Ma'ame Pélagie, when she saw that her sister slept, arose noiselessly
and stepped outside upon the low-roofed narrow gallery. She did not
linger there, but with a step that was hurried and agitated, she
crossed the distance that divided her cabin from the ruin.
The night was not a dark one, for the sky was clear and the moon
resplendent. But light or dark would have made no difference to Ma'ame
Pélagie. It was not the first time she had stolen away to the ruin at
night-time, when the whole plantation slept; but she never before had
been there with a heart so nearly broken. She was going there for the
last time to dream her dreams; to see the visions that hitherto had
crowded her days and nights, and to bid them farewell.
There was the first of them, awaiting her upon the very portal; a
robust old white-haired man, chiding her for returning home so late.
There are guests to be entertained. Does she not know it? Guests from
the city and from the near plantations. Yes, she knows it is late. She
had been abroad with Félix, and they did not notice how the time was
speeding. Félix is there; he will explain it all. He is there beside
her, but she does not want to hear what he will tell her father.
Ma'ame Pélagie had sunk upon the bench where she and her sister so
often came to sit. Turning, she gazed in through the gaping chasm of
the window at her side. The interior of the ruin is ablaze. Not with
the moonlight, for that is faint beside the other one--the sparkle
from the crystal candelabra, which negroes, moving noiselessly and
respectfully about, are lighting, one after the other. How the gleam
of them reflects and glances from the polished marble pillars!
The room holds a number of guests. There is old Monsieur Lucien
Santien, leaning against one of the pillars, and laughing at something
which Monsieur Lafirme is telling him, till his fat shoulders shake.
His son Jules is with him--Jules, who wants to marry her. She laughs.
She wonders if Félix has told her father yet. There is young Jerome
Lafirme playing at checkers upon the sofa with Léandre. Little Pauline
stands annoying them and disturbing the game. Léandre reproves her. She
begins to cry, and old black Clémentine, her nurse, who is not far off,
limps across the room to pick her up and carry her away. How sensitive
the little one is! But she trots about and takes care of herself better
than she did a year or two ago, when she fell upon the stone hall floor
and raised a great "bo-bo" on her forehead. Pélagie was hurt and angry
enough about it; and she ordered rugs and buffalo robes to be brought
and laid thick upon the tiles, till the little one's steps were surer.
"Il ne faut pas faire mal à Pauline."