DYING WORDS
Drivers of vehicles in the rue Royale turned aside before two slight
barriers spanning the way, one at the corner below, the other at that
above, the house where the aged high-priest of a doomed civilization lay
bleeding to death. The floor of the store below, the pavement of the
corridor where stood the idle volante, were covered with straw, and
servants came and went by the beckoning of the hand.
"This way," whispered a guide of the four ladies from the Grandissime
mansion. As Honoré's mother turned the angle half-way up the muffled
stair, she saw at the landing above, standing as if about to part, yet
in grave council, a man and a woman, the fairest--she noted it even in
this moment of extreme distress--she had ever looked upon. He had
already set one foot down upon the stair, but at sight of the ascending
group drew back and said:
"It is my mother;" then turned to his mother and took her hand; they had
been for months estranged, but now they silently kissed.
"He is sleeping," said Honoré. "Maman, Madame Nancanou."
The ladies bowed--the one looking very large and splendid, the other
very sweet and small. There was a single instant of silence, and Aurora
burst into tears.
For a moment Madame Grandissime assumed a frown that was almost a
reminder of her brother's, and then the very pride of the Fusiliers
broke down. She uttered an inaudible exclamation, drew the weeper firmly
into her bosom, and with streaming eyes and choking voice, but yet with
majesty, whispered, laying her hand on Aurora's head:
"Never mind, my child; never mind; never mind."
And Honoré's sister, when she was presently introduced, kissed Aurora
and murmured:
"The good God bless thee! It is He who has brought us together."
"Who is with him just now?" whispered the two other ladies, while Honoré
and his mother stood a moment aside in hurried consultation.
"My daughter," said Aurora, "and--"
"Agamemnon," suggested Madame Martinez.
"I believe so," said Aurora.
Valentine appeared from the direction of the sick-room and beckoned to
Honoré. Doctor Keene did the same and continued to advance.
"Awake?" asked Honoré.
"Yes."
"Alas! my brother!" said Madame Grandissime, and started forward,
followed by the other women.
"Wait," said Honoré, and they paused. "Charlie," he said, as the little
doctor persistently pushed by him at the head of the stair.
"Oh, there's no chance, Honoré, you'd as well all go in there."
They gathered into the room and about the bed. Madame Grandissime bent
over it.
"Ah! sister," said the dying man, "is that you? I had the sweetest dream
just now--just for a minute." He sighed. "I feel very weak. Where is
Charlie Keene?"
He had spoken in French; he repeated his question in English. He thought
he saw the doctor.
"Charlie, if I must meet the worst I hope you will tell me so; I am
fully prepared. Ah! excuse--I thought it was--
"My eyes seem dim this evening. _Est-ce-vous_, Honoré? Ah, Honoré, you
went over to the enemy, did you?--Well,--the Fusilier blood would
al--ways--do as it pleased. Here's your old uncle's hand, Honoré. I
forgive you, Honoré--my noble-hearted, foolish--boy." He spoke feebly,
and with great nervousness.
"Water."
It was given him by Aurora. He looked in her face; they could not be
sure whether he recognized her or not. He sank back, closed his eyes,
and said, more softly and dreamily, as if to himself, "I forgive
everybody. A man must die--I forgive--even the enemies--of Louisiana."
He lay still a few moments, and then revived excitedly. "Honoré! tell
Professor Frowenfeld to take care of that _Philippique Générale_. 'Tis a
grand thing, Honoré, on a grand theme! I wrote it myself in one evening.
Your Yankee Government is a failure, Honoré, a drivelling failure. It
may live a year or two, not longer. Truth will triumph. The old
Louisiana will rise again. She will get back her trampled rights. When
she does, remem'--" His voice failed, but he held up one finger firmly
by way of accentuation.
There was a stir among the kindred. Surely this was a turn for the
better. The doctor ought to be brought back. A little while ago he was
not nearly so strong. "Ask Honoré if the doctor should not come." But
Honoré shook his head. The old man began again.
"Honoré! Where is Honoré? Stand by me, here, Honoré; and sister?--on
this other side. My eyes are very poor to-day. Why do I perspire so?
Give me a drink. You see--I am better now; I have ceased--to throw up
blood. Nay, let me talk." He sighed, closed his eyes, and opened them
again suddenly. "Oh, Honoré, you and the Yankees--you and--all--going
wrong--education--masses--weaken--caste--indiscr'--quarrels settl'--by
affidav'--Oh! Honoré."
"If he would only forget," said one, in an agonized whisper, "that
_philippique générale_!"
Aurora whispered earnestly and tearfully to Madame Grandissime. Surely
they were not going to let him go thus! A priest could at least do no
harm. But when the proposition was made to him by his sister, he said:
"No;--no priest. You have my will, Honoré,--in your iron box. Professor
Frowenfeld,"--he changed his speech to English,--"I have written you an
article on--" his words died on his lips.
"Joseph, son, I do not see you. Beware, my son, of the doctrine of equal
rights--a bottomless iniquity. Master and man--arch and pier--arch
above--pier below." He tried to suit the gesture to the words, but both
hands and feet were growing uncontrollably restless.
"Society, Professor,"--he addressed himself to a weeping girl,--"society
has pyramids to build which make menials a necessity, and Nature
furnishes the menials all in dark uniform. She--I cannot tell you--you
will find--all in the _Philippique Générale_. Ah! Honoré, is it--"
He suddenly ceased.
"I have lost my glasses."
Beads of sweat stood out upon his face. He grew frightfully pale. There
was a general dismayed haste, and they gave him a stimulant.
"Brother," said the sister, tenderly.
He did not notice her.
"Agamemnon! Go and tell Jean-Baptiste--" his eyes drooped and flashed
again wildly.
"I am here, Agricole," said the voice of Jean-Baptiste, close beside the
bed.
"I told you to let--that negress--"
"Yes, we have let her go. We have let all of them go."
"All of them," echoed the dying man, feebly, with wandering eyes.
Suddenly he brightened again and tossed his arms. "Why, there you were
wrong, Jean-Baptiste; the community must be protected." His voice sank
to a murmur. "He would not take off--'you must remem'--" He was silent.
"You must remem'--those people are--are not--white people." He ceased a
moment. "Where am I going?" He began evidently to look, or try to look,
for some person; but they could not divine his wish until, with piteous
feebleness, he called:
"Aurore De Grapion!"
So he had known her all the time.
Honoré's mother had dropped on her knees beside the bed, dragging Aurora
down with her.
They rose together.
The old man groped distressfully with one hand. She laid her own in it.
"Honoré!
"What could he want?" wondered the tearful family. He was feeling about
with the other hand.
"Hon'--Honoré"--his weak clutch could scarcely close upon his nephew's
hand.
"Put them--put--put them--"
What could it mean? The four hands clasped.
"Ah!" said one, with fresh tears, "he is trying to speak and cannot."
But he did.
"Aurora De Gra--I pledge'--pledge'--pledged--this union--to your
fa'--father--twenty--years--ago."
The family looked at each other in dejected amazement. They had never
known it.
"He is going," said Agamemnon; and indeed it seemed as though he was
gone; but he rallied.
"Agamemnon! Valentine! Honoré! patriots! protect the race! Beware of
the"--that sentence escaped him. He seemed to fancy himself haranguing a
crowd; made another struggle for intelligence, tried once, twice, to
speak, and the third time succeeded:
"Louis'--Louisian'--a--for--ever!" and lay still.
They put those two words on his tomb.