exhaustion and intense relief of one who has come to the end of her
troubles. Sylvie, entering behind her, laid the big traveling-bag on the
floor and deposited the jacket on the bed.
She was a portly quadroon of fifty or thereabout, clad in an ample
_volante_ of the old-fashioned purple calico so much affected by her
class. She wore large golden hoop-earrings, and her hair was combed
plainly, with every appearance of effort to smooth out the kinks. She
had broad, coarse features, with a nose that turned up, exposing the
wide nostrils, and that seemed to emphasize the loftiness and command of
her bearing,—a dignity that in the presence of white people assumed a
character of respectfulness, but never of obsequiousness. Sylvie
believed firmly in maintaining the color-line, and would not suffer a
white person, even a child, to call her “Madame Sylvie,”—a title which
she exacted religiously, however, from those of her own race.
“I hope you be please’ wid yo’ room, madame,” she observed amiably.
“Dat’s de same room w’at yo’ brother, M’sieur Miché, all time like w’en
he come to New Orlean’. He well, M’sieur Miché? I receive’ his letter
las’ week, an’ dat same day a gent’man want I give ’im dat room. I say,
‘No, dat room already ingage’.’ Ev-body like dat room on ’count it so
quite (quiet). M’sieur Gouvernail, dere in nax’ room, you can’t pay ’im!
He been stay t’ree year’ in dat room; but all fix’ up fine wid his own
furn’ture an’ books, ’tel you can’t see! I say to ’im plenty time’,
‘M’sieur Gouvernail, w’y you don’t take dat t’ree-story front, now, long
it’s empty?’ He tells me, ‘Leave me ’lone, Sylvie; I know a good room
w’en I fine it, me.’”
She had been moving slowly and majestically about the apartment,
straightening and smoothing down bed and pillows, peering into ewer and
basin, evidently casting an eye around to make sure that everything was
as it should be.
“I sen’ you some fresh water, madame,” she offered upon retiring from
the room. “An’ w’en you want an’t’ing, you jus’ go out on de gall’ry an’
call Pousette: she year you plain,—she right down dere in de kitchen.”
Athénaïse was really not so exhausted as she had every reason to be
after that interminable and circuitous way by which Montéclin had seen
fit to have her conveyed to the city.
Would she ever forget that dark and truly dangerous midnight ride along
the “coast” to the mouth of Cane river! There Montéclin had parted with
her, after seeing her aboard the St. Louis and Shreveport packet which
he knew would pass there before dawn. She had received instructions to
disembark at the mouth of Red river, and there transfer to the first
south-bound steamer for New Orleans; all of which instructions she had
followed implicitly, even to making her way at once to Sylvie’s upon her
arrival in the city. Montéclin had enjoined secrecy and much caution;
the clandestine nature of the affair gave it a savor of adventure which
was highly pleasing to him. Eloping with his sister was only a little
less engaging than eloping with some one else’s sister.
But Montéclin did not do the _grand seigneur_ by halves. He had paid
Sylvie a whole month in advance for Athénaïse’s board and lodging. Part
of the sum he had been forced to borrow, it is true, but he was not
niggardly.
Athénaïse was to take her meals in the house, which none of the other
lodgers did; the one exception being that Mr. Gouvernail was served with
breakfast on Sunday mornings.
Sylvie’s clientèle came chiefly from the southern parishes; for the most
part, people spending but a few days in the city. She prided herself
upon the quality and highly respectable character of her patrons, who
came and went unobtrusively.
The large parlor opening upon the front balcony was seldom used. Her
guests were permitted to entertain in this sanctuary of elegance,—but
they never did. She often rented it for the night to parties of
respectable and discreet gentlemen desiring to enjoy a quiet game of
cards outside the bosom of their families. The second-story hall also
led by a long window out on the balcony. And Sylvie advised Athénaïse,
when she grew weary of her back room, to go and sit on the front
balcony, which was shady in the afternoon, and where she might find
diversion in the sounds and sights of the street below.
Athénaïse refreshed herself with a bath, and was soon unpacking her few
belongings, which she ranged neatly away in the bureau drawers and the
armoire.
She had revolved certain plans in her mind during the past hour or so.
Her present intention was to live on indefinitely in this big, cool,
clean back room on Dauphine street. She had thought seriously, for
moments, of the convent, with all readiness to embrace the vows of
poverty and chastity; but what about obedience? Later, she intended, in
some round-*about way, to give her parents and her husband the assurance
of her safety and welfare; reserving the right to remain unmolested and
lost to them. To live on at the expense of Montéclin’s generosity was
wholly out of the question, and Athénaïse meant to look about for some
suitable and agreeable employment.
The imperative thing to be done at present, however, was to go out in
search of material for an inexpensive gown or two; for she found herself
in the painful predicament of a young woman having almost literally
nothing to wear. She decided upon pure white for one, and some sort of a
sprigged muslin for the other.
VII.
On Sunday morning, two days after Athénaïse’s arrival in the city, she
went in to breakfast somewhat later than usual, to find two covers laid
at table instead of the one to which she was accustomed. She had been to
mass, and did not remove her hat, but put her fan, parasol, and
prayer-book aside. The dining-room was situated just beneath her own
apartment, and, like all rooms of the house, was large and airy; the
floor was covered with a glistening oil-cloth.
The small, round table, immaculately set, was drawn near the open
window. There were some tall plants in boxes on the gallery outside; and
Pousette, a little, old, intensely black woman, was splashing and
dashing buckets of water on the flagging, and talking loud in her Creole
patois to no one in particular.
A dish piled with delicate river-shrimps and crushed ice was on the
table; a caraffe of crystal-clear water, a few _hors d’œuvres_, beside a
small golden-brown crusty loaf of French bread at each plate. A
half-bottle of wine and the morning paper were set at the place opposite
Athénaïse.
She had almost completed her breakfast when Gouvernail came in and
seated himself at table. He felt annoyed at finding his cherished
privacy invaded. Sylvie was removing the remains of a mutton-chop from
before Athénaïse, and serving her with a cup of café au lait.
“M’sieur Gouvernail,” offered Sylvie in her most insinuating and
impressive manner, “you please leave me make you acquaint’ wid Madame
Cazeau. Dat’s M’sieur Miché’s sister; you meet ’im two t’ree time’, you
rec’lec’, an’ been one day to de race wid ’im. Madame Cazeau, you please
leave me make you acquaint’ wid M’sieur Gouvernail.”
Gouvernail expressed himself greatly pleased to meet the sister of
Monsieur Miché, of whom he had not the slightest recollection. He
inquired after Monsieur Miché’s health, and politely offered Athénaïse a
part of his newspaper,—the part which contained the Woman’s Page and the
social gossip.
Athénaïse faintly remembered that Sylvie had spoken of a Monsieur
Gouvernail occupying the room adjoining hers, living amid luxurious
surroundings and a multitude of books. She had not thought of him
further than to picture him a stout, middle-aged gentleman, with a bushy
beard turning gray, wearing large gold-rimmed spectacles, and stooping
somewhat from much bending over books and writing material. She had
confused him in her mind with the likeness of some literary celebrity
that she had run across in the advertising pages of a magazine.
Gouvernail’s appearance was, in truth, in no sense striking. He looked
older than thirty and younger than forty, was of medium height and
weight, with a quiet, unobtrusive manner which seemed to ask that he be
let alone. His hair was light brown, brushed carefully and parted in the
middle. His mustache was brown, and so were his eyes, which had a mild,
penetrating quality. He was neatly dressed in the fashion of the day;
and his hands seemed to Athénaïse remarkably white and soft for a man’s.
He had been buried in the contents of his newspaper, when he suddenly
realized that some further little attention might be due to Miché’s
sister. He started to offer her a glass of wine, when he was surprised
and relieved to find that she had quietly slipped away while he was
absorbed in his own editorial on Corrupt Legislation.
Gouvernail finished his paper and smoked his cigar out on the gallery.
He lounged about, gathered a rose for his buttonhole, and had his
regular Sunday-morning confab with Pousette, to whom he paid a weekly
stipend for brushing his shoes and clothing. He made a great pretense of
haggling over the transaction, only to enjoy her uneasiness and
garrulous excitement.
He worked or read in his room for a few hours, and when he quitted the
house, at three in the afternoon, it was to return no more till late at
night. It was his almost invariable custom to spend Sunday evenings out
in the American quarter, among a congenial set of men and women,—_des
esprits forts_, all of them, whose lives were irreproachable, yet whose
opinions would startle even the traditional “sapeur,“ for whom “nothing
is sacred.” But for all his “advanced” opinions, Gouvernail was a
liberal-minded fellow; a man or woman lost nothing of his respect by
being married.
When he left the house in the afternoon, Athénaïse had already ensconced
herself on the front balcony. He could see her through the jalousies
when he passed on his way to the front entrance. She had not yet grown
lonesome or homesick; the newness of her surroundings made them
sufficiently entertaining. She found it diverting to sit there on the
front balcony watching people pass by, even though there was no one to
talk to. And then the comforting, comfortable sense of not being
married!
She watched Gouvernail walk down the street, and could find no fault
with his bearing. He could hear the sound of her rockers for some little
distance. He wondered what the “poor little thing” was doing in the
city, and meant to ask Sylvie about her when he should happen to think
of it.
VIII.
The following morning, towards noon, when Gouvernail quitted his room,
he was confronted by Athénaïse, exhibiting some confusion and
trepidation at being forced to request a favor of him at so early a
stage of their acquaintance. She stood in her doorway, and had evidently
been sewing, as the thimble on her finger testified, as well as a
long-threaded needle thrust in the bosom of her gown. She held a stamped
but unaddressed letter in her hand.
And would Mr. Gouvernail be so kind as to address the letter to her
brother, Mr. Montéclin Miché? She would hate to detain him with
explanations this morning,—another time, perhaps,—but now she begged
that he would give himself the trouble.
He assured her that it made no difference, that it was no trouble
whatever; and he drew a fountain pen from his pocket and addressed the
letter at her dictation, resting it on the inverted rim of his straw
hat. She wondered a little at a man of his supposed erudition stumbling
over the spelling of “Montéclin” and “Miché.”
She demurred at overwhelming him with the additional trouble of posting
it, but he succeeded in convincing her that so simple a task as the
posting of a letter would not add an iota to the burden of the day.
Moreover, he promised to carry it in his hand, and thus avoid any
possible risk of forgetting it in his pocket.
After that, and after a second repetition of the favor, when she had
told him that she had had a letter from Montéclin, and looked as if she
wanted to tell him more, he felt that he knew her better. He felt that
he knew her well enough to join her out on the balcony, one night, when
he found her sitting there alone. He was not one who deliberately sought
the society of women, but he was not wholly a bear. A little
commiseration for Athénaïse’s aloneness, perhaps some curiosity to know
further what manner of woman she was, and the natural influence of her
feminine charm were equal unconfessed factors in turning his steps
towards the balcony when he discovered the shimmer of her white gown
through the open hall window.
It was already quite late, but the day had been intensely hot, and
neighboring balconies and doorways were occupied by chattering groups of
humanity, loath to abandon the grateful freshness of the outer air. The
voices about her served to reveal to Athénaïse the feeling of loneliness
that was gradually coming over her. Notwithstanding certain dormant
impulses, she craved human sympathy and companionship.
She shook hands impulsively with Gouvernail, and told him how glad she
was to see him. He was not prepared for such an admission, but it
pleased him immensely, detecting as he did that the expression was as
sincere as it was outspoken. He drew a chair up within comfortable
conversational distance of Athénaïse, though he had no intention of
talking more than was barely necessary to encourage Madame— He had
actually forgotten her name!
He leaned an elbow on the balcony rail, and would have offered an
opening remark about the oppressive heat of the day, but Athénaïse did
not give him the opportunity. How glad she was to talk to some one, and
how she talked!
An hour later she had gone to her room, and Gouvernail stayed smoking on
the balcony. He knew her quite well after that hour’s talk. It was not
so much what she had said as what her half saying had revealed to his
quick intelligence. He knew that she adored Montéclin, and he suspected
that she adored Cazeau without being herself aware of it. He had
gathered that she was self-willed, impulsive, innocent, ignorant,
unsatisfied, dissatisfied; for had she not complained that things seemed
all wrongly arranged in this world, and no one was permitted to be happy
in his own way? And he told her he was sorry she had discovered that
primordial fact of existence so early in life.
He commiserated her loneliness, and scanned his bookshelves next morning
for something to lend her to read, rejecting everything that offered
itself to his view: Philosophy was out of the question, and so was
poetry; that is, such poetry as he possessed. He had not sounded her
literary tastes, and strongly suspected she had none; that she would
have rejected The Duchess as readily as Mrs. Humphry Ward. He
compromised on a magazine.
It had entertained her passably, she admitted, upon returning it. A New
England story had puzzled her, it was true, and a Creole tale had
offended her, but the pictures had pleased her greatly, especially one
which had reminded her so strongly of Montéclin after a hard day’s ride
that she was loath to give it up. It was one of Remington’s Cowboys, and
Gouvernail insisted upon her keeping it,—keeping the magazine.
He spoke to her daily after that, and was always eager to render her
some service or to do something towards her entertainment.
One afternoon he took her out to the lake end. She had been there once,
some years before, but in winter, so the trip was comparatively new and
strange to her. The large expanse of water studded with pleasure-boats,
the sight of children playing merrily along the grassy palisades, the
music, all enchanted her. Gouvernail thought her the most beautiful
woman he had ever seen. Even her gown—the sprigged muslin—appeared to
him the most charming one imaginable. Nor could anything be more
becoming than the arrangement of her brown hair under the white sailor
hat, all rolled back in a soft puff from her radiant face. And she
carried her parasol and lifted her skirts and used her fan in ways that
seemed quite unique and peculiar to herself, and which he considered
almost worthy of study and imitation.
They did not dine out there at the water’s edge, as they might have
done, but returned early to the city to avoid the crowd. Athénaïse
wanted to go home, for she said Sylvie would have dinner prepared and
would be expecting her. But it was not difficult to persuade her to dine
instead in the quiet little restaurant that he knew and liked, with its
sanded floor, its secluded atmosphere, its delicious menu, and its
obsequious waiter wanting to know what he might have the honor of
serving to “monsieur et madame.” No wonder he made the mistake, with
Gouvernail assuming such an air of proprietorship! But Athénaïse was
very tired after it all; the sparkle went out of her face, and she hung
draggingly on his arm in walking home.
He was reluctant to part from her when she bade him good-night at her
door and thanked him for the agreeable evening. He had hoped she would
sit outside until it was time for him to regain the newspaper office. He
knew that she would undress and get into her peignoir and lie upon her
bed; and what he wanted to do, what he would have given much to do, was
to go and sit beside her, read to her something restful, soothe her, do
her bidding, whatever it might be. Of course there was no use in
thinking of that. But he was surprised at his growing desire to be
serving her. She gave him an opportunity sooner than he looked for.
“Mr. Gouvernail,” she called from her room, “will you be so kine as to
call Pousette an’ tell her she fo’got to bring my ice-water?”
He was indignant at Pousette’s negligence, and called severely to her
over the banisters. He was sitting before his own door, smoking. He knew
that Athénaïse had gone to bed, for her room was dark, and she had
opened the slats of the door and windows. Her bed was near a window.
Pousette came flopping up with the ice-water, and with a hundred
excuses: “Mo pa oua vou à tab c’te lanuite, mo cri vou pé gagni déja
là-bas; parole! Vou pas cri conté ça Madame Sylvie?” She had not seen
Athénaïse at table, and thought she was gone. She swore to this, and
hoped Madame Sylvie would not be informed of her remissness.
A little later Athénaïse lifted her voice again: “Mr. Gouvernail, did
you remark that young man sitting on the opposite side from us, coming
in, with a gray coat an’ a blue ban’ aroun’ his hat?”
Of course Gouvernail had not noticed any such individual, but he assured
Athénaïse that he had observed the young fellow particularly.
“Don’t you think he looked something,—not very much, of co’se,—but don’t
you think he had a little faux-air of Montéclin?”
“I think he looked strikingly like Montéclin,” asserted Gouvernail, with
the one idea of prolonging the conversation. “I meant to call your
attention to the resemblance, and something drove it out of my head.”
“The same with me,” returned Athénaïse. “Ah, my dear Montéclin! I wonder
w’at he is doing now?”
“Did you receive any news, any letter from him to-day?” asked
Gouvernail, determined that if the conversation ceased it should not be
through lack of effort on his part to sustain it.
“Not to-day, but yesterday. He tells me that maman was so distracted
with uneasiness that finally, to pacify her, he was fo’ced to confess
that he knew w’ere I was, but that he was boun’ by a vow of secrecy not
to reveal it. But Cazeau has not noticed him or spoken to him since he
threaten’ to throw po’ Montéclin in Cane river. You know Cazeau wrote me
a letter the morning I lef’, thinking I had gone to the rigolet. An’
maman opened it, an’ said it was full of the mos’ noble sentiments, an’
she wanted Montéclin to sen’ it to me; but Montéclin refuse’ poin’
blank, so he wrote to me.”
Gouvernail preferred to talk of Montéclin. He pictured Cazeau as
unbearable, and did not like to think of him.
A little later Athénaïse called out, “Good-night, Mr. Gouvernail.”
“Good-night,” he returned reluctantly. And when he thought that she was
sleeping, he got up and went away to the midnight pandemonium of his
newspaper office.
IX.
Athénaïse could not have held out through the month had it not been for
Gouvernail. With the need of caution and secrecy always uppermost in her
mind, she made no new acquaintances, and she did not seek out persons
already known to her; however, she knew so few, it required little
effort to keep out of their way. As for Sylvie, almost every moment of
her time was occupied in looking after her house; and, moreover, her
deferential attitude towards her lodgers forbade anything like the
gossipy chats in which Athénaïse might have condescended sometimes to
indulge with her landlady. The transient lodgers, who came and went, she
never had occasion to meet. Hence she was entirely dependent upon
Gouvernail for company.
He appreciated the situation fully; and every moment that he could spare
from his work he devoted to her entertainment. She liked to be out of
doors, and they strolled together in the summer twilight through the
mazes of the old French quarter. They went again to the lake end, and
stayed for hours on the water; returning so late that the streets
through which they passed were silent and deserted. On Sunday morning he
arose at an unconscionable hour to take her to the French market,
knowing that the sights and sounds there would interest her. And he did
not join the intellectual coterie in the afternoon, as he usually did,
but placed himself all day at the disposition and service of Athénaïse.
Notwithstanding all, his manner toward her was tactful, and evinced
intelligence and a deep knowledge of her character, surprising upon so
brief an acquaintance. For the time he was everything to her that she
would have him; he replaced home and friends. Sometimes she wondered if
he had ever loved a woman. She could not fancy him loving any one
passionately, rudely, offensively, as Cazeau loved her. Once she was so
naïve as to ask him outright if he had ever been in love, and he assured
her promptly that he had not. She thought it an admirable trait in his
character, and esteemed him greatly therefor.
He found her crying one night, not openly or violently. She was leaning
over the gallery rail, watching the toads that hopped about in the
moonlight, down on the damp flagstones of the courtyard. There was an
oppressively sweet odor rising from the cape jessamine. Pousette was
down there, mumbling and quarreling with some one, and seeming to be
having it all her own way,—as well she might, when her companion was
only a black cat that had come in from a neighboring yard to keep her
company.
Athénaïse did admit feeling heart-sick, body-sick, when he questioned
her; she supposed it was nothing but homesick. A letter from Montéclin
had stirred her all up. She longed for her mother, for Montéclin; she
was sick for a sight of the cotton-fields, the scent of the ploughed
earth, for the dim, mysterious charm of the woods, and the old
tumble-down home on the Bon Dieu.
As Gouvernail listened to her, a wave of pity and tenderness swept
through him. He took her hands and pressed them against him. He wondered
what would happen if he were to put his arms around her.
He was hardly prepared for what happened, but he stood it courageously.
She twined her arms around his neck and wept outright on his shoulder;
the hot tears scalding his cheek and neck, and her whole body shaken in
his arms. The impulse was powerful to strain her to him; the temptation
was fierce to seek her lips; but he did neither.