IN OLD ST. GENEVIEVE
It was the daily custom of Hector to be upon hand at the dock for
the landing of each and every steamer which touched at St.
Genevieve, bound either up or down the Mississippi, and his
business of cooperage never was allowed to infringe upon these more
important duties. Accordingly, on a certain day late in the
winter, although he had no special reason to be present, Hector was
among those who waited for the boat to land, with no purpose more
definite than that of giving a hand with her line at a snubbing
post. He was much surprised when he saw coming from the
gang-plank, and beckoning to him, a distinguished and handsomely
clad lady. For an instant, abashed, he could find no speech; then
suddenly he jerked off his cap, and stood smiling.
"It is Madame!" he exclaimed. "_Ah, bon jour! Bon jour! Ah,
c'est Madame_!"
"Yes," rejoined Josephine St. Auban, "it is I. And I am glad to
see St. Genevieve again, and you, Monsieur Hector. Tell me,--ah,
about that infant, that baby of ours!!
"Madame, believe me, there is none such in all the valley! Come!"
It was a proud and happy Jeanne who greeted her former mistress at
the little cottage with the green blinds, and the ivy, which lay
close upon the street of St. Genevieve,--Jeanne, perhaps a trifle
more fleshy, a shade more French and a touch less Parisian in look,
more mature and maternal, yet after all, Jeanne, her former maid.
Woman fashion, these two now met, not without feminine tears, and
forgetful of late difference in station, although Jeanne dutifully
kissed the hand held out to her. The first coherent speech, as in
the case of Hector, was regarding this most extraordinary infant,
whose arrival seemed to be thus far regarded as a matter of
national importance. In this view also shared Madame Fournier the
elder, mother of Hector, who also presently welcomed the new-comer
to the home.
[Illustration: Woman fashion, these two now met.]
A strange feeling of relief, of rest and calm, came over Josephine
St. Auban, a lady of rank in another world, where an incident such
as this could not have been conceived. Here it seemed not only
possible but covetable. The first babble of congratulations and
greetings over, she settled down to the quiet of the room assigned
to her, and gave a sigh as of one who at last finds harborage. If
only this might go on for ever! If only the street might always be
thus silent, the roof thus sheltering, the greetings of simple
friends thus comforting! She made no plans for herself, no
announcement to others of possible plans. It was enough to remain
thus, for a night at least. She was very weary, body and soul.
The pathetic droop at the corners of her brave gay mouth must have
brought sympathy to any who had known her earlier.
"We are not rich, Madame Countess," said Hector the next morning at
the breakfast table, "but, my faith, it is not so bad here. We
have not much to offer Madame, but such as it is, it is quite hers.
With what riches could she produce a hen to lay eggs more perfect
than those which madame beholds this morning? They are the eggs of
Mildred, our most special hen. And this cream, it is from our cow
Suzanne, whose like one does not find in any land for docility and
amiability of disposition. Our roof is small, but it is ours. We
have a yard so large as forty feet to the street yonder. What more
does one demand for flowers or for the onion with green top in the
spring? The couch of madame, was it not soft? Yes? It is from
fowls of this very valley. That scene from the window there, is it
not beautiful? Oh, very well! Others may possess in greater
abundance than we, but as for myself, my business of the cooperage
prospers,--behold my excellent wife Jeanne, yonder,--and this
daughter of ours! What more could human being ask?"
Time and again, Josephine found herself repeating this same
question,--What more could be asked than this? What more did the
great world offer? It had not offered her, long used to luxury, so
much as this. To Hector at this moment she made evasive answer.
"I could willingly tarry with you always, Hector," said she, "if
that were right."
"Right?" demanded Hector, swelling out his chest, "Why is it not
right?" He doubled up a mighty arm to show where the muscles rose
upon it. "See, I am strong! What is one more mouth to feed--could
it even come to that for one of madame's wealth? Madame but jests.
Did not madame bring me that Jeanne there? Ah, if only it were
right for her to linger with us, how happy we should be! Madame is
a noblewoman, we are but poor; yet she has honored us. Very well,
then, what good to wonder about the future? Madame is rich, that
is true. Suppose even she were poor, would it not be possible for
madame to settle down here in St. Genevieve, and to teach the
language of France--far better, to teach the English to these
ignorant French?"
The sturdy speech of the fresh-looking, good-hearted fellow,
touched the heart of a woman so world weary. For a time she said
nothing of plans, even to herself. It was not long before the baby
of Jeanne found a place upon her knee, and Jeanne herself, though
jealous, was willing to surrender her dearest rights, at least for
a time.
But always the eyes of this world weary woman were lifted up to the
hills. She found herself gazing out beyond the street of St.
Genevieve, toward the Ozarks, where once she had traveled--true,
against her will, but yet through scenes which she now remembered.
And always there came up in her mind a question which she found no
way to ask. It was Jeanne herself who, either by divination or by
blunder, brought up the matter.
"Madame remembers that man yonder, that savage, Dunwodee?" she
began, apropos of nothing. "That savage most execrable, who was so
unkind to madame and myself--but who made love so fiercely? I
declare, Madame, I believe it was Monsieur Dunwodee set me
listening to Hector! _Eh, bien_!"
They were sitting near the window, looking out upon the bleak
prospect of the winter woods. For the time Josephine made no
comment, and Jeanne went on.
"He has at last, thank heavens, come to justice. Is it not true
that human beings find ever their deserts?"
"What do you mean, Jeanne?"
"Of the Congress of this state, where he is so long a member, he is
now not a member. He has fail', he has been defeat'."
"I thought he was sure of reelection so long as he chose,"
commented Josephine, with feigned indifference.
"There is talk--I do not understand these matters--that he has
change' his coat, as one says, and gone over to the side of that
man Benton. Yet one says that Benton was always his enemy! Me, I
do not understand. I have the baby."
"What is that you tell me?" suddenly demanded Josephine. "That Mr.
Dunwody has _changed_ his political beliefs--that he has become
Free Soiler?"
Jeanne nodded. "I think it is so name'. I know little of such
matters, naturally. To me, my infant here is of much more
importance than any question of free soil. It is possible in this
country that one day this infant--were it of opposite sex--might
arrive to be governor of this state--who knows? It is possible, in
the belief of Hector, that this infant, were it a boy, might even
become president of this great republic. Ah, well, there are
hopes. Who shall set bounds to the achievement of a child well
born in this country of America? Is it established that Hector and
I may not, at a later time, be blessed with a son? Is it
established that that son shall not be president? Is it not
necessary that _some_ boy shall grow up to be a president? Very
well! Then who shall say that a child of ours, if of a proper sex,
Madame, should not one day be president of this republic?"
"Yes, yes, Jeanne! I do not doubt that. But now you were speaking
of Mr. Dunwody--"
"Yes, that is true. I was rejoicing that at last he has been
defeat', that he has fail', that he has met with that fate which
should be his. Now he has few friends. It is charge' against
him--well, Madame, perhaps it were as well not to repeat all of
that."
"I can understand," said Josephine slowly. "I can guess. Yes, I
know."
Jeanne nodded. "Yes, they bring up stories that at one time you
and I--well, that we were there at Tallwoods. But these wild
people here, who shoot, and fight with knives, they are of all
peoples in the world the most strict and the most moral, the most
abhorrent of what is not their own custom of life. Behold, that
droll Mr. Bill Jones, in jest perhaps, expressed to others his
belief that at one time there was a woman conceal' about this place
of Tallwoods! Yes! Madame knows with what ground of justice this
was said. Very well! The people took it up. There was comment.
There was criticism. These charges became public. It was rumored
thus and so in all the district of Mr. Dunwodee. He has fought the
duel--oh, la, la!
"Ah, well, as for madame, by this time she was far away. None knew
her name. None doubted regarding her. But as for Mr. Dunwodee, he
was here,--he was discover'! Behold it all! At the election he
was defeat'. Most easily did this happen, because, as I have said,
he no longer was of the same political party which formerly had
chosen him. There you have him. That has come to him which he has
deserve'!"
The eyes of Josephine St. Auban flashed with interest over this
intelligence. "He has changed his belief, his party! But no, it
is not possible that he should come out for _our_ party, _our_
cause, Jeanne,--_our_ cause, for the people of the world--for
liberty! I wish I might believe it. No. It can not be true."
"Yet it is true, Madame. A turncoat! Bah!"
"No, Jeanne! Not in the least should you feel contempt tempt for a
man who honestly changes a belief. To turn from error, is not that
always wisdom?"
But Jeanne only shrugged her shoulders, and held out her hands for
the baby. "It is naught to me," said she. "We are happy here
under this roof, are we not?"
"Precisely. We are safe here. That child yonder is safe here.
But how long shall we be safe if there are not those to keep this
roof protected? The law, Jeanne,--the Justice, back of the
law,--are these things of no interest to you?"
"At least, when it comes to roofs," reiterated Jeanne. "Monsieur
Dunwodee has pulled down his roof about his ear."
"Yes! Yes! Thank God! And so did Samson pull down the pillars
about him when he had back his strength!"
"Madame has given me occasion to disappear," rejoined Jeanne, with
a resigned shrug. "I do not always find myself able to follow the
lofty thought of madame. But, at least, for these people of St.
Genevieve there is no doubt. They have argue' among theirself.
The vote here is against Monsieur Dunwodee. He is what one calls
depose'.
"But then, Madame," she added presently, as she turned at the door,
with the baby on her arm, "if madame should wish to explore the
matter for herself, that is quite possible. This night, perhaps
to-morrow, Monsieur Dunwodee himself comes to St. Genevieve. He is
to meet the voters of this place. He wishes to speak, to explain.
I may say that, even, he will have the audacity to come here to
advocate the cause of freedom, and the restriction of those slavery
for which hitherto he has labor' so valiant. Perhaps there will be
those who care to listen to the address of a man of no more
principle. For me and for my husband Hector--we do not argue.
Hector, he is for Monsieur Dunwodee. Save as a maker of love,
Madame, I am not!"
Josephine made no immediate reply. A tall mirror with pretentious
golden frame hung opposite to her across the room. A few moments
later, with a start, she suddenly pulled herself together,
discovering that she had been gazing steadfastly into the glass.
[Illustration: Gazing steadfastly into the glass.]