Although the log-cabin was far different from the old chateau, and the
garden planted with indigo and young sugar-canes a great contrast to the
rose garden with its sun-dial at Étaples, the young couple were not
unhappy, and little Annette grew apace.
The only person who took the change sadly to heart was old Marie, and
her love for her mistress and the little one was all that kept her
alive.
The fertile soil, so rich on the shores of the Bayou that it was fairly
black, was soon heavily planted. There were rice fields in addition to
those of indigo and sugar-cane, and for the home were planted
watermelons, potatoes, peas, and beans; figs and bananas as well as
pumpkins were abundant, and there were wild grapes and pecans to be had
for the gathering.
With a gun the larder could be kept supplied with ducks, geese, wild
swan, venison, pheasants, and partridges, and, most curious of all, wild
beef, for unbranded cattle were considered common property, and many of
them escaped from the ranges and roamed the forests in increasing
companies.
The second year the plantation showed the results of Monsieur Valvier’s
unceasing care, and he carried to New Orleans a crop of indigo seed
which exceeded by many bushels his greatest hopes.
As the slaves pushed off from the landing, Pierre, standing in the stern
of the boat, called out,—
“What shall I bring thee back, Clemence?”
“Whatever you think I shall like best,” she answered, waving her hand in
farewell.
“What for the little daughter?” and as if she had only been waiting for
the chance, Annette called out gaily,—
“Dolly.”
“How shall I get a dolly? Would you not rather have something else, a
toy or a new frock?”
“No, papa, a dolly”; and Annette pressed in her arms the bit of stick
enveloped in a piece of gay calico which served her as a substitute for
the dearest of all toys.
Two days later, when the little girl was helping her mother to gather
the wax berries from the twigs, so that the yearly supply of candles
might be made, they heard from the Bayou the cheerful song of the
negroes as they rowed homeward.
“Come, mamma, oh, come and see my dolly”; and Annette ran away, while
her mother followed more slowly, talking to old Marie, who was carrying
in her arms a young Pierre, Annette’s little brother, who had been born
since they had lived in the new home.
With a pleased face Monsieur Valvier leaped ashore, hardly waiting for
the boat to reach the landing. In his arms he held two parcels carefully
wrapped in silver paper.
“Now, mamma shall guess first what is in her parcel,” he said; but
Annette could not wait for that, and stood close at his side, saying
over softly to herself,—
“My dolly, my pretty, pretty dolly.”
“Give Annette hers first,” said Madame Valvier; “it will take me much
time to guess what my parcel contains.”
Annette sat soberly down and brought forth from many wrappings a
beautiful doll, with red cheeks and blue eyes, dressed like a court
lady, and newly come from France, as her father explained.
“She is most too beautiful to love,” exclaimed the little girl, as she
gently held the gay lady; and the father and mother could only smile at
the serious face of the child as she regarded the doll she had so fondly
desired.
“Now look at your gift, dear wife. I hope it will please you as much as
Annette’s pleases her”; and Monsieur Valvier put into his wife’s hands
the second packet. With almost as much excitement as Annette, her mother
unrolled her gift, and exclaimed with pleasure at the length of shining
silk which greeted her delighted eyes.
“Oh, but, Pierre,” she began; but he stopped her with,—
“Yes, I know what you would say, silks and a log-cabin. But I have good
news. The indigo seed brought such a high price that I have bought all
that was needful for a house, and already it is loaded on barges and on
its way hither.”
“Good news, indeed, that is. Marie, did you hear that we are to have a
house at last? Who knows, perhaps it may be ready for the little
Pierre’s christening.”
The parish in which lay the Valviers’ plantation also contained the
homes of several other planters. These were either earlier settlers or
blessed with greater riches than the Valviers, and their plantations
were dignified with dwellings which seemed commodious enough in those
days, simple as they would appear in our eyes now.
The planters’ homes were often built in what was called the “Italian
style,” with pillars supporting the galleries, which were in reality
roomy piazzas. The houses were surrounded by gardens of gorgeous
flowering plants, and approached by avenues of wild orange trees.
It was such a house which soon rose on the bank of the Bayou Gentilly,
among the trees which flourished in that teeming soil, and the rude
cabin was moved into the background to serve as the quarters for the
slaves. Nor were there gaieties wanting, for the planters visited among
their neighbours, the ladies coming in huge lumbering coaches drawn by
many horses, or by pirogue, while the men almost always rode, the
saddle-horse for the master being almost a necessity.
The succeeding years passed quickly, if not too prosperously, and
tobacco was added to the productions of the Valvier plantation. Pierre
had made himself honoured and respected among the men in his own and the
neighbouring parishes, and his ardent love for France kept him ever a
Frenchman, even though his home lay across the sea.
Annette was by this time eight years old, quite a little mother, as
Clemence fondly called her, since, grave beyond her years, she looked
out for the little brothers and sister who had been born at the Bayou
Gentilly. Poor Marie had died, a victim to an attack of the fever which
hangs like a dark pall over that enchanting region, and more care had
fallen on the shoulders of little Annette than really belonged there.
She saw not only to the welfare of the children, but ruled the blacks
and looked after the house in a fashion which astonished her mother,
whose health had sadly failed, and upon whose natural energy the
relaxing climate had laid its enervating spell. The French thrift which
is so marked a quality in the women of that nation seemed to have passed
by the mother and bloomed in the nature of the daughter, and Annette’s
efforts were all which kept the home from being better than a cabin,
left to the mercies of the negligent slaves.
V
There was one thing for which Annette’s mother never lacked strength or
energy, and that was the celebration of the birthdays—“fête days,” she
called them—of the little family. There was always some little gift
forthcoming, were it only a basket of fine figs or a garland of flowers;
and for Annette particularly her mother always made an extra effort.
The birthday of the little girl fell in June, that month when all the
world is dressed in flowers, and when the sky above seems to bend its
bluest arch. On this occasion Annette was to have a party, her very
first, and all the children from the neighbouring plantations had been
bidden; and papa had made a special trip to New Orleans and come home
with some wonderful and mysterious packages, which had been quickly
hidden away. At last the day arrived, and Annette felt it to be the
happiest one she had ever known.
“To be nine years old and to have a party! Just think of that, Auguste!”
she cried, as she helped the little boy to dress.
Auguste was thinking of it with so much glee that it made the dressing
of him more than usually difficult, and Annette turned to little Pierre;
but his whole attention was given to “keeping a secret,” for mamma had
said that Annette was not to know what her present was to be till they
were all gathered at the table for breakfast.
But he knew, did little Pierre, and it was a hard burden not to tell
sister Annette. At last the little ones were ready, and Annette had seen
that the simple fare which formed the breakfast—fruit and hominy, with
coffee for the father and mother—was on the table.
Such a clamour as arose.
“Oh, mother, let me tell.”
“No, let me.”
“Oh, sister Annette—” But they got no further, for Annette herself
pulled the cover off a big box which was laid on her chair, and there
within lay a white dress—oh, such a pretty one!—and a little pair of
slippers, with long, narrow ribbons to lace them criss-cross about the
ankles, and, most lovely of all, a long blue sash, which had on its two
ends a fringe of gold.
“Oh, dearest mother,” cried Annette, “was there ever anything so lovely;
and the little brodequins,” pointing to the little slippers, “and a fan!
Oh, mother, and you, too, father, how can I thank you both enough?”