The summer night was hot and still; not a ripple of air swept over the
marais. Yonder, across Bayou St. John, lights twinkled here and there
in the darkness, and in the dark sky above a few stars were blinking. A
lugger that had come out of the lake was moving with slow, lazy motion
down the bayou. A man in the boat was singing a song.
The notes of the song came faintly to the ears of old Manna Loulou,
herself as black as the night, who had gone out upon the gallery to
open the shutters wide.
Something in the refrain reminded the woman of an old, half-forgotten
Creole romance, and she began to sing it low to herself while she threw
the shutters open:--
"Lisett' to kité la plaine,
Mo perdi bonhair à moué;
Ziés à moué semblé fontaine,
Dépi mo pa miré toué."
And then this old song, a lover's lament for the loss of his mistress,
floating into her memory, brought with it the story she would tell to
Madame, who lay in her sumptuous mahogany bed, waiting to be fanned and
put to sleep to the sound of one of Manna Loulou's stories. The old
negress had already bathed her mistress's pretty white feet and kissed
them lovingly, one, then the other. She had brushed her mistress's
beautiful hair, that was as soft and shining as satin, and was the
color of Madame's wedding-ring. Now, when she reëntered the room, she
moved softly toward the bed, and seating herself there began gently to
fan Madame Delisle.
Manna Loulou was not always ready with her story, for Madame would hear
none but those which were true. But to-night the story was all there
in Manna Loulou's head--the story of la belle Zoraïde--and she told
it to her mistress in the soft Creole patois, whose music and charm no
English words can convey.
La belle Zoraïde had eyes that were so dusky, so beautiful, that any
man who gazed too long into their depths was sure to lose his head,
and even his heart sometimes. Her soft, smooth skin was the color of
_café-au-lait_.
As for her elegant manners, her _svelte_ and graceful figure, they
were the envy of half the ladies who visited her mistress, Madame
Delarivière.
"No wonder Zoraïde was as charming and as dainty as the finest lady of
la rue Royale: from a toddling thing she had been brought up at her
mistress's side; her fingers had never done rougher work than sewing a
fine muslin seam; and she even had her own little black servant to wait
upon her. Madame, who was her godmother as well as her mistress, would
often say to her:--
"'Remember, Zoraïde, when you are ready to marry, it must be in a way
to do honor to your bringing up. It will be at the Cathedral. Your
wedding gown, your corbeille, all will be of the best; I shall see to
that myself. You know, M'sieur Ambroise is ready whenever you say the
word; and his master is willing to do as much for him as I shall do for
you. It is a union that will please me in every way.'
M'sieur Ambroise was then the body servant of Doctor Langlé. La belle
Zoraïde detested the little mulatto, with his shining whiskers like
a white man's, and his small eyes, that were cruel and false as a
snake's. She would cast down her own mischievous eyes, and say:--
"'Ah, nénaine, I am so happy, so contented here at your side just as I
am. I don't want to marry now; next year, perhaps, or the next.' And
Madame would smile indulgently and remind Zoraïde that a woman's charms
are not everlasting.
"But the truth of the matter was, Zoraïde had seen le beau Mézor dance
the Bamboula in Congo Square. That was a sight to hold one rooted
to the ground. Mézor was as straight as a cypress-tree and as proud
looking as a king. His body, bare to the waist, was like a column of
ebony and it glistened like oil.
"Poor Zoraïde's heart grew sick in her bosom with love for le beau
Mézor from the moment she saw the fierce gleam of his eye, lighted by
the inspiring strains of the Bamboula, and beheld the stately movements
of his splendid body swaying and quivering through the figures of the
dance.
"But when she knew him later, and he came near her to speak with her,
all the fierceness was gone out of his eyes, and she saw only kindness
in them and heard only gentleness in his voice; for love had taken
possession of him also, and Zoraïde was more distracted than ever.
When Mézor was not dancing Bamboula in Congo Square, he was hoeing
sugar-cane, barefooted and half naked, in his master's field outside of
the city. Doctor Langlé was his master as well as M'sieur Ambroise's.
"One day, when Zoraïde kneeled before her mistress, drawing on Madame's
silken stockings, that were of the finest, she said: "'Nénaine, you
have spoken to me often of marrying. Now, at last, I have chosen a
husband, but it is not M'sieur Ambroise; it is le beau Mézor that I
want and no other.' And Zoraïde hid her face in her hands when she
had said that, for she guessed, rightly enough, that her mistress
would be very angry. And, indeed, Madame Delarivière was at first
speechless with rage. When she finally spoke it was only to gasp out,
exasperated:--
"'That negro! that negro! Bon Dieu Seigneur, but this is too much!'
"'Am I white, nénaine?' pleaded Zoraïde.
"'You white! _Malheureuse!_ You deserve to have the lash laid upon
you like any other slave; you have proven yourself no better than the
worst.'
"'I am not white,' persisted Zoraïde, respectfully and gently. 'Doctor
Langlé gives me his slave to marry, but he would not give me his son.
Then, since I am not white, let me have from out of my own race the one
whom my heart has chosen.'
"However, you may well believe that Madame would not hear to that.
Zoraïde was forbidden to speak to Mézor, and Mézor was cautioned
against seeing Zoraïde again. But you know how the negroes are,
Ma'zélle Titite," added Manna Loulou, smiling a little sadly. "There
is no mistress, no master, no king nor priest who can hinder them from
loving when they will. And these two found ways and means.
"When months had passed by, Zoraïde, who had grown unlike
herself,--sober and preoccupied,--said again to her mistress:--
"'Nénaine, you would not let me have Mézor for my husband; but I have
disobeyed you, I have sinned. Kill me if you wish, nénaine: forgive me
if you will; but when I heard le beau Mézor say to me, "Zoraïde, mo
l'aime toi," I could have died, but I could not have helped loving him.'
"This time Madame Delarivière was so actually pained, so wounded at
hearing Zoraïde's confession, that there was no place left in her
heart for anger. She could utter only confused reproaches. But she was
a woman of action rather than of words, and she acted promptly. Her
first step was to induce Doctor Langlé to sell Mézor. Doctor Langlé,
who was a widower, had long wanted to marry Madame Delarivière, and
he would willingly have walked on all fours at noon through the Place
d'Armes if she wanted him to. Naturally he lost no time in disposing of
le beau Mézor, who was sold away into Georgia, or the Carolinas, or one
of those distant countries far away, where he would no longer hear his
Creole tongue spoken, nor dance Calinda, nor hold la belle Zoraïde in
his arms.
"The poor thing was heartbroken when Mézor was sent away from her, but
she took comfort and hope in the thought of her baby that she would
soon be able to clasp to her breast.
"La belle Zoraïde's sorrows had now begun in earnest. Not only sorrows
but sufferings, and with the anguish of maternity came the shadow of
death. But there is no agony that a mother will not forget when she
holds her first-born to her heart, and presses her lips upon the baby
flesh that is her own, yet far more precious than her own.
"So, instinctively, when Zoraïde came out of the awful shadow she gazed
questioningly about her and felt with her trembling hands upon either
side of her. 'Où li, mo piti a moin? where is my little one?' she asked
imploringly. Madame who was there and the nurse who was there both told
her in turn, 'To piti à toi, li mouri' ('Your little one is dead'),
which was a wicked falsehood that must have caused the angels in
heaven to weep. For the baby was living and well and strong. It had at
once been removed from its mother's side, to be sent away to Madame's
plantation, far up the coast. Zoraïde could only moan in reply, 'Li
mouri, li mouri,' and she turned her face to the wall.
"Madame had hoped, in thus depriving Zoraïde of her child, to have her
young waiting-maid again at her side free, happy, and beautiful as of
old. But there was a more powerful will than Madame's at work--the
will of the good God, who had already designed that Zoraïde should
grieve with a sorrow that was never more to be lifted in this world.
La belle Zoraïde was no more. In her stead was a sad-eyed woman who
mourned night and day for her baby. 'Li mouri, li mouri,' she would
sigh over and over again to those about her, and to herself when others
grew weary of her complaint.
"Yet, in spite of all, M'sieur Ambroise was still in the notion to
marry her. A sad wife or a merry one was all the same to him so long as
that wife was Zoraïde. And she seemed to consent, or rather submit, to
the approaching marriage as though nothing mattered any longer in this
world.
"One day, a black servant entered a little noisily the room in which
Zoraïde sat sewing. With a look of strange and vacuous happiness upon
her face, Zoraïde arose hastily. 'Hush, hush,' she whispered, lifting a
warning finger, 'my little one is asleep; you must not awaken her.'
"Upon the bed was a senseless bundle of rags shaped like an infant in
swaddling clothes. Over this dummy the woman had drawn the mosquito
bar, and she was sitting contentedly beside it. In short, from that day
Zoraïde was demented. Night nor day did she lose sight of the doll that
lay in her bed or in her arms.
"And now was Madame stung with sorrow and remorse at seeing this
terrible affliction that had befallen her dear Zoraïde. Consulting with
Doctor Langlé, they decided to bring back to the mother the real baby
of flesh and blood that was now toddling about, and kicking its heels
in the dust yonder upon the plantation.
"It was Madame herself who led the pretty, tiny little "griffe" girl to
her mother. Zoraïde was sitting upon a stone bench in the courtyard,
listening to the soft splashing of the fountain, and watching the
fitful shadows of the palm leaves upon the broad, white flagging.
"'Here,' said Madame, approaching, 'here, my poor dear Zoraïde, is your
own little child. Keep her; she is yours. No one will ever take her
from you again.'
"Zoraïde looked with sullen suspicion upon her mistress and the child
before her. Reaching out a hand she thrust the little one mistrustfully
away from her. With the other hand she clasped the rag bundle fiercely
to her breast; for she suspected a plot to deprive her of it.
"Nor could she ever be induced to let her own child approach her; and
finally the little one was sent back to the plantation, where she was
never to know the love of mother or father.
"And now this is the end of Zoraïde's story. She was never known again
as la belle Zoraïde, but ever after as Zoraïde la folle, whom no one
ever wanted to marry--not even M'sieur Ambroise. She lived to be an old
woman, whom some people pitied and others laughed at--always clasping
her bundle of rags--her 'piti.'
"Are you asleep, Ma'zélle Titite?"
"No, I am not asleep; I was thinking. Ah, the poor little one, Man
Loulou, the poor little one! better had she died!"
But this is the way Madame Delisle and Manna Loulou really talked to
each other:--
"Vou pré droumi, Ma'zélle Titite?"
"Non, pa pré droumi; mo yapré zongler. Ah, la pauv' piti, Man Loulou.
La pauv' piti! Mieux li mouri!"