Anthology
of Louisiana Literature
George Washington Cable.
The Adventures of Françoise and Suzanne.
TO MY FRIEND JAMES BIRNEY GUTHRIE
CONTENTS. |
|
|
Page |
I. |
The Two Sisters |
34 |
II. |
Making Up The Expedition |
37 |
III. |
The Embarkation |
43 |
IV. |
Alix Carpentier |
51 |
V. |
Down Bayou Plaquemine. — the Fight With Wild Nature |
55 |
VI. |
The Twice-married Countess |
61 |
VII. |
Odd Partners In The Bolero Dance |
65 |
VIII. |
A Bad Storm In A Bad Place |
69 |
IX. |
Maggie And The Robbers |
73 |
X. |
Alix Puts Away The Past |
80 |
XI. |
Alix Plays Fairy. — parting Tears. |
84 |
XII. |
Little Paris |
90 |
XIII. |
The Countess Madelaine |
94 |
XIV. |
"Poor Little Alix!" |
99 |
XV. |
The Discovery Of The Hat |
104 |
XVI. |
The Ball |
108 |
XVII. |
Picnic And Farewell |
116 |
THE ADVENTURES OF FRANÇOISE AND SUZANNE.
1795.
Years
passed by. Our war of the Revolution was over. The Indians
of
Louisiana and Florida were all greedy, smiling gift-takers of his
Catholic
Majesty. So were some others not Indians; and the Spanish
governors of
Louisiana, scheming with them for the acquisition of Kentucky and
the
regions intervening, had allowed an interprovincial commerce to
spring up.
Flatboats and barges came floating down the Mississippi past the
plantation home where little Suzanne and Françoise were
growing up to
womanhood. Many of the immigrants who now came to Louisiana were
the
royalist noblesse flying from the horrors of the French
Revolution.
Governor Carondelet was strengthening his fortifications around
New
Orleans; for Creole revolutionists had slipped away to Kentucky
and were
there plotting an armed descent in flatboats upon his little
capital,
where the rabble were singing the terrible songs of bloody Paris.
Agents
of the Revolution had come from France and so "contaminated," as
he says,
"the greater part of the province" that he kept order only "at the
cost
of sleepless nights, by frightening some, punishing others, and
driving
several out of the colony." It looks as though Suzanne had caught
a touch
of dis-relish for les aristocrates, whose necks the songs
of the day
were promising to the lampposts. To add to all these commotions, a
hideous
revolution had swept over San Domingo; the slaves in Louisiana had
heard
of it, insurrection was feared, and at length, in 1794, when
Susanne was
seventeen and Françoise fifteen, it broke out on the
Mississippi no great
matter over a day's ride from their own home, and twenty-three
blacks were
gibbeted singly at intervals all the way down by their father's
plantation
and on to New Orleans, and were left swinging in the weather to
insure the
peace and felicity of the land. Two other matters are all we need
notice
for the ready comprehension of Françoise's story.
Immigration was knocking
at every gate of the province, and citizen Étienne de
Boré had just made
himself forever famous in the history of Louisiana by producing
merchantable sugar; land was going to be valuable, even back on
the wild
prairies of Opelousas and Attakapas, where, twenty years before,
the
Acadians, — the cousins of Evangeline, — wandering from far Nova
Scotia, had
settled. Such was the region and such were the times when it began
to be
the year 1795.
By good fortune one of the undestroyed fragments of
Françoise's own
manuscript is its first page. She was already a grandmother
forty-three
years old when in 1822 she wrote the tale she had so often told.
Part of
the dedication to her only daughter and namesake — one line,
possibly
two — has been torn off, leaving only the words, "ma fille unique a
la
grasse [meaning 'grace'] de dieu [sic]," over her signature and
the date,
"14 Julet [sic], 1822."
I.
THE TWO SISTERS.
It is to give pleasure to my dear daughter Fannie and to her
children that
I write this journey. I shall be well satisfied if I can succeed
in giving
them this pleasure: by the grace of God, Amen.
Papa, Mr. Pierre Bossier, planter of
St. James parish,
had been
fifteen
days gone to the city (New Orleans) in his skiff with two rowers,
Louis
and Baptiste, when, returning, he embraced us all, gave us some
caramels
which he had in his pockets, and announced that he counted on
leaving us
again in four or five days to go to Attakapas. He had long been
speaking
of going there. Papa and mamma were German, and papa loved to
travel. When
he first came to Louisiana it was with no expectation of staying.
But here
he saw mamma; he loved her, married her, and bought a very fine
plantation, where he cultivated indigo. You know they blue clothes
with
that drug, and dye cottonade and other things. There we, their
eight
children, were born. . . .
When my father used to go to New Orleans he went in his skiff,
with a
canopy over his head to keep off the sun, and two rowers, who sang
as
they rowed. Sometimes papa took me with him, and it was very
entertaining.
We would pass the nights of our voyage at the houses of papa's
friends
[des zami de papa]. Sometimes mamma would come, and Suzanne
always — always. She was the daughter next older than I. She barely
missed
being a boy. She was eighteen years of age, went hunting with our
father,
was skillful with a gun, and swam like a fish. Papa called her "my
son."
You must understand the two boys were respectively but two years
and three
months old, and papa, who greatly desired a son, had easily made
one of
Suzanne. My father had brought a few books with him to Louisiana,
and
among them, you may well suppose, were several volumes of travel.
For
myself, I rarely touched them; but they were the only books that
Suzanne
read. And you may well think, too, that my father had no sooner
spoken of
his intention than Suzanne cried:
"I am going with you, am I not, papa?"
"Naturally," replied my father; "and Françoise shall go
also."
Françoise — that was I; poor child of sixteen, who had but
six months
before quitted the school-bench, and totally unlike my
sister — blonde,
where Suzanne was dark; timid, even cowardly, while she had the
hardihood
and courage of a young lioness; ready to cry at sight of a wounded
bird,
while she, gun in hand, brought down as much game as the most
skillful
hunter.
I exclaimed at my father's speech. I had heard there were many
Indians in
Attakapas; the name means man-eaters. I have a foolish terror of
Indians,
and a more reasonable one for man-eaters. But papa and Suzanne
mocked at
my fears; and as, after all, I burned with desire for the journey,
it was
decided that I should go with them.
Necessarily we wanted to know how we were to go — whether we should
travel
by skiff, and how many negroes and negresses would go with us. For
you
see, my daughter, young people in 1795 were exactly what they are
in 1822;
they could do nothing by themselves, but must have a domestic to
dress and
undress them. Especially in traveling, where one had to take
clothes out
of trunks and put them back again, assistance became an absolute
necessity. Think, then, of our astonishment, of our vexation, when
papa
assured us that he would not take a single slave; that my sister
and I
would be compelled to help each other, and that the skiff would
remain
behind, tied up at the landing where it then lay.
"But explain yourself, Papa, I beg of you," cried Suzanne, with
her
habitual petulance.
"That is what I am trying to do," said he. "If you will listen in
silence,
I will give you all the explanation you want."
Here, my daughter, to save time, I will borrow my father's speech
and tell
of the trip he had made to New Orleans; how he had there found
means to
put into execution his journey to Attakapas, and the companions
that were
to accompany him.
II.
MAKING UP THE EXPEDITION.
In 1795 New Orleans was nothing but a mere market town. The
cathedral, the
convent of the Ursulines, five or six cafés, and about a
hundred houses
were all of it.
Can you believe, there were but two dry-goods stores!
And what fabulous prices we had to pay! Pins twenty dollars a
paper. Poor
people and children had to make shift with thorns of orange and
amourette [honey locust?]. A needle cost fifty cents, very
indifferent
stockings five dollars a pair, and other things accordingly.
On the levee was a little pothouse of the lowest sort; yet from
that
unclean and smoky hole was destined to come one of the finest
fortunes in
Louisiana. They called the proprietor
"Père la Chaise."
He was a
little
old marten-faced man, always busy and smiling, who every year laid
aside
immense profits. Along the crazy walls extended a few rough
shelves
covered with bottles and decanters. Three planks placed on boards
formed
the counter, with Père la Chaise always behind it. There
were two or three
small tables, as many chairs, and one big wooden bench. Here
gathered the
city's working-class, and often among them one might find a goodly
number
of the city's élite; for the wine and the beer of the old cabaretier
were famous, and one could be sure in entering there to hear all
the news
told and discussed.
By day the place was quiet, but with evening it became
tumultuous. Père la
Chaise, happily, did not lose his head; he found means to satisfy
all, to
smooth down quarrels without calling in the police, to get rid of
drunkards, and to make delinquents pay up.
My father knew the place, and never failed to pay it a visit when
he went
to New Orleans. Poor, dear father! he loved to talk as much as to
travel.
Père la Chaise was acquainted with him. One evening papa
entered, sat down
at one of the little tables, and bade Père la Chaise bring
a bottle of his
best wine. The place was already full of people, drinking,
talking, and
singing. A young man of twenty-six or twenty-seven entered almost
timidly
and sat down at the table where my father was — for he saw that all
the
other places were occupied — and ordered a half-bottle of cider. He
was a
Norman gardener. My father knew him by sight; he had met him here
several
times without speaking to him. You recognized the peasant at once;
and yet
his exquisite neatness, the gentleness of his face, distinguished
him from
his kind. Joseph Carpentier was
dressed
in a very ordinary gray woolen
coat; but his coarse shirt was very white, and his hair, when he
took off
his broad-brimmed hat, was well combed and glossy.
As Carpentier was opening his bottle a second frequenter entered
the
cabaret. This was a man of thirty or thirty-five, with
strong features
and the frame of a Hercules. An expression of frankness and gayety
overspread his sunburnt face. Cottonade pantaloons, stuffed into a
pair of
dirty boots, and a vareuse of the same stuff made up his
dress. His
vareuse, unbuttoned, showed his breast, brown and hairy; and a
horrid cap
with long hair covered, without concealing, a mass of red locks
that a
comb had never gone through. A long whip, the stock of which he
held in
his hand, was coiled about his left arm. He advanced to the
counter and
asked for a glass of brandy. He was a drayman named John Gordon — an
Irishman.
But, strange, John Gordon, glass in hand, did not drink;
Carpentier, with
his fingers round the neck of the bottle, failed to pour his
cider; and my
father himself, his eyes attracted to another part of the room,
forgot his
wine. Every one was looking at an individual gesticulating and
haranguing
in the middle of the place, to the great amusement of all. My
father
recognized him at first sight. He was an Italian about the age of
Gordon;
short, thick-set, powerful, swarthy, with the neck of a bull and
hair as
black as ebony. He was telling rapidly, with strong gestures, in
an almost
incomprehensible mixture of Spanish, English, French, and Italian,
the
story of a hunting party that he had made up five years before.
This was
Mario Carlo. A Neapolitan by birth, he had for several years
worked as a
blacksmith on the plantation of one of our neighbors, M. Alphonse
Perret.
Often papa had heard him tell of this hunt, for nothing could be
more
amusing than to listen to Carlo. Six young men, with Carlo as
sailor and
cook, had gone on a two-months' expedition into the country of the
Attakapas.
"Yes," said the Italian, in conclusion, "game never failed us;
deer,
turkeys, ducks, snipe, two or three bears a week. But the
sublimest thing
was the rich land. Ah! one must see it to believe it. Plains and
forests
full of animals, lakes and bayous full of fish. Ah! fortune is
there. For
five years I have dreamed, I have worked, with but one object in
view; and
today the end is reached. I am ready to go. I want only two
companions to
aid me in the long journey, and those I have come to look for
here."
John Gordon stepped forward, laid a hand upon the speaker's
shoulder, and
said:
"My friend, I am your man."
Mario Carlo seized the hand and shook it with all his force.
"You will not repent the step. But" — turning again to the
crowd — "we want
one more."
Joseph Carpentier rose slowly and advanced to the two men.
"Comrades, I
will be your companion if you will accept me."
Before separating, the three drank together and appointed to meet
the next
day at the house of Gordon, the Irishman.
When my father saw Gordon and Carpentier leave the place, he
placed his
hand on Mario's shoulder and said in Italian, "My boy, I want to
talk with
you."
At that time, as now, parents were very scrupulous as to the
society into
which they introduced their children, especially their daughters;
and papa
knew of a certain circumstance in Carlo's life to which my mother
might
greatly object. But he knew the man had an honest and noble heart.
He
passed his arm into the Italian's and drew him to the inn where my
father
was stopping, and to his room. Here he learned from Mario that he
had
bought one of those great barges that bring down provisions from
the West,
and which, when unloaded, the owners count themselves lucky to
sell at any
reasonable price. When my father proposed to Mario to be taken as
a
passenger the poor devil's joy knew no bounds; but it disappeared
when
papa added that he should take his two daughters with him.
The trouble was this: Mario was taking with him in his flatboat
his wife
and his four children; his wife and four children were
simply — mulattoes.
However, then as now, we hardly noticed those things, and the idea
never
entered our minds to inquire into the conduct of our slaves.
Suzanne and I
had known Celeste, Mario's wife, very well before her husband
bought her.
She had been the maid of Marianne Perret, and on great occasions
Marianne
had sent her to us to dress our hair and to prepare our toilets.
We were
therefore enchanted to learn that she would be with us on board
the
flatboat, and that papa had engaged her services in place of the
attendants we had to leave behind.
It was agreed that for one hundred dollars Mario Carlo would
receive all
three of us as passengers, that he would furnish a room simply but
comfortably, that papa would share this room with us, that Mario
would
supply our table, and that his wife would serve as maid and
laundress. It
remained to be seen now whether our other fellow-travelers were
married,
and, if so, what sort of creatures their wives were.
[The next day the four intended travelers met at Gordon's house.
Gordon
had a wife, Maggie, and a son, Patrick, aged twelve, as unlovely
in
outward aspect as were his parents. Carpentier, who showed himself
even
more plainly than on the previous night a man of native
refinement,
confessed to a young wife without offspring. Mario told his story
of love
and alliance with one as fair of face as he, and whom only cruel
law
forbade him to call wife and compelled him to buy his children;
and told
the story so well that at its close the father of Françoise
silently
grasped the narrator's hand, and Carpentier, reaching across the
table
where they sat, gave his, saying:
"You are an honest man, Monsieur Carlo."
"Will your wife think so?" asked the Italian.
"My wife comes from a country where there are no prejudices of
race."
Françoise takes the pains to say of this part of the story
that it was not
told her and Suzanne at this time, but years afterward, when they
were
themselves wives and mothers. When, on the third day, her father
saw
Carpentier's wife at the Norman peasant's lodgings, he was greatly
surprised at her appearance and manner, and so captivated by them
that he
proposed that their two parties should make one at table during
the
projected voyage — a proposition gratefully accepted. Then he left
New
Orleans for his plantation home, intending to return immediately,
leaving
his daughters in St. James to prepare for the journey and await
the
arrival of the flatboat, which must pass their home on its way to
the
distant wilds of Attakapas.]
III.
THE EMBARKATION.
You see, my dear child, at that time one post-office served for
three
parishes: St. James, St. John the Baptist, and St. Charles. It was
very
far from us, at the extremity of St. John the Baptist, and the
mail came
there on the first of each month.
We had to pay — though the price was no object — fifty cents postage
on a
letter. My father received several journals, mostly European.
There was
only one paper, French and Spanish, published in New Orleans —
"The Gazette."
To
send to the post-office was an affair of state. Our
father, you see, had not time to write; he was obliged to come to
us
himself. But such journeys were a matter of course in those days.
"And above all things, my children," said my father, "don't have
too much
baggage."
I should not have thought of rebelling; but Suzanne raised loud
cries,
saying it was an absolute necessity that we go with papa to New
Orleans,
so as not to find ourselves on our journey without
traveling-dresses, new
neckerchiefs, and a number of things. In vain did poor papa
endeavor to
explain that we were going into a desert worse than Arabia;
Suzanne put
her two hands to her ears and would hear nothing, until, weary of
strife,
poor papa yielded.
Our departure being decided upon, he wished to start even the
very next
day; and while we were instructing our sisters Elinore and Marie
concerning some trunks that we should leave behind us, and which
they must
pack and have ready for the flatboat, papa recommended to mamma a
great
slaughter of fowls, etc., and especially to have ready for
embarkation two
of our best cows. Ah! in those times if the planter wished to live
well he
had to raise everything himself, and the poultry yard and the
dairy were
something curious to see. Dozens of slaves were kept busy in them
constantly. When my mother had raised two thousand chickens,
besides
turkeys, ducks, geese, guinea-fowls, and pea-fowls, she said she
had
lost
her crop.
And the quantity of butter and cheese! And all this without
counting the sauces, the jellies, the preserves, the gherkins, the
syrups,
the brandied fruits. And not a ham, not a chicken, not a pound of
butter
was sold; all was served on the master's table, or, very often,
given to
those who stood in need of them. Where, now, can you find such
profusion?
Ah! commerce has destroyed industry.
The next day, after kissing mamma and the children, we got into
the large
skiff with papa and three days later stepped ashore in New
Orleans. We
remained there a little over a week, preparing our
traveling-dresses.
Despite the admonitions of papa, we went to the fashionable
modiste of the
day, Madame Cinthelia Lefranc, and ordered for each a suit that
cost one
hundred and fifty dollars. The costume was composed of a petticoat
of
camayeu, very short, caught up in puffs on the side by a
profusion of
ribbons; and a very long-pointed black velvet jacket (casaquin),
laced
in the back with gold and trimmed on the front with several rows
of gilt
buttons. The sleeves stopped at the elbows and were trimmed with
lace.
Now, my daughter, do you know what camayeu was? You now sometimes
see an
imitation of it in door and window curtains. It was a stuff of
great
fineness, yet resembling not a little the unbleached cotton of
to-day, and
over which were spread very brilliant designs of prodigious size.
For
example, Suzanne's petticoat showed bunches of great radishes — not
the
short kind — surrounded by long, green leaves and tied with a yellow
cord;
while on mine were roses as big as a baby's head, interlaced with
leaves
and buds and gathered into bouquets graced with a blue ribbon. It
was ten
dollars an ell; but, as the petticoats were very short, six ells
was
enough for each. At that time real hats were unknown. For driving
or for
evening they placed on top of the high, powdered hair what they
called a
catogan, a little bonnet of gauze or lace trimmed with
ribbons; and
during the day a sun-bonnet of silk or velvet. You can guess that
neither
Suzanne nor I, in spite of papa's instructions, forgot these.
Our traveling-dresses were gray cirsacas, — the skirt all
one, short,
without puffs; the jacket coming up high and with long sleeves, — a
sunbonnet of cirsacas, blue stockings, embroidered handkerchief or
blue
cravat about the neck, and high-heeled shoes.
As soon as Celeste heard of our arrival in New Orleans she
hastened to us.
She was a good creature; humble, respectful, and always ready to
serve.
She was an excellent cook and washer, and, what we still more
prized, a
lady's maid and hairdresser of the first order. My sister and I
were glad
to see her, and overwhelmed her with questions about Carlo, their
children, their plans, and our traveling companions.
"Ah! Momzelle Suzanne, the little Madame Carpentier seems to me a
fine
lady, ever so genteel; but the Irish woman! Ah! grand Dieu!
she puts me
in mind of a soldier. I'm afraid of her. She smokes — she swears — she
carries a pistol, like a man."
At last the 15th of May came, and papa took us on board the
flatboat and
helped us to find our way to our apartment. If my father had
allowed
Carlo, he would have ruined himself in furnishing our room; but
papa
stopped him and directed it himself. The flatboat had been divided
into
four chambers. These were covered by a slightly arching deck, on
which the
boat was managed by the moving of immense sweeps that sent her
forward.
The room in the stern, surrounded by a sort of balcony, which
Monsieur
Carpentier himself had made, belonged to him and his wife; then
came ours,
then that of Celeste and her family, and the one at the bow was
the
Irishwoman's. Carlo and Gordon had crammed the provisions, tools,
carts,
and plows into the corners of their respective apartments. In the
room
which our father was to share with us he had had Mario make two
wooden
frames mounted on feet. These were our beds, but they were
supplied with
good bedding and very white sheets. A large cypress table, on
which we saw
a pile of books and our workboxes; a washstand, also of cypress,
but well
furnished and surmounted by a mirror; our trunks in a corner;
three
rocking-chairs — this was all our furniture. There was neither
carpet nor
curtain.
All were on board except the Carpentier couple. Suzanne was all
anxiety to
see the Irishwoman. Poor Suzanne! how distressed she was not to be
able to
speak English! So, while I was taking off my capotte — as
the sun-bonnet
of that day was called — and smoothing my hair at the glass, she had
already tossed her capotte upon papa's bed and sprung up the
ladder that
led to the deck. (Each room had one.) I followed a little later
and had
the satisfaction of seeing Madame Margaretto Gordon, commonly
called
"Maggie" by her husband and "Maw" by her son Patrick. She was
seated on a
coil of rope, her son on the boards at her feet. An enormous dog
crouched
beside them, with his head against Maggie's knee. The mother and
son were
surprisingly clean. Maggie had on a simple brown calico dress and
an
apron of blue ticking. A big red kerchief was crossed on her
breast and
its twin brother covered her well combed and greased black hair.
On her
feet were blue stockings and heavy leather shoes. The blue ticking
shirt
and pantaloons and waistcoat of Master Pat were so clean that they
shone;
his black cap covered his hair — as well combed as his mother's; but
he was
barefooted. Gordon, Mario, and Celeste's eldest son, aged
thirteen, were
busy about the deck; and papa, his cigar in his mouth and his
hands in his
pockets, stood looking out on the levee. I sat down on one of the
rough
benches that had been placed here and there, and presently my
sister came
and sat beside me.
"Madame Carpentier seems to be a laggard," she said. She was
burning to
see the arrival of her whom we had formed the habit of calling
"the little
French peasant."
[Presently Suzanne begins shooting bonbons at little Patrick,
watching the
effect out of the corners of her eyes, and by and by gives that
smile, all
her own, — to which, says Françoise, all flesh invariably
surrendered, — and
so became dumbly acquainted; while Carlo was beginning to swear
"fit to
raise the dead," writes the memoirist, at the tardiness of the
Norman
pair. But just then — ]
A carriage drove up to within a few feet of our chaland
and Joseph
Carpentier alighted, paid the driver, and lifted from it one so
delicate,
pretty, and small that you might take her at first glance for a
child of
ten years. Suzanne and I had risen quickly and came and leaned
over the
balustrade. To my mortification my sister had passed one arm
around the
waist of the little Irishman and held one of his hands in hers.
Suzanne
uttered a cry of astonishment. "Look, look, Françoise!" But
I was looking,
with eyes wide with astonishment.
The gardener's wife had alighted, and with her little gloved hand
shook
out and re-arranged her toilet. That toilet, very simple to the
eyes of
Madame Carpentier, was what petrified us with astonishment. I am
going to
describe it to you, my daughter.
We could not see her face, for her hood of blue silk, trimmed
with a light
white fur, was covered with a veil of white lace that entirely
concealed
her features. Her traveling-dress, like ours, was of cirsacas, but
ours
was cotton, while hers was silk, in broad rays of gray and blue;
and as
the weather was a little cool that morning, she had exchanged the
unfailing casaquin for a sort of camail to match the
dress, and trimmed,
like the capotte, with a line of white fur. Her petticoat was very
short,
lightly puffed on the sides, and ornamented only with two very
long
pockets trimmed like the camail. Below the folds of the robe were
two
Cinderella feet in blue silk stockings and black velvet slippers.
It was
not only the material of this toilet that astonished us, but the
way in
which it was made.
"Maybe she is a modiste. Who knows?" whispered Suzanne.
Another thing: Madame Carpentier wore a veil and gloves, two
things of
which we had heard but which we had never seen. Madame Ferrand had
mentioned them, but said that they sold for their weight in gold
in Paris,
and she had not dared import them, for fear she could not sell
them in
Louisiana. And here was the wife of a laboring gardener, who
avowed
himself possessor of but two thousand francs, dressed like a
duchess and
with veil and gloves!
I could but notice with what touching care Joseph assisted his
wife on
board. He led her straight to her room, and quickly rejoined us on
deck to
put himself at the disposition of his associates. He explained to
Mario
his delay, caused by the difficulty of finding a carriage; at
which Carlo
lifted his shoulders and grimaced. Joseph added that madame — I
noticed
that he rarely called her Alix — was rather tired, and would keep
her room
until dinner time. Presently our heavy craft was under way.
Pressing against the long sweeps, which it required a herculean
strength
to move, were seen on one side Carlo and his son Celestino, or
'Tino, and
on the other Joseph and Gordon. It moved slowly; so slowly that it
gave
the effect of a great tortoise.
IV.
ALIX CARPENTIER.
Towards noon we saw Celeste come on deck with her second son,
both
carrying baskets full of plates, dishes, covers, and a tablecloth.
You
remember I have often told you of an awning stretched at the stern
of the
flatboat? We found that in fine weather our dining-room was to be
under
this. There was no table; the cloth was simply spread on the deck,
and
those who ate had to sit à la Turque or take their
plates on their
knees. The Irish family ate in their room. Just as we were drawing
around
our repast Madame Carpentier, on her husband's arm, came up on
deck.
Dear little Alix! I see you yet as I saw you then. And here,
twenty-seven
years after our parting, I have before me the medallion you gave
me, and
look tenderly on your dear features, my friend!
She had not changed her dress; only she had replaced her camail
with a
scarf of blue silk about her neck and shoulders and had removed
her gloves
and capuche. Her rich chestnut hair, unpowdered, was
combed back à la
Chinoise, and the long locks that descended upon her
shoulders were tied
by a broad blue ribbon forming a rosette on the forepart of her
head. She
wore no jewelry except a pearl at each ear and her wedding ring.
Suzanne,
who always saw everything, remarked afterward that Madame
Carpentier wore
two.
"As for her earrings," she added, "they are nothing great.
Marianne has
some as fine, that cost, I think, ten dollars."
Poor Suzanne, a judge of jewelry! Madame Carpentier's earrings
were two
great pearls, worth at least two hundred dollars. Never have I met
another
so charming, so lovely, as Alix Carpentier. Her every movement was
grace.
She moved, spoke, smiled, and in all things acted differently from
all the
women I had ever met until then. She made one think she had lived
in a
world all unlike ours; and withal she was simple, sweet, good, and
to love
her seemed the most natural thing on earth. There was nothing
extraordinary in her beauty; the charm was in her intelligence and
her
goodness.
Maggie, the Irishwoman, was very taciturn. She never mingled with
us, nor
spoke to any one except Suzanne, and to her in monosyllables only
when
addressed. You would see her sometimes sitting alone at the bow of
the
boat, sewing, knitting, or saying her beads. During this last
occupation
her eyes never quitted Alix. One would say it was to her she
addressed her
prayers; and one day, when she saw my regard fixed upon Alix, she
said to
me:
"It does me good to look at her; she must look like the Virgin
Mary."
Her little form, so graceful and delicate, had, however, one
slight
defect; but this was hidden under the folds of her robe or of the
scarf
that she knew how to arrange with such grace. One shoulder was a
trifle
higher than the other.
After having greeted my father, whom she already knew, she turned
to us,
hesitated a moment, and then, her two little hands extended, and
with a
most charming smile, she advanced, first to me and then to
Suzanne, and
embraced us both as if we had been old acquaintances. And from
that moment
we were good friends.
It had been decided that the boat should not travel by night,
notwithstanding the assurance of Carlo, who had a map of
Attakapas. But in
the Mississippi there was no danger; and as papa was pressed to
reach our
plantation, we traveled all that first night.
The next day Alix — she required us to call her by that
name — invited us to
visit her in her room. Suzanne and I could not withhold a cry of
surprise
as we entered the little chamber. (Remember one thing: papa took
nothing
from home, not knowing even by what means we should return; but
the
Carpentiers were going for good and taking everything.) Joseph had
had the
rough walls whitewashed. A cheap carpet — but high-priced in those
times — of bright colors covered the floor; a very low French bed
occupied
one corner, and from a sort of dais escaped the folds of an
embroidered
bobbinet mosquito-bar. It was the first mosquito-bar of that kind
we had
ever seen. Alix explained that she had made it from the curtains
of the
same bed, and that both bed and curtains she had brought with her
from
England. New mystery!
Beside the bed a walnut dressing-table and mirror, opposite to it
a
washstand, at the bed's foot a príedieu, a
center-table, three
chairs — these were all the furniture; but [an enumeration follows
of all
manner of pretty feminine belongings, in crystal, silver, gold,
with a
picture of the crucifixion and another of the Virgin]. On the
shelves were
a rich box of colors, several books, and some portfolios of music.
From a
small peg hung a guitar.
But Suzanne was not satisfied. Her gaze never left an object of
unknown
form enveloped in green serge. Alix noticed, laughed, rose, and,
lifting
the covering, said:
"This is my harp, Suzanne; later I will play it for you."
The second evening and those that followed, papa, despite Carlo's
representation and the magnificent moonlight, opposed the
continuation of
the journey by night; and it was not until the morning of the
fifth day
that we reached St. James.
You can fancy the joy with which we were received at the
plantation. We
had but begun our voyage, and already my mother and sisters ran to
us with
extended arms as though they had not seen us for years. Needless
to say,
they were charmed with Alix; and when after dinner we had to say a
last
adieu to the loved ones left behind, we boarded the flatboat and
left the
plantation
amid huzzas,
waving handkerchiefs, and kisses
thrown from
finger-tips. No one wept, but in saying good-bye to my father, my
mother
asked:
"Pierre, how are you going to return?"
"Dear wife, by the mercy of God all things are possible to the
man with
his pocket full of money."
During the few days that we passed on the Mississippi each day
was like
the one before. We sat on the deck and watched the slow swinging
of the
long sweeps, or read, or embroidered, or in the chamber of Alix
listened
to her harp or guitar; and at the end of another week, we arrived
at
Plaquemine.
V.
DOWN BAYOU PLAQUEMINE — THE FIGHT
WITH WILD NATURE.
Plaquemine was composed of a church, two stores, as many
drinking-shops,
and about fifty cabins, one of which was the court-house. Here
lived a
multitude of Catalans, Acadians, negroes, and Indians. When
Suzanne and
Maggie, accompanied by my father and John Gordon, went ashore, I
declined
to follow, preferring to stay aboard with Joseph and Alix. It was
at
Plaquemine that we bade adieu to the old Mississippi. Here our
flatboat
made a détour and entered
Bayou Plaquemine.
Hardly had we started when our men saw and were frightened by the
force of
the current. The enormous flatboat, that Suzanne had likened to a
giant
tortoise, darted now like an arrow, dragged by the current. The
people of
Plaquemine had forewarned our men and recommended the greatest
prudence.
"Do everything possible to hold back your boat, for if you strike
any of
those tree-trunks of which the bayou is full it would easily sink
you."
Think how reassuring all this was, and the more when they informed
us that
this was the first time a flatboat had ventured into the bayou!
Mario, swearing in all the known languages, sought to reassure
us, and,
aided by his two associates, changed the manoeuvring, and with
watchful
eye found ways to avoid the great uprooted trees in which the
lakes and
bayous of Attakapas abound. But how clouded was Carpentier's brow!
And my
father? Ah! he repented enough. Then he realized that gold is not
always
the vanquisher of every obstacle. At last, thanks to Heaven, our
flatboat
came off victor over the snags, and after some hours we arrived at
the
Indian village of which you have heard me tell.
If I was afraid at sight of a dozen savages among the Spaniards
of
Plaquemine, what was to become of me now? The bank was entirely
covered
with men, their faces painted, their heads full of feathers,
moccasins on
their feet, and bows on shoulder — Indians indeed, with women simply
wrapped in blankets, and children without the shadow of a garment;
and all
these Indians running, calling to one another, making signs to us,
and
addressing us in incomprehensible language. Suzanne, standing up
on the
bow of the flatboat, replied to their signs and called with all
the force
of her lungs every Indian word that — God knows where — she had
learned:
"Chacounam finnan! O Choctaw! Conno Poposso!" And the Indians
clapped
their hands, laughing with pleasure and increasing yet more their
gestures
and cries.
The village, about fifty huts, lay along the edge of the water.
The
unfortunates were not timid. Presently several came close to the
flatboat
and showed us two deer and some wild turkeys and ducks, the spoils
of
their hunting. Then came the women laden with sacks made of bark
and full
of blackberries, vegetables, and a great quantity of baskets;
showing all,
motioning us to come down, and repeating in French and Spanish,
"Money,
money!"
It was decided that Mario and Gordon should stay on board and
that all the
rest of the joyous band should go ashore. My father, M.
Carpentier, and
'Tino loaded their pistols and put them into their belts. Suzanne
did
likewise, while Maggie called Tom, her bulldog, to follow her.
Celeste
declined to go, because of her children. As to Alix and me, a
terrible
contest was raging in us between fright and curiosity, but the
latter
conquered. Suzanne and papa laughed so about our fears that Alix,
less
cowardly than I, yielded first, and joined the others. This was
too much.
Grasping my father's arm and begging him not to leave me for an
instant, I
let him conduct me, while Alix followed me, taking her husband's
arm in
both her hands. In front marched 'Tino, his gun on his shoulder;
after him
went Maggie, followed by Tom; and then Suzanne and little Patrick,
inseparable friends.
Hardly had we gone a few steps when we were surrounded by a human
wall,
and I realized with a shiver how easy it would be for these
savages to get
rid of us and take all our possessions. But the poor devils
certainly
never thought of it: they showed us their game, of which papa
bought the
greater part, as well as several sacks of berries, and also
vegetables.
But the baskets! They were veritable wonders. As several of those
that I
bought that day are still in your possession, I will not lose much
time
telling of them. How those half-savage people could make things so
well
contrived and ornamented with such brilliant colors is still a
problem to
us. Papa bought for mamma thirty-two little baskets fitting into
one
another, the largest about as tall as a child of five years, and
the
smallest just large enough to receive a thimble. When he asked the
price I
expected to hear the seller say at least thirty dollars, but his
humble
reply was five dollars. For a deer he asked one dollar; for a wild
turkey,
twenty-five cents. Despite the advice of papa, who asked us how we
were
going to carry our purchases home, Suzanne and I bought, between
us, more
than forty baskets, great and small. To papa's question, Suzanne
replied
with an arch smile:
"God will provide."
Maggie and Alix also bought several; and Alix, who never forgot
any one,
bought two charming little baskets that she carried to Celeste.
Each of
us, even Maggie, secured a broad parti-colored mat to use on the
deck as
a couch à la Turque. Our last purchases were two
Indian bows painted red
and blue and adorned with feathers; the first bought by Celestino
Carlo,
and the other by Suzanne for her chevalier, Patrick Gordon.
An Indian woman who spoke a little French asked if we would not
like to
visit the queen. We assented, and in a few moments she led us into
a hut
thatched with palmetto leaves and in all respects like the others.
Its
interior was disgustingly unclean. The queen was a woman quite or
nearly a
hundred years old. She sat on a mat upon the earth, her arms
crossed on
her breast, her eyes half closed, muttering between her teeth
something
resembling a prayer. She paid no attention to us, and after a
moment we
went out. We entered two or three other huts and found the same
poverty
and squalor. The men did not follow us about, but the women — the
whole
tribe, I think — marched step by step behind us, touching our
dresses, our
capuches, our jewelry, and asking for everything; and I
felt well
content when, standing on our deck, I could make them our last
signs of
adieu.
Our flatboat moved ever onward. Day by day, hour by hour, every
minute it
advanced — slowly it is true, in the diminished current, but it
advanced. I
no longer knew where I was. We came at times where I thought we
were lost;
and then I thought of mamma and my dear sisters and my two pretty
little
brothers, whom I might never see again, and I was swallowed up.
Then
Suzanne would make fun of me and Alix would caress me, and that
did me
good. There were many bayous, — a labyrinth, as papa said, — and Mario
had
his map at hand showing the way. Sometimes it seemed
impracticable, and it
was only by great efforts of our men ["no zomme," says the
original] that
we could pass on. One thing is sure — those who traverse those same
lakes
and bayous to-day have not the faintest idea of what they were [il
zété]
in 1795.
Great vines hung down from lofty trees that shaded the banks and
crossed
one another a hundred — a thousand — ways to prevent the boat's
passage and
retard its progress, as if the devil himself was mixed in it; and,
frankly, I believe that he had something to do with us in that
cavern.
Often our emigrants were forced to take their axes and hatchets in
hand to
open a road. At other times tree-trunks, heaped upon one another,
completely closed a bayou. Then think what trouble there was to
unbar that
gate and pass through. And, to make all complete, troops of hungry
alligators clambered upon the sides of our flatboat with jaws open
to
devour us. There was much outcry; I fled, Alix fled with me,
Suzanne
laughed. But our men were always ready for them with their guns.
VI.
THE TWICE-MARRIED COUNTESS.
But with all the sluggishness of the flatboat, the toils, the
anxieties,
and the frights, what happy times, what gay moments, we passed
together on
the rough deck of our rude vessel, or in the little cells that we
called
our bedrooms.
It was in these rooms, when the sun was hot on deck, that my
sister and I
would join Alix to learn from her a new stitch in embroidery, or
some of
the charming songs she had brought from France and which she
accompanied
with harp or guitar.
Often she read to us, and when she grew tired put the book into
my hands
or Suzanne's, and gave us precious lessons in reading, as she had
in
singing and in embroidery. At times, in these moments of intimacy,
she
made certain half-disclosures that astonished us more and more.
One day
Suzanne took between her own two hands that hand so small and
delicate and
cried out all at once:
"How comes it, Alix, that you wear two wedding rings?"
"Because," she sweetly answered, "if it gives you pleasure to
know, I have
been twice married."
We both exclaimed with surprise.
"Ah!" she said, "no doubt you think me younger [bocou plus jeune]
than I
really am. What do you suppose is my age?"
Suzanne replied: "You look younger than Françoise, and she
is sixteen."
"I am twenty-three," replied Alix, laughing again and again.
Another time my sister took a book, haphazard, from the shelves.
Ordinarily [audinaremend] Alix herself chose our reading, but she
was busy
embroidering. Suzanne sat down and began to read aloud a romance
entitled
"Two Destinies."
"Ah!" cried my sister, "these two girls must be Françoise
and I."
"Oh no, no!" exclaimed Alix, with a heavy sigh, and Suzanne began
her
reading. It told of two sisters of noble family. The elder had
been
married to a count, handsome, noble, and rich; and the other,
against her
parents' wish, to a poor workingman who had taken her to a distant
country, where she died of regret and misery. Alix and I listened
attentively; but before Suzanne had finished, Alix softly took the
book
from her hands and replaced it on the shelf.
"I would not have chosen that book for you; it is full of
exaggerations
and falsehoods."
"And yet," said Suzanne, "see with what truth the lot of the
countess is
described! How happy she was in her emblazoned coach, and her
jewels, her
laces, her dresses of velvet and brocade! Ah, Françoise! of
the two
destinies I choose that one."
Alix looked at her for a moment and then dropped her head in
silence.
Suzanne went on in her giddy way:
"And the other: how she was punished for her plebeian tastes!"
"So, my dear Suzanne," responded Alix, "you would not marry — "
"A man not my equal — a workman? Ah! certainly not."
Madame Carpentier turned slightly pale. I looked at Suzanne with
eyes full
of reproach; and Suzanne remembering the gardener, at that moment
in his
shirt sleeves pushing one of the boat's long sweeps, bit her lip
and
turned to hide her tears. But Alix — the dear little creature! — rose,
threw
her arms about my sister's neck, kissed her, and said:
"I know very well that you had no wish to give me pain, dear
Suzanne. You
have only called up some dreadful things that I am trying to
forget. I am
the daughter of a count. My childhood and youth were passed in
châteaux
and palaces, surrounded by every pleasure that an immense fortune
could
supply. As the wife of a viscount I have been received at court; I
have
been the companion of princesses. To-day all that is a dreadful
dream.
Before me I have a future the most modest and humble. I am the
wife of
Joseph the gardener; but poor and humble as is my present lot, I
would not
exchange it for the brilliant past, hidden from me by a veil of
blood and
tears. Some day I will write and send you my history; for I want
to make
it plain to you, Suzanne, that titles and riches do not make
happiness,
but that the poorest fate illumined by the fires of love is very
often
radiant with pleasure."
We remained mute. I took Alix's hand in mine and silently pressed
it. Even
Suzanne, the inquisitive Suzanne, spoke not a word. She was
content to
kiss Alix and wipe away her tears.
If the day had its pleasures, it was in the evenings, when we
were all
reunited on deck, that the moments of gayety began. When we had
brilliant
moonlight the flatboat would continue its course to a late hour.
Then, in
those calm, cool moments, when the movement of our vessel was so
slight
that it seemed to slide on the water, amid the odorous breezes of
evening,
the instruments of music were brought upon deck and our concerts
began. My
father played the flute delightfully; Carlo, by ear, played the
violin
pleasantly; and there, on the deck of that old flatboat, before an
indulgent audience, our improvised instruments waked the sleeping
creatures of the centuries-old forest and called around us the
wondering
fishes and alligators. My father and Alix played admirable duos on
flute
and harp, and sometimes Carlo added the notes of his violin or
played for
us cotillons and Spanish dances. Finally Suzanne and I, to please
papa,
sang together Spanish songs, or songs of the negroes, that made
our
auditors nearly die a-laughing; or French ballads, in which Alix
would
mingle her sweet voice. Then Carlo, with gestures that always
frightened
Patrick, made the air resound with Italian refrains, to which
almost
always succeeded the Irish ballads of the Gordons.
But when it happened that the flatboat made an early stop to let
our men
rest, the programme was changed. Celeste and Maggie went ashore to
cook
the two suppers there. Their children gathered wood and lighted
the
fires. Mario and Gordon, or Gordon and 'Tino, went into the forest
with
their guns. Sometimes my father went along, or sat down by M.
Carpentier,
who was the fisherman. Alix, too, generally sat near her husband,
her
sketch-book on her knee, and copied the surrounding scene. Often,
tired of
fishing, we gathered flowers and wild fruits. I generally staid
near Alix
and her husband, letting Suzanne run ahead with Patrick and Tom.
It was a
strange thing, the friendship between my sister and this little
Irish boy.
Never during the journey did he address one word to me; he never
answered
a question from Alix; he ran away if my father or Joseph spoke to
him; he
turned pale and hid if Mario looked at him. But with Suzanne he
talked,
laughed, obeyed her every word, called her Miss Souzie, and was
never so
happy as when serving her. And when, twenty years afterward, she
made a
journey to Attakapas, the wealthy M. Patrick Gordon, hearing by
chance of
her presence, came with his daughter to make her his guest for a
week,
still calling her Miss Souzie, as of old.
VII.
ODD PARTNERS IN THE BOLERO DANCE.
Only one thing we lacked — mass and Sunday prayers. But on that day
the
flatboat remained moored, we put on our Sunday clothes, gathered
on deck,
and papa read the mass aloud surrounded by our whole party,
kneeling; and
in the parts where the choir is heard in church, Alix, my sister,
and I,
seconded by papa and Mario, sang hymns.
One evening — we had already been five weeks on our journey — the
flatboat
was floating slowly along, as if it were tired of going, between
the
narrow banks of a bayou marked in red ink on Carlo's map, "Bayou
Sorrel."
It was about six in the afternoon. There had been a suffocating
heat all
day. It was with joy that we came up on deck. My father, as he
made his
appearance, showed us his flute. It was a signal: Carlo ran for
his
violin, Suzanne for Alix's guitar, and presently Carpentier
appeared with
his wife's harp. Ah! I see them still: Gordon and 'Tino seated on
a mat;
Celeste and her children; Mario with his violin; Maggie; Patrick
at the
feet of Suzanne; Alix seated and tuning her harp; papa at her
side; and M.
Carpentier and I seated on the bench nearest the musicians.
My father and Alix had already played some pieces, when papa
stopped and
asked her to accompany him in a new bolero which was then the
vogue in New
Orleans. In those days, at all the balls and parties, the boleros,
fandangos, and other Spanish dances had their place with the
French
contra-dances and waltzes. Suzanne had made her entrance into
society
three years before, and danced ravishingly. Not so with me. I had
attended
my first ball only a few months before, and had taken nearly all
my
dancing-lessons from Suzanne. What was to become of me, then, when
I heard
my father ask me to dance the bolero which he and Alix were
playing!. . .
Every one made room for us, crying, "Oh, oui, Mlle. Suzanne;
dancez! Oh,
dancez, Mlle. Françoise!" I did not wish to disobey
my father. I did not
want to disoblige my friends. Suzanne loosed her red scarf and
tossed one
end to me. I caught the end of the shawl that Suzanne was already
waving
over her head and began the first steps, but it took me only an
instant to
see that the task was beyond my powers. I grew confused, my head
swam, and
I stopped. But Alix did not stop playing; and Suzanne, wrapped in
her
shawl and turning upon herself, cried, "Play on!"
I understood her intention in an instant.
Harp and flute sounded on, and Suzanne, ever gliding, waltzing,
leaping,
her arms gracefully lifted above her head, softly waved her scarf,
giving
it a thousand different forms. Thus she made, twice, the circuit
of the
deck, and at length paused before Mario Carlo. But only for a
moment. With
a movement as quick as unexpected, she threw the end of her scarf
to him.
It wound about his neck. The Italian with a shoulder movement
loosed the
scarf, caught it in his left hand, threw his violin to Celeste,
and bowed
low to his challenger. All this as the etiquette of the bolero
inexorably
demanded. Then Maestro Mario smote the deck sharply with his
heels, let go
a cry like an Indian's war-whoop, and made two leaps into the air,
smiting
his heels against each other. He came down on the points of his
toes,
waving the scarf from his left hand; and twining his right arm
about my
sister's waist, he swept her away with him. They danced for at
least half
an hour, running the one after the other, waltzing, tripping,
turning,
leaping. The children and Gordon shouted with delight, while my
father, M.
Carpentier, and even Alix clapped their hands, crying, "Hurrah!"
Suzanne's want of dignity exasperated me; but when I tried to
speak of it,
papa and Alix were against me.
"On board a flatboat," said my father, "a breach of form is
permissible."
He resumed his flute with the first measures of a minuet.
"Ah, our turn!" cried Alix; "our turn, Françoise! I will
be the cavalier!"
I could dance the minuet as well as I could the bolero — that is,
not at
all; but Alix promised to guide me: and as, after all, I loved the
dance
as we love it at sixteen, I was easily persuaded, and fan in hand
followed
Alix, who for the emergency wore her husband's hat; and our minuet
was
received with as much enthusiasm as Suzanne's bolero. This ball
was
followed by others, and Alix gave me many lessons in the dance,
that some
weeks later were very valuable in the wilderness towards which we
were
journeying.
VIII.
A BAD STORM IN A BAD PLACE.
The flatboat continued its course, and some slight signs of
civilization
began to appear at long intervals. Towards the end of a beautiful
day in
June, six weeks after our departure from New Orleans, the flatboat
stopped
at the pass of
Lake Chicot.
The sun was setting in a belt of
gray
clouds. Our men fastened their vessel securely and then cast their
eyes
about them.
"Ah!" cried Mario, "I do not like this place; it is inhabited."
He pointed
to a wretched hut half hidden by the forest. Except two or three
little
cabins seen in the distance, this was
the first habitation
that
had met
our eyes since leaving the Mississippi.
A woman showed herself at the door. She was scarcely dressed at
all. Her
feet were naked, and her tousled hair escaped from a wretched
handkerchief
that she had thrown upon her head. Hidden in the bushes and behind
the
trees half a dozen half-nude children gazed at us, ready to fly at
the
slightest sound. Suddenly two men with guns came out of the woods,
but at
the sight of the flatboat stood petrified. Mario shook his head.
"If it were not so late I would take the boat farther on."
[Yet he went hunting with 'Tino and Gordon along the shore,
leaving the
father of Françoise and Suzanne lying on the deck with sick
headache,
Joseph fishing in the flatboat's little skiff, and the women and
children
on the bank, gazed at from a little distance by the sitting
figures of the
two strange men and the woman. Then the hunters returned, supper
was
prepared, and both messes ate on shore. Gordon and Mario joining
freely in
the conversation of the more cultivated group, and making
altogether a
strange Babel of English, French, Spanish, and Italian.]
After supper Joseph and Alix, followed by my sister and me,
plunged into
the denser part of the woods.
"Take care, comrade," we heard Mario say; "don't go far."
The last rays of the sun were in the treetops. There were flowers
everywhere. Alix ran here and there, all enthusiasm. Presently
Suzanne
uttered a cry and recoiled with affright from a thicket of
blackberries.
In an instant Joseph was at her side; but she laughed aloud,
returned to
the assault, and drew by force from the bushes a little girl of
three or
four years. The child fought and cried; but Suzanne held on, drew
her to
the trunk of a tree, sat down, and held her on her lap by force.
The poor
little thing was horribly dirty, but under its rags there were
pretty
features and a sweetness that inspired pity. Alix sat down by my
sister
and stroked the child's hair, and, like Suzanne, spite of the
dirt, kissed
her several times; but the little creature still fought, and
yelled [in
English]:
"Let me alone! I want to go home! I want to go home!"
Joseph advised my sister to let the child go, and Suzanne was
about to do
so when she remembered having at supper filled her pocket with
pecans. She
quickly filled the child's hands with them and the Rubicon was
passed. . . .
She said that her name was Annie; that her father, mother, and
brothers
lived in the hut. That was all she could say. She did not know her
parents' name. When Suzanne put her down she ran with all her legs
towards
the cabin to show Alix's gift, her pretty ribbon.
Before the sun went down the wind rose. Great clouds covered the
horizon;
large rain-drops began to fall. Joseph covered the head of his
young wife
with her mantle, and we hastened back to the camp.
"Do you fear a storm, Joseph?" asked Alix.
"I do not know too much," he replied; "but when you are near, all
dangers
seem great."
We found the camp deserted; all our companions were on board the
flatboat.
The wind rose to fury, and now the rain fell in torrents. We
descended to
our rooms. Papa was asleep. We did not disturb him, though we were
greatly
frightened. . . . Joseph and Gordon went below to sleep. Mario and
his son
loosed the three bull-dogs, but first removed the planks that
joined the
boat to the shore. Then he hoisted a great lantern upon a mast in
the bow,
lighted his pipe, and sat down to keep his son awake with stories
of
voyages and hunts.
The storm seemed to increase in violence every minute. The rain
redoubled
its fury. Frightful thunders echoed each other's roars. The
flatboat,
tossed by the wind and waves, seemed to writhe in agony, while now
and
then the trunks of uprooted trees, lifted by the waves, smote it
as they
passed. Without a thought of the people in the hut, I made every
effort to
keep awake in the face of these menaces of Nature. Suzanne held my
hand
tightly in hers, and several times spoke to me in a low voice,
fearing to
wake papa, whom we could hear breathing regularly, sleeping
without a
suspicion of the surrounding dangers. Yet an hour had not passed
ere I was
sleeping profoundly. A knock on the partition awoke us and made us
run to
the door. Mario was waiting there.
"Quick, monsieur! Get the young ladies ready. The flatboat has
probably
but ten minutes to live. We must take the women and children
ashore. And
please, signorina," — to my sister, — "call M. and Mme. Carpentier."
But
Joseph had heard all, and showed himself at the door of our room.
"Ashore? At such a time?"
"We have no choice. We must go or perish."
"But where?"
"To the hut. We have no time to talk. My family is ready". . . .
It took but a few minutes to obey papa's orders. We were already
nearly
dressed; and as sabots were worn at that time to protect the shoes
from
the mud and wet, we had them on in a moment. A thick shawl and a
woolen
hood completed our outfits. Alix was ready in a few moments.
"Save your jewels, — those you prize most, — my love," cried
Carpentier,
"while I dress."
Alix ran to her dressing-case, threw its combs, brushes, etc.,
pell-mell
into the bureau, opened a lower part of the case and took out four
or five
jewel-boxes that glided into her pockets, and two lockets that she
hid
carefully in her corsage. Joseph always kept their little fortune
in a
leathern belt beneath his shirt. He put on his vest and over it a
sort of
great-coat, slung his gun by its shoulder-belt, secured his
pistols, and
then taking from one of his trunks a large woolen cloak he wrapped
Alix in
it, and lifted her like a child of eight, while she crossed her
little
arms about his neck and rested her head on his bosom. Then he
followed us
into Mario's room, where his two associates were waiting. At
another time
we might have laughed at Maggie, but not now. She had slipped into
her
belt two horse-pistols. In one hand she held in leash her bull-dog
Tom,
and in the other a short carbine, her own property.
IX.
MAGGIE AND THE ROBBERS.
"We are going out of here together," said Mario; "but John and I
will
conduct you only to the door of the hut. Thence we shall return to
the
flatboat, and all that two men can do to save our fortune shall be
done.
You, monsieur, have enough to do to take care of your daughters.
To you,
M. Carpentier — to you, son Celestino, I give the care of these
women and
children."
"I can take care of myself," said Maggie.
"You are four, well armed," continued Mario. (My father had his
gun and
pistols.) "This dog is worth two men. You have no risks to run;
the
danger, if there be any, will be with the boat. Seeing us divided,
they
may venture an attack; but one of you stand by the window that
faces the
shore. If one of those men in the hut leaves it, or shows a wish
to do so,
fire one pistol-shot out of the window, and we shall be ready for
them;
but if you are attacked, fire two shots and we will come. Now,
forward!"
We went slowly and cautiously: 'Tino first, with a lantern; then
the Irish
pair and child; then Mario, leading his two younger boys, and
Celeste,
with her daughter asleep in her arms; and for rear-guard papa with
one of
us on each arm, and Joseph with his precious burden. The wind and
the
irregularities of the ground made us stumble at every step. The
rain
lashed us in the face and extorted from time to time sad
lamentations from
the children. But, for all that, we were in a few minutes at the
door of
the hovel.
"M. Carpentier," said Mario, "I give my family into your care."
Joseph
made no answer but to give his hand to the Italian. Mario strode
away,
followed by Gordon.
"Knock on the door," said Joseph to 'Tino. The boy knocked. No
sound was
heard inside, except the growl of a dog.
"Knock again." The same silence. "We can't stay here in this
beating
rain; open and enter," cried Carpentier. 'Tino threw wide the door
and we
walked in.
There was but one room. A large fire burned in a clay chimney
that almost
filled one side of the cabin. In one corner four or five chickens
showed
their heads. In another, the woman was lying on a wretched pallet
in all
her clothes. By her slept the little creature Suzanne had found,
her
ribbon still on her frock. Near one wall was a big chest on which
another
child was sleeping. A rough table was in the middle, on it some
dirty tin
plates and cups, and under it half a dozen dogs and two little
boys. I
never saw anything else like it. On the hearth stood the pot and
skillet,
still half full of hominy and meat.
Kneeling by the fire was a young man molding bullets and passing
them to
his father, seated on a stool at a corner of the chimney, who
threw them
into a jar of water, taking them out again to even them with the
handle of
a knife. I see it still as if it was before my eyes.
The woman opened her eyes, but did not stir. The dogs rose
tumultuously,
but Tom showed his teeth and growled, and they went back under the
table.
The young man rose upon one knee, he and his father gazing
stupidly at us,
the firelight in their faces. We women shrank against our
protectors,
except Maggie, who let go a strong oath. The younger man was
frightfully
ugly; pale-faced, large-eyed, haggard, his long, tangled, blonde
hair on
his shoulders. The father's face was written all over with
depravity and
crime. Joseph advanced and spoke to him.
"What the devil of a language is that?" he asked of his son in
English.
"He is asking you," said Maggie, "to let us stay here till the
storm is
over."
"And where do you come from this way?"
"From that flatboat tied to the bank."
"Well, the house isn't big nor pretty, but you are its masters."
Maggie went and sat by the window, ready to give the signal. Pat
sank at
her feet, and laying his head upon Tom went straight to sleep.
Papa sat
down by the fire on an inverted box and took me on one knee. With
her head
against his other, Suzanne crouched upon the floor. We were
silent, our
hearts beating hard, wishing ourselves with mamma in St. James.
Joseph set
Alix upon a stool beside him and removed her wrapping.
"Hello!" said the younger stranger, "I thought you were carrying
a child.
It's a woman!"
An hour passed. The woman in the corner seemed to sleep; Celeste,
too,
slumbered. When I asked Suzanne, softly, if she was asleep, she
would
silently shake her head. The men went on with their task, not
speaking. At
last they finished, divided the balls between them, put them into
a
leather pouch at their belt, and the father, rising, said:
"Let us go. It is time."
Maggie raised her head. The elder man went and got his gun and
loaded it
with two balls, and while the younger was muffling himself in an
old
blanket-overcoat such as we give to plantation negroes, moved
towards the
door and was about to pass out. But quicker than lightning Maggie
had
raised the window, snatched a pistol from her belt, and fired. The
two men
stood rooted, the elder frowning at Maggie. Tom rose and showed
two rows
of teeth.
"What did you fire that pistol for? What signal are you giving?"
"That is understood at the flatboat," said Maggie, tranquilly. "I
was to
fire if you left the house. You started, I fired, and that's all."
" — — ! And did you know, by yourself, what we were going to do?"
"I haven't a doubt. You were simply going to attack and rob the
flatboat."
A second oath, fiercer than the first, escaped the man's lips.
"You talk
that way to me! Do you forget that you're in my power?"
"Ah! Do you think so?" cried Maggie, resting her fists on her
hips. "Ah,
ha, ha!" That was the first time I ever heard her laugh — and such a
laugh!
"Don't you know, my dear sir, that at one turn of my hand this dog
will
strangle you like a chicken? Don't you see four of us here armed
to the
teeth, and at another signal our comrades yonder ready to join us
in an
instant? And besides, this minute they are rolling a little cannon
up to
the bow of the boat. Go, meddle with them, you'll see." She lied,
but her
lie averted the attack. She quietly sat down again and paid the
scoundrel
not the least attention.
"And that's the way you pay us for taking you in, is it? Accuse a
man of
crime because he steps out of his own house to look at the
weather? Well,
that's all right." While the man spoke he put his gun into a
corner,
resumed his seat, and lighted a cob pipe. The son had leaned on
his gun
during the colloquy. Now he put it aside and lay down upon the
floor to
sleep. The awakened children slept. Maggie sat and smoked. My
father,
Joseph, and 'Tino talked in low tones. All at once the old ruffian
took
his pipe from his mouth and turned to my father.
"Where do you come from?"
"From New Orleans, sir."
"How long have you been on the way?"
"About a month."
"And where are you going," etc. Joseph, like papa, remained
awake, but
like him, like all of us, longed with all his soul for the end of
that
night of horror.
At the first crowing of the cock the denizens of the hut were
astir. The
father and son took their guns and went into the forest. The fire
was
relighted. The woman washed some hominy in a pail and seemed to
have
forgotten our presence; but the little girl recognized Alix, who
took from
her own neck a bright silk handkerchief and tied it over the
child's head,
put a dollar in her hand, and kissed her forehead. Then it was
Suzanne's
turn. She covered her with kisses. The little one laughed, and
showed the
turban and the silver that "the pretty lady," she said, had given
her.
Next, my sister dropped, one by one, upon the pallet ten dollars,
amazing
the child with these playthings; and then she took off her red
belt and
put it about her little pet's neck.
My father handed me a handful of silver. "They are very poor, my
daughter;
pay them well for their hospitality." As I approached the woman I
heard
Joseph thank her and offer her money.
"What do you want me to do with that?" she said, pushing my hand
away.
"Instead of that, send me some coffee and tobacco."
That ended it; I could not pay in money. But when I looked at the
poor
woman's dress so ragged and torn, I took off [J'autai] my shawl,
which was
large and warm, and put it on her shoulders, — I had another in the
boat, — and she was well content. When I got back to the flatboat I
sent
her some chemises, petticoats, stockings, and a pair of shoes. The
shoes
were papa's. Alix also sent her three skirts and two chemises, and
Suzanne
two old dresses and two chemises for her children, cutting down
what was
too large. Before quitting the hut Celeste had taken from her two
lads
their knitted neckerchiefs and given them to the two smaller boys,
and
Maggie took the old shawl that covered Pat's shoulders and threw
it upon
the third child, who cried out with joy. At length we returned to
our
vessel, which had triumphantly fought the wind and floating trees.
Mario
took to the cabin our gifts, to which we added sugar, biscuits,
and a sack
of pecans.
X.
ALIX PUTS AWAY THE PAST.
For two weeks more our boat continued its slow and silent voyage
among the
bayous. We saw signs of civilization, but they were still far
apart. These
signs alarmed Mario. He had already chosen his place of abode and
spoke of
it with his usual enthusiasm; a prairie where he had camped for
two weeks
with his young hunters five years before.
"A principality — that is what I count on establishing there," he
cried,
pushing his hand through his hair. "And think! — if, maybe, some one
has
occupied it! Oh, the thief! the robber! Let him not fall into my
hands!
I'll strangle — I'll kill him!"
My father, to console him, would say that it would be easy to
find other
tracts just as fine.
"Never!" replied he, rolling his eyes and brandishing his arms;
and his
fury would grow until Maggie cried:
"He is Satan himself! He's the devil!"
One evening the flatboat stopped a few miles only from where is
now the
village of Pattersonville. The weather was magnificent, and while
papa,
Gordon, and Mario went hunting, Joseph, Alix, and we two walked on
the
bank. Little by little we wandered, and, burying ourselves in the
interior, we found ourselves all at once confronting a little
cottage
embowered in a grove of oranges. Alix uttered a cry of admiration
and
went towards the house. We saw that it was uninhabited and must
have been
long abandoned. The little kitchen, the poultry-house, the
dovecote, were
in ruins. But the surroundings were admirable: in the rear a large
court
was entirely shaded with live-oaks; in front was the green belt of
orange
trees; farther away Bayou Teche, like a blue ribbon, marked a
natural
boundary, and at the bottom of the picture the great trees of the
forest
lifted their green-brown tops.
"Oh!" cried Alix, "if I could stay here I should be happy."
"Who knows?" replied Joseph. "The owner has left the house; he
may be
dead. Who knows but I may take this place?"
"Oh! I pray you, Joseph, try. Try!" At that moment my father and
Mario
appeared, looking for us, and Alix cried:
"Welcome, gentlemen, to my domain."
Joseph told of his wife's wish and his hope. . . . "In any case,"
said Mario,
"count on us. If you decide to settle here we will stay two
weeks — a
month, if need be — to help you establish yourself."
As soon as we had breakfasted my father and Joseph set out for a
plantation which they saw in the distance. They found it a rich
estate.
The large, well-built house was surrounded by outbuildings,
stables,
granaries, and gardens; fields of cane and corn extended to the
limit of
view. The owner, M. Gerbeau, was a young Frenchman. He led them
into the
house, presented them to his wife, and offered them refreshments.
[M. Gerbeau tells the travelers how he had come from the
Mississippi
River parish of St. Bernard to this place with all his effects in
a
schooner — doubtless via the mouth of the river and the bay of
Atchafalaya;
while Joseph is all impatience to hear of the little deserted home
concerning which he has inquired. But finally he explains that its
owner,
a lone Swede, had died of sunstroke two years before, and M.
Gerbeau's
best efforts to find, through the Swedish consul at New Orleans or
otherwise, a successor to the little estate had been unavailing.
Joseph
could take the place if he would. He ended by generously forcing
upon the
father of Françoise and Suzanne the free use of his
traveling-carriage and
"two horses, as gentle as lambs and as swift as deer," with which
to make
their journey up the Teche to
St. Martinville,
the gay, not to say
giddy, little capital of the royalist émigrés.]
My father wished to know what means of transport he could secure,
on his
return to this point, to take us home.
"Don't let that trouble you; I will arrange that. I already have
a
plan — you shall see."
The same day the work began on the Carpentier's home. The three
immigrants
and 'Tino fell bravely to work, and M. Gerbeau brought his
carpenter and a
cart-load of lumber. Two new rooms were added. The kitchen was
repaired,
then the stable, the dovecote, the poultry-house; the garden
fences were
restored; also those of the field. My father gave Joseph one of
his cows;
the other was promised to Carlo. Mme. Gerbeau was with us much,
helping
Alix, as were we. We often dined with her. One Sunday M. Gerbeau
came for
us very early and insisted that Mario and Gordon should join us.
Maggie,
with her usual phlegm, had declined.
At dinner our host turned the conversation upon St. Martinville,
naming
again all the barons, counts, and marquises of whom he had spoken
to my
father, and descanting especially on the grandeur of the balls and
parties
he had there attended.
"And we have only our camayeu skirts!" cried Suzanne.
"Daughter," observed papa, "be content with what you have. You
are neither
a duchess nor a countess, and besides you are traveling."
"And," said M. Gerbeau, "the stores there are full of knickknacks
that
would capture the desires of a queen."
On returning to our flatboat Alix came into my room, where I was
alone,
and laying her head on my shoulder:
"Françoise," she said, "I have heard mentioned today the
dearest friend I
ever had. That Countess de la Houssaye of whom M. Gerbeau spoke is
Madelaine de Livilier, my companion in convent, almost my sister.
We were
married nearly at the same time; we were presented at court the
same day;
and now here we are, both, in Louisiana!"
"O Alix!" I cried, "I shall see her. Papa has a letter to her
husband; I
shall tell her; she will come to see you; and — "
"No, no! You must not speak of me, Françoise. She knew and
loved the
Countess Alix de Morainville. I know her; she would repel with
scorn the
wife of the gardener. I am happy in my obscurity. Let nothing
remind me of
other days."
Seeing that Alix said nothing of all this to Suzanne, I imitated
her
example. With all her goodness, Suzanne was so thoughtless and
talkative!
XI.
ALIX PLAYS FAIRY — PARTING TEARS.
In about fifteen days the work on the cottage was nearly done and
the
moving began, Celeste, and even Maggie, offering us their
services. Alix
seemed enchanted.
"Two things, only, I lack," she said — "a sofa, and something to
cover the
walls."
One morning M. Gerbeau sent to Carpentier a horse, two fine cows
and their
calves, and a number of sheep and pigs. At the same time two or
three
negresses, loaded down with chickens, geese, and ducks, made their
appearance. Also M. Gerbeau.
"What does all this mean?" asked Joseph.
"This is the succession of the dead Swede," replied the generous
young
man.
"But I have no right to his succession."
"That's a question," responded M. Gerbeau. "You have inherited
the house,
you must inherit all. If claimants appear — well, you will be
responsible
to them. You will please give me a receipt in due form; that is
all."
Tears came into Carpentier's eyes. . . . As he was signing the
receipt M.
Gerbeau stopped him. "Wait; I forgot something. At the time of
Karl's [the
Swede's] death, I took from his crib fifty barrels of corn; add
that."
"O sir!" cried Joseph, "that is too much — too much."
"Write!" said M. Gerbeau, laying his hand on Joseph's shoulder,
"if you
please. I am giving you nothing; I am relieving myself of a
burden."
My dear daughter, if I have talked very much about Alix it is
because
talking about her is such pleasure. She has been so good to my
sister and
me! The memory of her is one of the brightest of my youth.
The flatboat was to go in three days. One morning, when we had
passed the
night with Mme. Gerbeau, Patrick came running to say that "Madame
'Lix"
wished to see us at once. We hastened to the cottage. Alix met us
on the
gallery [veranda].
"Come in, dear girls. I have a surprise for you and a great favor
to ask.
I heard you say, Suzanne, you had nothing to wear — "
"But our camayeu petticoats!"
"But your camayeu petticoats." She smiled.
"And they, it seems, do not tempt your vanity. You want better?"
"Ah, indeed we do!" replied Suzanne.
"Well, let us play Cinderella. The dresses of velvet, silk, and
lace, the
jewels, the slippers — all are in yonder chest. Listen, my dear
girls. Upon
the first signs of the Revolution my frightened mother left France
and
crossed into England. She took with her all her wardrobe, her
jewels, the
pictures from her bedroom, and part of her plate. She bought,
before
going, a quantity of silks and ribbons. . . . When I reached England
my
mother was dead, and all that she had possessed was restored to me
by the
authorities. My poor mother loved dress, and in that chest is all
her
apparel. Part of it I had altered for my own use; but she was much
larger
than I — taller than you. I can neither use them nor consent to sell
them.
If each of you will accept a ball toilet, you will make me very
happy."
And she looked at us with her eyes full of supplication, her hands
clasped.
We each snatched a hand and kissed it. Then she opened the chest,
and for
the first and last time in my life I saw fabrics, ornaments, and
coiffures
that truly seemed to have been made by the fairies. After many
trials and
much debate she laid aside for me a lovely dress of blue brocade
glistening with large silver flowers the reflections of which
seemed like
rays of light. It was short in front, with a train; was very full
on the
sides, and was caught up with knots of ribbon. The long pointed
waist was
cut square and trimmed with magnificent laces that re-appeared on
the
half-long sleeves. The arms, to the elbow, were to be covered with
white
frosted gloves fastened with twelve silver buttons. To complete my
toilet
she gave me a blue silk fan beautifully painted, blue satin
slippers with
high heels and silver buckles, white silk stockings with blue
clocks, a
broidered white cambric handkerchief trimmed with Brussels point
lace,
and, last, a lovely set of silver filigree that she assured us was
of
slight value, comprising the necklace, the comb, the earrings,
bracelets,
and a belt whose silver tassels of the same design fell down the
front of
the dress.
My sister's toilet was exactly like mine, save that it was rose
color.
Alix had us try them on. While our eyes were ravished, she, with
more
expert taste, decided to take up a little in one place, lower a
ribbon in
another, add something here, take away there, and, above all, to
iron the
whole with care. We staid all day helping her; and when, about 3
o'clock,
all was finished, our fairy godmother said she would now dress our
hair,
and that we must observe closely.
"For Suzanne will have to coiffe Françoise and
Françoise coiffe Suzanne,"
she said. She took from the chest two pasteboard boxes that she
said
contained the headdresses belonging to our costumes, and, making
me sit
facing my sister, began to dress her hair. I was all eyes. I did
not lose
a movement of the comb. She lifted Suzanne's hair to the middle of
the
head in two rosettes that she called riquettes and
fastened them with a
silver comb. Next, she made in front, or rather on the forehead,
with
hairpins, numberless little knots, or whorls, and placed on each
side of
the head a plume of white, rose-tipped feathers, and in front,
opposite
the riquettes, placed a rose surrounded with silver leaves. Long
rose-colored, silver-frosted ribbons falling far down on the back
completed the headdress, on which Alix dusted handfuls of silver
powder.
Can you believe it, my daughter, that was the first time my sister
and I
had ever seen artificial flowers? They made very few of them, even
in
France, in those days.
While Suzanne admired herself in the mirror I took her place. My
headdress
differed from hers in the ends of my feathers being blue, and in
the rose
being white, surrounded by pale blue violets and a few silver
leaves. And
now a temptation came to all of us. Alix spoke first:
"Now put on your ball-dresses and I will send for our friends.
What do you
think?"
"Oh, that would be charming!" cried Suzanne. "Let us hurry!" And
while we
dressed, Pat, always prowling about the cottage, was sent to the
flatboat
to get his parents and the Carlos, and to M. Gerbeau's to ask my
father
and M. and Mme. Gerbeau to come at once to the cottage. . . . No, I
cannot
tell the cries of joy that greeted us. The children did not know
us, and
Maggie had to tell Pat over and over that these were Miss Souzie
and Miss
Francise. My father's eyes filled with tears as he thanked Alix
for her
goodness and generosity to us.
Alas! the happiest days, like the saddest, have an end. On the
morrow the
people in the flatboat came to say good-bye. Mario cried like a
child.
Celeste carried Àlix's hands to her lips and said in the
midst of her
tears:
"O Madame! I had got so used to you — I hoped never to leave you."
"I will come to see you, Celeste," replied Alix to the young
mulattress,
"I promise you."
Maggie herself seemed moved, and in taking leave of Alix put two
vigorous
kisses on her cheeks. As to our father, and us, too, the adieus
were not
final, we having promised Mario and Gordon to stop [on their
journey up
the shore of the bayou] as soon as we saw the flatboat.
"And we hope, my dear Carlo, to find you established in your
principality."
"Amen!" responded the Italian.
Alix added to her gifts two pairs of chamois-skin gloves and a
box of
lovely artificial flowers. Two days after the flatboat had gone,
we having
spent the night with Alix, came M. Gerbeau's carriage to take us
once more
upon our journey. Ah! that was a terrible moment. Even Alix could
scarce
hold back the tears. We refused to get into the carriage, and
walked, all
of us together, to M. Gerbeau's, and then parted amid tears,
kisses, and
promises.
XII.
LITTLE PARIS.
[So the carriage rolled along the margin of Bayou Teche, with two
big
trunks besides Monsieur's on back and top, and a smaller one, lent
by
Alix, lashed underneath; but shawls, mats, and baskets were all
left
behind with the Carpentiers. The first stop was at the plantation
and
residence of Captain Patterson, who "offered his hand in the
English way,
saying only, 'Welcomed, young ladies.'" In 1795, the narrator
stops to
say, one might see in and about New Orleans some two-story houses;
but
along the banks of Bayou Teche, as well as on the Mississippi,
they were
all of one sort, — like their own; like Captain Patterson's, — a
single
ground floor with three rooms facing front and three back. Yet the
very
next stop was at a little cottage covered with roses and with its
front
yard full of ducks and geese, — "'A genuine German cottage,' said
papa," — where a German girl, to call her father, put a great ox's
horn to
her lips and blew a loud blast. Almost every one was English or
German
till they came to where was just beginning to be the town of
Franklin. One
Harlman, a German, offered to exchange all his land for the silver
watch
that it best suited Monsieur to travel with. The exchange was
made, the
acts were all signed and sealed, and — when Suzanne, twenty years
after,
made a visit to Attakapas there was Harlman and his numerous
family still
in peaceful possession of the place. . . . "And I greatly fear that
when some
day our grandchildren awaken from that apathy with which I have
always
reproached the Creoles, I fear, my daughter, they will have
trouble to
prove their titles."
But they journeyed on, Françoise ever looking out the
carriage window for
the flatboat, and Suzanne crying:
"Annie, my sister Annie, do you see nothing coming?" And about
two miles
from where Franklin was to be they came upon it, greeted with
joyous
laughter and cries of "Miss Souzie! O Miss Souzie!" from the women
and the
children, and from Mario: "I have it, Signor! I have it! My
prinicipality,
Miss Souzie! It is mine, Signorina Françoise!" while he
danced, laughed,
and brandished his arms. "He had taken up enough land," says
Françoise,
"for five principalities, and was already knocking the flatboat to
pieces."
She mentioned meeting Jacques and Charles Picot, St. Domingan
refugees,
whose story of adventures she says was very wonderful, but with
good
artistic judgement omits them. The travelers found, of course, a
charmante cordialité
at the home of
M. Agricole
Fuselier,
and saw a
little girl of five who afterward became a great beauty — Uranie
Fuselier.
They passed another Indian village, where Françoise
persuaded them not to
stop. Its inhabitants were Chetimachas, more civilized than those
of the
village near Plaquemine, and their sworn enemies, living in
constant fear
of an attack from them. At New Iberia, a town founded by
Spaniards, the
voyagers saw "several houses, some drinking-shops and other
buildings,"
and spent with "the pretty little Madame Dubuclet . . . two of the
pleasantest days of their lives."]
At length, one beautiful evening in July, under a sky resplendent
with
stars, amid the perfume of gardens and caressed by the cool night
breeze,
we made our entry into the village of St. Martinville — the Little
Paris,
the oasis in the desert.
My father ordered Julien [the coachman] to stop at the best inn.
He turned
two or three corners and stopped near the bayou [Teche] just
beside the
bridge, before a house of the strangest aspect possible. There
seemed
first to have been built a rez-de-chaussée house of
ordinary size, to
which had been hastily added here a room, there a cabinet, a
balcony,
until the "White Pelican" — I seem to see it now — was like a house of
cards, likely to tumble before the first breath of wind. The
host's name
was Morphy. He came forward, hat in hand, a pure-blooded American,
but
speaking French almost like a Frenchman. In the house all was
comfortable
and shining with cleanness. Madame Morphy took us to our room,
adjoining
papa's ["tou ta côté de selle de papa"], the two
looking out, across the
veranda, upon the waters of the Teche.
After supper my father proposed a walk. Madame Morphy showed us,
by its
lights, in the distance, a theater!
"They are playing, this evening, 'The Barber of Seville.'"
We started on our walk, moving slowly, scanning the houses and
listening
to the strains of music that reached us from the distance. It
seemed but a
dream that at any moment might vanish. On our return to the inn,
papa
threw his letters upon the table and began to examine their
addresses.
"To whom will you carry the first letter, papa?" I asked.
"To the Baron du Clozel," he replied. "I have already met him in
New
Orleans, and even had the pleasure to render him a slight
service."
Mechanically Suzanne and I examined the addresses and amused
ourselves
reading the pompous title's.
"'Le chevalier Louis de Blanc!'" began my sister; "'L'honorable
A.
Déclouet'; 'Le comte Louis le Pelletrier de la Houssaye'!
Ah!" she cried,
throwing the packet upon the table, "the aristocrats! I am
frightened,
poor little plebeian that I am."
"Yes, my daughter," responded my father, "these names represent
true
aristocrats, as noble in virtues as in blood. My father has often
told me
of two uncles of the Count de la Houssaye: the first, Claude de la
Pelletrier de la Houssaye, was prime minister to King Louis XV.;
and the
second, Barthelemy, was employed by the Minister of Finance. The
count, he
to whom I bear this letter, married Madelaine Victoire de
Livilier. These
are noble names."
Then Alix was not mistaken; it was really her friend, the
Countess
Madelaine, whom I was about to meet.
XIII.
THE COUNTESS MADELAINE.
Early the next day I saw, through the partly open door, my father
finishing his toilet.
He had already fastened over his black satin breeches his garters
secured
with large buckles of chased silver. Similar buckles were on his
shoes.
His silver-buttoned vest of white piqué reached low down,
and his black
satin coat faced with white silk had large lappets cut square.
Such dress
seemed to me very warm for summer; but the fashion and etiquette
allowed
only silk and velvet for visits of ceremony, and though you
smothered you
had to obey those tyrants. At the moment when I saw him out of the
corner
of my eye he was sticking a cluster diamond pin into his
shirt-frill and
another diamond into his lace cravat. It was the first time I ever
saw
papa so fine, so dressed! Presently we heard him call us to
arrange his
queue, and although it was impossible for us to work up a club and
pigeon
wings like those I saw on the two young Du Clozels and on M.
Neville
Déclouet, we arranged a very fine queue wrapped with a
black ribbon, and
after smiling at himself in the glass and declaring that he
thought the
whole dress was in very good taste he kissed us, took his
three-cornered
hat and his gold-headed cane and went out. With what impatience we
awaited
his return!
About two hours afterward we saw papa coming back accompanied by
a
gentleman of a certain age, handsome, noble, elegant in his severe
suit of
black velvet. He had the finest black eyes in the world, and his
face
beamed with wit and amiability. You have guessed it was the Baron
du
Clozel. The baron bowed to us profoundly. He certainly knew who we
were,
but etiquette required him to wait until my father had presented
us; but
immediately then he asked papa's permission to kiss us, and you
may
suppose your grandfather did not refuse.
M. du Clozel had been sent by the baroness to oppose our sojourn
at the
inn, and to bring us back with him.
"Run, put on your hoods," said papa; "we will wait for you here."
Mr. and Mrs. Morphy were greatly disappointed to see us go, and
the former
declared that if these nobles kept on taking away their custom
they would
have to shut up shop. Papa, to appease him, paid him double what
he asked.
And the baron gave his arm to Suzanne, as the elder, while I
followed, on
papa's. Madame du Clozel and her daughter met us at the street
gate. The
baroness, though not young, was still pretty, and so elegant, so
majestic!
A few days later I could add, so good, so lovable!
Celeste du Clozel was eighteen. Her hair was black as ebony, and
her eyes
a beautiful blue. The young men of the village called her Celeste
la bien
nommée [Celeste the well named]; and for all her
beauty, fortune, and
high position she was good and simple and always ready to oblige.
She was
engaged, we learned afterward, to the
Chevalier de Blanc,
the same
who in
1803 was made post-commandant of Attakapas.
Olivier and Charles du
Clozel turned everything to our entertainment, and it was soon
decided
that we should all go that same evening to the theater.
Hardly was the sun down when we shut ourselves into our rooms to
begin the
work of dressing. Celeste put herself at our service, assuring us
that she
knew perfectly how to dress hair. The baroness asked us to let her
lend us
ornaments, ribbons — whatever we might need. We could see that she
supposed
two young girls who had never seen the great world, who came from
a region
where nearly all articles of luxury were wanting, could hardly
have a
choice wardrobe. We thanked them, assuring Celeste that we had
always
cultivated the habit of dressing each other's hair.
We put on our camayeu petticoats and our black velvet waists,
adding
gloves; and in our hair, sparkling with gold powder, we put, each
of us, a
bunch of the roses given us by Alix. We found ourselves charming,
and
hoped to create a sensation. But if the baroness was satisfied she
showed
no astonishment. Her hair, like her daughter's, was powdered, and
both
wore gloves.
Suzanne on the arm of Olivier, I on Charles's, Celeste beside her
fiancé,
the grandparents in front, we entered the theater of St.
Martinville, and
in a moment more were the observed of all observers. The play was
a
vaudeville, of which I remember only the name, but rarely have I
seen
amateurs act so well: all the prominent parts were rendered by
young men.
But if the French people are polite, amiable, and hospitable, we
know that
they are also very inquisitive. Suzanne was more annoyed than I
can tell;
yet we knew that our toilets were in excellent taste, even in that
place
full of ladies covered with costly jewels. When I asked Celeste
how the
merchants of St. Martinville could procure these costly goods, she
explained that near by there was a place named the Butte
à la Rose that
greatly shortened the way to market.
They were bringing almost
everything from London, owing to the Revolution. Between the acts
many
persons came to greet Madame du Clozel. Oh, how I longed to see
the friend
of Alix! But I would not ask anything; I resolved to find her by
the aid
of my heart alone.
Presently, as by a magnetic power, my attention was drawn to a
tall and
beautiful young lady dressed in white satin, with no ornaments
except a
set of gold and sapphires, and for headdress a résille
the golden
tassels of which touched her neck. Ah! how quickly I recognized
those
brown eyes faintly proud, that kind smile, that queenly bearing,
that
graceful step! I turned to Charles du Clozel, who sat beside me,
and said:
"That is the Countess de la Houssaye, isn't it?"
"Do you know her?"
"I see her for the first time; but — I guessed it."
Several times I saw her looking at me, and once she smiled.
During the
last two acts she came and shook hands with us, and, caressing our
hair
with her gloved hand, said her husband had seen papa's letter;
that it was
from a dear friend, and that she came to ask Madame du Clozel to
let her
take us away with her. Against this the baroness cried out, and
then the
Countess Madelaine said to us:
"Well, you will come spend the day with me day after to-morrow,
will you?
I shall invite only young people. May I come for you?"
Ah, that day! how I remember it! . . . Madame de la Houssaye was
fully five
or six years older than
Madame Carpentier,
for she was the mother
of four
boys, the eldest of whom was fully twelve.
Her house was, like Madame
du Clozel's, a single rez-de-chaussée surmounted by a
mansard. . . . From
the drawing-room she conducted us to a room in the rear of the
house at
the end of the veranda [galerie], where . . . a low window let into
a garden
crossed and re-crossed with alleys of orange and jasmine. Several
lofty
magnolias filled the air with the fragrance of their great white
flowers. . . .
XIV.
“POOR LITTLE ALIX!”
Hardly had we made a few steps into the room when a young girl
rose and
advanced, supported on the arm of
a young man slightly
overdressed.
His
club and pigeon-wings were fastened with three or four pins of
gold, and
his white-powdered queue was wrapped with a black velvet ribbon
shot with
silver. The heat was so great that he had substituted silk for
velvet, and
his dress-coat, breeches, and long vest were of pearl-gray silk,
changing
to silver, with large silver buttons. On the lace frill of his
embroidered
shirt shone three large diamonds, on his cravat was another, and
his
fingers were covered with rings.
The young girl embraced us with
ceremony, while her companion bowed profoundly. She could hardly
have
been over sixteen or seventeen. One could easily guess by her
dress that
the pretty creature was the slave of fashion.
"Madame du Rocher," said Charles du Clozel, throwing a wicked
glance upon
her.
"Madame!" I stammered.
"Impossible!" cried Suzanne.
"Don't listen to him!" interrupted the young lady, striking
Charles's
fingers with her fan. "He is a wretched falsifier. I am called
Tonton de
Blanc."
"The widow du Rocher!" cried Olivier, from the other side.
"Ah, this is too much!" she exclaimed. "If you don't stop these
ridiculous
jokes at once I'll make Neville call you out upon the field of
battle."
. . . But a little while afterward Celeste whispered in my ear that
her
brothers had said truly. At thirteen years Tonton, eldest daughter
of
Commandant Louis de Blanc and sister of Chevalier de Blanc, had
been
espoused to Dr. du Rocher, at least forty years older than she. He
was
rich, and two years later he died, leaving all his fortune to his
widow. . . . One after another Madame de la Houssaye introduced to us
at
least twenty persons, the most of whose names, unfortunately, I
have
forgotten. I kept notes, but have mislaid them. . . .
A few moments before dinner the countess re-appeared among us,
followed by
two servants in livery bearing salvers of fruit; and while we ate
she
seated herself at the harpsichord and played.
"Do you sing?" she asked me.
"A little, madame."
[The two sisters sang a song together.]
"Children," she cried, "tell me, I pray you, who taught you that
duet?"
"A young French lady, one of our friends," replied Suzanne.
"But her name! What is her name?"
"Madame Carpentier."
The name meant nothing to her. She sighed, and asked us to sing
on. . . . At
dinner we met again my father and the count. After dinner the
countess
sent for me to come to her chamber while she was nursing her babe.
After a
few unimportant words she said:
"You have had your lessons from a good musician."
"Yes, madame, our friend plays beautifully on the harp."
"On the harp! And you say her name is — "
"Madame Joseph Carpentier."
"It is strange," said Madame de la Houssaye. "The words of your
duet are
by me, and the music by my friend the Viscomptesse Alix de
Morainville.
All manner of things have happened in this terrible Revolution; I
had for
a moment the hope that she had found chance to emigrate and that
you had
met her. Do you know M. Carpentier?"
"Yes, madame; he was with her. He is — in fact — a laboring
gardener."
"Oh! then there is no hope. I had the thought of a second
marriage, but
Alix de Morainville could never stoop so low. Poor, dear, innocent
little
Alix! She must be dead — at the hand of butchers, as her father and
her
husband are."
When we returned to the joyous company in the garden all wanted
to speak
at once. The countess imposed silence, and then Tonton informed us
that a
grand ball was proposed in our honor, to be given in the large
dining-room
of Mr. Morphy's tavern, under the direction of Neville
Déclouet, the
following Monday — that is, in four days.
Oh, that ball! I lay my pen on the table and my head in my hands
and see
the bright, pretty faces of young girls and richly clad cavaliers,
and
hear the echoes of that music so different from what we have
to-day. Alas!
the larger part of that company are sleeping now in the cemetery
of St.
Martinville.
Wherever you went, whoever you met, the ball was the subject of
all
conversation. All the costumes, masculine and feminine, were
prepared in
profound secrecy. Each one vowed to astonish, dazzle, surpass his
neighbor. My father, forgetting the presents from Alix, gave us
ever so
much money and begged Madame du Clozel to oversee our toilets; but
what
was the astonishment of the dear baroness to see us buy only some
vials of
perfumery and two papers of pins. We paid ten dollars for each
vial and
fifteen for the pins!
Celeste invited us to see her costume the moment it reached her.
It
certainly did great honor to the dressmaker of St. Martinville.
The dress
was simply made, of very fine white muslin caught up en
paniers on a
skirt of blue satin. Her beautiful black hair was to be fastened
with a
pearl comb, and to go between its riquettes she showed us two
bunches of
forget-me-nots as blue as her eyes. The extremely long-pointed
waist of
her dress was of the same color as the petticoat, was
decolleté, and on
the front had a drapery of white muslin held in place by a bunch
of
forget-me-nots falling to the end of the point. In the whole
village she
could get no white gloves. She would have to let that pass and
show her
round white arms clasped with two large bracelets of pearls. She
showed
also a necklace and earrings of pearls.
Madame du Clozel, slave to the severe etiquette of that day, did
not
question us, but did go so far as to say in our presence that
camayeu was
never worn at night.
"We know that, madame," replied my sister, slightly hurt. We
decided to
show our dresses to our hostess. We arranged them on the bed. When
the
baroness and her daughter entered our chamber they stood
stupefied. The
baroness spoke first.
"Oh, the villains! How they have fooled us! These things are
worthy of a
queen. They are court costumes."
I said to myself, "Poor, dear little Alix!"
XV.
THE DISCOVERY OF THE HAT.
"Oh!" cried Celeste, "but what will Tonton say when she sees
you?"
"Do not let her know a thing about it, girls," said Madame du
Clozel, "or,
rather than yield the scepter of beauty and elegance for but one
evening,
she will stay in the white chapel. What! at sixteen you don't know
what
the white chapel is? It is our bed."
Before the ball, came Sunday. Madame du Clozel had told us that
the
population of the little city — all Catholics — was very pious, that
the
little church could hardly contain the crowd of worshipers; and
Celeste
had said that there was a grand display of dress there. We thought
of
having new dresses made, but the dressmaker declared it
impossible; and so
we were obliged to wear our camayeus a second time, adding only a
lace
scarf and a hat. A hat! But how could one get in that little town
in the
wilderness, amid a maze of lakes and bayous, hundreds of miles
from New
Orleans, so rare and novel a thing as a hat? Ah, they call
necessity the
mother of invention, but I declare, from experience, that vanity
has
performed more miracles of invention, and made greater discoveries
than
Galileo or Columbus.
The women of St. Martinville, Tonton at their head, had revolted
against
fate and declared they would have hats if they had to get them at
the
moon. Behold, now, by what a simple accident the hat was
discovered.
Tonton de Blanc had one of the prettiest complexions in the world,
all
lily and rose, and what care she took of it! She never went into
the yard
or the garden without a sunbonnet and a thick veil. Yet for all
that her
jealous critics said she was good and sensible, and would forget
everything, even her toilet, to succor any one in trouble. One day
Tonton
heard a great noise in the street before her door. She was told
that a
child had just been crushed by a vehicle. Without stopping to ask
whether
the child was white or black or if it still lived, Tonton glanced
around
for her sun-bonnet, but, not finding it at hand, darted bareheaded
into
the street. At the door she met her young brother, and, as the sun
was
hot, she took his hat and put it on her own head. The Rubicon was
crossed — Tonton had discovered the hat!
All she had heard was a false alarm. The crushed child was at
play again
before its mother's door. It had been startled by a galoping team,
had
screamed, and instantly there had been a great hubbub and crowd.
But ten
minutes later the little widow, the hat in her hand, entered the
domicile
of its maker and astonished the woman by ordering a hat for her
own use,
promising five dollars if the work was done to her satisfaction.
The
palmetto was to be split into the finest possible strips and
platted into
the form furnished by Madame Tonton. It was done; and on Sunday
the hat,
trimmed with roses and ribbons, made its appearance in the church
of St.
Martin, on the prettiest head in the world. The next Sunday you
could see
as many hats as the hatmaker had had time to make, and before the
end of
the month all the women in St. Martinville were wearing palmetto
hats.
To-day the modistes were furnishing them at the fabulous price of
twenty-five dollars, — trimmed, you understand, — and palmetto hats
were
really getting to be a branch of the commerce of the little city;
but
ours, thanks to Alix's flowers and ribbons, cost but ten dollars.
The church was crowded. The service, performed by an old priest
nearly a
hundred years of age, was listened to with interest; but what
astonished
me was to see the crowd stop at the church door, the women
kissing; to
hear laughter, chat, and criticism at the door of this sacred
place as if
it were the public square. I understood the discontent that knit
my
father's brows and the alacrity with which he descended the church
steps.
Tonton saw and came to us — so fresh, so young, she was indeed the
queen of
beauty and fashion. Out of nothing Tonton could work wonders. Her
dress
to-day was of camayeu the pattern of which was bunches of
strawberries — the very same stuff as our dresses; but how had she
made it
to look so different? And her hat! It was a new marvel of her
invention.
She had taken a man's felt hat and entirely covered it with the
feathers
of the cardinal bird, without other ornament than a bunch of white
ribbon
on the front and two long cords of white silk falling clear to the
waist.
That was the first hat of the kind I ever saw, but it was not the
last.
With one turn of her little hand she could make the whole female
population of St. Martinville go as she pleased. Before we left
St.
Martinville we had the chance to admire more than fifty hats
covered with
the feathers of peacocks, geese, and even guinea-fowl, and — must we
confess it? — when we got home we enlisted all our hunter friends to
bring
us numerous innocent cardinals, and tried to make us hats; but
they did
not look the least like the pretty widow's.
Sunday was also the day given to visiting. Being already dressed,
it was
so easy to go see one's friends. . . . Among the new visitors was
Saint Marc
d'Arby — engaged to little Constance de Blanc, aged thirteen. He
came to
invite us to a picnic on the coming Wednesday.
"Ah," I cried, with regret, "the very day papa has chosen for us
to leave
for the town of Opelousas!" . . .
Since arriving in St. Martinville we had hardly seen papa. He
left early
each morning and returned late in the evening, telling of lands he
had
bought during the day. His wish was to go to Opelousas to register
them. . . . To-day the whole town of Opelousas belongs to his heirs;
but
those heirs, with Creole heedlessness and afraid to spend a
dollar, let
strangers enjoy the possession of the beautiful lands acquired by
their
ancestor for so different an end. Shame on all of them!
It was decided for papa to leave us with the baroness during his
visit to
Opelousas.
"And be ready to depart homeward," said he, "on the following
Monday."
XVI.
THE BALL.
The evening before that of the ball gave us lively
disappointment. A fine
rain began to fall. But Celeste came to assure us that in St.
Martinville
a storm had never prevented a ball, and if one had to go by boat,
still
one had to go. Later the weather improved, and several young
gentlemen
came to visit us. . . . "Will there be a supper, chevalier?" asked
the
baroness of her future son-in-law. — "Ah, good! For me the supper is
the
best part of the affair."
Alas! man proposes. The next morning she was in bed suffering
greatly with
her throat. "Neither supper nor ball for me this evening," she
said. "The
Countess de la Houssaye will take care of you and Celeste this
evening." . . .
At last our toilets were complete. . . .
When Madame de la Houssaye opened the door and saw us, instead of
approaching, she suddenly stopped with her hands clasped
convulsively, and
with eyes dilated and a pallor and look of astonishment that I
shall never
forget. I was about to speak when she ran to Suzanne and seized
her by the
arm.
"Child! for pity answer me! Where did that dress — these jewels,
come
from?"
"Madame!" said my sister, quickly taking offense.
"Françoise!" cried the countess, "you will answer me.
Listen. The last
time I saw the Countess Aurélie de Morainville, six years
ago, was at a
reception of Queen Marie Antoinette, and she wore a dress exactly
like
that of Suzanne's. My child, pity my emotions and tell me where
you bought
that toilet." I answered, almost as deeply moved as she:
"We did not buy it, madame. These costumes were given to us by
Madame
Carpentier."
"Given! Do you know the price of these things?"
"Yes; and, moreover, Madame du Clozel has told us."
"And you tell me a poor woman, the wife of a gardener, made you
these
presents. Oh! I must see this Madame Carpentier. She must have
known Alix.
And who knows — oh, yes, yes! I must go myself and see her."
"And I must give her forewarning," I said to myself. But, alas!
as I have
just said, "Man proposes, God disposes." About six months after
our return
to St. James we heard of the death of the Countess de la Houssaye,
which
had occurred only two months after our leaving St. Martinville. . . .
Oh, how my heart beat as I saw the lights of the ball-room and
heard its
waves of harmony! I had already attended several dances in the
neighborhood of our home, but they could not compare with this.
The walls
were entirely covered with green branches mingled with flowers of
all
colors, especially with magnolias whose odor filled the room.
Hidden among
the leaves were millions of fantastically colored lampions seeming
like
so many glow-worms.
To me, poor little rustic of sixteen, it seemed
supernaturally beautiful. But the prettiest part — opposite the door
had
been raised a platform surmounted by a dais made of three flags:
the
French, Spanish, and Prussian — Prussia was papa's country. And
under these
colors, on a pedestal that supported them, were seen, in immense
letters
composed of flowers, the one German word, Bewillkommen!
Papa explained
that the word meant "Welcome." On the platform, attired with
inconceivable
elegance, was the master of ceremonies, the handsome Neville
Déclouet
himself, waiting to wish us welcome anew.
It would take volumes, my daughter, to describe the admirable
toilets,
masculine as well as feminine, of that memorable night. The thing
is
impossible. But I must describe that of the king of the festival,
the
young Neville, that you may understand the immense difference
between the
toilets of 1795 and those of 1822.
Neville had arranged his hair exactly as on the day we first saw
him. It
was powdered white; his pigeon-wings were fastened with the same
pins of
gold, and his long queue was wrapped with a rose-colored ribbon.
His coat
was of frosted rose silk with broad facings of black velvet. His
vest came
down nearly to his knees. It also was of rose silk, but covered
with black
buttons. His breeches, also rose, were fastened at the knees with
black
velvet ribbons escaping from diamond buckles and falling upon silk
stockings shot alternately with black and rose. Diamonds sparkled
again on
his lace frill, at his wrists, on his cravat of rose silk, and on
the
buckles of his pumps.
I cast my eye around to find Tonton, but she had not come. Some
one near
me said, "Do you know who will escort Madame du Rocher to the
ball?" And
another said, "Here is Neville, so who will replace him at the
side of the
pretty widow?"
As we entered the room the Baron du Clozel passed his arm under
papa's and
conducted him to the platform, while his sons, following, drew us
forward
to receive the tributes prepared for us. Neville bowed low and
began his
address. At first he spoke with feeling and eloquence, but by and
by he
lost the thread. He cast a look of despair upon the crowd, which
did not
conceal its disposition to laugh, turned again quickly towards us,
passed
his hand twice across his forehead, and finished with:
"Yes, I repeat it, we are glad to see you; you are welcome among
us,
and — I say to you only that!"
There was a general burst of laughter. But my father pitied the
young
man's embarrassment. He mounted the platform, shook his hand, and
thanked
him, as well as all the people of St. Martinville, for his
gracious
welcome and their warm hospitality. Then, to our great joy, the
ball
opened.
It began with a minuet danced by twelve couples at once, six on
each side.
The minuet in vogue just then was well danced by but few persons.
It had
been brought to St. Martinville by émigrés who had
danced it at the
French court . . . But, thanks to the lessons given us by Alix, we
had the
pleasure to surprise them.
Now I ought to tell you, my daughter, that these male costumes,
so
effeminate, extravagant, and costly, had met great opposition from
part of
the people of St. Martin parish. They had been brought in by the
French
émigrés, and many had adopted them, while others had
openly revolted
against them. A league had been formed against them. Among its
members
were the Chevalier de Blanc, the elder of the d'Arbys, the
Chevalier de la
Houssaye, brother of the count, Paul Briant, Adrian Dumartrait,
young
Morse, and many others. They had thrown off entirely the
fashionable dress
and had replaced it with an attire much like what men wear now. It
was
rumored that the pretty Tonton favored the reform of which her
brother was
one of the chiefs.
Just as the minuet was being finished a loud murmur ran through
the hall.
All eyes were turned to the door and some couples confused their
steps in
the dance. Tonton had come. She was received with a cry of
surprise; not
for her beauty, not for her exquisite toilet, but because of him
who
entered with her.
"Great God!" exclaimed Celeste du Clozel, "it is Tréville
de Saint
Julien!" — "Oh!" cried Madame de la Houssaye, "Tonton is a fool, an
arch-fool. Does she want to see bloodshed this evening?" — "The
Countess
Madelaine is going to faint!" derisively whispered Olivier in my
ear.
"Who," asked Suzanne, "is Tréville de Saint Julien?"
"He is 'the hermit of Bayou Tortue,'" responded the gentle
Celeste de
Blanc.
"What pretense of simplicity, look you!" said Charles du Clozel,
glancing
towards him disdainfully.
"But look at Madame du Rocher," cried a girl standing on a bench,
"how she
is dressed. What contempt of fashion and propriety! It is
positively
shameful."
And Tonton, indifferent to these remarks, which she heard and to
which she
was accustomed, and to the furious glances thrown upon her
cavalier by
Neville Déclouet, continued, with her arm in his, to chat
and laugh with
him as they walked slowly around the hall.
If I describe to you, my daughter, the toilets of Tonton and of
Tréville
de Saint Julien, I write it for you alone, dear child, and it
seems to me
it would be a theft against you if I did not. But this is the last
time I
shall stop to describe petticoats, gowns, and knee-breeches.
Tréville was
twenty-five; large, dark, of a manly, somber beauty. A great
unhappiness
had overtaken him in childhood and left a permanent trace on his
forehead.
He wore his hair slightly long, falling behind without queue or
powder. In
1795 only soldiers retained their beard. Tréville de Saint
Julien, despite
the fashion, kept the fine black mustache on his proud lip. His
shirt,
without a frill, was fastened with three gold buttons. His
broad-skirted
coat, long vest, and breeches were of black woolen stuff. His
black
stockings were also of wool. His garters and shoes were without
buckles.
But serving him as a garter, and forming a rosette on the front of
the
leg, he wore a ribbon of plaided rose and black.
And Tonton. Over a dress — a real dress, such as we have
nowadays — of rose
satin, with long-pointed waist, was draped another, of black lace.
The
folds, running entirely around the skirt, were caught up by roses
surrounded by their buds and leaves. The same drapery was repeated
on the
waist, and in front and on the shoulders re-appeared the roses.
The
sleeves were very short, and the arms bare and without gloves. It
was
simple, but prettier than you can think. Her hair was in two wide
braids,
without powder, forming a heart and falling low upon the neck.
Among these
tresses she had placed a rose like those on the skirt. For
ornaments she
had only a necklace and bracelets of jet to heighten the fresh
whiteness
of her complexion.
They had said Tonton would die of jealousy at our rich toilets.
Nothing of
the sort. She came to us with her habitual grace, kissed us,
ignoring
etiquette and the big eyes made by the Countess Madelaine. Without
an
allusion to our dress or seeming to see it, she sat down between
us, told
us persons' names, pointed out the beauty of this one, the pretty
dress of
that one, always admiring, never criticising. She knew well she
was
without a rival.
I amused myself watching Tréville and Neville out of the
corner of my
eyes. Tréville seemed to see but one woman in the room. He
danced several
times, always with her, and when he did not dance he went aside,
spoke
with no one, but followed with his glances her whom he seemed to
adore. He
made no attempt to hide his adoration; it shone from his eyes: his
every
movement was full of it. When she returned to her place, he came,
remained
before her chair, leaned towards her, listened with ravished ear,
and
rarely sat down by her side. It was good to watch Neville. His
eyes
flashed with anger, his fists fidgeted, and more than once I saw
him quit
the hall, no doubt to make a quarrel with his rival. Not once did
he come
near Tonton! Not once did he dance with her! But he danced with
all the
young girls in the room and pretended to be very gay. While I was
dancing
with him I said:
"How pretty Tonton is this evening!" And I understood the spite
that made
him reply:
"Ah! mademoiselle, her beauty is certainly not to be compared
with yours."
After the supper, which was magnificent, the bolero was danced.
Twelve
couples were engaged, continually changing partners. Tonton danced
with
Tréville, Suzanne with Olivier, and I with Neville.
Alas, alas! all things earthly have an end, and at two in the
morning the
ball was over. When we reached our chamber I saw that my sister
had
something to tell me.
"Ah!" said she, "have patience. I will tell you after we get into
bed."
[What she told was the still famous Saint Julien feud.
Tréville and
Neville were representatives of the two sides in that, one of the
darkest
vendettas known in the traditions of Louisiana. The omission of
this
episode in the present translation is the only liberty taken with
the
original that probably calls for an apology.]
XVII.
PICNIC AND FAREWELL.
The day of the picnic rose brightly. Oh, what a day we passed
under those
grand trees, on the margin of that clear lake full of every
imaginable
sort of fish! What various games! What pleasant companions! All
our
friends were there except Tréville de Saint Julien, and
Madame Tonton gave
her smiles and sweet looks to Neville, who never left her a
moment. Oh,
how I regretted that my father was not with us! He had gone to
Opelousas.
He had bought several plantations in St. Martin parish, and in a
region
called Fausse Pointe, and in another known as the Côte
Gelée.
The days that followed were equally fête days — a dinner
here, a dance
there, and everywhere the most gracious reception. At length came
the day
for us to meet at La Fontaine — a real spring near St. Martinville,
belonging to Neville Déclouet's uncle. About five in the
afternoon we
gathered on the bank of the bayou. We never saw Tonton twice in
the same
dress. To-day she was all in blue. Suddenly the sound of distant
music,
and an open flat — not like our boat — approached, arched over with
green
branches and flowers. Benches stood about, and in the middle the
orchestra
played. In the prow stood the captain [Neville Déclouet],
and during the
moments of the journey the music was mingled with the laughter and
songs
of our joyous company. About 7 o'clock all the trees about La
Fontaine
were illuminated, and Neville led us to a floored place encircled
by
magnolia trees in bloom and by garlands running from tree to tree
and
mingling their perfume with the languishing odor of the magnolias.
Only
heaven can tell how Neville was praised and thanked.
I felt sure that Tonton's good taste had directed the details.
There was
something singular in this young woman. Without education save
what she
had taught herself, Tonton spoke with remarkable correctness, and
found
means to amuse every one. Her letters were curious to see, not a
single
word correctly spelled; yet her style was charming, and I cannot
express
the pleasure they gave me, for during more than a year I received
them by
every opportunity that presented itself.
But to return to La Fontaine. About seven the handsome
Tréville de St.
Julien came on a horse as black as ebony, and I saw the color
mount to
Suzanne's forehead. For a wonder he paid Tonton only the
attentions
required by politeness, and the pretty widow, while still queen of
all,
belonged that evening entirely to Neville.
The following Saturday my father arrived. The next day, after
mass, our
friends came in a body to say adieu. And on the morrow, amid
kisses,
handshaking, regrets, tears, and waving handkerchiefs, we departed
in the
carriage that was to bear us far and forever from Little Paris,
and the
friends we shall never meet again. Suzanne and I wept like
children. On
the fourth day after, the carriage stopped before the door of M.
Gerbeau's
house. I must confess we were not over-polite to Mme. Gerbeau. We
embraced
her hurriedly, and, leaving my father talking about lands, started
on a
run for Alix's dwelling.
Oh, dear Alix! How happy she seemed to see us again! How proud to
show us
the innovations made in her neat little house! With what touching
care had
she prepared our chamber! She had wished for a sofa, and Joseph
had made
her one and covered it with one of the velvet robes of the
Countess
Aurelia de Morainville. And when we went into Alix's own room,
Suzanne,
whose eye nothing ever escaped, pointed out to me, half hidden
behind the
mosquito-net of the bed, the prettiest little cradle in the world.
"Yes," said Alix, blushing, "I am blessed. I am perfectly happy."
We told her all our adventures and pleasures. She wept when she
heard that
the Countess de la Houssaye had not forgotten her.
"You will see her," said Suzanne. "She will come to see you,
without a
doubt."
"Ah, Heaven prevent it! Our destinies are too unlike now. Me
perhaps the
Countess Madelaine might welcome affectionately; but Joseph? Oh,
no! My
husband's lot is mine; I have no wish for any other. It is better
that she
and I remain strangers."
And Joseph? How he confessed his joy in seeing us!
During our absence M. Gerbeau had found means for us to return to
St.
James. It seems that two little boats, resembling steamboats in
form, kept
up a constant trade in wood — clapboards, pieux [split
boards], shingles,
even cordwood — between the lakes and the Bayou Teche plantation. M.
Gerbeau had taken his skiff and two oarsmen and gone in search of
one of
these boats, which, as he guessed, was not far away. In fact he
met it in
Mexican [now Berwick's] Bay, and for two hundred dollars persuaded
the
captain to take us to St. James. "Yes," said M. Gerbeau to us,
"you will
make in a week a journey that might have taken you two months."
The following Monday the captain tied up at M. Gerbeau's landing.
It was a
droll affair, his boat. You must have seen on plantations what
they call a
horse-mill — a long pole on which a man sits, and to which a horse
or mule
is hitched. Such was the machinery by which we moved. The boat's
cabin was
all one room. The berths, one above another, ran all round the
room, hung
with long curtains, and men, women, and children — when there were
any — were all obliged to stay in the same apartment.
We remained with Alix to the last moment. The morning we left she
gave
Suzanne a pretty ring, and me a locket containing her portrait. In
return
my sister placed upon her finger a ruby encircled with little
diamonds;
and I, taking off the gold medal I always wore on my neck,
whispered:
"Wear it for love of me."
She smiled. [Just as we were parting
she handed me the story of
her
life.]
At an early hour my father had our trunks, baskets, and mats sent
aboard
the Sirène; and after many tears, and promises to
write and to return,
we took our leave. We had quitted St. James the 20th of May. We
landed
there once more on the 26th of September. Need I recount the joy
of my
mother and sisters? You understand all that.
And now, my daughter, the tale is told. Read it to your children
and
assure them that all is true; that there is here no exaggeration;
that
they can put faith in their old grandmother's story and take their
part in
her pleasures, her friendships, and her emotions.
Notes
-
St. James parish. Name of the
parish, or county. — Translator.
-
Hundred houses. An extreme
underestimate, easy for a girl to make of a scattered town
hidden among gardens and groves. — Translator.
-
Père la Chaise. Without
doubting the existence of the cabaret and the nickname,
the
De la Chaise estate, I think, came from a real De la Chaise, true
nephew
of Pere la Chaise, the famous confessor of Louis XIV. The nephew
was
royal commissary under Bienville, and one of the worthiest fathers
of the
colony of Louisiana. — Translator.
-
Dressed. In all
likelihood described here as seen by the writer herself later,
on the journey. — Translator.
-
"The Gazette." Another error
easy to make. For "Gazette" read "Moniteur"; "The
Gazette" appeared a little later. — Translator.
-
Lost her crop. The
translator feels constrained to say that he was not on the spot.
-
Amid huzzas. Amid cheers. According
to a common habit of the Southern slaves. — Translator.
-
Bayou Plaquemine. Flowing,
not into, but out of, the Mississippi, and, like it, towards
the Gulf. — Translator.
-
Lake Chicot. That
is, "Lake full of snags." — Translator.
-
The first habitation.The Indian
village having the Mississippi probably but a few miles in
its rear. — Translator.
-
St. Martinville. Now
generally miscalled St. Martinsville. — Translator.
-
Charmante cordialité. Charming cordiality.
-
M. Agricole
Fuselier. When I
used the name of Agricole Fuselier (or Agricola Fusilier, as I
have it in my novel "The Grandissimes") I fully believed it was my
own
careful coinage; but on publishing it I quickly found that my
supposed
invention was but an unconscious reminiscence. The name still
survives, I
am told, on the Teche. — Translator.
-
Chevalier de Blanc. Ancestor
of the late Judge Alcibiade de Blanc of St. Martinville,
noted in Reconstruction days. — Translator.
-
Greatly shortened the way to market. By
avoiding the Spanish custom-house. — Translator.
- Madame Carpentier. This seems
to be simply a girl's thoughtless guess. She reports Alix
as saying that Madelaine and she "were married nearly at the same
time."
But this tiny, frail, spiritual Alix, who between twenty-two and
twenty-three looked scant sixteen, could hardly, even in those
times, have
been married under the age of fifteen, that is not before 1787-8;
whereas
if Madelaine had been married thirteen years she would have been
married
when Alix was but ten years old.
This bit of careless guessing helps to indicate the genuineness of
Alix's
history. For when, by the light of Françoise's own
statements, we correct
this error — totally uncorrected by any earlier hand — the correction
agrees
entirely with the story of Alix as told in the separate
manuscript. There
Alix is married in March, 1789, and Madelaine about a year before.
In
midsummer, 1795, Madelaine had been married between seven and
eight years
and her infant was, likely enough, her fourth child. — Translator.
-
A young man slightly
overdressed. The
memoirist omits to say that this person was Neville
Déclouet. — Translator.
-
She handed me the story of
her
life. See
"How I Got Them." — Translator.
Page Prepared by:
- Chatara Bell
- Murphy Chestnut
- Courtney Dismuke
- Bruce R. Magee
- Taly Merker
- Jasalyn Russell
- Cassidy Stringer
Source
Cable, George Washington.
“The Adventures of Françoise and Suzanne.”
Strange True Stories of Louisiana.
New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1890. 34-120. Internet
Archive. 2 Aug. 2007. Web. 22 May 2013.
<http://
archive. org/ details/ strange true stori 00cabluoft>.
Anthology of Louisiana
Literature