I
When the war began, there stood on Côte Joyeuse an imposing mansion of
red brick, shaped like the Pantheon. A grove of majestic live-oaks
surrounded it.
Thirty years later, only the thick walls were standing, with the dull
red brick showing here and there through a matted growth of clinging
vines. The huge round pillars were intact; so to some extent was the
stone flagging of hall and portico. There had been no home so stately
along the whole stretch of Côte Joyeuse. Every one knew that, as they
knew it had cost Philippe Valmêt sixty thousand dollars to build, away
back in 1840. No one was in danger of forgetting that fact, so long as
his daughter Pélagie survived. She was a queenly, white-haired woman of
fifty. “Ma’ame Pélagie,” they called her, though she was unmarried, as
was her sister Pauline, a child in Ma’ame Pélagie’s eyes; a child of
thirty-five.
The two lived alone in a three-roomed cabin, almost within the shadow
of the ruin. They lived for a dream, for Ma’ame Pélagie’s dream, which
was to rebuild the old home.
It would be pitiful to tell how their days were spent to accomplish
this end; how the dollars had been saved for thirty years and the
picayunes hoarded; and yet, not half enough gathered! But Ma’ame
Pélagie felt sure of twenty years of life before her, and counted upon
as many more for her sister. And what could not come to pass in
twenty—in forty—years?
Often, of pleasant afternoons, the two would drink their black coffee,
seated upon the stone-flagged portico whose canopy was the blue sky of
Louisiana. They loved to sit there in the silence, with only each other
and the sheeny, prying lizards for company, talking of the old times
and planning for the new; while light breezes stirred the tattered
vines high up among the columns, where owls nested.
“We can never hope to have all just as it was, Pauline,” Ma’ame Pélagie
would say; “perhaps the marble pillars of the salon will have to be
replaced by wooden ones, and the crystal candelabra left out. Should
you be willing, Pauline?”
“Oh, yes Sesoeur, I shall be willing.” It was always, “Yes, Sesoeur,”
or “No, Sesoeur,” “Just as you please, Sesoeur,” with poor little
Mam’selle Pauline. For what did she remember of that old life and that
old spendor? Only a faint gleam here and there; the half-consciousness
of a young, uneventful existence; and then a great crash. That meant
the nearness of war; the revolt of slaves; confusion ending in fire and
flame through which she was borne safely in the strong arms of Pélagie,
and carried to the log cabin which was still their home. Their brother,
Léandre, had known more of it all than Pauline, and not so much as
Pélagie. He had left the management of the big plantation with all its
memories and traditions to his older sister, and had gone away to dwell
in cities. That was many years ago. Now, Léandre’s business called him
frequently and upon long journeys from home, and his motherless
daughter was coming to stay with her aunts at Côte Joyeuse.
They talked about it, sipping their coffee on the ruined portico.
Mam’selle Pauline was terribly excited; the flush that throbbed into
her pale, nervous face showed it; and she locked her thin fingers in
and out incessantly.
“But what shall we do with La Petite, Sesoeur? Where shall we put her?
How shall we amuse her? Ah, Seigneur!”
“She will sleep upon a cot in the room next to ours,” responded Ma’ame
Pélagie, “and live as we do. She knows how we live, and why we live;
her father has told her. She knows we have money and could squander it
if we chose. Do not fret, Pauline; let us hope La Petite is a true
Valmêt.”
Then Ma’ame Pélagie rose with stately deliberation and went to saddle
her horse, for she had yet to make her last daily round through the
fields; and Mam’selle Pauline threaded her way slowly among the tangled
grasses toward the cabin.
The coming of La Petite, bringing with her as she did the pungent
atmosphere of an outside and dimly known world, was a shock to these
two, living their dream-life. The girl was quite as tall as her aunt
Pélagie, with dark eyes that reflected joy as a still pool reflects the
light of stars; and her rounded cheek was tinged like the pink crèpe
myrtle. Mam’selle Pauline kissed her and trembled. Ma’ame Pélagie
looked into her eyes with a searching gaze, which seemed to seek a
likeness of the past in the living present.
And they made room between them for this young life.