Old Uncle Oswald believed he belonged to the Bênitous, and there was
no getting the notion out of his head. Monsieur tried every way, for
there was no sense in it. Why, it must have been fifty years since the
Bênitous owned him. He had belonged to others since, and had later been
freed. Beside, there was not a Bênitou left in the parish now, except
one rather delicate woman, who lived with her little daughter in a
corner of Natchitoches town, and constructed "fashionable millinery."
The family had dispersed, and almost vanished, and the plantation as
well had lost its identity.
But that made no difference to Uncle Oswald. He was always running away
from Monsieur--who kept him out of pure kindness--and trying to get
back to those Bênitous.
More than that, he was constantly getting injured in such attempts.
Once he fell into the bayou and was nearly drowned. Again he barely
escaped being run down by an engine. But another time, when he had been
lost two days, and finally discovered in an unconscious and half-dead
condition in the woods, Monsieur and Doctor Bonfils reluctantly decided
that it was time to "do something" with the old man.
So, one sunny spring morning, Monsieur took Uncle Oswald in the buggy,
and drove over to Natchitoches with him, intending to take the evening
train for the institution in which the poor creature was to be cared
for.
It was quite early in the afternoon when they reached town, and
Monsieur found himself with several hours to dispose of before
train-time. He tied his horses in front of the hotel--the quaintest
old stuccoed house, too absurdly unlike a "hotel" for anything--and
entered. But he left Uncle Oswald seated upon a shaded bench just
within the yard.
There were people occasionally coming in and going out; but no one took
the smallest notice of the old negro drowsing over the cane that he
held between his knees. The sight was common in Natchitoches.
One who passed in was a little girl about twelve, with dark, kind
eyes, and daintily carrying a parcel. She was dressed in blue calico,
and wore a stiff white sun-bonnet, extinguisher fashion, over her brown
curls.
Just as she passed Uncle Oswald again, on her way out, the old man,
half asleep, let fall his cane. She picked it up and handed it back to
him, as any nice child would have done.
"Oh, thankee, thankee, missy," stammered Uncle Oswald, all confused
at being waited upon by this little lady. "You is a putty li'le gal.
W'at's yo' name, honey?"
"My name's Susanne; Susanne Bênitou," replied the girl.
Instantly the old negro stumbled to his feet. Without a moment's
hesitancy he followed the little one out through the gate, down the
street, and around the corner.
It was an hour later that Monsieur, after a distracted search, found
him standing upon the gallery of the tiny house in which Madame Bênitou
kept "fashionable millinery."
Mother and daughter were sorely perplexed to comprehend the intentions
of the venerable servitor, who stood, hat in hand, persistently
awaiting their orders.
Monsieur understood and appreciated the situation at once, and he has
prevailed upon Madame Bênitou to accept the gratuitous services of
Uncle Oswald for the sake of the old darky's own safety and happiness.
Uncle Oswald never tries to run away now. He chops wood and hauls
water. He cheerfully and faithfully bears the parcels that Susanne used
to carry; and makes an excellent cup of black coffee.
I met the old man the other day in Natchitoches, contentedly stumbling
down St. Denis street with a basket of figs that some one was sending
to his mistress. I asked him his name.
"My name's Oswal', Madam; Oswal'--dat's my name. I b'longs to de
Bênitous," and some one told me his story then.