MADAME CHOUTEAU'S BALL
"The uncertain glory of an April day."
We met at reveille the next morning at nine--the great Christmas feast
when kinsfolk all gather at the house of the head of the family and
make merry together. Then I saw for what all the mighty preparations
of the day before were intended. The roasted fowl and venison pasty,
smoking hot, were flanked by tarts and cakes and jellies and cordials
beyond my power to inventory, for I had ever less of a talent for the
description of such things than for making away with them.
It was a goodly feast, and we lingered at table for over an hour,
mingling with our enjoyment of Madame Saugrain's good things such
pleasant converse as Frenchmen excel in. Dr. Saugrain himself had
always something wise and witty to say, and being a man of deep
learning and much science, was often, also, most instructive. An hour,
therefore, passed quickly enough, and I was glad to see that
mademoiselle was looking more as she had looked before the picnic on
Chouteau's Pond than I had seen her since my return. But I had chance
for little more than the good wishes of the day with her, for the
company was large and my seat, as usual, was near Madame Saugrain, at
the other end of the table from hers. My thoughts had dwelt much upon
her when I lay on my bed the night before, a long hour ere sleep
visited my eyelids. I had lived over the events of the evening, and of
the weeks that I had known her, and she had seemed to me not one, but
many maidens. Haughty, meek, scornful, merry, mocking, serious, sad,
sweet--in how many moods had I not seen her, and in each in turn she
had seemed to me the sweetest. I always forgot, when I was with her,
that she was a great lady in France and destined soon to return to her
home land and her rightful position. I never could think of her as
anything but Dr. Saugrain's ward: wilful, sweet, and capricious, the
belle of St. Louis, the toast of the young men and the idol of the
young maidens. That as a rule she had treated me with scorn or
indifference did not in the least detract from her charms for me, but
the unwonted sweetness of the night before had quite gone to my head,
and I was henceforth her willing slave.
From the breakfast-table we separated; the captain and Dr. Saugrain
going to the doctor's laboratory, where he was making some wonderful
experiments with phosphorus, by which one might at any moment obtain a
light, without the aid of tinder, by means of little sticks of wood
dipped in the phosphorus! 'Tis not to be wondered at that many people
think Dr. Saugrain a dealer in black arts when he can accomplish such
supernatural results by the aid of science!
As for me, I had an engagement with Josef Papin and Gabriel Cerré and
some other young men to go duck-shooting on the Maramec, a good day's
tramp, and we did not expect to be back until nearly time for Madame
Chouteau's dance. I think the matrons and the maidens expected to
spend the day in going to church and in making visits, which seemed to
me a dull way to spend Christmas, but no doubt they liked it.
It was a grand day for shooting, the air so clear and dry, just frosty
enough to send the blood leaping through our bodies; and we came home
with a great string of prairie-chicken and duck and partridge--enough
to supply the village for a week. We were a little later than we had
intended in getting home, and tired enough to go right to bed, but I,
for one, would not have missed this my first opportunity to appear in
_grand costume du bal_, to say nothing of the joys of the dance.
There was a hot supper waiting for me, which rested me wonderfully;
and then, with Yorke's help, I had a quick bath and was into my ball
dress in a shorter time than I had dared to hope. Yorke had laid out
my dress for me and looked to the lace ruffles and lacers, so that I
had only to jump into it and let him tie me up, and I was ready.
I was glad that I had such a becoming costume with me, for, without
being unduly vain, I knew that the rich plum-colored coat and breeches
and the lilac satin waistcoat with fine lace frills and a touch of
gold here and there were a good offset to my yellow hair and rosy
cheeks, which, much as I despised them at times, I was yet at other
times well satisfied to endure. I liked, too, the looks of my leg in a
fine white silk stocking and low pumps with shoe- and knee-buckles of
brilliants, and was not above being proud of a well-turned calf and
ankle.
Madame and mademoiselle had gone on ahead in a charrette, as better
suited to their _costumes du bal_ than horseback-riding, and Dr.
Saugrain and Captain Clarke had ridden by their side, leaving me to
finish dressing and hurry after them as soon as I could.
A mad haste seized me before I reached Madame Chouteau's lest the
first dance should be over and I lose my promised honor. I reflected,
too, that mademoiselle would think me always tardy in keeping my
engagements with her, and the thought lent spurs to my movements. I
entered the great ball-room in breathless haste. The walnut was waxed
to the last perfection of slipperiness, and not taking heed to my
steps, my feet slipped up. But I caught myself from falling, though
not without as many gyrations of long arms and long legs as a Dutch
windmill might accomplish on a windy day.
My remarkable entry was greeted with a shout of laughter by the young
men and maidens, who by this time had come to know me well. I did not
mind that, but I looked hastily toward Mademoiselle Pelagie, and
there, between the straight black brows, was the ominous little frown
I had learned to dread. What availed my beautiful plum-colored velvets
and lavender satin, lace, and buckles, if I only succeeded in being
an awkward hobbledehoy? I must retrieve myself!
I drew myself up in my grandest manner and walked up to Madame
Chouteau, sitting in state in a great arm-chair near the
chimney-piece. With my courtliest bow, in my best French, I made my
compliments to her as if I had been accustomed to entering rooms in no
other fashion. Then I made the circuit of the room, talking for a
minute or two to each of my acquaintances, lingering longest by
Mademoiselle Chouteau, whose eyes were dancing with mirth, and so
round the circle, head thrown back (but being careful of my steps),
until I came to mademoiselle. There I stopped, with another low bow.
Looking down on her, I was glad to see the frown was no longer there,
but a look of something far pleasanter, almost like admiration, had
taken its place.
Of course she was surrounded by young men--that did not displease me:
I liked to see her admired. She was wearing the same gown she had worn
at Mr. Gratiot's the first time I saw her, and I said to myself: "I
know not what her rank in France may be,--comtesse, marquise, or
duchesse,--but I know she looks every inch la reine." I think my pride
in her lent stateliness to my steps as I led her out in the dance. I
know that for her sake I wished to look as much le roi as it was in me
to look.
But there was no chance during the minuet for mademoiselle's promised
confidence, and as the evening went on I began to think there would be
none at all. There had been the old folks' minuet, when Dr. Saugrain
led out Madame Chouteau on the floor, and his plump little calves,
silk-robed, had twinkled beside her stately steps in wondrous fashion.
And then had come supper,--a bounteous feast of delicate cakes and
sweetmeats and rich salads and cold fowl, with gooseberry wine and a
sweet punch brewed from New Orleans ratafia,--and I feared that would
put an end to the festivities, and still there had been no chance.
But 'tis a wonderful thing on what a small matter great matters will
sometimes turn! Though there may be those who would think it no great
matter that I should find myself riding home in the moonlight with
mademoiselle on a pillion behind me, and Fatima going at so slow a
pace as put her in a constant fret of wonder as to what could be the
reason that her master kept her down so, and mademoiselle telling me
her story in a low tone (for being so near my ear she did not have to
raise her voice), and sometimes trembling so much that the little arm
which was pretending to circle my great waist to hold on by (but which
only reached by uttermost stretch a quarter-way around) would almost
lose its grip.
It seemed a great matter to me, and it happened in this wise: I had
barely spoken to mademoiselle since our dance, when just as I was
getting a glass of gooseberry wine and a croquecignolle for
Mademoiselle Chouteau (she said she had no stomach for salads and
meats at a dance) mademoiselle came up to me, inquiring most anxiously
had I seen her capote. 'Twas of heavy silk, and lined with the skins
of beavers, and would have been very costly in Philadelphia, and
handsome enough for our greatest dames. I had not seen it, but offered
to go at once in search of it as soon as I had carried the wine and
croquecignolle to Mademoiselle Chouteau.
We hunted together in all the most impossible places, and mademoiselle
growing every moment more anxious, because she was keeping madame and
Dr. Saugrain waiting. They were tired and longing to get home, and I
said, half in jest:
"Had I a pillion, Mademoiselle, we would tell madame not to wait, and
when we had found your capote I could bring you home with me on
Fatima."
But mademoiselle answered quickly:
"Would you be so good, Monsieur? I doubt not Madame Chouteau would
lend us a pillion, and it would greatly relieve my anxiety in keeping
madame waiting."
I hardly knew whether I felt more joy or consternation, but
mademoiselle gave me no time to decide which, but hurried me with her
to persuade her guardians not to wait. I thought the arrangement did
not altogether please the doctor, and he demurred greatly; but his
good wife, who never differed with mademoiselle (whether through being
over-fond or a little in awe, I am not sure), persuaded him that it
was all right and quite the best way.
And five minutes after the charrette, with my captain and the doctor
accompanying it, drove out of Madame Chouteau's gate, the capote was
found, mademoiselle herself suddenly remembering where she had laid
it.
I have never felt quite sure that mademoiselle had not known all the
time where it was. But I admired so much the cleverness that could
contrive to accomplish her end (for myself, I could never plan or
scheme, though quick enough to act if occasion presented) that I
forgave the little deceit, if there was any--maidens not being like
men, who must be true and straightforward in even the smallest
matters, lest their honor be attainted.
But when I had mounted Fatima and lifted mademoiselle to her pillion,
and felt her little arm steal round my great waist (as it needs must,
to keep her from falling), my stupid heart began to beat so fast and
to thump so hard against my waistcoat I feared the buttons would give
way, and was greatly shamed lest mademoiselle should feel it thumping
and guess the cause. Yet presently Fatima, not being accustomed to
petticoats falling over her flanks, pranced on two feet in such a
fashion as to cause mademoiselle to clutch me convulsively with both
arms, whereupon I found myself suddenly calm and master of the
situation. It was the work of a minute or two to reduce Fatima to
order and make her understand that petticoats and a pillion were
entirely proper. That being accomplished, and Fatima made to
understand also that she was to go at her slowest pace, I was ready to
hear mademoiselle's story, which finally she began:
"Monsieur, I feel that I must take advantage of this opportunity so
providentially offered me. I had not thought to confide in any one,
but I am in sore need of advice, and I know not where else to turn."
"I know not, Mademoiselle," I answered, "whether I am good at giving
advice. I had rather you would ask me to do for you some perilous and
arduous service. But if it is advice you need most, then such as I can
I will give you truly and faithfully."
"I thank you, Monsieur"; and then mademoiselle was silent for so long
a time that I half turned in my saddle to look at her. She looked up
at me with a pitiful little smile.
"Have patience, Monsieur--I will soon find my courage; but I have need
to trust you greatly, for I am trusting you with the safety, perhaps
the life, of a friend. You will not let any harm come to him through
my betrayal?"
"I promise, Mademoiselle," I said, "to do nothing you will not
approve. But there should never be any question of a betrayal. If a
trust has been given and received, then it is sacred, but it is not
betrayal if it has been forced upon one without his consent."
I said this because I began to have a glimmering of the truth, and I
did not want mademoiselle to violate her conscience. No good can ever
come from that, I have found, and much as I wanted to hear what she
had to tell me, I could not listen comfortably if I thought she were
really betraying a trust. I was still turned in my saddle, watching
her face, and I saw it lighten at once, and something like a great
sigh of relief seemed to come from the depths of her breast.
"I see, Monsieur," she said, "you men understand right and wrong
better than we maidens. It has troubled me greatly that I should prove
unfaithful to a trust, and yet I saw no other way. And now, for fear
my courage will ooze out, I must tell you quickly.
"Two weeks ago I received a letter from the Chevalier Le Moyne, a week
ago I received a second, and yesterday I received a third. The purport
of all these letters is the same. I have returned no answer to any of
them, though each has begged for an answer and given me full
instructions as to how to send it.
"The chevalier has gone no farther south than Cape Girardeau. He is
waiting near there, in an Osage camp, to seize an opportunity to
rescue me, he says, and restore me to my people. If I had replied to
either of these letters, professing my willingness to go with him,
then I should have received a note of instructions as to where to be
on a certain day and at a certain hour. But I have replied to none,
and the last letter has grown desperate. In it he says if he does not
hear from me he shall return to St. Louis on the evening of the Jour
des Rois and be present at the dance, which is by custom a masked
dance, and will then find means to carry me off. If I am not willing
to go with him, then I must send him a letter before the Jour de l'An,
telling him so finally, when he will return to New Orleans and leave
me to my fate. Now, Monsieur, it will seem to you an easy matter that
I should write him, finally, that I will not go with him. But a
woman's heart is a strange thing. I want to go with him, with all my
heart, and yet I shudder at the very thought of going with him. When I
let my thoughts dwell on the glories that await me in Paris, wealth
and power and luxurious living, and the society of the great and the
noble, such as the chevalier has described it, I feel as if I must go,
and all this life which has been so sweet to me here on the very
borders of civilization grows utterly distasteful. Yes, even the
friends that have been so dear to me begin to seem rude and boorish,
as the chevalier called them. Sometimes, in some of my wayward moods,
the very perils of the journey attract me with a strange fascination.
The ride through the forest with savages for guards; the long journey
in an open boat on the bosom of the great Father of Waters; and at
last the perilous voyage by sea, all draw me strangely. At such times
the chevalier seems to me an angel of light, and my only hope of
escape from my narrow confines to a broad and beautiful life. But
there are times when it all seems very different: when the thought of
leaving my two dear guardians is unbearable, and the life I have known
and loved from childhood, among sweet, true friends, the only life I
desire. Ah, Monsieur, I am so torn by these conflicting states of mind
that what wonder my guardians think me changed! They believe the
chevalier's tales have spoiled me for my life in St. Louis, and that I
would gladly leave them. When I see them sad over what they believe to
be my heartlessness my own heart is like to break, but I say nothing,
and they believe me to be entirely ungrateful and unfeeling.
"So you can see how unhappy I have been and am, and how sometimes I am
tempted to break away from it all and fly with the chevalier to new
scenes, whether they bring joy or sorrow."
Mademoiselle did not tell me all this without much hesitation,
sometimes stopping entirely until she could find courage to go on
again, and, as I said before, often trembling so much that the little
arm about my great waist nearly lost its grip. I did not interrupt her
once, but waited, even after she had finished, for fear she might have
more to say. And presently she added:
"If I do not answer the chevalier's letter he will be here on the Jour
des Rois, and it is more than likely he will lose his life in the
attempt to carry me off, even if I were willing to go with him."
"Mademoiselle," I said slowly, "it is a hard thing you have asked me,
and I feel sure that whatever I may say I will make you angry, as I
did last night. Of course you know that what I would most like would
be that you should let the chevalier come on the Jour des Rois, and we
would capture him, and there would be an end to all this trouble. But
you know, too, that since you have trusted me with his secret I would
feel in duty bound to save him and get him safely outside the stockade
again, even, if need were, at the risk of my own life. The thing,
therefore, that I wish you would do, and that seems to me the only
thing to do, is to write him at once, telling him you will never go
with him, and bidding him return at once to France since his task is a
hopeless one."
"And cut myself off from seeing France and recovering my possessions!"
"'Tis not cutting yourself off." (I spoke a little sternly, for I was
beginning to feel irritated that she could not see the utter folly of
thinking for a moment of going with the chevalier.) "Your guardian is
only waiting for two things, and as soon as they are accomplished he
will send you to Paris. He is awaiting letters from your friends to
say the time is ripe for your return, and they are ready to receive
you, and he is waiting to find a proper person in whose care he can
place you to make the voyage."
"Then here is the time and the opportunity," said mademoiselle,
eagerly: "my friends have sent the chevalier for me, and he is waiting
to conduct me there."
I could have shaken her, for a minute, her stupidity seemed so vast to
me. Then I remembered she was really only a child, and that there are
many things maidens do not understand so well as men. So I tried to
speak gently, but so plainly that once for all she might understand.
"Mademoiselle," I said, "do you not see that the very fact that the
chevalier is trying to induce you to go to France alone with him is
proof either of his villainy or of his colossal stupidity? Were he the
angel of light he has sometimes seemed to you, and should he carry you
safely to France and deliver you into the hands of your friends, yet
who, in gay and skeptical Paris, would not be willing to believe the
worst of both of you? The society that he has painted to you as ready
to fall at your feet would be only ready to spurn you. Forgive me,
Mademoiselle, for speaking thus plainly, but there is no man in the
world who would not believe that the very fact of the chevalier's
trying to persuade you to go with him to France proves him a villain
of the deepest dye."
Mademoiselle did not answer; but her arms slipped from my waist, and
presently I felt her little head resting on my broad back, and sobs
were shaking her little figure. I did not dare stir, for fear of
disturbing her, but it was very uncomfortable to sit so rigidly erect,
not daring to move, because a beautiful little black and curly head
was resting a little above the small of one's back, while tempests of
tears were drenching one's military cloak, and the shaking from the
sobs was making queer little shivers run up and down one's backbone.
Now this was the second time my brutality had brought mademoiselle to
tears. This time I thought it was good for her, and was of a mind to
let her weep it out, though all the time longing to turn around and
take her in my arms and let her weep upon my breast instead of on my
back.
But presently I was aware of heroic efforts to stifle the sobs and
stay the tears, and then I heard a most woebegone voice:
"Oh, monsieur, what shall I do? what shall I do?"
Now, I had brought Fatima to a standstill, for I was afraid to let her
go even at a slow walk when mademoiselle had no arm to hold on by, and
her head bobbing at every step of Fatima's into the ticklish part of
my back. And by chance we had stopped where the Rue Bonhomme climbs
down the bluff to the river, and our boats lay moored at its foot.
Suddenly an answer to her question flashed into my head. It seemed to
me a perfect solution of all difficulties, but in the nature of the
case I could say nothing to mademoiselle until I had consulted Dr.
Saugrain and my captain.
One thing I could say, however, and I reiterated what I had said
before:
"One thing you can do at once, mademoiselle: write to the chevalier so
firm and positive a refusal that he will never trouble you again, and
then go and tell your guardian all about it. He deserves this
confidence from you, and I think you will never be very happy until
you have made him feel that there is no change in your grateful
affection to him."
There was another moment of silence, and then, in the meekest of
tones:
"I will do all you tell me, monsieur."
I could not believe it was the same haughty mademoiselle who had so
scorned "ce garçon-çà." But I was not going to show her the elation I
could not help feeling in her change of attitude; and being also most
sorry for her, and everything settled as far as it could be about the
chevalier, I thought it time that she should be diverted from her
unhappy thoughts, and so I bade her look down on the great river, now
rolling, a silver flood under the moon, straight to Cape Girardeau,
where the chevalier was lingering, and past fort and forest on to the
rich city of New Orleans. For a moment the old longing returned to be
one of a great army borne on its swift waters to capture the haughty
city that held the gateway to the sea. I thought it no harm to tell
mademoiselle what my dreams had been, and we both laughed merrily at
the audacity of them.
But the night was passing, and gently lifting mademoiselle's arm and
placing it so that it should once more hold her secure on her pillion,
I put Fatima to a gentle canter; and as I felt Pelagie's clasp
tighten, my pulse leaped faster in my veins, and I gave Fatima full
rein, and we went thundering down the Rue Royale, past Madame
Chouteau's place, with the last revelers just coming through the great
gates; past Auguste Chouteau's house, standing dark among its trees;
past the Government House, still brightly lighted, for Governor
Delassus and his retinue were just entering the great hall; turned up
the Rue de la Tour, with the tower at the top of the hill shining
white in the moonlight, then down the long stretch of the Rue de
l'Église, faster and faster, as mademoiselle clung closer, until we
reached the gate of Émigré's Retreat, and a great dog came rushing to
meet us with mighty bounds and joyous barks, and would have
overpowered us both with his clumsy caresses but that a sweet voice
(never before one half so sweet) called:
"À bas, Leon! Tais-toi, mon ange!"