Precisely at eight o'clock every morning except Saturdays and Sundays,
Mademoiselle Suzanne St. Denys Godolph would cross the railroad trestle
that spanned Bayou Boispourri. She might have crossed in the flat which
Mr. Alphonse Laballière kept for his own convenience; but the method
was slow and unreliable; so, every morning at eight, Mademoiselle St.
Denys Godolph crossed the trestle.
She taught public school in a picturesque little white frame structure
that stood upon Mr. Laballière's land, and hung upon the very brink of
the bayou.
Laballière himself was comparatively a new-comer in the parish. It was
barely six months since he decided one day to leave the sugar and rice
to his brother Alcée, who had a talent for their cultivation, and to
try his hand at cotton-planting. That was why he was up in Natchitoches
parish on a piece of rich, high, Cane River land, knocking into shape
a tumbled-down plantation that he had bought for next to nothing.
He had often during his perambulations observed the trim, graceful
figure stepping cautiously over the ties, and had sometimes shivered
for its safety. He always exchanged a greeting with the girl, and once
threw a plank over a muddy pool for her to step upon. He caught but
glimpses of her features, for she wore an enormous sun-bonnet to shield
her complexion, that seemed marvelously fair; while loosely--fitting
leather gloves protected her hands. He knew she was the school-teacher,
and also that she was the daughter of that very pig-headed old Madame
St. Denys Godolph who was hoarding her barren acres across the bayou as
a miser hoards gold. Starving over them, some people said. But that was
nonsense; nobody starves on a Louisiana plantation, unless it be with
suicidal intent.
These things he knew, but he did not know why Mademoiselle St. Denys
Godolph always answered his salutation with an air of chilling hauteur
that would easily have paralyzed a less sanguine man.
The reason was that Suzanne, like every one else, had heard the stories
that were going the rounds about him. People said he was entirely too
much at home with the free mulattoes.[1] It seems a dreadful thing to
say, and it would be a shocking thing to think of a Laballière; but it
was n't true.
When Laballière took possession of his land, he found the
plantation-house occupied by one Giestin and his swarming family. It
was past reckoning how long the free mulatto and his people had been
there. The house was a six-room, long, shambling affair, shrinking
together from decrepitude. There was not an entire pane of glass in the
structure; and the Turkey-red curtains flapped in and out of the broken
apertures. But there is no need to dwell upon details; it was wholly
unfit to serve as a civilized human habitation; and Alphonse Laballière
would no sooner have disturbed its contented occupants than he would
have scattered a family of partridges nesting in a corner of his field.
He established himself with a few belongings in the best cabin he could
find on the place, and, without further ado, proceeded to supervise the
building of house, of gin, of this, that, and the other, and to look
into the hundred details that go to set a neglected plantation in good
working order. He took his meals at the free mulatto's, quite apart
from the family, of course; and they attended, not too skillfully, to
his few domestic wants.
Some loafer whom he had snubbed remarked one day in town that
Laballière had more use for a free mulatto than he had for a white
man. It was a sort of catching thing to say, and suggestive, and was
repeated with the inevitable embellishments.
One morning when Laballière sat eating his solitary breakfast, and
being waited upon by the queenly Madame Giestin and a brace of her
weazened boys, Giestin himself came into the room. He was about half
the size of his wife, puny and timid. He stood beside the table,
twirling his felt hat aimlessly and balancing himself insecurely on his
high-pointed boot-heels.
"Mr. Laballière," he said, "I reckon I tell you; it's betta you git
shed o' me en' my fambly. Jis like you want, yas."
"What in the name of common sense are you talking about?" asked
Laballière, looking up abstractedly from his New Orleans paper. Giestin
wriggled uncomfortably.
"It 's'heap o' story goin' roun' 'bout you, if you want b'lieve me."
And he snickered and looked at his wife, who thrust the end of her
shawl into her mouth and walked from the room with a tread like the
Empress Eugenie's, in that elegant woman's palmiest days.
"Stories!" echoed Laballière, his face the picture of astonishment.
"Who--where--what stories?"
"Yon'a in town en' all about. It's heap o' tale goin' roun', yas. They
say how come you mighty fon' o' mulatta. You done shoshiate wid de
mulatta down yon'a on de suga plantation, tell you can't res' lessen
it's mulatta roun' you."
Laballière had a distressingly quick temper. His fist, which was
a strong one, came down upon the wobbling table with a crash that
sent half of Madame Giestin's crockery bouncing and crashing to the
floor. He swore an oath that sent Madame Giestin and her father and
grandmother, who were all listening in the next room, into suppressed
convulsions of mirth.
"Oh, ho! so I'm not to associate with whom I please in Natchitoches
parish. We'll see about that. Draw up your chair, Giestin. Call
your wife and your grandmother and the rest of the tribe, and we 'll
breakfast together. By thunder! if I want to hobnob with mulattoes, or
negroes or Choctaw Indians or South Sea savages, whose business is it
but my own?"
"I don' know, me. It's jis like I tell you, Mr. Laballière," and
Giestin selected a huge key from an assortment that hung against the
wall, and left the room.
A half hour later, Laballière had not yet recovered his senses. He
appeared suddenly at the door of the schoolhouse, holding by the
shoulder one of Giestin's boys. Mademoiselle St. Denys Godolph stood at
the opposite extremity of the room. Her sun-bonnet hung upon the wall,
now, so Laballière could have seen how charming she was, had he not at
the moment been blinded by stupidity. Her blue eyes that were fringed
with dark lashes reflected astonishment at seeing him there. Her hair
was dark like her lashes, and waved softly about her smooth, white
forehead.
"Mademoiselle," began Laballière at once, "I have taken the liberty of
bringing a new pupil to you."
Mademoiselle St. Denys Godolph paled suddenly and her voice was
unsteady when she replied:--
"You are too considerate, Monsieur. Will you be so kine to give me the
name of the scholar whom you desire to int'oduce into this school?" She
knew it as well as he.
"What's your name, youngster? Out with it!" cried Laballière, striving
to shake the little free mulatto into speech; but he stayed as dumb as
a mummy.
"His name is André Giestin. You know him. He is the son"--
"Then, Monsieur," she interrupted, "permit me to remine you that you
have made a se'ious mistake. This is not a school conducted fo' the
education of the colored population. You will have to go elsew'ere with
yo' protégé."
"I shall leave my protégé right here, Mademoiselle,'and I trust you'll
give him the same kind attention you seem to accord to the others;"
saying which Laballière bowed himself out of her presence. The little
Giestin, left to his own devices, took only the time to give a quick,
wary glance round the room, and the next instant he bounded through the
open door, as the nimblest of four-footed creatures might have done.
Mademoiselle St. Denys Godolph conducted school during the hours that
remained, with a deliberate calmness that would have seemed ominous to
her pupils, had they been better versed in the ways of young women.
When the hour for dismissal came, she rapped upon the table to demand
attention.
"Chil'ren," she began, assuming a resigned and dignified mien, "you all
have been witness to-day of the insult that has been offered to yo'
teacher by the person upon whose lan' this schoolhouse stan's. I have
nothing further to say on that subjec'. I only shall add that to-morrow
yo' teacher shall sen' the key of this schoolhouse, together with her
resignation, to the gentlemen who compose the school-boa'd." There
followed visible disturbance among the young people.
"I ketch that li'le m'latta, I make 'im see sight', yas," screamed one.
"Nothing of the kine, Mathurin, you mus' take no such step, if only out
of consideration fo' my wishes. The person who has offered the affront
I consider beneath my notice. André, on the other han', is a chile of
good impulse, an' by no means to blame. As you all perceive, he has
shown mo' taste and judgment than those above him, f'om whom we might
have espected good breeding, at least."
She kissed them all, the little boys and the little girls, and
had a kind word for each. "_Et toi, mon petit Numa, j'espère q'un
autre_"--She could not finish the sentence, for little Numa, her
favorite, to whom she had never been able to impart the first word
of English, was blubbering at a turn of affairs which he had only
miserably guessed at.
She locked the schoolhouse door and walked away towards the bridge. By
the time she reached it, the little 'Cadians had already disappeared
like rabbits, down the road and through and over the fences.
Mademoiselle St. Denys Godolph did not cross the trestle the following
day, nor the next nor the next. Laballière watched for her; for his
big heart was already sore and filled with shame. But more, it stung
him with remorse to realize that he had been the stupid instrument in
taking the bread, as it were, from the mouth of Mademoiselle St. Denys
Godolph.
He recalled how unflinchingly and haughtily her blue eyes had
challenged his own. Her sweetness and charm came back to him and he
dwelt upon them and exaggerated them, till no Venus, so far unearthed,
could in any way approach Mademoiselle St. Denys Godolph. He would have
liked to exterminate the Giestin family, from the great-grandmother
down to the babe unborn.
Perhaps Giesten suspected this unfavorable attitude, for one morning he
piled his whole family and all his effects into wagons, and went away;
over into that part of the parish known as _l'Isle des Mulâtres_.
Laballière's really chivalrous nature told him, beside, that he owed
an apology, at least, to the young lady who had taken his whim so
seriously. So he crossed the bayou one day and penetrated into the
wilds where Madame St. Denys Godolph ruled.
An alluring little romance formed in his mind as he went; he fancied
how easily it might follow the apology. He was almost in love with
Mademoiselle St. Denys Godolph when he quitted his plantation. By the
time he had reached hers, he was wholly so.
He was met by Madame mere, a sweet-eyed, faded woman, upon whom old age
had fallen too hurriedly to completely efface all traces of youth. But
the house was old beyond question; decay had eaten slowly to the heart
of it during the hours, the days, and years that it had been standing.
"I have come to see your daughter, madame," began Laballière, all too
bluntly; for there is no denying he was blunt.
"Mademoiselle St. Denys Godolph is not presently at home, sir," madame
replied. "She is at the time in New Orleans. She fills there a place of
high trus' an' employment, Monsieur Laballière."
* * * * *
When Suzanne had ever thought of New Orleans, it was always in
connection with Hector Santien, because he was the only soul she knew
who dwelt there. He had had no share in obtaining for her the position
she had secured with one of the leading dry-goods firms; yet it was
to him she addressed herself when her arrangements to leave home were
completed.
He did not wait for her train to reach the city, but crossed the river
and met her at Gretna. The first thing he did was to kiss her, as he
had done eight years before when he left Natchitoches parish. An hour
later he would no more have thought of kissing Suzanne than he would
have tendered an embrace to the Empress of China. For by that time he
had realized that she was no longer twelve nor he twenty-four.
She could hardly believe the man who met her to be the Hector of
old. His black hair was dashed with gray on the temples; he wore a
short, parted beard and a small moustache that curled. From the crown
of his glossy silk hat down to his trimly-gaitered feet, his attire
was faultless. Suzanne knew her Natchitoches, and she had been to
Shreveport and even penetrated as far as Marshall, Texas, but in all
her travels she had never met a man to equal Hector in the elegance of
his mien.
They entered a cab, and seemed to drive for an interminable time
through the streets, mostly over cobble-stones that rendered
conversation difficult. Nevertheless he talked incessantly, while she
peered from the windows to catch what glimpses she could, through the
night, of that New Orleans of which she had heard so much. The sounds
were bewildering; so were the lights, that were uneven, too, serving to
make the patches of alternating gloom more mysterious.
She had not thought of asking him where he was taking her. And it was
only after they crossed Canal and had penetrated some distance into
Royal Street, that he told her. He was taking her to a friend of his,
the dearest little woman in town. That was Maman Chavan, who was going
to board and lodge her for a ridiculously small consideration.
Maman Chavan lived within comfortable walking distance of Canal
Street, on one of those narrow, intersecting streets between Royal and
Chartres. Her house was a tiny, single-story one, with overhanging
gable, heavily shuttered door and windows and three wooden steps
leading down to the banquette. A small garden flanked it on one side,
quite screened from outside view by a high fence, over which appeared
the tops of orange trees and other luxuriant shrubbery.
She was waiting for them--a lovable, fresh-looking, white-haired,
black-eyed, small, fat little body, dressed all in black. She
understood no English; which made no difference. Suzanne and Hector
spoke but French to each other.
Hector did not tarry a moment longer than was needed to place his young
friend and charge in the older woman's care. He would not even stay to
take a bite of supper with them. Maman Chavan watched him as he hurried
down the steps and out into the gloom. Then she said to Suzanne: "That
man is an angel, Mademoiselle, _un ange du bon Dieu_."
* * * * *
"Women, my dear Maman Chavan, you know how it is with me in regard to
women. I have drawn a circle round my heart, so--at pretty long range,
mind you--and there is not one who gets through it, or over it or under
it."
"_Blagueur, va!_" laughed Maman Chavan, replenishing her glass from the
bottle of sauterne.
It was Sunday morning. They were breakfasting together on the pleasant
side gallery that led by a single step down to the garden. Hector came
every Sunday morning, an hour or so before noon, to breakfast with
them. He always brought a bottle of sauterne, a paté, or a mess of
artichokes or some tempting bit of _charcuterie_. Sometimes he had to
wait till the two women returned from hearing mass at the cathedral.
He did not go to mass himself. They were both making a Novena on that
account, and had even gone to the expense of burning a round dozen of
candles before the good St. Joseph, for his conversion. When Hector
accidentally discovered the fact, he offered to pay for the candles,
and was distressed at not being permitted to do so.
Suzanne had been in the city more than a month. It was already
the close of February, and the air was flower-scented, moist, and
deliciously mild.
"As I said: women, my dear Maman Chavan"--
"Let us hear no more about women!" cried Suzanne, impatiently. "_Cher
Maître!_ but Hector can be tiresome when he wants. Talk, talk; to say
what in the end?"
"Quite right, my cousin; when I might have been saying how charming you
are this morning. But don't think that I have n't noticed it," and he
looked at her with a deliberation that quite unsettled her. She took a
letter from her pocket and handed it to him.
"Here, read all the nice things mamma has to say of you, and the love
messages she sends to you." He accepted the several closely written
sheets from her and began to look over them.
"Ah, _la bonne tante_," he laughed, when he came to the tender
passages that referred to himself. He had pushed aside the glass of
wine that he had only partly filled at the beginning of breakfast and
that he had scarcely touched. Maman Chavan again replenished her own.
She also lighted a cigarette. So did Suzanne, who was learning to
smoke. Hector did not smoke; he did not use tobacco in any form, he
always said to those who offered him cigars.
Suzanne rested her elbows on the table, adjusted the ruffles about her
wrists, puffed awkwardly at her cigarette that kept going out, and
hummed the Kyrie Eleison that she had heard so beautifully rendered
an hour before at the Cathedral, while she gazed off into the green
depths of the garden. Maman Chavan slipped a little silver medal toward
her, accompanying the action with a pantomime that Suzanne readily
understood. She, in turn, secretly and adroitly transferred the medal
to Hector's coat-pocket. He noticed the action plainly enough, but
pretended not to.
"Natchitoches has n't changed," he commented. "The everlasting
_can-cans!_ when will they have done with them? This is n't little
Athénaïse Miché, getting married! _Sapristi!_ but it makes one
old! And old Papa Jean-Pierre only dead now? I thought he was out
of purgatory five years ago. And who is this Laballière? One of the
Laballières of St. James?"
"St. James, _mon cher_. Monsieur Alphonse Laballière; an aristocrat
from the 'golden coast.' But it is a history, if you will believe me.
_Figurez vouz_, Maman Chavan,--_pensez donc, mon ami_"--And with much
dramatic fire, during which the cigarette went irrevocably out, she
proceeded to narrate her experiences with Laballière.
"Impossible!" exclaimed Hector when the climax was reached; but his
indignation was not so patent as she would have liked it to be.
"And to think of an affront like that going unpunished!" was Maman
Chavan's more sympathetic comment.
"Oh, the scholars were only too ready to offer violence to poor little
André, but that, you can understand, I would not permit. And now, here
is mamma gone completely over to him; entrapped, God only knows how!"
"Yes," agreed Hector, "I see he has been sending her tamales and
_boudin blanc._"
"_Boudin blanc_, my friend! If it were only that! But I have a stack of
letters, so high,--I could show them to you,--singing of Laballière,
Laballière, enough to drive one distracted. He visits her constantly.
He is a man of attainment, she says, a man of courage, a man of heart;
and the best of company. He has sent her a bunch of fat robins as big
as a tub"--
"There is something in that--a good deal in that, mignonne," piped
Maman Chavan, approvingly.
"And now _boudin blanc!_ and she tells me it is the duty of a Christian
to forgive. Ah, no; it's no use; mamma's ways are past finding out."
Suzanne was never in Hector's company elsewhere than at Maman Chavan's.
Beside the Sunday visit, he looked in upon them sometimes at dusk, to
chat for a moment or two. He often treated them to theatre tickets,
and even to the opera, when business was brisk. Business meant a
little note-book that he carried in his pocket, in which he sometimes
dotted down orders from the country people for wine, that he sold on
commission. The women always went together, unaccompanied by any male
escort; trotting along, arm in arm, and brimming with enjoyment.
That same Sunday afternoon Hector walked with them a short distance
when they were on their way to vespers. The three walking abreast
almost occupied the narrow width of the banquette. A gentleman who had
just stepped out of the Hotel Royal stood aside to better enable them
to pass. He lifted his hat to Suzanne, and cast a quick glance, that
pictured stupefaction and wrath, upon Hector.
"It's he!" exclaimed the girl, melodramatically seizing Maman Chavan's
arm.
"Who, he?"
"Laballière!"
"No!"
"Yes!"
"A handsome fellow, all the same," nodded the little lady, approvingly.
Hector thought so too. The conversation again turned upon Laballière,
and so continued till they reached the side door of the cathedral,
where the young man left his two companions.
In the evening Laballière called upon Suzanne. Maman Chavan closed the
front door carefully after he entered the small parlor, and opened the
side one that looked into the privacy of the garden. Then she lighted
the lamp and retired, just as Suzanne entered.
The girl bowed a little stiffly, if it may be said that she did
anything stiffly. "Monsieur Laballière." That was all she said.
"Mademoiselle St. Denys Godolph," and that was all he said. But
ceremony did not sit easily upon him.
"Mademoiselle," he began, as soon as seated, "I am here as the bearer
of a message from your mother. You must understand that otherwise I
would not be here."
"I do understan', sir, that you an' maman have become very warm frien's
during my absence," she returned, in measured, conventional tones.
"It pleases me immensely to hear that from you," he responded, warmly;
"to believe that Madame St. Denys Godolph is my friend."
Suzanne coughed more affectedly than was quite nice, and patted her
glossy braids. "The message, if you please, Mr. Laballière."
"To be sure," pulling himself together from the momentary abstraction
into which he had fallen in contemplating her. "Well, it's just this;
your mother, you must know, has been good enough to sell me a fine bit
of land--a deep strip along the bayou"--
"Impossible! _Mais_, w'at sorcery did you use to obtain such a thing of
my mother, Mr. Laballière? Lan' that has been in the St. Denys Godolph
family since time untole!"
"No sorcery whatever, Mademoiselle, only an appeal to your mother's
intelligence and common sense; and she is well supplied with both. She
wishes me to say, further, that she desires your presence very urgently
and your immediate return home."
"My mother is unduly impatient, surely," replied Suzanne, with chilling
politeness.
"May I ask, mademoiselle," he broke in, with an abruptness that was
startling, "the name of the man with whom you were walking this
afternoon?"
She looked at him with unaffected astonishment, and told him: "I hardly
understan' yo' question. That gentleman is Mr. Hector Santien, of
one of the firs' families of Natchitoches; a warm ole frien' an' far
distant relative of mine."
"Oh, that's his name, is it, Hector Santien? Well, please don't walk
on the New Orleans streets again with Mr. Hector Santien."
"Yo' remarks would be insulting if they were not so highly amusing, Mr.
Laballière."
"I beg your pardon if I am insulting; and I have no desire to be
amusing," and then Laballière lost his head. "You are at liberty to
walk the streets with whom you please, of course," he blurted, with
ill-suppressed passion, "but if I encounter Mr. Hector Santien in your
company again, in public, I shall wring his neck, then and there, as
I would a chicken; I shall break every bone in his body"--Suzanne had
arisen.
"You have said enough, sir. I even desire no explanation of yo' words."
"I did n't intend to explain them," he retorted, stung by the
insinuation.
"You will escuse me further," she requested icily, motioning to retire.
"Not till--oh, not till you have forgiven me," he cried impulsively,
barring her exit; for repentance had come swiftly this time.
But she did not forgive him. "I can wait," she said. Then he stepped
aside and she passed by him without a second glance.
She sent word to Hector the following day to come to her. And when he
was there, in the late afternoon, they walked together to the end of
the vine-sheltered gallery,--where the air was redolent with the odor
of spring blossoms.
"Hector," she began, after a while, "some one has told me I should not
be seen upon the streets of New Orleans with you."
He was trimming a long rose-stem with his sharp penknife. He did not
stop nor start, nor look embarrassed, nor anything of the sort.
"Indeed!" he said.
"But, you know," she went on, "if the saints came down from heaven to
tell me there was a reason for it, I could n't believe them."
"You wouldn't believe them, _ma petite Suzanne_?" He was getting all
the thorns off nicely, and stripping away the heavy lower leaves.
"I want you to look me in the face, Hector, and tell me if there is any
reason."
He snapped the knife-blade and replaced the knife in his pocket; then
he looked in her eyes, so unflinchingly, that she hoped and believed
it presaged a confession of innocence that she would gladly have
accepted. But he said indifferently: "Yes, there are reasons."
"Then I say there are not," she exclaimed excitedly; "you are amusing
your-self--laughing at me, as you always do. There are no reasons that
I will hear or believe. You will walk the streets with me, will you
not, Hector?" she entreated, "and go to church with me on Sunday; and,
and--oh, it's nonsense, nonsense for you to say things like that!"
He held the rose by its long, hardy stem, and swept it lightly and
caressingly across her forehead, along her cheek, and over her pretty
mouth and chin, as a lover might have done with his lips. He noticed
how the red rose left a crimson stain behind it.
She had been standing, but now she sank upon the bench that was there,
and buried her face in her palms. A slight convulsive movement of the
muscles indicated a suppressed sob.
"Ah, Suzanne, Suzanne, you are not going to make yourself unhappy about
a _bon à rien_ like me. Come, look at me; tell me that you are not." He
drew her hands down from her face; and held them a while, bidding her
good-by. His own face wore the quizzical look it often did, as if he
were laughing at her.
"That work at the store is telling on your nerves, _mignonne_. Promise
me that you will go back to the country. That will be best."
"Oh, yes; I am going back home, Hector."
"That is right, little cousin," and he patted her hands kindly, and
laid them both down gently into her lap.
He did not return; neither during the week nor the following Sunday.
Then Suzanne told Maman Chavan she was going home. The girl was not too
deeply in love with Hector: but imagination counts for something, and
so does youth.
* * * * *
Laballière was on the train with her. She felt, somehow, that he would
be. And yet she did not dream that he had watched and waited for her
each morning since he parted from her.
He went to her without preliminary of manner or speech, and held out
his hand; she extended her own unhesitatingly. She could not understand
why, and she was a little too weary to strive to do so. It seemed as
though the sheer force of his will would carry him to the goal of his
wishes.
He did not weary her with attentions during the time they were
together. He sat apart from her, conversing for the most time with
friends and acquaintances who belonged in the sugar district through
which they traveled in the early part of the day.
She wondered why he had ever left that section to go up into
Natchitoches. Then she wondered if he did not mean to speak to her at
all. As if he had read the thought, he went and sat down beside her.
He showed her, away off across the country, where his mother lived, and
his brother Alcée, and his cousin Clarisse.
* * * * *
On Sunday morning, when Maman Chavan strove to sound the depth of
Hector's feeling for Suzanne, he told her again:
"Women, my dear Maman Chavan, you know how it is with me in regard to
women," and he refilled her glass from the bottle of sauterne.
"_Farceur va!_" and Maman Chavan laughed, and her fat shoulders
quivered under the white _volante_ she wore.
A day or two later, Hector was walking down Canal Street at four in
the afternoon. He might have posed, as he was, for a fashion-plate.
He looked not to the right nor to the left; not even at the women who
passed by. Some of them turned to look at him.
When he approached the corner of Royal, a young man who stood there
nudged his companion.
"You know who that is?" he said, indicating Hector.
"No; who?"
"Well, you are an innocent. Why, that's Deroustan, the most notorious
gambler in New Orleans."
[Footnote 1: A term still applied in Louisiana to mulattoes who were
never in slavery, and whose families in most instances were themselves
slave owners.]