When the half dozen little ones were hungry, old Cléophas would take
the fiddle from its Hannel bag and play a tune upon it. Perhaps it was
to drown their cries, or their hunger, or his conscience, or all three.
One day Fifine, in a rage, stamped her small foot and clinched her
little hands, and declared:
"It's no two way'! I'm goin' smash it, dat fiddle, some day in a
t'ousan' piece'!"
"You mus' n' do dat, Fifine," expostulated her father. "Dat fiddle been
ol'er 'an you an' me t'ree time' put togedder. You done yaird me tell
often 'nough 'bout dat _Italien_ w'at give it to me w'en he die, 'long
yonder befo' de war. An' he say, 'Cléophas, dat fiddle--dat one part my
life--w'at goin' live w'en I be dead--_Dieu merci!_ 'You talkin' too
fas', Fifine."
"Well, I'm goin' do some'in' wid dat fiddle, _va!_" returned the
daughter, only half mollified. "Mine w'at I say."
So once when there were great carryings-on up at the big
plantation--no end of ladies and gentlemen from the city,
riding, driving, dancing, and making music upon all manner of
instruments--Fifine, with the fiddle in its flannel bag, stole away and
up to the big house where these festivities were in progress.
No one noticed at first the little barefoot girl seated upon a step of
the veranda and watching, lynx-eyed, for her opportunity.
"It's one fiddle I got for sell," she announced, resolutely, to the
first who questioned her.
It was very funny to have a shabby little girl sitting there wanting to
sell a fiddle, and the child was soon surrounded.
The lustreless instrument was brought forth and examined, first with
amusement, but soon very seriously, especially by three gentlemen: one
with very long hair that hung down, another with equally long hair that
stood up, the third with no hair worth mentioning.
These three turned the fiddle upside down and almost inside out. They
thumped upon it, and listened. They scraped upon it, and listened. They
walked into the house with it, and out of the house with it, and into
remote corners with it. All this with much putting of heads together,
and talking together in familiar and unfamiliar languages. And,
finally, they sent Fifine away with a fiddle twice as beautiful as the
one she had brought, and a roll of money besides!
The child was dumb with astonishment, and away she flew. But when she
stopped beneath a big chinaberry-tree, to further scan the roll of
money, her wonder was redoubled. There was far more than she could
count, more than she had ever dreamed of possessing. Certainly enough
to top the old cabin with new shingles; to put shoes on all the little
bare feet and food into the hungry mouths. Maybe enough--and Fifine's
heart fairly jumped into her throat at the vision--maybe enough to buy
Blanchette and her tiny calf that Unc' Siméon wanted to sell!
"It's jis like you say, Fifine," murmured old Cléophas, huskily, when
he had played upon the new fiddle that night. "It's one fine fiddle;
an' like you say, it shine' like satin. But some way or udder, 't ain'
de same. Yair, Fifine, take it--put it 'side. I b'lieve, me, I ain'
goin' play de fiddle no mo'."