September to his house of many pillars. Ever since anybody could
remember each Maytime found the good Abbe bound for some other lands;
each September, just as regularly as the children were gathered to
school, found him again at home. We could always tell of his presence,
for once each day he might be seen making his way through Oldmeadow
bowing to right and left with easy grace, as he sought the river road
for the outing he never failed to take, no matter what might be the
condition of the weather. As a consequence, in the late afternoons of
fall and winter, his figure, dressed with scrupulous neatness in the
garb of a priest, wearing a broad-brimmed soft hat, became quite
familiar to the dwellers in Oldmeadow. And while the dates of his annual
leave-taking and return were not fixed, it was unusual for him to remain
away into the new year. We were ignorant of the cause of his absence,
which served on more occasions than one as a topic for conversation.
As for Jean Francois, of course he never came near us at all in winter.
Some more gentle climate claimed his blessed presence with his happy
caravan. Upon his return with Nance in June he had not remained in town
more than a week. Just where he spent the remainder of the months he was
accustomed to give to Oldmeadow common was another thing of which we
were ignorant.
Thus while I sat dreaming of my heart's desire, there came a crunching
of the snow, a hearty bursting open of the door, and Nance came stamping
into the room followed by Doctor Longstreet puffing like a porpoise. I
helped them off with their wraps, placed chairs at the coziest corners
of the hearth, threw on a fresh backlog, gave the doctor a little nip of
Bourbon, and sat down as close to Nance as the occasion would permit.
"The old house is lighted up," said the Doctor. "I suspect Monsieur
l'Abbe has returned."
"Well, I'm glad," said I. "I wonder what has kept him so long?"
"That is what we came by to tell you about," was his answer. Here he
cleared his throat ostentatiously. I knew what was coming.
"My, my!" exclaimed he, "how this cold does get your rheumatism. Um, ah,
and my throat is a trifle choked up, too, Charles. I am afraid I shall
have to have--"
I passed the demijohn without comment.
"Um, ah Nance!" said he, quizzically, holding aloft a tiny glass filled
to the brim, "that's the color of your hair, my dear! Prettiest color on
earth? Eh, Charles?"
I gave hearty assent so far as concerned the hair.
"But one thing sweeter, Nance!" he continued, bowing as gallantly as his
age would permit; "just one thing sweeter, more inspiring, more
retiring, more hell-firing! Ah--ah--you know who she is, Charles?"
Again I bowed my assent, and Nance blushed confusedly.
"You had better tell your tale, Granddad," she admonished, "before it
becomes retiring.... No telling, you'll be off on a fish story in a
moment. There is nothing which seems to make the fish you catch weigh
more than a little nip of the inspiring--"
"Tut, tut, girl," said he, gathering himself together with amusing mock
dignity, "I shall prove that you slander your old grandfather."
"The girl," he began, indicating Nance with a nod of the head, "went to
Louisville Tuesday. She came back to-night on the _Spreading Eagle_. Old
Captain Mead was in command. It was his first trip after several months
spent south looking after the steamboat company's business during the
recent yellow fever epidemic in Mississippi. He had been in Baton Rouge,
New Orleans, and other places along the route attending to the paralyzed
shipping interests and quarantined steamboats. It was in New Orleans
that he heard of Monsieur l'Abbe. The priest was not working under the
organized relief committee itself, but went here and there with
undisciplined yet effective zeal. It seems, so the Captain was told,
that this Monsieur Picot came driving into the city in a cart one day,
made his way to the quarters occupied by those of his own nationality,
sought information concerning where he might be of use, and set off
again."
Nance, who had made several attempts to interrupt Doctor Longstreet, now
succeeded.
"Charles, he practically laid down his life for the people. The constant
work in all kinds of weather, mud and filth, living on insufficient
food, has left him broken and with a miserable cough. Yet as much in
need as he was, he worked heroically on, scarcely giving thought to
himself. He was not attacked by the fever, but ruined his constitution
by nursing those who did have it."
Then the doctor launched more specifically into the affair as related to
Nance by the steamboat captain. When he had completed the story and they
were leaving, Nance looked up at me with glistening, tearful, yet happy
eyes, adding:
"They gave Monsieur Picot the sobriquet of 'the Little Abbe of the
Church of the Street.'"
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
"LITTLE SAINT JACQUES OF THE STREET"
In the old days, you will remember, the Beau Brummel of a Southern
steamboat was the captain. He was the pink of courtesy and gallantry,
with all the pride of the gentleman of his day. The passengers were
received into his cabin with the same hospitality he would have welcomed
them ashore in his home. It was a distinction sought after, to eat at
the table over which he presided. The lady to whom he offered his arm
when dinner was announced was envied by the less fortunate, who must of
necessity be content with the company of a less attractive escort.
Thus this master of the Ohio and Mississippi sidewheelers of forty or
fifty years ago was to men, either at poker or in business, the soul of
honor; to the young bucks the good fellow and manly; and, with apologies
to St. Paul, all things to all women.... Such an officer of the old
school was Sam L. Mead of the _Spreading Eagle_, who, while showing
Nance first honors when upon her trip on his boat, told her of his
experiences when quarantined by yellow fever.
* * * * *
"Who is that little priest with his robes tucked up, struggling through
the street with the yelling dirty brat in his arms?" asked Captain Mead,
who was watching the work of the relief corps, of the first passer-by.
"Little St. Jacques of the Streets," was the reply.
"He looks familiar," said the Captain; "what other name is he called?"
"Monsieur Picot, I believe," was the answer.
Monsieur l'Abbe Picot, traveling after a fashion purely his own, found
himself in picturesque Louisiana at a time when the yellow fever was
upon one of its infrequent but periodic outbreaks. For a time it seemed
as if hell had been transferred. Suffering, sorrow, despair reigned in
undisputed tyranny.... The Abbe had sought the state, so he told
himself, to pursue a long deferred inquiry into the life of the ancestor
who had willed him the home in which he lived in Oldmeadow. When he
found anguish, hunger, misery, and death upon every hand he turned with
eagerness to a more compassionate task.
Once at it, he toiled incessantly. If he ever rested, no one knew of it.
At any time of day or night he always could be found taking food to some
half-starved child; carrying upon his back to a more comfortable quarter
some old man or woman; cooling the burning bodies of the fever-stricken;
bringing the sympathy of tender words and the helpful pressure of
ministering hands to the grief-stricken, or shriving some dying adherent
of his own religion. His lips wore a great, hopeful smile as he turned
from call to call upon his strength. In his eyes shone the light of a
mighty faith. Indeed, he had the face of a saint--St. Francis, no doubt.
He possessed all the preternatural ability of making his love felt which
has ever belonged to those wondrous souls who give the greater gift.
Some even thought that the touch of his strong rough hands had wrought
things miraculous.... Had he not--but why tell of it to the unbelieving?
There are just two things of which I shall tell you that wisdom may be
justified by her works. One was at Christmastide, the other some weeks
later. To fully appreciate the first you must remember that everybody
living where he was serving was destitute, needing the mere sustenances
of life: bread, meat, shelter, water. When all ate no one had as much as
he needed. There was just enough to keep them alive.
A few days before the happy time of holly, mystery, and good cheer, the
Abbe, for the first time since he had begun his task, lost his smile. He
seemed to be worried and depressed. He went about like a man carrying a
weight almost greater than the strength of his heart. His co-workers
felt it, and to the sufferers it seemed as if virtue had gone out of
him. This continued until the morning of the twenty-fourth of December.
Had you been about that day you would have seen a weary old priest with
shuffling reluctant steps leading an ugly, but good-humored, little
ragged brown mare, for whom he showed unusual affection, through the
streets. At the horse market where he sold her they secretly laughed at
him, for did he not on parting whisper into her furry ears, shed tears
upon her neck, and kiss her between her large brown eyes? Yet, strange
as it may seem, as he turned into the street where grief was waiting for
his compassionate hands, he wore the old-time smile and, beneath his
breath, sang a queer outlandish tune. Nevertheless you still could not
have fathomed the heart of St. Jacques of the Streets.
Early that night he again stole away and this time sought the garish
stores all aglow with lights, tinsel, toys, and hurrying crowds. From
place to place he went, dogging in and out of shops, gazing long into
inviting windows, as if in search of some particular thing. At last he
discovered a little Frenchman whose small business occupied a mere hole
in the wall. The shop was given to Frenchy trifles of much glitter, and
brilliant paints galore. After a deal of gesticulation, more rapid
talking and bargaining, the shopman and the Abbe began making a thousand
small bundles with something bright and happy in each. Then, leaving a
clerk in charge, after piling the stuff into a hand-cart, they set off
for the district upon which despair battened most hideously. Monsieur
l'Abbe Picot was playing Santa Claus to hundreds of starved, eager
little hearts.
When some disgruntled man saw fit to grumble about the waste of money,
one of the nurses, a big, brawny Irish laborer, promptly knocked him
down, accompanying his blow with the startling scriptural reference:
"An' did ye niver hear of the allibister box, ye Dutch pig?"
* * * * *
As I have written, it was a week later when they discovered that he had
not eaten his portion of food for many days. Watching him, they found
that he conveyed it secretly to certain children whose mothers and
fathers had died of the fever. When they confronted him with his neglect
of himself, he lied.
"Lied like a gentleman, this little St. Jacques," said the Captain, who
knew.
It was no use to remonstrate. He came to give his life and he was giving
it. Who would dare to say this was not his privilege? And he had
remained faithfully until the blessed cold had come and hell had
withdrawn her flaming despair.
That is how, my friends, Monsieur l'Abbe Picot proved his heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MONSIEUR L'ABBE LIES ILL
It was eleven o'clock, or after, when I sat beside a roaring fire of
recently renewed backlogs debating whether I should sleep upon the couch
pulled close beside the fireplace, or bundle up and face the cold for
five blocks to my home. I had arisen and was drawing the lounge toward
the hearth when, again, after a crunching of the snow outside, there
came a timid knock on the door. I opened to find a shivering, bent old
man upon the threshold whom I recognized straightway as the servant at
the old home of the many pillars. He hurriedly informed me in his
cracked and high-pitched voice that I was wanted at once by Monsieur
l'Abbe Picot, who was ill.
Ten minutes later, upon entering the big cheerful library, I found the
man whom I now thought of as St. Jacques of the Streets seated by the
fire in a great armchair drawn close to the blaze. His closely cropped
head was supported by a pillow, a decanter of wine sat on the table
beside him, while Prosper, the old servant, stood by to anticipate any
wish. I was shocked at the appearance of the Abbe. I had never before
thought of him as little, yet now I saw him not only small, but
emaciated. While his countenance was cheerful, yet suffering and
deprivation had left their cruel stamp upon him. He seemed slight, worn,
and world-weary. He was excessively nervous. A slight fever caused a
hectic flush in his sunken, close-shaven cheeks, and lent a
preternatural brilliancy to his eyes.
"You will pardon me, Monsieur Doctor," he said politely, yet in a voice
which startled me because of a note which was familiar to my ear, "for
calling you out into such a night as this, but Prosper," indicating his
servant by a wave of the hand, "threatened to take matters upon himself
and, knowing something of the nature of his blisters and nostrums, I
consented to your being consulted. It is terrible weather to make a man
leave comfortable quarters, and I'm sorry."
Of course I assured him of my readiness to attend him. I told him that I
thought there was nothing too severe for one to do if it might bring him
relief. Upon examination I discovered Monsieur Picot much worse off than
he believed himself to be.... While I was not quite sure, desiring to
see other developments before fully making up my mind, I felt that my
patient was in for a battle the successful outcome of which was equal to
about one chance in a hundred.
"First thing, Monsieur," I said, after taking his temperature, his
pulse, looking at the tongue, and asking a multitude of questions, "you
must go to bed immediately."
"For the night, you mean?" he questioned, with eyes searching
penetratingly into mine.
"For several days, Monsieur. It is absolutely necessary," I added,
anticipating trouble upon that score.
With a shrug of his shoulders he threw up his hands, a thing which I
had seen Jean Francois do a thousand times, with protest upon every
feature. Then, appearing to suddenly lose courage, he gave up, letting
his hands drop limply into his lap.
"Mon Dieu! If I must, I must.... Prosper, assist me."
We helped him into the adjoining bedroom and into the big four poster.
He sank back among the pillows with an air of utter weariness. By a
strong will he had kept himself up and about. He had exerted every power
at his command to conquer his growing weakness. He had hoped to win and
had determined, as a last resort, that stimulants and medicine would
save the day. Then, when he discovered it to be beyond his strength, he
surrendered completely. I looked into his face, outlined against the
whiteness of the linen, and for the first time noticed that he appeared
old. As aged as old Prosper himself, whose alarmed countenance stared
questioningly at me upon every turn.
I prepared his medicine and yelled the directions into Prosper's deaf
ears. Then I placed a chair by the bed and sat down, taking a thin
fevered hand into my own.
"My friend," said I to the Abbe, "you must be very quiet. You need rest.
A few weeks of peace and good food should start you well on toward
recovery."
"One moment, Monsieur Doctor," said he with a weary gesture of the hand,
"I've a request."
"Certainly. What is it?" I asked.
"Do you think I shall be ill for any length of time?"
"I shall know more about that to-morrow," was the reply.
"Yes, I know," he smiled. "But remember that I am not a child. I'm an
old man--at least I feel it--and life is not as alluring as it was once.
Tell me frankly, shall I be very sick?"
"It is more than likely, Monsieur," I answered.
"More than likely--more than likely," he repeated reflectively, "and who
knows save the good God--and who knows?"
Here he ceased to talk, closed his eyes restfully, and became more
quiet. For an hour I sat and watched him. Had it not been for an
occasional pressure of his fingers in my hand I should have thought him
asleep. Finally he opened his eyes and with childlike sympathy sought
mine.
"Monsieur Doctor," he said, "I have not yet made the request."
"O," I said with surprise. I had thought it referred to the duration of
his illness.
"You say I shall die?" he said.
"No, I have not said so," I answered.
"Very well. We'll not discuss it. No matter.... But the request.... On
my desk you will find an envelope upon which is the address of a dealer
in horses in the city of New Orleans. Inside the envelope is three
hundred dollars. It will be enough, I am sure.... That sum should pay a
passage to New Orleans and return and buy a little mare, should it not,
Monsieur?"
"It would be more than enough," I replied, puzzled.
"It is asking a great deal of you, Monsieur," he said with hesitancy.
"It is nothing.... Nothing would be too much," and I pressed the hand of
the little St. Jacques in sympathy. I was beginning to understand.
"Thank you," he continued gratefully. "If--if I should die, Monsieur,
would it be asking too much of you to go to that city and inquire of the
dealer for the little mare left with him last twenty-fourth of December
by the Abbe Picot? He will remember, and he promised me to keep her at
my disposal for three months. Buy her from him, Monsieur, and bring her
back here with you. She is a part of this estate and my will gives her
into hands that love.... Would this be asking too much, Monsieur Doctor?
It is a great deal."
"It shall be done," I assured him.
This was the nearest he ever came to telling anything to confirm the
words of the Captain concerning the service which he gave his brothers
of the south.
* * * * *
It was well into the morning when I arose to leave. After repeating
directions to Prosper about the medicine and the temperature of the
room, I went to his bed, for he was not asleep.
"I shall call about noon," I said, "and hope to find you better."
"My friend," said he rather abruptly, "if I should need a nurse other
than old Prosper, whom would you likely get for me?"
"I scarcely know," I answered. "You will need someone. Prosper has not
the strength to give you constant attention.... Perhaps Miss Gwyn might
help. She has often nursed cases for me. Living just across the street,
I do not see why she would not at least run in now and then."
"Ah," he sighed with evident relief. "Could you--do you suppose she
would come to-morrow? You see," he said with eagerness, "I may become
too ill before long to tell her about the house. Prosper, you know, is
such a deaf old curmudgeon. He's good enough. Do not think I do not love
Prosper.... But do you think she would come?"
"I am sure she will come," I answered. "Especially if it is your
request."
"I thank you. I think I should like it very much indeed to have her
occasionally in to see me.... Good-night, Monsieur Doctor.... You are
very kind."
Again he sank restfully into his pillows.
I waited for a moment by the library fire before wrapping myself
securely against the cold. The wind roared in merciless gusts through
the trees. The old house cracked and moaned as if shaken to the
foundation by the blast. Just before stepping out into the night, I
glanced through the half-open door at the children's little St. Jacques.
He himself was sleeping as peacefully as a child.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"I would talk with some old lover's ghost,
Who lived before the god of love was born."
Two days later we were seated in the firelight near the bed of Monsieur
Picot. He had rallied some, though I was unable to say whether or not it
was merely temporarily. The large old room was played upon by the
flickering flame and a thousand ghostly shadows stole about the
furniture and hid in the darkest corners. The bright, feverish face of
the Abbe could be seen among the pillows. The rest of the bed was hidden
by the half-drawn curtains. Nance sat upon a stool and gazed at the
embers, beneath the andirons, from time to time lifting her face, aglow
with interest. My patient, whom I cautioned to become less animated for
his nerves' sake, was speaking. For many minutes he had been telling us
of some of the strange and wonderful happenings within his old house,
so long a mystery for the children of Oldmeadow.
"Now as for ghosts," said he whimsically, "it is a matter of choice.
Frankly I rather like them, Mademoiselle.... Now there is the old
lover's ghost of the banquet hall in the west wing. He's such a gentle,
tobacco-loving shade. I assure you he is fully as harmless as a
spinster. He is almost domesticated. A little timid, however, and a bit
suspicious of you.... He--comes--every--Christmas--eve," he slowly and
solemnly reiterated, with a twinkle in his eye, "and sits and dreams
over the empty banquet table. The feast is ended. The spoils strew the
table. Among the empty glasses and forgotten viands lies a broken fan.
Here my gentle friend is to be found. He is a solemn spook.... Perhaps
it is his liver, Monsieur Doctor.... Thus he sits with bowed head before
the wreck of tasted pleasures, and seems to dream of another day. You
may enter as quietly as you please, yet, with a sort of hurt expression
about him, as if, though quite unconsciously, yet surely, you had
gently broken his heart, he fades away like the smoke. This look of
reproach upon his face, doubtless because of his knowledge of your
innocent intentions, is tempered by plainly written forgiveness. When he
is gone you catch the faint odor of tobacco, with the still more subtle
perfume of a handkerchief, as if a lady had at least been present in his
dreams."
"I think I should love him," ventured Nance, speaking softly.
"I hope you will, my daughter," was the Abbe's reply.... Then he
continued:
"Perhaps my friendly ghost has something to do with the Love Story of
the East Room and the Duel in the Wine Cellars.... Yes?" and he waited
for an answer.
"Go on!" cried Nance gleefully, looking at me with an appeal to share
her delight in the adventures of the old house.
"Prosper tells me," continued the Abbe, "that every midsummer's eve--you
know I am always away in midsummer and I only know this of old
Prosper--there is a beautiful quaintly dressed lady of the long ago who
makes her abode in the great east room. She is a very weepy, pretty
lady, at first, Prosper asserts. Then, when a great splendid buck of a
fellow in laces and frills and long-plaited powdered hair comes climbing
up by way of the portico, she quickly becomes very beautiful and the
light of her eyes brightens the whole room. In fact it is this very
brilliancy which attracts another gentleman who comes from the hallway.
Immediately, with much bowing, he invites the gallant cavalier off to
the wine cellars, where blood is spilled.... Now I tell Prosper it is
merely rats he hears with his deaf old ears.
"'Non, Monsieur,' he insists; 'what of the casks of good red wine I find
spilled upon the floor the morning following midsummer eve?'"
"He's right, Monsieur," said Nance simply. "I myself have seen the light
and believed it elf-fire."
"I believe you, my dear-a," he replied.
"Go on," said she.
"Then there is the cabinet with the hidden drawer, and the secret
stairway we shall climb when I am well.... Ah, it is at the top of the
magic stairway where old Jacques finds his forest of Arden.... Some day
you shall know.... There are the merry ghosts of two happy children in
the very heydey of youth. There is the spook of an old vagabond who
sleeps in dingles in phantom greenwoods. There, my children, are a
thousand dreams of mine: the ghosts of yesterday; there the little
narrow streets of old Paris--St. Jacques, Rue de l'Abbe de l'Epee, the
Rue de la Fouarre; there, gentle Amiens and her great cathedral; a long,
white road--_le trimard_--through Picardy; a tiny garret in the Rue St.
Jacques, where first I knew all the bright hopes and brave fancies of
youth. All--all these and a thousand more at the top of my secret
stairs, and some day, le bon Dieu knows how soon, I shall bequeath it
all--all to you!"
* * * * *
Then Nance bade him be quiet and began to smooth his brow with her
hand. Presently he fell into a troubled sleep, murmuring of roads and
rivers and tree-clad hills.