Mr. Fred Bartner was sorely perplexed and annoyed to find that a wheel
and tire of his buggy threatened to part company.
"Ef you want," said the negro boy who drove him, "we kin stop yonda at
ole M'sié Jean Ba's an' fix it; he got de bes' black-smif shop in de
pa'ish on his place."
"Who in the world is old Monsieur Jean Ba," the young man inquired.
"How come, suh, you don' know old M'sié Jean Baptiste Plochel? He ole,
ole. He sorter quare in he head ev' sence his son M'sié Alcibiade got
kill' in de wah. Yonda he live'; whar you sees dat che'okee hedge
takin' up half de road."
Little more than twelve years ago, before the "Texas and Pacific" had
joined the cities of New Orleans and Shreveport with its steel bands,
it was a common thing to travel through miles of central Louisiana in
a buggy. Fred Bartner, a young commission merchant of New Orleans,
on business bent, had made the trip in this way by easy stages from
his home to a point on Cane River, within a half day's journey of
Natchitoches. From the mouth of Cane River he had passed one plantation
after another,--large ones and small ones. There was nowhere sight
of anything like a town, except the little hamlet of Cloutierville,
through which they had sped in the gray dawn. "Dat town, hit's ole,
ole; mos' a hund'ed year' ole, dey say. Uh, uh, look to me like it heap
ol'r an' dat," the darkey had commented. Now they were within sight of
Monsieur Jean Ba's towering Cherokee hedge.
It was Christmas morning, but the sun was warm and the air so soft and
mild that Bartner found the most comfortable way to wear his light
overcoat was across his knees. At the entrance to the plantation he
dismounted and the negro drove away toward the smithy which stood on
the edge of the field.
From the end of the long avenue of magnolias that led to it, the house
which confronted Bartner looked grotesquely long in comparison with its
height. It was one story, of pale, yellow stucco; its massive wooden
shutters were a faded green. A wide gallery, topped by the overhanging
roof, encircled it.
At the head of the stairs a very old man stood. His figure was small
and shrunken, his hair long and snow-white. He wore a broad, soft
felt hat, and a brown plaid shawl across his bent shoulders. A tall,
graceful girl stood beside him; she was clad in a warm-colored blue
stuff gown. She seemed to be expostulating with the old gentleman,
who evidently wanted to descend the stairs to meet the approaching
visitor. Before Bartner had had time to do more than lift his hat,
Monsieur Jean Ba had thrown his trembling arms about the young man and
was exclaiming in his quavering old tones: "À la fin! mon fils! à la
fin!" Tears started to the girl's eyes and she was rosy with confusion.
"Oh, escuse him, sir; please escuse him," she whisperingly entreated,
gently striving to disengage the old gentleman's arms from around
the astonished Bartner. But a new line of thought seemed fortunately
to take possession of Monsieur Jean Ba, for he moved away and went
quickly, pattering like a baby, down the gallery. His fleecy white hair
streamed out on the soft breeze, and his brown shawl flapped as he
turned the corner.
Bartner, left alone with the girl, proceeded to introduce himself and
to explain his presence there.
"Oh! Mr. Fred Bartna of New Orleans? The commission merchant!" she
exclaimed, cordially extending her hand. "So well known in Natchitoches
parish. Not _our_ merchant, Mr. Bartna," she added, naively, "but jus'
as welcome, all the same, at my gran'father's."
Bartner felt like kissing her, but he only bowed and seated himself in
the big chair which she offered him. He wondered what was the longest
time it could take to mend a buggy tire.
She sat before him with her hands pressed down into her lap, and with
an eagerness and pretty air of being confidential that were extremely
engaging, explained the reasons for her grandfather's singular behavior.
Years ago, her uncle Alcibiade, in going away to the war, with the
cheerful assurance of youth, had promised his father that he would
return to eat Christmas dinner with him. He never returned. And now, of
late years, since Monsieur Jean Ba had begun to fail in body and mind,
that old, unspoken hope of long ago had come back to live anew in his
heart. Every Christmas Day he watched for the coming of Alcibiade.
"Ah! if you knew, Mr. Bartna, how I have endeavor' to distrac' his mine
from that thought! Weeks ago, I tole to all the negroes, big and li'le,
'If one of you dare to say the word, Christmas gif', in the hearing of
Monsieur Jean Baptiste, you will have to answer it to me.'"
Bartner could not recall when he had been so deeply interested in a
narration.
"So las' night, Mr. Bartna, I said to grandpère, 'Pépère, you know
to-morrow will be the great feas' of la Trinité; we will read our
litany together in the morning and say a _chapelet_.' He did not answer
a word; _il est malin, oui_. But this morning at day-light he was
rapping his cane on the back gallery, calling together the negroes. Did
they not know it was Christmas Day, an' a great dinner mus' be prepare'
for his son Alcibiade, whom he was especting!"
"And so he has mistaken me for his son Alcibiade. It is very
unfortunate," said Bartner, sympathetically. He was a good-looking,
honest-faced young fellow.
The girl arose, quivering with an inspiration. She approached Bartner,
and in her eagerness laid her hand upon his arm.
"Oh, Mr. Bartna, if you will do me a favor! The greates' favor of my
life!"
He expressed his absolute readiness.
"Let him believe, jus' for this one Christmas day, that you are his
son. Let him have that Christmas dinner with Alcibiade, that he has
been longing for so many year'."
Bartner's was not a puritanical conscience, but truthfulness was a
habit as well as a principle with him, and he winced. "It seems to me
it would be cruel to deceive him; it would not be"--he did not like to
say "right," but she guessed that he meant it.
"Oh, for that," she laughed, "you may stay as w'ite as snow, Mr.
Bartna. _I_ will take all the sin on my conscience. I assume all the
responsibility on my shoulder'."
"Esmée!" the old man was calling as he came trotting back, "Esmée, my
child," in his quavering French, "I have ordered the dinner. Go see to
the arrangements of the table, and have everything faultless."
* * * * *
The dining-room was at the end of the house, with windows opening upon
the side and back galleries. There was a high, simply carved wooden
mantelpiece, bearing a wide, slanting, old-fashioned mirror that
reflected the table and its occupants. The table was laden with an
overabundance. Monsieur Jean Ba sat at one end, Esmée at the other, and
Bartner at the side.
Two "_grif_" boys, a big black woman and a little mulatto girl waited
upon them; there was a reserve force outside within easy call, and
the little black and yellow faces kept bobbing up constantly above
the window-sills. Windows and doors were open, and a fire of hickory
branches blazed on the hearth.
Monsieur Jean Ba ate little, but that little greedily and rapidly; then
he stayed in rapt contemplation of his guest.
"You will notice, Alcibiade, the flavor of the turkey," he said. "It is
dressed with pecans; those big ones from the tree down on the bayou. I
had them gathered expressly." The delicate and rich flavor of the nut
was indeed very perceptible.
Bartner had a stupid impression of acting on the stage, and had to pull
himself together every now and then to throw off the stiffness of the
amateur actor. But this discomposure amounted almost to paralysis when
he found Mademoiselle Esmée taking the situation as seriously as her
grandfather.
"_Mon Dieu!_ uncle Alcibiade, you are not eating! _Mais_ w'ere have you
lef' your appetite? Corbeau, fill your young master's glass. Doralise,
you are neglecting Monsieur Alcibiade; he is without bread."
Monsieur Jean Ba's feeble intelligence reached out very dimly; it
was like a dream which clothes the grotesque and unnatural with the
semblance of reality. He shook his head up and down with pleased
approbation of Esmée's "Uncle Alcibiade," that tripped so glibly on her
lips. When she arranged his after-dinner _brûlot_,--a lump of sugar
in a flaming teaspoonful of brandy, dropped into a tiny cup of black
coffee,--he reminded her, "Your Uncle Alcibiade takes two lumps, Esmée.
The scamp! he is fond of sweets. Two or three lumps, Esmée." Bartner
would have relished his brûlot greatly, prepared so gracefully as it
was by Esmée's deft hands, had it not been for that superfluous lump.
After dinner the girl arranged her grandfather comfortably in his
big armchair on the gallery, where he loved to sit when the weather
permitted. She fastened his shawl about him and laid a second one
across his knees. She shook up the pillow for his head, patted his
sunken cheek and kissed his forehead under the soft-brimmed hat. She
left him there with the sun warming his feet and old shrunken knees.
Esmée and Bartner walked together under the magnolias. In walking they
trod upon the violet borders that grew rank and sprawling, and the
subtle perfume of the crushed flowers scented the air deliciously. They
stooped and plucked handfuls of them. They gathered roses, too, that
were blooming yet against the warm south end of the house; and they
chattered and laughed like children. When they sat in the sunlight
upon the low steps to arrange the flowers they had broken, Bartner's
conscience began to prick him anew.
"You know," he said, "I can't stay here always, as well as I should
like to. I shall have to leave presently; then your grandfather will
discover that we have been deceiving him,--and you can see how cruel
that will be."
"Mr. Bartna," answered Esmée, daintily holding a rosebud up to her
pretty nose, "W'en I awoke this morning an' said my prayers, I prayed
to the good God that He would give one happy Christmas day to my
gran'father. He has answered my prayer; an' He does not sen' his gif's
incomplete. He will provide.
"Mr. Bartna, this morning I agreed to take all responsibility on my
shoulder', you remember? Now, I place all that responsibility on the
shoulder' of the blessed Virgin."
Bartner was distracted with admiration; whether for this beautiful and
consoling faith, or its charming votary, was not quite clear to him.
Every now and then Monsieur Jean Ba would call out, "Alcibiade, _mon
fils!_" and Bartner would hasten to his side. Sometimes the old man had
forgotten what he wanted to say. Once it was to ask if the salad had
been to his liking, or if he would, perhaps, not have preferred the
turkey _aux truffes_.
"Alcibiade, _mon fils!_" Again Bartner amiably answered the summons.
Monsieur Jean Ba took the young man's hand affectionately in his, but
limply, as children hold hands. Bartner's closed firmly around it.
"Alcibiade, I am going to take a little nap now. If Robert McFarlane
comes while I am sleeping, with more talk of wanting to buy Nég
Sévérin, tell him I will sell none of my slaves; not the least little
_négrillon_. Drive him from the place with the shot-gun. Don't be
afraid to use the shot-gun, Alcibiade,--when I am asleep,--if he comes."
Esmée and Bartner forgot that there was such a thing as time, and that
it was passing. There were no more calls of "Alcibiade, _mon fils!_" As
the sun dipped lower and lower in the west, its light was creeping,
creeping up and illuming the still body of Monsieur Jean Ba. It lighted
his waxen hands, folded so placidly in his lap; it touched his shrunken
bosom. When it reached his face, another brightness had come there
before it,--the glory of a quiet and peaceful death.
* * * * *
Bartner remained over night, of course, to add what assistance he could
to that which kindly neighbors offered.
In the early morning, before taking his departure, he was permitted to
see Esmée. She was overcome with sorrow, which he could hardly hope to
assuage, even with the keen sympathy which he felt.
"And may I be permitted to ask, Mademoiselle, what will be your plans
for the future?"
"Oh," she moaned, "I cannot any longer remain upon the ole plantation,
which would not be home without grandpère. I suppose I shall go to live
in New Orleans with my _tante_ Clémentine." The last was spoken in the
depths of her handkerchief.
Bartner's heart bounded at this intelligence in a manner which he could
not but feel was one of unbecoming levity. He pressed her disengaged
hand warmly, and went away.
The sun was again shining brightly, but the morning was crisp and
cool; a thin wafer of ice covered what had yesterday been pools or
water in the road. Bartner buttoned his coat about him closely. The
shrill whistles of steam cotton-gins sounded here and there. One or
two shivering negroes were in the field gathering what shreds of
cotton were left on the dry, naked stalks. The horses snorted with
satisfaction, and their strong hoof-beats rang out against the hard
ground.
"Urge the horses," Bartner said; "they 've had a good rest and we want
to push on to Natchitoches."
"You right, suh. We done los' a whole blesse' day,--a plumb day."
"Why, so we have," said Bartner, "I had n't thought of it."