As the day was pleasant, Madame Valmondé drove over to L'Abri to see
Désirée and the baby.
It made her laugh to think of Désirée with a baby. Why, it seemed
but yesterday that Désirée was little more than a baby herself; when
Monsieur in riding through the gateway of Valmondé had found her lying
asleep in the shadow of the big stone pillar.
The little one awoke in his arms and began to cry for "Dada." That was
as much as she could do or say. Some people thought she might have
strayed there of her own accord, for she was of the toddling age. The
prevailing belief was that she had been purposely left by a party of
Texans, whose canvas-covered wagon, late in the day, had crossed the
ferry that Coton Maïs kept, just below the plantation. In time Madame
Valmondé abandoned every speculation but the one that Désirée had
been sent to her by a beneficent Providence to be the child of her
affection, seeing that she was without child of the flesh. For the girl
grew to be beautiful and gentle, affectionate and sincere,--the idol
of Valmondé.
It was no wonder, when she stood one day against the stone pillar in
whose shadow she had lain asleep, eighteen years before, that Armand
Aubigny riding by and seeing her there, had fallen in love with her.
That was the way all the Aubignys fell in love, as if struck by a
pistol shot. The wonder was that he had not loved her before; for he
had known her since his father brought him home from Paris, a boy of
eight, after his mother died there. The passion that awoke in him that
day, when he saw her at the gate, swept along like an avalanche, or
like a prairie fire, or like anything that drives headlong over all
obstacles.
Monsieur Valmondé grew practical and wanted things well considered:
that is, the girl's obscure origin. Armand looked into her eyes and did
not care. He was reminded that she was nameless. What did it matter
about a name when he could give her one of the oldest and proudest in
Louisiana? He ordered the corbeille from Paris, and contained himself
with what patience he could until it arrived; then they were married.
Madame Valmondé had not seen Désirée and the baby for four weeks. When
she reached L'Abri she shuddered at the first sight of it, as she
always did. It was a sad looking place, which for many years had not
known the gentle presence of a mistress, old Monsieur Aubigny having
married and buried his wife in France, and she having loved her own
land too well ever to leave it. The roof came down steep and black
like a cowl, reaching out beyond the wide galleries that encircled
the yellow stuccoed house. Big, solemn oaks grew close to it, and
their thick-leaved, far-reaching branches shadowed it like a pall.
Young Aubigny's rule was a strict one, too, and under it his negroes
had forgotten how to be gay, as they had been during the old master's
easy-going and indulgent lifetime.
The young mother was recovering slowly, and lay full length, in her
soft white muslins and laces, upon a couch. The baby was beside her,
upon her arm, where he had fallen asleep, at her breast. The yellow
nurse woman sat beside a window fanning herself.
Madame Valmondé bent her portly figure over Désirée and kissed her,
holding her an instant tenderly in her arms. Then she turned to the
child.
"This is not the baby!" she exclaimed, in startled tones. French was
the language spoken at Valmondé in those days.
"I knew you would be astonished," laughed Désirée, "at the way he has
grown. The little _cochon de lait!_ Look at his legs, mamma, and his
hands and finger-nails,--real finger-nails. Zandrine had to cut them
this morning. Is n't it true, Zandrine?"