“We are going out of here together,” said Mario; “but John and I will conduct you only to the door of the hut. Thence we shall return to the flatboat, and all that two men can do to save our fortune shall be done. You, monsieur, have enough to do to take care of your daughters. To you, M. Carpentier–to you, son Celestino, I give the care of these women and children.”
“I can take care of myself,” said Maggie.
“You are four, well armed,” continued Mario. (My father had his gun and pistols.) “This dog is worth two men. You have no risks to run; the danger, if there be any, will be with the boat. Seeing us divided, they may venture an attack; but one of you stand by the window that faces the shore. If one of those men in the hut leaves it, or shows a wish to do so, fire one pistol-shot out of the window, and we shall be ready for them; but if you are attacked, fire two shots and we will come. Now, forward!”
We went slowly and cautiously: ‘Tino first, with a lantern; then the Irish pair and child; then Mario, leading his two younger boys, and Celeste, with her daughter asleep in her arms; and for rear-guard papa with one of us on each arm, and Joseph with his precious burden. The wind and the irregularities of the ground made us stumble at every step. The rain lashed us in the face and extorted from time to time sad lamentations from the children. But, for all that, we were in a few minutes at the door of the hovel.
“M. Carpentier,” said Mario, “I give my family into your care.” Joseph made no answer but to give his hand to the Italian. Mario strode away, followed by Gordon.
“Knock on the door,” said Joseph to ‘Tino. The boy knocked. No sound was heard inside, except the growl of a dog.
“Knock again.” The same silence. “We can’t stay here in this beating rain; open and enter,” cried Carpentier. ‘Tino threw wide the door and we walked in.
There was but one room. A large fire burned in a clay chimney that almost filled one side of the cabin. In one corner four or five chickens showed their heads. In another, the woman was lying on a wretched pallet in all her clothes. By her slept the little creature Suzanne had found, her ribbon still on her frock. Near one wall was a big chest on which another child was sleeping. A rough table was in the middle, on it some dirty tin plates and cups, and under it half a dozen dogs and two little boys. I never saw anything else like it. On the hearth stood the pot and skillet, still half full of hominy and meat.
Kneeling by the fire was a young man molding bullets and passing them to his father, seated on a stool at a corner of the chimney, who threw them into a jar of water, taking them out again to even them with the handle of a knife. I see it still as if it was before my eyes.
The woman opened her eyes, but did not stir. The dogs rose tumultuously, but Tom showed his teeth and growled, and they went back under the table. The young man rose upon one knee, he and his father gazing stupidly at us, the firelight in their faces. We women shrank against our protectors, except Maggie, who let go a strong oath. The younger man was frightfully ugly; pale-faced, large-eyed, haggard, his long, tangled, blonde hair on his shoulders. The father’s face was written all over with depravity and crime. Joseph advanced and spoke to him.
“What the devil of a language is that?” he asked of his son in English.
“He is asking you,” said Maggie, “to let us stay here till the storm is over.”
“And where do you come from this way?”
“From that flatboat tied to the bank.”
“Well, the house isn’t big nor pretty, but you are its masters.”
Maggie went and sat by the window, ready to give the signal. Pat sank at her feet, and laying his head upon Tom went straight to sleep. Papa sat down by the fire on an inverted box and took me on one knee. With her head against his other, Suzanne crouched upon the floor. We were silent, our hearts beating hard, wishing ourselves with mamma in St. James. Joseph set Alix upon a stool beside him and removed her wrapping.
“Hello!” said the younger stranger, “I thought you were carrying a child. It’s a woman!”
An hour passed. The woman in the corner seemed to sleep; Celeste, too, slumbered. When I asked Suzanne, softly, if she was asleep, she would silently shake her head. The men went on with their task, not speaking. At last they finished, divided the balls between them, put them into a leather pouch at their belt, and the father, rising, said:
“Let us go. It is time.”
Maggie raised her head. The elder man went and got his gun and loaded it with two balls, and while the younger was muffling himself in an old blanket-overcoat such as we give to plantation negroes, moved towards the door and was about to pass out. But quicker than lightning Maggie had raised the window, snatched a pistol from her belt, and fired. The two men stood rooted, the elder frowning at Maggie. Tom rose and showed two rows of teeth.
“What did you fire that pistol for? What signal are you giving?”
“That is understood at the flatboat,” said Maggie, tranquilly. “I was to fire if you left the house. You started, I fired, and that’s all.”
“—-! And did you know, by yourself, what we were going to do?”
“I haven’t a doubt. You were simply going to attack and rob the flatboat.”
A second oath, fiercer than the first, escaped the man’s lips. “You talk that way to me! Do you forget that you’re in my power?”
“Ah! Do you think so?” cried Maggie, resting her fists on her hips. “Ah, ha, ha!” That was the first time I ever heard her laugh–and such a laugh! “Don’t you know, my dear sir, that at one turn of my hand this dog will strangle you like a chicken? Don’t you see four of us here armed to the teeth, and at another signal our comrades yonder ready to join us in an instant? And besides, this minute they are rolling a little cannon up to the bow of the boat. Go, meddle with them, you’ll see.” She lied, but her lie averted the attack. She quietly sat down again and paid the scoundrel not the least attention.
“And that’s the way you pay us for taking you in, is it? Accuse a man of crime because he steps out of his own house to look at the weather? Well, that’s all right.” While the man spoke he put his gun into a corner, resumed his seat, and lighted a cob pipe. The son had leaned on his gun during the colloquy. Now he put it aside and lay down upon the floor to sleep. The awakened children slept. Maggie sat and smoked. My father, Joseph, and ‘Tino talked in low tones. All at once the old ruffian took his pipe from his mouth and turned to my father.
“Where do you come from?”
“From New Orleans, sir.”
“How long have you been on the way?”
“About a month.”
“And where are you going,” etc. Joseph, like papa, remained awake, but like him, like all of us, longed with all his soul for the end of that night of horror.
At the first crowing of the cock the denizens of the hut were astir. The father and son took their guns and went into the forest. The fire was relighted. The woman washed some hominy in a pail and seemed to have forgotten our presence; but the little girl recognized Alix, who took from her own neck a bright silk handkerchief and tied it over the child’s head, put a dollar in her hand, and kissed her forehead. Then it was Suzanne’s turn. She covered her with kisses. The little one laughed, and showed the turban and the silver that “the pretty lady,” she said, had given her. Next, my sister dropped, one by one, upon the pallet ten dollars, amazing the child with these playthings; and then she took off her red belt and put it about her little pet’s neck.
My father handed me a handful of silver. “They are very poor, my daughter; pay them well for their hospitality.” As I approached the woman I heard Joseph thank her and offer her money.
“What do you want me to do with that?” she said, pushing my hand away. “Instead of that, send me some coffee and tobacco.”
That ended it; I could not pay in money. But when I looked at the poor woman’s dress so ragged and torn, I took off [J’autai] my shawl, which was large and warm, and put it on her shoulders,–I had another in the boat,–and she was well content. When I got back to the flatboat I sent her some chemises, petticoats, stockings, and a pair of shoes. The shoes were papa’s. Alix also sent her three skirts and two chemises, and Suzanne two old dresses and two chemises for her children, cutting down what was too large. Before quitting the hut Celeste had taken from her two lads their knitted neckerchiefs and given them to the two smaller boys, and Maggie took the old shawl that covered Pat’s shoulders and threw it upon the third child, who cried out with joy. At length we returned to our vessel, which had triumphantly fought the wind and floating trees. Mario took to the cabin our gifts, to which we added sugar, biscuits, and a sack of pecans.
X.
ALIX PUTS AWAY THE PAST.
For two weeks more our boat continued its slow and silent voyage among the bayous. We saw signs of civilization, but they were still far apart. These signs alarmed Mario. He had already chosen his place of abode and spoke of it with his usual enthusiasm; a prairie where he had camped for two weeks with his young hunters five years before.
“A principality–that is what I count on establishing there,” he cried, pushing his hand through his hair. “And think!–if, maybe, some one has occupied it! Oh, the thief! the robber! Let him not fall into my hands! I’ll strangle–I’ll kill him!”
My father, to console him, would say that it would be easy to find other tracts just as fine.
“Never!” replied he, rolling his eyes and brandishing his arms; and his fury would grow until Maggie cried:
“He is Satan himself! He’s the devil!”
One evening the flatboat stopped a few miles only from where is now the village of Pattersonville. The weather was magnificent, and while papa, Gordon, and Mario went hunting, Joseph, Alix, and we two walked on the bank. Little by little we wandered, and, burying ourselves in the interior, we found ourselves all at once confronting a little cottage embowered in a grove of oranges. Alix uttered a cry of admiration and went towards the house. We saw that it was uninhabited and must have been long abandoned. The little kitchen, the poultry-house, the dovecote, were in ruins. But the surroundings were admirable: in the rear a large court was entirely shaded with live-oaks; in front was the green belt of orange trees; farther away Bayou Teche, like a blue ribbon, marked a natural boundary, and at the bottom of the picture the great trees of the forest lifted their green-brown tops.
“Oh!” cried Alix, “if I could stay here I should be happy.”
“Who knows?” replied Joseph. “The owner has left the house; he may be dead. Who knows but I may take this place?”
“Oh! I pray you, Joseph, try. Try!” At that moment my father and Mario appeared, looking for us, and Alix cried:
“Welcome, gentlemen, to my domain.”
Joseph told of his wife’s wish and his hope…. “In any case,” said Mario, “count on us. If you decide to settle here we will stay two weeks–a month, if need be–to help you establish yourself.”
As soon as we had breakfasted my father and Joseph set out for a plantation which they saw in the distance. They found it a rich estate. The large, well-built house was surrounded by outbuildings, stables, granaries, and gardens; fields of cane and corn extended to the limit of view. The owner, M. Gerbeau, was a young Frenchman. He led them into the house, presented them to his wife, and offered them refreshments.
[M. Gerbeau tells the travelers how he had come from the Mississippi River parish of St. Bernard to this place with all his effects in a schooner–doubtless via the mouth of the river and the bay of Atchafalaya; while Joseph is all impatience to hear of the little deserted home concerning which he has inquired. But finally he explains that its owner, a lone Swede, had died of sunstroke two years before, and M. Gerbeau’s best efforts to find, through the Swedish consul at New Orleans or otherwise, a successor to the little estate had been unavailing. Joseph could take the place if he would. He ended by generously forcing upon the father of Francoise and Suzanne the free use of his traveling-carriage and “two horses, as gentle as lambs and as swift as deer,” with which to make their journey up the Teche to St. Martinville,[15] the gay, not to say giddy, little capital of the royalist _emigres_.]
My father wished to know what means of transport he could secure, on his return to this point, to take us home.
“Don’t let that trouble you; I will arrange that. I already have a plan–you shall see.”
The same day the work began on the Carpentier’s home. The three immigrants and ‘Tino fell bravely to work, and M. Gerbeau brought his carpenter and a cart-load of lumber. Two new rooms were added. The kitchen was repaired, then the stable, the dovecote, the poultry-house; the garden fences were restored; also those of the field. My father gave Joseph one of his cows; the other was promised to Carlo. Mme. Gerbeau was with us much, helping Alix, as were we. We often dined with her. One Sunday M. Gerbeau came for us very early and insisted that Mario and Gordon should join us. Maggie, with her usual phlegm, had declined.
At dinner our host turned the conversation upon St. Martinville, naming again all the barons, counts, and marquises of whom he had spoken to my father, and descanting especially on the grandeur of the balls and parties he had there attended.
“And we have only our camayeu skirts!” cried Suzanne.
“Daughter,” observed papa, “be content with what you have. You are neither a duchess nor a countess, and besides you are traveling.”
“And,” said M. Gerbeau, “the stores there are full of knickknacks that would capture the desires of a queen.”
On returning to our flatboat Alix came into my room, where I was alone, and laying her head on my shoulder:
“Francoise,” she said, “I have heard mentioned today the dearest friend I ever had. That Countess de la Houssaye of whom M. Gerbeau spoke is Madelaine de Livilier, my companion in convent, almost my sister. We were married nearly at the same time; we were presented at court the same day; and now here we are, both, in Louisiana!”
“O Alix!” I cried, “I shall see her. Papa has a letter to her husband; I shall tell her; she will come to see you; and–“
“No, no! You must not speak of me, Francoise. She knew and loved the Countess Alix de Morainville. I know her; she would repel with scorn the wife of the gardener. I am happy in my obscurity. Let nothing remind me of other days.”
Seeing that Alix said nothing of all this to Suzanne, I imitated her example. With all her goodness, Suzanne was so thoughtless and talkative!
FOOTNOTES:
[15] Now generally miscalled St. Martinsville.–TRANSLATOR.
XI.
ALIX PLAYS FAIRY.–PARTING TEARS.
In about fifteen days the work on the cottage was nearly done and the moving began, Celeste, and even Maggie, offering us their services. Alix seemed enchanted.
“Two things, only, I lack,” she said–“a sofa, and something to cover the walls.”
One morning M. Gerbeau sent to Carpentier a horse, two fine cows and their calves, and a number of sheep and pigs. At the same time two or three negresses, loaded down with chickens, geese, and ducks, made their appearance. Also M. Gerbeau.
“What does all this mean?” asked Joseph.
“This is the succession of the dead Swede,” replied the generous young man.
“But I have no right to his succession.”
“That’s a question,” responded M. Gerbeau. “You have inherited the house, you must inherit all. If claimants appear–well, you will be responsible to them. You will please give me a receipt in due form; that is all.”
Tears came into Carpentier’s eyes…. As he was signing the receipt M. Gerbeau stopped him. “Wait; I forgot something. At the time of Karl’s [the Swede’s] death, I took from his crib fifty barrels of corn; add that.”
“O sir!” cried Joseph, “that is too much–too much.”
“Write!” said M. Gerbeau, laying his hand on Joseph’s shoulder, “if you please. I am giving you nothing; I am relieving myself of a burden.”
* * * * *
My dear daughter, if I have talked very much about Alix it is because talking about her is such pleasure. She has been so good to my sister and me! The memory of her is one of the brightest of my youth.
The flatboat was to go in three days. One morning, when we had passed the night with Mme. Gerbeau, Patrick came running to say that “Madame ‘Lix” wished to see us at once. We hastened to the cottage. Alix met us on the gallery [veranda].
“Come in, dear girls. I have a surprise for you and a great favor to ask. I heard you say, Suzanne, you had nothing to wear–“
“But our camayeu petticoats!”
“But your camayeu petticoats.” She smiled.
“And they, it seems, do not tempt your vanity. You want better?”
“Ah, indeed we do!” replied Suzanne.
“Well, let us play Cinderella. The dresses of velvet, silk, and lace, the jewels, the slippers–all are in yonder chest. Listen, my dear girls. Upon the first signs of the Revolution my frightened mother left France and crossed into England. She took with her all her wardrobe, her jewels, the pictures from her bedroom, and part of her plate. She bought, before going, a quantity of silks and ribbons…. When I reached England my mother was dead, and all that she had possessed was restored to me by the authorities. My poor mother loved dress, and in that chest is all her apparel. Part of it I had altered for my own use; but she was much larger than I–taller than you. I can neither use them nor consent to sell them. If each of you will accept a ball toilet, you will make me very happy.” And she looked at us with her eyes full of supplication, her hands clasped.
We each snatched a hand and kissed it. Then she opened the chest, and for the first and last time in my life I saw fabrics, ornaments, and coiffures that truly seemed to have been made by the fairies. After many trials and much debate she laid aside for me a lovely dress of blue brocade glistening with large silver flowers the reflections of which seemed like rays of light. It was short in front, with a train; was very full on the sides, and was caught up with knots of ribbon. The long pointed waist was cut square and trimmed with magnificent laces that re-appeared on the half-long sleeves. The arms, to the elbow, were to be covered with white frosted gloves fastened with twelve silver buttons. To complete my toilet she gave me a blue silk fan beautifully painted, blue satin slippers with high heels and silver buckles, white silk stockings with blue clocks, a broidered white cambric handkerchief trimmed with Brussels point lace, and, last, a lovely set of silver filigree that she assured us was of slight value, comprising the necklace, the comb, the earrings, bracelets, and a belt whose silver tassels of the same design fell down the front of the dress.
My sister’s toilet was exactly like mine, save that it was rose color. Alix had us try them on. While our eyes were ravished, she, with more expert taste, decided to take up a little in one place, lower a ribbon in another, add something here, take away there, and, above all, to iron the whole with care. We staid all day helping her; and when, about 3 o’clock, all was finished, our fairy godmother said she would now dress our hair, and that we must observe closely.
“For Suzanne will have to coiffe Francoise and Francoise coiffe Suzanne,” she said. She took from the chest two pasteboard boxes that she said contained the headdresses belonging to our costumes, and, making me sit facing my sister, began to dress her hair. I was all eyes. I did not lose a movement of the comb. She lifted Suzanne’s hair to the middle of the head in two rosettes that she called _riquettes_ and fastened them with a silver comb. Next, she made in front, or rather on the forehead, with hairpins, numberless little knots, or whorls, and placed on each side of the head a plume of white, rose-tipped feathers, and in front, opposite the riquettes, placed a rose surrounded with silver leaves. Long rose-colored, silver-frosted ribbons falling far down on the back completed the headdress, on which Alix dusted handfuls of silver powder. Can you believe it, my daughter, that was the first time my sister and I had ever seen artificial flowers? They made very few of them, even in France, in those days.
While Suzanne admired herself in the mirror I took her place. My headdress differed from hers in the ends of my feathers being blue, and in the rose being white, surrounded by pale blue violets and a few silver leaves. And now a temptation came to all of us. Alix spoke first:
“Now put on your ball-dresses and I will send for our friends. What do you think?”
“Oh, that would be charming!” cried Suzanne. “Let us hurry!” And while we dressed, Pat, always prowling about the cottage, was sent to the flatboat to get his parents and the Carlos, and to M. Gerbeau’s to ask my father and M. and Mme. Gerbeau to come at once to the cottage…. No, I cannot tell the cries of joy that greeted us. The children did not know us, and Maggie had to tell Pat over and over that these were Miss Souzie and Miss Francise. My father’s eyes filled with tears as he thanked Alix for her goodness and generosity to us.
Alas! the happiest days, like the saddest, have an end. On the morrow the people in the flatboat came to say good-bye. Mario cried like a child. Celeste carried Alix’s hands to her lips and said in the midst of her tears:
“O Madame! I had got so used to you–I hoped never to leave you.”
“I will come to see you, Celeste,” replied Alix to the young mulattress, “I promise you.”
Maggie herself seemed moved, and in taking leave of Alix put two vigorous kisses on her cheeks. As to our father, and us, too, the adieus were not final, we having promised Mario and Gordon to stop [on their journey up the shore of the bayou] as soon as we saw the flatboat.
“And we hope, my dear Carlo, to find you established in your principality.”
“Amen!” responded the Italian.
Alix added to her gifts two pairs of chamois-skin gloves and a box of lovely artificial flowers. Two days after the flatboat had gone, we having spent the night with Alix, came M. Gerbeau’s carriage to take us once more upon our journey. Ah! that was a terrible moment. Even Alix could scarce hold back the tears. We refused to get into the carriage, and walked, all of us together, to M. Gerbeau’s, and then parted amid tears, kisses, and promises.
XII.
LITTLE PARIS.
[So the carriage rolled along the margin of Bayou Teche, with two big trunks besides Monsieur’s on back and top, and a smaller one, lent by Alix, lashed underneath; but shawls, mats, and baskets were all left behind with the Carpentiers. The first stop was at the plantation and residence of Captain Patterson, who “offered his hand in the English way, saying only, ‘Welcomed, young ladies.'” In 1795, the narrator stops to say, one might see in and about New Orleans some two-story houses; but along the banks of Bayou Teche, as well as on the Mississippi, they were all of one sort,–like their own; like Captain Patterson’s,–a single ground floor with three rooms facing front and three back. Yet the very next stop was at a little cottage covered with roses and with its front yard full of ducks and geese,–“‘A genuine German cottage,’ said papa,”–where a German girl, to call her father, put a great ox’s horn to her lips and blew a loud blast. Almost every one was English or German till they came to where was just beginning to be the town of Franklin. One Harlman, a German, offered to exchange all his land for the silver watch that it best suited Monsieur to travel with. The exchange was made, the acts were all signed and sealed, and–when Suzanne, twenty years after, made a visit to Attakapas there was Harlman and his numerous family still in peaceful possession of the place…. “And I greatly fear that when some day our grandchildren awaken from that apathy with which I have always reproached the Creoles, I fear, my daughter, they will have trouble to prove their titles.”
But they journeyed on, Francoise ever looking out the carriage window for the flatboat, and Suzanne crying:
“Annie, my sister Annie, do you see nothing coming?” And about two miles from where Franklin was to be they came upon it, greeted with joyous laughter and cries of “Miss Souzie! O Miss Souzie!” from the women and the children, and from Mario: “I have it, Signor! I have it! My prinicipality, Miss Souzie! It is mine, Signorina Francoise!” while he danced, laughed, and brandished his arms. “He had taken up enough land,” says Francoise, “for five principalities, and was already knocking the flatboat to pieces.”
She mentioned meeting Jacques and Charles Picot, St. Domingan refugees, whose story of adventures she says was very wonderful, but with good artistic judgement omits them. The travelers found, of course, a _charmante cordialite_ at the home of M. Agricole Fuselier[16], and saw a little girl of five who afterward became a great beauty–Uranie Fuselier. They passed another Indian village, where Francoise persuaded them not to stop. Its inhabitants were Chetimachas, more civilized than those of the village near Plaquemine, and their sworn enemies, living in constant fear of an attack from them. At New Iberia, a town founded by Spaniards, the voyagers saw “several houses, some drinking-shops and other buildings,” and spent with “the pretty little Madame Dubuclet … two of the pleasantest days of their lives.”]
At length, one beautiful evening in July, under a sky resplendent with stars, amid the perfume of gardens and caressed by the cool night breeze, we made our entry into the village of St. Martinville–the Little Paris, the oasis in the desert.
My father ordered Julien [the coachman] to stop at the best inn. He turned two or three corners and stopped near the bayou [Teche] just beside the bridge, before a house of the strangest aspect possible. There seemed first to have been built a _rez-de-chaussee_ house of ordinary size, to which had been hastily added here a room, there a cabinet, a balcony, until the “White Pelican”–I seem to see it now–was like a house of cards, likely to tumble before the first breath of wind. The host’s name was Morphy. He came forward, hat in hand, a pure-blooded American, but speaking French almost like a Frenchman. In the house all was comfortable and shining with cleanness. Madame Morphy took us to our room, adjoining papa’s [“tou ta cote de selle de papa”], the two looking out, across the veranda, upon the waters of the Teche.
After supper my father proposed a walk. Madame Morphy showed us, by its lights, in the distance, a theater!
“They are playing, this evening, ‘The Barber of Seville.'”
We started on our walk, moving slowly, scanning the houses and listening to the strains of music that reached us from the distance. It seemed but a dream that at any moment might vanish. On our return to the inn, papa threw his letters upon the table and began to examine their addresses.
“To whom will you carry the first letter, papa?” I asked.
“To the Baron du Clozel,” he replied. “I have already met him in New Orleans, and even had the pleasure to render him a slight service.”
Mechanically Suzanne and I examined the addresses and amused ourselves reading the pompous title’s.
“‘Le chevalier Louis de Blanc!'” began my sister; “‘L’honorable A. Declouet’; ‘Le comte Louis le Pelletrier de la Houssaye’! Ah!” she cried, throwing the packet upon the table, “the aristocrats! I am frightened, poor little plebeian that I am.”
“Yes, my daughter,” responded my father, “these names represent true aristocrats, as noble in virtues as in blood. My father has often told me of two uncles of the Count de la Houssaye: the first, Claude de la Pelletrier de la Houssaye, was prime minister to King Louis XV.; and the second, Barthelemy, was employed by the Minister of Finance. The count, he to whom I bear this letter, married Madelaine Victoire de Livilier. These are noble names.”
Then Alix was not mistaken; it was really her friend, the Countess Madelaine, whom I was about to meet.
FOOTNOTES:
[16] When I used the name of Agricole Fuselier (or Agricola Fusilier, as I have it in my novel “The Grandissimes”) I fully believed it was my own careful coinage; but on publishing it I quickly found that my supposed invention was but an unconscious reminiscence. The name still survives, I am told, on the Teche.–TRANSLATOR.
XIII.
THE COUNTESS MADELAINE.
Early the next day I saw, through the partly open door, my father finishing his toilet.
He had already fastened over his black satin breeches his garters secured with large buckles of chased silver. Similar buckles were on his shoes. His silver-buttoned vest of white pique reached low down, and his black satin coat faced with white silk had large lappets cut square. Such dress seemed to me very warm for summer; but the fashion and etiquette allowed only silk and velvet for visits of ceremony, and though you smothered you had to obey those tyrants. At the moment when I saw him out of the corner of my eye he was sticking a cluster diamond pin into his shirt-frill and another diamond into his lace cravat. It was the first time I ever saw papa so fine, so dressed! Presently we heard him call us to arrange his queue, and although it was impossible for us to work up a club and pigeon wings like those I saw on the two young Du Clozels and on M. Neville Declouet, we arranged a very fine queue wrapped with a black ribbon, and after smiling at himself in the glass and declaring that he thought the whole dress was in very good taste he kissed us, took his three-cornered hat and his gold-headed cane and went out. With what impatience we awaited his return!
About two hours afterward we saw papa coming back accompanied by a gentleman of a certain age, handsome, noble, elegant in his severe suit of black velvet. He had the finest black eyes in the world, and his face beamed with wit and amiability. You have guessed it was the Baron du Clozel. The baron bowed to us profoundly. He certainly knew who we were, but etiquette required him to wait until my father had presented us; but immediately then he asked papa’s permission to kiss us, and you may suppose your grandfather did not refuse.
M. du Clozel had been sent by the baroness to oppose our sojourn at the inn, and to bring us back with him.
“Run, put on your hoods,” said papa; “we will wait for you here.”
Mr. and Mrs. Morphy were greatly disappointed to see us go, and the former declared that if these nobles kept on taking away their custom they would have to shut up shop. Papa, to appease him, paid him double what he asked. And the baron gave his arm to Suzanne, as the elder, while I followed, on papa’s. Madame du Clozel and her daughter met us at the street gate. The baroness, though not young, was still pretty, and so elegant, so majestic! A few days later I could add, so good, so lovable!
Celeste du Clozel was eighteen. Her hair was black as ebony, and her eyes a beautiful blue. The young men of the village called her _Celeste la bien nommee_ [Celeste the well named]; and for all her beauty, fortune, and high position she was good and simple and always ready to oblige. She was engaged, we learned afterward, to the Chevalier de Blanc, the same who in 1803 was made post-commandant of Attakapas.[17] Olivier and Charles du Clozel turned everything to our entertainment, and it was soon decided that we should all go that same evening to the theater.
Hardly was the sun down when we shut ourselves into our rooms to begin the work of dressing. Celeste put herself at our service, assuring us that she knew perfectly how to dress hair. The baroness asked us to let her lend us ornaments, ribbons–whatever we might need. We could see that she supposed two young girls who had never seen the great world, who came from a region where nearly all articles of luxury were wanting, could hardly have a choice wardrobe. We thanked them, assuring Celeste that we had always cultivated the habit of dressing each other’s hair.
We put on our camayeu petticoats and our black velvet waists, adding gloves; and in our hair, sparkling with gold powder, we put, each of us, a bunch of the roses given us by Alix. We found ourselves charming, and hoped to create a sensation. But if the baroness was satisfied she showed no astonishment. Her hair, like her daughter’s, was powdered, and both wore gloves.
Suzanne on the arm of Olivier, I on Charles’s, Celeste beside her fiance, the grandparents in front, we entered the theater of St. Martinville, and in a moment more were the observed of all observers. The play was a vaudeville, of which I remember only the name, but rarely have I seen amateurs act so well: all the prominent parts were rendered by young men. But if the French people are polite, amiable, and hospitable, we know that they are also very inquisitive. Suzanne was more annoyed than I can tell; yet we knew that our toilets were in excellent taste, even in that place full of ladies covered with costly jewels. When I asked Celeste how the merchants of St. Martinville could procure these costly goods, she explained that near by there was a place named the _Butte a la Rose_ that greatly shortened the way to market.[18] They were bringing almost everything from London, owing to the Revolution. Between the acts many persons came to greet Madame du Clozel. Oh, how I longed to see the friend of Alix! But I would not ask anything; I resolved to find her by the aid of my heart alone.
Presently, as by a magnetic power, my attention was drawn to a tall and beautiful young lady dressed in white satin, with no ornaments except a set of gold and sapphires, and for headdress a _resille_ the golden tassels of which touched her neck. Ah! how quickly I recognized those brown eyes faintly proud, that kind smile, that queenly bearing, that graceful step! I turned to Charles du Clozel, who sat beside me, and said:
“That is the Countess de la Houssaye, isn’t it?”
“Do you know her?”
“I see her for the first time; but–I guessed it.”
Several times I saw her looking at me, and once she smiled. During the last two acts she came and shook hands with us, and, caressing our hair with her gloved hand, said her husband had seen papa’s letter; that it was from a dear friend, and that she came to ask Madame du Clozel to let her take us away with her. Against this the baroness cried out, and then the Countess Madelaine said to us:
“Well, you will come spend the day with me day after to-morrow, will you? I shall invite only young people. May I come for you?”
Ah, that day! how I remember it!… Madame de la Houssaye was fully five or six years older than Madame Carpentier, for she was the mother of four boys, the eldest of whom was fully twelve.[19] Her house was, like Madame du Clozel’s, a single rez-de-chaussee surmounted by a mansard…. From the drawing-room she conducted us to a room in the rear of the house at the end of the veranda [galerie], where … a low window let into a garden crossed and re-crossed with alleys of orange and jasmine. Several lofty magnolias filled the air with the fragrance of their great white flowers….
XIV.
“POOR LITTLE ALIX!”
Hardly had we made a few steps into the room when a young girl rose and advanced, supported on the arm of a young man slightly overdressed. His club and pigeon-wings were fastened with three or four pins of gold, and his white-powdered queue was wrapped with a black velvet ribbon shot with silver. The heat was so great that he had substituted silk for velvet, and his dress-coat, breeches, and long vest were of pearl-gray silk, changing to silver, with large silver buttons. On the lace frill of his embroidered shirt shone three large diamonds, on his cravat was another, and his fingers were covered with rings.[20] The young girl embraced us with ceremony, while her companion bowed profoundly. She could hardly have been over sixteen or seventeen. One could easily guess by her dress that the pretty creature was the slave of fashion.
“Madame du Rocher,” said Charles du Clozel, throwing a wicked glance upon her.
“Madame!” I stammered.
“Impossible!” cried Suzanne.
“Don’t listen to him!” interrupted the young lady, striking Charles’s fingers with her fan. “He is a wretched falsifier. I am called Tonton de Blanc.”
“The widow du Rocher!” cried Olivier, from the other side.
“Ah, this is too much!” she exclaimed. “If you don’t stop these ridiculous jokes at once I’ll make Neville call you out upon the field of battle.” … But a little while afterward Celeste whispered in my ear that her brothers had said truly. At thirteen years Tonton, eldest daughter of Commandant Louis de Blanc and sister of Chevalier de Blanc, had been espoused to Dr. du Rocher, at least forty years older than she. He was rich, and two years later he died, leaving all his fortune to his widow…. One after another Madame de la Houssaye introduced to us at least twenty persons, the most of whose names, unfortunately, I have forgotten. I kept notes, but have mislaid them….
A few moments before dinner the countess re-appeared among us, followed by two servants in livery bearing salvers of fruit; and while we ate she seated herself at the harpsichord and played.
“Do you sing?” she asked me.
“A little, madame.”
[The two sisters sang a song together.]
“Children,” she cried, “tell me, I pray you, who taught you that duet?”
“A young French lady, one of our friends,” replied Suzanne.
“But her name! What is her name?”
“Madame Carpentier.”
The name meant nothing to her. She sighed, and asked us to sing on…. At dinner we met again my father and the count. After dinner the countess sent for me to come to her chamber while she was nursing her babe. After a few unimportant words she said:
“You have had your lessons from a good musician.”
“Yes, madame, our friend plays beautifully on the harp.”
“On the harp! And you say her name is–“
“Madame Joseph Carpentier.”
“It is strange,” said Madame de la Houssaye. “The words of your duet are by me, and the music by my friend the Viscomptesse Alix de Morainville. All manner of things have happened in this terrible Revolution; I had for a moment the hope that she had found chance to emigrate and that you had met her. Do you know M. Carpentier?”
“Yes, madame; he was with her. He is–in fact–a laboring gardener.”
“Oh! then there is no hope. I had the thought of a second marriage, but Alix de Morainville could never stoop so low. Poor, dear, innocent little Alix! She must be dead–at the hand of butchers, as her father and her husband are.”
When we returned to the joyous company in the garden all wanted to speak at once. The countess imposed silence, and then Tonton informed us that a grand ball was proposed in our honor, to be given in the large dining-room of Mr. Morphy’s tavern, under the direction of Neville Declouet, the following Monday–that is, in four days.
Oh, that ball! I lay my pen on the table and my head in my hands and see the bright, pretty faces of young girls and richly clad cavaliers, and hear the echoes of that music so different from what we have to-day. Alas! the larger part of that company are sleeping now in the cemetery of St. Martinville.
Wherever you went, whoever you met, the ball was the subject of all conversation. All the costumes, masculine and feminine, were prepared in profound secrecy. Each one vowed to astonish, dazzle, surpass his neighbor. My father, forgetting the presents from Alix, gave us ever so much money and begged Madame du Clozel to oversee our toilets; but what was the astonishment of the dear baroness to see us buy only some vials of perfumery and two papers of pins. We paid ten dollars for each vial and fifteen for the pins!
Celeste invited us to see her costume the moment it reached her. It certainly did great honor to the dressmaker of St. Martinville. The dress was simply made, of very fine white muslin caught up _en paniers_ on a skirt of blue satin. Her beautiful black hair was to be fastened with a pearl comb, and to go between its riquettes she showed us two bunches of forget-me-nots as blue as her eyes. The extremely long-pointed waist of her dress was of the same color as the petticoat, was decollete, and on the front had a drapery of white muslin held in place by a bunch of forget-me-nots falling to the end of the point. In the whole village she could get no white gloves. She would have to let that pass and show her round white arms clasped with two large bracelets of pearls. She showed also a necklace and earrings of pearls.
Madame du Clozel, slave to the severe etiquette of that day, did not question us, but did go so far as to say in our presence that camayeu was never worn at night.
“We know that, madame,” replied my sister, slightly hurt. We decided to show our dresses to our hostess. We arranged them on the bed. When the baroness and her daughter entered our chamber they stood stupefied. The baroness spoke first.
“Oh, the villains! How they have fooled us! These things are worthy of a queen. They are court costumes.”
I said to myself, “Poor, dear little Alix!”
FOOTNOTES:
[17] Ancestor of the late Judge Alcibiade de Blanc of St. Martinville, noted in Reconstruction days.–TRANSLATOR. [18] By avoiding the Spanish custom-house.–TRANSLATOR. [19] This seems to be simply a girl’s thoughtless guess. She reports Alix as saying that Madelaine and she “were married nearly at the same time.” But this tiny, frail, spiritual Alix, who between twenty-two and twenty-three looked scant sixteen, could hardly, even in those times, have been married under the age of fifteen, that is not before 1787-8; whereas if Madelaine had been married thirteen years she would have been married when Alix was but ten years old.
This bit of careless guessing helps to indicate the genuineness of Alix’s history. For when, by the light of Francoise’s own statements, we correct this error–totally uncorrected by any earlier hand–the correction agrees entirely with the story of Alix as told in the separate manuscript. There Alix is married in March, 1789, and Madelaine about a year before. In midsummer, 1795, Madelaine had been married between seven and eight years and her infant was, likely enough, her fourth child.–TRANSLATOR.
[20] The memoirist omits to say that this person was Neville Declouet.–TRANSLATOR.
XV.
THE DISCOVERY OF THE HAT.
“Oh!” cried Celeste, “but what will Tonton say when she sees you?”
“Do not let her know a thing about it, girls,” said Madame du Clozel, “or, rather than yield the scepter of beauty and elegance for but one evening, she will stay in the white chapel. What! at sixteen you don’t know what the white chapel is? It is our bed.”
Before the ball, came Sunday. Madame du Clozel had told us that the population of the little city–all Catholics–was very pious, that the little church could hardly contain the crowd of worshipers; and Celeste had said that there was a grand display of dress there. We thought of having new dresses made, but the dressmaker declared it impossible; and so we were obliged to wear our camayeus a second time, adding only a lace scarf and a hat. A hat! But how could one get in that little town in the wilderness, amid a maze of lakes and bayous, hundreds of miles from New Orleans, so rare and novel a thing as a hat? Ah, they call necessity the mother of invention, but I declare, from experience, that vanity has performed more miracles of invention, and made greater discoveries than Galileo or Columbus.
The women of St. Martinville, Tonton at their head, had revolted against fate and declared they would have hats if they had to get them at the moon. Behold, now, by what a simple accident the hat was discovered. Tonton de Blanc had one of the prettiest complexions in the world, all lily and rose, and what care she took of it! She never went into the yard or the garden without a sunbonnet and a thick veil. Yet for all that her jealous critics said she was good and sensible, and would forget everything, even her toilet, to succor any one in trouble. One day Tonton heard a great noise in the street before her door. She was told that a child had just been crushed by a vehicle. Without stopping to ask whether the child was white or black or if it still lived, Tonton glanced around for her sun-bonnet, but, not finding it at hand, darted bareheaded into the street. At the door she met her young brother, and, as the sun was hot, she took his hat and put it on her own head. The Rubicon was crossed–Tonton had discovered the hat!
All she had heard was a false alarm. The crushed child was at play again before its mother’s door. It had been startled by a galoping team, had screamed, and instantly there had been a great hubbub and crowd. But ten minutes later the little widow, the hat in her hand, entered the domicile of its maker and astonished the woman by ordering a hat for her own use, promising five dollars if the work was done to her satisfaction. The palmetto was to be split into the finest possible strips and platted into the form furnished by Madame Tonton. It was done; and on Sunday the hat, trimmed with roses and ribbons, made its appearance in the church of St. Martin, on the prettiest head in the world. The next Sunday you could see as many hats as the hatmaker had had time to make, and before the end of the month all the women in St. Martinville were wearing palmetto hats. To-day the modistes were furnishing them at the fabulous price of twenty-five dollars,–trimmed, you understand,–and palmetto hats were really getting to be a branch of the commerce of the little city; but ours, thanks to Alix’s flowers and ribbons, cost but ten dollars.
The church was crowded. The service, performed by an old priest nearly a hundred years of age, was listened to with interest; but what astonished me was to see the crowd stop at the church door, the women kissing; to hear laughter, chat, and criticism at the door of this sacred place as if it were the public square. I understood the discontent that knit my father’s brows and the alacrity with which he descended the church steps. Tonton saw and came to us–so fresh, so young, she was indeed the queen of beauty and fashion. Out of nothing Tonton could work wonders. Her dress to-day was of camayeu the pattern of which was bunches of strawberries–the very same stuff as our dresses; but how had she made it to look so different? And her hat! It was a new marvel of her invention. She had taken a man’s felt hat and entirely covered it with the feathers of the cardinal bird, without other ornament than a bunch of white ribbon on the front and two long cords of white silk falling clear to the waist. That was the first hat of the kind I ever saw, but it was not the last. With one turn of her little hand she could make the whole female population of St. Martinville go as she pleased. Before we left St. Martinville we had the chance to admire more than fifty hats covered with the feathers of peacocks, geese, and even guinea-fowl, and–must we confess it?–when we got home we enlisted all our hunter friends to bring us numerous innocent cardinals, and tried to make us hats; but they did not look the least like the pretty widow’s.
Sunday was also the day given to visiting. Being already dressed, it was so easy to go see one’s friends…. Among the new visitors was Saint Marc d’Arby–engaged to little Constance de Blanc, aged thirteen. He came to invite us to a picnic on the coming Wednesday.
“Ah,” I cried, with regret, “the very day papa has chosen for us to leave for the town of Opelousas!” …
Since arriving in St. Martinville we had hardly seen papa. He left early each morning and returned late in the evening, telling of lands he had bought during the day. His wish was to go to Opelousas to register them…. To-day the whole town of Opelousas belongs to his heirs; but those heirs, with Creole heedlessness and afraid to spend a dollar, let strangers enjoy the possession of the beautiful lands acquired by their ancestor for so different an end. Shame on all of them!
It was decided for papa to leave us with the baroness during his visit to Opelousas.
“And be ready to depart homeward,” said he, “on the following Monday.”
XVI.
THE BALL.
The evening before that of the ball gave us lively disappointment. A fine rain began to fall. But Celeste came to assure us that in St. Martinville a storm had never prevented a ball, and if one had to go by boat, still one had to go. Later the weather improved, and several young gentlemen came to visit us…. “Will there be a supper, chevalier?” asked the baroness of her future son-in-law.–“Ah, good! For me the supper is the best part of the affair.”
Alas! man proposes. The next morning she was in bed suffering greatly with her throat. “Neither supper nor ball for me this evening,” she said. “The Countess de la Houssaye will take care of you and Celeste this evening.”…
At last our toilets were complete….
When Madame de la Houssaye opened the door and saw us, instead of approaching, she suddenly stopped with her hands clasped convulsively, and with eyes dilated and a pallor and look of astonishment that I shall never forget. I was about to speak when she ran to Suzanne and seized her by the arm.
“Child! for pity answer me! Where did that dress–these jewels, come from?”
“Madame!” said my sister, quickly taking offense.
“Francoise!” cried the countess, “you will answer me. Listen. The last time I saw the Countess Aurelie de Morainville, six years ago, was at a reception of Queen Marie Antoinette, and she wore a dress exactly like that of Suzanne’s. My child, pity my emotions and tell me where you bought that toilet.” I answered, almost as deeply moved as she:
“We did not buy it, madame. These costumes were given to us by Madame Carpentier.”
“Given! Do you know the price of these things?”
“Yes; and, moreover, Madame du Clozel has told us.”
“And you tell me a poor woman, the wife of a gardener, made you these presents. Oh! I must see this Madame Carpentier. She must have known Alix. And who knows–oh, yes, yes! I must go myself and see her.”
“And I must give her forewarning,” I said to myself. But, alas! as I have just said, “Man proposes, God disposes.” About six months after our return to St. James we heard of the death of the Countess de la Houssaye, which had occurred only two months after our leaving St. Martinville….
* * * * *
Oh, how my heart beat as I saw the lights of the ball-room and heard its waves of harmony! I had already attended several dances in the neighborhood of our home, but they could not compare with this. The walls were entirely covered with green branches mingled with flowers of all colors, especially with magnolias whose odor filled the room. Hidden among the leaves were millions of fantastically colored lampions seeming like so many glow-worms.[21] To me, poor little rustic of sixteen, it seemed supernaturally beautiful. But the prettiest part–opposite the door had been raised a platform surmounted by a dais made of three flags: the French, Spanish, and Prussian–Prussia was papa’s country. And under these colors, on a pedestal that supported them, were seen, in immense letters composed of flowers, the one German word, _Bewillkommen_! Papa explained that the word meant “Welcome.” On the platform, attired with inconceivable elegance, was the master of ceremonies, the handsome Neville Declouet himself, waiting to wish us welcome anew.
It would take volumes, my daughter, to describe the admirable toilets, masculine as well as feminine, of that memorable night. The thing is impossible. But I must describe that of the king of the festival, the young Neville, that you may understand the immense difference between the toilets of 1795 and those of 1822.
Neville had arranged his hair exactly as on the day we first saw him. It was powdered white; his pigeon-wings were fastened with the same pins of gold, and his long queue was wrapped with a rose-colored ribbon. His coat was of frosted rose silk with broad facings of black velvet. His vest came down nearly to his knees. It also was of rose silk, but covered with black buttons. His breeches, also rose, were fastened at the knees with black velvet ribbons escaping from diamond buckles and falling upon silk stockings shot alternately with black and rose. Diamonds sparkled again on his lace frill, at his wrists, on his cravat of rose silk, and on the buckles of his pumps.
I cast my eye around to find Tonton, but she had not come. Some one near me said, “Do you know who will escort Madame du Rocher to the ball?” And another said, “Here is Neville, so who will replace him at the side of the pretty widow?”
As we entered the room the Baron du Clozel passed his arm under papa’s and conducted him to the platform, while his sons, following, drew us forward to receive the tributes prepared for us. Neville bowed low and began his address. At first he spoke with feeling and eloquence, but by and by he lost the thread. He cast a look of despair upon the crowd, which did not conceal its disposition to laugh, turned again quickly towards us, passed his hand twice across his forehead, and finished with:
“Yes, I repeat it, we are glad to see you; you are welcome among us, and–I say to you only that!”
There was a general burst of laughter. But my father pitied the young man’s embarrassment. He mounted the platform, shook his hand, and thanked him, as well as all the people of St. Martinville, for his gracious welcome and their warm hospitality. Then, to our great joy, the ball opened.
It began with a minuet danced by twelve couples at once, six on each side. The minuet in vogue just then was well danced by but few persons. It had been brought to St. Martinville by emigres who had danced it at the French court … But, thanks to the lessons given us by Alix, we had the pleasure to surprise them.
Now I ought to tell you, my daughter, that these male costumes, so effeminate, extravagant, and costly, had met great opposition from part of the people of St. Martin parish. They had been brought in by the French emigres, and many had adopted them, while others had openly revolted against them. A league had been formed against them. Among its members were the Chevalier de Blanc, the elder of the d’Arbys, the Chevalier de la Houssaye, brother of the count, Paul Briant, Adrian Dumartrait, young Morse, and many others. They had thrown off entirely the fashionable dress and had replaced it with an attire much like what men wear now. It was rumored that the pretty Tonton favored the reform of which her brother was one of the chiefs.
Just as the minuet was being finished a loud murmur ran through the hall. All eyes were turned to the door and some couples confused their steps in the dance. Tonton had come. She was received with a cry of surprise; not for her beauty, not for her exquisite toilet, but because of him who entered with her.
“Great God!” exclaimed Celeste du Clozel, “it is Treville de Saint Julien!”–“Oh!” cried Madame de la Houssaye, “Tonton is a fool, an arch-fool. Does she want to see bloodshed this evening?”–“The Countess Madelaine is going to faint!” derisively whispered Olivier in my ear.
“Who,” asked Suzanne, “is Treville de Saint Julien?”
“He is ‘the hermit of Bayou Tortue,'” responded the gentle Celeste de Blanc.
“What pretense of simplicity, look you!” said Charles du Clozel, glancing towards him disdainfully.
“But look at Madame du Rocher,” cried a girl standing on a bench, “how she is dressed. What contempt of fashion and propriety! It is positively shameful.”
And Tonton, indifferent to these remarks, which she heard and to which she was accustomed, and to the furious glances thrown upon her cavalier by Neville Declouet, continued, with her arm in his, to chat and laugh with him as they walked slowly around the hall.
If I describe to you, my daughter, the toilets of Tonton and of Treville de Saint Julien, I write it for you alone, dear child, and it seems to me it would be a theft against you if I did not. But this is the last time I shall stop to describe petticoats, gowns, and knee-breeches. Treville was twenty-five; large, dark, of a manly, somber beauty. A great unhappiness had overtaken him in childhood and left a permanent trace on his forehead. He wore his hair slightly long, falling behind without queue or powder. In 1795 only soldiers retained their beard. Treville de Saint Julien, despite the fashion, kept the fine black mustache on his proud lip. His shirt, without a frill, was fastened with three gold buttons. His broad-skirted coat, long vest, and breeches were of black woolen stuff. His black stockings were also of wool. His garters and shoes were without buckles. But serving him as a garter, and forming a rosette on the front of the leg, he wore a ribbon of plaided rose and black.
And Tonton. Over a dress–a real dress, such as we have nowadays–of rose satin, with long-pointed waist, was draped another, of black lace. The folds, running entirely around the skirt, were caught up by roses surrounded by their buds and leaves. The same drapery was repeated on the waist, and in front and on the shoulders re-appeared the roses. The sleeves were very short, and the arms bare and without gloves. It was simple, but prettier than you can think. Her hair was in two wide braids, without powder, forming a heart and falling low upon the neck. Among these tresses she had placed a rose like those on the skirt. For ornaments she had only a necklace and bracelets of jet to heighten the fresh whiteness of her complexion.
They had said Tonton would die of jealousy at our rich toilets. Nothing of the sort. She came to us with her habitual grace, kissed us, ignoring etiquette and the big eyes made by the Countess Madelaine. Without an allusion to our dress or seeming to see it, she sat down between us, told us persons’ names, pointed out the beauty of this one, the pretty dress of that one, always admiring, never criticising. She knew well she was without a rival.
I amused myself watching Treville and Neville out of the corner of my eyes. Treville seemed to see but one woman in the room. He danced several times, always with her, and when he did not dance he went aside, spoke with no one, but followed with his glances her whom he seemed to adore. He made no attempt to hide his adoration; it shone from his eyes: his every movement was full of it. When she returned to her place, he came, remained before her chair, leaned towards her, listened with ravished ear, and rarely sat down by her side. It was good to watch Neville. His eyes flashed with anger, his fists fidgeted, and more than once I saw him quit the hall, no doubt to make a quarrel with his rival. Not once did he come near Tonton! Not once did he dance with her! But he danced with all the young girls in the room and pretended to be very gay. While I was dancing with him I said:
“How pretty Tonton is this evening!” And I understood the spite that made him reply:
“Ah! mademoiselle, her beauty is certainly not to be compared with yours.”
After the supper, which was magnificent, the bolero was danced. Twelve couples were engaged, continually changing partners. Tonton danced with Treville, Suzanne with Olivier, and I with Neville.
Alas, alas! all things earthly have an end, and at two in the morning the ball was over. When we reached our chamber I saw that my sister had something to tell me.
“Ah!” said she, “have patience. I will tell you after we get into bed.”
[What she told was the still famous Saint Julien feud. Treville and Neville were representatives of the two sides in that, one of the darkest vendettas known in the traditions of Louisiana. The omission of this episode in the present translation is the only liberty taken with the original that probably calls for an apology.]
FOOTNOTES:
[21] Number of millions not stated.–TRANSLATOR.
XVII.
PICNIC AND FAREWELL.
The day of the picnic rose brightly. Oh, what a day we passed under those grand trees, on the margin of that clear lake full of every imaginable sort of fish! What various games! What pleasant companions! All our friends were there except Treville de Saint Julien, and Madame Tonton gave her smiles and sweet looks to Neville, who never left her a moment. Oh, how I regretted that my father was not with us! He had gone to Opelousas. He had bought several plantations in St. Martin parish, and in a region called Fausse Pointe, and in another known as the Cote Gelee.
The days that followed were equally fete days–a dinner here, a dance there, and everywhere the most gracious reception. At length came the day for us to meet at La Fontaine–a real spring near St. Martinville, belonging to Neville Declouet’s uncle. About five in the afternoon we gathered on the bank of the bayou. We never saw Tonton twice in the same dress. To-day she was all in blue. Suddenly the sound of distant music, and an open flat–not like our boat–approached, arched over with green branches and flowers. Benches stood about, and in the middle the orchestra played. In the prow stood the captain [Neville Declouet], and during the moments of the journey the music was mingled with the laughter and songs of our joyous company. About 7 o’clock all the trees about La Fontaine were illuminated, and Neville led us to a floored place encircled by magnolia trees in bloom and by garlands running from tree to tree and mingling their perfume with the languishing odor of the magnolias. Only heaven can tell how Neville was praised and thanked.
I felt sure that Tonton’s good taste had directed the details. There was something singular in this young woman. Without education save what she had taught herself, Tonton spoke with remarkable correctness, and found means to amuse every one. Her letters were curious to see, not a single word correctly spelled; yet her style was charming, and I cannot express the pleasure they gave me, for during more than a year I received them by every opportunity that presented itself.
But to return to La Fontaine. About seven the handsome Treville de St. Julien came on a horse as black as ebony, and I saw the color mount to Suzanne’s forehead. For a wonder he paid Tonton only the attentions required by politeness, and the pretty widow, while still queen of all, belonged that evening entirely to Neville.
The following Saturday my father arrived. The next day, after mass, our friends came in a body to say adieu. And on the morrow, amid kisses, handshaking, regrets, tears, and waving handkerchiefs, we departed in the carriage that was to bear us far and forever from Little Paris, and the friends we shall never meet again. Suzanne and I wept like children. On the fourth day after, the carriage stopped before the door of M. Gerbeau’s house. I must confess we were not over-polite to Mme. Gerbeau. We embraced her hurriedly, and, leaving my father talking about lands, started on a run for Alix’s dwelling.
Oh, dear Alix! How happy she seemed to see us again! How proud to show us the innovations made in her neat little house! With what touching care had she prepared our chamber! She had wished for a sofa, and Joseph had made her one and covered it with one of the velvet robes of the Countess Aurelia de Morainville. And when we went into Alix’s own room, Suzanne, whose eye nothing ever escaped, pointed out to me, half hidden behind the mosquito-net of the bed, the prettiest little cradle in the world.
“Yes,” said Alix, blushing, “I am blessed. I am perfectly happy.”
We told her all our adventures and pleasures. She wept when she heard that the Countess de la Houssaye had not forgotten her.
“You will see her,” said Suzanne. “She will come to see you, without a doubt.”
“Ah, Heaven prevent it! Our destinies are too unlike now. Me perhaps the Countess Madelaine might welcome affectionately; but Joseph? Oh, no! My husband’s lot is mine; I have no wish for any other. It is better that she and I remain strangers.”
And Joseph? How he confessed his joy in seeing us!
During our absence M. Gerbeau had found means for us to return to St. James. It seems that two little boats, resembling steamboats in form, kept up a constant trade in wood–clapboards, _pieux_ [split boards], shingles, even cordwood–between the lakes and the Bayou Teche plantation. M. Gerbeau had taken his skiff and two oarsmen and gone in search of one of these boats, which, as he guessed, was not far away. In fact he met it in Mexican [now Berwick’s] Bay, and for two hundred dollars persuaded the captain to take us to St. James. “Yes,” said M. Gerbeau to us, “you will make in a week a journey that might have taken you two months.”
The following Monday the captain tied up at M. Gerbeau’s landing. It was a droll affair, his boat. You must have seen on plantations what they call a horse-mill–a long pole on which a man sits, and to which a horse or mule is hitched. Such was the machinery by which we moved. The boat’s cabin was all one room. The berths, one above another, ran all round the room, hung with long curtains, and men, women, and children–when there were any–were all obliged to stay in the same apartment.
We remained with Alix to the last moment. The morning we left she gave Suzanne a pretty ring, and me a locket containing her portrait. In return my sister placed upon her finger a ruby encircled with little diamonds; and I, taking off the gold medal I always wore on my neck, whispered:
“Wear it for love of me.”
She smiled. [Just as we were parting she handed me the story of her life.[22]]
At an early hour my father had our trunks, baskets, and mats sent aboard the _Sirene_; and after many tears, and promises to write and to return, we took our leave. We had quitted St. James the 20th of May. We landed there once more on the 26th of September. Need I recount the joy of my mother and sisters? You understand all that.
And now, my daughter, the tale is told. Read it to your children and assure them that all is true; that there is here no exaggeration; that they can put faith in their old grandmother’s story and take their part in her pleasures, her friendships, and her emotions.
FOOTNOTES:
[22] See “HOW I GOT THEM,” page 14.
[Illustration: PART OF FIRST PAGE, “ALIX MS.”]
ALIX DE MORAINVILLE
1773-95.
_Written in Louisiana this 22d of August, 1795, for my dear friends Suzanne and Francoise Bossier_.
I have promised you the story of my life, my very dear and good friends with whom I have had so much pleasure on board the flatboat which has brought us all to Attakapas. I now make good my promise.
And first I must speak of the place where I was born, of the beautiful Chateau de Morainville, built above the little village named Morainville in honor of its lords. This village, situated in Normandy on the margin of the sea, was peopled only and entirely by fishermen, who gained a livelihood openly by sardine-fishing, and secretly, it was said, by smuggling. The chateau was built on a cliff, which it completely occupied. This cliff was formed of several terraces that rose in a stair one above another. On the topmost one sat the chateau, like an eagle in its nest. It had four dentilated turrets, with great casements and immense galleries, that gave it the grandest possible aspect. On the second terrace you found yourself in the midst of delightful gardens adorned with statues and fountains after the fashion of the times. Then came the avenue, entirely overshaded with trees as old as Noah, and everywhere on the hill, forming the background of the picture, an immense park. How my Suzanne would have loved to hunt in that beautiful park full of deer, hare, and all sorts of feathered game!
And yet no one inhabited that beautiful domain. Its lord and mistress, the Count Gaston and Countess Aurelie, my father and mother, resided in Paris, and came to their chateau only during the hunting season, their sojourn never exceeding six weeks.
Already they had been five years married. The countess, a lady of honor to the young dauphine, Marie Antoinette, bore the well-merited reputation of being the most charming woman at the court of the king, Louis the Fifteenth. Count and countess, wealthy as they were and happy as they seemed to be, were not overmuch so, because of their desire for a son; for one thing, which is not seen in this country, you will not doubt, dear girls, exists in France and other countries of Europe: it is the eldest son, and never the daughter, who inherits the fortune and titles of the family. And in case there were no children, the titles and fortune of the Morainvilles would have to revert in one lump to the nephew of the count and son of his brother, to Abner de Morainville, who at that time was a mere babe of four years. This did not meet the wishes of M. and Mme. de Morainville, who wished to retain their property in their own house.
But great news comes to Morainville: the countess is with child. The steward of the chateau receives orders to celebrate the event with great rejoicings. In the avenue long tables are set covered with all sorts of inviting meats, the fiddlers are called, and the peasants dance, eat, and drink to the health of the future heir of the Morainvilles. A few months later my parents arrived bringing a great company with them; and there were feasts and balls and hunting-parties without end.
It was in the course of one of these hunts that my mother was thrown from her horse. She was hardly in her seventh month when I came into the world. She escaped death, but I was born as large as–a mouse! and with one shoulder much higher than the other.
I must have died had not the happy thought come to the woman-in-waiting to procure Catharine, the wife of the gardener, Guillaume Carpentier, to be my nurse; and it is to her care, to her rubbings, and above all to her good milk, that I owe the capability to amuse you, my dear girls and friends, with the account of my life–that life whose continuance I truly owe to my mother Catharine.
When my actual mother had recovered she returned to Paris; and as my nurse, who had four boys, could not follow her, it was decided that I should remain at the chateau and that my mother Catharine should stay there with me.
Her cottage was situated among the gardens. Her husband, father Guillaume, was the head gardener, and his four sons were Joseph, aged six years; next Matthieu, who was four; then Jerome, two; and my foster-brother Bastien, a big lubber of three months.
My father and mother did not at all forget me. They sent me playthings of all sorts, sweetmeats, silken frocks adorned with embroideries and laces, and all sorts of presents for mother Catharine and her children. I was happy, very happy, for I was worshiped by all who surrounded me. Mother Catharine preferred me above her own children. Father Guillaume would go down upon his knees before me to get a smile [risette], and Joseph often tells me he swooned when they let him hold me in his arms. It was a happy time, I assure you; yes, very happy.
I was two years old when my parents returned, and as they had brought a great company with them the true mother instructed my nurse to take me back to her cottage and keep me there, that I might not be disturbed by noise. Mother Catharine has often said to me that my mother could not bear to look at my crippled shoulder, and that she called me a hunchback. But after all it was the truth, and my nurse-mother was wrong to lay that reproach upon my mother Aurelie.
Seven years passed. I had lived during that time the life of my foster-brothers, flitting everywhere with them over the flowery grass like the veritable lark that I was. Two or three times during that period my parents came to see me, but without company, quite alone. They brought me a lot of beautiful things; but really I was afraid of them, particularly of my mother, who was so beautiful and wore a grand air full of dignity and self-regard. She would kiss me, but in a way very different from mother Catharine’s way–squarely on the forehead, a kiss that seemed made of ice.
One fine day she arrived at the cottage with a tall, slender lady who wore blue spectacles on a singularly long nose. She frightened me, especially when my mother told me that this was my governess, and that I must return to the chateau with her and live there to learn a host of fine things of which even the names were to me unknown; for I had never seen a book except my picture books.
I uttered piercing cries; but my mother, without paying any attention to my screams, lifted me cleverly, planted two spanks behind, and passed me to the hands of Mme. Levicq–that was the name of my governess. The next day my mother left me and I repeated my disturbance, crying, stamping my feet, and calling to mother Catharine and Bastien. (To tell the truth, Jerome and Matthieu were two big lubbers [rougeots] very peevish and coarse-mannered, which I could not endure.) Madame put a book into my hands and wished to have me repeat after her; I threw the book at her head. Then, rightly enough, in despair she placed me where I could see the cottage in the midst of the garden and told me that when the lesson was ended I might go and see my mother Catharine and play with my brothers. I promptly consented, and that is how I learned to read.
This Mme. Levicq was most certainly a woman of good sense. She had a kind heart and much ability. She taught me nearly all I know–first of all, French; the harp, the guitar, drawing, embroidery; in short, I say again, all that I know.
I was fourteen years old when my mother came, and this time not alone. My cousin Abner was with her. My mother had me called into her chamber, closely examined my shoulder, loosed my hair, looked at my teeth, made me read, sing, play the harp, and when all this was ended smiled and said:
“You are beautiful, my daughter; you have profited by the training of your governess; the defect of your shoulder has not increased. I am satisfied–well satisfied; and I am going to tell you that I have brought the Viscomte Abner de Morainville because I have chosen him for your future husband. Go, join him in the avenue.”
I was a little dismayed at first, but when I had seen my intended my dismay took flight–he was such a handsome fellow, dressed with so much taste, and wore his sword with so much grace and spirit. At the end of two days he loved me to distraction and I doted on him. I brought him to my nurse’s cabin and told her all our plans of marriage and all my happiness, not observing the despair of poor Joseph, who had always worshiped me and who had not doubted he would have me to love. But who would have thought it–a laboring gardener lover of his lord’s daughter? Ah, I would have laughed heartily then if I had known it!
On the evening before my departure–I had to leave with my mother this time–I went to say adieu to mother Catharine. She asked me if I loved Abner.
“Oh, yes, mother!” I replied, “I love him with all my soul”; and she said she was happy to hear it. Then I directed Joseph to go and request Monsieur the cure, in my name, to give him lessons in reading and writing, in order to be able to read the letters that I should write to my nurse-mother and to answer them. This order was carried out to the letter, and six months later Joseph was the correspondent of the family and read to them my letters. That was his whole happiness.
I had been quite content to leave for Paris: first, because Abner went with me, and then because I hoped to see a little of all those beautiful things of which he had spoken to me with so much charm; but how was I disappointed! My mother kept me but one day at her house, and did not even allow Abner to come to see me. During that day I must, she said, collect my thoughts preparatory to entering the convent. For it was actually to the convent of the Ursulines, of which my father’s sister was the superior, that she conducted me next day.
Think of it, dear girls! I was fourteen, but not bigger than a lass of ten, used to the open air and to the caresses of mother Catharine and my brothers. It seemed to me as if I were a poor little bird shut in a great dark cage.
My aunt, the abbess, Agnes de Morainville, took me to her room, gave me bonbons and pictures, told me stories, and kissed and caressed me, but her black gown and her bonnet appalled me, and I cried with all my might:
“I want mother Catharine! I want Joseph! I want Bastien!”
My aunt, in despair, sent for three or four little pupils to amuse me; but this was labor lost, and I continued to utter the same outcries. At last, utterly spent, I fell asleep, and my aunt bore me to my little room and put me to bed, and then slowly withdrew, leaving the door ajar.
On the second floor of the convent there were large dormitories, where some hundreds of children slept; but on the first there were a number of small chambers, the sole furniture of each being a folding bed, a washstand, and a chair, and you had to pay its weight in gold for the privilege of occupying one of these cells, in order not to be mixed with the daughters of the bourgeoisie, of lawyers and merchants. My mother, who was very proud, had exacted absolutely that they give me one of these select cells.
Hardly had my aunt left me when I awoke, and fear joined itself to grief. Fancy it! I had never lain down in a room alone, and here I awoke in a corner of a room half lighted by a lamp hung from the ceiling. You can guess I began again my writhings and cries. Thereupon appeared before me in the open door the most beautiful creature imaginable. I took her for a fairy, and fell to gazing at her with my eyes full of amazement and admiration. You have seen Madelaine, and you can judge of her beauty in her early youth. It was a fabulous beauty joined to a manner fair, regal, and good.
She took me in her arms, dried my tears, and at last, at the extremity of her resources, carried me to her bed; and when I awoke the next day I found myself still in the arms of Madelaine de Livilier. From that moment began between us that great and good friendship which was everything for me during the time that I passed in the convent. I should have died of loneliness and grief without Madelaine. I had neither brothers nor sisters; she was both these to me: she was older than I, and protected me while she loved me.
She was the niece of the rich Cardinal de Segur, who had sent and brought her from Louisiana. This is why Madelaine had such large privileges at the convent. She told me she was engaged to the young Count Louis le Pelletrier de la Houssaye, and I, with some change of color, told her of Abner.
One day Madelaine’s aunt, the Countess de Segur, came to take her to spend the day at her palace. My dear friend besought her aunt with such graciousness that she obtained permission to take me with her, and for the first time I saw the Count Louis, Madelaine’s _fiance_. He was a very handsome young man, of majestic and distinguished air. He had hair and eyes as black as ink, red lips, and a fine mustache. He wore in his buttonhole the cross of the royal order of St. Louis, and on his shoulders the epaulettes of a major. He had lately come from San Domingo [where he had been fighting the insurgents at the head of his regiment].[23] Yes, he was a handsome young man, a bold cavalier; and Madelaine idolized him. After that day I often accompanied my friend in her visits to the home of her aunt. Count Louis was always there to wait upon his betrothed, and Abner, apprised by him, came to join us. Ah! that was a happy time, very happy.
At the end of a year my dear Madelaine quitted the convent to be married. Ah, how I wept to see her go! I loved her so! I had neither brothers nor sisters, and Madelaine was my heart’s own sister. I was very young, scarcely fifteen; yet, despite my extreme youth, Madelaine desired me to be her bridesmaid, and her aunt, the Countess de Segur, and the Baroness de Chevigne, Count Louis’s aunt, went together to find my mother and ask her to permit me to fill that office. My mother made many objections, saying that I was too young; but–between you and me–she could refuse nothing to ladies of such high station. She consented, therefore, and proceeded at once to order my costume at the dressmaker’s.
It was a mass of white silk and lace with intermingled pearls. For the occasion my mother lent me her pearls, which were of great magnificence. But, finest of all, the Queen, Marie Antoinette, saw me at the church of Notre Dame, whither all the court had gathered for the occasion,–for Count Louis de la Houssaye was a great favorite,–and now the queen sent one of her lords to apprise my mother that she wished to see me, and commanded that I be presented at court–_grande rumeur_!
Mamma consented to let me remain the whole week out of the convent. Every day there was a grand dinner or breakfast and every evening a dance or a grand ball. Always it was Abner who accompanied me. I wrote of all my pleasures to my mother Catharine. Joseph read my letters to her, and, as he told me in later days, they gave him mortal pain. For the presentation my mother ordered a suit all of gold and velvet. Madelaine and I were presented the same day. The Countess de Segur was my escort [marraine] and took me by the hand, while Mme. de Chevigne rendered the same office to Madelaine. Abner told me that day I was as pretty as an angel. If I was so to him, it was because he loved me. I knew, myself, I was too small, too pale, and ever so different from Madelaine. It was she you should have seen.
I went back to the convent, and during the year that I passed there I was lonely enough to have died. It was decided that I should be married immediately on leaving the convent, and my mother ordered for me the most beautiful wedding outfit imaginable. My father bought me jewels of every sort, and Abner did not spare of beautiful presents.
I had been about fifteen days out of the convent when terrible news caused me many tears. My dear Madelaine was about to leave me forever and return to America. The reason was this: there was much disorder in the colony of Louisiana, and the king deciding to send thither a man capable of restoring order, his choice fell upon Count Louis de la Houssaye, whose noble character he had recognized. Count Louis would have refused, for he had a great liking for France; but [he had lately witnessed the atrocities committed by the negroes of San Domingo, and[24]] something–a presentiment–warned him that the Revolution was near at hand. He was glad to bear his dear wife far from the scenes of horror that were approaching with rapid strides.
Madelaine undoubtedly experienced pleasure in thinking that she was again going to see her parents and her native land, but she regretted to leave France, where she had found so much amusement and where I must remain behind her without hope of our ever seeing each other again. She wept, oh, so much!
She had bidden me good-bye and we had wept long, and her last evening, the eve of the day when she was to take the diligence for Havre, where the vessel awaited them, was to be passed in family group at the residence of the Baroness de Chevigne. Here were present, first the young couple; the Cardinal, the Count and Countess de Segur; then Barthelemy de la Houssaye, brother of the Count, and the old Count de [Maurepas, only a few months returned from exile and now at the pinnacle of royal favor].[24] He had said when he came that he could stay but a few hours and had ordered his coach to await him below. He was the most lovable old man in the world. All at once Madelaine said:
“Ah! if I could see Alix once more–only once more!”
The old count without a word slipped away, entered his carriage, and had himself driven to the Morainville hotel, where there was that evening a grand ball. Tarrying in the ante-chamber, he had my mother called. She came with alacrity, and when she knew the object of the count’s visit she sent me to get a great white burnoose, enveloped me in it, and putting my hand into the count’s said to me:
“You have but to show yourself to secure the carriage.” But the count promised to bring me back himself.
Oh, how glad my dear Madelaine was to see me! With what joy she kissed me! But she has recounted this little scene to you, as you, Francoise, have told me.
A month after the departure of the De la Houssayes, my wedding was celebrated at Notre Dame. It was a grand occasion. The king was present with all the court. As my husband was in the king’s service, the queen wished me to become one of her ladies of honor.
Directly after my marriage I had Bastien come to me. I made him my confidential servant. He rode behind my carriage, waited upon me at table, and, in short, was my man of all work.
I was married the 16th of March, 1789, at the age of sixteen. Already the rumbling murmurs of the Revolution were making themselves heard like distant thunder. On the 13th of July the Bastille was taken and the head of the governor De Launay [was] carried through the streets.[25] My mother was frightened and proposed to leave the country. She came to find me and implored me to go with her to England, and asked Abner to accompany us. My husband refused with indignation, declaring that his place was near his king.
“And mine near my husband,” said I, throwing my arms around Abner’s neck.
My father, like my husband, had refused positively to leave the king, and it was decided that mamma should go alone. She began by visiting the shops, and bought stuffs, ribbons, and laces. It was I who helped her pack her trunks, which she sent in advance to Morainville. She did not dare go to get her diamonds, which were locked up in the Bank of France; that would excite suspicion, and she had to content herself with such jewelry as she had at her residence. She left in a coach with my father, saying as she embraced me that her absence would be brief, for it would be easy enough to crush the vile mob. She went down to Morainville, and there, thanks to the devotion of Guillaume Carpentier and of his sons, she was carried to England in a contrabandist vessel. As she was accustomed to luxury, she put into her trunks the plate of the chateau and also several valuable pictures. My father had given her sixty thousand francs and charged her to be economical.
Soon I found myself in the midst of terrible scenes that I have not the courage, my dear girls, to recount. The memory of them makes me even to-day tremble and turn pale. I will only tell you that one evening a furious populace entered our palace. I saw my husband dragged far from me by those wretches, and just as two of the monsters were about to seize me Bastien took me into his arms, and holding me tightly against his bosom leaped from a window and took to flight with all his speed.
Happy for us that it was night and that the monsters were busy pillaging the house. They did not pursue us at all, and my faithful Bastien took me to the home of his cousin Claudine Leroy. She was a worker in lace, whom, with my consent, he was to have married within the next fortnight. I had lost consciousness, but Claudine and Bastien cared for me so well that they brought me back to life, and I came to myself to learn that my father and my husband had been arrested and conveyed to the Conciergerie.
My despair was great, as you may well think. Claudine arranged a bed for me in a closet [cloisette] adjoining her chamber, and there I remained hidden, dying of fear and grief, as you may well suppose.
At the end of four days I heard some one come into Claudine’s room, and then a deep male voice. My heart ceased to beat and I was about to faint away, when I recognized the voice of my faithful Joseph. I opened the door and threw myself upon his breast, crying over and over:
“O Joseph! dear Joseph!”
He pressed me to his bosom, giving me every sort of endearing name, and at length revealed to me the plan he had formed, to take me at once to Morainville under the name of Claudine Leroy. He went out with Claudine to obtain a passport. Thanks to God and good angels Claudine was small like me, had black hair and eyes like mine, and there was no trouble in arranging the passport. We took the diligence, and as I was clothed in peasant dress, a suit of Claudine’s, I easily passed for her.
Joseph had the diligence stop beside the park gate, of which he had brought the key. He wished to avoid the village. We entered therefore by the park, and soon I was installed in the cottage of my adopted parents, and Joseph and his brothers said to every one that Claudine Leroy, appalled by the horrors being committed in Paris, had come for refuge to Morainville.
Then Joseph went back to Paris to try to save my father and my husband. Bastien had already got himself engaged as an assistant in the prison. But alas! all their efforts could effect nothing, and the only consolation that Joseph brought back to Morainville was that he had seen its lords on the fatal cart and had received my father’s last smile. These frightful tidings failed to kill me; I lay a month between life and death, and Joseph, not to expose me to the recognition of the Morainville physician, went and brought one from Rouen. The good care of mother Catharine was the best medicine for me, and I was cured to weep over my fate and my cruel losses.
It was at this juncture that for the first time I suspected that Joseph loved me. His eyes followed me with a most touching expression; he paled and blushed when I spoke to him, and I divined the love which the poor fellow could not conceal. It gave me pain to see how he loved me, and increased my wish to join my mother in England. I knew she had need of me, and I had need of her.
Meanwhile a letter came to the address of father Guillaume. It was a contrabandist vessel that brought it and
of the first evening
other to the address
recognized the writing
set me to sobbing
all, my heart
I began (_Torn off and gone_.) demanded of
my father of
saying that
country well
56
added that Abner and I must come also, and that it was nonsense to wish to remain faithful to a lost cause. She begged my father to go and draw her diamonds from the bank and to send them to her with at least a hundred thousand francs. Oh! how I wept after seeing letter! Mother Catharine to console me but then to make. Then and said to me, Will to make you (_Torn off and gone_.) England, Madame Oh! yes, Joseph would be so well pleased poor fellow the money of family. I
From the way in which, the cabin was built, one could see any one coming who had business there. But one day–God knows how it happened–a child of the village all at once entered the chamber where I was and knew me.
“Madame Alix!” he cried, took to his heels and went down the terrace pell-mell [quatre a quatre] to give the alarm. Ten minutes later Matthieu came at a full run and covered with sweat, to tell us that all the village was in commotion and that those people to whom I had always been so good were about to come and arrest me, to deliver me to the executioners. I ran to Joseph, beside myself with affright.
“Save me, Joseph! save me!”
“I will use all my efforts for that, Mme. la Viscomtesse.” At that moment Jerome appeared. He came to say that a representative of the people was at hand and that I was lost beyond a doubt.
“Not yet,” responded Joseph. “I have foreseen this and have prepared everything to save you, Mme. la Viscomtesse, if you will but let me make myself well understood.”
“Oh, all, all! Do _thou_ understand, Joseph, I will do everything thou desirest.”
“Then,” he said, regarding me fixedly and halting at each word–“then it is necessary that you consent to take Joseph Carpentier for your spouse.”
I thought I had [been] misunderstood and drew back haughtily.
“My son!” cried mother Catharine.
“Oh, you see,” replied Joseph, “my mother herself accuses me, and you–you, madame, have no greater confidence in me. But that is nothing; I must save you at any price. We will go from here together; we will descend to the village; we will present ourselves at the mayoralty–“
In spite of myself I made a gesture.
“Let me speak, madame,” he said. “We have not a moment to lose. Yes, we will present ourselves at the mayoralty, and there I will espouse you, not as Claudine Leroy, but as Alix de Morainville. Once my wife you have nothing to fear. Having become one of the people, the people will protect you. After the ceremony, madame, I will hand you the certificate of our marriage, and you will tear it up the moment we shall have touched the soil of England. Keep it precious till then; it is your only safeguard. Nothing prevents me from going to England to find employment, and necessarily my wife will go with me. Are you ready, madame?”
For my only response I put my hand in his; I was too deeply moved to speak. Mother Catharine threw both her arms about her son’s neck and cried, “My noble child!” and we issued from the cottage guarded by Guillaume and his three other sons, armed to the teeth.
When the mayor heard the names and surnames of the wedding pair he turned to Joseph, saying:
“You are not lowering yourself, my boy.”
At the door of the mayoralty we found ourselves face to face with an immense crowd. I trembled violently and pressed against Joseph. He, never losing his presence of mind [sans perdre la carte], turned, saying:
“Allow me, my friends, to present to you my wife. The Viscomtesse de Morainville no longer exists; hurrah for the Citoyenne Carpentier.” And the hurrahs and cries of triumph were enough to deafen one. Those who the moment before were ready to tear me into pieces now wanted to carry me in triumph. Arrived at the house, Joseph handed me our act of marriage.
“Keep it, madame,” said he; “you can destroy it on your arrival in England.”
At length one day, three weeks after our marriage, Joseph came to tell me that he had secured passage on a vessel, and that we must sail together under the name of Citoyen and Citoyenne Carpentier. I was truly sorry to leave my adopted parents and foster-brother, yet at the bottom of my heart I was rejoiced that I was going to find my mother.
But alas! when I arrived in London, at the address that she had given me, I found there only her old friend the Chevalier d’Ivoy, who told me that my mother was dead, and that what was left of her money, with her jewels and chests, was deposited in the Bank of England. I was more dead than alive; all these things paralyzed me. But my good Joseph took upon himself to do everything for me. He went and drew what had been deposited in the bank. Indeed of money there remained but twelve thousand francs; but there were plate, jewels, pictures, and many vanities in the form of gowns and every sort of attire.
Joseph rented a little house in a suburb of London, engaged an old Frenchwoman to attend me, and he, after all my husband, made himself my servant, my gardener, my factotum. He ate in the kitchen with the maid, waited upon me at table, and slept in the garret on a pallet.
“Am I not very wicked?” said I to myself every day, especially when I saw his pallor and profound sadness. They had taught me in the convent that the ties of marriage were a sacred thing and that one could not break them, no matter how they might have been made; and when my patrician pride revolted at the thought of this union with the son of my nurse my heart pleaded
and pleaded
hard the cause
of poor J
Joseph. His (_Evidently torn before Alix care, his wrote on it, as no words presence, became are wanting in the text_.) more and more
necessary. I knew not how to do anything myself, but made him my all in all, avoiding myself every shadow of care or trouble. I must say, moreover, that since he had married me I had a kind of fear of him and was afraid that I should hear him speak to me of love; but he scarcely thought of it, poor fellow:
reverence closed his lips. Thus matters stood when one evening Joseph entered the room (_Opposite page of the where I was reading, same torn sheet. Alix and standing has again written upright before around the rent_.) me, his hat in his hand, said to me that he had something to tell me. His expression was so unhappy that I felt the tears mount to my eyes.
“What is it, dear Joseph?” I asked; and when he could answer nothing on account of his emotion, I rose, crying:
“More bad news? What has happened to my nurse-mother? Speak, speak, Joseph!”
“Nothing, Mme. la Viscomtesse,” he replied. “My mother and Bastien, I hope, are well. It is of myself I wish to speak.”
Then my heart made a sad commotion in my bosom, for I thought he was about to speak of love. But not at all. He began again, in a low voice:
“I am going to America, madame.”
I sprung towards him. “You go away? You go away?” I cried. “And I, Joseph?”
“You, madame?” said he. “You have money. The Revolution will soon be over, and you can return to your country. There you will find again your friends, your titles, your fortune.”
“Stop!” I cried. “What shall I be in France? You well know my chateau, my palace are pillaged and burned, my parents are dead.”
“My mother and Bastien are in France,” he responded.
“But thou–thou, Joseph; what can I do without thee? Why have you accustomed me to your tenderness, to your protection, and now come threatening to leave me? Hear me plainly. If you go I go with you.”
He uttered a smothered cry and staggered like a drunken man.
“Alix–madame–“
“I have guessed your secret,” continued I. “You seek to go because you love me–because you fear you may forget that respect which you fancy you owe me. But after all I am your wife, Joseph. I have the right to follow thee, and I am going with thee.” And slowly I drew from my dressing-case the act of our marriage.
He looked, at me, oh! in such a funny way, and–extended his arms. I threw myself into them, and for half an hour it was tears and kisses and words of love. For after all I loved Joseph, not as I had loved Abner, but altogether more profoundly.
The next day a Catholic priest blessed our marriage. A month later we left for Louisiana, where Joseph hoped to make a fortune for me. But alas! he was despairing of success, when he met Mr. Carlo, and–you know, dear girls, the rest.
* * * * *
Roll again and slip into its ancient silken case the small, square manuscript which some one has sewed at the back with worsted of the pale tint known as “baby-blue.” Blessed little word! Time justified the color. If you doubt it go to the Teche; ask any of the De la Houssayes–or count, yourself, the Carpentiers and Charpentiers. You will be more apt to quit because you are tired than because you have finished. And while there ask, over on the Attakapas side, for any trace that any one may be able to give of Dorothea Mueller. She too was from France: at least, not from Normandy or Paris, like Alix, but, like Francoise’s young aunt with the white hair, a German of Alsace, from a village near Strasbourg; like her, an emigrant, and, like Francoise, a voyager with father and sister by flatboat from old New Orleans up the Mississippi, down the Atchafalaya, and into the land of Attakapas. You may ask, you may seek; but if you find the faintest trace you will have done what no one else has succeeded in doing. We shall never know her fate. Her sister’s we can tell; and we shall now see how different from the stories of Alix and Francoise is that of poor Salome Mueller, even in the same land and almost in the same times.
FOOTNOTES:
[23] Inserted by a later hand than the author’s.–TRANSLATOR. [24] Inserted by a later hand than the author’s.–TRANSLATOR. [25] Alix makes a mistake here of one day. The Bastille fell on the 14th.–TRANSLATOR.
SALOME MUELLER,
THE WHITE SLAVE.
1818-45.
I.
SALOME AND HER KINDRED.
She may be living yet, in 1889. For when she came to Louisiana, in 1818, she was too young for the voyage to fix itself in her memory. She could not, to-day, be more than seventy-five.
In Alsace, France, on the frontier of the Department of Lower Rhine, about twenty English miles from Strasburg, there was in those days, as I suppose there still is, a village called Langensoultz. The region was one of hills and valleys and of broad, flat meadows yearly overflowed by the Rhine. It was noted for its fertility; a land of wheat and wine, hop-fields, flax-fields, hay-stacks, and orchards.