. Even the sofa would have been there in the same spot, and Ma'ame Pélagie had

meant all along, for thirty years, all along, to lie there upon it some day when the time came to die.

But there is no time to weep, with the enemy at the door. The door has been no barrier. They are clattering

through the halls now, drinking the wines, shattering the crystal and glass, slashing the portraits.

One of them stands before her and tells her to leave the house. She slaps his face. How the stigma stands out

Now there is a roar of fire and the flames are bearing down upon her motionless figure. She wants to show

them how a daughter of Louisiana can perish before her conquerors. But little Pauline clings to her knees in

"Il ne faut pas faire mal à Pauline." Again she is saying it aloud "faire mal à Pauline."

The night was nearly spent; Ma'ame Pélagie had glided from the bench upon which she had rested, and for

hours lay prone upon the stone flagging, motionless. When she dragged herself to her feet it was to walk like

one in a dream. About the great, solemn pillars, one after the other, she reached her arms, and pressed her

There was no longer the moon to guide her steps across the familiar pathway to the cabin. The brightest light

in the sky was Venus, that swung low in the east. The bats had ceased to beat their wings about the ruin. Even

the mockingbird that had warbled for hours in the old mulberrytree had sung himself asleep. That darkest

hour before the day was mantling the earth. Ma'ame Pélagie hurried through the wet, clinging grass, beating

aside the heavy moss that swept across her face, walking on toward the cabin toward Pauline. Not once did

she look back upon the ruin that brooded like a huge monster a black spot in the darkness that enveloped it.

Little more than a year later the transformation which the old Valmêt place had undergone was the talk and

wonder of Côte Joyeuse. One would have looked in vain for the ruin; it was no longer there; neither was the

log cabin. But out in the open, where the sun shone upon it, and the breezes blew about it, was a shapely

structure fashioned from woods that the forests of the State had furnished. It rested upon a solid foundation of

Upon a corner of the pleasant gallery sat Léandre smoking his afternoon cigar, and chatting with neighbors

who had called. This was to be his pied à terre now; the home where his sisters and his daughter dwelt. The

laughter of young people was heard out under the trees, and within the house where La Petite was playing

upon the piano. With the enthusiasm of a young artist she drew from the keys strains that seemed

marvelously beautiful to Mam'selle Pauline, who stood enraptured near her. Mam'selle Pauline had been

touched by the recreation of Valmêt. Her cheek was as full and almost as flushed as La Petite's. The years

Ma'ame Pélagie had been conversing with her brother and his friends. Then she turned and walked away;

stopping to listen awhile to the music which La Petite was making. But it was only for a moment. She went

on around the curve of the veranda, where she found herself alone. She stayed there, erect, holding to the

She was dressed in black, with the white kerchief she always wore folded across her bosom. Her thick, glossy

hair rose like a silver diadem from her brow. In her deep, dark eyes smouldered the light of fires that would

never flame. She had grown very old. Years instead of months seemed to have passed over her since the night

Poor Ma'ame Pélagie! How could it be different! While the outward pressure of a young and joyous existence

had forced her footsteps into the light, her soul had stayed in the shadow of the ruin.

BOBINÔT, that big, brown, goodnatured Bobinôt, had no intention of going to the ball, even though he

knew Calixta would be there. For what came of those balls but heartache, and a sickening disinclination for

work the whole week through, till Saturday night came again and his tortures began afresh? Why could he not

love Ozéina, who would marry him tomorrow; or Fronie, or any one of a dozen others, rather than that little

Spanish vixen? Calixta's slender foot had never touched Cuban soil; but her mother's had, and the Spanish

was in her blood all the same. For that reason the prairie people forgave her much that they would not have

Her eyes, Bobinôt thought of her eyes, and weakened, the bluest, the drowsiest, most tantalizing that ever

looked into a man's, he thought of her flaxen hair that kinked worse than a mulatto's close to her head; that

broad, smiling mouth and tiptilted nose, that full figure; that voice like a rich contralto song, with cadences

in it that must have been taught by Satan, for there was no one else to teach her tricks on that 'Cadian prairie.

There had even been a breath of scandal whispered about her a year ago, when she went to Assumption, but

why talk of it? No one did now. "C'est Espagnol, ça," most of them said with lenient shouldershrugs. "Bon

chien tient de race," the old men mumbled over their pipes, stirred by recollections. Nothing was made of it,

except that Fronie threw it up to Calixta when the two quarreled and fought on the church steps after mass

one Sunday, about a lover. Calixta swore roundly in fine 'Cadian French and with true Spanish spirit, and

slapped Fronie's face. Fronie had slapped her back; "Tiens, bocotte, va!" "Espèce de lionèse; prends ça, et

ça!" till the curé himself was obliged to hasten and make peace between them. Bobinôt thought of it all, and

But in the afternoon, over at Friedheimer's store, where he was buying a tracechain, he heard some one say

that Alcée Laballière would be there. Then wild horses could not have kept him away. He knew how it would

be or rather he did not know how it would be if the handsome young planter came over to the ball as he

sometimes did. If Alcée happened to be in a serious mood, he might only go to the cardroom and play a

round or two; or he might stand out on the galleries talking crops and politics with the old people. But there

was no telling. A drink or two could put the devil in his head, that was what Bobinôt said to himself, as he

wiped the sweat from his brow with his red bandanna; a gleam from Calixta's eyes, a flash of her ankle, a

That was the year Alcée Laballière put nine hundred acres in rice. It was putting a good deal of money into

the ground, but the returns promised to be glorious. Old Madame Laballière, sailing about the spacious

galleries in her white volante, figured it all out in her head. Clarisse, her goddaughter helped her a little, and

together they built more aircastles than enough. Alcée worked like a mule that time; and if he did not kill

himself, it was because his constitution was an iron one. It was an everyday affair for him to come in from

the field wellnigh exhausted, and wet to the waist. He did not mind if there were visitors; he left them to his

mother and Clarisse. There were often guests: young men and women who came up from the city, which was

but a few hours away, to visit his beautiful kinswoman. She was worth going a good deal farther than that to

see. Dainty as a lily; hardy as a sunflower; slim, tall, graceful, like one of the reeds that grew in the marsh.

He would have liked to sweep the place of those visitors, often. Of the men, above all, with their ways and

their manners; their swaying of fans like women, and dandling about hammocks. He could have pitched them

over the levee into the river, if it hadn't meant murder. That was Alcée. But he must have been crazy the day

he came in from the ricefield, and, toilstained as he was, clasped Clarisse by the arms and panted a volley

of hot, blistering lovewords into her face. No man had ever spoken love to her like that.

"Monsieur!" she exclaimed, looking him full in the eyes, without a quiver. Alcée's hands dropped and his

"Par exemple!" she muttered disdainfully, as she turned from him, deftly adjusting the careful toilet that he

That happened a day or two before the cyclone came that cut into the rice like fine steel. It was an awful

thing, coming so swiftly, without a moment's warning in which to light a holy candle or set a piece of blessed

palm burning. Old madame wept openly and said her beads, just as her son Didier, the New Orleans one,

would have done. If such a thing had happened to Alphonse, the Laballière planting cotton up in

Natchitoches, he would have raved and stormed like a second cyclone, and made his surroundings unbearable

for a day or two. But Alcée took the misfortune differently. He looked ill and gray after it, and said nothing.

His speechlessness was frightful. Clarisse's heart melted with tenderness; but when she offered her soft,

purring words of condolence, he accepted them with mute indifference. Then she and her nénaine wept afresh

A night or two later, when Clarisse went to her window to kneel there in the moonlight and say her prayers

before retiring, she saw that Bruce, Alcée's negro servant, had led his master's saddlehorse noiselessly along

the edge of the sward that bordered the gravelpath, and stood holding him near by. Presently, she heard

Alcée quit his room, which was beneath her own, and traverse the lower portico. As he emerged from the

shadow and crossed the strip of moonlight, she perceived that he carried a pair of wellfilled saddlebags

which he at once flung across the animal's back. He then lost no time in mounting, and after a brief exchange

of words with Bruce, went cantering away, taking no precaution to avoid the noisy gravel as the negro had

Clarisse had never suspected that it might be Alcée's custom to sally forth from the plantation secretly, and at

such an hour; for it was nearly midnight. And had it not been for the telltale saddlebags, she would only

have crept to bed, to wonder, to fret and dream unpleasant dreams. But her impatience and anxiety would not

be held in check. Hastily unbolting the shutters of her door that opened upon the gallery, she stepped outside

"Gre't Peter! Miss Clarisse. I was n' sho it was a ghos' o' w'at, stan'in' up dah, plumb in de night, dataway."

He mounted halfway up the long, broad flight of stairs. She was standing at the top.

"W'y, he gone 'bout he business, I reckin," replied Bruce, striving to be noncommittal at the outset.

"W'ere has Monsieur Alcée gone?" she reiterated, stamping her bare foot. "I won't stan' any nonsense or any

"I don' ric'lic ez I eva tole you lie yit, Miss Clarisse. Mista Alcée, he all broke up, sho."

"W'en I was in he room, abreshin' off he clo'es today," the darkey began, settling himself against the

stairrail, "he look dat speechless an' down, I say, 'You 'pear tu me like some pussun w'at gwine have a spell

o' sickness, Mista Alcée.' He say, 'You reckin?' 'I dat he git up, go look hisse'f stiddy in de glass. Den he go to

de chimbly an' jerk up de quinine bottle an po' a gre't hossdose on to he han'. An' he swalla dat mess in a

wink, an' wash hit down wid a big dram o' w'iskey w'at he keep in he room, aginst he come all soppin' wet

"He 'lows, 'No, I ain' gwine be sick, Bruce.' Den he square off. He say, 'I kin mak out to stan' up an' gi' an'

take wid any man I knows, lessen hit 's John L. Sulvun. But w'en God A'mighty an' a 'omen jines fo'ces agin

me, dat 's one too many fur me.' I tell 'im, 'Jis so,' while' I 'se makin' out to bresh a spot off w'at ain' dah, on he

coat colla. I tell 'im, 'You wants li'le res', suh.' He say, 'No, I wants li'le fling; dat w'at I wants; an I gwine git

it. Pitch me a fis'ful o' clo'es in dem 'ar saddlebags.' Dat w'at he say. Don't you bodda, missy. He jis' gone

acaperin' yonda to de Cajun ball. Uh uh de skeeters is fair' aswarmin' like bees roun' yo' foots!" The

mosquitoes were indeed attacking Clarisse's white feet savagely. She had unconsciously been alternately

"The 'Cadian ball," she repeated contemptously. "Humph! Par exemple! Nice conduc' for a Laballière. An' he

"Oh, Miss Clarisse; you go on to bed, chile; git yo' soun' sleep. He 'low he come back in couple weeks o' so. I

kiarn be repeatin' lot o' truck w'at young mans say, out heah face o' a young gal."

"You done talk too much wid yo' mouf already, you ole fool nigga, you," muttered Bruce to himself as he

Alcée reached the ball very late, of course too late for the chicken gumbo which had been served at

The big, lowceiled room they called it a hall was packed with men and women dancing to the music of

three fiddles. There were broad galleries all around it. There was a room at one side where soberfaced men

were playing cards. Another, in which babies were sleeping, was called le parc aux petits. Any one who is

white may go to a 'Cadian ball, but he must pay for his lemonade, his coffee and chicken gumbo. And he

must behave himself like a 'Cadian. Grosboeuf was giving this ball. He had been giving them since he was a

young man, and he was a middleaged one, now. In that time he could recall but one disturbance, and that

was caused by American railroaders, who were not in touch with their surroundings and had no business

Alcée Laballière's presence at the ball caused a flutter even among the men, who could not but admire his

"nerve" after such misfortune befalling him. To be sure, they knew the Laballières were rich that there were

resources East, and more again in the city. But they felt it took a brave homme to stand a blow like that

philosophically. One old gentleman, who was in the habit of reading a Paris newspaper and knew things,

chuckled gleefully to everybody that Alcée's conduct was altogether chic, mais chic. That he had more

panache than Boulanger. Well, perhaps he had. But what he did not show outwardly was that he was in a

mood for ugly things tonight. Poor Bobinôt alone felt it vaguely. He discerned a gleam of it in Alcée's

handsome eyes, as the young planter stood in the doorway, looking with rather feverish glance upon the

Bobinôt himself was dulllooking and clumsy. Most of the men were. But the young women were very

beautiful. The eyes that glanced into Alcée's as they passed him were big, dark, soft as those of the young

But the belle was Calixta. Her white dress was not nearly so handsome or well made as Fronie's (she and

Fronie had quite forgotten the battle on the church steps, and were friends again), nor were her slippers so

stylish as those of Ozéina; and she fanned herself with a handkerchief, since she had broken her red fan at the

last ball, and her aunts and uncles were not willing to give her another. But all the men agreed she was at her

best tonight. Such animation! and abandon! such flashes of wit! "Hé, Bobinôt! Mais w'at's the matta? W'at

That was good. That was an excellent thrust at Bobinôt, who had forgotten the figure of the dance with his

mind bent on other things, and it started a clamor of laughter at his expense. He joined goodnaturedly. It

was better to receive even such notice as that from Calixta than none at all. But Madame Suzonne, sitting in a

corner, whispered to her neighbor that if Ozéina were to conduct herself in a like manner, she should

immediately be taken out to the mulecart and driven home. The women did not always approve of Calixta.

Now and then were short lulls in the dance, when couples flocked out upon the galleries for a brief respite

and fresh air. The moon had gone down pale in the west, and in the east was yet no promise of day. After

such an interval, when the dancers again assembled to resume the interrupted quadrille, Calixta was not

She was sitting upon a bench out in the shadow, with Alcée beside her. They were acting like fools. He had

attempted to take a little gold ring from her finger; just for the fun of it, for there was nothing he could have

done with the ring but replace it again. But she clinched her hand tight. He pretended that it was a very

difficult matter to open it. Then he kept the hand in his. They seemed to forget about it. He played with her

earring, a thin crescent of gold hanging from her small brown ear. He caught a wisp of the kinky hair that

"You know, last year in Assumption, Calixta?" They belonged to the younger generation, so preferred to

"Don't come say Assumption to me, M'sieur Alcée. I done yeard Assumption till I 'm plumb sick."

"Yes, I know. The idiots! Because you were in Assumption, and I happened to go to Assumption, they must

They saw Bobinôt emerge from the hall and stand a moment outside the lighted doorway, peering uneasily

"There is Bobinôt looking for you. You are going to set poor Bobinôt crazy. You 'll marry him some day;

"I don't say no, me," she replied, striving to withdraw her hand, which he held more firmly for the attempt.

"But come, Calixta; you know you said you would go back to Assumption, just to spite them."

"I don't know. Drown myself in the lake, maybe; unless you go down there to visit your uncle."

Calixta's senses were reeling; and they wellnigh left her when she felt Alcée's lips brush her ear like the

"Mista Alcée! Is dat Mista Alcée?" the thick voice of a negro was asking; he stood on the ground, holding to

"W'at do you want now?" cried Alcée impatiently. "Can't I have a moment of peace?"

"I ben huntin' you high an' low, suh," answered the man. "Dey dey some one in de road, onda de

"I would n't go out to the road to see the Angel Gabriel. And if you come back here with any more talk, I 'll

Alcée and Calixta laughed softly about it. Her boisterousness was all gone. They talked low, and laughed

It was not the negro's voice this time; but one that went through Alcée's body like an electric shock, bringing

Clarisse was standing there in her ridinghabit, where the negro had stood. For an instant confusion reigned

in Alcée's thoughts, as with one who awakes suddenly from a dream. But he felt that something of serious

"It means something has happen' at home. You mus' come." "Happened to maman?" he questioned, in alarm.

"No; nénaine is well, and asleep. It is something else. Not to frighten you. But you mus' come. Come with

There was no need for the imploring note. He would have followed the voice anywhere.

Alcée swung himself over the low rail and started to follow Clarisse, without a word, without a glance back at

the girl. He had forgotten he was leaving her there. But Clarisse whispered something to him, and he turned

back to say "Goodnight, Calixta," and offer his hand to press through the railing. She pretended not to see it.

"How come that? You settin' yere by yo'se'f, Calixta?" It was Bobinôt who had found her there alone. The

dancers had not yet come out. She looked ghastly in the faint, gray light struggling out of the east.

"Yes, that 's me. Go yonda in the parc aux petits an' ask Aunt Olisse fu' my hat. She knows w'ere 't is. I want

"I come afoot, with the Cateaus. But I 'm goin' now. I ent goin' wait fu' 'em. I 'm plumb wo' out, me."

They went together across the open prairie and along the edge of the fields, stumbling in the uncertain light.

He told her to lift her dress that was getting wet and bedraggled; for she was pulling at the weeds and grasses

"I don' care; it 's got to go in the tub, anyway. You been sayin' all along you want to marry me, Bobinôt.

The glow of a sudden and overwhelming happiness shone out in the brown, rugged face of the young

"Oh well, if you don' want," snapped Calixta, flippantly, pretending to be piqued at his silence.

"Bon Dieu! You know that makes me crazy, w'at you sayin'. You mean that, Calixta? You ent goin' turn roun'

agin?" "I neva tole you that much yet, Bobinôt. I mean that. Tiens," and she held out her hand in the

businesslike manner of a man who clinches a bargain with a handclasp. Bobinôt grew bold with happiness

and asked Calixta to kiss him. She turned her face, that was almost ugly after the night's dissipation, and

"I don' want to kiss you, Bobinôt," she said, turning away again, "not today. Some other time. Bonté divine!

Riding through a patch of wood, Clarisse's saddle became ungirted, and she and Alcée dismounted to readjust

"I saw you go away las night, Alcée, with those saddlebags," she said, haltingly, striving to arrange

something about the saddle, "an' I made Bruce tell me. He said you had gone to the ball, an' wouldn' be home

for weeks an' weeks. I thought, Alcée maybe you were going to to Assumption. I got wild. An' then I

She had her face hidden in her arm that she was resting against the saddle when she said that.

He began to wonder if this meant love. But she had to tell him so, before he believed it. And when she told

him, he thought the face of the Universe was changed just like Bobinôt. Was it last week the cyclone had

wellnigh ruined him? The cyclone seemed a huge joke, now. It was he, then, who, an hour ago was kissing

little Calixta's ear and whispering nonsense into it. Calixta was like a myth, now. The one, only, great reality

In the distance they heard the rapid discharge of pistolshots; but it did not disturb them. They knew it was

only the negro musicians who had gone into the yard to fire their pistols into the air, as the custom is, and to

THE summer night was hot and still; not a ripple of air swept over the marais. Yonder, across Bayou St.

John, lights twinkled here and there in the darkness, and in the dark sky above a few stars were blinking. A

lugger that had come out of the lake was moving with slow, lazy motion down the bayou. A man in the boat

The notes of the song came faintly to the ears of old Manna Loulou, herself as black as the night, who had

Something in the refrain reminded the woman of an old, halfforgotten Creole romance, and she began to

sing it low to herself while she threw the shutters open: "Lisett' to kité la plaine,

And then this old song, a lover's lament for the loss of his mistress, floating into her memory, brought with it

the story she would tell to Madame, who lay in her sumptuous mahogany bed, waiting to be fanned and put to

sleep to the sound of one of Manna Loulou's stories. The old negress had already bathed her mistress's pretty

white feet and kissed them lovingly, one, then the other. She had brushed her mistress's beautiful hair, that

was as soft and shining as satin, and was the color of Madame's weddingring. Now, when she reëntered the

room, she moved softly toward the bed, and seating herself there began gently to fan Madame Delisle.

Manna Loulou was not always ready with her story, for Madame would hear none but those which were true.

But tonight the story was all there in Manna Loulou's head the story of la belle Zoraïde and she told it to

her mistress in the soft Creole patois, whose music and charm no English words can convey.

"La belle Zoraïde had eyes that were so dusky, so beautiful, that any man who gazed too long into their

depths was sure to lose his head, and even his heart sometimes. Her soft, smooth skin was the color of

caféaulait. As for her elegant manners, her svelte and graceful figure, they were the envy of half the ladies

"No wonder Zoraïde was as charming and as dainty as the finest lady of la rue Royale: from a toddling thing

she had been brought up at her mistress's side; her fingers had never done rougher work than sewing a fine

muslin seam; and she even had her own little black servant to wait upon her. Madame, who was her

" 'Remember, Zoraïde, when you are ready to marry, it must be in a way to do honor to your bringing up. It

will be at the Cathedral. Your wedding gown, your corbeille, all will be of the best; I shall see to that myself.

You know, M'sieur Ambroise is ready whenever you say the word; and his master is willing to do as much

M'sieur Ambroise was then the body servant of Doctor Langlé. La belle Zoraïde detested the little mulatto,

with his shining whiskers like a white man's, and his small eyes, that were cruel and false as a snake's. She

" 'Ah, nénaine, I am so happy, so contented here at your side just as I am. I don't want to marry now; next

year, perhaps, or the next.' And Madame would smile indulgently and remind Zoraïde that a woman's charms

"But the truth of the matter was, Zoraïde had seen le beau Mézor dance the Bamboula in Congo Square. That

was a sight to hold one rooted to the ground. Mézor was as straight as a cypresstree and as proud looking as

a king. His body, bare to the waist, was like a column of ebony and it glistened like oil.

"Poor Zoraïde's heart grew sick in her bosom with love for le beau Mézor from the moment she saw the

fierce gleam of his eye, lighted by the inspiring strains of the Bamboula, and beheld the stately movements of

"But when she knew him later, and he came near her to speak with her, all the fierceness was gone out of his

eyes, and she saw only kindness in them and heard only gentleness in his voice; for love had taken possession

of him also, and Zoraïde was more distracted than ever. When Mézor was not dancing Bamboula in Congo

Square, he was hoeing sugarcane, barefooted and half naked, in his master's field outside of the city. Doctor

"One day, when Zoraïde kneeled before her mistress, drawing on Madame's silken stockings, that were of the

" 'Nénaine, you have spoken to me often of marrying. Now, at last, I have chosen a husband, but it is not

M'sieur Ambroise; it is le beau Mézor that I want and no other.' And Zoraïde hid her face in her hands when

she had said that, for she guessed, rightly enough, that her mistress would be very angry. And, indeed,

Madame Delarivière was at first speechless with rage. When she finally spoke it was only to gasp out,

" 'You white! Malheureuse! You deserve to have the lash laid upon you like any other slave, you have proven

yourself no better than the worst.' " 'I am not white,' persisted Zoraïde, respectfully and gently. 'Doctor

Langlé gives me his slave to marry, but he would not give me his son. Then, since I am not white, let me

"However, you may well believe that Madame would not hear to that. Zoraïde was forbidden to speak to

Mézor, and Mézor was cautioned against seeing Zoraïde again. But you know how the negroes are, Ma'zélle

Titite," added Manna Loulou, smiling a little sadly. "There is no mistress, no master, no king nor priest who

"When months had passed by, Zoraïde, who had grown unlike herself, sober and preoccupied, said again

"'Nénaine, you would not let me have Mézor for my husband; but I have disobeyed you, I have sinned. Kill

me if you wish, nénaine: forgive me if you will; but when I heard le beau Mézor say to me, "Zoraïde, mo

"This time Madame Delarivière was so actually pained, so wounded at hearing Zoraïde's confession, that

there was no place left in her heart for anger. She could utter only confused reproaches. But she was a woman

of action rather than of words, and she acted promptly. Her first step was to induce Doctor Langléto sell

Mézor. Doctor Langlé, who was a widower, had long wanted to marry Madame Delarivière, and he would

willingly have walked on all fours at noon through the Place d'Armes if she wanted him to. Naturally he lost

no time in disposing of le beau Mézor, who was sold away into Georgia, or the Carolinas, or one of those

distant countries far away, where he would no longer hear his Creole tongue spoken, nor dance Calinda, nor

"The poor thing was heartbroken when Mézor was sent away from her, but she took comfort and hope in the

"La belle Zoraïde's sorrows had now begun in earnest. Not only sorrows but sufferings, and with the anguish

of maternity came the shadow of death. But there is no agony that a mother will not forget when she holds

her firstborn to her heart, and presses her lips upon the baby flesh that is her own, yet far more precious than

"So, instinctively, when Zoraïde came out of the awful shadow she gazed questioningly about her and felt

with her trembling hands upon either side of her. 'Où li, mo piti a moin? where is my little one?' she asked

imploringly. Madame who was there and the nurse who was there both told her in turn, 'To piti á toi, li mouri'

('Your little one is dead'), which was a wicked falsehood that must have caused the angels in heaven to weep.

For the baby was living and well and strong. It had at once been removed from its mother's side, to be sent

away to Madame's plantation, far up the coast. Zoraïde could only moan in reply, 'Li mouri, li mouri,' and she

"Madame had hoped, in thus depriving Zoraïde of her child, to have her young waitingmaid again at her

side free, happy, and beautiful as of old. But there was a more powerful will than Madame's at work the

will of the good God, who had already designed that Zoraïde should grieve with a sorrow that was never

more to be lifted in this world. La belle Zoraïde was no more. In her stead was a sadeyed woman who

mourned night and day for her baby. 'Li mouri, li mouri,' she would sigh over and over again to those about

"Yet, in spite of all, M'sieur Ambroise was still in the notion to marry her. A sad wife or a merry one was all

the same to him so long as that wife was Zoraïde. And she seemed to consent, or rather submit, to the

"One day, a black servant entered a little noisily the room in which Zoraïde sat sewing. With a look of strange

and vacuous happiness upon her face, Zoraïde arose hastily. 'Hush, hush,' she whispered, lifting a warning

"Upon the bed was a senseless bundle of rags shaped like an infant in swaddling clothes. Over this dummy

the woman had drawn the mosquito bar, and she was sitting contentedly beside it. It short, from that day

Zoraïe was demented. Night nor day did she lose sight of the doll that lay in her bed or in her arms. "And

now was Madame stung with sorrow and remorse at seeing this terrible affliction that had befallen her dear

Zoraïde. Consulting with Doctor Langlé, they decided to bring back to the mother the real baby of flesh and

blood that was now toddling about, and kicking its heels in the dust yonder upon the plantation.

"It was Madame herself who led the pretty, tiny little "griffe" girl to her mother. Zoraïde was sitting upon a

stone bench in the courtyard, listening to the soft splashing of the fountain, and watching the fitful shadows

" 'Here,' said Madame, approaching, 'here, my poor dear Zoraïde, is your own little child. Keep her; she is

"Zoraïde looked with sullen suspicion upon her mistress and the child before her. Reaching out a hand she

thrust the little one mistrustfully away from her. With the other hand she clasped the rag bundle fiercely to

"Nor could she ever be induced to let her own child approach her; and finally the little one was sent back to

"And now this is the end of Zoraïde's story. She was never known again as la belle Zoraïde, but ever after as

Zoraïde la folle, whom no one ever wanted to marry not even M'sieur Ambroise. She lived to be an old

woman, whom some people pitied and others laughed at always clasping her bundle of rags her 'piti.'

"No, I am not asleep; I was thinking. Ah, the poor little one, Man Loulou, the poor little one! better had she

But this is the way Madame Delisle and Manna Loulou really talked to each other:

"Non, pa pré droumi; mo yapré zongler. Ah, la pauv' piti, Man Loulou. La pauv' piti! Mieux li mouri!"

IT was no wonder Mr. Sublet, who was staying at the Hallet plantation, wanted to make a picture of Evariste.

The 'Cadian was rather a picturesque subject in his way, and a tempting one to an artist looking for bits of

Mr. Sublet had seen the man on the back gallery just as he came out of the swamp, trying to sell a wild turkey

to the housekeeper. He spoke to him at once, and in the course of conversation engaged him to return to the

house the following morning and have his picture drawn. He handed Evariste a couple of silver dollars to

show that his intentions were fair, and that he expected the 'Cadian to keep faith with him.

"He tell' me he want' put my picture in one fine 'Mag'zine,' " said Evariste to his daughter, Martinette, when

the two were talking the matter over in the afternoon. "W'at fo' you reckon he want' do dat?" They sat within

the low, homely cabin of two rooms, that was not quite so comfortable as Mr. Hallet's negro quarters.

Martinette pursed her red lips that had little sensitive curves to them, and her black eyes took on a reflective

"Mebbe he yeard 'bout that big fish w'at you ketch las' winta in Carancro lake. You know it was all wrote

about in the 'Suga Bowl.' " Her father set aside the suggestion with a deprecatory wave of the hand.

"Well, anyway, you got to fix yo'se'f up," declared Martinette, dismissing further speculation; "put on yo'

otha pant'loon' an' yo' good coat; an' you betta ax Mr. Léonce to cut yo' hair, an' yo' w'sker' a li'le bit."

"It 's w'at I say," chimed in Evariste. "I tell dat gent'man I 'm goin' make myse'f fine. He say', 'No, no,' like he

ent please'. He want' me like I come out de swamp. So much betta if my pant'loon' an' coat is tore, he say, an'

color' like de mud" They could not understand these eccentric wishes on the part of the strange gentleman,

An hour later Martinette, who was quite puffed up over the affair, trotted across to Aunt Dicey's cabin to

communicate the news to her. The negress was ironing; her irons stood in a long row before the fire of logs

that burned on the hearth. Martinette seated herself in the chimney corner and held her feet up to the blaze; it

was damp and a little chilly out of doors. The girl's shoes were considerably worn and her garments were a

little too thin and scant for the winter season. Her father had given her the two dollars he had received from

the artist, and Martinette was on her way to the store to invest them as judiciously as she knew how.

"You know, Aunt Dicey," she began a little complacently after listening awhile to Aunt Dicey's unqualified

abuse of her own son, Wilkins, who was diningroom boy at Mr. Hallet's, "you know that stranger gentleman

up to Mr. Hallet's? he want' to make my popa's picture; an' he say' he goin' put it in one fine Mag'zine yonda."

Aunt Dicey spat upon her iron to test its heat. Then she began to snicker. She kept on laughing inwardly,

"Yas, you' laughin'." "Oh, don't pay no 'tention to me. I jis studyin' how simple you an' yo' pa is. You is bof

"You got to say plumb out w'at you mean, Aunt Dice," insisted the girl doggedly, suspicious and alert now.

"Well, dat w'y I say you is simple," proclaimed the woman, slamming down her iron on an inverted, battered

pie pan, "jis like you says, dey gwine put yo' pa's picture yonda in de picture paper. An' you know w'at readin'

dey gwine sot down on'neaf dat picture?" Martinette was intensely attentive. "Dey gwine sot down on'neaf:

The blood flowed from Martinette's face, leaving it deathly pale; in another instant it came beating back in a

quick flood, and her eyes smarted with pain as if the tears that filled them had been fiery hot.

"I knows dem kine o' folks," continued Aunt Dicey, resuming her interrupted ironing. " Dat stranger he got a

li'le boy w'at ain't none too big to spank. Dat li'le imp he come a hoppin' in heah yistiddy wid a kine o' box

on'neaf his arm. He say' 'Good mo'nin', madam. Will you be so kine an' stan' jis like you is dah at yo' i'onin',

an' lef me take yo' picture?' I 'lowed I gwine make a picture outen him wid dis heah flati'on, ef he don' cl'ar

hisse'f quick. An' he say he baig my pardon fo' his intrudement. All dat kine o' talk to a ole nigga 'oman! Dat

"W'at you want 'im to say, Aunt Dice?" asked Martinette, with an effort to conceal her distress.

"I wants 'im to come in heah an' say: 'Howdy, Aunt Dicey! will you be so kine and go put on yo' noo calker

dress an' yo' bonnit w'at you w'ars to meetin', an' stan' 'side f'om dat i'onin'boa'd w'ilse I gwine take yo'

Martinette had arisen, and began to take slow leave of the woman. She turned at the cabin door to observe

tentatively: "I reckon it 's Wilkins tells you how the folks they talk, yonda up to Mr. Hallet's."

She did not go to the store as she had intended, but walked with a dragging step back to her home. The silver

dollars clicked in her pocket as she walked. She felt like flinging them across the field; they seemed to her

The sun had sunk, and twilight was settling like a silver beam upon the bayou and enveloping the fields in a

gray mist. Evariste, slim and slouchy, was waiting for his daughter in the cabin door. He had lighted a fire of

sticks and branches, and placed the kettle before it to boil. He met the girl with his slow, serious, questioning

She entered and flung her gingham sunbonnet upon a chair. "No, I did n' go yonda;" and with sudden

exasperation: "You got to go take back that money; you mus' n' git no picture took."

"But, Martinette," her father mildly interposed, "I promise' 'im; an' he 's goin' give me some mo' money w'en

"If he give you a ba'el o' money, you mus'n' git no picture took. You know w'at he want to put un'neath that

picture, fo' ev'body to read?" She could not tell him the whole hideous truth as she had heard it distorted from

Aunt Dicey's lips; she would not hurt him that much. "He 's goin' to write: 'This is one 'Cajun o' the Bayou

The water in the kettle was boiling. He went and poured a small quantity upon the coffee which he had set

there to drip. Then he said to her: "I reckon you jus' as well go care dat two dolla' back, tomo' mo'nin'; me, I

Mr. Hallet and a few masculine companions were assembled at a rather late breakfast the following morning.

The diningroom was a big, bare one, enlivened by a cheerful fire of logs that blazed in the wide chimney on

massive andirons. There were guns, fishing tackle, and other implements of sport lying about. A couple of

fine dogs strayed unceremoniously in and out behind Wilkins, the negro boy who waited upon the table. The

chair beside Mr. Sublet, usually occupied by his little son, was vacant, as the child had gone for an early

When breakfast was about half over, Mr. Hallet noticed Martinette standing outside upon the gallery. The

"Is n't that Martinette out there, Wilkins?" inquired the jovialfaced young planter.

"Dat 's who, suh," returned Wilkins. "She ben standin' dah sence mos' sunup; look like she studyin' to take

"What in the name of goodness does she want? Ask her what she wants. Tell her to come in to the fire."

Martinette walked into the room with much hesitancy. Her small, brown face could hardly be seen in the

depths of the gingham sunbonnet. Her blue cottonade skirt scarcely reached the thin ankles that it should

"Bonjou'," she murmured, with a little comprehensive nod that took in the entire company. Her eyes searched

the table for the "stranger gentleman," and she knew him at once, because his hair was parted in the middle

and he wore a pointed beard. She went and laid the two silver dollars beside his plate and motioned to retire

without a word of explanation. "Hold on, Martinette!" called out the planter, "what 's all this pantomime

"My popa don't want any picture took," she offered, a little timorously. On her way to the door she had

looked back to say this. In that fleeting glance she detected a smile of intelligence pass from one to the other

of the group. She turned quickly, facing them all, and spoke out, excitement making her voice bold and shrill:

"My popa ent one lowdown 'Cajun. He ent goin' to stan' to have that kine o' writin' put down un'neath his

She almost ran from the room, half blinded by the emotion that had helped her to make so daring a speech.

Descending the gallery steps she ran full against her father who was ascending, bearing in his arms the little

boy, Archie Sublet. The child was most grotesquely attired in garments far too large for his diminutive person

the rough jeans clothing of some negro boy. Evariste himself had evidently been taking a bath without the

preliminary ceremony of removing his clothes, that were now half dried upon his person by the wind and sun.

"Yere you' li'le boy," he announced, stumbling into the room. "You ought not lef dat li'le chile go by hissed

comme ça in de pirogue." Mr. Sublet darted from his chair; the others following suit almost as hastily. In an

instant, quivering with apprehension, he had his little son in his arms. The child was quite unharmed, only

Evariste related in his uncertain, broken English how he had been fishing for an hour or more in Carancro

lake, when he noticed the boy paddling over the deep, black water in a shelllike pirogue. Nearing a clump of

cypresstrees that rose from the lake, the pirogue became entangled in the heavy moss that hung from the

tree limbs and trailed upon the water. The next thing he knew, the boat had overturned, he heard the child

"W'en I done swim to de sho' wid 'im," continued Evariste, "I hurry yonda to Jake Baptiste's cabin, an' we rub

'im an' warm 'im up, an' dress 'im up dry like you see. He all right now, M'sieur; but you mus'n lef 'im go no

mo' by hisse'f in one pirogue." Martinette had followed into the room behind her father. She was feeling and

tapping his wet garments solicitously, and begging him in French to come home. Mr. Hallet at once ordered

hot coffee and a warm breakfast for the two; and they sat down at the corner of the table, making no manner

of objection in their perfect simplicity. It was with visible reluctance and illdisguised contempt that Wilkins

When Mr. Sublet had arranged his son comfortably, with tender care, upon the sofa, and had satisfied himself

that the child was quite uninjured, he attempted to find words with which to thank Evariste for this service

which no treasure of words or gold could pay for. These warm and heartfelt expressions seemed to Evariste to

exaggerate the importance of his action, and they intimidated him. He attempted shyly to hide his face as well

"You will let me make your picture now, I hope, Evariste," begged Mr. Sublet, laying his hand upon the

'Cadian's shoulder. "I want to place it among things I hold most dear, and shall call it 'A hero of Bayou

"No, no," he protested, "it 's nuttin' hero' to take a li'le boy out de water. I jus' as easy do dat like I stoop down

an' pick up a li'le chile w'at fall down in de road. I ent goin' to 'low dat, me. I don't git no picture took, va!"

Mr. Hallet, who now discerned his friend's eagerness in the matter, came to his aid.

"I tell you, Evariste, let Mr. Sublet draw your picture, and you yourself may call it whatever you want. I 'm

Evariste glanced up at him with shy and childlike pleasure. "It 's a bargain?" he asked.

"Popa," whispered Martinette, "you betta come home an' put on yo' otha pant'loon' an' yo' good coat."

"And now, what shall we call the much talkedof picture?" cheerily inquired the planter, standing with his

Evariste in a businesslike manner began carefully to trace on the tablecloth imaginary characters with an

imaginary pen; he could not have written the real characters with a real pen he did not know how.

"You will put on'neat' de picture," he said, deliberately, " 'Dis is one picture of Mista Evariste Anatole

THE days and the nights were very lonely for Madame Delisle. Gustave, her husband, was away yonder in

Virginia somewhere, with Beauregard, and she was here in the old house on Bayou St. John, alone with her

Madame was very beautiful. So beautiful, that she found much diversion in sitting for hours before the

mirror, contemplating her own loveliness; admiring the brilliancy of her golden hair, the sweet languor of her

blue eyes, the graceful contours of her figure, and the peachlike bloom of her flesh. She was very young. So

young that she romped with the dogs, teased the parrot, and could not fall asleep at night unless old black

In short, she was a child, not able to realize the significance of the tragedy whose unfolding kept the civilized

world in suspense. It was only the immediate effect of the awful drama that moved her: the gloom that,

spreading on all sides, penetrated her own existence and deprived it of joyousness.

Sépincourt found her looking very lonely and disconsolate one day when he stopped to talk with her. She was

pale, and her blue eyes were dim with unwept tears. He was a Frenchman who lived near by. He shrugged his

shoulders over this strife between brothers, this quarrel which was none of his; and he resented it chiefly upon

the ground that it made life uncomfortable; yet he was young enough to have had quicker and hotter blood in

When he left Madame Delisle that day, her eyes were no longer dim, and a something of the dreariness that

weighted her had been lifted away That mysterious, that treacherous bond called sympathy, had revealed

He came to her very often that summer, clad always in cool, white duck, with a flower in his buttonhole. His

pleasant brown eyes sought hers with warm, friendly glances that comforted her as a caress might comfort a

disconsolate child. She took to watching for his slim figure, a little bent, walking lazily up the avenue

between the double line of magnolias. They would sit sometimes during whole afternoons in the

vinesheltered corner of the gallery, sipping the black coffee that MannaLoulou brought to them at

intervals; and talking, talking incessantly during the first days when they were unconsciously unfolding

themselves to each other. Then a time came it came very quickly when they seemed to have nothing more

He brought her news of the war; and they talked about it listlessly, between long intervals of silence, of which

neither took account. An occasional letter came by roundabout ways from Gustave guarded and saddening

Once they stood before his portrait that hung in the drawingroom and that looked out at them with kind,

indulgent eyes. Madame wiped the picture with her gossamer handkerchief and impulsively pressed a tender

kiss upon the painted canvas. For months past the living image of her husband had been receding further and

further into a mist which she could penetrate with no faculty or power that she possessed.

One day at sunset, when she and Sépincourt stood silently side by side, looking across the marais, aflame

with the western light, he said to her: "M'amie, let us go away from this country that is so triste. Let us go to

She thought that he was jesting, and she laughed nervously. "Yes, Paris would surely be gayer than Bayou St.

John," she answered. But he was not jesting. She saw it at once in the glance that penetrated her own; in the

quiver of his sensitive lip and the quick beating of a swollen vein in his brown throat.

"Paris, or anywhere with you ah, bon Dieu!" he whispered, seizing her hands. But she withdrew from

That night, for the first time, Madame did not want to hear MannaLoulou's stories, and she blew out the wax

candle that till now had burned nightly in her sleepingroom, under its tall, crystal globe. She had suddenly

become a woman capable of love or sacrifice. She would not hear MannaLoulou's stories. She wanted to be

In the morning her eyes were dry, but she would not see Sépincourt when he came. Then he wrote her a

"I have offended you and I would rather die!" it ran. "Do not banish me from your presence that is life to me.

Let me lie at your feet, if only for a moment, in which to hear you say that you forgive me."

Men have written just such letters before, but Madame did not know it. To her it was a voice from the

unknown, like music, awaking in her a delicious tumult that seized and held possession of her whole being.

When they met, he had but to look into her face to know that he need not lie at her feet craving forgiveness.

She was waiting for him beneath the spreading branches of a live oak that guarded the gate of her home like a

For a brief moment he held her hands, which trembled. Then he folded her in his arms and kissed her many

times. "You will go with me, m'amie? I love you oh, I love you! Will you not go with me, m'amie?"

"Anywhere, anywhere," she told him in a fainting voice that he could scarcely hear.

But she did not go with him. Chance willed it otherwise. That night a courier brought her a message from

When the new year was still young, Sépincourt decided that, all things considered, he might, without any

appearance of indecent haste, speak again of his love to Madame Delisle. That love was quite as acute as

ever; perhaps a little sharper, from the lone period of silence and waiting to which he had subjected it. He

found her, as he had expected, clad in deepest mourning. She greeted him precisely as she had welcomed the

curé, when the kind old priest had brought to her the consolations of religion clasping his two hands

warmly, and calling him "cher ami." Her whole attitude and bearing brought to Sépincourt the poignant, the

They sat in the drawingroom before the portrait of Gustave, which was draped with his scarf. Above the

picture hung his sword, and beneath it was an embankment of flowers. Sépincourt felt an almost irresistible

impulse to bend his knee before this altar, upon which he saw foreshadowed the immolation of his hopes.

There was a soft air blowing gently over the marais. It came to them through the open window, laden with a

hundred subtle sounds and scents of the springtime. It seemed to remind Madame of something far, far away,

for she gazed dreamily out into the blue firmament. It fretted Sépincourt with impulses to speech and action

"You must know what has brought me," he began impulsively, drawing his chair nearer to hers. "Through all

these months I have never ceased to love you and to long for you. Night and day the sound of your dear voice

She held out her hand deprecatingly. He took it and held it. She let it lie unresponsive in his.

"You cannot have forgotten that you loved me not long ago," he went on eagerly, "that you were ready to

follow me anywhere anywhere; do you remember? I have come now to ask you to fulfill that promise; to

She heard his warm and pleading tones as though listening to a strange language, imperfectly understood. She

"Can you not feel can you not understand, mon ami," she said calmly, "that now such a thing such a

"Yes, impossible. Can you not see that now my heart, my soul, my thought my very life, must belong to

"Would you have me believe that you can wed your young existence to the dead?" he exclaimed with

something like horror. Her glance was sunk deep in the embankment of flowers before her.

"My husband has never been so living to me as he is now," she replied with a faint smile of commiseration

for Sépincourt's fatuity. "Every object that surrounds me speaks to me of him. I look yonder across the

marais, and I see him coming toward me, tired and toilstained from the hunt. I see him again sitting in this

chair or in that one. I hear his familiar voice, his footsteps upon the galleries. We walk once more together

beneath the magnolias; and at night in dreams I feel that he is there, there, near me. How could it be different!

Ah! I have memories, memories to crowd and fill my life, if I live a hundred years!"

Sépincourt was wondering why she did not take the sword down from her altar and thrust it through his body

here and there. The effect would have been infinitely more agreeable than her words, penetrating his soul like

"Then, Madame," he stammered, "there is nothing left for me but to take my leave. I bid you adieu."

"Do not be offended, mon ami," she said kindly, holding out her hand. "You are going to Paris, I suppose?"

Many days after that Sépincourt spent in the fruitless mental effort of trying to comprehend that

Madame still lives on Bayou St. John. She is rather an old lady now, a very pretty old lady, against whose

long years of widowhood there has never been a breath of reproach. The memory of Gustave still fills and

satisfies her days. She has never failed, once a year, to have a solemn high mass said for the repose of his