What Harding & Offdean had called a piece of land on Red River was
better known to the people of Natchitoches[1] parish as "the old
Santien place."
In the days of Lucien Santien and his hundred slaves, it had been very
splendid in the wealth of its thousand acres. But the war did its work,
of course. Then Jules Santien was not the man to mend such damage as
the war had left. His three sons were even less able than he had been
to bear the weighty inheritance of debt that came to them with the
dismantled plantation; so it was a deliverance to all when Harding &
Offdean, the New Orleans creditors, relieved them of the place with the
responsibility and indebtedness which its ownership had entailed.
Hector, the eldest, and Grégoire, the youngest of these Santien boys,
had gone each his way. Placide alone tried to keep a desultory foothold
upon the land which had been his and his forefathers'. But he too was
given to wandering--within a radius, however, which rarely took him so
far that he could not reach the old place in an afternoon of travel,
when he felt so inclined.
There were acres of open land cultivated in a slovenly fashion, but so
rich that cotton and corn and weed and "cocoa-grass" grew rampant if
they had only the semblance of a chance. The negro quarters were at the
far end of this open stretch, and consisted of a long row of old and
very crippled cabins. Directly back of these a dense wood grew, and
held much mystery, and witchery of sound and shadow, and strange lights
when the sun shone. Of a gin-house there was left scarcely a trace;
only so much as could serve as inadequate shelter to the miserable
dozen cattle that huddled within it in winter-time.
A dozen rods or more from the Red River bank stood the dwelling-house,
and nowhere upon the plantation had time touched so sadly as here. The
steep, black, moss-covered roof sat like an extinguisher above the
eight large rooms that it covered, and had come to do its office so
poorly that not more than half of these were habitable when the rain
fell. Perhaps the live-oaks made too thick and close a shelter about
it. The verandas were long and broad and inviting; but it was well to
know that the brick pillar was crumbling away under one corner, that
the railing was insecure at another, and that still another had long
ago been condemned as unsafe. But that, of course, was not the corner
in which Wallace Offdean sat the day following his arrival at the
Santien place. This one was comparatively secure. A gloire-de-Dijon,
thick-leaved and charged with huge creamy blossoms, grew and spread
here like a hardy vine upon the wires that stretched from post to
post. The scent of the blossoms was delicious; and the stillness that
surrounded Offdean agreeably fitted his humor that asked for rest. His
old host, Pierre Manton, the manager of the place, sat talking to him
in a soft, rhythmic monotone; but his speech was hardly more of an
interruption than the hum of the bees among the roses. He was saying:--
"If it would been me myse'f, I would nevair grumb'. W'en a chimbly
breck, I take one, two de boys; we patch 'im up bes' we know how. We
keep on men' de fence', firs' one place, anudder; an' if it would n'
be fer dem mule' of Lacroix--_tonnerre!_ I don' wan' to talk 'bout dem
mule'. But me, I would n' grumb'. It's Euphrasie, hair. She say dat's
all fool nonsense fer rich man lack Hardin'-Offde'n to let a piece o'
lan' goin' lack dat."
"Euphrasie?" questioned Offdean, in some surprise; for he had not yet
heard of any such person.
"Euphrasie, my li'le chile. Escuse me one minute," Pierre added,
remembering that he was in his shirt-sleeves, and rising to reach for
his coat, which hung upon a peg near by. He was a small, square man,
with mild, kindly face, brown and roughened from healthy exposure. His
hair hung gray and long beneath the soft felt hat that he wore. When he
had seated himself, Offdean asked:--
"Where is your little child? I have n't seen her," inwardly marveling
that a little child should have uttered such words of wisdom as those
recorded of her.
"She yonder to Mme. Duplan on Cane River. I been kine espectin' hair
sence yistiday--hair an' Placide," casting an unconscious glance down
the long plantation road. "But Mme. Duplan she nevair want to let
Euphrasie go. You know it's hair raise' Euphrasie sence hair po' ma
die', Mr. Offde'n. She teck dat li'le chile, an' raise it, sem lack
she raisin' Ninette. But it's mo' 'an a year now Euphrasie say dat's
all fool nonsense to leave me livin' 'lone lack dat, wid nuttin' 'cep'
dem nigger'--an' Placide once a w'ile. An' she came yair bossin'! My
goodness!" The old man chuckled, "Dat's hair been writin' all dem
letter' to Hardin'-Offde'n. If it would been me myse'f"--
[Footnote 1: Pronounced Nack-e-tosh.]