Long before the first gun had been fired at Fort Sumter, Madame la
Marquise was able to laugh over that summer-time madness of hers, and
ridicule herself for the wasted force of that infatuation.
She was no longer a recluse unacquainted with men. The prophecy of
Madame, the dowager, that if left alone she would return to the
convent, had not been verified. The death of the dowager occurred
their first winter in Paris, after Geneva, and the Marquise had not
yet shown a predilection for nunneries.
She had seen the world, and it pleased her well enough; indeed, the
portion of the world she came in contact with did its best to please
her, and with a certain feverish eagerness she went half way to meet
it.
People called her a coquette--the most dangerous of coquettes, because
she was not a cold one. She was responsive and keenly interested up to
the point where admirers declared themselves, and proposals of
marriage followed; after _that_, every man was just like every other
one! Yet she was possessed of an idea that somewhere there existed a
hitherto undiscovered specimen who could discuss the emotions and the
philosophies in delightful sympathy, and restrain the expression of
his own personal emotions to tones and glances, those indefinite
suggestions that thrill yet call for no open reproof--no reversal of
friendship.
So, that was the man she was seeking in the multitudes--and on the
way there were surely amusements to be found!
Dumaresque remonstrated. She defended herself with the avowal that she
was only avenging weaker womanhood, smiled at, won, and forgotten, as
his sex were fond of forgetting.
"But we expect better things of women," he declared warmly; "not a
deliberate intention of playing with hearts to see how many can be
hurt in a season. Judithe, you are no longer the same woman. Where is
the justice you used to gauge every one by? Where the mercy to others
weaker than yourself?"
"Gone!" she laughed lightly; "driven away in self-defense! I have had
to put mercy aside lest it prove my master. The only safeguard against
being too warm to all may be to be cool to all. You perceive that
would never--never do. So--!"
"End all this unsatisfied, feverish life by marrying me," he pleaded.
"I will take you from Paris. With all your social success you have
never been happy here; we will travel. You promised, Judithe, and--"
"Chut! Loris; you are growing ungallant. You should never remember a
woman's promise after she has forgotten it. We were betrothed--yes.
But did I not assure you I might never marry? Maman was made happy for
a little while by the fancy; but now?--well, matrimony is no more
appealing to me than it ever was, and you would not want an
indifferent wife. I like you, you best of all those men you champion,
but I love none of you! Not that I am lacking in affection, but
rather, incapable of concentrating it on one object."
"Once, it was not so; I have not forgotten the episode of Fontainbleu."
"That? Pouf! I have learned things since then, Loris. I have learned
that once, at least, in every life love seems to have been born on
earth for the first time; happy those whom it does not visit too late!
Well! I, also, had to have my little experience; it had to be _some_
one; so it was that stranger. But I have outgrown all that; we always
outgrow those things, do we not? I compare him now with the men I have
known since, and he shrinks, he dwindles! I care only for intellectual
men, and the artistic temperament. He had neither. Yes, it is true;
the girlish fancies appear ridiculous in so short a time."
Dumaresque agreed that it was true of any fancy, to one of fickle
nature.
"No, it is not fickleness," she insisted. "Have you no boyish loves of
the past hidden away, each in their separate nook of memory? Confess!
Are you and the world any the worse for them? Certainly not. They each
contributed a certain amount towards the education of the emotions.
Well; is my education to be neglected because you fear I shall injure
the daintily-bound books in the human library? I shall not, Loris. I
only flutter the leaves a little and glance at the pictures they
offer, but I never covet one of them for my own, and never read one to
the finale, hence--"
Dumaresque left soon after for an extended artistic pilgrimage into
northern Africa, and people began to understand that there would be no
wedding. The engagement had only been made to comfort the dowager.
Judithe de Caron regretted his departure more than she had regretted
anything since the death of the woman who had been a mother to her.
There was no one else with whom she could be so candid--no man who
inspired her with the same confidence. She compared him with the
American, and told herself how vastly her friend was the superior.
Had McVeigh been one of the scholarly soldiers of Europe, such as she
had since known--men of breadth and learning, she could have
understood her own infatuation. But he was certainly provincial, and
not at all learned. She had met many cadets since, and had studied
them. They knew their military tactics--the lessons of their schools.
They flirted with the grissettes, and took on airs; they drank and had
pride in emptying more glasses and walking straighter afterwards than
their comrades. They were very good fellows, but heavens! how shallow
they were! So _he_ must have been. She tried to remember a single
sentence uttered by him containing wisdom of any sort whatever--there
had not been one. His silences had been links to bind her to him. His
glances had been revelations, and his words had been only: "I adore
you."
So many men had said the same thing since. It seemed always the sort
of thing men said when conversation flagged. But in those earlier days
she had not known that, hence the fact that she--well, she knew now!
Twice she had met that one-time bondwoman, Kora, and the meeting left
her thoughtful, and not entirely satisfied with herself.
How wise she could be in advice to that pretty butterfly! How plainly
she could work out a useful life to be followed by--some one else!
Her more thoughtful moods demanded: Why not herself? Her charities
of the street, her subscriptions to worthy funds, her patronage
of admirable institutions, all these meant nothing. Dozens of
fashionables and would-be fashionables did the same. It was
expected of them. Those charities opened a door through which
many entered the inner circles.
She had fitful desires to do the things people did not expect. She
detested the shams of life around her in that inner circle. She felt
at times she would like to get them all under her feet--trample them
down and make room for something better; but for what? She did not
know. She was twenty-one, wealthy, her own mistress, and was tired of
it all. When she drove past laughing Kora on the avenue she was more
tired of it than ever.
"How am I better than she but by accident?" she asked herself. "She
amuses herself--poor little bondslave, who has only changed masters! I
amuse myself (without a master, it is true, and more elegantly,
perhaps), but with as little usefulness to the world."
She felt ashamed when she thought of Alain and his mother, who seemed
to have lived only to help others. They had given over the power to
her, and how poorly she had acquitted herself!
Once--when she first came with the dowager to Paris--the days had been
all too short for her plans and dreams of usefulness; how long ago
that seemed.
Now, she knew that the owner of wealth is the victim of multitudinous
schemes of the mendicant, whether of the street corner or the
fashionable missions. She had lost faith in the efficacy of alms. No
cause came to her with force enough to re-awaken her enthusiasms.
Everything was so tame--so old!
One day she read in a journal that the usefulness of Kora as a dancer
was over. There had been an accident at the theatre, her foot was
smashed; not badly enough to call for amputation, but too much for her
ever to dance again.
The Marquise wondered if the fair-weather friends would desert her
now. She had heard of Trouvelot, an exquisite who followed the
fashions in everything, and Kora had succeeded in being the fashion
for two seasons. She was just as pretty, no doubt--just as adorable,
but--
As the weeks of that winter went by rumors from the Western world were
thick with threats of strife. State after State had seceded. The South
was marshalling her forces, training her men, urging the necessity of
defending State rights and maintaining their power to govern a portion
as ably as they had the whole of the United States during the eighty
years of its governmental life. The North, with its factories, its
foreign commerce, and its manifold requirements, had bred the
politicians of the country. But the South, with its vast agricultural
States, its wealth, and its traditions of landed ancestry, had
produced the orators--the statesman--the men who had shone most
brilliantly in the pages of their national history.
From the shores of France one could watch some pretty moves in the
games evolving about that promise of civil war; the creeping forward
of England to help widen the breach between the divided sections, and
the swift swinging of Russian war vessels into the harbors of the
Atlantic--the silent bear of the Russias facing her hereditary English
foe and forbidding interference, until the lion gave way with low
growlings, not daring to even roar his chagrin, but contenting himself
with night-prowlings during the four years that followed.
All those wheels within wheels were discussed around the Marquise de
Caron in those days. Her acquaintance with the representatives of
different nations and the diplomats of her own, made her aware of many
unpublished moves for advantage in the game they surveyed. The
discussion of them, and guesses as to the finale, helped to awake her
from the lethargy she had deplored. Remembering that the McVeighs
belonged to a seceding state, she asked many questions and forgot none
of the replies.
"Madame La Marquise, I was right," said a white moustached general one
night at a great ball, where she appeared. "Was it not a rose you
wagered me? I have won. War is declared in America. In South Carolina,
today, the Confederates won the first point, and secured a Federal
fort."
"General! they have not dared!"
"Madame, those Southerons are daring above everything. I have met
them. Their men are fighters, and they will be well officered."
Well officered! She thought of Kenneth McVeigh, he would be one of
them; yes, she supposed that was one thing he could do--fight; a thing
requiring brute strength, brute courage!
"So!" said the Countess Biron, who seldom was acquainted with the
causes of any wars outside those of court circles, "this means that if
the Northern States should retaliate and conquer, all the slaves would
be free?"
"Not at all, Countess. The North does not interfere with slavery where
it exists, only protests against its extension to greater territory."
"Oh! Well; I understood it had something to do with the Africans. That
clever young Delaven devoted an entire hour to my enlightenment
yesterday. And my poor friend, Madame McVeigh, you remember her,
Judithe? She is in the Carolinas. I tremble to think of her position
now; an army of slaves surrounding them, and, of course, only awaiting
the opportunity for insurrection."
"And Louisiana seceded two months ago," said the Marquise, and then
smiled. "You will think me a mercenary creature," she declared, "but I
have property in New Orleans which I have never seen, and I am
wondering whether its value will rise or fall because of the proposed
change of government."
"You have never seen it?"
"No; it was a purchase made by my husband from some home-sick
relative, who had thought to remain there, but could not live away
from France. I have promised myself to visit it some day. It would be
exceedingly difficult to do so now, I suppose, but how much more
spirited a journey it would be; for each side will have vessels on
guard all along the coast, will they not?"
"There will at least be enough to deter most ladies from taking
adventurous pilgrimages in that direction. I shall not advise you to
go unless under military escort, Marquise."
"I shall notify you, General, when my preparations are made; in the
meantime here is your rose; and would not my new yacht do for the
journey?"
So, jesting and questioning, she accepted his arm and made the circle
of the rooms. Everywhere they heard fragments of the same topic.
Americans were there from both sections. She saw a pretty woman from
Alabama nod and smile, but put her hands behind her when a hitherto
friendly New Yorker gave her greeting.
"We women can't do much to help," she declared, in those soft tones of
the South, "but we can encourage our boys by being pronounced in our
sympathies. I certainly shall not shake hands with a Northerner who
may march with the enemy against our men; how can I?"
"Suppose we talk it over and try to find a way," he suggested. Then
they both smiled and passed on together. Judithe de Caron found
herself watching them with a little ache in her heart. She could see
they were almost, if not quite, lovers; yet all their hopes were
centered on opposite victories. How many--many such cases there must
be!
* * * * *
Before spring had merged into summer, a lady, veiled, and giving no
name, was announced to the Marquise. Rather surprised at the
mysterious call, she entered the reception room, and was again
surprised when the lifted veil disclosed the handsome face of the
octoroon, Kora.
She had lost some of her brilliant color, and her expression was more
settled, it had less of the butterfly brightness.
"You see, Madame, I have at last taken you at your word."
The Marquise, who was carefully noting the alteration in her, bowed,
but made no remark. The face of the octoroon showed uncertainty.
"Perhaps--perhaps I have waited too long," she said, and half rose.
"No, no; you did right to come. I expected you--yes, really! Now be
seated and tell me what it is."
"First, that you were a prophetess, Madame," and the full lips smiled
without merriment. "I am left alone, now that I have neither money nor
the attraction for the others. He only followed the crowd--to me, and
away from me!"
"Well?"
"Well, it is not about _that_ I come! But, Madame, I am going to
America; not to teach, as you advised, but I see now a way in which I
can really help."
"Help whom?"
Her visitor regarded her with astonishment; was it possible that she,
the woman whose words had aroused the first pride of race in her, the
first thought of her people unlinked with shame! That she had so soon
forgotten? Had she remembered the pupil, but failed to recall the
lesson taught?
"You have probably forgotten the one brief conversation with which you
honored me, Madame. But I mean the people we discussed then--my
people."
"You mean the colored people."
"Certainly, Madame."
"But you are more white than colored."
"Oh, yes; that is true, but the white blood would not count in America
if it were known there was one drop of black blood in my mother. But
no one need know it; I go from France, I will speak only French, and
if you would only help me a little."
She grew prettier in her eagerness, and her eyes brightened. The
Marquise smiled at the change enthusiasm made.
"You must tell me the object for which you go."
"It is the war, Madame; in time this war must free the colored folks;
it is talked of already; it is said the North will put colored
soldiers in the field; that will be the little, thin edge of the
wedge, and if I could only get there, if you would help me to some
position, or a recommendation to people in New Orleans; any way so
that people would not ask questions or be curious about me--if you
would only do that madame!"
"But what will you do when there?"
The girl glanced about the room and spoke more softly.
"I am trusting you, Madame, without asking who you side with in our
war, but even if you are against us I--I trust you! They tell me the
South is the strongest. They have been getting ready for this a long
time. The North will need agents in the South. I have learned some
things here--people talk so much. I am going to Washington. From
there I will go south. No one will know me in New Orleans. I will
change my name, and I promise not to bring discredit on any
recommendation you may give me."
"It is a plan filled with difficulties and dangers. What has moved you
to contemplate such sacrifices?"
"You, Madame!" The Marquise flushed slightly. "From the time you
talked to me I wanted to do something, be something better. But, you
know, it seemed no use; there was no need of me anywhere but in Paris.
That is all over. I can go now, and I have some information worth
taking to the Federal government. The South has commissioners here
now. I have learned all they have accomplished, and the people they
have interested, so if I had a little help--"
"You shall have it!" declared the Marquise. "I have been dying of
ennui. Your plan is a cure for me--better than a room full of
courtiers! But if I give you letters it must be to my lawyers in New
Orleans--clever, shrewd men--and I should have to trust you entirely,
remember."
"I shall not forget, Madame."
"Very good; come tomorrow. What can you do about an establishment such
as mine? Ladies maid? Housekeeper? Governess?"
"Any of those; but only governess to very small children."
"Come tomorrow. I shall have planned something by then. I have an
engagement in a few minutes, and have no more time today. By the way,
have you ever been in Georgia or South Carolina?"
Kora hesitated, and then said: "Yes, Madame."
"Have you any objection to going back there?"
The octoroon looked at her in a startled, suspicious way.
"I hesitate to reply to that, Madame, for reasons! I don't mind
telling you, though, that there is one place in America where I might
be claimed, if they knew me. I am not anxious to visit that place."
"Naturally! Tomorrow at eleven I will see you, and you can tell me all
about it. If I am to act as your protectress I must know all you can
tell me--_all_! It is the only way. I like the mystery and intrigue of
the whole affair. It promises new sensations. I will help you show
that government that you are willing to help your people. Come
tomorrow."
A few days later the Marquise set her new amusement on foot by bidding
adieu to a demure, dark eyed, handsome girl, who was garbed most
sedately, and whose letters of introduction pronounced her--oh,
sentiment or irony of women--Madame Louise Trouvelot, an attache of
the Caron establishment, commissioned by the Marquise to inspect the
dwellings on the Caron estate in New Orleans, and report as to whether
any one of them would be suitable for a residence should the owner
desire to visit the city. If none should prove so, Louise Trouvelot,
who comprehended entirely the needs of the Marquise, was further
commissioned to look up such a residence with a view to purchase, and
communicate with the Marquise and with her American lawyers, who were
to give assistance to Louise Trouvelot in several business matters,
especially relating to her quest.