FACE TO FACE.
Madame Delphine found her house neither burned nor rifled.
"_Ah! ma, piti sans popa_! Ah I my little fatherless one!" Her faded
bonnet fell back between her shoulders, hanging on by the strings, and
her dropped basket, with its "few lill' _bécassines-de-mer_" dangling
from the handle, rolled out its okra and soup-joint upon the floor. "_Ma
piti_! kiss!--kiss!--kiss!"
"But is it good news you have, or bad?" cried the girl, a fourth or
fifth time.
"_Dieu sait, ma cère; mo pas conné!_"--God knows, my darling; I cannot
tell!
The mother dropped into a chair, covered her face with her apron, and
burst into tears, then looked up with an effort to smile, and wept
afresh.
"What have you been doing?" asked the daughter, in a long-drawn,
fondling tone. She leaned forward and unfastened her mother's
bonnet-strings. "Why do you cry?"
"For nothing at all, my darling; for nothing--I am such a fool."
The girl's eyes filled. The mother looked up into her face and said:
"No, it is nothing, nothing, only that"--turning her head from side to
side with a slow, emotional emphasis, "Miché Vignevielle is the
best--_best_ man on the good Lord's earth!"
Olive drew a chair close to her mother, sat down and took the little
yellow hands into her own white lap, and looked tenderly into her eyes.
Madame Delphine felt herself yielding; she must make a show of telling
something:
"He sent you those birds!"
The girl drew her face back a little. The little woman turned away,
trying in vain to hide her tearful smile, and they laughed together,
Olive mingling a daughter's fond kiss with her laughter.
"There is something else," she said, "and you shall tell me."
"Yes," replied Madame Delphine, "only let me get composed."
But she did not get so. Later in the morning she came to Olive with the
timid yet startling proposal that they would do what they could to
brighten up the long-neglected front room. Olive was mystified and
troubled, but consented, and thereupon the mother's spirits rose.
The work began, and presently ensued all the thumping, the trundling,
the lifting and letting down, the raising and swallowing of dust, and
the smells of turpentine, brass, pumice and woollen rags that go to
characterize a housekeeper's _émeute_; and still, as the work
progressed, Madame Delphine's heart grew light, and her little black
eyes sparkled.
"We like a clean parlor, my daughter, even though no one is ever coming
to see us, eh?" she said, as entering the apartment she at last sat
down, late in the afternoon. She had put on her best attire.
Olive was not there to reply. The mother called but got no answer. She
rose with an uneasy heart, and met her a few steps beyond the door that
opened into the garden, in a path which came up from an old latticed
bower. Olive was approaching slowly, her face pale and wild. There was
an agony of hostile dismay in the look, and the trembling and appealing
tone with which, taking the frightened mother's cheeks between her
palms, she said:
"_Ah! ma mère, qui vini 'ci ce soir_?"--Who is coming here this evening?
"Why, my dear child, I was just saying, we like a clean"--
But the daughter was desperate:
"Oh, tell me, my mother, _who_ is coming?"
"My darling, it is our blessed friend, Miché Vignevielle!"
"To see me?" cried the girl.
"Yes."
"Oh, my mother, what have you done?"
"Why, Olive, my child," exclaimed the little mother, bursting into
tears, "do you forget it is Miché Vignevielle who has promised to
protect you when I die?"
The daughter had turned away, and entered the door; but she faced around
again, and extending her arms toward her mother, cried:
"How can--he is a white man--I am a poor"--
"Ah! _chérie_," replied Madame Delphine, seizing the outstretched hands,
"it is there--it is there that he shows himself the best man alive! He
sees that difficulty; he proposes to meet it; he says he will find you a
suitor!"
Olive freed her hands violently, motioned her mother back, and stood
proudly drawn up, flashing an indignation too great for speech; but the
next moment she had uttered a cry, and was sobbing on the floor.
The mother knelt beside her and threw an arm about her shoulders.
"Oh, my sweet daughter, you must not cry! I did not want to tell you at
all! I did not want to tell you! It isn't fair for you to cry so hard.
Miché Vignevielle says you shall have the one you wish, or none at all,
Olive, or none at all."
"None at all! none at all! None, none, none!"
"No, no, Olive," said the mother, "none at all. He brings none with him
to-night, and shall bring none with him hereafter."
Olive rose suddenly, silently declined her mother's aid, and went alone
to their chamber in the half-story.
Madame Delphine wandered drearily from door to window, from window to
door, and presently into the newly-furnished front room which now seemed
dismal beyond degree. There was a great Argand lamp in one corner. How
she had labored that day to prepare it for evening illumination! A
little beyond it, on the wall, hung a crucifix. She knelt under it, with
her eyes fixed upon it, and thus silently remained until its outline was
indistinguishable in the deepening shadows of evening.
She arose. A few minutes later, as she was trying to light the lamp, an
approaching step on the sidewalk seemed to pause. Her heart stood still.
She softly laid the phosphorus-box out of her hands. A shoe grated
softly on the stone step, and Madame Delphine, her heart beating in
great thuds, without waiting for a knock, opened the door, bowed low,
and exclaimed in a soft perturbed voice:
"Miché Vignevielle!"
He entered, hat in hand, and with that almost noiseless tread which we
have noticed. She gave him a chair and closed the door; then hastened,
with words of apology, back to her task of lighting the lamp. But her
hands paused in their work again,--Olive's step was on the stairs; then
it came off the stairs; then it was in the next room, and then there was
the whisper of soft robes, a breath of gentle perfume, and a snowy
figure in the door. She was dressed for the evening.
"Maman?"
Madame Delphine was struggling desperately with the lamp, and at that
moment it responded with a tiny bead of light.
"I am here, my daughter."
She hastened to the door, and Olive, all unaware of a third presence,
lifted her white arms, laid them about her mother's neck, and, ignoring
her effort to speak, wrested a fervent kiss from her lips. The crystal
of the lamp sent out a faint gleam; it grew; it spread on every side;
the ceiling, the walls lighted up; the crucifix, the furniture of the
room came back into shape.
"Maman!" cried Olive, with a tremor of consternation.
"It is Miché Vignevielle, my daughter"--
The gloom melted swiftly away before the eyes of the startled maiden, a
dark form stood out against the farther wall, and the light, expanding
to the full, shone clearly upon the unmoving figure and quiet face of
Capitaine Lemaitre.