THE FEAST OF THE FAT CALF
In the little village of New Rochelle there was a great jollification
on a day in June which marks the feast of John the Baptist. From one
of the houses erected on the side of the high street could be heard a
voice singing clearly the Huguenot battle psalm,--
“Oh, Lord, thou didst us clean forsake
And scatter all abroad,”--
and from a doorway a girl’s face peeped out. “They are making ready,
Mère Michelle,” she cried, stopping her song. “Hurry with the loaves,
I see Gerard coming now; the men are gathering from every direction.
Hola, Gerard, is it a very fat calf?” she cried to the young man, who
waved his cap to her as he approached.
“A lusty young creature, indeed,” he replied, as he came near. “Are the
loaves ready?”
“Mère Michelle is but now placing them in the baskets. It will be a
fine day for the feast, Gerard. Some one said there were new-comers in
the village to swell the crowd.”
“So there are, and to share the feast. The number increases. Hasten,
good mother,” he cried, and from the inside room from which issued
odors of newly baked bread came Michelle, her honest face wreathed in
smiles. “Papa has been hurrying me this half-hour, as if one would take
underdone bread from the oven. Yet I see the occasion approaches; the
procession is forming.”
“And I must be there. You will soon be ready, you and Alaine. I shall
see you with the others.” And he went off bearing his two baskets of
fresh loaves.
Mère Michelle settled her cap. Alaine gave a glance at herself in the
tiny mirror, smoothed down her black silk gown, and tucked a stray lock
behind her ear. “Will I do, Mère Michelle?” she asked.
Michelle looked at her critically. “Your silver chain, my dear; a maid
needs a bit of ornament. But hasten, for I hear sounds of shouting and
singing coming nearer and nearer.”
Alaine clambered up the ladder which led to her little loft chamber,
and speedily returned decked out with her silver chain. She caught
Michelle’s hand and hurried her along. The clumsy latch of the door
clicked behind them and they stepped out into the glory of the June
weather.
Up the little street the procession trooped: a fat calf well garlanded
was being led along amid cheers and voluble chatterings. This was the
yearly fee to John Pell, lord of the manor of Pelham, in return for
having conveyed to Jacob Leisler six thousand acres of land on which
was built the village of New Rochelle. The merry crowd was every
few steps augmented by new participants, who joined it as it passed
along, and all trooped towards the place of presentation. A great
ceremony this, a feast always following the acceptance of the calf,
and the sober Huguenots became for the occasion lively Frenchmen. The
appearance of the huge joints and stacks of fowls and venison piled up
before them served as an assurance that even here in this wild country
one might still enjoy an occasional fête-day.
“La, la!” cried Mère Michelle, “it does my eyes good, my friend, to see
such an indulgence of mirth; it was not so a couple of years ago, eh,
Alainette?”
“Where is Papa Louis?” said Alaine, her soft eyes taking in the scene,
“Ah, here he is, and here comes Gerard bringing a stranger.”
“Be wary of strangers,” was Michelle’s warning.
But it did not take Michelle’s words to teach Alaine discretion; she
had learned her lesson well in these two years; moreover, she did not
quite like the crafty expression in the eyes of the young man who bowed
before her.
“’Tis good to hear one’s own tongue spoken without hesitation,” said
the stranger. “I am come up from New York, where I hear little except
a vile Dutch tongue and that brain-splitting English. One finds great
relief in this gay company, as much from the merry occasion as from the
association. Your brother was good enough to accede to my request to
present me. He is your brother, is he not?”
“The son of my mother’s husband,” returned Alaine, sedately. “He is my
step-brother.”
“Ah! and yonder rosy-faced good wife is your mother? You do not
resemble her, mademoiselle.”
“I resemble my own father,” replied Alaine, steadily.
“And from what part of France are you? Madame Mercier should be from
Normandy. I am at home there. I was born in Rouen.”
“Yes?” Alaine tried to look indifferent, but her eyes were taking in
every detail. She had a dim consciousness of having seen this face
before. “I was not born there,” she added. “The Merciers are not from
there, and in these days, monsieur, one’s birthplace is of less account
than that place where he will meet his death.”
“Yes, yes; quite true, when one is in a wild and savage country. M.
Mercier, is it he standing yonder by his son? The son has overtopped
his father by many inches.”
“That is M. Mercier. But listen, some one is starting up a song of
praise, and I see my brother comes for me.”
“I say but _au revoir_, mademoiselle.”
Alaine made a slight inclination of her head. She did not like the
confident tone. “Gerard,” she whispered as he led her away, “who is the
man? He is too inquisitive for my liking. He does not sing, either.
I hope he is not some evil, prying creature. I told him but little,
whatever he may have desired to know.”
“What did you tell him?” asked Gerard.
“I said only that you were my step-father’s son and that I was not born
in Rouen.”
Gerard laughed. “Discreet little Alainette. Come and tell Papa Louis;
it will amuse him. Do you know it is over two years, Alaine, since we
left England, and more than a year since we came away from Martinique?”
“Those long journeys, how I remember them with horror, Gerard! Two
years ago I was Alaine Hervieu and you were Gerard Legrand; to-day we
are both children of the same parents and of the name of Mercier.”
“Than whom no better parents exist. For our sakes, Alaine, what have
they not done?”
“So, my children, what gives you so grave an aspect?” inquired Papa
Louis, as they approached the spot where he and his wife were waiting
for them that they might continue their homeward way.
“We were talking of you, Papa Louis,” retorted Alaine, with a flash of
mischief in her eyes.
“And so you were grave,” he laughed. “Enough, indeed, am I for gravity,
as Michelle says when I tramp with muddied feet upon her clean floor,
or when I do not praise her cooking in fine enough terms. The good
Michelle, to stand a mulish husband who is so obstinate not to see the
virtue of neatness. A year and more married and no improvement; no
wonder you are serious, Alaine.”
“My life, but you invent mockeries, Louis,” said Michelle. “Who was the
young man to whom you were talking, my daughter?”
“M. Dupont, from Rouen,” she returned, calmly.
Michelle started. “And you told him--what?”
“I told him nothing save that you were my mother, Papa Louis your
husband, Gerard my brother by marriage. Was not that enough?”
“Enough, and not too much,” said Papa Louis, patting her hand. “Where
did you meet him, Gerard?”
“He came up with some visitors from Manhatte.”
“He remains for some time?”
“But so long as it suits him.”
“He must not meet you again, Alaine.” Michelle spoke with anxious
voice. “Avoid him. He may have recognized you as it is, for he is a
friend of your cousin Étienne’s.”
“And what of that? I am far removed from my cousin Étienne, and beyond
his anger, thanks to you, good mother.”
“You cannot be sure of that.”
“Ah, foolish one,” said Papa Louis, “how can he reach her here in a
free country? You are right, Alaine; you need not fear.”
“I do not.” She threw back her head with a movement expressive of her
feeling of unchecked action. “I fear no one now.”
“But you will not tell him your name,” Michelle urged, still anxious.
“Do me so small a favor as this, Alaine.”
“I have already told him I am Alaine Mercier, and I shall not likely
meet him again.”
“Yet promise me.”
“If it please you, yes, I promise. Now, Papa Louis, why do you not make
Gerard promise the same thing on his part?”
Papa Louis rubbed his hands together and chuckled. He was a little man,
with an eager, gentle face. He stooped slightly and had the air of a
student rather than of a peasant or a mechanic. Gerard towered far
above him.
“Papa Louis and I have nothing to lose,” said the young man. “Those
from whom all has been taken have nothing to conceal. Every one knows
our story.”
“Still,” said the cautious Michelle, “I would not be too free to tell
it.”
“Maman has not yet lost her fear of the dragonnades,” remarked Papa
Louis. “She cannot quite grasp the fact that we are utterly safe, and
wakes up with a dread of having insolent soldiers quartered upon her
before night.”
“Which is not true,” maintained Michelle, sturdily; “but, Louis, I know
too much not to feel that the long arm of resentment can stretch across
seas.”
Papa Louis raised his hands. “She speaks well, this wife of mine. She
has acquired a glibness of speech which is truly remarkable.”
“That comes from association with you, Papa Louis,” laughed Alaine,
taking his arm. “Let us be going. Mère Michelle’s bread has disappeared
like dew before the sun; we shall get no more though we stay here all
night. Take maman with you, Gerard, and Papa Louis and I will follow. I
think we should celebrate the day, too,” she said to M. Mercier, “for
it is due to that same accomplishment of making such excellent bread
that we are here to-day.”
“True, my daughter,” returned her companion. “See, we will deck maman.”
And picking up a discarded wreath from the ground, he ran forward and
flung it around his wife’s neck.
“Am I, then, a fat calf?” spluttered Michelle, indignant at this
assault upon her dignity.
“No, no, maman, you are honored because of your able pursuance of a
craft which brought us here,” said Alaine, kissing her. “Let me see, we
will rehearse it all as we walk along, that you may understand why Papa
Louis, in a burst of gratitude, has so decorated you. We met two years
ago on shipboard. We remember it, do we not, Gerard? You with your
tutor, Papa Louis there, and I with my foster-mother, Mère Michelle.
You were dressed as a girl, and in your petticoats, as well as in Mère
Michelle’s, were sewed some gold pieces, while in my blouse I carried
my book of psalms, and Papa Louis carried the leaves of his Bible
stitched in his coat. We became friends when you believed me a boy
and I believed you a girl. How astonished we were when we discovered
that we might well exchange places, and how soon those gold pieces
melted away in England! and in Martinique, what distress we endured!
so hungry and forlorn were we. Then did maman happily think of baking
bread and selling it. A good trade it was and one that satisfied our
own hunger, for we could eat the stale loaves. And when Papa Louis fell
ill did Mère Michelle nurse him while you and I watched the loaves in
the oven. You would tell me of your home in La Rochelle, and of your
escape after your father and mother were dragged away, and I would
relate of our weary watching for my father, of whom not a word could we
learn in London. Then--be patient, maman, we are coming to the end of
the story--because there was still not freedom for us in Martinique,
said Papa Louis, ‘Had I but the money for the passage we would go to
New England,’ and that day you, Mère Michelle, found a gold coin where
it had slipped into a seam of your petticoat, and not long after papa
remembered a jewel which he still retained for Gerard. Then said he,
‘When we can earn enough we will go as a family, my good Michelle,
if you will. These are our children, Alaine and Gerard Mercier, and
you are Madame Mercier if you consent, for we have been comrades in
misfortune this year past, and my life, which your nursing has saved,
is yours.’ Was it not so, maman? So now, because of the happy thought
of the bread which did sustain us all, and because of your industry in
baking and selling the good bread which all were so eager to buy, we at
last managed to save enough to bring us here, and we are one family.
So, now, to-day, on which they celebrate the feast of John Baptist, at
home in dear France, and here does honor to the fat calf, we will also
have a feast of the loaves, and you shall always be crowned queen of
the feast. Shall it not be so, Papa Louis? Shall it not, Gerard?”
The recital of the tale and the honor bestowed upon her so overcame
Mère Michelle that her dignity lost itself in tears, and she fell on
the neck of her little husband, who braced himself to receive her
weight, and patted her comfortingly on the back, while Alaine and
Gerard started up a joyful psalm, then ran on ahead down the woodland
path towards the village, saying they would prepare a reception at home.
The sound of merry voices had not ceased in the direction of the
place of the feast. The occasion was one not only for the expression
of ordinary joy, but it served to voice a deeper note, that of
thanksgiving for an escape from persecution, and to the rollicking
songs were added psalms of praise, those psalms so long denied
utterance to the patient band of Huguenots now setting up their homes
in this new world.
The woods sweetly smelling in the June weather, the soft odors arising
from the sea-salt marshes, the glimpses of the blue sound, the peeping
up here and there of unfamiliar blossoms beneath their feet, all these
things awoke in the hearts of Alaine and Gerard a strange new feeling
of unfettered joyousness, and in sheer good fellowship Gerard reached
out a hand to clasp the girl’s as they walked home. “You look very
happy, my sister,” he said. “Not since we left England’s shores have I
seen you so.”
“It is good to live,” Alaine answered, raising her face to the sky. “To
be young and free and hopeful is much. On days like this, Gerard, I
always believe that I shall see my father again. Do you feel so?”
“No, I do not. Papa Louis has always warned me against an encouragement
of hope in that direction. He thinks there is no doubt but that my
father and mother are with the good God.”
“So he tells me, but Mère Michelle says that it is possible that my
father may have become an engagé; that thought is to me more terrible
than the other, for if he is with the good God he is at peace, but
otherwise he is suffering misery at the hands of masters. And oh,
Gerard, you have told me how you saw those miserable ones tied two and
two, walking in procession like criminals, or wretchedly bound in a
cart. Ah, me, to be sold into slavery, yes, that is worse than death
for a Huguenot. We saw at Martinique many of those unfortunates, and
the thought that my father may be one such as those is too dreadful to
endure. No, I myself am readier to believe that he is somewhere in
hiding, and that he will yet discover us. So many escaped to Holland
who eventually have reached England, and our friends of the church in
London are aware of our arrival here, therefore I take the hope to my
heart that my father and I may yet meet. Meanwhile, I am willing to
work hard in gratitude to those dear parents of our adoption.”
“And I, too, Alaine. We must do our share for their sakes, for they
have spared no pains to help us. Papa Louis has never been strong since
that dreadful fever on the island, and besides, a man who has spent his
days poring over books, what is he to till the ground or to work at the
looms?”
“You grow so tall and strong, Gerard, I think you look a man already.
I, too, grow strong and hardy in this good salt air. I trust I may grow
in grace likewise,” she added, piously. “I cared not once much about
that, Gerard, but these sore trials have sobered me.” Then her fresh
young voice took up the psalm,--
“Sus, sus, mon ame, il te faut dire bien
De l’Eternal: ô mon vrai Dieu, combien
Ta grandeur est excellent et notoire!”
Gerard joined in, and hand in hand they continued their way through the
woods and up the path to their home, Papa Louis and Michelle following,
the latter still garlanded.
Gerard and Alaine fled laughing to the little loft chamber, and
presently down came a lad in a blouse too small for the expanding
figure, and following, a girl in very short petticoat and coarse
chemise.
“La, la!” cried Michelle. “Here they are, the bad ones. Look, papa,
did you ever know such mischiefs? They have grown, in truth, these two
years. Such short petticoats, Gerard, and your blouse, Alaine, is far
too small; you can scarce meet it. Another year and you cannot wear the
garments, my children. Put them away and keep them as a reminder that
the grace of God has lent you the name of Mercier.”
A knock at the door silenced their laughter. Alaine shrank behind
Michelle’s broad back, and Gerard, looking rather foolish in his
short petticoat, retreated into a corner. Papa Louis opened the door
to welcome a neighbor, M. Therolde. Behind him came the stranger
whom Alaine had met at the fête. “A little frolic to end the day’s
entertainment,” said Papa Louis. “My children are attired for our
amusement. You will excuse their costumes, gentlemen. Come forward,
Gerard; your petticoats are none too short that they need stand in the
way of a greeting to our friends. And you, my daughter, need not mind
masquerading in your brother’s clothes upon a fête-day.”
“We but stopped to give you thanks for the acceptable addition to
our feast, Madame Mercier,” said Jacob Therolde. “Truly, madame
distinguishes herself in the baking of excellent bread. Not a fragment
was left; the good wives even saved the crusts, nor would let the dogs
have them. You have changed places, eh, my children? Come, M. Dupont,
we are promised at home.”
“It was an ill-timed call,” complained Michelle, when the guests had
departed. “I saw that young man view you with all too familiar eyes,
Alaine. I wish he might never be seen here again. I do not like him,
nor ever did.”
“There, maman, there,” began Papa Louis, “do not discompose yourself;
we must be merry to-night. Your little bird will not hop so far out of
your sight that she will be snared. A beaker of wine will we drink in
health to us all, and then Gerard and I must see to our chores, for it
is later than it would seem; the long day was over an hour ago.”