DISAPPEARANCE.
It was the year of a presidential campaign. The party that afterward
rose to overwhelming power was, for the first time, able to put its
candidate fairly abreast of his competitors. The South was all afire.
Rising up or sitting down, coming or going, week-day or Sabbath-day,
eating or drinking, marrying or burying, the talk was all of slavery,
abolition, and a disrupted country.
Dr. Sevier became totally absorbed in the issue. He was too
unconventional a thinker ever to find himself in harmony with all the
declarations of any party, and yet it was a necessity of his nature to
be in the _melee_. He had his own array of facts, his own peculiar
deductions; his own special charges of iniquity against this party and
of criminal forbearance against that; his own startling political
economy; his own theory of rights; his own interpretations of the
Constitution; his own threats and warnings; his own exhortations, and
his own prophecies, of which one cannot say all have come true. But he
poured them forth from the mighty heart of one who loved his country,
and sat down with a sense of duty fulfilled and wiped his pale forehead
while the band played a polka.
It hardly need be added that he proposed to dispense with politicians,
or that, when "the boys" presently counted him into their party team for
campaign haranguing, he let them clap the harness upon him and splashed
along in the mud with an intention as pure as snow.
"Hurrah for"--
Whom it is no matter now. It was not Fremont. Buchanan won the race. Out
went the lights, down came the platforms, rockets ceased to burst; it
was of no use longer to "Wait for the wagon"; "Old Dan Tucker" got "out
of the way," small boys were no longer fellow-citizens, dissolution was
postponed, and men began to have an eye single to the getting of money.
A mercantile friend of Dr. Sevier had a vacant clerkship which it was
necessary to fill. A bright recollection flashed across the Doctor's
memory.
"Narcisse!"
"Yesseh!"
"Go to Number 40 Custom-house street and inquire for Mr. Fledgeling; or,
if he isn't in, for Mrs. Fledge--humph! Richling, I mean; I"--
Narcisse laughed aloud.
"Ha-ha-ha! daz de way, sometime'! My hant she got a honcl'--he says,
once 'pon a time"--
"Never mind! Go at once!"
"All a-ight, seh!"
"Give him this card"--
"Yesseh!"
"These people"--
"Yesseh!"
"Well, wait till you get your errand, can't you? These"--
"Yesseh!"
"These people want to see him."
"All a-ight, seh!"
Narcisse threw open and jerked off a worsted jacket, took his coat down
from a peg, transferred a snowy handkerchief from the breast-pocket of
the jacket to that of the coat, felt in his pantaloons to be sure that
he had his match-case and cigarettes, changed his shoes, got his hat
from a high nail by a little leap, and put it on a head as handsome as
Apollo's.
"Doctah Seveeah," he said, "in fact, I fine that a ve'y gen'lemany young
man, that Mistoo Itchlin, weely, Doctah."
The Doctor murmured to himself from the letter he was writing.
"Well, _au 'evoi'_, Doctah; I'm goin'."
Out in the corridor he turned and jerked his chin up and curled his lip,
brought a match and cigarette together in the lee of his hollowed hand,
took one first, fond draw, and went down the stairs as if they were on
fire.
At Canal street he fell in with two noble fellows of his own circle, and
the three went around by way of Exchange alley to get a glass of soda at
McCloskey's old down-town stand. His two friends were out of employment
at the moment,--making him, consequently, the interesting figure in the
trio as he inveighed against his master.
"Ah, phooh!" he said, indicating the end of his speech by dropping the
stump of his cigarette into the sand on the floor and softly spitting
upon it,--"_le_ Shylock _de la rue_ Carondelet!"--and then in English,
not to lose the admiration of the Irish waiter:--
"He don't want to haugment me! I din hass 'im, because the 'lection. But
you juz wait till dat firce of Jannawerry!"
The waiter swathed the zinc counter, and inquired why Narcisse did not
make his demands at the present moment.
"W'y I don't hass 'im now? Because w'en I hass 'im he know' he's got to
_do_ it! You thing I'm goin' to kill myseff workin'?"
Nobody said yes, and by and by he found himself alive in the house of
Madame Zenobie. The furniture was being sold at auction, and the house
was crowded with all sorts and colors of men and women. A huge sideboard
was up for sale as he entered, and the crier was crying:--
"Faw-ty-fi' dollah! faw-ty-fi' dollah, ladies an' gentymen! On'y
faw-ty-fi' dollah fo' thad magniffyzan sidebode! _Quarante-cinque
piastres, seulement, messieurs! Les_ knobs _vaut bien cette prix_!
Gentymen, de knobs is worse de money! Ladies, if you don' stop dat
talkin', I will not sell one thing mo'! _Et quarante cinque
piastres_--faw-ty-fi' dollah"--
"Fifty!" cried Narcisse, who had not owned that much at one time since
his father was a constable; realizing which fact, he slipped away
upstairs and found Madame Zenobie half crazed at the slaughter of her
assets.
She sat in a chair against the wall of the room the Richlings had
occupied, a spectacle of agitated dejection. Here and there about the
apartment, either motionless in chairs, or moving noiselessly about,
and pulling and pushing softly this piece of furniture and that, were
numerous vulture-like persons of either sex, waiting the up-coming of
the auctioneer. Narcisse approached her briskly.
"Well, Madame Zenobie!"--he spoke in French--"is it you who lives here?
Don't you remember me? What! No? You don't remember how I used to steal
figs from you?"
The vultures slowly turned their heads. Madame Zenobie looked at him in
a dazed way.
No, she did not remember. So many had robbed her--all her life.
"But you don't look at me, Madame Zenobie. Don't you remember, for
example, once pulling a little boy--as little as _that_--out of your
fig-tree, and taking the half of a shingle, split lengthwise, in your
hand, and his head under your arm,--swearing you would do it if you died
for it,--and bending him across your knee,"--he began a vigorous but
graceful movement of the right arm, which few members of our fallen race
could fail to recognize,--"and you don't remember me, my old friend?"
She looked up into the handsome face with a faint smile of affirmation.
He laughed with delight.
"The shingle was _that_ wide. Ah! Madame Zenobie, you did it well!" He
softly smote the memorable spot, first with one hand and then with the
other, shrinking forward spasmodically with each contact, and throwing
utter woe into his countenance. The general company smiled. He suddenly
put on great seriousness.
"Madame Zenobie, I hope your furniture is selling well?" He still spoke
in French.
She cast her eyes upward pleadingly, caught her breath, threw the back
of her hand against her temple, and dashed it again to her lap, shaking
her head.
Narcisse was sorry.
"I have been doing what I could for you, downstairs,--running up the
prices of things. I wish I could stay to do more, for the sake of old
times. I came to see Mr. Richling, Madame Zenobie; is he in? Dr. Sevier
wants him."
Richling? Why, the Richlings did not live there! The Doctor must know
it. Why should she be made responsible for this mistake? It was his
oversight. They had moved long ago. Dr. Sevier had seen them looking for
apartments. Where did they live now? Ah, me! _she_ could not tell. Did
Mr. Richling owe the Doctor something?
"Owe? Certainly not. The Doctor--on the contrary"--
Ah! well, indeed, she didn't know where they lived, it is true; but the
fact was, Mr. Richling happened to be there just then!--_a-c't'eure_! He
had come to get a few trifles left by his madame.
Narcisse made instant search. Richling was not on the upper floor. He
stepped to the landing and looked down. There he went!
"Mistoo 'Itchlin!"
Richling failed to hear. Sharper ears might have served him better. He
passed out by the street door. Narcisse stopped the auction by the noise
he made coming downstairs after him. He had some trouble with the front
door,--lost time there, but got out.
Richling was turning a corner. Narcisse ran there and looked; looked
up--looked down--looked into every store and shop on either side of the
way clear back to Canal street; crossed it, went back to the Doctor's
office, and reported. If he omitted such details as having seen and then
lost sight of the man he sought, it may have been in part from the
Doctor's indisposition to give him speaking license. The conclusion was
simple: the Richlings could not be found.
* * *
The months of winter passed. No sign of them.
"They've gone back home," the Doctor often said to himself. How
much better that was than to stay where they had made a mistake in
venturing, and become the nurslings of patronizing strangers! He gave his
admiration free play, now that they were quite gone. True courage that
Richling had--courage to retreat when retreat is best! And his wife--ah!
what a reminder of--hush, memory!
"Yes, they must have gone home!" The Doctor spoke very positively,
because, after all, he was haunted by doubt.
One spring morning he uttered a soft exclamation as he glanced at his
office-slate. The first notice on it read:--
Please call as soon as you can at number 292 St. Mary street,
corner of Prytania. Lower corner--opposite the asylum.
JOHN RICHLING.
The place was far up in the newer part of the American quarter. The
signature had the appearance as if the writer had begun to write some
other name, and had changed it to Richling.