A VICTIM OF DECEIT
"I do not know," began Madame in her soft voice, "whether I have told you
that I have a brother. Have I?"
"No, Cherie."
"I have, petite, in the Confederate Army. He is very dear to me. A few
days ago I learned that he was wounded and ill. He is not far from
the city, and he lies in a rude hospital tent without clothing or the
necessary food and medicine. Is it not hard, little one, to think of being
in the midst of plenty while my only brother is destitute?"
"Yes," answered Jeanne with ready sympathy, "it is."
"I thought that you would think so," and the lady smoothed her hair
gently. "Suppose that it were your own brother, Dick. I know that you
would do almost anything to help him, and I feel the same about Auguste. I
tried vainly to get a pass to go to him to take him some necessities,
but ma foi! That beast of a Yankee General will not give me one. I am
distressed. I suffer, but of what avail is it? I come to you, my little
one, for aid."
"To me?" Jeanne looked her surprise. "What can I do, Cherie?"
"You are so brave. You have so much cleverness. Could I do it I would not
ask it of you. But what would you! I am a coward. I faint at the least
noise. I lose my wits; and so, child, I want you to take some medicine
and food to my Auguste."
"I to take it? Why how could I do it?"
"'Tis easy to one who has the courage, petite. I would send Feliciane
with you. 'Tis only to elude the sentinels some dark night and once beyond
them the rest is nothing. Feliciane knows where a boat is hidden on Lake
Ponchartrain, and she would row you to the other side where you would
be met by one of my brother's comrades who would receive the things.
Then you step once more into the boat, and Mais! there you are safe and
sound in the city again."
"Why could not Feliciane go alone?" questioned Jeanne.
"My child, she has not the intelligence. One must demand nothing of these
creatures that calls for the exercise of reason. Will you go, my pet?"
"Would it be wrong, Cherie?"
"Wrong to carry food to a wounded soldier? Why should you think so, child?"
"Then it is nothing against the government?"
"No; I would not ask it of you if it were. Will you please me, Jeanne?
Your uncle would like it too."
"Yes, Cherie, I will," said Jeanne after a moment's thought. "If it is
only to take some food to a poor soldier it cannot be wrong. When do you
wish me to go?"
"Dearest, to-night. There is no moon and it will be easier to elude the
guards. I may use your basket, may I not? It will not be so heavy to
carry."
"If you wish," assented Jeanne. "But it will not hold much."
"I only want to send a few, a very few things. Just what he needs most
to put heart into him, poor fellow! And then when you come back, we will
plan our journey to your home. Oh, we will have the grand time!"
The day wore away. Madame Vance talked volubly about the girl's home and
asked her so many questions concerning it that Jeanne was wrought up to
the highest pitch. At last the darkness fell. With it came a drizzling
rain and to the tenderly nurtured girl it seemed that this would put a
stop to the enterprise; but no.
"Could anything be more fortunate," cried Madame who was in the highest
spirits. "Nothing could be better for our purpose. Ah, petite, you will
outwit the Yankee soldiers yet."
Jeanne looked troubled. The matter had not presented itself in that light
before.
"I am not doing wrong, am I, Cherie?" she asked dubiously. "It is nothing
against the government, is it?"
"To be sure not. How quaint you are to ask that again! Would I have you
to do wrong?"
The preparations were finally completed. Robed in dark waterproof garments
Jeanne took the basket given her by her father and, accompanied by
Feliciane, a mulatto woman, set forth, again upon a mission. But this
time the girl was downcast in spirit, and had not the lofty exaltation of
an approving conscience.
The two walked in silence through the dark streets of the city. The
woman glided swiftly along as if accustomed to the journey, making many
devious windings and turnings. Jeanne's progress was slower and the
mulatto often had to pause to wait until she could catch up with her.
"Missy be keerful hyar," whispered the woman, when at length the outskirts
of the city were reached. "Keep close ter de trees."
Jeanne obeyed. The sentinel's lonely figure could scarcely be discerned
in the darkness. Unconscious of their proximity the man was singing
softly to himself as he patrolled his post steadily. To the girl it
seemed as though her heart beats must betray their presence. The black
touched her hand gently and, as the guard turned to retrace his steps,
they glided silently past him, and were lost in the darkness. The skiff
was found, and the strong steady strokes of the woman soon pulled them
out upon the waters of Lake Ponchartrain.
"We got by all right, lill' missy, didn't we?" chuckled she.
"Yes," assented Jeanne. "Is it far, Feliciane?"
"A long way," was the response. "We won't git back 'tel de mohnin'."
"Until morning?" echoed Jeanne in dismay. "Will we have to be out in this
rain all that time?"
"Yes, honey. It's bes' fer it ter rain. De Yanks can't see yer den. Missus
she laikes fer it ter rain when she go."
"Does she ever go?" asked Jeanne sitting up very straight. "I thought that
she was afraid to go."
"De Madame ain't 'fraid ob nuffin," was the emphatic reply. "She usen ter
go often. She done carried heaps ob things ter de rebs."
"But it has been because of her brother, Feliciane," said Jeanne, gently
trying not to condemn her aunt too severely.
"Huh brudder? What brudder? She ain't got no brudder. What you talkin'
'bout?"
"Oh, Feliciane, aren't we carrying food and medicine to her poor wounded
brother, Auguste?"
"What makes you think dat, chile? Massa Auguste killed long time ago when
de wah fust beginned. 'Couhse we ain't takin' things ter huh brudder.
We's carryin' news ter de Massa Gin'ral dat de Yanks gwine ter 'tack him."
"Then," said Jeanne bitterly. "I have been fooled. I will give no aid to
the enemy. Turn this boat back, Feliciane."
"Not ef I knows myself, honey. I done want no whoppin'. Madame Vance sent
me, an' I'se gwine ter do what she say. What'd yer kum fer ef yer didn't
want ter holpe dem?"
"Because I did not know what I was doing. Madame told me it was to take
food to her wounded brother."
"She's a great one fer pullin' de wool ober de eyes," chuckled the
negress. "Missus kum nigh gittin' ketched de las' time she kummed, so
den she sent you."
"Oh!" Jeanne sat very still, her heart heavy with what she had heard.
Truthful herself, the knowledge that her aunt could stoop to such
duplicity filled her with anguish. Her eyes were fast opening to the
fact that the sweetness of the lady and her honeyed words masked a cruel,
treacherous nature, and unaccustomed as she was to deceit of any sort
she was weighed down by the discovery.
"Feliciane," she said coaxingly. "I will give you more money than you ever
had in all your life before if you will turn this boat back."
"No, missy. Yer can't hiah me ter do nuffin ob dat kine," came the
relentless tones of the darky. "Feliciane knows what's good fer huh, an'
she's gwine ter do it."
"Well, my basket shall not go at any rate," cried Jeanne and she caught it
up to throw it overboard. But the darky seized her arm in a strong grip
and took the basket from her.
"Be quiet, missy," she said, "er I'll hab ter settle yer. An' missus won't
keer nuther. She done laik yer nohow."
Jeanne could do nothing in the woman's powerful clasp, and was compelled
to relinquish her hold on the basket. Placing it behind her the negress
took the oars again and resumed her rowing. Silence fell between the two
and steadily they drew nearer to the farther shore. At last after what
seemed hours to Jeanne the keel of the boat grated upon the sand and the
woman sprang out and drew the skiff upon the bank.
"Come," she said to Jeanne and the girl mechanically followed her.
"Halt! who goes there?" came the challenge.
"A frien'," responded Feliciane. "Done yer know me, sah?"
"Feliciane," exclaimed a voice joyfully. "You are a jewel. Have you
anything for us? Who is with you?"
"Yes, sah; heah in dis basket missus sent. It's all erbout a 'tack what
de Yanks is a-gwine ter make on you folks. Missus kum moughty nigh bein'
kotched de las' time, an' so she sent de lill' missy with me."
"Well, here are some letters. You won't be more than able to get back by
daylight. Are you too tired to make it to-night, Feliciane?"
"No, sah. Missus 'spects me ter do it."
"Well, good-bye. Thank your mistress for us, and tell her the boys in gray
will soon drive the Yankees out of the city, and she won't have this to
do much longer."
"I'll tell huh, sah."
Jeanne still silent went back to the boat. Every hope that she had held
that there was really a wounded brother of Madame's had died during the
interview, and the lady was meeting with that fierce arraignment in the
mind of the girl that youth always gives when for the first time the mask
of hypocrisy is torn from a loved face.
The dawn was streaking the gray sky with crimson when they reached the
city again. The rain had ceased and the stormy night was to be succeeded
by a fair day. Jeanne's face showed white and stern in the gray of the
morning as she walked slowly by the black's side. Her lips were compressed
together in a straight line for she had determined that Madame Vance
should render an account of her duplicity to her.
Presently Feliciane uttered an exclamation of alarm, and thrust the
package that the rebel had given her into Jeanne's hands.
"Run, missy, run," she cried. "De Yanks am a-kumin'."
Involuntarily the girl quickened her steps, but she had gone but a short
distance when she was caught by the shoulder, and brought to a standstill.
"You are under arrest," said the gruff voice of a soldier. "Give me that
package you have."