La Petite had determined upon trying to fit herself to the strange,
narrow existence which she knew awaited her at Côte Joyeuse. It went
well enough at first. Sometimes she followed Ma'ame Pélagie into the
fields to note how the cotton was opening, ripe and white; or to count
the ears of corn upon the hardy stalks. But oftener she was with her
aunt Pauline, assisting in household offices, chattering of her brief
past, or walking with the older woman arm-in-arm under the trailing
moss of the giant oaks.
Mam'selle Pauline's steps grew very buoy-ant that summer, and her
eyes were sometimes as bright as a bird's, unless La Petite were away
from her side, when they would lose all other light but one of uneasy
expectancy. The girl seemed to love her well in return, and called her
endearingly Tan'-tante. But as the time went by, La Petite became very
quiet,--not listless, but thoughtful, and slow in her movements. Then
her cheeks began to pale, till they were tinged like the creamy plumes
of the white crèpe myrtle that grew in the ruin.
One day when she sat within its shadow, between her aunts, holding a
hand of each, she said: "Tante Pélagie, I must tell you something, you
and Tan'tante." She spoke low, but clearly and firmly. "I love you
both,--please remember that I love you both. But I must go away from
you. I can't live any longer here at Côte Joyeuse."
A spasm passed through Mam'selle Pauline's delicate frame. La Petite
could feel the twitch of it in the wiry fingers that were intertwined
with her own. Ma'ame Pélagie remained unchanged and motionless. No
human eye could penetrate so deep as to see the satisfaction which her
soul felt. She said: "What do you mean, Petite? Your father has sent
you to us, and I am sure it is his wish that you remain."
"My father loves me, tante Pélagie, and such will not be his wish when
he knows. Oh!" she continued with a restless movement, "it is as
though a weight were pressing me backward here. I must live another
life; the life I lived before. I want to know things that are happening
from day to day over the world, and hear them talked about. I want my
music, my books, my companions. If I had known no other life but this
one of privation, I suppose it would be different. If I had to live
this life, I should make the best of it. But I do not have to; and you
know, tante Pélagie, you do not need to. It seems to me," she added in
a whisper, "that it is a sin against myself. Ah, Tan'tante!--what is
the matter with Tan'tante?"
It was nothing; only a slight feeling of faintness, that would soon
pass. She entreated them to take no notice; but they brought her some
water and fanned her with a palmetto leaf.
But that night, in the stillness of the room, Mam'selle Pauline sobbed
and would not be comforted. Ma'ame Pélagie took her in her arms.
"Pauline, my little sister Pauline," she entreated, "I never have seen
you like this before. Do you no longer love me? Have we not been happy
together, you and I?"
"Oh, yes, Sesœur."
"Is it because La Petite is going away?"
"Yes, Sesœur."
"Then she is dearer to you than I!" spoke Ma'ame Pélagie with sharp
resentment. "Than I, who held you and warmed you in my arms the day you
were born; than I, your mother, father, sister, everything that could
cherish you. Pauline, don't tell me that."
Mam'selle Pauline tried to talk through her sobs.
"I can't explain it to you, Sesœur. I don't understand it myself. I
love you as I have always loved you; next to God. But if La Petite goes
away I shall die. I can't understand,--help me, Sesœur. She seems
--she seems like a saviour; like one who had come and taken me by the
hand and was leading me somewhere--somewhere I want to go."
Ma'ame Pélagie had been sitting beside the bed in her peignoir and
slippers. She held the hand of her sister who lay there, and smoothed
down the woman's soft brown hair. She said not a! word, and the silence
was broken only by Ma'mselle Pauline's continued sobs. Once Ma'ame
Pélagie arose to drink of orange-flower water, which she gave to her
sister, as she would have offered it to a nervous, fretful child.
Almost an hour passed before Ma'ame Pélagie spoke again. Then she
said:--
"Pauline, you must cease that sobbing, now, and sleep. You will make
yourself ill. La Petite will not go away. Do you hear me? Do you
understand? She will stay, I promise you."
Mam'selle Pauline could not clearly comprehend, but she had great faith
in the word of her sister, and soothed by the promise and the touch of
Ma'ame Pélagie's strong, gentle hand, she fell asleep.