I TWINE CHRISTMAS GREENS
"Woman's at best a contradiction still."
Yorke had reached the picnic-ground just long enough ahead of us to
create pandemonium. He had reported both mademoiselle and me as killed
and scalped by this time, and a band of a hundred savages, with the
chevalier at their head, on their way to the picnic.
The massacre of 1780 was still fresh enough in the memory of St. Louis
folk to make this seem no improbable tale, and the utmost confusion
ensued. Some of the young men, with Josef Papin and Gabriel Cerré at
their head, were for going at once to our rescue; but the maidens
implored, and Yorke averred it was too late, and reported the savages
in such numbers as would make such an undertaking only foolhardy. (And
by this you must not judge Yorke a villain and a coward; he would have
been the first to volunteer and the loudest to urge on the others, but
he had heard Fatima's hoofs behind him, and knew we were safe, and,
rascal that he was, could not resist his practical joke nor his negro
love of producing a great effect.)
Into this wild pandemonium of women screaming unintelligible cries to
each other as they hastily got together their belongings and packed
them into charrettes and saddle-bags, amid sobbings and wailings, and
men shouting hoarsely to mustang and pony as they struggled with bit
and bridle, mademoiselle and I rode; and their joy at seeing us alive,
and our hair still on our heads, knew no bounds.
I told them the true state of the case--that there were not more than
a dozen or twenty of the savages at the most, and I hardly thought the
chevalier would bring them down upon us. Yet, knowing that he might be
in a mood for risking everything to recapture mademoiselle, I
recommended that the men form themselves into two bands to ride in the
front and in the rear, with the maidens between the two, and to start
at once. We could go no faster, of course, than the charrettes could
go, and the savages could easily overtake us if they desired; but I
did not believe they would dare, for our numbers were greater than
theirs, and the young men were all well armed.
Mademoiselle had recovered from her fainting, but was still white and
weak. And because I did not believe she was able to sit La Bette, I
recommended that she ride in Josef Papin's charrette with Mademoiselle
Chouteau and let Josef ride her horse. We two, young Papin and I,
brought up the rear; and I did not see mademoiselle again except once,
for a moment, when we were crossing La Petite Rivière, and I rode up
by her side to see that the charrette went steadily through the water.
Her head was on Mademoiselle Chouteau's shoulder, who was supporting
her with her arm. Her eyes were closed, and Mademoiselle Chouteau
whispered to me, "She is asleep!" but at that she opened her eyes
quickly and looked up at me. She tried to smile, but I think the
terror of it all was still strongly with her. She said:
"I have not thanked you, monsieur; but I know I owe you my liberty, if
not my life, and I am not ungrateful."
It was very sweetly said, but there was a horrible fear at my heart
that she would rather have been captured by the redskins, and gone
away with the Chevalier Le Moyne, than to have been rescued by me.
Just at the stockade we met a party of horsemen. Dr. Saugrain and my
captain were in the lead with Black Hawk, who had reported Red Jean
with a band of Osages lurking in the woods, and they were on their way
to clear them out, lest they molest the picnic or the village. Amid a
babble of excitement, every one trying to talk at once, our tale was
told. And as Dr. Saugrain and my captain thought it was best to go on
and try to capture the chevalier and his band, and as our escort was
no longer needed for the maidens, I turned my horse and rode back with
them to find the chevalier.
I confess it would have done me good to bring him in a captive, but I
was doomed to disappointment. We scoured the woods, and the only
traces we found of him and his band were the prints of horses' hoofs
going south,--a dozen horses, I should think,--and, just where Rock
Spring bubbles up in a silver fountain, a torn and bloody lace
handkerchief. I gave the good doctor a full account of the
conversation I had listened to, and he ground his teeth with rage at
the chevalier's duplicity. He was much touched at Pelagie's chivalrous
defense of him; yet, as delicately as I could, I tried to tell him
that at the very last I feared the chevalier had succeeded in
insinuating some seeds of doubt and suspicion in mademoiselle's mind.
The doctor and my captain both agreed that it was time to tell Pelagie
the full truth of the matter. She should know all about herself and
her expectations, and who were her friends and who her foes.
I was curious to see what effect the revelation would have upon her;
or it could hardly be called a revelation, since the chevalier had
already revealed it--rather the confirmation of his tale. But in that,
too, I was doomed to disappointment. She was ill for several days and
confined to her room,--the effect of the excitement she had passed
through,--and before she was well enough to be about again, my captain
and I had set off, with Black Hawk as guide and Yorke as factotum, to
make a visit to Daniel Boone at his home on the Missouri River.
We found the grand old man as happy as a child in the beautiful home
he had at last made for himself and his family at the very outposts of
civilization. We were gone four weeks, exploring the woods and
mountains and rolling prairies of the beautiful country, and coming
home on a great flatboat down the swiftly rolling Missouri, past Fort
Bellefontaine, where the Missouri empties into the Mississippi (where
we were royally entertained by the Spanish commandant), and so at
last by the Mississippi back to St. Louis.
I found myself trembling with a mingling of fearful and pleasant
anticipations as I rode up the steep bluff on Fatima's back, and we
took the Rue de l'Église to Dr. Saugrain's house.
It was the day before Christmas, and I had not remembered it; but as
we passed the church in the rear of Auguste Chouteau's place, through
the open doors we could see young men and maidens winding long
garlands of Christmas greens and festooning them over doors and
windows, while shouts of merry laughter floated out to us. I was for
drawing rein and going in to help with the trimming; but my captain
(who, I believe, was shy of the maidens) insisted we must first pay
our respects to our host.
The little doctor met us at the gate with a beaming face, and when
Narcisse and Yorke had led away our horses we entered once more the
long, low room we had first entered nearly two months before. The
windows were no longer open, looking out into cool green foliage, with
white muslin curtains stirring in the breeze, and there was no maiden
in a white robe, with the blue ribbon of a guitar across her
shoulders, singing creole love-songs. Instead, crimson damask curtains
were falling over the white ones, and a great fire of logs was blazing
in one end of the room, looking cozy and cheery enough on this crisp
December day.
Yet, in spite of its coziness, I thought it had a dreary look. Leon
was lying before the fire, and though he looked at me a little
doubtfully, as he slowly rose and shook himself, I felt a rush of
friendliness toward him, and showed it so plainly, as I called him to
me, that at last he capitulated, and we have ever since been the best
of friends.
Then Madame Saugrain came running in, flushed and rosy from the
kitchen, where she had been superintending the baking of Christmas
tarts and croquecignolles, and bringing with her appetizing whiffs of
roasting and frying. My captain laughingly told her that the good
smells made him hungry.
"You shall come and see," she said; and led us into the great kitchen,
where, on tables as white as snow, were piled heaps of golden-brown
croquecignolles, cut in curious patterns, and the big black cook was
dropping still more into the kettle of boiling fat, and bringing out
puffy and wondrously shaped birds and beasts. Narcisse, on his knees
on the hearth, was turning two great fowls suspended before the fire,
from which oozed such rich and savory gravy as made one smack his
lips. On another table a huge venison pasty and tarts and cakes of
many kinds were temptingly arrayed, and madame's pride in her
housewifely preparations for the Christmas feasting was pretty to see.
She would have us taste her croquecignolles and little cakes, and had
a glass of gooseberry wine brought out of the store-room for each of
us, and we drank it standing in the kitchen, and helping ourselves
from the pile of croquecignolles.
But kind and charming as was madame, and toothsome as were her cakes,
and much as her gooseberry wine tickled our palates, I was yet on
nettles to be gone and join the young people at the church. Whether
madame guessed it or whether it was just one of her kindly thoughts,
she said in her motherly way:
"But, my son, you should be at the church. The maidens will be vexed
with me if I keep you talking to an old woman, when they might be
having your help with the wreaths."
"If you think they need me?" and I tried to look as if only a stern
sense of duty could induce me to go.
Madame Saugrain laughed, with the merry twinkle in her eye that made
her as captivating as a young maiden.
"Allons donc!" she said. "Quel garçon!" And with my best bow to her
and a salute to my captain and the good doctor, I whistled to Leon to
accompany me and strode quickly down the road toward the little
church.
But as I neared it I slackened my pace, and but for very shame I would
have turned and fled again to the shelter of madame's motherly smile.
I had not seen Mademoiselle Pelagie since the day of the picnic, and I
was much in doubt whether she regarded me as her rescuer to be
esteemed with grateful and friendly feeling, or as the cause of the
loss of a dear friend, perhaps a lover. I felt very sure I would be
able to tell at our first meeting in which light I was held, and,
screwing up all my courage, I made a bold dash for the church door.
Scarcely had my shadow darkened the doorway when I was surrounded by
an eager group, saluting me with every form of friendly welcome back
to St. Louis; but the face I looked for was not among them.
Mademoiselle Chouteau and Mademoiselle Papin seized me, one by either
arm, and led me to a great pile of greens, and would have set me at
once to work in tying them to long ropes. But I begged them to permit
me first to pay my respects to the rest of my friends; for over in a
dark corner I had seen Pelagie at work, with two or three young men
around her, supplying her with greens for her nimble fingers to weave
into garlands, and she had not come with the others to greet me. I
thought at least that little courtesy was due me, for, whether she
liked or resented my rescuing her, I had risked much in the doing of
it.
I was filled with bitterness toward her, but could have no more kept
away from her than the moth from the flame. My bitterness now gave me
courage, and I sauntered up to her with what I flattered myself was
quite as grand an air as the chevalier's might have been. Hand on the
hilt of my sword, hat doffed, with its plume sweeping the ground, I
bowed low.
"If mademoiselle has not forgotten an old acquaintance, will she
permit me respectfully to salute her?"
She had been seated on a low seat with the side of her face toward me,
and may or may not have been aware of my approach. As I spoke, she
rose quickly and turned toward me, the rich blood rushing over her
face and neck for a minute, and receding and leaving her almost as
white as when I had held her in my arms and she had thought the
chevalier killed.
She did not speak, but she held out her hand, and I bowed low over
it, and barely touched it with my lips. The young men (among whom was
of course Josef Papin) crowded around me with friendly greetings, and
for a few minutes we talked fast, they asking and I answering many
questions about Daniel Boone and our adventures in the far West.
I did not look at mademoiselle as we talked, but--it is a way I
have--I saw her all the time. I think it must be because I am so much
taller than most people that I can see all that goes on around me (or,
perhaps more truly, beneath me) without seeming to look. I saw
mademoiselle regard me with a strange glance, as if she were looking
at some one she did not know, and was trying to explain him to
herself. Then she sat down and quietly went on with her work, her head
bent, and not looking at me again.
I talked on for a few minutes, and then turned to make my adieus to
mademoiselle. She looked up at me with a friendly smile and I saw,
what I had not noticed before, that she was paler and thinner than
when I had seen her last, and there was a look in her dark eyes as of
hidden trouble.
"Will you not stay and help us, monsieur?" she said in that voice
which, from the first time I had heard it, had always seemed to me the
sweetest in the world. Of course it set my silly pulses to beating
faster, but I answered steadily and with an air of cold courtesy:
"I regret that I cannot accept mademoiselle's invitation; I have
promised my services elsewhere"; and with another low bow I turned on
my heel and, holding my head high, went back to weave garlands with
Mademoiselle Chouteau and Marguerite Papin.
And because I was so big and they were so petite, they delighted in
ordering me around (and I delighted in obeying), and they made me
mount to the highest beams to suspend garlands, and applauded me when
I arranged them to suit their fancy, and laughed at me or scolded me
when I was awkward and stupid, until my back ached and my heart grew
light; for I forgot for a time that mademoiselle, for whom I had
risked my life, had not even cared to give me a friendly welcome back
to St. Louis.
The last garland was fastened in its place, the last stray bit of
evergreen and rubbish swept from the doors, the church garnished and
beautiful to behold. There was the noisy bustle of preparing for
departure and the calling back and forth:
"Be sure you are at midnight mass, Gabriel."
"Au revoir at midnight mass, Pelagie."
"I will see you at midnight mass, monsieur."
And for me there was a moment of embarrassment. Was it my duty to
offer myself as escort to any of the maidens? For though the hour was
early it was already dark. Or, since I was going direct to
mademoiselle's house, would I be expected to accompany her? I glanced
over to her corner; she had already left the church. I looked through
the open doorway; she was walking down the Rue de l'Église with Josef
Papin.
"Mademoiselle Chouteau," I said, "may I have the pleasure of walking
home with you?"
But all the way up the Rue de l'Église and down the steep incline of
the Rue Bonhomme, and up the Rue Royale to the great barred gate that
led into the stone-walled inclosure of Pierre Chouteau, while
Mademoiselle Chouteau, with her nimble tongue, was flitting from one
bit of village gossip to another, like a butterfly among the flowers,
I was saying bitterly to myself:
"And she had even the discourtesy to walk away without waiting to see
whether the guest of her house was going home or not."
It was a long mile and a half from Pierre Chouteau's house to Dr.
Saugrain's, and it was a frosty December evening. It was only five
o'clock, but the stars were out, and through the leafless trees I
could see lights twinkling from the houses as I passed. Faster and
faster I walked, as my thoughts grew more and more bitter toward
mademoiselle, and by the time I had reached the cheery living-room,
with its blazing lightwood fire, I was in such a glow from exercise
and indignation as made the fire all unwelcome.
I had quite made up my mind, on my long walk, that mademoiselle should
find me as cool as herself; and through the evening meal I scarce
looked at her. But if I had fancied mademoiselle suffering from some
secret trouble, I changed my mind at supper. She sat between my
captain and her guardian, and was in such merry mood that she had my
captain alternately laughing uproariously at her wit, and making fine
speeches about her beauty, in a fashion that quite amazed me, for I
had ever considered him a sober-minded fellow, above all such light
ways.
Nor did she refrain from a slight stab at me whenever it was possible
to get it in. I took no more notice of these than I could help, yet I
felt my cheeks, already burning from my frosty walk, grow hotter and
hotter, until the very tips of my ears were on fire; and I felt it the
unkindest cut of all when she said, with her pretty accent and air of
polite condescension to a very young boy:
"'Tis a long walk from Mademoiselle Chouteau's, monsieur, but it has
given you une grande couleur. What would not our St. Louis belles give
for such roses!"
I turned toward her just long enough to say gravely, "I thank you,
mademoiselle," and then renewed at once my conversation with madame.
But I could see from the tail of my eye that she had the grace to
blush also, and to be ashamed of her petty persecutions, for she left
me to myself the remainder of the meal.