THE UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE WILMER COLLECTION 
 
 OF CIVIL WAR NOVELS 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 RICHARD H. WILMER, JR. 
 
TALES 
 
 OF A 
 
 TIME AND PLACE 
 
 BY 
 
 GRACE KING 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 
 
 1892 
 
Copyright, 1892, by Harper & Brothers. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
Ibomagc to 
 
 MR. GEORGE C. PREOT 
 
 OF NEW ORLEANS 
 
 MY CRITICAL FRIEND AND 
 FRIENDLY CRITIC 
 
 "& 
 
Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive 
 
 in 2010 witii funding from 
 
 University of Nortii Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/talesoftimeplaceOOking 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PACE 
 
 BAYOU L'OMBRE 3 
 
 BONNE MAMAN 63 
 
 MADRILENE; OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD 119 
 THE CHRISTMAS STORY OF A LITTLE CHURCH 183 
 
BAYOU L'OMBRE. 
 
BAYOU L'OMBRE. 
 
 AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 
 
 [F course they knew all about war 
 — soldiers, flags, music, generals 
 on horseback brandishing swords, 
 knights in armor escalading walls, 
 cannons booming through clouds of 
 smoke. They were familiarized with it picto- 
 rially and by narrative long before the alpha- 
 bet made its appearance in the nursery with 
 rudimentary accounts of the world they were 
 born into, the simple juvenile world of primary 
 sensations and colors. Their great men, and 
 great women, too, were all fighters ; the great 
 events of their histories, battles ; the great places 
 of their geography, where they v/ere fought (and 
 generally the more bloody the battle, the more 
 glorious the place) ; while their little chronol- 
 ogy — the pink-covered one— stepped briskly over 
 the centuries solely on the names of kings and 
 sanguinary saliencies. Sunday added the sab- 
 batical supplement to week - day lessons, sym- 
 bolizing religion, concreting sin, incorporating 
 
4 BAYOU L OMBRE. 
 
 evil, for their better comprehension, putting Jeho- 
 vah himself in armor, to please their childish fac- 
 ulties — the omnipotent Intervener of the Old 
 Testament, for whom they waved banners, sang 
 hymns, and by the brevet title, " little soldiers of 
 the cross," felt committed as by baptism to an 
 attitude of expectant hostility. Mademoiselle 
 Couper, their governess, eased the cross-stitching 
 in their samplers during the evenings, after sup- 
 per, with traditions of " le grand Napoleon," in 
 whose army her grandfather was a terrible and 
 distinguished officer, le Capitaine Cesaire Paul 
 Picquet de Montignac ; and although Mademoi- 
 selle Couper was most unlovable and exacting at 
 times, and very homely, such were their powers of 
 sympathetic enthusiasm even then that they often 
 went to bed envious of the possessor or so glo- 
 rious an ancestor, and dreamed fairy tales of him 
 whose gray hair, enshrined in a brooch, reposed 
 comfortably under the folds of mademoiselle's fat 
 chin — the hair that Napoleon had looked upon ! 
 
 When a war broke out in their own country 
 they could hardly credit their good-fortune ; that 
 is, Christine and Rdgina, for Lolotte was still a 
 baby. A wonderful panorama was suddenly un- 
 folded before them. It was their first intimation 
 of the identity of the world they lived in with the 
 world they learned about, their first perception of 
 the existence of an entirely novel sentiment in 
 their hearts— patriotism, the amour sacri de la pa- 
 
 Mrl) 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 5 
 
 trie, over which they had seen mademoiselle shed 
 tears as copiously as her grandfather had blood. 
 It made them and all their little companions feel 
 very proud, this war ; but it gave them a heavy 
 sense of responsibility, turning their youtliful pre- 
 cocity incontinently away from books, slates, and 
 pianos towards the martial considerations that 
 befitted the hour. State rights, Federal limits, 
 monitors and fortresses, proclamations, Presi- 
 dents, recognitions, and declarations, they ac- 
 quired them all with facility, taxing, as in other 
 lessons, their tongue to repeat the unintelligible 
 on trust for future intelligence. As their father 
 fired his huge after-dinner bombs, so they shot 
 their diminutive ammunition ; as he lighted 
 brands in the great conflagration, they lighted 
 tapers ; and the two contending Presidents them- 
 selves did not get on their knees with more fer- 
 vor before their colossal sphinxes than these lit- 
 tle girls did before their doll-baby presentment 
 of " Country." It was very hard to realize at 
 times that histories and story-books and poetry 
 would indeed be written about them ; that little 
 flags would mark battles all over the map of their 
 country — the country Mademoiselle Couper de- 
 spised as so hopelessly, warlessly insignificant ; 
 that men would do great things and women say 
 them, teachers and copy-books reiterate them, 
 and children learn them, just as they did of the 
 Greeks and Romans, the English and French, 
 
6 BAYOU L OMBRE. 
 
 The great advantage was having God on their 
 side, as the children of Israel had ; the next best 
 thing was having the finest country, the most 
 noble men, and the bravest soldiers. The only- 
 fear -was that the enemy would be beaten too 
 easily, and the war cease too soon to be glorious ; 
 for, characteristic of their sex, they demanded 
 nothing less than that their war should be the 
 longest, bloodiest, and most glorious of all wars 
 ever heard of, in comparison with which even 
 " le grand Napoleon " and his Capitaine Picquet 
 would be effaced from memory. For this were 
 exercised their first attempts at extempore prayer. 
 God, the dispenser of inexhaustible supplies of 
 munitions of war, became quite a different pow- 
 er, a nearer and dearer personality, than " Our 
 Father," the giver of simple daily bread, and He 
 did not lack reminding of the existence of the 
 young Confederacy, nor of the hearsay exigencies 
 they gathered from the dinner-table talk. 
 
 Titine was about thirteen, Gina twelve, and Lo- 
 lotte barely eight years old, when this, to them, 
 happy break in their lives occurred. It was eas- 
 ily comprehensible to them that their city should 
 be captured, and that to escape that grim ultima- 
 tum of Mademoiselle Couper, '■'■ passees au fil de 
 repee," they should be bundled up very hurriedly 
 one night, carried out of their home, and journey 
 in troublesome roundabout ways to the planta- 
 tion on Bayou I'Ombre. 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 7 
 
 That was all four years ago. School and play 
 and city life, dolls and fetes and Santa Claus, had 
 become the property of memory. Peace for them 
 hovered in that obscurity which had once envel- 
 oped war, while '"61," '"62," '"63," "'64,"filledim- 
 measurable spaces in their short past. Four times 
 had Christine and Regina changed the date in 
 their diaries — the last token of remembrance from 
 Mademoiselle Couper — altering the numerals 
 with naive solemnity, as if under the direction of 
 the Almighty himself, closing with conventional 
 ceremony the record of the lived -out twelve 
 months, opening with appropriate aspirations the 
 year to come. The laboriously careful chronicle 
 that followed was not, however, of the growth of 
 their bodies advancing by inches, nor the expan- 
 sion of their minds, nor of the vague forms that 
 began to people the shadow-land of their sixteen 
 and seventeen year old hearts. Their own bud- 
 ding and leafing and growing was as unnoted as 
 that of the trees and weeds about them. The 
 progress of the war, the growth of their hatred 
 of the enemy, the expansion of the amour sacre 
 germ — these were the confidences that filled the 
 neatly -stitched foolscap volumes. If on com- 
 parison one sister was found to have been hap- 
 pier in the rendition of the common sentiment, 
 the coveted fervor and eloquence were plagia- 
 rized or imitated the next day by the other, a gen- 
 erous emulation thus keeping the original flame 
 
8 BAVOU L OMBRE. 
 
 not only alight, but burning, while from assimilat- 
 ing each other's sentiments the two girls grew 
 with identity of purpose into identity of mind, and 
 effaced the slight difference of age between them. 
 
 Little Lolotte responded as well as she could 
 to the enthusiastic exactions of her sisters. She 
 gave her rag dolls patriotic names, obediently 
 hated and loved as they required, and learned to 
 recite all the war songs procurable, even to the 
 teeming quantities of the stirring " Men of the 
 South, our foes are up !" But as long as the 
 squirrels gambolled on the fences, the blackbirds 
 flocked in the fields, and the ditches filled with 
 fish ; as long as the seasons imported such con- 
 stant variety of attractions — persimmons, dew- 
 berries, blackberries, acorns, wild plums, grapes, 
 and muscadines ; as long as the cows had calves, 
 the dogs puppies, the hogs pigs, and the quarters 
 new babies to be named ; as long as the exas- 
 perating negro children needed daily subjuga- 
 tion, regulation, and discipline — the day's meas- 
 ure was too well filled and the night's slumber 
 too short to admit of her carrying on a very vig- 
 orous warfare for a country so far away from 
 Bayou I'Ombre — a country whose grievances she 
 could not understand. 
 
 But— there were no soldiers, flags, music, pa- 
 rades, battles, or sieges. This war was altogether 
 distinct from the wars contained in books or in 
 Mademoiselle Couper's memory. There was an 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. g 
 
 absence of the simplest requirements of war. 
 They kept awaiting the familiar events for which 
 they had been prepared ; but after four years the 
 only shots fired on Bayou I'Ombre were at game 
 in the forest, the only blood shed was from the 
 tottering herds of Texas beeves driven across the 
 swamps to them, barely escaping by timely butch- 
 ery the starvation they came to relieve, and the 
 only heroism they had been called upon to dis- 
 play was still going to bed in the dark. Indeed, 
 were it not that they knew there was a war they 
 might have supposed that some malignant fairy 
 had transported them from a state of wealth and 
 luxury to the condition of those miserable Ha- 
 thorns, the pariahs of their childhood, who lived 
 just around the corner from them in the city, 
 with whom they had never been allowed to asso- 
 ciate. If they had not so industriously fostered the 
 proper feelings in their hearts, they might almost 
 have forgotten it, or, like Lolotte, been diverted 
 from it by the generous overtures of nature all 
 around them. But they kept on reminding each 
 other that it was not the degrading want of money, 
 as in the Hathorns' case, that forced them to live 
 on salt meat, corn -bread, and sassafras tea, to 
 dress like the negro women in the quarters, that 
 deprived them of education and society, and im- 
 prisoned them in a swamp-encircled plantation, 
 the prey of chills and fever ; but it was for love 
 of country, and being little women now, they loved 
 
lO BAYOU L OMBRE. 
 
 their country more, the more they suffered for her. 
 Disillusion might have supervened to disappoint- 
 ment and bitterness have quenched hope, experi- 
 ence might at last have sharpened their vision, but 
 for the imagination, that ethereal parasite which 
 fattens on the stagnant forces of youth and gar- 
 nishes with tropical luxuriance the abnormal source 
 of its nourishment. Soaring aloft, above the pro- 
 saic actualities of the present, beyond the rebut- 
 ting evidence of earth, was a fanciful stage where 
 the drama of war such as they craved was un- 
 folded ; where neither homespun, starvation, over- 
 flows, nor illness were allowed to enter; where 
 the heroes and heroines they loved acted roles in 
 all the conventional glitter of costume and con- 
 duct, amid the dazzling pomps and circumstances 
 immortalized in history and romance. Their 
 hearts would bound and leap after these phan- 
 tasms, like babes in nurses' arms after the moon, 
 and would almost burst with longing, their ripe 
 little hearts, Pandora-boxes packed with passions 
 and pleasures for a lifetime, ready to spring open 
 at a touch ! On moonlit nights in summer, or 
 under the low gray clouds of winter days, in the 
 monotony of nothingness about them, the yearn- 
 ing in their breasts was like that of hunting dogs 
 howling for the unseen game. Sometimes a ru- 
 mor of a battle "out in the Confederacy" would 
 find its way across the swamps to them, and 
 months afterwards a newspaper would be thrown 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. ii 
 
 to them from a passing skiff, some old, useless, 
 tattered, disreputable, journalistic tramp, garru- 
 lous with mendacities ; but it was all true to 
 them, if to no one else in the world — the fac- 
 titious triumphs, the lurid glories, the pyrotech- 
 nicai promises, prophecies, calculations, and Vic- 
 tory with the laurel wreath always in the future, 
 never out of sight for an instant. They would 
 con the fraudulent evangel, entranced ; their 
 eyes would sparkle, the blood color their cheeks, 
 their voices vibrate, and a strange strength ex- 
 cite and nerve their bodies. Then would follow 
 wakeful nights and restless days ; Black Marga- 
 rets, Jeanne d'Arcs, Maids of Saragossa, Kath- 
 erine Douglases, Charlotte Cordays, would haunt 
 them like the goblins of a delirium ; then their 
 prayers would become imperious demands upon 
 Heaven, their diaries would almost break into 
 spontaneous combustion from the incendiary ma- 
 terial enmagazined in their pages, and the South 
 would have conquered the world then and there 
 could their hands but have pointed the guns and 
 their hearts have recruited the armies. They 
 would with mingled pride and envy read all the 
 names, barely decipherable in the travel-stained 
 record, from the President and Generals in big 
 print to the diminishing insignificance of small- 
 est-type privates; and they would shed tears, 
 when the reaction would come a few days later, 
 at the thought that in the whole area of typog- 
 
12 BAYOU L OMBRE. 
 
 raphy, from the officers gaining immortality to 
 the privates losing lives, there was not one name 
 belonging to them ; and they would ask why, of 
 all the families in the South, precisely their father 
 and mother should have no relations, why, of all 
 the women in the South, they should be brotherless. 
 
 There was Beau, a too notorious guerilla cap- 
 tain ; but what glory was to be won by raiding 
 towns, wrecking trains, plundering transports, 
 capturing couriers, disobeying orders, defying 
 regulations ? He was almost as obnoxious to his 
 own as to the enemy's flag. 
 
 Besides, Beau at most was only a kind of a 
 cousin, the son of a deceased step-sister of their 
 father's ; the most they could expect from him was 
 to keep his undisciplined crew of " 'Cadians," Ind- 
 ians, and swampers away from Bayou I'Ombre. 
 
 " Ah, if we were only men !" But no ! They 
 who could grip daggers and shed blood, they who 
 teemed with all the possibilities of romance or 
 poetry, they were selected for a passive, paltry 
 contest against their own necessities ; the endur- 
 ance that would have laughed a siege to scorn 
 ebbing away in a never-ceasing wrangle with 
 fever and ague — willow-bark tea at odds with a 
 malarious swamp ! 
 
 ' It was now early summer ; the foliage of spring 
 was lusty and strong, fast outgrowing tender- 
 ness and delicacy of shade, with hints of matu- 
 rity already swelling the shape. The day was 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 13 
 
 cloudless and warm, the dinner -hour was long 
 past, and supper still far off. There were no 
 appetizing varieties of menu to make meals ob- 
 jects of pleasant anticipation ; on the contrary, 
 they had become mournful effigies of a convivial 
 institution of which they served at most only to 
 recall the hours, monotonously measuring otf the 
 recurring days which passed like unlettered mile- 
 posts in a desert, with no information to give ex- 
 cept that of transition. To-day the meal-times 
 were so far apart as to make one believe that the 
 sun had given up all forward motion, and intended 
 prolonging the present into eternity. The planta- 
 tion was quiet and still ; not the dewy hush of early 
 dawn trembling before the rising sun, nor the mys- 
 terious muteness of midnight, nor yet the lethar- 
 gic dulness of summer when the vertical sun-rays 
 pin sense and motion to the earth. It was the 
 motionless, voiceless state of unnatural quietude, 
 the oppressive consciousness of abstracted ac- 
 tivity, which characterized those days when the 
 whole force of Bayou I'Ombre went off into the 
 swamps to- cut timber. Days that began shortly 
 after one midnight and lasted to the other ; rare 
 days, when neither horn nor bell was heard for 
 summons ; when not a skiff, flat-boat, nor pirogue 
 was left at the " gunnels ;"* when old Uncle John 
 alone remained to represent both master and 
 
 * "Gunnels," floating wharf. 
 
14 BAYOU L OMBRE. 
 
 men in the cares and resiDonsibilities devolving 
 upon his sex. The bayou hved and moved as 
 usual, carrying its deceptive depths of brackish 
 water unceasingly onward through the shadow 
 and sunshine, rippling over the opposite low, soft 
 banks, which seemed slowly sinking out of sight 
 under the weight of the huge cypress-trees grow- 
 ing upon it. The long stretch of unfilled fields 
 back of the house, feebly kept in symmetrical 
 proportion by crumbling fences, bared their rigid, 
 seedless furrows in despairing barrenness to the 
 sun, except in corner spots where a rank growth 
 of weeds had inaugurated a reclamation in favor 
 of barbarism. The sugar-house, superannuated 
 and decrepit from unwholesome idleness, tottered 
 against its own massive, smokeless chimney ; the 
 surrounding sheds, stables, and smithy looked for- 
 saken and neglected ; the old blind mule peace- 
 fully slept in the shade of his once flagellated 
 course under the corn-mill. Afar off against the 
 woods the huge wheel of the draining-machine 
 rose from the underbrush in the big ditch. The 
 patient buzzards, roosting on the branches of the 
 gaunt, blasted gum-tree by the bayou, would raise 
 their heads from time to time to question the loi- 
 tering sun, or, slowly flapping their heavy wings, 
 circle up into the blue sky, to fall again in lazy 
 spirals to their watch-tower, or they would take 
 short flights by twos and threes over the moribund 
 plantation to see if dissolution had not yet set 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 15 
 
 in, and then all would settle themselves agam to 
 brood and sleep and dream, and wait in tranquil 
 certainty the striking of their banqueting" hour. 
 
 The three girls were in the open hall-way of 
 the plantation house, Christine reading, Regina 
 knitting, both listlessly occupied. Like every- 
 thing else, they were passively quiet, and, like 
 everything else, their appearance advertised an 
 unwholesome lack of vitality, an insidious ana- 
 morphosis from an unexplained dearth or con- 
 straint. Their meagre maturity and scant devel- 
 opment clashed abnormally with the surrounding 
 prodigality of insensible nature. Though tall, 
 they were thin ; they were fair, but sallow ; their 
 gentle deep eyes were reproachful and deprived- 
 looking. If their secluded hearts ventured even 
 in thought towards the plumings natural to their 
 age, their coarse, homely, ill-fitting garments 
 anathematized any coquettish effort or naive ex- 
 pression of a desire to find favor. Like the 
 fields, they seemed hesitating on the backward 
 path from cultivation. Lolotte stood before the 
 cherry-wood armoire* that held the hunting and 
 fishing tackle, the wholesome receptacle of useful 
 odds and ends. Not old enough to have come 
 into the war with preconceptions, Lolotte had no 
 reconciliations or compromises to effect between 
 the ideal and the real, no compensations to solicit 
 from an obliging imagination, which so far never 
 rose beyond the possibilities of perch, blackbirds, 
 
r6 BAYOU l'ombre. 
 
 and turtle eggs. The first of these occupied her 
 thoughts at the present moment. She had made 
 a tryst with the negro children at the draining- 
 machine this afternoon. If she could, unper- 
 ceived, abstract enough tackle from the armoire for 
 the crowd, and if they could slip away from the 
 quarters, and she evade the surveillance of Uncle 
 John, there would be a diminished number of 
 "brim" and "goggle-eye" in the ditch out yon- 
 der, and such a notable addition to the planta- 
 tion supper to-night as would crown the exploit a 
 success, and establish for herself a reputation 
 above all annoying recollections of recent mis- 
 haps and failures. As she tied the hooks on to 
 the lines she saw herself surrounded by the ac- 
 claiming infantile populace, pulling the struggling 
 perch up one after the other ; she saw them 
 strung on palmetto thongs, long strings of them ; 
 she walked home at the head of her procession ; 
 heard Peggy's exclamations of surprise, smelt 
 them frying, and finally was sitting at the table, a 
 plate of bones before her, the radiant hostess of 
 an imperial feast. 
 
 " Listen !" Like wood-ducks from under the 
 water, the three heads rose simultaneously above 
 their abstractions. "Rowlock! Rowlock!" The 
 eyes might become dull, the tongue inert, and the 
 heart languid on Bayou I'Ombre, but the ears 
 were ever assiduous, ever on duty. Quivering 
 and nervous, they listened even through sleep for 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 17 
 
 that one blessed echo of travel, the signal from 
 another and a distant world. Faint, shadowy, 
 delusive, the whispering forerunner of on-coming 
 news, it overrode the rippling of the current, the 
 hooting of the owls, the barking of dogs, the splash 
 of the gar-fish, the grunting of the alligator, the 
 croaking of frogs, penetrating all turmoil, silenc- 
 ing all other sounds. "Rowlock! Rowlock!" 
 Slow, deliberate, hard, and strenuous, coming up- 
 stream ; easy, soft, and musical, gliding down. 
 " Rowlock ! Rowlock !" Every stroke a very 
 universe of hope, every oar frothing a sea of ex- 
 pectation ! Was it the bayou or the secret stream 
 of their longing that suggested the sound to- 
 day? "Rowlock! Rowlock!" The smouldering 
 glances brightened in their eyes, they hollowed 
 their hands behind their ears and held their breath 
 for greater surety. " Rowlock ! Rowlock !" In 
 clear, distinct reiteration. It resolved the mo- 
 ment of doubt. 
 
 " Can it be papa coming back ?" 
 
 " No ; it's against stream." 
 
 "It must be swampers." 
 
 " Or hunters, perhaps." 
 
 "Or Indians from the mound." 
 
 " Indians in a skiff ?" 
 
 " Well, they sometimes come in a skiff." 
 
 The contingencies were soon exhausted, a cut- 
 off leading travellers far around Bayou I'Ombre, 
 whose snaggy, rafted, convoluted course was by 
 
I8 BAYOU l'oMBRE. 
 
 universal avoidance relegated to an isolation al- 
 most insulting. The girls, listening, not to lose a 
 single vibration, quit their places and advanced to 
 the edge of the gallery, then out under the trees, 
 then to the levee, then to the "gunnels," where they 
 stretched their long, thin, white necks out of their 
 blue and brown check gowns, and shaded their 
 eyes and gazed down-stream for the first glimpse of 
 the skiff — their patience which had lasted months 
 fretting now over the delay of a few moments. 
 
 "At last we shall get some news again." 
 
 " If they only leave a newspaper !" 
 
 " Or a letter," said Lolotte. 
 
 " A letter ! From whom ?" 
 
 " Ah, that's it !" 
 
 "What a pity papa isn't here !" 
 
 " Lolotte, don't shake the gunnels so ; you are 
 wetting our feet." 
 
 " How long is it since the last one passed ?" 
 
 " I can tell you," said Lolotte — " I can tell you 
 exactly : it was the day Lou Ann fell in the bayou 
 and nearly got drowned.'' 
 
 "You mean when you both fell in." 
 
 " I didn't fall in at all ; I held on to the pirogue." 
 
 The weeping-willow on the point below veiled 
 the view ; stretching straight out from the bank, it 
 dropped its shock of long, green, pliant branches 
 into the water, titillating and dimpling the surface. 
 The rising bayou bore a freight of logs and drift 
 from the swamps above ; rudely pushing their way 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 
 
 19 
 
 through the willow boughs, they tore and bruised 
 the fragile tendrils that clung to the rough bark, 
 scattering the tiny leaves which followed hope- 
 lessly after in their wake or danced up and down 
 in the hollow eddies behind them. Each time the 
 willow screen moved, the gunnels swayed under the 
 forward motion of the eager bodies of the girls. 
 
 "At last!" 
 
 They turned their eyes to the shaft of sunlight 
 that fell through the plantation clearing, bridging 
 the stream. The skiff touched, entered, and passed 
 through it with a marvellous revelation of form and 
 color, the oars silvering and dripping diamonds, 
 arrows and lances of light scintillating from pol- 
 ished steel, golden stars rising like dust from tas- 
 sels, cordons, buttons, and epaulets, while the blue 
 clouds themselves seemed to have fallen from their 
 empyrean heights to uniform the rowers with their 
 own celestial hue — blue, not gray ! 
 
 " Rowlock ! Rowlock !" What loud, frightful, 
 threatening reverberations of the oars ! And the 
 bayou flowed on the same, and the cypress-trees 
 gazed stolidly and steadfastly up to the heavens, 
 and the heavens were serenely blue and white ! 
 But the earth was sympathetic, the ground shook 
 and swayed under their feet ; or was it the rush of 
 thoughts that made their heads so giddy ? They 
 tried to arrest one and hold it for guidance, but 
 on they sped, leaving only wild confusion of con- 
 jecture behind. 
 
20 BAYOU L OMBRE. 
 
 " Rowlock ! Rowlock !" The rudder headed 
 the bow for the gunnels. 
 
 " Titine ! Gina ! Will they kill us all ?" whis- 
 pered Lolotte, with anxious horror. 
 
 The agile Lou Ann, Lolotte's most efficient co- 
 adjutor and Uncle John's most successful torment- 
 or, dropped her bundle of fishing-poles (which 
 he had carefully spread on his roof to "cure "), and 
 while they rolled and rattled over the dry shin- 
 gles she scrambled with inconceivable haste to 
 her corner of descent. Holding to the eaves 
 while her excited black feet searched and found 
 the top of the window that served as a step, she 
 dropped into the ash-hopper below. Without paus- 
 ing, as usual, to efface betraying evidences of her 
 enterprise from her person, or to cover her tracks 
 in the wet ashes, she jumped to the ground, and 
 ignoring all secreting offers of bush, fence, or 
 ditch, contrary to her custom, she ran with all the 
 speed of her thin legs down the shortest road to 
 the quarters. They were, as she knew, deserted. 
 The doors of the cabins were all shut, with logs 
 of wood or chairs propped against them. The 
 chickens and dogs were making free of the gal- 
 leries, and the hogs wallowed in peaceful immu- 
 nity underneath. A waking baby from a lonely 
 imprisoned cradle sent cries for relief through an 
 open window. Lou Ann, looking neither to the 
 right nor the left, slackened not her steps, but 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 21 
 
 passed straight on through the little avenue to 
 the great white-oak which stood just outside the 
 levee on the bank of the bayou. 
 
 Under the wide-spreading, moss-hung branches, 
 upon the broad flat slope, a grand general washing 
 of the clothes of the small community was in busy 
 progress by the women, a proper feminine conse- 
 cration of this purely feminine day. The daily 
 irksome routine was broken, the men were all 
 away, the sun was bright and warm, the air soft 
 and sweet. The vague recesses of the opposite 
 forest were dim and silent, the bayou played under 
 the gunnels in caressing modulations. All fur- 
 thered the hearkening and the yielding to a debo- 
 nair mood, with disregard of concealment, license 
 of pose, freedom of limb, hilarity, conviviality, au- 
 dacities of heart and tongue, joyous indulgence in 
 freak and impulse, banishment of thought, a re- 
 turn, indeed, for one brief moment to the wild, 
 sweet ways of nature, to the festal days of ances- 
 tral golden age (a short retrogression for them), 
 when the body still had claims, and the mind con- 
 cessions, and the heart owed no allegiance, and 
 when god and satyr eyes still might be caught 
 peeping and glistening from leafy covert on femi- 
 nine midsummer gambols. Their skirts were girt 
 high around their broad full hips, their dark arms 
 and necks came naked out of their low, sleeve- 
 less, white chemise bodies, and glistened with 
 perspiration in the sun as if frosted with silver. 
 
22 BAYOU L OMBRE. 
 
 Little clouds of steam rose from the kettles stand- 
 ing around them over heaps of burning chips. 
 The splay - legged battling - boards sank firmer 
 and firmer into the earth under the blows of the 
 bats, pounding and thumping the wet clothes, 
 squirting the warm suds in all directions, up into 
 the laughing faces, down into the panting bosoms, 
 against the shortened, clinging skirts, over the 
 bare legs, out in frothy runnels over the soft red 
 clay corrugated with innumerable toe-prints. Out 
 upon the gunnels the water swished and foamed 
 under the vigorous movements of the rinsers, end- 
 lessly bending and raising their flexible, muscular 
 bodies, burying their arms to the shoulders in the 
 cool, green depths, piling higher and higher the 
 heaps of tightly-wrung clothes at their sides. The 
 water-carriers, passing up and down the narrow, 
 slippery plank- way, held the evenly filled pails 
 with the ease of coronets upon their heads. The 
 children, under compulsion of continuous threats 
 and occasional chastisement, fed the fire with 
 chips from distant wood-piles, squabbling for the 
 possession of the one cane-knife to split kindlers, 
 imitating the noise and echoing with absurd fidel- 
 ity the full-throated laughter that interrupted from 
 time to time the work around the wash-kettles. 
 
 High above the slop and tumult sat old Aunt 
 Mary, the official sick-nurse of the plantation, com- 
 monly credited with conjuring powers. She held a 
 corn-cob pipe between her yellow protruding teeth, 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 23 
 
 and her little restless eyes travelled inquisitively 
 from person to person as if in quest of profes- 
 sional information, twinkling with amusement at 
 notable efforts of wit, and with malice at the 
 general discomfiture expressed under their gaze. 
 Heelen sat near, nursing her baby. She had 
 taken off her kerchief, and leaned her uncovered 
 head back against the trunk of the tree ; the long 
 wisps of wool, tightly wrapped in white knitting- 
 cotton, rose from irregular sections all over her 
 elongated narrow skull, and encircled her wrinkled, 
 nervous, toothless face like some ghastly serpen- 
 tine chevelure. 
 
 " De Yankees ! de Yankees ! I seed 'em — at 
 de big house ! Little mistus she come for Uncle 
 John. He fotched his gun — for to shoot 'em," 
 
 Lou Ann struggled to make her exhausted 
 breath carry all her tidings. After each item 
 she closed her mouth and swallowed violently, 
 working her muscles until her little horns of 
 hair rose and moved with the contortions of her 
 face. 
 
 "An' dey locked a passel o' men up in de 
 smoke-house— Cornfedrits." 
 
 The bats paused in the air, the women on the 
 gunnels lifted their arms out of the water, those 
 on the gang-plank stopped where they were ; only 
 the kettles simmered on audibly. 
 
 Lou Ann recommenced, this time finishing in 
 one breath, with the added emphasis of raising her 
 
24 BAYOU LOMBRE. 
 
 arm and pointing in the direction from whence 
 she came, her voice getting shriller and shriller 
 to the end : 
 
 " I seed 'em. Dey was Yankees. Little mis- 
 tus she come for Uncle John ; he fotched his gun 
 for to shoot 'em ; and they locked a passel o' 
 men up in de smoke-house — Cornfedrits." 
 
 The Yankees ! What did it mean to them ? 
 How much from the world outside had pene- 
 trated into the unlettered fastnesses of their igno- 
 rance ? What did the war mean to them ? Had 
 Bayou I'Ombre indeed isolated both mind ^nd 
 body ? Had the subtle time-spirit itself been di- 
 verted from them by the cut-off ? Could their 
 rude minds draw no inferences from the gradual 
 loosening of authority and relaxing of discipline ? 
 Did they neither guess nor divine their share in 
 the shock of battle out there ? Could their ghost- 
 seeing eyes not discern the martyr-spirits rising 
 from two opposing armies, pointing at, beckon- 
 ing to them ? If, indeed, the water-shed of their 
 destiny was forming without their knowledge as 
 without their assistance, could not maternal in- 
 stinct spell it out of the heart-throbs pulsing into 
 life under their bosoms, or read from the dumb 
 faces of the children at their breast the triumph- 
 ant secret of their superiority over others born and 
 nourished before them ? 
 
 Had they, indeed, no gratifications beyond the 
 physical, no yearnings, no secret burden of a 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 25 
 
 secret prayer to God, these bonded wives and 
 mothers ? Was this careless, happy, indolent ex- 
 istence genuine, or only a fool's motley to dis- 
 guise a tragedy of suffering ? What to them was 
 the difference between themselves and their mis- 
 tresses ? their condition ? or their skin, that opaque 
 black skin which hid so well the secrets of life, 
 which could feel but not own the blush of shame, 
 the pallor of weakness. 
 
 If their husbands had brought only rum from 
 their stealthy midnight excursions to distant 
 towns, how could the child repeat it so glibly — 
 "Yankees — Cornfedrits ?" The women stood still 
 and silent, but their eyes began to creep around 
 furtively, as if seeking degrees of complicity in a 
 common guilt, each waiting for the other to con- 
 fess comprehension, to assume the responsibility 
 of knowledge. 
 
 The clear-headed children, profiting by the dis- 
 traction of attention from them, stole away for 
 their fishing engagement, leaving cane -knife and 
 chips scattered on the ground behind them. The 
 murmuring of the bayou seemed to rise louder 
 and louder ; the cries of the forsaken baby, clam- 
 orous and hoarse, fell distinctly on the air. 
 
 " My Gord A'mighty !" 
 
 The exclamation was uncompromising ; it re- 
 lieved the tension and encouraged rejoinder. 
 
 " My Lord !— humph !" 
 
 One bat slowly and deliberately began to beat 
 
26 BAYOU l'OMBRE. 
 
 again — Black Maria's. Her tall, straight back 
 was to them, but, as if they saw it, they knew that 
 her face was settling into that cold, stern rigidity 
 of hers, the keen eyes beginning to glisten, the 
 long, thin nostrils nervously to twitch, the lips to 
 open over her fine white teeth — the expression 
 they hated and feared. 
 
 "0-h! o-h! o-h!" 
 
 A long, thin, tremulous vibration, a weird, haunt- 
 ing note : what inspiration suggested it ? 
 
 " Glo-o-ry !" 
 
 Old Aunt Mary nodded her knowing head af- 
 firmatively, as if at the fulfilment of a silent proph- 
 ecy. She quietly shook the ashes out of her pipe, 
 hunted her pocket, put it in, and rising stiffly from 
 the root, hobbled away on her stick in the direc- 
 tion of her cabin. 
 
 " Glo-o-ry !" 
 
 Dead-arm Harriet stood before them, with her 
 back to the bayou, her right arm hanging heavy 
 at her side, her left extended, the finger pointing 
 to the sky. A shapely arm and tapering finger ; 
 a comely, sleek, half -nude body; the moist lips, 
 with burning red linings, barely parting to emit 
 the sound they must have culled in uncanny prac- 
 tices. The heavy lids drooped over the large 
 sleepy eyes, looking with languid passion from 
 behind the thick black lashes. 
 
 " Glo-o-ry !" It stripped their very nerves and 
 bared secret places of sensation ! The " happy " 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 27 
 
 cry of revival meetings — as if midnight vi^ere com- 
 ing on, salvation and the mourners' bench be- 
 fore them, Judgment-day and fiery flames behind 
 them, and "Sister Harriet" raising her voice to 
 call them on, on, through hand - clapping, foot- 
 stamping, shouting, groaning, screaming, out of 
 their sins, out of their senses, to rave in religious 
 inebriation, and fall in religious catalepsy across 
 the floor at the preacher's feet. With a wild rush,- 
 the hesitating emotions of the women sought the 
 opportune outlet, their hungry blood bounding 
 and leaping for the mid- day orgy. Obediently 
 their bodies began the imperceptible motion right 
 and left, and the veins in their throats to swell and 
 stand out under their skins, while the short, fierce, 
 intense responsive exclamations fell from their 
 lips to relieve their own and increase the exalta- 
 tion of the others. 
 
 " Sweet Christ ! sweet Christ !" 
 " Take me, Saviour !" 
 " Oh, de Lamb ! de Lamb !" 
 "I'm a-coming! I'm a-coming !" 
 " Hold back, Satan ! we's a-catching on f 
 " De blood's a-dripping ! de blood's a-dripping !" 
 " Let me kiss dat cross ! let me kiss it !" 
 " Sweet Master !" 
 
 "Glo-o-ry! Fre-e-dom!" It was a whisper, but 
 it came like a crash, and transfixed them ; their 
 mouths stood open with the last words, their 
 bodies remained bent to one side or the other, 
 
28 BAYOU L OMBRE. 
 
 the febrile light in their eyes burning as if from 
 their blood on fire. They could all remember the 
 day when Dead -arm Harriet, the worst worker 
 and most violent tongue of the gang, stood in the 
 clearing, and raising that dead right arm over her 
 head, cursed the overseer riding away in the dis- 
 tance. The wind had been blowing all day; there 
 was a sudden loud crack above them, and a limb 
 from a deadened tree broke, sailed, poised, and 
 fell crashing to her shoulder, and deadening her 
 arm forever. They looked instinctively now with 
 a start to the oak above them, to the sky — only 
 moss and leaves and blue and white clouds. And 
 still Harriet's voice rose, the words faster, louder, 
 bolder, more determined, whipping them out of 
 their awe, driving them on again down the incline 
 of their own passions. 
 
 "Glory! Freedom! Freedom! Glory!" 
 " I'm bound to see 'em ! Come along !" 
 Heelen's wild scream rang shrill and hysterical. 
 She jerked her breast from the sucking lips, and 
 dropped her baby with a thud on the ground. 
 They all followed her up the levee, pressing one 
 after the other, slipping in the wet clay, strug- 
 gling each one not to be left behind. Em- 
 meline, the wife of little Ben, the only yellow 
 woman on the place, was the last. Her skirt 
 was held in a grip of iron ; blinded, obtuse, she 
 pulled forward, reaching her arms out after the 
 others. 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 29 
 
 " You Stay here !" 
 
 She turned and met the determined black face 
 of her mother-in-law. 
 
 "You let me go !" she cried, half sobbing, half 
 angry. 
 
 " You stay here, I tell you !" The words were 
 muttered through clinched teeth. 
 
 "You let me go, I tell you !" 
 
 " Glory ! Freedom !" 
 
 The others had already left the quarters, and 
 were on the road. They two were alone on the 
 bank now, except Heelen's baby, whimpering un- 
 der the tree ; their blazing eyes glared at each 
 other. The singing voices grew fainter and faint- 
 er. Suddenly the yellow face grew dark with the 
 surge of blood underneath, the brows wrinkled, 
 and the lips protruded in a grimace of animal 
 rage. Grasping her wet bat tightly with both 
 hands, she turned with a furious bound, and raised 
 it with all the force of her short muscular arms. 
 The black woman darted to the ground ; the cane- 
 knife flashed in the air and came down pitilessly 
 towards the soft fleshy shoulder. A wild, terri- 
 fied scream burst from Emmeline's lips ; the bat 
 dropped ; seizing her skirt with both hands, she 
 pulled forward, straining her back out of reach of 
 the knife; the homespun tore, and she fled up the 
 bank, her yellow limbs gleaming through the rent 
 left by the fragment in the hand of the black 
 woman. 
 
30 BAYOU L OMBRE. 
 
 The prisoners were so young, so handsome, so 
 heroic ; the very incarnation of the holy spirit of 
 patriotism in their pathetic uniform of brimless 
 caps, ragged jackets, toeless shoes, and shrunken 
 trousers — a veteran equipment of wretchedness 
 out of keeping with their fresh young faces. How 
 proud and unsubdued they walked through the 
 hall between the file of bayonets! With what 
 haughty, defiant eyes they returned the gaze of 
 their insultingly resplendent conquerors ! Oh, if 
 girls' souls had been merchantable at that moment ! 
 Their hands tied behind their backs like runaway 
 slaves ! Locked up in the smoke - house ! that 
 dark, rancid, gloomy, mouldy depot of empty hogs- 
 heads, barrels, boxes, and fetid exhalations. 
 
 They were the first soldiers in gray the girls 
 had ever seen ; their own chivalrous knights, the 
 champions of their radiant country. What was 
 the story of their calamity? Treacherously en- 
 trapped .-• Overpowered by numbers ? Where 
 were their companions — staring with mute, cold, 
 upturned faces from pools of blood ? And were 
 these to be led helplessly tethered into cap- 
 tivity, imprisoned ; with ball and chain to gan- 
 grene and disgrace their strong young limbs, or 
 was solitary confinement to starve their hearts and 
 craze their minds, holding death in a thousand 
 loathsome, creeping shapes ever threatejiingly 
 over them ? 
 
 The smoke-house looked sinister and inimical 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 31 
 
 after its sudden promotion from keeper of food 
 to keeper of men. The great square whitewashed 
 logs seemed to settle more ponderously on the 
 ground around them, the pointed roof to press 
 down as if the air of heaven were an emissary to 
 be dreaded ; the hinges and locks were so osten- 
 tatiously massive and incorruptible. What artful, 
 what vindictive security of carpenter and lock- 
 smith to exclude thieves or immure patriots ! 
 
 The two eldest girls stood against the open 
 armoire with their chill fingers interlaced. Be- 
 yond the wrinkled back of Uncle John's copperas- 
 dyed coat before them lay the region of brass 
 buttons and blue cloth and hostility; but they 
 would not look at it ; they turned their heads 
 away; the lids of their eyes refused to lift and 
 reveal the repugnant vision to them. If their 
 ears had only been equally sensitive ! 
 
 " And so you are the uncle of the young ladies ? 
 Brother of the father or mother.'"' What clear, 
 incisive, nasal tones ! Thank Heaven for the dif- 
 ference between them of the voice at least ! 
 
 The captain's left arm was in a sling, but his 
 hand could steadily hold the note-book in which 
 he carefully pencilled Uncle John's answers to 
 his minute cross-examination — a dainty, fragrant, 
 Russia - leather note - book, with monogram and 
 letters and numbers emblazoned on the outside 
 in national colors. It had photographs inside, 
 also, which he would pause and admire from time 
 
32 BAYOU L OMBRE. 
 
 to time, reading the tender dedications aloud to 
 his companions. 
 
 "And the lady in the kitchen called mammy? 
 She is the mother, I guess ?" 
 
 " P-p-p-peggy's a nigger, and my mistresses is 
 white," stuttered Uncle John. 
 
 " Ah, indeed ! Gentlemen in my uniform find 
 it difficult to remember these trifling distinctions 
 of color." 
 
 What tawdry pleasantry ! What hypocritical 
 courtesy ! What exquisite ceremony and dainty 
 manual for murderous dandies ! 
 
 " Ef-ef-ef-ef I hadn't done gone and forgot dem 
 caps !" 
 
 Uncle John stood before his young mistresses 
 erect and determined, his old double-barrel shot- 
 gun firmly clasped in his tremulous hands, his 
 blear, bloodshot eyes fearlessly measuring the 
 foe. If it were to be five hundred lashes on his 
 bare back under the trees out there (terms on 
 which he would gladly have compromised), or, 
 his secret fear, a running noose over one of the 
 branches, or the murderous extravagance of powder 
 and shot for him, he had made up his mind, de- 
 spite every penalty, to fulfil his duty and stand by 
 his word to Marse John. Ever since the time the 
 little crawling white boy used to follow the great 
 awkward black boy around like a shadow, John had 
 made a cult of Marse John. He had taught him 
 as a child to fish, hunt, trap birds, to dress skins. 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 33 
 
 knit gloves, and play cards on the sly, to fight 
 cocks on Sunday, to stutter, to cut the "pigeon 
 wing " equal to any negro in the State — and other 
 personal accomplishments besides. He had stood 
 by him through all his scrapes as a youth, was 
 valet to all his frolics as a young man, and now 
 in his old age he gardened for him, and looked 
 after the young ladies for him, stretching or con- 
 tracting his elastic moral code as occasion re- 
 quired ; but he had never deceived him nor falsi- 
 fied his word to him. He knew all about the 
 war : Marse John had told him. He knew what 
 Marse John meant when he left the children to 
 him, and Marse John knew what to expect from 
 John. He would treat them civilly as long as 
 they were civil, but his gun was loaded, both bar- 
 rels with bullets, and — 
 
 " Ef-ef-ef-ef I hadn't done gone and forgot dera 
 caps !" 
 
 There was his powder-horn under one arm, 
 there was his shot-flask filled with the last batch 
 of slugs under the other ; but the caps were not 
 in his right-hand coat-pocket, they were in his 
 cupboard, hidden for safety under a pile of gar- 
 den " truck." 
 
 The busy martins twittered in and out of their 
 little lodge under the eaves of the smoke-house. 
 Regina and Christine were powerless to prevent 
 furtive glances in that direction. Could ihepn's- 
 oners hear it inside ? Could they see the sun trav- 
 3 
 
34 BAYOU L OMBRE. 
 
 elling westward, crack by crack, chink by chink, in 
 the roof? Could they feel it sinking, and with it 
 sinking all their hopes of deliverance ? Or did 
 they hope still ? 
 
 Maidens had mounted donjon towers at mid- 
 night, had eluded Argus-eyed sentinels, had 
 drugged savage blood-hounds, had crossed light- 
 ning-flashed seas, had traversed robber -infested 
 forests ; whatever maidens had done they would 
 do, for could ever men more piteously implore 
 release from castle keep than these gray- clad 
 youths from the smoke-house? And did ever 
 maiden hearts beat more valiantly than theirs ? 
 (and did ever maiden limbs tremble more cow- 
 ardly ?) Many a tedious day had been lightened 
 by their rehearsal of just such a drama as this ; 
 they had prepared roles for every imaginable san- 
 guinary circumstance, but prevision, as usual, had 
 overlooked the unexpected. The erstwhile fea- 
 sible conduct, the erstwhile feasible weapons, of a 
 Jeanne d'Arc or Charlotte Corday, the defiant 
 speeches, the ringing retorts — how inappropriate, 
 inadequate, here and now ! If God would only 
 help them ! but, like the bayou, the cypresses, and 
 the blue sky, He seemed to-day eternally above 
 such insignificant human necessities as theirs. 
 
 Without the aid of introspection or the fear of 
 capital punishment, Lolotte found it very difficult 
 to maintain the prolonged state of rigidity into 
 which her sisters had frozen themselves. All the 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 35 
 
 alleviations devised during a wearisome experi- 
 ence of compulsory attendance on plantation fu- 
 nerals were exhausted in the course of this pro- 
 tracted, hymnless, prayerless solemnity. She 
 stood wedged in between them and the armoire 
 which displayed all its shelves of allurements to 
 her. There were her bird-traps just within reach ; 
 there was the fascinating bag of nux-vomica root 
 ' — crow poison ; there was the little old work-box 
 filled with ammunition, which she was forbidden 
 to touch, and all the big gar-fish lines and har- 
 poons and decoy-ducks. There were her own 
 perch lines, the levy she had raised in favor of 
 her companions ; they were neatly rolled, ready 
 to tie on the rods, only needing sinkers ; and 
 there was the old Indian basket filled with odds 
 and ends, an unfailing treasure of resource and 
 surprise. She was just about searching in it for 
 sinkers when this interruption occurred. 
 
 The sky was so bright over the fields ! Just 
 the evening to go fishing, whether they caught 
 anything or not. If the enemy would only hurry 
 and go, there might still be time ; they would 
 leave, they said, as soon as mammy cooked them 
 something to eat. She had seen mammy chasing 
 a chicken through the yard. She wondered how 
 the nice, fat little round " doodles " were getting 
 on in their tin can under the house ; she never 
 had had such a fine box of bait ; she wondered 
 if the negro children would go all the same with- 
 
36 BAYOU LORIBRE. 
 
 out her; she wondered if she could see them 
 creeping down the road. How easy she could 
 have got away from Uncle John ! Anything al- 
 most would do for sinkers — bits of iron, nails ; 
 they had to do since her father and Uncle John 
 made their last moulding of bullets. She thought 
 they might have left her just one real sinker sim- 
 ply as a matter of distinction between herself and 
 the little darkies. Her eyes kept returning to the 
 Indian basket, and if she stopped twisting her fin- 
 gers one over the other but a moment they would 
 take their way to rummaging among the rusty 
 contents. 
 
 " Glory ! Freedom !" 
 
 In came the negresses, Bacchantes drunk with 
 the fumes of their own hot blood, Dead-arm Har- 
 riet, like a triumphant sorceress, leading them, 
 waving and gesticulating with her one " live " arm, 
 all repeating over and over again the potent 
 magical words, oblivious of the curious looks of 
 the men, their own exposure, the presence of their 
 mistresses, of everything but^their own ecstasy. 
 
 " Freedom ! Master ! Freedom !" 
 
 Christine and Regina raised their heads and 
 looked perplexed at the furious women in the 
 yard, and the men gazing down to them. 
 
 What was the matter with them ? What did 
 they mean ? What was it all about .-' 
 
 " Freedom ! Freedom !" 
 
 Then light broke upon them ; their fingers 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 37 
 
 tightened in each other's clasp, and their cheeks 
 flushed crimson. 
 
 "How dared they.? What insolence ! What — " 
 
 The opposite door stood open ; they rushed 
 across the hall and closed it between them and 
 the liLmiiliating scene. This, this they had not 
 thought of, this they had never read about, this 
 their imagination in wildest flights had not vent- 
 ured upon. This was not a superficial conflict 
 to sweep the earth with cannons and mow it with 
 sabres ; this was an earthquake which had rent 
 it asunder, exposing the quivering organs of hid- 
 den life. What a chasm was yawning before 
 them ! There was no need to listen one to the 
 other ; the circumstances could wring from the 
 hearts of millions but one sentiment, the tongue 
 was left no choice of words. 
 
 " Let them go ! let them be driven out ! never, 
 never to see them again !" 
 
 The anger of outraged affection, betrayed con- 
 fidence, abandoned trust, traitorous denial, raged 
 within them. 
 
 These were their servants, their possessions ! 
 From generation to generation their lives had 
 been woven together by the shuttle of destiny. 
 How flimsy and transparent the fabric ! how gro- 
 tesque and absurd the tapestry, with its vaunted 
 traditions of mutual loyalty and devotion ! What 
 a farce, what a lying, disgusting farce it had all 
 been ! Well, it was over now ; that was a com- 
 
38 BAYOU l'OMBRE. 
 
 fort — all over, all ended. If the hearts had in- 
 tergrown, they were torn apart now. After this 
 there was no return, no reconciliation possible ! 
 Through the storm of their emotions a thought 
 drifted, then another ; little detached scenes flit- 
 ted into memory; familiar gestures, speeches, 
 words, one reminiscence drawing another. Thick- 
 er and thicker came little episodes of their pas- 
 toral existence together ; the counter interchanges 
 of tokens, homely presents, kind offices, loving 
 remembrances ; the mutual assistance and con- 
 solation in all the accidents "of life traversed to- 
 gether, the sicknesses, the births, the deaths ; and 
 so many thousand trivial incidents of long, long 
 ago — memory had not lost one — down to the 
 fresh eggs and the pop-corn of that very morning ; 
 they were all there, falling upon their bruised 
 hearts. 
 
 In the hearts of the women out there were only 
 shackles and scourges. What of the long Sun- 
 days of Bible - reading and catechism, the long 
 evenings of woodland tales ; the confidences ; 
 the half-hours around the open fireplaces when 
 supper was cooking, the potatoes under their 
 hillocks of ashes, the thin-legged ovens of corn- 
 bread with their lids of glowing coals, the savory 
 skillets of fried meat, the — Was it indeed all 
 of the past, never again to be present or future ? 
 And those humble, truthful, loving eyes, which 
 had looked up to them from the first moment 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 39 
 
 of their lives : did they look with greater trust 
 up to God Himself? It was all over, yes, all 
 over ! The color faded from their faces, the 
 scornful resolution left their lips ; they laid their 
 faces in their hands and sobbed. 
 
 " Do you hear, Titine ?" Lolotte burst into 
 the room. " They are all going to leave, every 
 one of them ; a transport is coming to-night to 
 take them off. They are going to bundle up 
 their things and wait at the steamboat-landing ; 
 and they are not going to take a child, and not 
 a single husband. The captain says the govern- 
 ment at Washington will give them the nicest 
 white husbands in the land ; that they ought to 
 be glad to marry them. They carried on as if 
 they were drunk. Do you believe it, Titine ? 
 Oh, I do wish Jeff Davis would hurry up and 
 win !" 
 
 The door opened again ; it was Black Maria, 
 still holding the cane - knife in her hand. She 
 crossed the room with her noiseless barefooted 
 tread, and placed herself behind them. They 
 did not expect her to say anything ; Black Maria 
 never talked much ; but they understood her, as 
 they always did. 
 
 Her skirts were still tied up, her head-kerchief 
 awry; they saw for the first time that the wool 
 under it was snow-white. 
 
 Black Maria! They might have known it! 
 They looked at her. No ! She was not ! She 
 
40 BAYOU L OMBRE. 
 
 was not negro, like the others. Who was she ? 
 What was she ? Wliere did she come from, with 
 her white features and white nature under her 
 ebon skin ? What was the mystery that envel- 
 oped her ? Why did the brain always torture it- 
 self in surmises about her ? Why did she not 
 talk as the others did, and just for a moment un- 
 cover that coflfin heart of hers? Why was she, 
 alone of all the negroes, still an alien, a foreigner, 
 an exile among them ? Was she brooding on 
 disgrace, outrage, revenge ? Was she looking at 
 some mirage behind her — a distant equatorial 
 country, a princely rank, barbaric state, some in- 
 herited memory transmitted by that other Black 
 Maria, her mother ? Who was the secret black 
 father whom no one had discovered ? Was it, as 
 the negroes said, the Prince of Darkness ? Who 
 was her own secret consort, the father of Ben ? 
 What religion had she to warrant her scornful re- 
 pudiation of Christianity ? What code that en- 
 abled her to walk as if she were free through 
 slavery, to assume slavery now when others hailed 
 freedom, to be loyal in the midst of treason ? 
 
 "Look!" Lolotte came into the room, and held 
 up a rusty, irregular piece of iron. " I found 
 this in the old Indian basket where I was look- 
 ing for sinkers. Don't you see what it is ? It is 
 the old key of the smoke-house, and I am going 
 to let those Confederates out." She spoke 
 quietly and decidedly. I'here was something 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 41 
 
 else in the other hand, concealed in the folds of 
 her dress. She produced it reluctantly. It was 
 the gun-wrench that filled so prominent a part in 
 her active life — always coveting it, getting pos- 
 session of it, being deprived of it, and accused 
 unfailingly for its every absence and misplace- 
 ment. " You see, it is so convenient ; it screws 
 so nicely on to everything," she continued, apol- 
 ogetically, as she demonstrated the useful qualifi- 
 cation by screwing it on to the key. " There ! it 
 is as good as a handle. All they've got to do is 
 to slip away in the skiff while the others are eat- 
 ing. And I would like to know how they can 
 ever be caught, without another boat on the 
 place ! But oh, girls " — her black eyes twinkled 
 maliciously — " what fools the Yankees are 1" 
 
 If the Federals, as they announced, were only 
 going to remain long enough for the lady in the 
 kitchen to prepare them something to eat, the 
 length of their stay clearly rested in Peggy the 
 cook's hands, as she understood it. She walked 
 around her kitchen with a briskness rarely per- 
 mitted by her corpulent proportions, and with an 
 intuitive faith in the common nature of man re- 
 gardless of political opinion, she exerted her cu- 
 linary skill to the utmost. She knew nothing of 
 the wholesale quarrelling and fighting of a great 
 war, but during her numerous marital experi- 
 ments, not counting intermittent conjugalities for 
 twenty-five years with Uncle John, she had seen 
 
42 BAYOU l'OMBRE. 
 
 inercy and propitiation flow more than once after 
 a good meal from the most irate ; and a healthy 
 digestion aiding, she never despaired of even 
 the most revengeful. The enemy, in her opinion, 
 were simply to' be treated like furious husbands, 
 and were to be offered the best menu possible 
 under the trying circumstances. She worked, in- 
 spired by all the wife-lore of past ages, the infil- 
 trated wisdom that descends to women in the 
 course of a world of empirical connubiality, that 
 traditionary compendium to their lives by which 
 they still hope to make companionship with men 
 harmonious and the earth a pleasant abiding-place. 
 With minute particularity Peggy set the table and 
 placed the dishes. The sun was now sinking, and 
 sending almost horizontal rays over the roof of 
 the smoke-house, whose ugly square frame com- 
 pletely blocked the view of the dining-room win- 
 dow. Peggy carefully drew the red calico curtain 
 across it, and after a moment's rehearsal to bring 
 her features to the conventional womanly ex- 
 pression of cheerful obtuseness to existing dis- 
 pleasure, she opened the dining-room door. 
 
 Gina and Lolotte stood close under the win- 
 dow against the dwelling, looking at the locked 
 door of the smoke-house before them, listening to 
 the sounds falling from the dining-room above. 
 Once in the skiff, the prisoners were safe ; but 
 the little red curtain of the window fluttering 
 flimsily in the breeze coquetted with their hopes 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 43 
 
 and the lives of three men. If the corners would 
 but stay down a second ! Titine and Black Ma- 
 ria were in front, busy about the skiff. Peggy's 
 culinary success appeared, from the comments of 
 the diners, to be complimentary to her judgment. 
 But food alone, however, does not suffice in 
 the critical moments of life ; men are half man- 
 aged when only fed. There was another menu, 
 the ingredients of which were not limited or 
 stinted by blockade of war. Fe.ggy had pre- 
 pared that also ; and in addition to the sounds 
 of plates, knives, forks, and glasses, came the 
 tones of her rich voice dropping from a quick 
 tongue the entremets of her piquant imagination. 
 The attention in the room seemed tense, and at 
 last the curtain hung straight and motionless. 
 
 " Now ! now !" whispered Gina. " We must 
 risk something." 
 
 Woman-like, they paused midway and looked 
 back ; a hand stretched from the table was care- 
 lessly drawing the curtain aside, and the window 
 stared unhindered at the jail. 
 
 Why had they waited ? Why had they not 
 rushed forward immediately 1 By this time their 
 soldiers might have been free ! They could hear 
 Peggy moving around the table ; they could see 
 her bulky form push again and again across the 
 window. 
 
 " Mammy ! Mammy !" 
 
 Could she hear them ? They clasped their 
 
44 BAYOU L OMBRE. 
 
 hands and held their faces up in imploring ap- 
 peal. The sun was setting fast, almost running 
 down the west to the woods. The dinner, if good, 
 was not long. It all depended upon Peggy now. 
 
 " Mammy ! Mammy !" They raised their lit- 
 tle voices, then lowered them in agony of appre- 
 hension. " Mammy, do something ! Help us !" 
 
 But still she passed on and about, around the 
 table, and across the window, blind to the smoke- 
 house, deaf to them, while her easy, familiar 
 voice recited the comical gyrations of " old Friz- 
 zly," the half-witted hen, who had set her heart 
 against being killed and stewed, and ran and hid, 
 and screamed and cackled, and ducked and flew, 
 and then, after her silly head was twisted off, 
 "just danced, as if she were at a "Cadian' ball, 
 all over the yard." 
 
 It would soon be too late ! It was, perhaps, 
 too late now ! 
 
 Black Maria had got the skiff away from the 
 gunnels, but they might just as well give it up ; 
 they would not have time enough now. 
 
 " Mammy !" The desperate girls made a su- 
 preme effort of voice and look. The unctuous 
 black face, the red bead ear-rings, the bandanna 
 head-kerchief, appeared at the window with " old 
 Frizzly's " last dying cackle. There was one 
 flashing wink of the left eye. 
 
 Her nurslings recognized then her piece dc re- 
 sistance oratoire — a side-splitting prank once 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 
 
 45 
 
 played upon her by another nursling, her pet, her 
 idol, the plague of her life — Beau. 
 
 Who could have heard grating lock or squeak- 
 ing hinges through the boisterous mirth that fol- 
 lowed? Who could have seen the desperate 
 bound of the three imprisoned soldiers for liberty 
 through that screen of sumptuous flesh — the mag- 
 nificent back of Mammy that filled to overlap- 
 ping the insignificant little window ? 
 
 They did not wait to hear the captain's rapt- 
 urous toast to Peggy in sassafras tea, nor his vol- 
 uble protestations of love to her, nor could they 
 see him in his excitement forgetting his wounded 
 arm, bring both clinched fists with a loud bravo 
 to the table, and then faint dead away. 
 
 " I knew it !" 
 
 " Just like him !" 
 
 " Take him in the air — quick !" 
 
 " No, sir ! You take him in there, and put 
 him on the best bed in the house." Peggy did 
 not move from the window, but her prompt com- 
 mand turned the soldiers from the door in the 
 hall, and her finger directed them to the closed 
 bed-chamber. 
 
 Without noticing Christine standing by the 
 open window, they dropped their doughty bur- 
 den — boots, spurs, sword, epaulets, and all — on 
 the fresh, white little bed, the feather mattress 
 flufling up all around as if to submerge him. 
 
 " Oh, don't bother about that ; cut the sleeve off!" 
 
46 BAYOU L OMBRE. 
 
 " Who has a knife ?" 
 
 " There." 
 
 "That's all right now." 
 
 " He's coming round." 
 
 " There's one nice coat spoiled." 
 
 "Uncle Sam has plenty more." 
 
 " Don't let it drip on the bed." 
 
 " Save it to send to Washington — trophy — wet 
 with rebel blood." 
 
 The captain was evidently recovering. 
 
 "You stay here while I keep 'em eating," whis- 
 pered Peggy, authoritatively, to Christine. 
 
 Titine trembled as if she had an ague. 
 
 " How could they help seeing the tall form of 
 Black Maria standing in the prow of the boat out 
 in the very middle of the bayou ? Suppose she, 
 Titine, had not been there to close the window 
 quick as thought ? Suppose instead of passing 
 through her room she had run through the base- 
 ment, as she intended, after pushing off the skiff ?" 
 
 Rollicking, careless, noisj^, the soldiers went 
 back to their interrupted meal, while the boat 
 went cautiously clown the bayou to the meeting 
 place beyond the clearing. 
 
 " How far was Black Maria now ?" Titine 
 opened the window a tiny crack. " Heavens ! 
 how slowly she paddled ! lifting the oar deliber- 
 ately from side to side, looking straight ahead. 
 How clear and distinct she was in the soft even- 
 ing light ! Why did she not hurry ? why did she 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 
 
 47 
 
 not row? She could have muffled the oars. But 
 no, no one thought of that ; that was always the 
 way — always something overlooked and forgotten. 
 The soldiers could finish a dozen dinners before 
 the skiff got out of sight at this rate. Without the 
 skiff the prisoners might just as well be locked 
 still in the smoke-house. Did he on the bed sus- 
 pect something, seeing her look out this way?" 
 She closed the window tight. 
 
 " How dark the room was ! She could hardly 
 see the wounded man. How quiet he was ! Was 
 he sleeping, or had he fainted again ? In her bed ! 
 her enemy lying in her bed ! his head on her pil- 
 low, her own little pillow, the feverish confidant 
 of so many sleepless nights ! How far were they 
 now on the bayou? She must peep out again. 
 Why, Maria had not moved ! not moved an inch ! 
 Oh, if she could only scream to her ! if she were 
 only in the skiff ! 
 
 " How ghastly pale he looked on the bed ! his 
 face as white as the coverlet, his hair and beard 
 so black ; how changed without his bravado and 
 impertinence! And he was not old, either; not 
 older than the boys in gray. She had fancied 
 that age and ugliness alone could go with violence 
 and wrong. How much gold ! how much glitter ! 
 Why, the sun did not rise with more splendor of 
 equipment. Costumed as if for the conquest of 
 worlds. If the Yankees dressed their captains 
 this way, what was the livery of their generals ? 
 
48 BAYOU L OMBRE. 
 
 How curious the sleeveless arm looked ! What 
 a horrible mark the gash made right across the 
 soft white skin ! What a scar it would leave ! 
 What a disfigurement ! And this, this is what 
 men call love of country !" 
 
 On Saturday nights sometimes, in the quarters, 
 when rum had been smuggled in, the negroes 
 would get to fighting and beating their wives, and 
 her father would be sent for in a hurry to come 
 with his gun and separate them. Hatchets, axes, 
 cane-knives — anything they would seize, to cut 
 and slash one another, husbands, wives, mothers, 
 sons, sisters, brothers; but they were negroes, 
 ignorant, uneducated, barbarous, excited ; they 
 could not help it ; they could not be expected to 
 resist all at once the momentum of centuries of 
 ancestral ferocity. But for white men, gentlemen, 
 thus furiously to mar and disfigure their own 
 mother-given bodies ! All the latent maternal in- 
 stinct in her was roused, all the woman in her re- 
 volted against the sacrilegious violence of muti- 
 lation. " Love of country to make her childless, 
 or only the mother of invalids! This was only 
 one. What of the other thousands and hundreds 
 of thousands ? Are men indeed so inexhaustible ? 
 Are the pangs of maternity so cheap ? Are wom- 
 en's hearts of no account whatever in the settle- 
 ment of disputes? O God! cannot the world 
 get along without war ? But even if men want it, 
 even if God permits it, how can the women allow 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 
 
 49 
 
 it ? If the man on the bed were a negro, she 
 could do something for his arm. Many a time, 
 early Sunday mornings, Saturday night culprits 
 had come to her secretly, and she had washed off 
 the thick, gummy blood, and bandaged up their 
 cuts and bruises ; they did not show so on black 
 skin. . . . This man had a mother somewhere 
 among the people she called ' enemies ;' a mother 
 sitting counting day by day the continued posses- 
 sion of a live son, growing gray and old before 
 that terrible next minute ever threatening to take 
 her boy and give her a corpse. Or perhaps, like 
 her own, his mother might be dead. They might 
 be friends in that kingdom which the points of the 
 compass neither unite nor divide ; together they 
 might be looking down on this quarrelling, fight- 
 ing world ; mothers, even though angels, looking, 
 looking through smoke and powder and blood 
 and hatred after their children. Their eyes 
 might be fixed on this lonely little spot, on this 
 room. . . ." She walked to the bed. 
 
 The blood was oozing up through the strips of 
 plaster. She stanched and bathed and soothed 
 the wound as she well knew how with her tender, 
 agile fingers, and returned to the window. Maria 
 had disappeared now ; she could open the window 
 with impunity. The trackless water was flowing 
 innocently along, the cooling air was rising in mist, 
 the cypress -trees checked the brilliant sky with 
 the filigree and net-work of their bristly foliage. 
 
50 BAYOU L OMBRE. 
 
 The birds twittered, the chickens loitered and 
 dallied on their way to roost. The expectant dogs 
 were lying on the levee waiting for the swampers, 
 who, they ought to know, could not possibly re- 
 turn before midnight. And Molly was actually on 
 time this evening, lowing for mammy to come and 
 milk her ; what was the war to her ? How happy 
 and peaceful it all was ! What a jarring contrast 
 to swords and bayonets ! Thank God that Nature 
 was impartial, and could not be drilled into par- 
 tisanship ! If humanity were like Nature ! If — 
 if there had been no war ! She paused, shocked 
 at her first doubt ; of the great Circumstance of 
 her life it was like saying, " If there had been no 
 God !" 
 
 As she stood at the window and thought, all the 
 brilliant coloring of her romantic fantasies, the 
 stories of childhood, the perversions of education, 
 the self-delusions, they all seemed to fade with 
 the waning light, and with the beautiful day sink 
 slowly and quietly into the irrevocable past. 
 " Thank God, above all, that it is a human de- 
 vice to uniform people into friends and enemies ! 
 The heart (her own felt so soft and loving) — the 
 heart repudiates such attempts of blue and gray ; 
 it still clings to Nature, and belongs only to God." 
 She thought the wound must need tending again, 
 and returned to the bed. The patient, meanwhile, 
 went in and out of the mazes of unconsciousness 
 caused by weakness. 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 51 
 
 " Was that really he on this foamy bed ? What 
 a blotch his camp-battered body made down the 
 centre of it ! It was good to be on a bed once 
 more, to look up into a mosquito-bar instead of 
 the boughs of trees, to feel his head on a pillow. 
 But why did they put him there ? Why did they 
 not lay him somewhere on the floor, outside on 
 the ground, instead of soiling and crumpling this 
 lily-white surface?" 
 
 He could observe his nurse through his half- 
 closed lids, which fell as she approached the bed, 
 and closed tight as she bent above him. When 
 she stood at the window he could look full at her. 
 " How innocent and unsuspecting she looked !" 
 The strained rigidity had passed away from her 
 face. Her transparent, child-like eyes were look- 
 ing with all their life of expression in the direc- 
 tion of the bed, and then at something passing in 
 her own mind. " Thank Heaven, the fright had 
 all gone out of them ! How horrible for a gentle- 
 man to read fear in the eyes of a woman ! Her 
 mind must be as pure and white, yes, and as im- 
 pressionable, too, as her bed. Did his presence lie 
 like a blot upon it also ? How she must hate 
 him ! how she must loathe him ! Would it have 
 been different if he had come in the other uniform 
 — if he had worn the gray ? would she then have 
 cared for him, have administered to him ? How 
 slight and frail she was ! What a wan, wistful 
 little face between him and the gloomy old bayou ! 
 
52 BAYOU l'oMBRE. 
 
 He could see her more plainly now since she had 
 opened the window and let in the cool, fragrant 
 air. There was no joyous development of the 
 body in her to proclaim womanhood, none of the 
 seductive, confident beauty that follows corona- 
 tion of youth ; to her had only come the care and 
 anxiety of maturity. This — this,'" he exclaimed 
 to himself, " is the way women fight a war." Was 
 she coming this way .'' Yes. To the bed ? Hard- 
 ly. Now she was pressing against it, now bend- 
 ing over him, now dropping a cooling dew from 
 heaven on his burning arm, and now — oh, why so 
 soon ? — she was going away to stand and look 
 out of the window again. 
 
 The homely little room was filled with femi- 
 nine subterfuges for ornament, feminine substi- 
 tutes for comfort. How simple women are ! how 
 little they require, after all ! only peace and love 
 and quiet, only the impossible in a masculine 
 world. What was she thinking of ? If he could 
 only have seen the expression of her eyes as she 
 bent over him ! Suppose he should open his and 
 look straight up at her ? but no, he had not the 
 courage to frighten her again. He transplanted 
 her in his mind to other surroundings, her proper 
 surroundings by birthright, gave her in abun- 
 dance all of which this war had deprived her, 
 presented to her assiduous courtiers, not reckless 
 soldiers like himself, but men whom peace had 
 guided in the lofty sphere of intellectual pursuits. 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 53 
 
 He held before her the sweet invitations of youth, 
 the consummations of Hfe. He made her smile, 
 laugh. 
 
 " Ah !" — he turned his face against the pillow 
 — "had that sad face ever laughed? Could any 
 woman laugh during a war ? Could any triumph, 
 however glorious, atone for battles that gave men 
 death, but left the women to live ? This was only 
 one; how many, wan and silent as she, were look- 
 ing at this sunset — the sunset not of a day, but 
 a life ? \Mien it was all over, who was to make 
 restitution to them, the women ? Was any cost 
 too great to repurchase for them simply the privi- 
 lege of hoping again ? What an endless chain of 
 accusing thoughts ! What a miserable conviction 
 tearing his heart ! If he could get on his knees to 
 her, if he could kiss her feet, if he could beg par- 
 don in the dust — he, a man for all men, of her, a 
 woman for all women. If he could make her his 
 country, not to fight, but to work for, it . . ." 
 
 She came to his side again, she bent over him, 
 she touched him. 
 
 Impulsive, thoughtless, hot-headed, he opened 
 his eyes full, he forgot again the wounded arm. 
 With both hands he stayed her frightened start; he 
 saw the expression of her eyes bending over him. 
 
 " Can you forgive me .'' It is a heartless, cow- 
 ardly trick ! I am not a Yankee ; I am Beau, 
 your cousin, the guerilla." 
 
 The door of the smoke-house opened, the es- 
 
54 
 
 BAYOU L OMBRE. 
 
 caped soldiers ran like deer between the furrows 
 of Uncle John's vegetable garden, where the wav- 
 ing corn leaves could screen them ; then out to 
 the bank of the bayou — not on the levee, but close 
 against the fence — snagging their clothes and 
 scratching their faces and hands on the cuckle- 
 burs ; Lolotte in front, with a stick in her hand, 
 beating the bushes through habit to frighten the 
 snakes, calling, directing, animating, in excited 
 whispers ; Regina in the rear, urging, pressing, 
 sustaining the young soldier lagging behind, but 
 painfully striving with stiffened limbs to keep up 
 with the pace of his older, more vigorous compan- 
 ions. Ahead of them Black Maria was steadily 
 keeping the skiff out in the current. The bayou 
 narrowed and grew dark as it entered between 
 the banks of serried cypress- trees, where night 
 had already begun. 
 
 Regina looked hurriedly over her shoulder. 
 " Had they found out yet at the house } How 
 slowly she ran ! How long it took to get to the 
 woods ! Oh, they would have time over and over 
 again to finish their dinner and catch them. Per- 
 haps at this very moment, as she was thinking of it, 
 some forgotten article in the skiff was betraying 
 them ! Perhaps a gun might even now be point- 
 ing down their path ! Or, now ! the bullet could 
 start and the report come too late to warn 
 them." 
 
 She looked back again and again. 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 55 
 
 From the little cottage under the trees the 
 curtains fluttered, but no bayonet nor smooth-bore 
 was visible. 
 
 She met her companion's face, looking back 
 also, but not for guns — for her. " If it had been 
 different ! If he had been a visitor, come to stay ; 
 days and evenings to be passed together !" The 
 thought lifting the sulphurous war-clouds from her 
 heart, primitive idyls burst into instantaneous fra- 
 grant bloom in it like spring violets. He was not 
 only the first soldier in gray she had ever seen, 
 but the first young man ; or it seemed so to her. 
 
 Again she looked back. 
 
 " How near they were still to the house ! how 
 plainly they could yet be seen ! He could be 
 shot straight through the back, the gray jacket 
 getting one stain, one bullet-hole, more, the coun- 
 try one soldier less. Would they shoot through 
 a woman at him ? Would they be able to sepa- 
 rate them if she ran close behind him, moving 
 this way and that way, exactly as he did .'' If she 
 saw them in time she could warn him ; he could 
 lie flat down in the grass; then it would be im- 
 possible to hit him." 
 
 Increasing and narrowing the space between 
 them at the best of each succeeding contradic- 
 tory thought, turning her head again and again 
 to the house behind her, she lost speed. Lolotte 
 and the two men had already entered the forest 
 before she reached it. Coming from the fields, 
 
56 BAYOU l'oMBRE. 
 
 the swamps seemed midnight dark. Catching her 
 companion's hand, they groped their way along, 
 tripped by the slimy cypress knees that rose like 
 evil gnomes to beset and entangle their feet, 
 slipping over rolling logs, sinking in stagnant mire, 
 noosed by the coils of heavy vines that dropped 
 from unseen branches overhead. Invisible wings 
 of startled birds flapped above them, the croak- 
 ing of frogs ebbed and flowed around them, owls 
 shrieked and screamed from side to side of the 
 bayou. Lolotte had ceased her beating ; swamp 
 serpents are too sluggish to be frightened away. 
 In the obscurity, Black Maria could be dimly 
 seen turning the skiff to a half-submerged log, 
 from which a turtle dropped as if ballasted with 
 lead. A giant cypress -tree arrested them; the 
 smooth, fluted trunk, ringed with whitish water- 
 marks, recording floods far over their heads ; 
 where they were scrambling once swam fish and 
 serpents. The young soldier turned and faced 
 her, the deliverer, whose manoeuvres in the open 
 field had not escaped him. 
 
 She had saved him from imprisonment, insult, 
 perhaps death — the only heir of a heroic father, 
 the only son of a widowed mother ; she had re- 
 stored him to a precious heritage of love and 
 honor, replaced him in the interrupted ambitious 
 career of patriotic duty ; she had exposed her life 
 for him — she was beautiful. She stood before 
 him, panting, tremulous, ardent, with dumb, open 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 57 
 
 red lips, and voluble, passionate eyes, and with a 
 long scratch in her white cheek from which the 
 blood trickled. She had much to say to him, her 
 gray uniformed hero ; but how in one moment 
 express four years — four long years — and the last 
 long minutes. The words were all there, had been 
 rushing to her lips all day ; her lips were parted ; 
 but the eager, overcrowded throng were jammed 
 on the threshold ; and her heart beat so in her 
 ears ! He could not talk ; he could not explain. 
 His companions were already in the boat, his ene- 
 mies still in gunshot. He bent his face to hers in 
 the dim light to learn by heart the features he must 
 never forget — closer, closer, learning, knowing 
 more and more, with the eager precocity of youth. 
 
 Bellona must have flown disgusted away with 
 the wings of an owl,. Columbia might have nod- 
 ded her head as knowingly as old Aunt Mary 
 could, when the callow hearts, learning and know- 
 ing, brought the faces closer and closer together, 
 until the lips touched. 
 
 " I shall come again ; I shall come again. Wait 
 for me. Surely I shall come again," 
 
 "Yes! Yes!" 
 
 Black Maria pushed the skiff off. " Rowlock ! 
 Rowlock !" They were safe and away. 
 
 A vociferous group stood around the empty 
 gunnels. Uncle John, with the daring of despera- 
 tion, advanced, disarmed as he was, towards them. 
 
58 BAYOU L OMBRE. 
 
 " I-I-I-I don't keer ef you is de-de-de President 
 o' de United States hisself, I ain't gwine to 'low no 
 such cussin' an' swearin' in de hearin' o' de-de-de 
 young ladies. Marse John he-he-he don't 'low it, 
 and when Marse John ain't here I-I-I don't 'low it." 
 
 His remonstrance and heroic attitude had very 
 little effect, for the loud talk went on, and chiefly 
 by ejaculation, imprecation, and self-accusation 
 published the whole statement of the case ; under- 
 standing which. Uncle John added his voice also: 
 
 " Good Gord A'mighty ! Wh-wh-what's dat you 
 say ? Dey — dey — dey Yankees, an' you Cornfed- 
 rits ? Well, sir, an' are you Marse Beau — you wid 
 your arm hurted ? Go 'long ! You can't fool me ; 
 Marse Beau done had more sense en dat. My 
 Gord ! an' dey wuz Yankees ? You better cuss — 
 cussin's about all you kin do now. Course de 
 boat's gone. You'll never ketch up wid 'em in 
 Gord's world now. Don't come along arter me 
 about it .' 'Tain't my fault. How wuz I to know ? 
 You wuz Yankees enough for me. I declar', 
 Marse Beau, you ought to be ashamed o' your- 
 self ! You wanted to I'arn dem a lesson ! I reck- 
 on dey I'arnt you one ! You didn't mean 'em no 
 harm ! Humph ! dey've cut dey eye-teeth, dey 
 have ! Lord ! Marse Beau, I thought you done 
 knowed us better. Did you really think we wuz 
 a-gwine to let a passel o' Yankees take us away 
 off our own plantation } You must done forgot 
 us. We jes cleaned out de house for 'em, we did 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 59 
 
 — clo'es, food, tobacco, rum. De young ladies 
 'ain't lef a mossel for Marse John. An' — an' — 
 an' 'fore de good Gord, my gun ! Done tuck my 
 gun away wid 'em ! Wh-wh-wh-what you mean 
 by such doin's ? L-l-look here, Marse Beau, I 
 don't like dat, nohow ! Wh-wh-what ! you tuck 
 my gun and gin it to de Yankees ? Dat's my 
 gun ! I done had dat gun twenty-five year an' 
 more ! Dog-gone ! Yes, sir, I'll cuss — I'll cuss 
 ef I wants to ! I 'ain't got no use for gorillas, 
 nohow ! Lem me 'lone, I tell you ! lem me 'lone ! 
 Marse John he'll get de law o' dat ! Who's 'spon- 
 sible ? Dat's all I want to know — who's 'sponsi- 
 ble ? Ef-ef-ef-ef— No, sir ; dar ain't nary boat 
 on de place, nor hereabouts. Yes, sir; you kin 
 cross de swamp ef you kin find de way. No, sir 
 — no, sir; dar ain't no one to show you. I ain't 
 gwine to leave de young ladies twell Marse John 
 he comes back. Yes, I reckon you kin git to de 
 cut-off by to-morrow mornin', ef you ain't shot on 
 de way for Yankees, an' ef your company is fool 
 enough to wait for you. No, sir, I don't know 
 nothin' 'bout nothin' ; you better wait an' arsk 
 Marse John. ... My Gord! I'm obleeged to 
 laugh ; I can't help it. Dem fool nigger wimen 
 a-sittin' on de brink o' de byer, dey clo'es tied up 
 in de bedquilts, an' de shotes an' de puUits all 
 kilt, a-waitin' for freedom ! I lay dey' 11 git free- 
 dom enough to-night when de boys come home. 
 Dey git white gentlemen to marry 'em ! Dey'll 
 
60 BAYOU L'OMBRE. 
 
 git five hundred apiece. Marse Beau, Gord '11 
 punish you for dis— He surely will. I done tole 
 Marse John long time ago he oughter sell dat 
 brazen nigger Dead-arm Harriet, an' git shet o' 
 her. Lord ! Lord ! Lord ! Now you done gone 
 to cussin' an' swearin' agin. Don't go tearin' off 
 your jackets an' flingin' em at me. We don't 
 want 'em ; we buys our clo'es — what we don't 
 make. Yes, Marse John '11 be comin' along pret- 
 ty soon now. What's your hurry, Marse Beau .-• 
 Well, so long, ef you won't stay. He ain't got 
 much use for gorillas neither, Marse John hain't." 
 
 The young officer wrote a few hasty words on 
 a leaf torn from the pretty Russia-leather note- 
 book, and handed it to the old darky. " For 
 your Marse John." 
 
 "For Marse John — yes, sir; I'll gin hit to him 
 soon 's he comes in." 
 
 They had dejectedly commenced their weary 
 tramp up the bayou ; he called him back, and 
 lowered his voice confidentially : " Marse Beau, 
 when you captured dat transport and stole all 
 dem fixin's an' finery, you didn't see no good 
 chawin' tobacco layin' round loose, did you? 
 Thanky! thanky, child! Now I looks good at 
 you, you ain't so much changed sence de times 
 Marse John used to wallop you for your tricks. 
 Well, good-bye, Marse Beau." 
 
 On the leaf were scrawled the words : 
 
 ".All's up ! Lee has surrendered. — Beau." 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 >T was in a part of the city once 
 truthfully, now conventionally, called 
 "back of town," and it had been 
 used as an obscure corner in which 
 to thrust domestic hearths not cred- 
 itable to the respectability assumed in the front 
 part of town ; where oil-lamps could be econom- 
 ically substituted for gas, and police indifference 
 for police protection. 
 
 The long rows of tallow- trees, with here and 
 there an oak, shaded an unpaved street and a 
 seemingly unbroken continuity of low cottages, 
 with heavy green doors and windows and little 
 wooden steps jutting out on to the banquette. 
 Their homely architectural physiognomies were 
 adapted to such an isolated, dimly-lighted locality, 
 and were frankly devoid of any beauty or pictu- 
 resqueness of expression. But as the banquette, 
 wrinkled and corrugated from the roots beneath, 
 retarded the steps of the passer-by, faintly as- 
 serting individualities might be discerned : de- 
 clensions of one -storied degrees of prosperity, 
 comparisons of industry and cleanliness, and pre- 
 
64 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 tensions to social precedence inherited from the 
 architect of a centnry ago, or acquired, perhaps, 
 by the thrift of a present tenant. The steps 
 were all scrubbed red with brick, or yellow with 
 wild camomile, which, besides gilding, lent them 
 a pleasant aromatic fragrance. 
 
 The quiet that reigned told that the street was 
 still back of town in all that a corporation sug- 
 gests of movement, bustle, and noise. The air 
 of desertion which hung about the little closed 
 cottages would have been oppressive had it not 
 been for the children — a motley crowd, accus- 
 ing an " olla podrida " parentage, chattering in 
 tongues as varied as their complexions, and rest- 
 less with the competing energies of hidden na- 
 tionalities in their veins. Dressed with tropical 
 disregard of conventionality, they were frank, im- 
 pudent, irrepressible ; at all times noisy and unan- 
 imous, swooping down the street at any moment 
 in eager response to some distant alarm, or tak- 
 ing swarming possession of whole rows of steps 
 with perfect disregard of any superior proprietary 
 right. 
 
 The delusive similarity of the blocks would in 
 time generate in the passer-by the suspicion of a 
 treadmill under foot, did not the sharp point of 
 a triangular enclosure furnish a landmark in the 
 region by cutting into the very middle of the 
 street, parting the hitherto companion banquettes, 
 and sending them on at divergent angles in ever- 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 65 
 
 increasing separation, until they were finally ar- 
 rested at unrecognizable distances apart by the 
 banks of the bayou. The fence of this obtruding 
 property may have been painted in front on the 
 other street, but to its apex it degenerated through 
 every stage of shabbiness and neglect. For a 
 screen the large square house inside was mostly 
 indebted to a hedge of orange-trees, which, raising 
 their heads proudly in the sun, illuminated the 
 ugly spot with their golden fruit in the winter, 
 and sanctified it in the spring with their blossoms. 
 The shaded banquettes along the sides of the 
 triangle were a constant temptation to the chil- 
 dren, alluring them, against experience, into the 
 range of the epithets and missiles of the children- 
 hating people within. 
 
 " AUez-vous-en !" 
 
 " Pestes de la terre !" 
 
 " Negrillons !" 
 
 "Gamins !" 
 
 " Tits demons !" 
 
 " Enfants du diable !" 
 
 The loss of a knot from one of the boards of 
 the fence furnished a providential peep-hole into 
 the mysteries of a " menage " from which abnor- 
 mal discoveries seemed constantly expected by 
 the children, and if persistence of attention could 
 have been relied upon, warnings might always 
 have been given for timely refuge on the steps of 
 the nearest little corner cottage. These offered an 
 
66 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 ideal juvenile place of refuge, where there were 
 no brick or camomile scrubbings to rebuke their 
 litter, no sudden front -door openings to sweep 
 them away in confusion, no front-window admo- 
 nitions or imprecations to disturb them, and ab- 
 solutely no banquette ordinances to taunt them 
 into wilfulness, but instead an upward glance 
 through the small opening of the bowed shutters 
 showed them the face of " la blanche mamzelle 
 la-ye " at her sewing. 
 
 They were too young to appreciate the fact that 
 the batten windows were bowed only when they 
 were there, or to wonder why they, the children, 
 were the only ones who ever saw her ; but they 
 did know that her face was whiter, her hair 
 straighter and finer, than human comparison for 
 them, and so they could not keep their eyes from 
 looking for responses from hers, nor their lips 
 from smiling invitingly at hers, nor their tongues 
 from sallies of wit intended for her ear alone. 
 To-day she paid little attention to them. They 
 could hear her " Miseres !" of impatience, and the 
 vexatious tapping of her foot, though they could 
 not see that she was manipulating some gaudy 
 woollen material which gave her infinite worry with 
 its ungracious, not to say stubborn, opposition to 
 a necessity which ordered its stripes to go flounc- 
 ing in diagonal procession round and round a skirt. 
 
 " Claire !" called a feeble voice from the back 
 room. 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 67 
 
 She raised her head incredulously. 
 
 " Claire ! Claire Blanche !" 
 
 A shade of disappointment passed over her face. 
 
 " Bonne maman !" 
 
 " Mais, Claire, fillette, where are you ?" 
 
 " I am coming, bonne maman." 
 
 She caught her work together and folded it in 
 a cloth before going into the other room. 
 
 " What are you doing, bebe ?" 
 
 " But my work, bonne maman." 
 
 "Ah ! I could not think where you were." 
 
 " I thought it was cooler in the other room." 
 
 "It is very warm in here." 
 
 " You are not going to get up, bonne maman ? 
 You have not finished your sleep yet." 
 
 " Have I not slept as long as usual?" 
 
 " No, indeed ; only a few minutes. That was 
 the reason I could not think it was you calling." 
 
 " Enfin, it is better for me to get up." 
 
 " But why, bonne maman .-' There is no ne- 
 cessity for you to get up earlier to-day than usual." 
 
 "As you say, it is warm here." 
 
 The old lady lay on her bed underneath the 
 mosquito bar, the straight folds of her white 
 " blouse volante " settled around her thin figure. 
 Claire picked up a fan, and putting back the 
 bar, commenced to fan her. 
 
 " Chere, bonne maman, try. Maybe you can 
 sleep some more." 
 
 The coaxing, caressing voice and the soft mo- 
 
68 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 tions of the fan had a soothing effect, and al- 
 though the grandmother repeated, " Yes, decided- 
 ly I had better get up," she made no effort to move. 
 
 " The weather is so warm and tiresome," con- 
 tinued the girl, suggesting an excuse for lethargy. 
 
 "Yes, as you sa}', it is warm and debilitating." 
 
 " But, just shut your eyes, bonne maman, and 
 try to sleep. You have not rested at all." 
 
 " Rest," she said, catching the word. " I do 
 not need rest ; I have worked very little to-day — 
 in fact, not at all." 
 
 " Oh, but I mean rest from thinking. Mon 
 Dieu ! if I thought as much as you, I could not 
 keep my eyes open at all." 
 
 The grandmother turned her head on the pil- 
 low, and did close her eyes. 
 
 Claire smiled with satisfaction. Her bright 
 face showed the reflection of cheerful interpreta- 
 tions alone, and her quick eyes, glancing over the 
 surface of things, gathered only pleasant sights. 
 She was going on tiptoe out of the room. 
 
 "Why do you not bring your work in here, 
 Claire, where I am ?" 
 
 " What, not asleep ? Vilaine !" 
 
 " But, my child, how you talk ! Sleep ? when I 
 have so much to finish !" 
 
 " Oh, there is plenty of time for that, bonne 
 maman. At least stay in bed a little longer." 
 
 " One would suppose that I was the grandchild 
 and you the bonne maman." 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 69 
 
 Claire brought her work ; not the gaudy stripes, 
 but a piece of embroidery, and seated herself at 
 some distance from the bed, in the path of a ray 
 of light. 
 
 The old lady sighed heavily; her eyes were 
 fixed on Claire. 
 
 "But what is the matter, bonne maman?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing, nothing, cherie — only, what makes 
 you stoop so, Claire ?" 
 
 " Ah, that ugly habit ! Imbecile !"— slapping 
 her forehead — " can't you cure yourself, enfin ? I 
 ought to be well tapped for it, as I was at the con- 
 vent." 
 
 She straightened herself up to an uncomfort- 
 able degree of rectitude, which lasted as long as 
 the remembrance of her grandmother's sigh, and 
 she talked as if her needle could only move in 
 unison with her tongue. 
 
 " It was funny at the convent how many bad 
 habits I had. They seemed to grow on purpose 
 to be corrected. And I was so young, too. Bad 
 mark for this, en penitence for that, fool's-cap for 
 something else, twenty -five lines by heart for 
 something else. And all the time, ' Your grand- 
 mother never did this,' 'Your mother never did 
 that,' ' Ah, if you had seen your tante Stephanie,' 
 ' Look at your cousin Adelaide.' Ma foi ! the 
 first lesson I learned was that I was like no 
 member of my family seen before. How I used 
 to wish there had been just one lazy bad one 
 
70 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 like me ! Was it that way when you were there, 
 bonne maman ?" 
 
 The old lady did not answer, but Claire showed 
 no hesitation in summoning her thoughts from 
 any pleasanter dallying ground. 
 
 " Hein, bonne maman ?" 
 
 " What, Claire ?" 
 
 " At the convent, was it that way with you ? 
 Always scolding you because you were not some 
 one else, always punishing you because you were 
 what you were ? That was justice ! And then to 
 tell me I was lazy and could not learn ! It en- 
 rages me every time I think of it. I am sure I 
 learned very nearly the whole of the Genie da 
 Christiaiiisme in punishment. It was killing. 
 Study! When I was thinking all the time about 
 something else, straining my ears to listen, just 
 to see if I could hear the cannon shooting 'way 
 out there in the distance." 
 
 She heard another sigh, and raised her shoul- 
 ders with a start. 
 
 " Pardon, bonne maman ! I forget. You will 
 see I can cure myself. Oh ! I can do anything I 
 want except be pious, as they wanted me to be at 
 the convent. Ha ! it was very easy for the Sis- 
 ters to say ' Study history !' ' Study geography !' 
 and stick La Vie des Saints before me. Saints ! 
 It was ' ces diables de I'enfer ' out there shooting 
 their cannons that I was thinking of! Books ! I 
 hated books, and pen and ink and paper make 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 71 
 
 me ill to this day; but I could embroider; that 
 didn't prevent listening and thinking. I was only 
 pious when the mail came in. When I remember 
 those days, mon Dieu Seigneur ! but we were 
 frightened then ! Oh, how we loved God and the 
 saints then ! and how we used to pray to them, 
 fast, fast, fast as we could, before the letters were 
 brought around ! Getting a letter meant almost 
 just the same thing as killing some one in our 
 family. Those were times — eh, bonne maman ?" 
 
 " Bonne maman !" 
 
 "Fillettel" 
 
 " But, bonne maman, you don't listen to me, 
 you don't answer me." 
 
 " But, ma petite, I thought you wanted me to 
 go to sleep?" 
 
 "Ah, were you going to sleep? And I woke 
 you ? What a fool I am !" 
 
 " What were you talking about, my daughter ? 
 I will listen now." 
 
 " Ah, no, bonne maman, don't listen to me, I 
 am so silly; indeed, I am not worth listening to. 
 Try to go to sleep again. To think that I woke 
 you, when I wanted you so much to sleep ! I be- 
 lieve the Sisters at the convent were right. I 
 shall never have any sense — never; only strength. 
 Ah, yes ! they told me that often enough, and 
 tried to shame me by pointing to the good girls 
 — the good, weak girls. Anyhow," shrugging her 
 shoulders, "goodness doesn't stand a convent 
 
72 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 and war as well as badness. Ma cliere ! when I 
 left there you would have said that a battle had 
 been fought in the dormitory, with the guns loaded 
 with fevers, and all aimed at the good girls. Only 
 the fool's-cap wearers escaped. The little ceme- 
 tery was full, full, full, and the graves so even and 
 regular, all of one size, like a patchwork quilt 
 spread out inside the four fences." 
 
 " Now, Claire, I shall get up." 
 
 " You see, if it had not been for me you would 
 have been sleeping; and it is so hot and tiresome 
 to-day." 
 
 Her grandmother sat up in bed. 
 
 " Just to give me pleasure, bonne maman, stay 
 quiet a moment longer." 
 
 " To give you jDleasure — ah, well, if it gives you 
 pleasure !" and she reclined again. 
 
 "Claire!" 
 
 *' Oh, bonne maman, I forget " — sitting up with 
 innocent egoism. 
 
 " Claire, I was thinking I would like to see my 
 little green work-table again." 
 
 "Ah, that was what you were thinking, eh .-' I 
 thought it was about my shoulders." 
 
 " My little green work-table," the old lady re- 
 peated to herself. 
 
 " Which stood in the window of your room, that 
 looked on to the gallery, over the orange-trees, 
 over the levee, into the river — " 
 
 " To think I should forget it until to-day ! To 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 73 
 
 think I could forget it ! — my little green work- 
 table." 
 
 " But, bonne maman, you have so much to for- 
 get !" 
 
 " But that was my ' corbeille de noces,' ordered 
 from Gessler, in Paris. A corbeille de noces !" 
 talking more to herself than to the girl. " How 
 much that means ! I can see the very day, the 
 very hour, it came. First, my vexation and dis- 
 appointment ; there were tears in my eyes ; it 
 was so 'bourgeoise,' a work-table, with nothing 
 but scissors and threads and needles, instead of 
 orange flowers and lace and fans and sentiment. 
 Eh, mon Seigneur ! what ideas I had ! But Aza 
 was there ! What a devil Aza was ! impertinent, 
 pushing, and perfectly fearless. I was the only 
 one who could manage her. They said I had 
 spoiled her> but she adored me more than she did 
 God, and was more afraid of displeasing me, too. 
 She followed me around like a little dog. I never 
 could put my hand out, so, without touching 
 Aza." 
 
 Claire nodded attention, as her fingers flew 
 backward and forward about her work. 
 
 "It seems to me," and the soft feeble voice 
 sounded very plaintive — " it seems to me that all 
 the bright hopes that used to fly before me, they 
 fly behind me now as memories." 
 
 "Well, of course that is natural," the girl an- 
 swered cheerfully. " We are two crabs, you and 
 
74 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 I — we walk backward. We couldn't see any- 
 thing going on before us, par exemple." 
 
 " But, Claire, I keep forgetting. I must get up 
 and finish that embroidery." 
 
 "Oh, just one moment, bonne maman — just 
 one moment more." 
 
 " It must be finished and returned this even- 
 ing." 
 
 The needle sped faster and faster, and the 
 soothing words fell more and more disconnect- 
 edly. 
 
 "Go and fetch it to me, Claire." 
 
 "Yes, bonne maman." 
 
 " Indeed I feel quite refreshed." 
 
 " Dieu merci !" muttered the girl, and reckless- 
 ly added, " Vogue la galere !" 
 
 The grandmother got very slowly out of the 
 bed and walked to her rocking-chair, 
 
 " It is in the basket there on the mantel- 
 piece." 
 
 Claire went for the basket, and slipped the roll 
 of embroidery she held into it. 
 
 " Here it is, bonne maman." 
 
 "Ah ! mais, this is not my embroidery." 
 
 " Si, it is your embroidery, bonne maman." 
 
 " No, my child, you have made a mistake, and 
 put yours in my basket. Look again, and give 
 me mine, chere." 
 
 Claire turned her head away, that her face 
 might not discredit her voluble tongue. 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 75 
 
 " But I tell you that is your embroidery, bonne 
 maman." 
 
 " My embroidery ! Claire, how can you say so ? 
 Come and convince yourself. See ! this is all 
 done ; and mine — there was a good piece to do 
 still." 
 
 " But—" 
 
 " A — h ! I see ! Claire, it is you who have fin- 
 ished it for me." 
 
 " Eh, why not ? I had already finished mine, 
 and I had nothing to do — absolutely nothing. 
 Was I to sit still and hold my hands — hein ? Oh, 
 you need not examine the stitches ! I know they 
 are not so fine, nor so smooth, nor so regular as 
 yours, but they are good enough for that old 
 ' chouette ' Varon all the same, and — " 
 
 The grandmother jumped violently at a sud- 
 den knock at the door. 
 
 " Mais, mon Dieu ! what is that ?" 
 
 "A la bonne heure !" whispered Claire to her- 
 self. " It is Betsie, bonne maman ; I will see what 
 she wants." 
 
 "Ah, that Betsie! she is so badly raised. She 
 knocks at the door as if she were a Suisse. Now, 
 Aza — " 
 
 Claire had already left the room, and closed 
 the door behind her. 
 
 " Mamzelle," said Betsy, standing on the step, 
 "there's that nigger out there come for her 
 gownd." 
 
76 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 " Hush, Betsie ! Bonne maman is awake," 
 
 " There's some frolic going on to-night, and 
 she has set her heart on wearing her new 
 gownd." 
 
 " But it is not finished." 
 
 "That's bad." 
 
 " I was still sewing on it when bonne maman 
 awoke." 
 
 " I suspicioned you hadn't done it, and I tried 
 my best to send her away; but. Lord! such a 
 contrairy, obstreperous nigger like that !" 
 
 " If bonne maman had only slept a little while 
 longer—" 
 
 " You couldn't baste it up any sort of fashion, 
 right off, and let her go ?" 
 
 " But how can I, Betsie ? Bonne maman — " 
 
 " Couldn't you just slip out in the kitchen with 
 it ? You could say I wanted you to look after 
 the soup while I go in the street a minute." 
 
 " Ha ! you think bonne maman would not go 
 herself to see to it?" 
 
 "That's so ; the madam would come right out 
 there herself. But that gal is so owdacious and 
 high-minded; she has been a-jawin' out there for 
 an hour constant, and I've been a-answering her 
 just as fair as I could, 'cause I didn't want no 
 fuss. I never seen anything like her brazenness 
 all the days of my life. A-driving of white folks 
 like they was niggers. . . . Couldn't you say I 
 wanted you to cut a josie for me .'"' 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 77 
 
 " She would tell me to bring it to her to cut. 
 Bonne maman is not so easy to fool, Betsie." 
 
 The bright sunlight showed lines of weariness 
 and dejection in the girl's face which the darkness 
 of the bedchamber had concealed. She leaned 
 back against the closed doors and clasped her 
 hands over her head to shelter her eyes. 
 
 " Well, I don't know. If she was not such a loud- 
 mouthed, laz}^, good-for-nothing, trolloping thing. 
 I wish we could make an end of her !" — turning to 
 go. " Let me see what I can do with her again." 
 
 "Ask her to wait just a Uttle while longer; 
 perhaps — " 
 
 "Wait! Lord bless you! she 'ain't got any 
 idea of going. Gabriel hisself couldn't drag her 
 away for the judgment-day withouten that gownd. 
 I ain't afeard of her going; I'm afeard she'll 
 holler so loud the madam will hear her." 
 
 Claire peeped anxiously through the door be- 
 fore entering. It was all still. She walked in 
 on tiptoe. Her grandmother sat with her eyes 
 closed, the embroidery in her hand. 
 
 " Ah, bonne chance !" — her face was sanguine 
 and gay again — " bonne maman has gone to sleep 
 at last." 
 
 She hastily got her gaudy task of sewing, and 
 followed Betsy across the yard. 
 
 The little kitchen basked in the double heat 
 of sun and furnace, and was overcrowded with 
 
78 BONNE MAMAN, 
 
 its assemblage of three. The only chair in the 
 room was occupied by the colored votary of 
 fashion, whose monotonous argument rolled on 
 to an unresponsive audience. 
 
 " I was a-telling this lady here," she nodded to 
 Claire, and pointed to Betsy — " I was a-telling 
 her I wanted my frock for to-night, for that 
 moonlight picnic is a-coming off to-night at last. 
 You 'ain't heerd tell of it? Me and my society 
 gives it, and all the members is going to go, and 
 they is bound to go. I laid off yesterday to 
 come and tell you, but I didn't have time ; and 
 it appears to me a week's long enough to make 
 a frock, anyhow ; and if it wasn't, you should 
 have told me so fair and square before you 
 ever put a needle into it. The moonlight pic- 
 nic's done been put off long enough, the Lord 
 knows ! It did seem to me as how we never would 
 be able to get it up. Something was always 
 a-happening against it. Every blessed time we 
 got all the money we'd look in the box, and, sure 
 enovigh, there wouldn't be enough yet, and then 
 it would be put off till another collection. And 
 if it hadn't been for Sister Johnson's funeral last 
 night it wouldn't come off now. But it's coming 
 off this time, sure; 'cause if it had a-come off 
 when we first started it, Sister Johnson herself 
 could have gone to it; yes, indeed, as sure as you 
 are standing there; and if it hadn't been for hold- 
 ing her funeral last night I don't believe we ever 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 79 
 
 would have got it up. It was a-long past mid- 
 night when they come to me for my money, 'cause 
 I never would have given it to 'em before; and 
 after they had done got all the money, they said 
 as how they had better wait for the moon; but 
 the sisters, they just said, ' No, sir; you give that 
 there moonlight picnic to-night, moon or no 
 moon, 'cause it's a heap easier to give a moon- 
 light picnic without a moon than without the 
 money.' As I was a-telling this lady here, and 
 if you had a-told me last week you wasn't a-going 
 to give me that there frock there for the moon- 
 light picnic, I could ha' given it to somebody else. 
 Lord knows there's white people enough to do 
 sewing, and glad to get it; and you knows your- 
 self, after I done paid my money last night at 
 Sister Johnson's funeral for a moonlight picnic, 
 I'm bound to go, and I'm bound to wear a new 
 frock if I've got one." 
 
 " Lord, child ! don't you jaw so much. Don't 
 you see the mamzelle's 'most done it ? Who says 
 you ain't gwine to git it done in time ?" 
 
 "• She's bound to git it done in time, if I stays 
 here a week — she's bound to git it done in time." 
 
 It lay under Claire's busy hands on the table 
 like a heap of fresh glowing vegetables. The 
 young negress picked up the waist. 
 
 "And I hope to gracious you 'ain't made the 
 josie too tight ! I busts my josies awful. The 
 color is real stylish, though. You 'ain't got a col- 
 
So BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 lar or some sort of neck fixin' you could sell me, 
 have you? I could pay you cash down for it," 
 rummaging in the privacy of her bosom; "you 
 can see for yourself," untying the knot in a hand- 
 kerchief. " Lord knows I had trouble enough 
 getting this money after I had done worked for 
 it! I had to jaw that white woman what owed it 
 to me two hours incessant before she had the 
 grace to pay me. But I was bound to get it for 
 the moonlight picnic, and I wasn't going to wash 
 and iron one day longer, neither, for anybody, 
 and I told her so. Goodness knows, I ain't 
 obliged to work for her nohow; and she flung it 
 to me, and told me for God's sake to hush talk- 
 ing, and clear out and never let her lay eyes on 
 me no more, and I ain't going to, neither; and if 
 you've got any sort of collar or neck fixin' you 
 could sell me cheap, I'd pay you cash down for 
 it." 
 
 " Hein, Betsie?" asked Claire, putting at last 
 the finishing stitches in her work. 
 
 Betsy answered in a quick whisper, " Ef you 
 have got some sort of little old thing you 'ain't 
 got any use for, you know the money '11 come in 
 mighty handy." 
 
 Claire quit the kitchen, hurried across the little 
 yard, and went into the room with the same pre- 
 cautions as before. Her fingers trembled as she 
 opened the door of the armoire so near the sleep- 
 ing grandmother, and she pulled from an old 
 
BONNE MAM AN. 8l 
 
 pasteboard box the first piece of lace that met 
 her eye — a large antique collar of Valenciennes, 
 and like a thief she crept softly away with it. 
 
 "Will this do, Betsie?" she asked, entering the 
 kitchen. 
 
 The damage done its marketable value by the 
 deep yellow color was painfully evident to both. 
 
 " How much you want to give for it ?" asked 
 Betsy of the customer. 
 
 "Well, I can't give you more'n I've got. I'm 
 willing to give you all I have got, and that is the 
 best I can do. Here's the six bits for the making 
 of the frock, fair and square as she agreed on, 
 out of this dollar, and here's two bits besides, 
 and that's the last cent I've got in this world, as 
 the Lord hears me speak; and I wouldn't have 
 had that two bits there if I hadn't been let off 
 last night from giving it to the collection, 'cause 
 they didn't know I had it; and they wouldn't 'a' 
 come to me, nohow, if they hadn't found out I'd 
 been washing by the week — " 
 
 " Six bits outen the dollar and two bits besides. 
 How much does that make altogether ?" asked 
 Betsy of Claire. 
 
 "And that dollar there was what the white 
 woman gave me." 
 
 " I will take it, Betsie, I will take it," said 
 Claire, eagerly. " I assure you it is quite suffi- 
 cient," putting the piece of lace into the bundle 
 she was making 
 
82 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 " Well, so long !" The negro girl loitered on 
 the door -sill. "I'm just a-willing to bet, now, 
 that that moonlight picnic is put off again. I mis- 
 trusted them brothers when they come a-knock- 
 ing me up last night in the middle of the night. 
 I don't believe in moonlight picnics, nohow, 
 and — 
 
 She walked, talking, away. 
 
 "Eh, Betsie?" exclaimed Claire. "That is 
 plenty of money, hein ? But if bonne maman 
 finds out!" 
 
 The old lady did not open her eyes for some 
 time after Claire returned to the chamber, and 
 then she resumed, as if in continuation of her 
 thoughts : " It is curious I never thought of my 
 little work-table until to-day. My 'corbeille de 
 noces.' And it was Aza the first who found it 
 out — Aza." She shook her head meditatively 
 as she repeated the name. " She was always 
 pushing herself forward where I was. They 
 told me I spoiled her ; perhaps so. She was 
 more like a doll to me than a human being. 
 Her mother gave her to me, when she was only 
 a day old, in my arms. It felt so grand to have 
 a live doll, just as I was beginning to tire of 
 the others. What plans I made for her ! En- 
 fin ! it was the will of God. While I was stand- 
 ing, with tears in my eyes, looking at the needles 
 and thread, Aza was feeling the green bag under- 
 neath. Do you remember the green bag, Claire ?" 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 83 
 
 " Do I remember it, bonne maman? But sure- 
 ly !" 
 
 " She gave the drawer one pull, and, voila ! it 
 was all before me." 
 
 The grandmother's bluish hands, with their 
 dark, knotted, angry veins, rubbed nervously up 
 and down the arms of her chair, and she made 
 frequent pauses by leaning back and closing her 
 eyes, breathing heavily. 
 
 " Ma foi, if Aza had waited, she would not 
 have had to thank me for her freedom. ' Ma 
 fille,' I used to tell her, ' it is not only the dif- 
 ference in our skin, but the difference in our 
 nature.' She would have died for me — ah, yes ! 
 — but she could not be good for me. Claire, I 
 wish I could see my little work-table again." 
 Her voice, usually so trained, was surprisingly 
 plaintive to-day. " You see, so much would come 
 back to me if I could see my little table. I 
 think sometimes, mon enfant, that the loss of our 
 souvenirs is the worst loss of all for us women. 
 ^Vith them we never forget. When one is old, 
 things get so far away. When we are young, we 
 are like dogs : v/e hide away out of our provision 
 of the present, for the future, scraps of ribbon, 
 lace, or a glove — no matter what — and it is very 
 hard when, old and hungry, we come to the hid- 
 ing-place and find them all gone. Of course it is 
 all sentiment; but we women, going through so 
 much, we like to remember when everything hap- 
 
84 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 pened for the first time — one's first copy-book, 
 one's first communion, one's first ball, and when 
 one gets married, and one's first child. Ah, mon 
 Dieu ! one can get reconciled to changes in life, 
 but one cannot get reconciled to changes in one's 
 self. Even when our souvenirs are crumbling to 
 dust they are fresher than we women are at the 
 end. Mon enfant, I advise you, give up every- 
 thing in life except your souvenirs; keep them 
 for your sentiments to gnaw on, as one might say, 
 when you get old." 
 
 " Eh, grand'mere, souvenirs of what ? Of the 
 war? of the convent? Merci ! I am in no dan- 
 ger of forgetting them. Every piece of bread I 
 eat reminds me how hungry I used to be there, 
 and—" 
 
 The grandmother had taken another leave of 
 absence of mind, and Claire, having now no ul- 
 terior motive for loquacity, was silent also. 
 
 The closed eyes, however, were not, had not 
 been, sleeping ; on the contrary, under their pallid 
 lids they were looking with tense vision, in vague 
 fear of an indeterminate something slowly evolv- 
 ing out of misty uncertainty into a fatal convic- 
 tion. 
 
 That the conviction had not come to her before 
 was owing to the coercive strength of an inflexible 
 will ; that it came to her to-day with the irrefutable 
 accumulated evidence hitherto suppressed or ig- 
 nored, did not astonish, only awed, her. Women 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 85 
 
 live SO close to nature, they are guided from initia- 
 tion to initiation in life by signals and warnings 
 — divine, they call them — which they, and only 
 they, can see. There can be no question with 
 them of rebellion, no refusing of the credentials 
 of the angels of the twilight who still knock at 
 their doors, the bearers of God's commands, mes- 
 sengers of life or messengers of death. 
 
 She was failing — failing in physical, failing in 
 mental, strength. The child Claire was manag- 
 ing her, doing her work for her surreptitiously. 
 It was time for her to prepare for the future; she 
 would do it, but why would the past obtrude upon 
 her, turning its corpse lights into every nook and 
 cranny of her memory? Regrets were useless; 
 now that death was so near, but why would they 
 come, sowing discord, corroding with tardy in- 
 decision the supreme decisions of her life, ar- 
 raigning, from the vantage-ground of the present, 
 cherished feats of spent heroism, testing the 
 metal of her approaching martyr's crown ? 
 
 "This, then, was to be the end of a life conduct- 
 ed on principles drawn from heroic inspirations of 
 other times. The principles were the same, but 
 human nature had changed since women's hearts 
 were strong enough not to break over bullet 
 wounds, sabre cuts, and horse-hoof mutilations, 
 when women's hands were large enough to grasp 
 and hold the man-abandoned tiller of the house- 
 hold. It had all gone wrong." The old lady 
 
86 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 spread her handkerchief over her eyes. The 
 closed Hds could not shut in all the tears. " Yes, 
 it had all gone wrong somehow. The battle 
 turned out a defeat, not a victory ; the son came 
 back on his shield, not with it." And she ? She 
 might perhaps have done better. Death would 
 now have been easier for her if the times and she 
 had been different in the past. Had it not been 
 for overflows and disasters and disappointments, 
 for failure of crops and epidemics of disease, for 
 the feeding of so many useless and infirm depend- 
 ents, she too might have been a successful plan- 
 tation manager. As it was, when her commission- 
 merchant came to her with a statement, she 
 frankly and firmly acknowledged that she could 
 not rightfully claim an acre of her possessions. 
 They came in a royal grant ; they went in a royal 
 cause. There were law quibbles ; but was she 
 one to lose a creed to grovel for coppers ? She 
 might have gone to France, as it was supposed 
 she had done ; and desert the country for which 
 her only son had died ? But after the war she 
 was less than ever a Frenchwoman, more than 
 ever an American. At bay, every nerve tingling 
 with haughty defiance at the taunts and jeers of 
 despising conquerors, every heart-throb beating 
 accusations of womanly weakness and grief, what 
 more effective answer to the challengers of her 
 blood and country, what nobler one to herself, 
 than bravely to assume the penalty she had 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 87 
 
 dared ? As the men had fought, let the women 
 suffer against overpowering odds. So she left 
 the beautiful country, her plantation, her home, 
 her souvenirs of youth and happiness, and came 
 to the detested city, sought out this little cabin 
 left vacant by the death of an old slave, and with 
 Claire commenced that life to which she had con- 
 vinced herself she was committed by fate and by 
 principle. It was an extreme of resolution to 
 meet an extreme of disaster. Ameliorations of 
 her lot were intolerable even in thought. She 
 had made her destitution complete by renouncing 
 even friends, relations, social amenities, with her 
 humble neighbors. 
 
 Thus she had lived her retaliation against fate 
 — there was no doubt about that now — thorough- 
 ly, eifectively, and death was upon her. But 
 Claire? The handkerchief could not hide the 
 convulsive movement of her bosom as she rec- 
 ognized now the short range of heroic vision. 
 
 The figure of her pale, cheerful, brave, toiling 
 granddaughter came before her with the unearthly 
 vividness of those visions which in stormy nights 
 bring women their dead. The agony she had 
 felt in abandoning her children to the isolation 
 and ugliness of the tomb resuscitated poignantly 
 at the abandonment of this her last child to life. 
 
 What tomb could be lonelier or uglier than 
 this little cabin would be to Claire when she, the 
 grandmother, was dead ? 
 
88 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 Would the patriotic death of the girl's father, 
 would the martyrdom of her mother, would a 
 proud disdain of law quibbles, would the renun- 
 ciation of friends and the defiance of enemies, 
 alleviate her affliction then, or solace her in her 
 youthful, unaided life-struggle,in those conditions 
 for which ancestral glories, refinements, and lux- 
 uries had but poorly equipped her ? Could, in 
 fact, their enemies have prepared an extremity of 
 suffering beyond that to which Claire was pre- 
 destined by her own grandmother ? 
 
 The sun went down on the little back street 
 earlier than elsewhere on account of the huge old 
 square house blocking up the west. The win- 
 dows and doors unclosed as its rays withdrew, 
 and the hidden community finished the day's 
 task in the publicity of the front steps, until twi- 
 light released them to indulge in the relaxation 
 of neighborly gossip — all except the corner cot- 
 tage, which maintained its distrustful reserve even 
 through the gentle, winning shades of evening. 
 
 When others went in front to greet each other 
 with the commonplaces of human interdepend- 
 ence, Claire and her grandmother went back 
 into the contracted area between the house and 
 kitchen, and expended their tendernesses on the 
 mendicant groups of potted plants that formed 
 their garden. The old lady walked this even- 
 ing from shrub to shrub, laying her gentle, with- 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 89 
 
 ered hands with maternal expertness amid the 
 gieen leaves, straightening distorted branches, and 
 searching out diseased spots. Her own heart felt 
 bruised and sore from suppressed emotion, and 
 craved the faint fragrance, which, it seemed to her, 
 her plants had never yielded so willingly or so 
 abundantly. Did they understand all, and sym- 
 pathize with her ? The tears came into her eyes 
 again, but Claire had gone to take the embroidery 
 home, so there was no need to hide them. 
 
 The brilliant sunset sky burned overhead in 
 deep ingulfing masses, reaching clown to the 
 pointed roof of the cottage — the despised roof 
 whose shelter she had sought as the deepest in- 
 sult she could inflict upon the world. The old, 
 worn, menial house ! it also looked kindly, pro- 
 tectingly, at her, as if it also had penetrated her 
 secret — the last secret of her life. An old, old 
 sentiment thrilled in her heart as she looked 
 through her tears at it for the first time as at a 
 home. " Ah, mon Dieu," she thought, " every- 
 thing seems to know and feel for me, just as it 
 used to know and feel when I carried other se- 
 crets in my breast !" The youthful, timid falter- 
 ing came over her once more, the virgin shudder 
 before unknown mysteries, the same old girlish 
 need of help and encouragement. But she over- 
 came the expression of her face as she heard the 
 key turn in the lock of the little back gate behind 
 the cistern. Claire entered boisterously, followed 
 
90 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 by Betsy with a bundle. She tossed off her hat 
 with its ugly veil of blue barege. 
 
 " Oh, bonne maman ! Such a delicious walk ! 
 If I only had embroidery to take home every 
 evening ! And the old ' Varon ' could not have 
 been more amiable. Ah, it's so good to go out 
 on the street !" 
 
 She stretched her arms over her head, tighten- 
 ing the faded waist around her swelling breast as 
 she looked up in the brilliant sunset sky above. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! but it's all beautiful. I wish I 
 could walk up there in all that pink and blue and 
 gold ; walk deeper and deeper in it, until it came 
 up all around and over me !" 
 
 She drew a long, quivering breath. 
 
 " Do you smell the night jasmine, bonne ma- 
 man ? I do not know how it is with you, but it 
 is as if it came thousands and thousands of miles 
 just to me and no one else, and it makes me feel 
 faint with its sweetness." 
 
 She threw her arms around her grandmother 
 and embraced her impulsively. 
 
 "You see, it is so good to go on the street, 
 bonne maman. It makes one feel so gay, so 
 fresh, so strong. Ah, you ought to go some- 
 times with me, just to see all the people. How 
 many people there must be in the world ! And I 
 know only three — you, Betsie, and old Varon. 
 But I am glad they are there all the same, even if 
 I do not know them." 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 91 
 
 A loud, coarse, passionate waltz seemed to fall 
 in rhythmic links over the glass-protected brick 
 wall. She released her grandmother and danced 
 round and round, as if caught in its melodious 
 wheels, until it left her panting and glowing. 
 
 " When I hear music like that, bonne maman, 
 it is as if my blood would come out of my veins 
 and dance right there before me. Sometimes in 
 the night I hear it ; I think at first I'm dreaming, 
 but then I wake and listen to it until I stop my 
 ears and hold myself still, for, oh, bonne maman ! 
 I want so much to get up and follow it, out, out, 
 wherever it is, until I come to the place where 
 it begins fresh and sweet and clear from the 
 piano, and then dance, dance, dance, until I can- 
 not dance one step more !" 
 
 The words fell in unguarded fervor, and her 
 eyes began to burn with feverish brightness. Bet- 
 sy plucked at her dress. 
 
 " Mamzelle !" 
 
 " Sometimes I wonder whether it is in the music 
 or in me — " 
 
 " Mamzelle ! Mamzelle !" 
 
 " Whether it is in me alone or in everybody — " 
 
 " Mamzelle Claire, just one word !" 
 
 " Decidedly that Betsie is very badly raised," 
 remarked bonne maman, in an undertone. 
 
 " When I smell the night jasmine I feel it a 
 little, and when I look up in the sky like a while 
 ago ; but it's never so strong as when I hear mu- 
 
92 
 
 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 sic. Oh, bonne maman, can't you give me some- 
 thing to make me stop feeling this way — to make 
 that music let me alone ?" 
 
 " Mamzelle !" — the negro excitedly placed her 
 hand on Claire's arm to enforce attention. 
 
 " If Aza could see that !" The old lady turned 
 away in disgust. 
 
 " Mamzelle ! I can't stand by and see you 
 dancing and singing to that music you hear over 
 there, and hear you talk about getting up in the 
 night and following it." The old black woman's 
 voice trembled, and her fingers tightened convul- 
 sively over the slim white arm. " I don't tell 
 the madam, 'cause it's no use bothering her ; but, 
 mamzelle, as sure as God hears me now, them 
 niggers over there don't play no music excepting 
 for devils to dance by, and that piano don't talk 
 nothing fittin' a young white lady to listen to." 
 
 " Eh ? What do you mean ?" 
 
 " Mamzelle — " 
 
 " Does that hurt the music who plays it ? Do 
 you think I want to dance to it, to listen to it ?" 
 She pushed Betsy's hand off, with her fingers 
 grown clammy ; her cheeks were crimson, and her 
 lips blushed at the strange maturity of expression 
 so new to them. 
 
 " Did I say I was going to get up at night and 
 follow it .■* Did I say I was going on the street 
 every evening ? Did I say I would rush up to the 
 people to feel them clasp my hands only once? 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 93 
 
 I only" — and her voice came in a sob — "I only 
 said I wanted to." 
 
 The music came now lower and sweeter. She 
 stopped her ears. " There ! that is what I must 
 do — eh .'' Why doesn't it stop talking to me ?" 
 
 "But, mamzelle, they is — '' 
 
 " It doesn't cost anything," she interrupted, 
 furiously — " it doesn't cost anything to listen to 
 music, to know people. I don't have to work for 
 it, like bread and meat ; and, grand Dieu, how 
 much better it is !'' 
 
 Two tears rolled from her hot eyes ; she paused 
 in startled awe and carried her hands up to 
 them. 
 
 " Claire ! Claire Blanche ! you had better come 
 in, child." 
 
 " Yes, bonne maman," 
 
 Outside, in the street, the steps filled up with 
 white - sacqued women. The men tilted their 
 chairs back against the trees and the walls of 
 their houses and smoked their cigarettes. The 
 children — and this street could have supplied a 
 city with children — raced from corner to corner 
 to dance out the sample tunes of passing organ- 
 grinders. The conversation flowed in an easy 
 murmuring tide from group to group, soared over 
 every now and then by a dominant cry in pursuit 
 of some refractory fugitive. 
 
 " You Var — iste !" 
 
 " A — na— to — le !" 
 
94 
 
 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 " Ga cette Marie Ik bas !" 
 
 "Jo — seph — ine!" 
 
 " Josephine, to maman 'peler toi !" 
 
 " 'Polite ! tu veux pas finir ?" 
 
 The lamplighter threaded his way among the 
 chairs, scoring off a dim record of his passage up 
 among the green leaves of the trees. As the 
 darkness settled over the bushy tops of the or- 
 ange hedge, blotting the vague outlines of the 
 screened house, prodigal fragments of merriment 
 seemed to be thrown in scornful carelessness 
 down the street — dance music with its impetuous 
 accelerations, overtures of song and chorus, break- 
 ing off in loud laughter and the tread of dancing 
 feet, 
 
 " They are gay over there this evening." 
 
 " When one is like that — " 
 
 The women united their heads for female com- 
 ment; but the men, their cigarettes spangling the 
 gloom, listened in silence, casting secret, wistful 
 glances in the direction of the occult merry- 
 making. 
 
 " They won't sleep much over there to-night," 
 said one, pointing to the corner cottage. 
 
 " As much as any Saturday night," was an- 
 swered, with a shrug. 
 
 It was long before day when Betsy, with mi- 
 nute particularity, closed the little gate behind 
 her, and started out with her stick in her hand 
 
BONNE MAMAX. 
 
 95 
 
 and her sack over her shoulder. She belonged 
 to that division of humanity who seek their daily 
 food in the daily refuse of others. She was a rag- 
 picker — a gleaner in the nocturnal fields of a 
 great city. Her harvests were not beautiful nor 
 savory ; but compensations in the shape of free- 
 dom from competition, weather influences, and a 
 stable market are not to be despised, particularly 
 by one for whom the darkness has no terrors, the 
 loneliness no trepidations. She had contracted 
 a stoop in her shoulders from so much bending 
 over barrels and buckets and tubs, and peering 
 through dim light into the slimy bottoms of mud- 
 dy gutters, so that her face seldom met the glance 
 of the passing world, in whose litter it was or- 
 dained she should seek her food ; but when she 
 did look up, there was seen no reflection of cor- 
 ruption or filth in her small clear black eyes ; no 
 grovelling purposes conceived in grovelling pur- 
 suits. Although dressed in a picked-up, motley 
 livery, thrown off from the shoulders, perhaps, of 
 vice, sin, or crime, the audible thought which fell 
 mechanically from her lips as she plied her trade 
 carried the conviction that her harlequinade was 
 one of costume only. The old creature's twilight 
 meanderings had taught her much of life, and 
 while she knew little of the gifts of civilization, 
 she had not many of its banes to find out, hav- 
 ing had more experience with vice than with 
 virtue, which with purity and goodness dwelt a 
 
96 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 long way back in her nnemory, or a long way for- 
 ward in Biblical promise. 
 
 The repertoire of her monologues was not large 
 or varied ; wherever they ended, they generally 
 began with an early morning like this, "nigh on 
 to three years ago," when, going forth to pick 
 rags, she found a mistress, and in lieu of daily 
 bread gained daily bondage. She was turning 
 over the contents of a very destitute box indeed 
 that morning when a gate behind her suddenly 
 opened, and a young white girl appeared. 
 
 " A young white girl in this here quadroon fau- 
 bourg ! My Lord ! what does this mean ?" her 
 cultivated suspicions prompted her to exclaim. 
 
 But the young girl, frankly, in the confidence 
 of innocent childhood, said, with a polite propi- 
 tiating smile, in stiff, unpractised English : 
 
 " I hear you every morning ; I attended for 
 you this morning; I want that you direct me the 
 way of the market." 
 
 " You git up this time o' day to ask me the 
 way to the market ?" 
 
 " Yes, for my grandmother yet sleeps. I wish 
 to go there before she wakes herself." 
 
 " Honey, 'ain't you got nobody to go for you ?" 
 
 " No, nobody now, for — " 
 
 " And what could a nigger do ?" muttered Betsy, 
 in self-extenuation — " more inspecially a Baptist, 
 a fresh-water Baptist and a cold-water Baptist, 
 and a hanger-on of the Cross?" 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 97 
 
 It was the chance that Hnks together husband 
 and wife, that determines the fall of a dynasty, 
 or directs the feet of the outcast to a loving 
 home. 
 
 Circumstances never permitted the childish ap- 
 peal for assistance to cease, and an unselfish, ten- 
 der heart never permitted it to meet with disap- 
 pointment. It was three years now since that 
 morning, but the sun, measuring their horizon 
 hour by hour, had never shown on a moment of 
 distrust in either to their simple confidence, or 
 of disloyalty to the pious obligation of serving, 
 by fair means or foul, the proud old lady glory- 
 ing in her lofty ideas of self-support. 
 
 " I can see the end," Betsy told herself, fishing 
 around in a pestiferous heap, " but I can't see 
 after the end. The old madam's a-failing ; I seen 
 she was a-failing the first day I laid eyes on her ; 
 and the young mamzelle is a-growing-and a-ripen- 
 ing and beginning to notice things woman-like. 
 The old madam, she don't suspicion nothing, nor 
 the young mamzelle neither. The end's a-com- 
 ing, and it's bound to come. The laughing and 
 the singing and the working all day and half the 
 night ain't a-going to put it off, neither; and it's 
 a crucifying world, anyhow." 
 
 The old lady that morning was also trying to 
 look beyond the end, and was seeing Claire grow- 
 ing up instead of remaining forever a child — 
 growing up in spite of tragedy, starvation, impris- 
 
 7 
 
98 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 onment, inta beauty, gayety, joyousness ; craving 
 sympathy, companionship, mental food ; throwing 
 out woman tendrils in all directions ; cut off by 
 short-sighted precautions from friends, from re- 
 lations, even from certification of her own iden- 
 tity; alone, literally alone, but for the homely 
 friend picked up out of the street. She had sent 
 Claire to church, for the first time in her life, by 
 herself that morning in order to carry out the 
 one project that had come to her in her agony. 
 She called Betsy to the side of her rocking-chair. 
 
 " Betsie, you approach me." 
 
 Her English, like most of her youthful posses- 
 sions, was hers yet only by an effort of memory. 
 She spoke very slowly, reconnoitring for equiva- 
 lents for her agitated French thoughts. 
 
 " Betsie, it must we all die." 
 
 " Lord ! old miss." 
 
 "Betsie, it* must you die, it must me die, but 
 more maybe me than you." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " Betsie, when it comes we die, we look for 
 friends — hein ?" 
 
 " I reckon so, old miss." 
 
 " Betsie, when it comes I die, me, I look for 
 friends, what see I ? Mademoiselle Claire and 
 you. You and Claire, nobody more — eh, Bet- 
 sie?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " Betsie, all this time I have been fool ; but I 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 99 
 
 be fool no more. I not work for myself ; no, 
 Claire, she work for me ; you, you \vork for me ; 
 but me, I not work for myself. Oh ! I think so, I 
 work for myself, but no. Now, I know, me. jNIy 
 eyes, they have been shut, but now they see 
 everything." 
 
 There were tears of mortification in the proud 
 old ej^es, whose first coquettish scintillations lay 
 so deep buried under the grief-drifts of a lifetime. 
 
 " Since a long time I work not. Claire Blanche, 
 she make my ' broderie ' for me." 
 
 " Please, old miss, don't you go and get mad 
 with the mamzelle for that !" 
 
 " Me, I do nothing more ; for why ? I die. 
 Since two years I die. I do not know it before ; 
 but I know it now, well, well. Betsie, you come 
 close, close." The negress could not sit ; stand- 
 ing, her face was too high up. She knelt down 
 by the chair. 
 
 " Betsie, I very sick ; I die to-day or to-morrow." 
 
 " Not so bad as that, old miss." 
 
 " To-day, to-morrow, or soon. 1 know not when, 
 but soon." 
 
 " Can't you take something, old miss ?" 
 
 " No, Betsie. I do not need medicaments ; it 
 is death what I need. Die, Betsie, that is some- 
 thing terrible ; no, not for the agonizing, but for 
 the others. It lasts long sometimes — hein,Betsie?" 
 
 " God knows, ma'am." 
 
 " Betsie, when it comes I die, you stand here, 
 
100 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 SO, close ; Claire, she stand there " — pointing to 
 the next room. "You here, she there; then she 
 not see." 
 
 Her voice, obedient to the strong will, was 
 clear, but at times a weakening tone from the 
 heart marred its firmness, and turned the com- 
 mand into a petition. 
 
 " I understand, old miss." 
 
 " Betsie, in my life I have seen much die. It 
 did me nothing. For why ? I was happy. I 
 have hold the hand ; I have made the prayer. 
 But I had much family still. Betsie, if it comes I 
 die, like you and me we have seen some die — 
 Betsie, ma bonne femme Betsie, you will not let 
 ma petite Claire see. Betsie, swear me that. My 
 good God ! Betsie, you think she ever laugh like 
 last night when she see me, her bonne maman, 
 die ? Betsie, swear me that." 
 
 "I swear you that on the Bible, old miss." 
 
 "Betsie, you will say her nothing — nothing. 
 God, He will tell her — oh, He will tell her in 
 time. You say I strong ; you say I well — hein, 
 Betsie ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " That is all — that is all for the moment." 
 
 " There's something else, old miss, you've done 
 forgot," began the negro woman, still on her 
 knees, her short, thick eyelashes crystallized with 
 tears, a surpassing pleading in her voice. " Old 
 miss, ain't you gwine to send for none of your 
 
BONNE MAMAN. loi 
 
 folks — none of your friends ? Old miss, you heerd 
 that child out there last night just a-yearning for 
 some folks and friends. Old miss, let me go out 
 and find 'em for you. I will search this town 
 through from end to end, but I'll find 'em for 
 you, old miss. For God's sake, old miss, don't 
 leave that child here with only one poor old nig- 
 ger for her friend! Old miss" — putting her 
 eager lips close to the bleached, withered ear — 
 " old miss, they is all out there ; the earth is full 
 of friends, old miss. Just let me go for 'em." 
 
 The bonne maman reached out her hand and 
 laid it on Betsy's head -handkerchief. "You 
 have reason, Betsie — you have more reason than 
 me. You are one good woman, and I ask the 
 good God to bless you. For me and for my 
 grandchild. I do not know to talk it, Betsie, 
 but " — she drew the black face to her and 
 pressed her lips on the forehead — " that is what 
 I would say, Betsie." 
 
 " Old miss, you will send for your folks ?" 
 
 "Yes, Betsie, to-morrow. Betsie," she called 
 again, as the woman was leaving the room, " you 
 will tell Mademoiselle Claire nothing — nothing; 
 it will come to her soon enough — eh ?" 
 
 " 'Fore God in heaven I promise you that, old 
 miss." 
 
 But she was never strong enough to send the 
 summons ; the angel had delayed too long on the 
 road with his warning. 
 
102 BONNE MAMAN, 
 
 The first kisses of the spring sun bring out the 
 orange blossoms, and the first movements of the 
 spring breeze loosen them with gentle frolickings 
 from their stems, to carry the sweet fragrant be- 
 trayal of their wantonness round to all the open 
 windows of the city. The children, with their 
 quick divinations, have the news of the blossom- 
 ing betimes, and they muster in full force on the 
 banquettes under the trees, intrepidly braving for 
 the nonce the insulting volleys of their ambushed 
 foes. Before the dust of the street could pollute 
 the flowers in their abasement, before the sun 
 had time to wither their unsheltered freshness, 
 deft little black, brown, and yellow fingers had 
 heaped them in high-drav/n skirts, old hats, scraps 
 of pottery, rag, or paper, to garner them, not on 
 their favorite steps, but in a cache selected for 
 temporary use. For on the silent green doors 
 they loved Death had affixed his standard, and 
 the long black crape floating with majestic so- 
 lemnity in the sweet air frightened them away. 
 The little cabin, always so dark, so quiet, so 
 unobtrusive, thrilled the early openers of the win- 
 dows about with the unexpected sign of its stig- 
 mata. Sleep had lulled them all into uncon- 
 scious unhelpfulness, and daylight wakened them 
 to accusing repentance. 
 
 " La pauvre vieille madame 1^-ye, morte pen- 
 dant la nuit." 
 
 " Ah, misericorde !" 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 103 
 
 "Si je I'avais su." 
 
 "Etmoi." 
 
 It was Sunday, the church bells were calling 
 them all to mass (all except one — one who they 
 remembered had always gone to the earliest 
 mass), slipping along the street masked in veils. 
 It is an old-fashioned Creole city, with a pompous 
 funereal etiquette, where no dispensation is sought 
 or given for the visit commanded by the crape 
 scarf. Death himself had unlatched the reserved 
 green doors, and was host to-day. And where 
 Death receives, the house is free to all the " blan- 
 chisseuse en fin," the " coiffeuse," the " garde 
 malade," the little hunchback who kept the 
 "rabais," the passers-by to and from mass, the 
 market-woman with her basket, the paper-boy 
 with his papers — all entered the little chamber, if 
 but for a moment, to say a little prayer, or bow in 
 respect to the conqueror and the conquered. The 
 old aristocrat lay in her cofifin in the bare, un- 
 furnished room, where she had lived with her 
 poverty, her pride, and her griefs, looking up 
 through her mutilations of age and infirmity, 
 through her wrinkles, discolorations, and the stony 
 glaze of death, with the patient resignation of a 
 marble statue looking up through the turbidities 
 of a sluggish stream, while the eyes she had so 
 carefully shunned in life gazed their fill of her. 
 
 The hour of noon approached, the siesta hour 
 of the neighborhood. 
 
104 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 A Iarge,heavy-limbed woman dressed with showy 
 elegance moved slowly down the street, and stop- 
 ped for a moment before the door, while her eyes 
 with languid curiosity measured the length and 
 texture of the black scarf. Past middle age, but 
 not past the luxuriant maturity of her prime, she 
 held her head insolently back, challenging and 
 defying observation, proclaiming and glorying in 
 a pampered self-consciousness. From under the 
 black lace of her veil jewels glistened on the 
 soft, barbaric brown skin. Pleasure seemed to 
 have sensualized features and form into danger- 
 ous alluring harmony, and panoplied her mind 
 against thought. Her sleepy, large eyes rested 
 on the door while she paused, hesitating between 
 the instinctive craving of morbid curiosity and 
 half- dormant reminiscences of recent gratifica- 
 tions ; then, without glancing at the paper flutter- 
 ing from the door, she entered the room. She 
 bent over the cofhn with its emaciated, pitiful 
 human contents, and her eyes dilated with the 
 fascination. 
 
 " White !" she whispered, in surprise, with a con- 
 temptuous smile on her voluptuous lips. What ex- 
 quisite flattery to her own rich, exuberant, sumpt- 
 uous flesh ! What triumph for the fierce, bold 
 blood thrilling and leaping in her veins ! She 
 raised herself with complacent comeliness, and 
 looked again before leaving. 
 
 " Mais ! I never noticed it before. It is very 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 105 
 
 strange. Mais grand Dieu !" she screamed, in 
 reckless self-abandonment. " It is she ! I know 
 it is she !" She remembered the paper at the 
 door, and tore it off and read it. " I tell you," 
 she screamed again to the impassive watcher, 
 Betsy — " I tell you it is she ! Mamzelle Nenaine ? 
 Mamzelle Nenaine ?" she interrogated, in an ago- 
 nized whisper, throwing herself on her knees by 
 the coffin. " Is it you } Oh ! is it you .'" She 
 looked around fiercely and wildly. " But what does 
 it all mean ? What can it all mean ? Can't you 
 answer me ?" she demanded, in English, of Betsy. 
 "Are you a fool ? How did this lady come here ? 
 Who did it ? I want to know who dared do it ?" 
 
 Betsy had risen respectfully. She was trying, 
 with God's help and the old lady's cold, silent 
 presence, to see now beyond the end. In con- 
 formity with her ideas of responsibility to the 
 dead and to the living, she had put off her rags 
 and dirt, and — the last sacrifice of her unselfish 
 heart — had put on a new black dress, white neck- 
 erchief, and "tignon" — her own grave-clothes, 
 bought with cold and starvation, and guarded re- 
 ligiously through years of vagabondage for her 
 final apparelling. 
 
 " Who are you ? What are you doing here ?" 
 demanded the imperious visitor. 
 
 " Me, ma'am ? I am the madam's servant." 
 
 " You lie ! You know you lie ! The madam 
 never owned a servant like you." 
 
I06 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 " I never said the madam owned me ; I said I 
 was her servant ; she hired me." 
 
 It looked as if the visitor could find no ade- 
 quate expression for the passion that raged in 
 her. She shook her fist at the bare cold walls, 
 she stamped on the rough, uncovered floor, she 
 caught sight of the jewels on her arms, and hurled 
 the massive bracelets away from her, she tore 
 open her dress to ease her swelling throat, and 
 her bosom panted violently under crushed garni- 
 tures of soft white lace. She fell down by the 
 coffin again, and, bursting into tears, hid her face 
 in the darned, worn, white " blouse volante " 
 shroud, moaning, with long, wailing cries, " Mam- 
 zelle Nenaine ! Mamzelle Nenaine !" 
 
 "Where are her friends?" 
 
 " Please, ma'am, she 'ain't got no friends, ex- 
 cepting the apothecary gentleman at the corner. 
 He was mighty good and kind ; he come when I 
 went for him, and he stayed all night." 
 
 " But, my God ! where are her relations ?" 
 
 " I 'ain't never heerd of any relations besides 
 the mamzelle — Mamzelle Claire." 
 
 "Mademoiselle Claire! Claire Blanche .^ Mon- 
 sieur Edgar's baby ?" 
 
 She was silent again, as if unable to compre- 
 hend it. 
 
 " And God allowed this ! How long have they 
 been living here — here in this cabin ?" 
 
 " I don't know, ma'am ; it's nigh on to three 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 107 
 
 years sence I've been with them, and they've 
 been here all that time." 
 
 The stranger looked up to heaven with a mut- 
 tered blasphemous adjuration. 
 
 Betsy had been gazing with her keen eyes as 
 if into a murky depth ; then a cloud seemed to 
 have passed away from the sun, for the room 
 was a little lighter. " I see you now," she said, 
 in a hoarse whisper. "I didn't see you before, 
 the room was so dark." Throwing away all ef- 
 fort at self-restraint, raising her whisper into a 
 command : " Clear out from this room ! How dare 
 you show your face here ! Clear out, I tell you, 
 before—" 
 
 " Ha !" exclaimed the woman. The exclama- 
 tion had a dangerous intonation, a menace of 
 one fearless and unscrupulous. 
 
 " Go out of that door, I tell you !" Betsy in- 
 creased her distinctness and determination. 
 " Don't you dare look at the face of my madam ! 
 Don't you dare touch her again !" 
 
 " Your madam ! Your madam !" 
 
 The stranger cursed her with a French im- 
 precation. "Don't you dare call her your madam ! 
 She was my madam ! I was her Aza ! I belonged 
 to her. I was given to her before I was a day 
 old. I slept by the side of her bed ; she carried 
 me around in her little arms like a doll; she raised 
 me like her child ; she was my godmother ; she 
 set me free. I loved her, I worshipped her. O 
 
I03 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 God, how I worshipped her ! Mamzelle Nenaine, 
 you know it is true ! Mamzelle Ne'naine, if you 
 could speak to Aza once more ! Just one word ! — 
 just one word !" 
 
 A torrent of tears choked her voice. Betsy 
 recoiled in horror. 
 
 " Your madam ! Your — My God in heaven ! 
 And she lay a- dying here, and the mamzelle 
 a-starving, and you her servant, what belonged 
 to her, in that house over there ! You ! a-scan- 
 dalizing, a-rioting, a-frolicking, a-flaunting your- 
 self in carriages, you and your gals, right past 
 this house ! a-carrying on 3'our devilment right 
 out there, and your mistress a-slaving and a-starv- 
 ing ! You! You nigger!" The old woman's 
 crooked back straightened until she could look 
 the quadroon straight in the eye. 
 
 " You — you are not that — " 
 
 " Yes, I am ! Yes, I am that same dirty, stink- 
 ing old rag-picker what did scrubbing for you. 
 Not for me, mind you ! but to buy medicine for 
 the poor old madam there ; a-lowering myself for 
 her, a-dying and starving and freezing, while you 
 was throwing away in the streets the money you 
 stole out of the pockets of them white men !" 
 
 " Hush ! Oh, for God's sake, don't talk so loud!" 
 
 " And last night, when the end come — when 
 the end come, I tell you — with the piano music 
 a-pounding up the street, and the hollering and 
 the laughing, and the poor mamzelle — " 
 
BONNE IMAMAN. 
 
 109 
 
 "Mademoiselle Claire Blanche?" repeated the 
 quadroon, vaguely. 
 
 Betsy misunderstood her meaning. 
 
 " The last thing before the madam there died, 
 when your music and your devilment was going 
 on the loudest, I told her — I told her I v/ould 
 look after the mamzelle the same as if I were her 
 boughten slave ; and I'm going to do it. And I 
 tell you, nigger, standing there before me in all 
 your brazenness and finery and sinfulness, before 
 you so much as speak to that child, before you so 
 much as touch the tip end of her gown, you will 
 have to trample the life out of me under your 
 feet." 
 
 The inspired figure of the black woman came 
 nearer and nearer, advancing between Aza and 
 the coffin, pointing to the door. The quadroon 
 tried to glare back her speechless rage ; but the 
 arraignment was too crushing, the action too full 
 of meaning. She dropped her eyes in shame. 
 
 Ashamed before whom ? — a common rag-picker 
 from the streets ! How dared she steal the lan- 
 guage and sentiments of the dead one in the 
 coffin, and talk to her like a mistress ? — her, the 
 insubordinate, irreprovable one ! With a charac- 
 teristic gesture she threw her head back again ; 
 but in Betsy's fine, determined face, in the holy 
 passion of her voice, in her firm, commanding eye, 
 she recognized, not the stolen or borrowed prin- 
 ciples of a white lady, but the innate virtue of all 
 
no BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 good women. She measured herself not with her 
 dead mistress, but with Bgtsy, and for the first 
 time in her wild, daring, passionate life felt the 
 humiliation of repentance. Following the direc- 
 tion of the imperious black finger she left the 
 room. 
 
 The day wore on to the hour before the funeral. 
 Visits had ceased, and the silence of prayer was 
 in the room about the old lady. Betsy, sitting at 
 the head of the coffin, fanning unweariedly, heard 
 in the other room, where Claire was, the sound of 
 footsteps, the murmuring of voices, and her name 
 called with a moaning cry ; or she fancied she 
 heard it, for the solemnity and oppression of 
 death had benumbed her faculties, and she felt 
 uncertain of everything. At last, to end the 
 dream-like confusion, she went to see, and left 
 the old lady, for the first time that day, as much 
 alone as if she were already in her grave. 
 
 The children — a hushed, awed band crouching 
 on the steps outside around a white tissue-paper 
 bundle, had been peeping, and waiting long for 
 this opportunity. It came now, to paralyze them 
 with faintness and fear. At first they could make 
 no impression on the green door v/ith their trem- 
 bling fingers, all holding their breath, and work- 
 ing at it at once. Then it slowly yielded, opening 
 to them the darkened chamber within. They all 
 stood up to follow, as they had promised one 
 another, but when the door swung to again they 
 
BONNE MAM AN. m 
 
 were still in their places outside. All but one — 
 the bundle-bearer, an appalled, scrawny, ragged, 
 wild little creature with black, unkempt head and 
 yellow skin, naked arms, shivering, bare legs, and 
 feet clinging to the floor; with white teeth clinched, 
 and fear-distended eyes looking anywhere but at 
 that undefined object in the centre of the room. 
 It took an eternity to cross the space to it, and 
 yet the eternity ended too soon, it ended too soon. 
 A barrier stopped her. Involuntarily she looked 
 down. The locked teeth prevented the scream, 
 but in the tense grip of her fingers the white 
 tissue-paper gave way, and for the second time 
 that day the orange-blossoms fell, but this time 
 to break with eloquent fragrance the damp still- 
 ness of death, enshrouding the rigid form in their 
 loveliness, and crowning with a virgin anadem the 
 earth-worn face looking heavenward through its 
 last human experience — of love, not hate. The 
 door slammed behind the fleeing messenger, still 
 grasping her fragments of paper, and the children 
 sped away again to their distant corner of obser- 
 vation. 
 
 Betsy was not mistaken ; the bedchamber was 
 filled with people — ladies and gentlemen whisper- 
 ing and moving around, calling Claire by name, 
 laying caressing hands on her head and shoul- 
 ders. The girl only crouched lower by the side 
 of the bed, and pressed her closed eyes tighter 
 
112 BONNE MAMAN. 
 
 against the pillow taken from under bonne ma- 
 man's head, and moaned, " Ah, Betsie ! Betsie !" 
 
 Betsy looked around in amazement. 
 
 " If you please to walk into the next room — " 
 she began ; but seeing that they persisted in try- 
 ing to arouse Claire, she pushed through them, 
 and placing herself in front of the girl, said, quer- 
 ulously, "Let the mamzelle alone ; she's not harm- 
 ing any one ; what do you want to bother her for ?" 
 
 She could not understand their explanations 
 at first, being dull and dazed with fatigue and 
 excitement. 
 
 But when she did the joy in her heart weak- 
 ened her. She bent over and steadied her trem- 
 bling hand on Claire's head. " Child, they is all 
 your kin ; done found you out. Honey, they 
 wants to know you. Honey, they wants to love 
 you." 
 
 But the head only went deeper into the pillow. 
 
 " You must excuse her," she said, looking 
 around, anxious to excuse the offence. " You 
 must really excuse her; she don't know, herself, 
 what she's doing. She 'ain't lifted her head from 
 that pillow sence last night." 
 
 After a pause of decorous silence, the ladies 
 and gentlemen, as they will do at funerals, recom- 
 menced their whispering. It was excusable this 
 time, the first gathering of a family which had 
 been separated by the whirlwind of revolution a 
 decade ago. There was much to talk over and 
 
BONNE MAMAN. 113 
 
 a long roll of the dead to call ; but chiefly there 
 was to recount to one another, each version char- 
 acter-tinged, their utter dismay at the intelligence 
 brought them by Aza that day. How like a fiery 
 cross she had carried the tale around from one 
 household to the other, and had rallied them 
 once again around the old standard of family 
 pride and family love. With what passionate elo- 
 quence had she told them of the death of bonne 
 maman — of bonne maman whom they had sup- 
 posed living at ease in France ! Dead ! here ! a 
 wretched, forsaken exile in their own city. Dead! 
 in the very reach of their hand, in the sound of 
 their voice. Dead ! without a friend ! she, whom 
 living, not so very long ago after all, they had 
 surrounded, a crowd of eager, obsequious court- 
 iers. They spoke of the old plantation days, with 
 its magnificent, luxurious, thoughtless hospitality; 
 of the ancient, aristocratic distinction of a name 
 which had been a knightly pledge in two coun- 
 tries; and they looked at the little room with its 
 inexorable revelations. In the exaltation of quick- 
 ening emotion they forgot to whisper. Vying in 
 their efforts to atone for the present, they brought 
 from their memory such glorious tributes that the 
 old lady in her pine coffin appeared clad in gar- 
 ments bright enough then and there for a bodily 
 ascension to heaven. Pride and reserve were 
 sacrificed, painful secrets hinted at in this holy 
 revival that all might be said, now that it was 
 
114 BONNE MAMAN, 
 
 too late for anything to be done ; until it became 
 evident, as evident as the misery surrounding 
 them, that in their own persons or the persons of 
 dead parents they were bonded by unpaid dues 
 of fealty and obligation to their deceased kins- 
 woman, or, failing her, to the shrinking, cowering, 
 fair-haired girl kneeling by the bed. 
 
 A quadroon woman in the corner, dressed in 
 the old servile costume, listened in bitter weep- 
 ing. At the grating sound of wheels outside she 
 arose and crossed the room. Calling them by 
 name, Master this and Mistress that, she pointed 
 to Betsy, and in hurried, broken tones related the 
 simple facts of her devoted service to those who 
 owned her only by virtue of their dependence, 
 who could pay her only with their thanks. In a 
 wild, penitent way she was adding more, but Betsy, 
 listening to one and to the other, tears running 
 unheeded down her cheeks onto her white hand- 
 kerchief, raised her voice also, and, after several 
 attempts, succeeded in saying, "And the apothe- 
 cary gentleman at the corner, he was mighty good 
 and kind ; he come when I went for him, and he 
 stayed all night." 
 
 The sincere tones and voices, in which ever 
 and anon came a chord like bonne maman's, 
 penetrated, in spite of the pillow, to Claire's ears, 
 and won her to listen. Such glorious, tender 
 homage to her whom she bitterly supposed un- 
 known, uncared-for, abandoned even by God, 
 
BONNE MAM AN. 115 
 
 raised her head as if by enchantment. She arose 
 in an excitement of love and gratitude, showing 
 all her people her sad, emaciated beauty, her out- 
 worn, out -grown, wretched clothing, and when 
 they all rushed forward impulsively to embrace 
 her, she clung to them as indeed to the success- 
 ors of bonne maman. 
 
 A pauper's funeral had been ordered by the 
 kind apothecary, but the family and friends sum- 
 moned by Aza formed a cortege that filled the 
 little street, and the service in the mortuary chapel 
 where Aza directed the hearse to stop was such as 
 only the wealthiest could command. At the end 
 of the procession w^alked — where had Aza found 
 them all so quickly? — a retinue of old slaves, the 
 last, highest local affirmation of family worth ; 
 among them, one of them, in costume, race, con- 
 dition, was Aza herself, bearing the conventional 
 black and white bead memorial " Priez pour 
 moi." 
 
 It was late in the night, when the deserted 
 streets promised security from recognition, that 
 she hastened through them and entered, secretly, 
 the little back gate-w-ay of the triangular fence 
 in her slavish dress, worn for the last time. The 
 piano had already commenced its dances. 
 
MADRILENE; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 
 
MADRILENE ; OR, THE FESTIVAL OF 
 THE DEAD. 
 
 ^^^^OTHING was silent about the old 
 cemetery but the dead themselves — 
 nothing respectable ,• all the noises 
 and confusions that had harassed 
 them in life were here to harrow the 
 atmosphere above their rest in death ; all the 
 mould and ugliness of an undergrowth popula- 
 tion, which their living feet had avoided, lay thick 
 and fetid all round about the walls ramparted 
 with tombs that enclosed them now. 
 
 The city had grown densely around the ceme- 
 tery, but the houses had backed up or sidled up, 
 as it were, not caring to face their grim neighbor. 
 Those which by necessity did face it had the as- 
 pect of houses accustomed to look at worse things 
 in life than death — houses that had not enjoyed 
 the sad privilege of falling from a higher estate 
 or disappointing hopeful prospects, but which 
 had been preordained from the beginning to deg- 
 radation and ostracism. 
 
 A broad space had been left in front by the 
 city ancestors for some beautiful boulevard or 
 
120 MADRILiNE j 
 
 funeral parade-ground, but it had become an 
 unsightly waste, a " common " for street chil- 
 dren, a lounging- place for social refuse, a me- 
 dium for back-door convivialities and intrigues, a 
 dumping -ground for unmagazinable traffic, and 
 the lower end of it the landing -wharf for a 
 schooner fleet, which discharged daily cargoes of 
 lumber, brick, and charcoal onto the frazzled 
 grass, and daily crews of negroes, " dagos," and 
 roughs into the ill-favored coffee-houses at the 
 corners. 
 
 Up in the air the thin fine spars of the vessels 
 could be seen coming in from the distance along 
 the invisible canal, gliding into and out of occul- 
 tation, past trees and houses and open garden 
 spots, and past the cemetery. And sometimes 
 they seemed sailing or being cordelled straight 
 through the cemetery ; and then, by a fancy, the 
 masts and spars looked as if they might be 
 anchored there with their vessels, and the marble 
 crosses, spires, and angels, and effigies as if they 
 might be moving, gliding along in the air, sailing 
 on through and above the noisome foulness of 
 the place, with its unwholesome effluvice of cor- 
 rupting morals, carrying their freight over an in- 
 visible canal to some pure, quiet, serene, distant 
 basin. It was a closed cemetery lifetimes ago ; 
 burial in it had become an inheritance, or a priv- 
 ilege of society partnership, the funerals dwindling 
 away into a steady, slow monotony, calculable 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE PEAD. 121 
 
 to a fractional certainty. On Sundays and holi- 
 days, with strange, inexplicable regularity, the 
 societaire, funerals, with music and banners and 
 regalia and unlimited carriages, conducted by 
 drivers of unlimited thirst, to the great pecuniary 
 profit of the coffee-houses. Once a month, or 
 perhaps not quite so often, there was a last pomp- 
 ous effort of some of the old elite, well worth look- 
 ing at, if only for the ecclesiastical demonstration 
 and the flowers and the sedate affectations of the 
 Sunday tippling drivers. Oftenest, however, so 
 fortunes change, it was the hearse and single car- 
 riage affair, with a fragmentary procession on 
 foot, the furtive, almost surreptitious, admittance 
 of the poverty as well as death stricken heir or 
 heiress to the ancestral sepulchre. And even 
 these were interesting, particularly in a crisis of 
 quiet in the neighborhood, or on rainy days, for 
 the poor seem always to be buried on rainy days, 
 as the society members on holidays. 
 
 Perhaps it was this guarantee of daily pleasure 
 food which made the houses in the locality at- 
 tractive as residences. Sure it is that the neces- 
 sity of living in that one spot became the tyr- 
 annous necessity of a vice to those who once 
 adopted it. When vacancies sometimes occurred 
 in the shambling tenements through rent failure 
 of tenant or patience failure of landlord, the billet 
 seldom remained long over the threshold. If it 
 were not a place for the industrious, it neverthe- 
 
122 MADRILENE; 
 
 less required a certain amount of industry to 
 live up to the daily advantages of idleness ; and 
 the countenances of the people thereabouts, if 
 they did not show the fatness of good living, 
 showed neither the inert vacuity of the pleasure- 
 starved. 
 
 It was the last day of October, in its beautiful 
 morning, with but the gentlest suggestions of au- 
 tumn radiating through the atmosphere. The 
 long, lingering summer had faded away like the 
 febrile dream of an over-luxurious night which 
 leaves the mind tranquil but alert, the body ener- 
 vated but pleased. The fine weather for " la 
 Toussaint " has passed into proverb. 
 
 La Toussaint, the Festival of the Dead, is the 
 ietepar excellence of the city. It is a day encrys- 
 tallized by time and sentiment with poetic super- 
 stitions and custom ; the one day upon which 
 the cemeteries resurrect out of the things they 
 are, and become the things they should be : radi- 
 ant sanctuaries, exhaling beauty, purity, and fra- 
 grance ; when the dead — the impotent, despised 
 dead — lie enchased in their tombs like saints in 
 their shrines, to be propitiated with flowers and 
 importuned with prayers. It is the one day in 
 the city during which the glittering supremacy 
 of wealth is nullified ; when not he who lives 
 finely, but he who is buried finely is envied ; 
 when the good families of the past are compared 
 with the parvenus of the present ; when old ro- 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 123 
 
 mances and histories enjoy an annual blossoming 
 out of the names on the mortuary tablets. 
 
 "Oh yes, they zxo. grand'' chose now, but show me 
 where their dead are buried." The most ordinary 
 servant felt herself in a position to make that re- 
 mark, and gossiping tongues, whose usual voca- 
 tion was to spread reports of shameful neglect of 
 the living, on this day busied themselves about 
 the more shameful neglect of the dead — if such 
 cases ever occurred. And those waifs and strays 
 who begin life in the maternity ward and end it 
 on the dissecting-table of the hospital, and those 
 vague asylum humanities who date from nothing 
 recordable but a parent's death or desertion, and 
 even the criminals who have suicided from the 
 moral life of their kind — at no other time do they 
 feel their deprived condition as on this day. 
 And some — the cunning ones — go so far as to 
 affect graves they do not possess, and sally forth 
 on the morning of All-Saints with the emblems 
 of remembrances and regrets they have never 
 known, "just like other Christians," as the local 
 comparison is. 
 
 Coming at a season when strangers yet shun 
 the place, there is no festival that calls out as it 
 does the full muster of the populace — a populace 
 of unfermented original types, strong and full 
 with the salient untempered flavors of race in- 
 gredients, a vin brut of humanity. 
 
 And if the festival could rouse a whole city to 
 
124 MADRILENE j 
 
 intensity of excitement, what must it produce in 
 the neighborhood of a cemetery, and a cemetery 
 the oldest, most aristocratic, and most important 
 of the city? And if November first were such a 
 day, what must the last of October be, when, from 
 local appearances, the whole world seemed to 
 have been caught procrastinating, and had but a 
 few fleeting hours to prepare their tombs for the 
 morrow's judgment ? Such hurry ! Such mad- 
 dening confusion ! 
 
 In the cemetery itself the most extraordinary 
 "house -cleaning" was in process, such white- 
 washing of stucco, scrubbing of marble, reddening 
 of brick pavements, cutting of grass, trimming of 
 shrubbery, spreading of clean white sand over 
 walks, and laying parterres off in fanciful designs 
 with little shells, and such transplanting of bloom- 
 ing bushes of marguerites, roses, and borders of 
 violets into sterile beds ! And the voices order- 
 ing, protesting, wrangling, hurrying, scolding, di- 
 recting ! One would think they never had had 
 more than a day to prepare in. 
 
 Outside, on the banquette was the usual market 
 sf ene of everything that could be required in to- 
 day's confusion for to-morrow's ornament: hil- 
 locks of sand and shells, flowers in pots, or torn 
 up by the roots, or loose in baskets, or wired 
 around stiff forms — marguerites, dahlias (white, 
 yellow, and purple), and amaranths, dropping 
 over with their bulky, fleshy, rich redness ; care- 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 125 
 
 fully guarded trays of plaster angels, Madonnas, 
 infant Jesuses, Saviours, and saints, all fashioned 
 in Italian likenesses and clothed with Italian 
 gorgeousness. And all the length of the wall, 
 hung on nails, wreaths, crosses, hearts, anchors, 
 fabricated of curled glazed paper, black or white, 
 or black and white mixed, or of flowers ; white 
 roses with black leaves, or black roses with white 
 leaves, or of dried immortelles (purple, black, 
 white), all tied with shining satin ribbon, gayly 
 fluttering in the breeze, carrying their legends in 
 gold and silver printing. And there were not 
 wanting, also, these for the millionaire griefs, so 
 to speak — handsome, elaborate, bead memorials, 
 jingling and showy, carrying their succinctly 
 pictured desolation in a medallion in the centre : 
 a tomb, a weeping-willow, and a weeping figure, 
 addressed in letters around the rim to all the 
 different mortuary members of the human family, 
 with all manner of passionate invocations from 
 the bereavable human heart. 
 
 And wherever one could edge herself in, sat 
 old negro women in tignons, before waiters of 
 pralines, molasses and cocoa-nut candy, or pans 
 of pain pafafc, or skillets of dough-nuts frying 
 over lighted furnaces ; keeping the flies and the 
 gamins off with long whisks of split palmetto, 
 while they nodded their heavy sleepy heads. All 
 the venders crying their wares at once, in the de- 
 teriorated traditions or personal perversions of 
 
126 MADRILENE; 
 
 half a score of dialects, with a vociferousness and 
 persistence that proclaimed the transient nature 
 of the opportunity. 
 
 The coffee-houses at the corner kept up their 
 usual steady holiday business, realcoholizing their 
 patrons and turning them out to doze through 
 the time between drams on the convenient bench 
 under the awning, or to digest in one long glutton- 
 ous sleep on the grass their one long gluttonous 
 drink, or only slightly exhilarated to drift as far as 
 the planked crossing, where a hilarious crowd was 
 gathering around a quadroon lad, who held the 
 only novel feature of the day — a monkey in leash. 
 
 The long, lean, lanky animal climbed and 
 sprang unceasingly at the end of its tether, col- 
 lecting an unfailing toll of screams and fright 
 from the passers-by, responding with human ea- 
 gerness to the prompt applause of its malice. 
 "Loulou," whispered a little negro to the quad- 
 roon, "look!" — he pointed to a figure just turn- 
 ing in from the corner — " Madrilene !'' 
 
 The girl's height enabled her to carry her long, 
 flat basket easily above the heads of the people 
 who streamed over the plank walk with her on 
 their way to the cemetery. The stiff funereal 
 glazed paper wreaths piled in her basket stood 
 out in ghastly becomingness above a face which, 
 though young, seemed created to be overshad- 
 owed by the emblems of death : a thin, scraped 
 profile skin sallow to blackness, hollow eyes, 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 
 
 127 
 
 brooding brows, a mouth held rigid and expres- 
 sionless by determination, and eyes fixed in stud- 
 ied abstraction. As she came closer to view, 
 her costume seemed not less appropriate to her 
 burden than her face : her worn shoes, faded 
 stuff skirt, shrunken sacque, and the ragged ban- 
 danna kerchief tied not around her head, but un- 
 der her chin. 
 
 She arrived opposite the ill-behaved group of 
 'men and boys. 
 
 " File !"' whispered Loulou to the monkey in 
 his arms. 
 
 But the wily animal mistook the aim, or sub- 
 stituted another one. He jumped not to Madri- 
 lene's basket, but to the head of an unsuspecting 
 child walking in front of her, and there poised 
 himself, arching his serpentine tail around his 
 bald, ashen-gray face, peering over at the child, 
 and grinning at the terrified screams that fell 
 upon the air. 
 
 Madrilene's expression changed to one of pure 
 rage. She threw her basket to the ground, and, 
 as quickly as the animal himself could have done 
 so, she caught the monkey around the neck, 
 throttling him as she dragged him off. 
 
 " Stop, stop, Madrilene ! Curse you ! stop !" 
 screamed the quadroon boy, running to the res- 
 cue of his pet. " Stop ! You are choking him 
 to death !" 
 
 She flung the monkey to the ground to seize 
 
128 madrilene; 
 
 the boy's head by the short, black, curly hair. 
 She slapped him vigorously. " Dare ! dare !'' 
 she said, "dare frighten white children again !" 
 
 The monkey — his simulated distress had been 
 but another evidence of his versatile talents — 
 bounded nimbly from the ground, amid the loud 
 admiring laughter of the crowd. 
 
 The boy, who had lain resistless enough in 
 Madrilene's grasp, recovered himself as soon as 
 released. Construing the laughter behind him 
 as mockery to himself, he furiously sought to re- 
 cover his lost prestige. Shaking his fist at the 
 back of the girl, he shouted after her : 
 
 " Mulatresse ! nigger ! nigger ! 'coon ! 'coon !" 
 (a localism of irritating significance to the col- 
 ored), adding other insolences of his quick and 
 ready invention ; and the insolences of his class 
 are the unrepeatable of language. 
 
 The crowd paid no attention. It was only the 
 usual street quarrel to them, pursued with the 
 characteristic violence of the colored. The girl 
 walked away unheedingly. She paused at the 
 corner, hesitating between two courses, and then 
 slowly, as if yielding to temptation, turned to the 
 right towards the iron cross that rose above the 
 gate of the cemetery. 
 
 Almost unnoticed in the voluble excitement 
 around it, a funeral was driving up. 
 
 A hush spread over the banquette, pantomime 
 paused, and instantaneously a hedge of specta- 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 129 
 
 tors was formed on each side of the entrance, from 
 which, with that never-sated curiosity of the Hving 
 about the dead, eager heads craned forward to 
 look. 
 
 Madrilene waited, watching the slow backing 
 up of the hearse until, struck by a thought, she 
 turned her head towards the cemetery gate, glan- 
 cing into it. " Where was the sexton. Monsieur 
 Sacerdote ?" 
 
 Pushing her way out of the throng, she ran 
 quickly across the cleared space into the enclos- 
 ure and down a path. It had been designed for 
 a brave, fine cemetery — a fit repository for the 
 mortal remains of aristocracy and wealth, with 
 handsome monuments, broad avenues, gentle vis- 
 tas, and pleasing perspectives. There were some 
 costly family mausoleums in it and palatial soci- 
 ety sepulchres — huge mortuary hotels ; but death 
 had been too indiscriminate and too busy ; and 
 periodic epidemics in the past had annulled all 
 plans and calculations. It showed now the con- 
 fused plenum of a caravansary into which tired, 
 pilgrims had been driven by stress of weather or 
 nightfall, glad to huddle themselves together pell- 
 mell, in any position, confident only of their fa- 
 tigue and slumber. Whichever way a coffin could 
 be placed upon the earth, there had arisen a tomb' 
 over it ; and vaults had been arched upon vaults, 
 rising higher and higher, stretching their buriali 
 capacity in the only direction left them. 
 
I30 MADRILiNE ; 
 
 In the early days the sexton could not be too 
 young, strong, and vigorous for his work. Now 
 it was a mere somnolent porter's task to sit in- 
 side the lodge day after day, waiting for an order 
 to open a tomb here, or a certificate that time, by 
 making a vacancy, authorized a new lease there. 
 And Monsieur Sacerdote — Fan tome Sacerdote, 
 as the people pronounced the " Vendome " of his 
 name — octogenarian, and decrepit to the verge 
 of vital tenuity, did not find his physical func- 
 tions taxed by his office. 
 
 It was not an easy labyrinth for the feet to 
 unravel. Life itself had not more vicissitudes 
 than the gnarled paths, with their obsolete grave 
 mounds for stumbling-blocks, and their fair open- 
 ings dammed unexpectedly into aimless cids-de- 
 sac. But Madrilene ran through them swiftly and 
 easily, without pause or breath, looking sharply 
 from side to side, impatiently waving away arrest- 
 ing voices and gestures, venturing from time to 
 time a whispered call : " Monsieur Sacerdote ! 
 Monsieur Sacerdote !" She arrived fruitlessly, at 
 the corner where a scrubby cypress-tree had man- 
 aged to rear itself to some maturity of funereal 
 foliage, and where the 'tiers of rented mural sep- 
 ulchres (" ovens," they are called) rise against the 
 terminal wall. She ran her eye along the old 
 worn slabs, with their tottering balustrades and 
 crumbling bases, pulled by the sinking ground into 
 queer distortions, like a paralytic's grin. From 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 131 
 
 the half-submerged bottom to the grass-covered 
 top one, there was not a gap in the drear so- 
 lidity. 
 
 " Monsieur Sacerdote !" she called, louder. 
 
 There was only the gay chattering of the peo- 
 ple cleaning their tombs to be heard, and only 
 their moving forms to be seen. The girl turned 
 into another path, and after a few steps almost 
 fell over the one she sought. 
 
 " As I thought — asleep !" she muttered. 
 
 One could hardly have been more so inside 
 the crumbling brick cofhn- shaped structure on 
 which the old man lay, in face of the tomb he 
 had just opened. His hat had fallen off, and his 
 long white hair lay spread out like some curious 
 lichen growing in the masonry. The warm sun 
 gleamed on the scant silver threads and shone 
 on the round, small, red, semi -bald head, and 
 on the face sinking into formlessness almost as 
 though corruption and not decrepitude were the 
 cause. He held a piece of bread in his withered 
 hand, and the flies buzzed over him and over the 
 contents of an open tin bucket indiscriminately ; 
 and the lizards took his figure in as a matter of 
 course in their frolics after the flies. 
 
 " He looks like a runaway corpse," thought the 
 girl. " Monsieur Sacerdote !" she called, loud- 
 ly, to him in French — " Monsieur Sacerdote !" 
 She shook him by the shoulder. " Awake ! 
 awake ! The funeral is at the gate !" 
 
132 MADRILENE ; 
 
 The old man's head rolled over into another 
 position, and the toothless gums resumed their 
 suspended movements of mastication. The shak- 
 ing had an effect, but deafness protected his ear. 
 She put her lips close to it, and sinking her voice 
 to a piercing distinctness, repeated : 
 
 " Wake ! Get up ! The funeral is at the gate. 
 The funeral ! the funeral !" 
 
 "What is it, Marie Madeleine ?" 
 
 He closed his eyes again after one feeble open- 
 ing of them. 
 
 " The funeral ! They are looking for you ! 
 Run ! Run to meet them !" 
 
 " Eh, Marie Madeleine ?" He was the only 
 one who ever called her by her name, instead of 
 by the vulgar contraction of it, and he kept re- 
 peating it over vaguely, as if it were a part of the 
 degustation of the bread in his mouth. 
 
 She got him to a sitting posture and then pulled 
 him to his feet, talking, repeating, gesticulating, 
 coaxing the senile incomprehension out of his 
 eyes. He finally started, as she bade him, down 
 a certain path, trotting, with short, stiff, rheumatic 
 steps. 
 
 "He will be caught some day, and then, yes, 
 he will lose his place, and he will be sent to the 
 Little Sisters of the Poor. Monsieur Sacerdote 
 with the beggars at the Little Sisters of the 
 Poor !" 
 
 In desperate hurry she began to clear away 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 133 
 
 some of the disorder — hiding the tin bucket, gath- 
 ering up the scattered tools, sweeping the debris 
 of masonry together. She put her head close to 
 the opening and peered through the gloom into 
 the interior of the tomb. Undefinable accumu- 
 lations rounded the sides and filled the corners. 
 The far end was hidden in darkness, but there 
 was a twilight path down the swept centre. 
 
 " He has done, indeed, everything. All is 
 ready. He was only. tired." 
 
 She worked over the mortar on the board and 
 piled the bricks nearer to hand. 
 
 Never could guests arrive more inopportunely 
 than a funeral at the cemetery at such an hour. 
 The procession was long in coming. The pall- 
 bearers carried their difficult load slowly through 
 the hard extremities of narrow spaces and sudden 
 angles, made still harder by standing buckets of 
 whitewash, pavements slippery with soapsuds, 
 and unremoved heaps of trash. All the bustling 
 workers had to jump into attitudes of respect— 
 the women, simulating prayers with their lips, 
 while secretly tugging at their skirts; the men 
 gingerly taking off their hats with their soiled fin- 
 gers; the street urchins hurried away from their 
 momentary jobs, around by-paths, into advanta- 
 geous positions whence they could make grimaces 
 and signs at the tormented-looking acolytes. 
 
 Marie Madeleine stepped back as the priest 
 appeared, and put herself in a corner where she 
 
134 MADRILENE ; 
 
 could see, but not be seen. Her figure was so 
 frail and slight it looked like a shadow thrown 
 where she stood ; her face like a relievo ornament 
 cut into the marble against which it leaned. The 
 dazzling white surface, illumined by the full rays 
 of the sun, made distinct the ordinarily insignifi- 
 cant minutix of her features, revealing some of 
 the mysteries of character and age which make 
 up expression — the softness under the chin ; the 
 deep indenture of the upper lip; the sharp claw 
 scratches on the lower ; straight, outstanding eye- 
 lashes, an irregularity in the line of the nose ; the 
 unfleshed cheek-bone; the thin, bruised rather 
 than dark-looking skin ; the opaque, dry, burned- 
 out eye-sockets ; the eyes black and disturbed, 
 not with hidden conflicts and rebellions, but car- 
 rying, like godless worlds, their unshaped con- 
 tents in chaos. She had pushed her kerchief 
 from her head ; short rumpled strands of ill-kept 
 black hair fell over her forehead and behind her 
 ears. 
 
 " Her first evening here ! All clean and beau- 
 tiful and bright ! She comes to her tomb like a 
 bride to her home, and to-morrow it will be all 
 flowers and ornaments and burning candles, like 
 a celebration in her honor. Her family will come 
 year after year to lay flowers under her name. 
 Her friends will pass by her tomb every All- 
 Saints and talk about her. And her family will 
 die, one after the other, and they will all come in 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 135 
 
 there and lie with her ; and little children, far, far 
 away in the future — children of her family — will 
 be brought here, all to be buried together, all to 
 rise together." 
 
 Self-abandoned, self-unconscious, she followed 
 her thoughts, undisturbed by the muttered func- 
 tions of the priest and the sharp outbreak of grief 
 that followed the placing of the coffin in the vault, 
 and the long, whining sobs that accompanied the 
 tap-tapping of the bricks by Monsieur Sacerdote's 
 trowel. She watched the barrier rise higher and 
 higher, past the coffin, past the flowers on top, 
 past the black vacant space, to the one little crack 
 left ; past that, past the breath of life, past life it- 
 self ! Immured in one long dormitory, with dust 
 of skeletons, flowers, wood. . , . But Madrilene 
 took not this view of it. 
 
 " It is like getting at night into a bed where 
 one's father and mother have slept. One should 
 sleep well in that bed." 
 
 Madrilene's bed was a pallet on the floor of 
 Madame Lais's room. 
 
 " One should have none but beautiful dreams 
 there, and no thoughts to chase one awake all 
 through the night. And the walls about such a 
 bed would not show faces to grimace at one. The 
 night would protect one there from the day — 
 those horrible da3^s that come back and come back 
 to remembrance, like dishonest duns collecting 
 their bills over and over again. It is a fine thing 
 
136 MADRILENE; 
 
 where parents leave such a bed as that for their 
 children — regular parents." 
 
 Very few of what are called regular parents 
 live about a cemetery. Ties and relationships 
 assume a voluntary and transient character in 
 that careless neighborhood, life flowing by choice 
 through crooked rather than straight channels. 
 Madrilene had never lived in any other neighbor- 
 hood. 
 
 " And the dead will have their festival to-mor- 
 row, and she will be among them, fresh from earth. 
 It will be a birthday to her. To-night at twelve 
 o'clock she will come out of her new tomb with 
 them, and they will walk down these paths, visit- 
 ing one another, and talking and laughing." (A 
 common superstition.) " They will hurry away 
 at daylight, but not far away. They will be 
 above us there in the air, watching, listening, see- 
 ing everything, knowing everything. They see 
 who come to their tombs and who stay away ; who 
 remember, who forget, and who are ashamed, and 
 who deny them. They will see the little orphans 
 around the table at the gate, ' chinking, chinking ' 
 the money in their plates. They will see who 
 give to the orphans and who do not. The parents 
 of the orphans themselves will see it. But the or- 
 phans cannot see their parents. Oh no ! Those 
 who can remember them can see what they knew; 
 but those who have not known, who do not re- 
 member, they look into the faces of the passers-by, 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 137 
 
 and say, 'Was she like that lady? Was he like 
 that gentleman?' The white orphans pick out 
 white ladies and gentlemen for their parents. 
 God leaves the photographs perhaps in the hearts 
 of the children. But sometimes the children 
 don't like the photographs, and then — even the 
 colored ones pick out white ladies and gentle- 
 men for their parents." 
 
 Her thoughts were leading her up to that em- 
 pyrean to which human thoughts can rise from 
 lowest depths, seeking, it may be, their heavenly 
 source, or it may be only seeking their earthly 
 lackings. 
 
 The funeral procession went away again, the 
 grave became deserted, and the busy day seemed 
 about going, too. The sinking sun began to cast 
 oblique rays over the tombs ; the breeze blew the 
 white sails stealthily along the canal outside ; the 
 noises were ebbing; the throng dispersing. Al- 
 most — almost — there was quiet in and about the 
 cemetery. The preliminary warning of the bell 
 for shutting the gate rang, but the girl heard it 
 not. As the rich and the happy do, she luxu- 
 riously let the moments pass unheeded. 
 
 Monsieur Sacerdote commenced his rounds 
 with his long stick to make sure that no evil- 
 intentioners nor stragglers were shut in, striking 
 the tombs briskly to herald his approach. 
 
 " Ah, mon Dieu !" she exclaimed, as the stick 
 found her out. " It would be good to stay here 
 
138 MADRILENE ; 
 
 this way all the time. Monsieur Sacerdote," she 
 said to him, stretching out her hand to stop his 
 staff, " how good it would be to stay here this way 
 all the time! Never to go back — never to go 
 back ! To lie here among the clean white tombs 
 until judgment-day !" This had been in her mind 
 all her life. When she was a little child, half 
 naked, all dirty from the streets, she had begged 
 to be left in the cemetery, "A\ith the dead, with 
 the good dead, with the white dead ;" and as she 
 said then, she as childishly said now : " Maybe I 
 might die, and you might slip me into one of 
 these tombs here — who would know ? And then 
 on resurrection-day — it would be a good thing for 
 resurrection-day to come on All-Saints, wouldn't 
 it, Monsieur Sacerdote? — on resurrection-day I 
 would rise with the others. We resurrect white, 
 do we not, Monsieur Sacerdote ? I would be found 
 out otherwise. All white — white limbs, white faces, 
 white wings, white clothes. Not yellow — not black 
 corpses rising with their white bands." She closed 
 her eyes and shuddered. " Oh, the fearful sight ! 
 And if I arose with the white, would they turn me 
 out, do you think ?" 
 
 The old man raised his dim eyes to her face, 
 and began to move his nerveless lips to an- 
 swer, when a violent blow aimed from behind 
 missed the girl, and rang on the tomb beside 
 her; the torrent of abuse that followed was surer. 
 "Devil! Dog! Vileness ! Wretch! Filth! De- 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD, 139 
 
 testable animal of the earth ! Mulatresse ! Ne- 
 gress !" 
 
 The assailant, a quadroon woman, came into 
 view, making ineffectual attempts to repeat the 
 blow. Her passion supplied words too fast for 
 utterance, the threats and abuse choked her 
 breath and overloaded her lips. She would hold 
 on to one word and repeat it mechanically, until 
 the phrase would come bursting out, carrying a 
 spray of white foam with it. 
 
 " You think you can beat Loulou ! You think 
 you can beat him in the streets before everybody! 
 I will beat you ! I will show you ! Filtl\ of the 
 last gutter in the city ! You shall feel the weight 
 of this hand, I tell you ! You beat my child for 
 white children ! White ... Let me get hold of 
 you ! Let me put hands on you ! I will fix you ! 
 I will teach you! I will strip you! I will kill 
 you! You . . ." 
 
 She seemed to be afraid of saying nothing; no 
 term repugned her, and no impurity seemed too 
 impure to apply to the girl, who contented her- 
 self with avoiding blows, pressing her lips tightly 
 together, while Monsieur Sacerdote, looking be- 
 wildered, alternated his " Marie Madeleines !" with 
 " I command you ! I command you !" to the virago. 
 
 She was a large woman, well formed, and had 
 all the points which go to make the beauty of her 
 type. Her cheeks glowed with the only blushes 
 vouchsafed them— the heat of passion ; the blood 
 
140 MADRILENE; 
 
 seemed almost to start the dark thick skin, and 
 back of her heavy black eyes it glistened like red 
 coals of fire. A white scum settled around her 
 lips — large, full, pampered, pulpy lips — with their 
 inevitable subtle suggestions of immodesties. 
 There appeared to be no lengths to which the 
 tide of passion might not carry her. 
 
 " May I ask the price of these?" 
 
 The interruption came from a man, the unper- 
 ceived spectator of the scene, and the concealed 
 observer of the girl from the moment she awoke 
 Monsieur Sacerdote. He pointed with his stick 
 to the basket of paper wreaths. 
 
 The quadroon woman instantly included him 
 in her discourse, giving the girl no space to 
 answer in. 
 
 " A miserable creature, sir, who is always for- 
 saking her own race to run after the whites. 
 And she has the temper of a demon, sir. She beat 
 my son, beat him almost to death, out there in 
 the street! A little child — ah, but I shall make 
 her pay for it!" Then, controlling her passion, 
 she glided miraculously into the obsequious civil- 
 ity of her class to the whites, and sought to please, 
 by voice and demeanor, and a deft flattery of 
 prejudice. " She should stay in her class, sir; 
 me, I stay in my class. If God made us quad- 
 roons, we should be quadroons. She tries to pass 
 herself off for white," 
 
 The girl almost opened her lips to speak. 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 141 
 
 "When quadroons try to pass themselves off 
 for white, it is for no good purpose, sir, as you 
 know." 
 
 " I will buy a half-dozen of these, but you must 
 come and put them on the tombs for me, your- 
 self." The man turned and walked away. Madri- 
 lene waited in her same attitude. 
 
 " Go— go follow the gentleman! Don't you 
 see he wants to buy some of your wreaths? Go, 
 but remember — to-night!" The woman added 
 this in a muttered whisper, half closing her en- 
 raged eyes. 
 
 Madrilene, after a moment's hesitation, picked 
 up her basket and walked after the stranger. He 
 was reading over the names on a tomb when she 
 caught up with him. 
 
 "These, sir, are not fit for you; they are for 
 the colored cemetery and the very poor." Her 
 voice was low. It sounded like a voice seldom 
 used. " I was on my way to the colored ceme- 
 tery. I only stopped in here a moment." 
 
 " I shall buy some of these, all the same." 
 
 " If you would permit me, sir, I could make 
 you some flower wreaths to-night^real flowers." 
 
 " But I would like to put them on the tombs 
 to-day." 
 
 " Show me the tombs, sir, and I will have them 
 decorated by daylight to-morrow. Or tell me the 
 names — I know every tomb here." 
 
 " I will show them to you." He pointed out 
 
142 MADRILENE ; 
 
 one or two, and then walked on rapidly through 
 one path after the other. 
 
 " Are these all, sir ?" 
 
 He started out of his absorption. " Ah, yes, 
 yes!" and then, one would have said almost at 
 random, he pointed out three or four other tombs. 
 
 " You can pay me to-morrow, after you see 
 them," she said, in answer to a gesture he made 
 towards his purse. 
 
 And then the delayed evening bell rang imper- 
 atively, ordering all out of the cemetery before 
 the closing of the gate. It was full early, as 
 some discontented grumblers did not fail to re- 
 mark on their way to the exit. 
 
 "That old sexton is so blind, he thinks it is 
 sundown at mid-day." 
 
 " He is too old to see, he is too old to hear — in 
 fact, he is too old to be alive any longer." 
 
 " You noticed he was not there for the funeral 
 to-day ?" 
 
 " Somebody ought to report him." 
 
 Madrilene passed out into the street. The 
 stranger paused by the sexton, who stood holding 
 the gate in his hand. 
 
 "Who is this girl.?" he asked, abruptly. 
 
 Monsieur Sacerdote looked at the questioner; 
 he was neither young nor handsome, nor " that 
 kind of a man." 
 
 "Marie Madeleine, but those people call her 
 Madrilene." 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 143 
 
 "Who are those people ?" 
 
 The old man shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Do you think that woman will carry out her 
 threats ?" 
 
 Another shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 " Where does she live?" 
 
 " Those people keep chambrcs garnies some- 
 where on Street." 
 
 The stranger seemed to understand the indefi- 
 nite reference. He looked at the sexton a mo- 
 ment, as if to gauge the advisability of further 
 questions, and then he, too, walked away through 
 the ugly wasted boulevard. 
 
 Marie Madeleine resumed her deferred itin- 
 eracy, turning the corner at which she had before 
 hesitated, and walking down the street to the 
 cemetery set apart for the burial of the col- 
 ored. 
 
 It was more neglected, and if possible more out- 
 raged by entourage, than the other place. There 
 was no sidewalk, the dilapidated walls patched 
 up to irregular heights, for the accommodation 
 of vaults inside, threatened to fall and burst asun- 
 der at any time. On the high, level places a 
 miniature forest grew — weeds, grass, and chance 
 seedlings of trees, and vines that drooped almost 
 to the ground outside. 
 
 As she had done the length of the other ceme- 
 tery, Madrilene touched the walls as she walked 
 along with her out-stretched fingers : " Dead in 
 
144 MADRILENE ; 
 
 there ! dead in there ! And who were you ? and 
 who were you ? All dead ! all dead !" 
 
 It was only thought, and in words not her own. 
 Her own words, from the common store of lan- 
 guage about her, could not have expressed her 
 thoughts ; or perhaps the thoughts as well as the 
 words were foreign to her ; perhaps the thoughts 
 were transplanted with the words from the books 
 read aloud to Monsieur Sacerdote in surreptitious 
 hours, in that stolen acquirement which neither 
 Madame Lais nor her family suspected. Read- 
 ing! They would as soon have provided her 
 with a looking-glass. 
 
 There were the same scenes around this ceme- 
 tery as the other one. The same or rather a 
 greater throng, and greater hilarity. Nature was 
 the same — sun, atmosphere, verdure, houses — all 
 the same. But the faces of the people, they were 
 different ; passed over, as it were, with a color for 
 a travesty; with an ochreous wash. Yellow, yel- 
 low, brown, black — almost all yellow. Differ- 
 ences of feature and expression, height and figure, 
 were all lost in the one monotonous hue — the hue 
 of a race creeping down, or is it a race creeping 
 up the scale ? A patois race. 
 
 Madrilene hastened through it as if flying from 
 pursuit. But who can distance thoughts? And 
 she had been fury-driven since she could think. 
 And such thoughts — such strange thoughts ! Did 
 she think the thoughts herself, or did God, who 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 145 
 
 sends so much into the hearts and minds of 
 young girls — even to the most abject — send them 
 to her? How could she ascertain? Could she 
 have questioned Madame Lais, or Palmyre — the 
 virago mother of Loulou— or Antoinette, or Phi- 
 lomene, or Athalie, or any of Madame Lais's other 
 daughters ? Or any of the yellow men who came 
 through the back gate to visit them? Or any of 
 the white men who rented rooms from Madame 
 Lais ? 
 
 She might have had ample opportunity to ask 
 these last, if, like Antoinette, Philomene, Palmyre, 
 and Athalie, she had chosen to serve them — carry 
 them their coffee of mornings, attend to their 
 chambers, wash and mend their clothing for them. 
 There could not be found more amiable servitors 
 than the four daughters of Madame Lais, what- 
 ever their back-yard character might be, and so 
 they never lacked pocket-money, fine dresses, and 
 jewelry. 
 
 But Madrilene would never serve the lodgers. 
 At first she had to endure suffering to maintain 
 her obstinate refusal. That was a little over a year 
 ago, when people began to call her cette jeune 
 fille. She would not have been clothed in such 
 rags now had she yielded to Madame Lais. Sell- 
 ing these wreaths on commission once a year 
 was not a lucrative profession, and the rest of her 
 time and service was due Madame Lais for her 
 food and clothing:. 
 
146 MADRILENE ; 
 
 She entered the colored cemetery, and went 
 down the broad central walk, Midway before 
 her a black iron arch held a black iron cross 
 high up against the evening sky. The tall, nar- 
 row tombs on each side arose close together, 
 almost touching. Were they really different from 
 the tombs in the other cemetery, or did they 
 only appear so to the morbid eye? They were 
 not all black, nor all white, either, but mixed, 
 like the people they enclosed, with interfusions, 
 trimmings, and fleckings of one color upon the 
 other, unconsciously sinister. And the nomen- 
 clature on the tablets ! Such a different read- 
 ing from the tablets in the other cemetery! 
 Names, fictitious, assumed, composed, or stolen; 
 some of them sounding sweet in the mouth, like 
 the anonymes of poets and poetesses; some of 
 them that might have answered at the roll-call 
 of Charlemagne; some of them petting diminu- 
 tives, like the names of birds and lapdogs; some 
 of them catching the eye with their antique 
 integrity, like bits of jewelry in pawn-shop win- 
 dows. But all of them one-sided names. For 
 the black that had tinged so many fair complex- 
 ions, muddied the depths of so many clear eyes, 
 and alloyed the expression of so many noble 
 profiles, the black that had diverted the course 
 of so many names and destinies — all that was 
 nameless and unrecorded, barred out, like the 
 pure black people themselves from this cemetery. 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 147 
 
 Marie Madeleine sold her wreaths the length of 
 the walk. The night promised so fair that over 
 the society tombs draperies were being hung, in 
 readiness for the morrow, the funeral trappings 
 of a by-gone regality — black velvet palls, spotted 
 with white tear-drops; old -fashion black hang- 
 ings for the outside of houses, with profuse appli- 
 cations of skulls and cross-bones ; and hearse and 
 coffin ornaments borrowed from the undertaker. 
 
 When she had sold her store out, she waded 
 through the tall grass of a side path until she 
 came to an isolated tier of vaults. As she had 
 expected from the lateness of the hour, no one 
 was there. Each one of all the square tablets 
 in the rows carried its memorial — all except one. 
 " Rosemond Delaunay " was the name it bore. 
 Delaunay was the family name of Madame 
 Lais. 
 
 From under the paper at the bottom of her 
 basket the girl took a bead medallion — the con- 
 ventional tomb, weeping-willow, and weeping fig- 
 ure. It bore the inscription, " A ma Mere." She 
 held it for a moment in her hand. It seemed to 
 weigh heavy, pulling her arm down, while she 
 looked before her into vacancy. Returning to 
 herself, by force of will, she hung the tribute on 
 the nail fixed for that purpose in the tablet. The 
 crumbling mortar loosed its hold, nail and medal- 
 lion fell to the ground. 
 
 " Pas ramassez li ! li tombe par terre ! Bon 
 
148 MADRILENE ; 
 
 Die la oule !" (Do not pick it up ! It fell to the 
 earth ! Good God wished it !) 
 
 Before looking, Marie Madeleine recognized 
 the voice of old Zizi Mouton, the occult terror of 
 Madame Lais's life, reputed to be one of the " old 
 people " who know everything. She was seated 
 on the ground, her feet in the dry ditch ; an old, 
 decrepit black negress; her face a bundle of 
 wrinkles tied up in a head-kerchief ; the bright lit- 
 tle black bead eyes seeming to draw the whole 
 physiognomy in to some interior fastening. She 
 pushed out her long stick, and held the medallion 
 to the earth. " Pas ramassez li, mo dit toi ! Pas 
 ramassez li !" 
 
 The girl did what Madame Lais would have 
 been afraid even to think. She pushed the stick 
 aside, picked up her wreath and the nail, saying, 
 in Creole : " Let me alone, Zizi !" 
 
 " Hd, Madrilene ! Vie Zizi a raison ! Bon 
 Die a raison !" (Old Zizi is right ! Good God is 
 right !) 
 
 Like all voudoos, old Zizi professed to be the 
 oracle of God. Madrilene hammered the nail 
 back into its place with a piece of brick, and hung 
 the wreath up again, and stood hiding her face in 
 her hands. 
 
 The passers-by thought she was weeping or 
 praying, as many others were doing around her, 
 for these tombs, at this season, move the heart 
 almost beyond control. 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 149 
 
 The Strange gentleman who had ordered the 
 flowers from her in the other cemetery, always 
 walking behind her, always observing her, might 
 have wished, as he stood there out of reach of 
 her eye, to hide his face also, as the girl did, the 
 thoughts that would intrude on a gentleman, not 
 to say a moralist, like him in this cemetery being 
 perhaps more comfortably entertained in solitude 
 and silence, behind folded hands. 
 
 After Marie Madeleine had walked well away, 
 old Zizi prized herself up with hand and stick 
 from the ground, tore the wreath from the nail, 
 and beat the nail again out of its place, muttering, 
 " Ah, Lais ! coquine !" 
 
 When the old woman had left, the stranger ap- 
 proached and studied the inscription on the tomb 
 and the inscription on the bead memorial ; and 
 then, still in pursuit of an object or an idea, walked 
 out of the cemetery into the street, retracing his 
 steps towards the other graveyard. 
 
 Darkness had fallen after the short twilight. 
 Those of the " marchands " and "marchandes" 
 who had obtained advantageous positions against 
 the wall were preparing to hold them by camping 
 on the spot all night. Others were slowly bun- 
 dling up their wares for a reluctant departure. 
 The coffee-houses had gathered in and were hold- 
 ing their noisy clients about them. Aboard the 
 schooners in the basin, lighted fires began to show, 
 flaming against the bottoms and sides of over- 
 
I50 
 
 MADRILENE 
 
 hanging caldrons, casting magic circles of red 
 brightness around lounging groups of swarthy 
 men. Through the gloom the evil night human- 
 ity that haunt such spots could be seen beginning 
 their quest for adventures and victims, and old 
 Zizi Mouton, hobbling on her stick, was drop- 
 ping, or pretending to drop, those voudoo charms 
 which, picked up this night around the cemetery 
 walls, were peculiarly potent for good or for evil. 
 
 As he had accosted the sexton, the stranger 
 accosted the old negress, and with the same in- 
 quiry, " Who is this girl Madrilene ?" 
 
 He had passed the girl on the street. She 
 was leaning against a high board fence, her bas- 
 ket on her head, unobservant to blindness from 
 inward preoccupation. 
 
 The voudoo did not need to be questioned 
 twice. " Madrilene, eh ? And Madame Lai's !" 
 She put her finger on her lip, and motioned the 
 gentleman to follow her. 
 
 There was one person to whom Marie Made- 
 leine could lay bare her mind — Monsieur Sacer- 
 dote. Those who dwell in the serene atmos- 
 phere of prosperity and happiness know not the 
 findings of sympathy, love, and devotion that lie 
 in the murky depths of poverty and misfortune. 
 But the tie that bound Marie Madeleine to Mon- 
 sieur Sacerdote was hardly the human confed- 
 eracy known as friendship. If one called it a 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 151 
 
 religion, one would more fitly describe it. Was 
 it not a thing of the soul with her? An aspira- 
 tion, an inspiration, the semblance of a hope, the 
 invisibility of a faith ? Where did she look for 
 him when she sought him in her mind ? At her 
 level ? On a platform of earthly elevation ? Or 
 above her in those unattainable heights in which 
 one must be born ? 
 
 He was above her ; born above her. Oh, there 
 was no doubt about that ! The most audacious, 
 the most impudent, the most infuriated, the most 
 drunken, the lightest of the light-colored, what- 
 ever they might say, in their secret hearts, she 
 knew, never disputed that the white are born 
 above the black. 
 
 Was not God white to them? The Saviour- 
 white ? The Virgin white ? The saints, martyrs, 
 angels, all white ? The people they read of in 
 books, were they not all white ? And the people 
 they saw on the stage ? Did the whites want to- 
 change their whiteness for blackness ? Did the 
 blacks want to change their blackness for white- 
 ness ? However much they might despise old 
 Fantome Sacerdote for his wretchedness, how- 
 ever much they shunned him with superstitious 
 terror, he was what they could never be, and he 
 was of the color of those whom they worshipped. 
 The deduction was very simple and easy to Marie 
 Madeleine. When she looked at him she saw 
 the originals of the pictures that hang in churches ; 
 
152 MADRILENE; 
 
 when she listened to him she heard them, and 
 when she talked to him it was almost as if she 
 were praying ; only the prayers to God, once 
 learned, were always the same. What she told 
 Monsieur Sacerdote were the ever-new accumula- 
 tions, the constant drippings day by day from the 
 invisible into an opening mind. Into the busy 
 mind of a waif and stray about fifteen, however, 
 thoughts do not drip, but flood in storming tor- 
 rents, particularly about the time of All-Saints. 
 
 The place where Monsieur Sacerdote passed 
 his nights might have been blamed as being more 
 insalubrious than where he passed his days. A 
 high, close fence hid the interior from the curious 
 eye, and a heavily bolted gate protected it from 
 intrusion. The tall fence was responsible for 
 some of the misery it hid, for the sun had a 
 chance of entering that way at least. The damp- 
 ness trickled down the sides of these high brick 
 walls into the little enclosure as into a well, and 
 from the street the green moss could be seen flour- 
 ishing on the peaked roof of the low house, and 
 planks had to be used to bridge the mud from 
 the door-step to the gate. 
 
 The superstition was not against the sexton's 
 office — experience all over the city refuted that. 
 It was against the man, about whose uncanny per- 
 sonality the stories were never allowed to die out. 
 He was even used as a reproach to the hovel that 
 sheltered him, a hovel whose wretchedness and 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD, 153 
 
 poor appearance should have rendered it below 
 reproach ; and he was used not only as a reproach, 
 but a missile of insult against Marie Madeleine, 
 not only by Loulou in the street, but by Madame 
 Lais at home, and by the malicious everywhere. 
 What she suffered from her refusal to serve the 
 lodgers was even less than what she suffered from 
 her persistence in serving the sexton. 
 
 Arrived at the gate with her empty basket, she 
 did not attempt to make herself heard. That 
 would have been a noisy process. She leaned, 
 as usual, against the fence and waited. If Mon- 
 sieur Sacerdote wished to let her in, he would 
 come after a while and open the gate for her. If 
 he did not, she would go on home. Is God re- 
 quired to answer all prayers ? 
 
 If he wished to see her, the taper floating in 
 its glass of oil would soon be creeping along the 
 plank walk to the gate. The rusty bolt would 
 resist, and the rusty key would squeak, but, with 
 her weight added to the outside, the gate would 
 finally open, and the old man would say, "My 
 child, come in." Fancy if God should speak out 
 and call her "my child!" 
 
 And then he would give her a book to read 
 aloud to him — a book that for age could have 
 been her grandparent, and she would read aloud 
 to him in that beautiful reading he had taught 
 her. No one suspected — Madame Lais least of 
 all — that she could read. Because Madame Lais 
 
154 MADRIL^NE ; 
 
 would never let her go to school, she thought that 
 she would never learn to read. She had learned 
 her alphabet from the tombstones, helping Mon- 
 sieur Sacerdote in his work, during the first days 
 of their friendship. In the cemetery the sexton 
 would tell her about the people in the tombs, but 
 in his little house he v/ould tell her about the 
 people in books. When she would go home at 
 night, her head would be filled with what she had 
 read and what he had told her, and so she could 
 stand Madame Lais — her tempers, her language, 
 her atmosphere — her whole world, in fact. And 
 while Madame Lais lay in her bed, and Madrilene 
 lay on the floor, as in old times slaves lay in the 
 sleeping chambers of their mistresses, her head 
 would be lifted far, far above her surroundings 
 by the ideas the books gave her. And when Ma- 
 dame Lais would call her and wake her and treat 
 her as, let us hope, few mistresses treated their 
 slaves, it was still an affair of the body, and not 
 of that soaring, inflated mind. It was those even- 
 ings when she did not read aloud to Monsieur 
 Sacerdote that the walls grimaced at her, and the 
 days came back to torment her, and the close 
 ladened atmosphere of the room suffocated her, 
 and life took on terrific features. She would look 
 far, far back in her memory for some help, but 
 there was none. She would look far, far ahead 
 in the future, and still there was none. Madame 
 Lais behind and Madame Lais before her, and 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 155 
 
 all about her the Africanized wall of Madame 
 Lais's children and grandchildren. Better for 
 her, fatherless, nameless, to be lying in the tomb 
 with the husbandless Rosemond Delaunay than 
 live with these husbandless, fatherless nieces and 
 sisters of Rose'mond Delaunay. 
 
 What desperations, what agonizing impoten- 
 cies, did she not feel at these moments ! She was 
 so ignorant, so brutalized, so blind ! 
 
 No, evidently Monsieur Sacerdote was not go- 
 ing to let her in this evening. She must go home. 
 The nine o'clock bell was ringing. He never let 
 her in after nine o'clock. 
 
 Arrived at her street, she selected among the 
 row of ill-kept, ugly-looking back doors that faced 
 the cemetery the one that belonged to her home. 
 As she was about to put her hand on the latch, 
 it was lifted from the inside, and old Zizi Mou- 
 ton, bending herself more double than ever, 
 slipped out as noiselessly as a black cat, and 
 nimbly ran down the banquette, in the opposite 
 direction from Marie Madeleine. " She is prepar- 
 ing some of her devilment," thought the girl. 
 " She does not imagine that I have seen her." 
 
 There was loud talking inside — Palmyre's 
 voice. Madrilene waited with her hand on the 
 latch, listening. 
 
 Zizi Mouton, after her more than voluminous 
 revelations, had conducted the stranger to the 
 
156 MADRILENE ; 
 
 front door of the same house. It was as pomp- 
 ous as its obverse was contemptible. The pla- 
 card " Chambres Garnies " swung from the gal- 
 lery at the end of a long wire, just over the heads 
 of the banquette pedestrians. Here and there on 
 the block other placards swung and fluttered — 
 an ominous sign for the neighborhood. The ap- 
 pearance of the first of such placards is the ap- 
 pearance of a first taint spot in the value of 
 property in a locality — a symptom of corruption, 
 and the forerunner of depreciation. 
 
 Chambres garnies mean different things to dif- 
 ferent people, or shall we say, different minds. A 
 furtive visit to an involved landlord or landlady 
 by a hesitating, heavily veiled woman ; a high 
 rent offered and guaranteed by the confidential 
 communication and signature of some well-known 
 name ; a new light thrown on some hitherto im- 
 maculate character, or an old one rekindled from 
 a smouldering scandal ; the hesitation on the 
 part of the property-holder between putting an 
 insult out-of-doors or putting it into the pocket 
 — chambres garnies mean this to some. To others 
 they represent only a comfortable system of lodg- 
 ing where landlady and servant are harmoniously 
 one ; where references are not required, and su- 
 pervision is carefully abstained from ; where free- 
 dom of movement and secrecy are guaranteed. 
 To strangers they are attractive as repositories 
 of romance, magazines of tropical poetry, studies 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 157 
 
 of picturesque domesticities, a curious half-world, 
 legitimized on the one side by prejudice, on the 
 other by sympathy. 
 
 A ring of the chambres garnies' bell fetches, after 
 a long interval, a black boy or girl, scrubbing- 
 brush in hand, thin, poorly clad, miserable-look- 
 ing, as a negro must be who serves his or her 
 own color: has it been said \\\z.\. chambres garnies 
 are always exquisitely clean? 
 
 A stranger would ask for Madame Brown or 
 Madame Smith, but a townsman asks for Madame 
 Lais, or maybe Lais. He then remains standing 
 during another long interval, glancing around him. 
 
 The hall and staircase are perfectly bare, ex- 
 cept for the foot-fall-stilling drugget. The cham- 
 bers, however, unless occupied, always stand open, 
 advertising of their handsome interiors — the vel- 
 vet carpets and damask curtains, the great bed- 
 stead with lace-trimmed dressings, the arnioire a 
 jjiiroir; the lavabo, with its fine porcelains and 
 linens ; the biscuit statuettes and vases of paper 
 flowers on the mantel. Interiors of a vague, un- 
 defined, differentiating luxury, inexplicable, or it 
 may be simply unexplicable. . . . 
 
 A scraping rather than a rustling is heard in 
 the upper regions — a scraping from skirts sharp- 
 ened as weM as stiffened by unstinted starch. 
 They scrape down the steps slowly, for Madame 
 Lais is stout, and finally come to stillness and 
 quietude before the expectant stranger. And 
 
158 • MADRILENE; 
 
 he sees, if it is spring, summer, autumn, or winter, 
 a long, loose, white " Gabrielle," with elaborate 
 trimmings of ruffles and lace, that show the yellow 
 neck and arms underneath, a yellow face, thickly 
 dusted with white powder, and hair smoothed into 
 a topknot with French heliotrope pomade, and a 
 soft, fat face, whose values, not at first appreci- 
 able, begin to make themselves felt as beauty by 
 force of certain underlying suggestions. But 
 what the stranger sees is infinitesimal in compar- 
 ison with what Madame Lais sees. Her eyes 
 have been trained to see as other eyes have been 
 trained to shoot, and men, not boards, have been 
 from time immemorial their target. AVhat Ma- 
 dame Lais sees in a stranger decides in an instant 
 whether she has a vacant room, the price of it, 
 the price of laundry and personal services — serv- 
 ing coffee in bed mornings, attendance when ill, 
 etc. A great many apply for rooms to find them 
 always filled. Some never apply without finding 
 the best one vacant and at the disposition of 
 monsieur. 
 
 If he likes the modus vivendi, it is very com- 
 fortable for the stranger after he is once taken in 
 by this or another Madame Lais. He rarely ever 
 seeks other lodgings, and he will travel willingly 
 year after year from one house to the other with 
 his chambres garnies' hostess, who does not attach 
 herself generally to buildings. He has his coffee 
 punctually in the morning, and his mending and 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD, 159 
 
 laundry without a remission. If he falls ill, he is 
 nursed ; and it is safe to say no one in New Or- 
 leans can nurse like Madame Lais — the tender- 
 ness of a mother, the devotion of a slave, the del- 
 icacy of a wife, the unflinching patience of a 
 hospital Sister, all combined ! One never thinks 
 of blushing before a Madame Lai's, or apologiz- 
 ing. One has absolutely no self-consciousness 
 with her. One can be or do what one pleases 
 before her with surety. There is no shocking 
 her. That makes, in short, the merit of her class, 
 putting them as lodging-house keepers beyond 
 competition and rivalry. And she is comely, too, 
 and young; or at least her daughters are, or her 
 granddaughters, or her nieces. She sometimes 
 nurses the stranger through life to a good old 
 age ; and when he dies, if he leaves anything — 
 but he rarely leaves anything. If he does, how- 
 ever, soon after the mortuary certificate there is 
 generally a little testament produced, written very 
 recently — produced by Madame Lais herself — a 
 testament unknown of the expectant nieces and 
 nephews. When they read this testament they 
 thank God, perhaps, that there are no other docu- 
 ments produced — only witnesses. When these last 
 are forthcoming, it is a nine-days' talk in the 
 scandal world, if the matter gets into court. And 
 the disinherited nieces go to sewing or piano- 
 playing for a living ; that is, if the family is of 
 the city. If they Uve outside or in foreign parts, 
 
l6o MADRILENE ; 
 
 they are generally saved the pain of knowing 
 anything beyond the fact of death — unless they 
 are contentious and sceptical. And the hand- 
 somely furnished chambers are always getting 
 more handsomely furnished, and the petticoats 
 are always getting stiffer, and the " Gabrielles " 
 more elaborately trimmed, and the chatnhres gar- 
 nies' granddaughters and nieces wear more and 
 more jewelry, and drift, more and more of them, 
 into salaried positions under the government. 
 What Monsieur Sacerdote saw with his dull 
 vision, Madame Lais could not fail to see : that 
 this stranger who applied to her at nightfall for 
 lodgings was not "that kind of a man:" a grave, 
 sedate, middle-aged scholar, but with eyes, for the 
 matter of that, that gathered as much in a glance 
 as Madame Lais's. They were not, however, the 
 eyes through which occupants of chambres garnies 
 look at life, and his voice was not propitious. 
 
 Her rooms were all full — unalterably, irrevoca- 
 bly full ; not even a vacancy on the highest gal- 
 lery, not even the bare closet he persisted in de- 
 manding. 
 
 Madame Lai's regretted it very much in her 
 voluble, frank, amicable way, telling of houses all 
 around her where chambers were vacant ; not 
 two doors off was a white lady, one of the best 
 old Creole families, who took boarders. 
 
 "Where is that loud talking?" questioned the 
 stranger, inappropriately. 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. i6i 
 
 " Those young girls amusing themselves in 
 the yard," she answered, shrugging her large 
 shoulders. 
 
 He listened with ill-concealed interest. 
 
 Madame Lais opened the door to facilitate his 
 departure, but sprang back in dismay from the 
 exposed threshold. 
 
 " Ah, misere ! Ah, grand Dieu ! Do not let 
 them touch me ! Kick them away, monsieur ! 
 For the love of God, kick them away with your 
 foot !" She ran backward into the hall as far as 
 the staircase, pointing with both hands to the 
 spot where lay scattered a dozen or more minute 
 paper parcels. "Ah! what is going to happen 
 to me now ? It is that old voudoo ! It is that 
 old Zizi Mouton ! My God, why does she not 
 let me alone ? Kick them away, monsieur — kick 
 them away !" 
 
 At that instant a scream sounded through the 
 long passage-way — a call. The woman turned 
 and ran in the direction from whence it came, 
 the man after her. 
 
 Madrilene, outside the gate, listened to Pal- 
 myre's voice rising louder and louder. 
 
 " No one shall lay hands on my child ! I will 
 kill any one who lays hands on my child ! My 
 child is as good as any one !" 
 
 They always use extreme threats, the colored. 
 Madrilene had heard her rage in the same way 
 
i62 MADRILENE ; 
 
 against Loulou himself ; had she not, in fact, 
 taken a hatchet to him more than once ? The 
 best way was to leave her alone, to take no 
 notice of her; let her talk herself out until ex- 
 hausted, when she would throw herself down any- 
 where upon the ground, upon the floor, and snore 
 until daylight. Madrilene heard the others an- 
 swering her, laughing at her. She knew, if they 
 did that, Palmyre would keep it up all night ; 
 Madame Lais herself could do nothing with her 
 in that mood. 
 
 " My child is as good as any one ! No one 
 shall touch my child ! I will cut any one open 
 who touches my child !" 
 
 The men and women inside laughed again. 
 
 They were exciting Palmyre. Fools ! Did 
 they want her carried off by the police to the cala- 
 boose, as she had been not so very long ago ? 
 Madame Lais had to pay enough money for that 
 temper. 
 
 " I will show you ! I will show you ! I will 
 break every bone in her body ! The moment she 
 comes in you will see ! Oh, I'll pay her !" 
 
 The girl outside felt a thrill of terror. Would 
 Palmyre dare, would she dare touch her ? Even 
 Madame Lais had never dared that but once — 
 the day, so long ago, when she had fled into the 
 cemetery for refuge, the first clay she had ever 
 seen Monsieur Sacerdote ; the day she had 
 begged him to leave her with the good dead, the 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 163 
 
 white dead. Would Palmyre dare touch her ? 
 Would the others let her — that crowd of disor- 
 derly men and women laughing and jeering in 
 the yard ? And the cemetery was lock-fast now, 
 and no Monsieur Sacerdote at hand ! 
 
 " I will strip her naked ! I will stamp her ! I 
 will make her howl !" 
 
 She could run back, she could call, she could 
 beat on the gate, and make herself heard of Mon- 
 sieur Sacerdote ! But — but pass those drinking 
 shops again ? Pass all those roistering men ? 
 Go again through that dark alleyway ? She was 
 afraid. Born and raised in the streets, she was 
 afraid of them at night ; afraid of them at the very 
 age when other colored girls frequent them. No, 
 she was not afraid of Palmyre when she thought 
 of the streets. Palmyre ? Palmyre was afraid 
 of her. They all were afraid of her, even Ma- 
 dame Lais. 
 
 " I dare her to come in ! I dare her to open 
 that gate ! I dare her like . . ." 
 
 The girl shrank back involuntarily. Did Pal- 
 myre suspect she was out there ? 
 
 But this street was no place to stop in ; this 
 gate was known ; any moment something might 
 happen to a woman all alone at this gate, and no 
 policeman anywhere, except, perhaps, drinking in 
 the coffee-houses. 
 
 " Low scum of the gutters ! Let me lay my 
 hands on her ! She will wish she was dead !" 
 
l64 MADRILENE; 
 
 A crowd of noisy men were coming along now, 
 singing. They would think she was there pur- 
 posely. Oh, she was afraid of men ! Afraid of 
 them ? None of Madame Lais's family were 
 afraid of men. Afraid of ghosts and voudoos .'' 
 yes ; but men, no. And Madrilene was afraid of 
 men, but not ghosts nor voudoos. The men were 
 getting nearer and nearer, singing like firemen : 
 firemen were the worst kind, or the men that fol- 
 low firemen. In daylight her heart would jump 
 and start if one looked at her. What was she 
 afraid of ? What could they do to her ? She did 
 not know ; only she was afraid, afraid. 
 
 " Oh, I will make her dance !" 
 
 They laughed inside at Palmyre's wit ! 
 
 The men were passing now. They had seen 
 her. They were all around her. She flattened 
 herself against the gate. One pinched her arm, 
 one pinched her cheek, one — Oh, better Pal- 
 myre ! She pressed the latch ; the gate fell open 
 with her weight ; she was inside ! 
 
 " Ha ! There she is ! Ha !" 
 
 "Palmyre, do not dare touch me !" she cried. 
 
 Dare ? Dare .'' Oh, better the men outside 
 than these blows, these scratches, this tearing of 
 hair. 
 
 " Do not dare ! do not dare !" she kept calling. 
 She was still at the gate ; she could still gain the 
 street. She was almost outside. 
 
 " I will strip you first !" 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 165 
 
 Her sacque was torn with one jerk from her 
 body. Pahnyre had her safe enough now inside. 
 Could the others not in the darkness see the 
 blows descending upon her .'' Could they not 
 hear them through the cursing and swearing that 
 accompanied them .-' Did they not know that 
 Palmyre carried a knife in her bosom — she car- 
 ried her bosom naked enough for them to see it. 
 Madrilene sprang from under the heavy arms of 
 Palmyre to the steps, to the gallery above. Oh, 
 if the lattice were only away, she could spring 
 into the street below ! 
 
 " I will catch you ! I will cut you open !" 
 
 "Plelp! help!" 
 
 The naked fleshy mass crowding her, the blows, 
 the darkness, the epithets, the hot puffing breath, 
 the odor. " Help ! help !" She felt the knife. It 
 was cutting — cutting ! " Help ! help !" She knew 
 not herself what her lips were screaming. It was 
 a crucifrcial cry, an alarm not from herself, but 
 from something within her driven to voice by ex- 
 tremity of pain and humiliation. " Help ! help ! 
 Negroes are murdering a white girl in here ! 
 Help! help!" 
 
 It was a cry to awaken the dead in the ceme- 
 tery over there, to raise and arm a mob, to para- 
 lyze the fist over her, to paralyze her own lips — 
 an unheard-of, an unknown, an uncodified cry, 
 an unrepeatable one 1 She heard the air car- 
 rying it out high over the street, shrill, quaver- 
 
l66 MADRILilNE ; 
 
 ing, forking a sudden, jagged course like light- 
 ning, rebounding from high walls, echoing in 
 hollow alleyways, leaving behind it one dark, 
 still, stark, void moment of suspense— and armis- 
 tice. 
 
 Then hearing, clotted with the answers, the 
 sound of voices, the tramp of running feet, open- 
 ing of doors, banging of windows. " Hold on ! 
 We are coming ! we are coming ! Hold on !" 
 Far off in whispers, near at hand in shouts. "We 
 are coming! we are coming!" 
 
 She had fallen. It was dark before her eyes 
 when they came, but she saw them : heads, heads, 
 heads, row behind row — dishevelled coffee-house 
 heads, glossy parlor heads, " dago " heads tied in 
 handkerchiefs, firemen heads under helmets, the 
 heads of the men who had pinched her cheek and 
 arm, and women's heads, with open, screaming 
 mouths. She had summoned a race to her res- 
 cue ; they had come ! How the floor trembled 
 when Palmyre was flung upon it ! 
 
 Away off, Madame Lais's head ; behind her, 
 the head of the stranger who had ordered flowers 
 from Madeleine in the cemetery ; behind him, old 
 Zizi Mouton's head ; behind, behind, the head of 
 Monsieur Sacerdote. And the dead were com- 
 ing, too, from the cemeter}' — the good dead, the 
 white dead. Far up above the ceiling she saw 
 lights and flying bodies — all white ! all white ! 
 White faces and white gowns, with paper wreaths 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 167 
 
 of her own manufacture, dressed for the morrow's 
 festival. They had come at her cry ; they, too ! 
 they, too ! 
 
 What noise — what confusion down below ! In 
 the room, on the gallery, in the yard, on the 
 street. What cursing ! What threats, threats, 
 threats ! Voices, leaping higher and higher in 
 the effort to be heard, reaching her, and dragging 
 her down to earth again. 
 
 " Is she killed ?" " Hold the woman !" " Fling 
 her to us !" " Tie her hands !" " Drag her out !" 
 " Secure the knife !" " Police ! Police !" " No 
 police ! No police !" " Fling her to us !" " A 
 doctor !" " The coroner !" 
 
 All quiet and beautiful around her, up there by 
 the ceiling. So sweet ! so soft ! But she was 
 pulled down like a balloon to where the loud 
 tongues of Palmyre's sisters had rallied for ready 
 disculpation. 
 
 " Madrilene didn't do anything !" " Madrilene 
 didn't slap Loulou !" " That she-devil Palmyre !" 
 " I wish to God she was dead !" " I told her 
 so !" " I held her back !" " And I !" " And I !" 
 " And I !" " Loulou is rotten !" " Loulou rides 
 over us all!" "Tell the truth, Madrilene!" 
 " Tell the God's truth !" " See, she can't talk !" 
 " She's fainted !" " She's dead !" " Palmyre cut 
 her !" " Palmyre has no business carrying a 
 knife !" " I tried to take it away !" " And I !" 
 " And I !" " She's not the first girl Palmyre has 
 
l68 MADRILENE ; 
 
 cut !" "And she's won't be the last, I tell you !" 
 " Here's the police !" " Here's the doctor !" 
 " Lift her up, so he can get at her !" 
 
 It was the stranger who lifted her up. Some 
 one — old Zizi Mouton — threw an apron over her 
 shoulders. 
 
 A groan of rage fell from the crowd at the sight 
 of the beaten girl's face. Tempers became uglier, 
 more menacing ; the shrill voices of Palmyre's 
 sisters more pressing, more anxious. 
 
 " She's only pale !" " She's not white !" " No, 
 sir, she's not white !" " She's a nigger !" " She's 
 no more white than me !" " She's told a lie !" 
 " Before God, she's not white !" " We are all 
 niggers !" " It's only a quarrel between niggers !" 
 "Niggers will fight!" "No, sir! Palmyre wouldn't 
 touch a white person ! Palmyre's no fool !" " Ma- 
 drilene's our cousin !" " She is Madame Lais's 
 niece !" They all called their mother Madame 
 Lais ; it is one of the arrangements of their class. 
 " Madrilene knows she is the daughter of Rose- 
 mond Delaunay !" " She is buried in the colored 
 cemetery!" "I can show you her tomb !" "Ev- 
 erybody knows it !" " Ask anybody !" " Ask 
 Madame Lais !" " Ask Madrilene herself !" And 
 the chorus recommenced : " Tell the truth, Ma- 
 drilene !" " Tell the God's truth !" 
 
 She struggled to find the ground with her feet, 
 to put away the crowd, to say one word. They 
 would all go away then. All — those around her. 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 169 
 
 those up there. They thought she was white — 
 white like themselves. Would the quadroon- 
 faced come when they went away ? The white 
 garments with quadroon faces and hands ? 
 
 "I — I — I am — I am not — I only — called — the 
 knife !" 
 
 If she could only push the words between her 
 lips ! But they burst on her tongue like bubbles. 
 She felt them, the words, in her hands ; if she 
 could only shove them where all would see them ! 
 But they weighed down her arms like the bead 
 chaplet in the cemetery. If Palmyre only had 
 not been so strong ! 
 
 Her head fell over on the stranger's shoulder 
 and her eyes closed, and she began again to as- 
 cend, far, far above them all, where the white 
 forms were still waiting for her as if she, too, were 
 white. But still the voices from earth reached 
 her 4nd held her stationary. If some one would 
 only cut the voices, and let her rise— rise never 
 to come back again ! 
 
 " She wanted to talk !" " See how well she 
 looks !" " She's only weak !" " She's been bleed- 
 ing!" "Hush! She hasn't been cut at all!" 
 " She fell over a hatchet !" " He, Madrilbne, how 
 do you feel, chere .?" " Madrilene, did you get the 
 dinner I saved for you in the kitchen ?" " I tried 
 to help you, didn't I, chere ?" " See, she hears 
 me !" " Madrilene, you remember, don't you, 
 Toinette tried to help you?" "Yes, she nodded 
 
lyo MADRILENE ; 
 
 her head." " I never did have any use for Pal- 
 myra !" " Palmyre's temper's too quick." " I 
 love Madrilene like my sister." " Madrilene al- 
 ways loved me." " Who-o-o ! look at all the po- 
 lice !" The words caused a scramble. " Here, 
 let me go!" " Let me get away, quick !" " For 
 God's sake, don't take me !" " I had nothing 
 to do with it!" "I wasn't even in the yard!" 
 " I never laid eyes on Palmyra and Madrilene 
 all this day !" " I swear to you I have bean 
 dressing the tomb of my grandmother !" " I 
 came in with the crowd !" " Madrilene knows 
 nobody was here but her and Palmyre !" " Ma- 
 drilene could talk well enough if she wanted to !" 
 " There's nothing the matter with her !" " Pal- 
 myre barely touched her !" " Take Palmyre ; she 
 was the only one !" "Take Madrilene !" " Ma- 
 drilene commenced it !" " Madrilene had no 
 right to beat Palmyre's child !" " He was doing 
 nothing to her !" " Madrilene drew the knife 
 first !" " I saw her do it !" " I swear I saw her 
 do it !" " Palmyre was only funning !" " Pal- 
 myre only did it to frighten her !" " She's not 
 hurt !" " She's only making out !" " Madame 
 La — is !" " Oh, Madame La — is, they're taking 
 me !" " Madame La — is I" " Where's Madame 
 Lais ?" " She was here a moment ago !" " She 
 ran back to hide !" " She ran back to lock up !" 
 " That's right, Palmyra, you fight !" " Don't go 
 with them!" "They've no right to take you!" 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 171 
 
 " You let me alone !" " Take your hands off 
 me !" " I won't go with you !" " Go to the 
 devil !" " I won't go to jail !" " I wo — n't go 
 to jail !" "Madame Lais, oh, Madame Lais, they 
 are taking me to jail !" The women could be 
 heard far down the street, drawing a procession 
 after them. 
 
 The police tried to question the girl. She could 
 not answer. They questioned the stranger. He 
 gave them his name and address ; he had heard 
 threats, suspected rascality, etc. They questioned 
 Monsieur Sacerdote, hallooing to make him hear. 
 
 " They have found Madame Lais ! They are 
 arresting her !" 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " She won't come. They are dragging her 
 along." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " What does this mean ? What are you doing 
 here ? What are all these people doing in my 
 yard ?" 
 
 Madame Lais held her head thrown back, just 
 as during the war, when she was a little girl, she 
 remembered seeing her mistress, old Madame 
 
 , throw her head back when invading soldiers 
 
 entered her house, and she talked to the white 
 people about her and the police not as if they 
 were soldiers, but negroes. 
 
 " I order you to quit these premises on the in- 
 stant ? W^here is the girl ? What is the matter 
 
172 MADRILi;NE ; 
 
 with her ? What does she mean by screaming in 
 that manner ? Here, give her to me. Let me 
 attend to her." 
 
 She put forward her hands to take Madrilene 
 from the stranger ; he put them aside, and felt 
 that they were wet with perspiration and colder 
 than Madrilene's. Her lips were trembling, too, 
 in spite of her efforts, and her face — quadroons 
 do not get white, they blacken for pallors — 
 black spots settled around Madame Lais's mouth, 
 under her eyes, on her cheeks. In her assur- 
 ance she was white ; in her fear she was all 
 negro. 
 
 " What are you doing here ? What have you 
 to do with that girl ? What is this man doing 
 here ?" she demanded of the police. " It is an 
 intrigue ; it is — " 
 
 Old Zizi Mouton, crouching out of sight be- 
 hind the stranger, plucked his sleeve, and whis- 
 pered, " Send her to the calaboose with the oth- 
 ers." 
 
 Madame Lai's shook the policeman's hand off 
 her arm. It was an arm that had become accus- 
 tomed to light handling. For a moment she 
 looked the enraged quadroon, like her daughter 
 Palmyre. 
 
 " Do not dare touch me ! I will complain to 
 the Governor ! I will complain to the Mayor ! 
 I will see the chief of police ! I will have you 
 discharged ! I will sue for damages 1" 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 173 
 
 " Have her arrested. Send her to the cala- 
 boose," whispered Zizi Mouton. 
 
 " I have money ! 1 have friends who will pro- 
 tect me ! General , Collector , Major 
 
 , Colonel , Dr. , Judge , Sen- 
 ator , Mr. ." 
 
 The police themselves fell back at her re- 
 sources of money and influence. The women in 
 the mob laughed. 
 
 "Oh, the old rascals!" "Oh, that Lais!" 
 " Eh, mon Dieu ! let me go home after that !" 
 "You heard the names, heirs?" "Lord! Lord! 
 Lord !" " Send her to the calaboose." Zizi Mou- 
 ton plucked the stranger's arm as well as his 
 sleeve. 
 
 " I dare you to arrest me ! I dare you!" But 
 even in the prospect of success, assurance de- 
 serted the quadroon, and fear, the ugly, gibber- 
 ing African fear, took possession of her. " Sir," 
 she pleaded to the stranger, "you were with me 
 at the time. You know I was not here. For 
 God's sake, don't let them arrest me. It will ruin 
 me. The property of the boarders lies unpro- 
 tected in my rooms. My house has never been 
 visited before by the police. I will furnish bond. 
 I — Take Palmyre ! Punish her ! Take the 
 girl. Do what you please with her. Take her ! 
 take her !" Her mind was in a panic. God only 
 knew what she feared. 
 
 The crowd made suggestions. " She is afraid 
 
174 MADRILENE; 
 
 they will search her house !" " She is afraid her 
 boarders will be coming in !" " They are gentle- 
 men who do not like to get their names in the 
 papers !" " There might be sensations !" " It 
 will be all up with her then !" 
 
 " What are you afraid of ? Do you think I am 
 going to run away ?" continued Madame Lais. 
 That must have been it, for the police hemmed 
 her in, and held her arms, and looked in her 
 face, and the stranger made no sign of interven- 
 tion in her favor. 
 
 " You want my name ? Here it is." 
 
 Ah, she had a choice of names. She had only 
 to put her hand out and take from the commu- 
 nity. Who could contradict or deny were they 
 graven all over her, as they were over the tomb- 
 stones in the colored cemetery ? But, in extrem- 
 ity though she was, she was discreet. She gave 
 a name de circonsfafice. She would save the oth- 
 ers for the great emergency. 
 
 " What is the name of the girl ?" 
 
 " The name of the girl .? Let her give her own 
 name. She can talk." 
 
 She was slowly coming to assurance again. 
 
 " Make her give the name or send her to the 
 calaboose." Zizi Mouton jostled and shook the 
 stranger's arm, 
 
 " Everybody knows her name — Madrilbne, or 
 Marie IVIadeleine, if you will." 
 
 " Marie Madeleine what?" 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 175 
 
 "Marie Madeleine ^ — nothing," shrugging her 
 shoulders. They must understand that, these 
 men. 
 
 " White or colored ?" 
 
 A routine question — mere formality, police eti- 
 quette. But that scream! What made the girl 
 scream that ? She had often enough been asked 
 the question, for the girl was light-colored, and 
 Lais had answered it glibly. She had been asked 
 about one or two of her own children. What 
 made Madrilene scream that ? What made her 
 scream it ? Who put it in her head ? What was 
 that stranger doing there ? Could he be — And 
 old Fantome Sacerdote ? Fantome Sacerdote, he 
 knew her of old — knew her as well as the Collect- 
 ors and Senators and other official military and 
 civil dignitaries. And the time was passing. Her 
 house must be silent, dark, discreet by midnight. 
 
 " White or colored ?" the officer of police re- 
 peated, pencil and note-book in hand. 
 
 Who was that stranger ? . . . White ? Oh no ! 
 Say Madrilene was white ! before that crowd ! 
 There was Madrilene herself. " Col — " 
 
 Whence came that lean, crooked, bent, black 
 figure on the floor in front of her ? a little bent 
 black figure with brilliant snake eyes, and a raised 
 stick of curling, tAvisting, coiling vines like snakes. 
 
 Had the room only been dark that Madame 
 Lais could not have seen it ! But they were still 
 fetching in lamps, candles — lights from every- 
 
176 MADRILENE; 
 
 where. She opened her mouth again to answer, 
 and she inflated her breast ; her tongue was dry 
 — a bone — and her breast too heavy to move. 
 She lifted her head again and again. Always that 
 voudoo stick raised before her eyes ; always those 
 voudoo eyes fastened on her face. Why, a glance 
 from them blighted ! Spells flew around them 
 like candle bugs ; she was sending them in swarms 
 now over her : Lais ! 
 
 White powders and black powders, babies' 
 bones and snake eggs, and those hideous hobgob- 
 lins of chicken feathers that come in pillows and 
 mattresses, rooster combs and crossed keys, the 
 herbs and grasses, the signs and symbols that 
 haunt the day; and the black June nights, the 
 flame of spirits, the coiled serpent, the writhing 
 dance of naked black forms, the orgiac round 
 circling in and out of shadows and light, the cast- 
 ing away of clothes of decency, the " tam tarn " of 
 the gourd drums, and the monotonous chant — 
 Lais saw them all in the floor before her, and the 
 omnipotence of the " Evil One," and the omni- 
 science of the " old people," and the patient vin- 
 dictiveness of old Zizi Mouton, setting, setting, 
 hatching vengeance year after year, and blackness 
 and fear rolling over and ingulfing her. She felt 
 her eyes grow haggard, her limbs shake. " My 
 God! My God!" She beat the air with her 
 nerveless hands. 
 
 But the devil, the god of Zizi Mouton, he was 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 177 
 
 the Stronger god. Lais felt that ; she knew that ; 
 now, here. The god of the negro against the God 
 of the white man ! — voudooed ! voudooed ! vou- 
 dooed ! 
 
 And the burden in the stranger's arms — it rose 
 stiff and stark before her. Was that death in the 
 long, thin, white face ? Ah, she got white when 
 she paled ; they could all see that. Were those 
 staring eyes gazing into eternity.'' At God, or at 
 her, Lais ? Was that tall, thin, pale white woman 
 Madrilene, her servant, her drudge .'' Was it 
 rigor mortis that held that bruised arm extended, 
 pointing, pointing at her, Lais, those staring eyes 
 looking at her, those opened falling lips ? Had 
 Palmyre been voudooed, too, to commit murder? 
 Had Zizi Mouton brought the gallows, too, to Lais 
 — the gallows and hell, burning, flaming hell ? 
 
 "Colored.? No, no! White! White, I tell 
 you ! Do you hear me ? White ! Take that 
 woman away ! Take her away ! Voudoo ! Snake- 
 charmer ! African !" 
 
 Zizi flung Madril^ne's black and white bead 
 memorial on the floor before the quadroon. 
 
 " No, no ! Take her away ! She is not the 
 daughter of Rosamond Delaunay ! My God ! my 
 God !" She fell her length, with hysterical wail- 
 ing. 
 
 *' Eh, Lais, coquine ! Ta pd paye', chere !"' (Ah, 
 Lais, rascal ! I have paid you up !) 
 
 In the long-worked-for moment of triumph, Zizi 
 
1 78 MADRILENE ; 
 
 Mouton renounced her supernatural pretensions 
 in favor of enjoyment of human revenge. 
 
 " The 'coon gets ahead of the nigger when she 
 is young, but the nigger lives long, and gets even 
 with the 'coon at last. Didn't I tell you the truth, 
 monsieur ?" To the stranger. " I was there when 
 the gentleman died. I knew she was his child. 
 But I waited — I waited ! Ah, Lais, coquine, you 
 took my man — hein ? Ta pe paye, chere !" 
 
 " White ! White !" Oh, the other cry was 
 nothing to this ! That one filled a street, this 
 one the world ! White ! It joined past to fut- 
 ure. It lifted a being from one race to another. 
 But it fell like the weakest sigh, this cry from the 
 lips of Madrilene. This time she did not rise 
 in her unconsciousness ; she sank down, down, 
 through sightlessness, dumbness, deafness, to 
 nullity. 
 
 " Get her to a bed quick !" 
 
 " Not in there !" Zizi Mouton arrested them at 
 the door of Madame LaiVs room. " In the fine 
 front room! In the fine front bed! Madame 
 Lais knows why. White young ladies do not 
 sleep in the bed of negroes." The old voudoo 
 led them to the bed herself; she undid the 
 girl's garments, flinging the head-kerchief aside. 
 " Eh, Lais ! White young ladies do not wear 
 tignons like negroes ! He, monsieur ! I knew 
 — I knew all the time, but I waited. Send for 
 the doctor ; he will know, he will remember. Ask 
 
OR, THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 179 
 
 Fantome Sacerdote ; he will remember ; he buried 
 him. Rosemond Delaunay, ha ! Who said that ? 
 Madame Lais !" Sucking the words like sugar 
 between her toothless gums. " Ah, Lais, coquine, 
 ta pe paye, chere !" 
 
THE CHRISTMAS STORY OF A LITTLE 
 CHURCH. 
 
THE CHRISTMAS STORY OF A LITTLE 
 CHURCH. 
 
 ^T was a little ugly brick church, and 
 H it had been built out of a little ugly 
 brick house — a cheap, made-over con- 
 cern. There was hardly a new brick, 
 a new nail, or a hodful of new mortar 
 in it. What could possibly be made use of had 
 been left standing. Of what had been torn down, 
 the bricks were cleaned, the mortar pulverized 
 and sifted, and the nails extracted from the joists 
 and beams : such a spirit of economy reigned in 
 the erection that even the broken pieces of slate 
 from the roof were trimmed and put in a pile by 
 themselves, to use, instead of breaking up a new 
 one, to fill up a corner or end a row. 
 
 The little dago girl from the end of the block 
 was the indefatigable observer of it all, as if she 
 wanted to learn the process, and apply it herself, 
 too, one of these days to the changing of a house 
 of the devil into a house of the good God. For 
 that it was a house of the devil no one in the 
 length and breadth of the town had much doubt 
 
l84 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 — one of those consular buildings of a great 
 potentate who never fails to provide a representa- 
 tive in every town. The village must be very 
 small and insignificant indeed, and blessed, where 
 there are not more than one of these official resi- 
 dents, and the villagers not enterprising, or pro- 
 gressive, as the word goes. 
 
 The neighbors had complained of the house, 
 the servants had gossiped about it ; the very gar- 
 bage man, looking as if he himself had been fish- 
 ed out of the garbage of humanity for the office, 
 grumbled that he had to add its leavings to the 
 reeking contents of his cart, and when he could, 
 neglected it, thus insuring a further malodor to 
 the precincts ; for, as he reasonably explained to 
 any one who would listen to him, as if corrobo- 
 rating also a questionable fact about himself, half 
 drunk as usual, on account of his profession, " I 
 is a man, if I does drive a dirt-cart." 
 
 As everything was used in the building which 
 could be used, and very little carried away, and 
 as the former building had been bought at a great 
 bargain, having, it seems, depreciated the value of 
 the land upon which it stood and the tone of the 
 surrounding neighborhood, the conclusion was in- 
 evitable to the little girl that God was not invest- 
 ing much money in the affair, perhaps because 
 He had not much to invest. It was a financial 
 condition which Marianna understood better than 
 any other, for the oyster and orange trade slack- 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 185 
 
 ened at times to a degree where there seemed to 
 be no cohesion left, and dago life almost hung 
 on one cent more or one banana less to the price, 
 and the street could hardly contain the amount of 
 Sicilian patois expended to obtain either, when 
 the little Marianna with her nursling was forced 
 to wander abroad for the ordinary peace and 
 comfort necessary to the human mind, dago or 
 otherwise. It was in this way she saw so much 
 of the building of the church, and found out 
 that money was as scarce in heaven as on 
 earth. 
 
 " When will it begin to be a church ?" she ques- 
 tioned herself. The foundations were laid down 
 and the walls went up, but in no manner differ- 
 ent from an ordinary dwelling or shop, and no- 
 wise more churchly. It was evidently to be a 
 sudden transformation. Afraid of missing the 
 critical moment, she was at her post, a door-step 
 opposite, in rain or shine, as regularly as the brick- 
 layers were at theirs, persistently looking : thanks 
 to the baby's constitution, she could do it. If it 
 had been any other baby it would have died long 
 ago, of croup, or colic, or such great broad teeth, 
 or ennui, or over-dieting on bananas ; but fortu- 
 nately there had been no mistake — a regular dago 
 baby had been sent to the dago family ; one with 
 black hair and black eyes, and an orange skin 
 that grew out of dirt into cleanliness like an or- 
 ange, and demanded (not that it would have got 
 
1 86 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 it for the demand) no expenditure in the way of 
 washing. 
 
 " How did the workmen know God wanted a 
 church built?" "Who paid them ?" " Who gave 
 them orders ?" " Were the workmen who built 
 churches different from the workmen who built 
 dago houses, for instance ?" " Did they feel 
 they were building a church?" "If they didn't 
 build it well, what happened to them ?" Marian- 
 na's mind was constantly occupied with such in- 
 terrogatories. It was a Sicilian mind, and had 
 not been subjected to the tamperings of educa- 
 tion or religion, although public schools offered 
 the one in every district of the city, and churches 
 in every parish begged to distribute the other. 
 
 Suddenly one day the cross was put upon it, a 
 gray painted wooden cross ; and then the build- 
 ing became a church as quick as a flash of light- 
 ning. One moment before it might have been 
 taken for a warehouse or a tall stable ; but now 
 there could be no mistake. The cross said it all, 
 and said it well. It was the crown of thorns 
 which changes the face of a simple sufferer into 
 the face of a Saviour. It was the door-plate 
 which tells who lives within, and the child sanc- 
 tified the edifice in her mind accordingly, and, 
 ugly or little, saw not its proportions nor de- 
 fects henceforth. 
 
 As for the church itself, if it had not been a 
 church it must have felt shamed, humiliated, de- 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 187 
 
 graded. Not only made of second-hand material, 
 but completed in such niggardly fashion that with 
 the exception of the dago cabin, the Chinese 
 laundry, and the locksmith's shop, it was the 
 meanest house on the block. The boarding- 
 house opposite was a palace in comparison, the 
 freedmen's drinking saloon at the corner more 
 imposing ; as for the drinking saloons for the 
 fashionables, on the fashionable street, the paper- 
 ing of one of them alone would have paid for the 
 church and the ground underneath, not to men- 
 tion the mirrors, pictures, marbles, and cellars. 
 
 In fact, the little church could look nowhere 
 from the elevation of its cross and not find in- 
 deed that, judging from appearances, God was 
 the very poorest person in all that neighborhood. 
 There were club-houses around the corner the 
 initiation fee of which alone was a minister's sal- 
 ary, and beyond the club-houses the grand bric-a- 
 brac shops, the milliners' shops, where the body is 
 clothed and beautified at such a price that the 
 merest trifles on the counter are doubled in value 
 to pay for the grandeur of being sold there ; and 
 still, beyond all this the cross could penetrate and 
 see other expenditures and displays : it is better 
 to imitate the ignorance of the little girl, and not 
 enumerate them. What would become of little 
 girls in a great city if God did not frustrate the 
 devil by limiting their comprehension ? for the 
 prince of darkness holds no intercourse with fools. 
 
100 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 But the cross did see it all, and the little 
 church, if any knowledge of its pre-existence sur- 
 vived in its brick and timber, must have thrilled 
 with joy to think that the cross did stand on top 
 of it at last — stood up there to watch and to see, 
 aye, and be seen too, a sign as well as a symbol 
 of regeneration. 
 
 If the church could feel this, and the very 
 wooden cross on top, what must the parson have 
 felt ! He was small too, so small that he certain- 
 ly could not have carried his heart, not one day's 
 work of it, around inside his cassock. He was 
 insignificant - looking, and as pale as a white- 
 washed house which the owners cannot afford to 
 paint. He looked somehow second-hand too, 
 something thrown away from a different use and 
 picked up cheap, a made-over sinner. To judge 
 from his appearance, he also was small recom- 
 mendation of his employer. Any of the hand- 
 some, well - dressed gentlemen in the boarding- 
 house opposite would have made more creditable 
 ministers ; or any of the clerks in the bar-rooms, 
 for bar - rooms are more particular about their 
 ministrants than churches are. Three-fourths of 
 the men who thronged the bar-rooms were better 
 equipped physically even when they came home 
 at night, some of them stumbling against the 
 electric-light poles. As for the clerks in the oth- 
 er shops, they were better dressed and better cared 
 for than the Reverend Herbert Sting, or they would 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 189 
 
 not have been employed there. Even his name 
 was about the poorest and least attractive in all 
 the catalogue of human appellations, as well as 
 the most inappropriate, he having wandered far 
 away from any inheritance of those qualities which 
 made it a complimentary ancestral title. When 
 people had objected to his size, figure, color of 
 his hair, expression of his face, accent, nose, eyes, 
 clothes, and walk, they filed one more protest 
 against the whole business and connection by, if 
 they were women, condemning the incongruous 
 name of Sting. But he did not recognize this in 
 the least. He was as unconscious of the objec- 
 tions against his name as the little Marianna was 
 of the objections against her neighborhood. He 
 pursued his way as indomitably as if he had been 
 called St. Paul or St, Augustine, or the British 
 peerage rifled to celebrate his aristocracy. 
 
 We all know, though the little girl did not, 
 whence the money and directions came for the 
 new church building. The primal source, if di- 
 vine, was a little mixed. The congregation of 
 the parish, through its official mind, the vestry, 
 had gradually found out that their church was 
 simply doing a breaking business ; that while the 
 new theatre, started on a venture next door, was 
 paying dividends on its investment, while new 
 and varied shops multiplied and throve all around, 
 while each establishment could pay and did pay 
 for its scores of clerks, its light, full wear and 
 
igo THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 tear, and patronage on the increase, their vener- 
 able granite edifice had to confess to a precarious 
 income and a diminishing membership, not in a 
 month fetching as many to a sermon as went in 
 one evening to the ballet, not in a year taking in 
 all its alms-basins as much as went into the till 
 of the least patronized saloon of them all in a 
 month. They could not, do what the financiering 
 vestry would, make the two ends meet — the debt 
 and credit ends — without a break in the middle 
 to sprout out in another cancerous debt. And so 
 the fact was no longer to be disguised that the 
 old church, which had risen out of the early virt- 
 ues, was slowly sinking under the later vices of 
 the city — sinking as surely as at one time it was 
 believed all stone buildings would sink and dis- 
 appear in the marshy soil of the place. They 
 reduced and reduced the salary of the minister 
 until living within it was a feat of prestidigita- 
 tion ; they lowered and lowered the gas bill until 
 service became an effort of memory ; as for fires, 
 the zeal of devotion was all the guarantee the 
 blood could obtain against rheumatism, neural- 
 gia, and catarrh ; and then, when these measures 
 had also reduced the congregation and certified 
 the financial failure, they determined to sell the 
 church and transport the proceeds of the whole 
 establishment into a more progressive, enterpris- 
 ing district, to plant their cross where souls 
 would not only come to be saved, but pay for it. 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 191 
 
 As for the vicious souls round about who had 
 neglected their opportunities and obligations, 
 they were to be left quietly behind in the evacu- 
 ation, to make what terms they could with the 
 enemy. 
 
 After a little advertisement and judicious puff- 
 ing the old church was sold — all sold, with the 
 ground it stood upon ; its outfit and its infit too, 
 though this was not mentioned in the deed of 
 transfer. Its consecration, its dedication, the pi- 
 ous will of the old gentleman who had bequeathed 
 the lots to the parish, its memories and associa- 
 tions, its spirits of dead ministers who had read 
 and preached from its pulpit, with the spirits of 
 dead congregations who had sat under them in 
 the pews ; the graces strengthened by confirma- 
 tion, the hungers stilled by the Lord's Supper, the 
 marriage troths plighted at the altar, the baptis- 
 mal vows taken at the font, and the cold dark place 
 in front where the dead rested one moment more 
 in church, amid life, to hear once more the prom- 
 ise of resurrection, ere they went their way to the 
 tomb to await its fulfilment — all sold, with the 
 roofing and flooring and guttering, the glass and 
 slate and gas fixtures. 
 
 " Sold out of house and home on account of 
 failure in business," the Saviour like any one 
 else. 
 
 Walking around the banquette which had once 
 encircled the church, day after day, night after 
 
192 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 night — for the spot had a fascination for him — 
 the Reverend Herbert had strange thoughts and 
 fancies, particularly at night, the unreal thoughts 
 and fancies that spring from unknown seed in 
 the virgin soil of a young mind. 
 
 Did not the stars hanging so low over the 
 low fiat city, threatening to fall with their v.feight 
 and brightness into it — did not the stars miss the 
 tall square steeple which thrust itself up among 
 them, and made of them jewels to ornament its 
 weather-beaten head ? And the moon, shedding 
 its benefaction of light over all buildings alike, 
 good and bad, humble and rich, did it, in the mo- 
 notonous expanse of roofs and chimneys, look 
 for the peaks and gables which it must have been 
 a delight to gild and beautify ? The sun, rising 
 damp and red from the marsh, had always sent 
 its first rays over them, and its last also, as like 
 a great fire-ball it sank hot and dry into the river. 
 The atmosphere, once ploughed by the vigorous 
 bell, had closed in over the space now, and rip- 
 pled with many sounds and noises, but none 
 which could have rejoiced it like the brazen 
 clang which seemed to dissipate the clouds of 
 rainy Sundays and dominate the violent thunder. 
 
 The little minister could always see the church, 
 however, a ghastly, airy structure, hovering over 
 the old foundations in purified resurrection, and 
 he loved to think he could see, though he knew 
 he could not, the figure of the ancient proprietor, 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH, 
 
 193 
 
 wandering around his alienated domain incog- 
 nito like some deposed, ill-treated heir, without 
 rancor, but in all love and forgiveness looking 
 after those interests connected with his property, 
 those entailed possessions which could not be 
 sold or bartered without his consent : a little sing- 
 ing beggar-girl, a gambling newsboy, a desperate 
 v/oman, or an unprincipled man — the outcast, the 
 cripple, the inebriate. Wherever he imagined 
 this white - clad, barefooted visitor going, there 
 went Herbert. He bent over what he saw Him 
 bend over, he touched what he saw Him touch, 
 he spoke what he heard Him utter. He accom- 
 panied Him into places where none but He and 
 the police could go with impunity, and he minis- 
 tered with Him at times when no police could 
 have been paid to remain. He never faltered in 
 thought or deed. In truth, if all the wickedness 
 in the world had been stored for deposit in Her- 
 bert's heart, he could not have known more about 
 it, been less shocked at it, and if he himself had 
 invented all loathsome diseases of the soul and 
 body, he could not have more readily applied the 
 antidote or suggested the alleviation. 
 
 Indeed, in the delirium of agony sufferers 
 would sometimes take him, the accessory, for his 
 principal, and so hail and bless him, notwith- 
 standing the contradiction of his threadbare 
 clothes and homely features. 
 
 As he saw the old church pulled down, the idea 
 
194 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 came to Herbert that another one must be built 
 in the place of it. The idea came not only to 
 him, but to all those who could not afford to ride 
 in the cars to the desirably progressive locality 
 selected by the vestry for the new church ; to 
 all those who had attached themselves like cats 
 to the old locality, for romantic reasons, over 
 which they, like cats, have no control ; to all the 
 constitutional kickers against authority, civil or 
 religious ; to all lukewarm enemies or lukewarm 
 friends of the empirical vestry; to the Sunday- 
 school children who felt perhaps, and were, more 
 aggressive than all. The idea came to a suffi- 
 cient variety and number to warrant co-operation 
 in an effort, and the effort was sufficiently vigor- 
 ous to bring from an idea into being the identi- 
 cal little church of this story. 
 
 It is almost as much labor to destroy as to 
 build a church. They could not shoot it down 
 with cannon, they could not burn it down in the 
 good old way. The carpenters did the best they 
 could, poor men, with their peaceable instruments 
 and peaceable hearts, reversing the natural order 
 of their profession, travelling down from the top- 
 most spire of the steeple, prizing out posts, chis- 
 elling out bricks, brick by brick, down to the 
 foundation. The first tap of the hammer sound- 
 ed to poor Herbert like a slap on a dead giant's 
 face. 
 
 It was all so solid, so massive, the plan was so 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 195 
 
 perfect, the materials so good, the workmanship 
 so honest! If it had only been a prosperous 
 church it might have lasted ages. Nothing would 
 totter, nothing would fall, nothing would even 
 shake itself loose ; it was a unanimous position 
 of resisting protest, passive stability : " I can be 
 destroyed, but I cannot surrender." 
 
 At last it was all taken down, and the dismem- 
 bered parts buried, contractors only knew where, 
 second-hand stuff from churches fetching no 
 higher price than from any other edifice. The 
 space was cleared and swept, and with bright new 
 material a grand circus was erected in it, a show 
 and a wonder to the banquette idlers. The ring 
 was described in what had been the body of the 
 church, the trapezes hung from the ceiling, the 
 orchestra sat in the old altar. Through the doors 
 on the side, where surpliced boys and ministers 
 used to march singing, the horses pranced and 
 clowns tumbled and velocipede girls whirled. A 
 grand novelty circus, so it was, a magnificent cir- 
 cus, and patronized by such numbers that man- 
 agers and performers were not only paid, but mu- 
 nificently paid, and were making a happy fortune 
 out of it. So much so that if the church people 
 had only had the wit to do themselves that which 
 they had sold out for others to do, they would 
 have been able to construct a grand cathedral in 
 the new fashion locality, and paid people well for 
 attending it. 
 
196 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 The circus was octagonal, with arched sides, 
 and under every arch were places of attractive 
 resort of all kinds, and so attractive that at night 
 frightened inhabitants screamed, whistled, rattled 
 in vain for policemen, until some volunteer would 
 hasten thither and fish the officer of justice out 
 of one of the octagonal rooms, as surely as a boy 
 in spring-time fishes larvte out of a wasp's nest. 
 
 The minister thought many a time what a mi- 
 raculous draught St. Peter would make again if 
 he could but cast his net over the whilom place 
 of worship ! 
 
 When the little dago girl had nothing more 
 to look at, when walls, roof, floor, and cross were 
 in place, pews carried in, shavings and blocks car- 
 ried out, workmen dismissed, she naturally con- 
 cluded that the church was completed and ready 
 for the abode of Him to whom it belonged. She 
 knew no more of the inside workings of a 
 church than of the inside workings of a clock, 
 and Herbert was very little wiser than the child, 
 for it was his first church. The quantity of 
 springs and machinery necessary was indeed 
 enough to surprise and confuse a tyro. The 
 ladies came in, whence neither he nor any one 
 else could tell ; they swarmed about the church 
 like insects about sugar ; only they possessed 
 what insects lack, organization. By authority of 
 what tradition, by order of what transmissions 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 197 
 
 or laying on of hands, in what version of the 
 Testament, Old or New, they read their title 
 and commission, or whether they had any au- 
 thority, divine or human, for it at all, whether 
 the whole legislation was not an unwarranted 
 act of assumption, Herbert did not question or 
 investigate the matter. He quietly submitted, 
 and with his church bowed under the guild to 
 whose mysterious care the parish had by occult 
 power been confided. The guild was composed of 
 chapters, and the chapters were so numerous that 
 every active worker was fractionally represented in 
 them, to look after some fractional division of the 
 church, the service, and the minister. It takes a 
 very large church to woman all its chapters, and 
 provide meeting-places for them. Judge how the 
 little church was taxed for both, when they all came 
 together — condensed, as it were — on special occa- 
 sions : Building, Altar, Vestment, Choir, Library, 
 Sunday-school, Industrial School, Mission, Visit- 
 ing chapters, with presidents, vice-presidents, sec- 
 retaries, treasurers, and members. They atoned 
 for the smallness of their number by the multitude 
 of their opinions ; they represented not a volume, 
 but a library of dissenting sentiments worthy the 
 greatest church in the land. There were just 
 about days enough in the week to contain the 
 meetings, and none left over for pacification, ex- 
 cept Sunday, which grew in importance as a kind 
 of " Truce of God," without which church busi- 
 
igo 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 ness would have been an unfinished story. For 
 instance, whoever crossed Mrs. Bunnyfeather in 
 the Altar Chapter, crossed the secretary of the 
 Choir, the president of the Visiting, the treasurer 
 of the Sunday-school, and the vice-president of 
 the Library chapters, and broke a quorum in all 
 the other chapters. And when Mrs. Goodenough 
 (which is a name the constitution should forbid) 
 was made to weep by unkind remarks over the 
 laundrying of the Reverend Herbert's one vest- 
 ment — a shrunken, narrow, transparent surplice 
 — parliamentary rules were suspended by accla- 
 mation until the sensitive lady was soothed and 
 the remarker rebuked, for it was an early Monday 
 morning, and never a meeting could have been 
 held during the week. After he had learned by 
 practice and discipline to steer clear of organiza- 
 tions, the young minister found that he could not 
 walk from portal to pulpit without tripping against 
 individual solicitude. The motherly ones were 
 always there to tender advice, the sisterly ones to 
 ask it ; and poor as he was pecuniarily, and thin 
 and miserable to look at, there was not a mother 
 among them who did not accuse some other moth- 
 er of trying to catch him for a daughter, and not 
 a sister whose heart did not occasionally beat 
 with ill-feeling against some other sister on ac- 
 count of him. 
 
 But though to the pastor they all appeared to 
 be pulling in as many diiTerent directions as there 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. igg 
 
 were names in the chapters, the general tenden- 
 cy was forward, and the new little church was 
 jerked and pulled and tugged along through Oc- 
 tober, November, and into December without more 
 than one serious stalling a week, and a jar a day. 
 If they had not been women, and the man a Her- 
 bert, it would have jolted into some big rut and 
 stayed there forever, a wreck on time, and never 
 have reached December at all, not to speak of 
 Christmas Eve. 
 
 The little Marianna had changed her position. 
 She had crossed over the street, and now sat with 
 the baby in her arms in a corner of the stone steps. 
 Sheltered from the rain, there was little cold to 
 dread ; the bright blue sky overhead was as Sicil- 
 ian as her own hair and features. She silently 
 watched the entrances and exits of the young 
 priest, as she called him, the assembling and dis- 
 banding of the various yet unvaried committees, 
 theorizing, perhaps, on the passers-by, who seem- 
 ed to be arbitrarily separated in kind and degree 
 by the different hours of the day, and walked 
 along in their different costumes on their differ- 
 ent avocations, as if fulfilling some predestined 
 fate rather than individual volition. The passers- 
 by must have theorized about her. Immovably 
 constant, she was to them as fixed in her place 
 as if she had been built there with the church, or 
 sculptured and set up for ornament. A pretty 
 ornament, and not inappropriate, for she had 
 
200 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 the proper turn of the neck, the proper droop 
 of the shoulders, the sweet, modest, soft eyes, 
 and the proper clasp of the arms around an in- 
 fant which God has given to her nation that sculpt- 
 ors might have a model, that painters might paint, 
 and mankind know the portrait of the Madonna. 
 
 The young priest sat almost as immovably in- 
 doors when the church business was all transact- 
 ed, the chapters all gone, and he and the good 
 Lord were in the way of no one except Mrs. Bun- 
 nyfeather, who worried over his conduct, think- 
 ing it altogether inexplicable, if not improper, not 
 to mention Romanistic, necessitating a new chap- 
 ter — Ministerial Conduct. 
 
 One evening in December, at the time when 
 the sinking sun made rainbows through the west- 
 ern windows, and his thoughts travelled easiest 
 the heavenward journey, a woman rushed up the 
 aisle of the church to the altar, a pale, wild-eyed 
 woman, holding a bundle in her arms. 
 
 "Will you christen her, sir.? — will you christen 
 her? For God's sake christen her, to save her 
 soul !" She held the bundle towards him, and 
 began to untie, unwind, untwist it, with fingers 
 all disobedient and astray as to their proper vo- 
 cations, and so slow that her feet began to give 
 way, and she would have fallen on her hopelessly 
 entangled bundle if the minister had not caught 
 it with one hand, while with the other he eased 
 her to the ground. 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 201 
 
 " I'm only dizzy, sir — I'm only dizzy and weak. 
 I've just been discharged from the Charity Hos- 
 pital." 
 
 She lay back against the steps of the altar and 
 closed her eyes. Shade after shade of gray and 
 blue pallor palled over her thin, pinched features. 
 Her long limbs lay as stiff and straight under her 
 calico gown, as they had lain under the sheets of 
 her cot at the hospital. And as she vibrated 
 back and forth in and out of unconsciousness her 
 cheek sank wearily against the step, as if it were 
 a soft pillow, or turned away from it, repulsed by 
 the coldness of the timber. She did not attempt 
 to rise nor to look at him, but talked along 
 dreamily, almost deliriously. 
 
 " The Sisters would have christened her, but I 
 wouldn't let them. They would have put her in 
 one of their asylums. The Sisters would have 
 christened her and put her in an asylum. The 
 Sisters — " 
 
 She became conscious of the repetitions of her 
 tongue, and by a struggle raised herself to a sit- 
 ting posture and relieved her thoughts. 
 
 There is no telling how old a sick woman is. 
 As she lay on the ground she looked weazened 
 and shrivelled ; yet her way of hiding her face in 
 her arm, and her petulant opposition, were very 
 childish. 
 
 " There's no need for her to be damned too, is 
 there, sir ?" 
 
202 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 The face that looked out from the shawl was 
 as old as the mother's, and so red and wrinkled, 
 and with such an unpromising outlook for the 
 soul, that the minister felt he could assume the 
 responsibility of a decided negative. 
 
 " They said she was a fine child ; Tm sure she's 
 very pretty; don't you think so, sir?" 
 
 There was a huge stone font, which the guild 
 had begged from a pious stone-cutter. It was 
 as large as a child's bath-tub, and not unlike one 
 in shape — a font in which babies by the half-dozen 
 could have been immersed. And there was a 
 small pitcher of water which the kind old colored 
 sexton daily placed in a corner of the choir for the 
 minister's refreshment. As careless of the ritual 
 as the Saviour had been before him in all his cer- 
 emonies, ignoring the printed requirements of his 
 prayer-book, and trespassing against ecclesiasti- 
 cal etiquette in almost every word and gesture, 
 Herbert administered the rite, humbly praying 
 on his own behalf, at the end of it, that the good 
 Lord would stand by him on the last day, when 
 his bishop, before which dignitary ministers like 
 Herbert are the worms of the earth, should find 
 out the full irregularity of the proceeding. 
 
 "What is her name?" he asked, not in the 
 formal conventional tone, for he did not venture 
 to bring the dignity of the Church into the trans- 
 action ; it was only a matter of a fortnight-old 
 soul, between the Lord and himself. 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 203 
 
 The woman had risen. He saw now that she 
 was really young, and had been pretty. 
 
 "Oh, sir," with a twist of her head, "do you 
 think Daisy would be too good for her ? Daisy 
 is such a beautiful name ! I read about a Daisy 
 once in a novel." 
 
 Decidedly she was very young. He christened 
 her Daisy, and cast about for some saint with 
 whom he might take a liberty. He remembered 
 his mother, a saint, though not jn the calendar; 
 her name was Elizabeth ,• so he made up " Daisy 
 Elizabeth," and for what an informal baptism was 
 worth the little child in his arms lay indebted. 
 
 " I can carry her now, sir ; I was only a little 
 weak. I should have left the hospital yesterday , 
 my time was up ; but the Sisters wouldn't let me. 
 It was raining, so they made me stay one day 
 longer." 
 
 She was standing right in a rainbow, looking 
 through the colors younger and younger, prettier 
 and prettier ; the church was already beginning 
 to get dark in the corners. 
 
 " The Sisters were very kind ; they would have 
 put her — But I was an asylum girl myself, 
 sir." 
 
 Oh, the mother-lack and the father-lack in that 
 plaintive confession ! It sounded through the lit- 
 tle church like a wail from all the sun-bonneted, 
 uniformed little girls foredoomed to heart misery 
 in asylums. She turned, and with uncertain feet, 
 
204 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 unaccustomed to her light weight, went out of the 
 church. 
 
 It was a fiction of his imagination, and he knew 
 it; but if the good Lord had been there, He would 
 have followed her, would have taken the young 
 woman under the arm and conveyed her to a 
 sure, comfortable retreat, just as Herbert thought 
 he saw Him do, just as Herbert did himself. 
 
 There were questions to be asked, information 
 statistically useful to be obtained. As a clergy- 
 man he was empowered to satisfy his curiosity ; 
 but he had none. Why should he surmise six- 
 teen instead of knowing it .'' why steadfastly over- 
 look her marriage finger ? — who she was ? — what 
 she was ? — a little woman with a child — a new 
 mother in the world with a pathetic body stagger- 
 ing from the ordeal, and a heart most carefully, 
 most femininely concealed. 
 
 She walked rapidly, trying to look business- 
 like, trying to deceive people. But the white 
 women they met looked their comments ; the 
 black ones uttered theirs coarsely with laughter, 
 glad to find a flattering equality of vice ; and the 
 men — she shrank and winced at every one that 
 passed, clinging more and more helplessly to the 
 arm that supported her. 
 
 The sun, as usual, had saved cityfuls of warmth 
 and brightness for Christmas week, and was up 
 bright and early Christmas Eve, eager to com- 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 205 
 
 mence the donation. In the gardens the bushes 
 had still a reserve stock of flowers all ready to 
 blossom out when the sun gave the signal. May 
 must have effected a change with December ; for 
 if ever a bright, joyous, exhilarating, bouncing 
 May rushed in rosy and laughing, among the 
 months of the year with exaggerations of warmth, 
 show, glitter, sunshine, and blue sky, that month, 
 or week of it, came on the 24th of December to 
 a certain city, and fell all in a heap around a cer- 
 tain church. And the largesses of nature were 
 imitated, if not surpassed, by the people. All the 
 poor had to do was to name their menu for Christ- 
 mas dinner, and they got it, and the older, the 
 poorer, the uglier, the more disreputable, the more 
 certainty of getting it. Christmas-trees sprouted 
 in every asylum, and if ever orphans had occa- 
 sion to forget the loss of parents they had it that 
 night. Sunday-schools, yielding and consenting, 
 finally embraced foolishness, and spent money 
 hoarded for foreign missions on cakes, candy, and 
 lemonade for the heathen at home. Santa Claus 
 was expected ubiquitously in all the hospitals in 
 the city at once, and anticipation thwarted ano- 
 dynes in the children's wards. The generous gave 
 until they almost destroyed all prospects for future 
 giving; the mean and stingy gave ; even the rich 
 and fashionable gave. The commercial exchanges 
 all gave, and the clubs almost got a majority in 
 favor of the annual motion for a grand newsboys' 
 
206 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 dinner. The butchers sent complimentary roasts, 
 the grocers cordials, the confectioners bonbons, 
 to their customers. From the city went oysters, 
 oranges, and good wishes to the country; the 
 country responded also with eggs and monstrous 
 turkey-gobblers. There may have been some un- 
 fortunates who did not receive, but there were 
 none who did not yield to the season, climate, 
 and the prodigality of their natures by giving. If 
 there were any babies born on Christmas Eve — 
 and there must be some, for it is said they are 
 born half-minutely all over the world — and if they 
 had any recollection whatever of the blessed king- 
 dom they had left, they must have stifled their 
 sharp birth-cry of disappointment, pain, and re- 
 gret , for this spot of earth was so full of good- 
 will, so bright, so redolent of flowers and peace, 
 that they could not have been otherwise than 
 glad to come here. 
 
 " But," thought Herbert, walking his beat from 
 the old church to the new, " the reachings of 
 money are limited. There are other wants that 
 need other currency. Empty hearts may be hung 
 like empty stockings on Christmas-trees this night 
 which no Santa Claus is coming to fill — the 
 mother who sits by an empty cradle, the husband 
 who stretches out his arms in the dead of night 
 for his absent wife, and the wife swathing her 
 bleeding heart in widow's weeds. The old pen- 
 sioners, looking around vainly in their eleemosy- 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 207 
 
 nary shelter for comrade, kith and kin, to pass 
 the feast-night, chide death for tarrying. The 
 old maid, my cousin Ruth, who sits in a grudging 
 home sewing for another's children, who mock at 
 her loneliness and lovelessness, sees, alas ! the 
 vision of her own children that might have been ! 
 And the old bachelor sitting in his club window, 
 drinking whiskey-and-water to keep up his spir- 
 its and frighten away the ghosts of the past, the 
 realities of the present, his sordidness, meanness, 
 selfishness, what exorcism does he exercise against 
 them ? An asylum boy or a sick child in the hos- 
 pital is happier on Christmas Eve than he !" 
 
 Night had fallen as low as it could over the 
 broad brilliant street. The tall electric - light 
 poles held the darkness aloof like a canopy over 
 a saturnalia. The deep, narrow shops from un- 
 der their beetling galleries gleamed out Golcon- 
 da splendors. In the show-windows jewels and. 
 precious metals, brocades and laces, pictures, por- 
 celains, fans, feathers, and crystals, were displayed 
 as mere advertisements of the greater beauties 
 within. Violets, roses, and jasmines mingled 
 their fragrance on the flower corner, and almost 
 beautified— so sweet and fresh they were — the 
 withered, faded faces of their venders, the flower- 
 girls of half a century ago. The banquettes held 
 their usual kirmess of nations : white, black, yel- 
 low, in rags, in silks, in velvets, old, young, mid- 
 dle-aged, handsome and hideous, and a babel of 
 
203 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 tongues that taxed the versatility of the noisy 
 itinerant peddlers with their new stock of wares, 
 impudence, and wit for Christmas Eve. 
 
 Christmas was setting in in earnest, the trop- 
 ical, maddening, typical Christmas of the place ; 
 Christmas that comes but once a year, to make 
 good the long, dull, hot days of summer ; to defy 
 the chill, pleasureless days of old age ; to remind 
 young and old of the shortness of life and the 
 sweetness of it. The horn -blowing had com- 
 menced, too — all sorts of horns, blown by all sorts 
 of lips : great horns, borne on the shoulders of 
 tall men, bestridden by manikins, and blown by a 
 united effort ; little horns tooted by street raga- 
 muffins, impudently blown in the faces or mali- 
 ciously blown in the ears of the dignified and un- 
 wary ; horns by scores, by fifties, by hundreds, 
 matching the lights by tlieir multitude, involving 
 ears as well as eyes in their confusion ; joyous, 
 melancholy, melodious, and discordant horns ; 
 horns that produced tunes, and horns that were 
 barren of all but noise ; exciting, fretting, whip- 
 ping up the blood, kindling it like tinder, sending 
 it off in screams and explosions like the fire- 
 crackers that danced on the streets under the 
 horses' feet. And the subtle nocturnal influences ; 
 the excitation of money- spending, the delicious 
 consciousness of losing self-control, the extrava- 
 gances, the unrestricted expressions, the hilarity, 
 the equalities, the friction of humanity, the gro- 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 
 
 209 
 
 tesque banquette procession, where out of strange 
 faces gleamed eyes bright with incipient conta- 
 gion of vicious blood : it was Christmas with a 
 latent symptom of orgy in it ! 
 
 Herbert looked not above for the aerial spires 
 of the old church, nor about for the Vision which 
 usually guided his steps ; it was not His hour yet. 
 He hastened on and around the corner, and reach- 
 ed his own little church. His hand was on the 
 door to close it. " Should every house be open and 
 hospitable on this His birth-night and not His 
 own sanctuary ? Who am I, that I should selfishly 
 be His only guest ?" He propped it wide open, as 
 if for service, and entered the gray gloom inside. 
 The electric light over the way threw a mild radi- 
 ance up the aisle to the steps of the chancel, gar- 
 nished for the morrow's feast. 
 
 The labors of all the committees of ladies had 
 ended, and so, he hoped, had their wranglings 
 over the decorations. The wranglings were not 
 to be charged to their discredit, for the excite- 
 ment of the day was upon them, and the vexing 
 contrast between the poverty of their own and 
 the wealth of other churches. Their hearts (fool- 
 ish women's hearts) hankered after possibilities 
 beyond attainment, their spirits grieved over the 
 acute disappointment of what could not be, and 
 their tongues became partisans and disseminators 
 of discontent. If the motto had been " Discord 
 and Ill-will," instead of the contrary, it would 
 
2IO THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 have been far more appropriate to the state of 
 mind whicli pervaded the discussions as to where 
 it should be hung. 
 
 He had a lamp in the choir and books for 
 evenings when he felt inclined to pursue the vast 
 science of theology, of which he was so lamentably 
 ignorant. He waited to-night, however, until his 
 eyes had become accustomed to the quieting ob- 
 scurity and his ears delivered of the noisy aban- 
 donment of the street sounds in the church. 
 
 It was not to be denied that the preparations 
 were meagre, hardly less so than those on the 
 original night in the stable. Nothing but greens 
 and mosses from the swamp, to be got at the 
 small expense of hiring a cart to haul them in. 
 They garlanded the rails and table and desk and 
 the huge font, which resembled, indeed, a veritable 
 manger. The dimly transparent windows, three 
 on each side, piercing the thick walls, looked with 
 their pendent wreaths like marble tablets with 
 funereal cypress memorials to the dead. The 
 effect would not have been festal were it not for 
 the star. It shone over the altar on a shield of 
 green — the donation and triumph of Mrs. Good- 
 enough, the humiliation of Mrs. Bunnyfeather. A 
 beautiful star (frosted with some glistening pow- 
 der), a white, radiant, diamond star, a gleaming 
 spirit star, a silvery effigy of the joyous living 
 ones in the heavens outside, shining on its green 
 shield as if from the cavernous mouth of some 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 211 
 
 subterranean mystery. For it did shine and gleam 
 and glisten in the dark damp church for all the 
 world as its celestial prototype shone and gleam- 
 ed and glistened in the East above the trackless 
 desert to the astonished eyes of watching shep- 
 herds. Whether helped thereto by unseen celes- 
 tial sources or by some reflected, refracted con- 
 tribution from outside electricity, or whether it 
 burned with an effulgence cleverly contrived by 
 Mrs. Goodenough, it was the star's own secret 
 where the illuminating power came from; and the 
 eloquence, too, with which it spoke to the little 
 minister, speaking as it spoke nineteen centuries 
 ago, driving him to his knees as it drove the shep- 
 herds to their feet, forcing him to bow his head 
 and hide his face in the moist, odoriferous leaves 
 of the chancel rail — that was the star's secret, too. 
 
 " Out of the niglit. 
 Into the light, 
 Star of Bethlehem, lead !" 
 
 A band of negro singers paused on the steps 
 outside, trying their voices together before start- 
 ing on their Saturday night round, stringing their 
 improvised rhymes to suit the occasion, careless- 
 ly hitting or missing the sense to satisfy sound, 
 the accordion playing an interminable pulsating 
 accompaniment. 
 
 " Out of the soil, 
 Out of the toil. 
 Star of Bethlehem, lead !" 
 
212 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 They walked away, the weird, thrilling falsetto, 
 a ventriloquial voicing of a distant woman's 
 plaint, griped the heart like a spasm. Fainter 
 and fainter they sang, keeping step down the 
 street, trailing the tune after them long after the 
 words were swallowed up in the blare of horns, 
 the fusillade of fire-crackers, and the indistinct 
 murmur of tumult that surged and rolled like a 
 near tempest. 
 
 " Let us stand in here, Harry ; I can tell you 
 better. There's such a din out there. It's a 
 church — a little church." 
 
 A woman led the way in, more at home, as 
 women are, in churches. She caught the man by 
 the hand and drew him up the aisle, in the path 
 of light, out of danger of overhearing or being 
 seen from the street. 
 
 " It's a church, but God knows we mean no 
 harm or disrespect." She had the soft accent of 
 English that has grown alongside of French. She 
 barely came up to his shoulder — not that she was 
 so small, but he was so tall. He had length, 
 breadth, and strength in him for two men. 
 
 " Well, what is it, Janey ?" 
 
 His low voice was rich and sweet with love and 
 premature concession. He must have taken both 
 her hands in his while he said it. 
 
 " No, no, Harry ; don't touch me. I — " 
 
 Now that the time was come, she did not know 
 how to begin it. Should she begin it at all ? How 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 213 
 
 sweet not to ! To go on and on in uncertainty, 
 but in love ; to vacillate another fortnight, and 
 then another, to temporize ! 
 
 " Is it about to-morrow, Janey ?" 
 
 " Yes, Harry." She was more resolute than 
 her voice. " I want to tell you I can't; indeed I 
 can't. You must give me back my word ; I can- 
 not keep my promise." 
 
 " Janey ! Janey ! are you in earnest ?" 
 
 " It's no use, Harry ; I've tried and tried. I 
 thought I would be able to do my duty to both ; 
 but it's no use. I made up my mind to-day, and 
 Christmas is as good a time as any. When I 
 saw everybody to-day so pleasant and happy — 
 ah, me !" She stopped a moment. " It's been 
 before me for some time. To go away from the 
 children now is simply to give them over to the 
 bad ; the only chance for them to be better is for 
 me to stay w.ith them. I've waited and waited 
 with hope and courage ; I'm at the end of both ; 
 and I thought that Louisa one day would make 
 an effort ; but she has less thought, less industry, 
 than ever. I thought that father would^ The 
 boys, I mean — the boys are getting worse and 
 worse. Never a day but I expect to be called 
 home by some dreadful messenger, ever since 
 Johnnie was run over by the dummy. They 
 curse ; they smoke ; they run the streets from 
 morning till night; they will not go to school; 
 they will not do anything but hang around the 
 
214 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 corner groceries and theatres. It will be drink- 
 ing next, I suppose ; and gambling and pistols 
 and knives, if not the gallows at the end !" 
 
 " Why, Janey, Janey, little woman !" 
 
 " No, Harry. The time has come for me to do 
 something about it. I fear I have not done my 
 duty. It rises before me at night, when I go to 
 bed, that it might all have been different. In- 
 stead of working out, I should have worked at 
 home. My thoughts go too much to you ; they 
 should all go to them. How can I think of leav- 
 ing them forever ! Who would feed them ? Who 
 would look after them ? What would become of 
 them ? What would become of my peace of mind ?" 
 
 " Bring them all with you, Janey ! bring them 
 all with you !" 
 
 " No, Harry ; you know I cannot ; I will not 
 do that. Besides, there's father. There's only 
 one thing to do. I must give up trying to do 
 two things. God has settled my life for me. He 
 has put those children in my charge, and father. 
 And, Harry, you must find some one else to be 
 your wife, some one who can bring more to you 
 than I — more heart, more time, more youth, more 
 beauty, less disgrace and shame. If it had been 
 different ! Harry, it is harder on me than on you ! 
 Harry, Harry, you should help me out !" 
 
 She would not let him touch her, but all the 
 time her hands were holding fast to his arms, to 
 his hands, travelling over the front of his coat. 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 215 
 
 He did not help her out at all, listening to her 
 speech in dull, dazed silence. 
 
 "Instead of getting married to-morrow as I 
 promised, we must part ; and — and it is better I 
 should never see you again." Through the in- 
 coherence of mind and thought there was a driv- 
 ing determination in her mind which urged her 
 on with desperate recklessness of the pain in her 
 heart and the pain in his. " May God keep and 
 bless you, Harry ! and may some other woman 
 love you as I do, and be to you what I cannot!'' 
 She raised herself on tiptoe, and put her hands 
 up to his face, her fingers sinking in his soft 
 bushy beard. She pulled him down to her, seek- 
 ing his lips in the dark with her lips, and kissed 
 him once, twice. 
 
 " Janey ! Janey ! If you throw me off, you 
 throw me to the devil !" 
 
 " Harry ! Harry !" she screamed ; " don't, don't 
 say that !" 
 
 She put her arms out again towards him ; he 
 was gone. " Harry !" She ran out of the church 
 after him, down the steps, up the street ; he was 
 nowhere to be seen. She crossed from one side 
 street to the other, looking for the tall, straight, 
 burly figure. She heard a step behind her, and 
 paused ; it sounded familiar ; she had to press 
 her hands down over her beating heart. 
 
 " My pretty one !" 
 
 She struck at the proffered hand and leering, 
 
2l6 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 unknown face. " If Harry were only there to 
 protect her !" 
 
 In her flight from insult she instinctively aban- 
 doned her search, and breathless, trembling, flew 
 homeward. 
 
 Harry had only turned aside in the vestibule, 
 avoiding her in the dark as she ran after him. 
 He came back into the church, and sat on a bench. 
 
 He knew so little about women, though he 
 knew and loved one. 
 
 He bent his head down on his crossed arms, 
 swaying his body from side to side under the 
 mastery of passion which took the form of un- 
 governable rage, and swept all his reticence away. 
 
 " Curse it all ! — all ! — her father, her family — 
 throw me off ! — like a dog ! — pretend to love me ! 
 Lies ! lies ! lies ! I'll make her repent ! I'll — " 
 
 A light touch fell on his shoulder. It was not 
 Janey, although it was a figure not any larger, a 
 voice fully as soft and tender. 
 
 " Harry," said the minister — he knew no other 
 name to call him by — " I heard it all, and — " 
 
 " I don't care who heard it ! I don't care if 
 the whole city heard it, from Carrollton to the 
 Barracks !" 
 
 " Hush ! you have forgotten she told you this 
 was a church." 
 
 "I'll leave it. What did she bring me here 
 for ? I'll get out of it. I'll go on the street." 
 
 "Will you go after her ?" 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 21? 
 
 " I go after her ? I speak to her ? May God — 
 I'll cut her on the street ! I never want to lay 
 eyes on her again ! I'll disgrace her ! I'll drink, 
 I'll—" 
 
 He could think of nothing more certain to hurt 
 her than injury to himself. 
 
 " I'll go to the devil ! Oh, she'll regret it ! 
 She'll repent it !" 
 
 "Why should she do it?" 
 
 "Why! why! I know why. They've bedeviled 
 her and pestered her at home till she's 'most crazy. 
 They've worked her till she's got no heart, body, 
 nor soul left. They've dragged her down and 
 down till her pride is gone, and she's ashamed 
 even of me. Some of the brats have done some- 
 thing — the devil himself isn't up to more rascal- 
 ity than they — or her old daddy has gone on an- 
 other spree, been locked up, or kept her up all 
 night abusing her. Her wages are used up, and 
 this Christmas Eve, when all the world is a-pleas- 
 uring and frolicking, she must go home and sew 
 till daylight to buy bread and meat for them. 
 It's — it's — " His temper rose with a sudden 
 bound. " Is't a hell, this world? — the whole 
 world?" 
 
 The pews shook under the stroke of his clinched 
 iist. 
 
 "You love her, then?" Herbert alone knew 
 whether it were a question or a logical conclusion 
 in his own mind. 
 
2l8 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 "Love her? I swear to you, sir, as God Al- 
 mighty hears me, I never loved any woman on 
 earth but her, and she knows it. I never shall 
 love any other woman. I ain't given to talking 
 about it. I couldn't even tell her. There's no 
 one knows it or understands it but myself. If I 
 were to think of it, sir, I wouldn't work another 
 lick. She isn't pretty, and she doesn't look 
 young any more, and she's worked to a shadow ; 
 but God knows, if I was on my death-bed, and 
 life would be given me to marry the prettiest girl 
 in the world and not her, I'd turn my face to the 
 wall and die. I want her ! I want her!" 
 
 His face went again into his arms. 
 
 " And to think she could throw me off like a 
 dog ! I might just as well go> and jump into the 
 river. It's the end of it all. It is not the look 
 that is in her, sir." He was up again and talking. 
 " It is the look about her. It's the pale face and 
 the sad eyes; it's the poor, thin, tired little body 
 I want to ease. It's her little slim feet I want to 
 hold tight and still in my one hand. It's her 
 little mite of hands I want to give a holiday to." 
 He could feel her little hands passing over his 
 face, her fingers in his beard; the tears gushed 
 in his eyes. " I wish I was dead and buried and 
 out of it all." 
 
 " It would be different," he continued, after a 
 silence — the minister was so motionless at his 
 side it was the same as talking to himself — "It 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 219 
 
 would be different if I thought she was going to 
 be happy, or comfortable, or anything like; but 
 my mules — I drive a float, sir — have a better time 
 than her. From morning till night she's going 
 on not enough fodder to keep a bird, and not as 
 much ease and peace as a penitentiary convict. 
 Her father's a sot, that's all. They used to be 
 very respectable and high-minded before he took 
 to drinking. He worked in a cotton-press. There 
 seems to be no end to his sinking now; it would 
 be a God's mercy if he would drown in a gutter, 
 or be knocked over by some of his drunken 
 gang. I wonder she don't take to drink, too ! If 
 I were a woman with as little chance as her I 
 would. But no, she'll work and work and kill her- 
 self — and that will be the end of it all. They've 
 been at her again ; they've had a scene ; I could 
 see she'd been crying. She doesn't know what 
 to do, so she flings me over, the only friend she's 
 got in God's wide world. And that ain't going 
 to make it easier, as she thinks. It will kill her. 
 Mule nature couldn't stand it, let alone woman 
 nature. 
 
 " I'd fixed it all. We Avere to go off somewhere 
 to-morrow and get married without any one know- 
 ing it. I was afraid they'd get at her — the chil- 
 dren. I've told her over and over again I'd take 
 care of the children like — like children of my 
 own," He stammered, for the comparison with 
 him had ceased to be conventional. " Good for 
 
220 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 nothing as the children are, she loves 'em as if 
 she were their mother, and his own wife wasn't 
 as patient with him as she is with that whiskey 
 barrel of a father of hers. I 'ain't got any use 
 for him, and she can't help seeing it ; that's 
 what hurts her. She ought to have had the 
 best and proudest father in this city, that's a 
 fact ; and God ought to have done better by 
 her. 
 
 " Great Scott ! to go around all day Christmas 
 Vv'ith the feeling in my heart that Janey was my 
 legally married wife ! My sweet, sad, tired, dainty 
 bit of a Janey ! And no one know it — not a soul 
 — until evening came and time to go home. 
 'Janey, my wife, come home!' Paradise would 
 have been a fool to this earth then; and if any 
 man would have dared say it wasn't a merry 
 Christmas, I'd have knocked him down. Yes, 
 sir, I would. It's all ready and waiting for her — 
 my little shanty. I haven't slept in my room 
 since she promised me ; I was afraid of soiling or 
 mussing something. I've slept out in the stables 
 with the mules. I own two teams, sir ; six of the 
 finest mules in the city, and have paid for them 
 too, every cent. I'll never sleep in that room 
 again. I'll eat and drink and sleep with the 
 mules the rest of my life; and this is the last bit 
 of paper that will ever carry the name of Harry 
 Farren to marry any woman !" 
 
 He pulled the license out of his pocket, and 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 221 
 
 would have torn it, but Herbert took it out of his 
 
 hand. 
 
 " Out of the sin, 
 Out of the din, 
 Babe of Bethlehem, lead !" 
 
 The singers, passing again, had increased their 
 following. A battalion's tread resounded on the 
 pavement. The rhymes taken up from the front 
 were repeated down the line, falling off with the 
 squeaking mimicry of gamins' voices, out of hear- 
 ing and jurisdiction of the accordion. 
 
 "... You want to go to the devil this night ? 
 The devil, no doubt, will give you opportunities 
 enough," began the minister. 
 
 " Out of the dust, 
 
 Out of the lust, 
 
 Babe of Bethlehem, lead !" 
 
 A shout hailed the locally and timely success- 
 ful hit of the couplet, and the contribution of a 
 stentorian basso was sung with continued and 
 deafening satisfaction. 
 
 Harry, nevertheless, could hear what the min- 
 ister said, faint and low as the tones were. If it 
 had been of a Sunday or daylight, and from pulpit 
 to congregation, he might have recognized it as a 
 sermon; the disguise now, by time and circum- 
 stances, was so complete that at the end of it he 
 stepped into the street unconscious that he had 
 been quietly and obediently listening to one. 
 
222 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 However deficient in morality, even according 
 to the naturally lenient statement of their eldest 
 sister, the little Wiggenses were not to any per- 
 ceptible degree wanting in intelligence where 
 their own interests were concerned. They did 
 not expect Santa Claus, like the sun, to smile on 
 the just and unjust alike; indeed, their own past 
 Christmas-treeless experience gave the lie to such 
 an expectation, but they did hope this year to 
 manage, or, as they put it, "get ahead of him." 
 As he only came once a year and stayed but a 
 short while, they determined to test their strength 
 and his perspicacity by a short, sharp trial of 
 goodness. With handsome munificence, they can- 
 celled from their minds all remembrance or even 
 knowledge of past naughtinesses, calculating that 
 by conduct superlatively exemplary for one night 
 and day they would refute for once, if not for all, 
 the calumny of the neighbors, who persisted that 
 the " Wiggenses didn't know what good was," 
 and render themselves worthy candidates for 
 those largesses which they understood fell only 
 to the obedient and pious. Their devices to this 
 end were varied and endless. 
 
 Johnnie — called "Tipple" — whose foot had 
 been amputated by the dummy, that special re- 
 warder of bad boys, took the initiative. He 
 begged, entreated, commanded, that he should 
 be tied in bed, tied with a borrowed clothes-line, 
 and so restrained from hopping around on the 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 223 
 
 floor on his one foot, to the killing amusement of 
 his sister and six brothers, and the exasperation 
 of the unfortunate young practitioner who at- 
 tended him — an individual who had far more char- 
 ity than brains. Johnnie also requested and in- 
 structed them to put a head on him at the first 
 indication of gab on his part to the old stick-in- 
 the-mud doctor, and called them all to witness 
 that they might depose when the time came that 
 since that morning he had not loosened the band- 
 ages to see, himself, how the stump was getting on, 
 or to show them, though he assured them they 
 might beg him on their knees to do it. And 
 the brothers and sisters were not to be outdone, 
 though it went hard with them, for every day 
 the doctor's visit was funnier in virtue of new 
 original impromptu variations. Instead of hid- 
 ing behind doors to squeak and scratch and 
 whisper " Rats !" when the young man made his 
 appearance, asking him, when he went, about his 
 " ma," requesting a loan of five dollars, or a ci- 
 gar for a light, pinning fragments of newspaper 
 to his coat-tails, and calling "Extra!" behind him 
 down the street, or by opposition show and vari- 
 ety dancing behind his back frustrate his at- 
 tempts to gain Johnnie's attention — instead of 
 this daily performance, which, as noted, was nev- 
 er more delightful, they wished the doctor "good- 
 morning " with such decorous politeness of tone 
 and manner, and were so successful in their hy- 
 
224 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 pocrisy generally, that the poor young fellow, 
 having the infection of the day upon him, went 
 directly from the house to a fruit-stand, and bought 
 all the oranges, apples, and bananas he could not 
 afford, ordering them to be delivered in sure se- 
 crecy and mystery the next morning, that Santa 
 Claus, the scape-goat of other people's generosity, 
 should get the merit of it. And more recklessly 
 still, he opened a credit, on what assets he alone 
 knew, and bought a crutch, which was also to be 
 delivered anonymously to Johnnie. He was a 
 country lad, and had not quite learned city ways 
 yet. 
 
 Time never fell so heavy on the hands of the 
 Wiggenses before ; they found good days much 
 harder to fill than naughty ones ; in fact, there 
 was no comparison between the ease of finding 
 occupation for the one and for the other. The 
 short and merry life of the wicked is not merely 
 a figurative expression. 
 
 Janey's little cupboard of a room was always 
 securely locked against them, but their own apart- 
 ment offered as fair a field for reform as for 
 depredation. They swept and dusted it, not 
 once, but a score of times, until the borrowed 
 broom was recalled and a renewal of the loan 
 peremptorily refused. They washed their faces 
 and combed their hair for months in advance. 
 They tied and retied Johnnie in his bed, each 
 one separately, according to some new Individ- 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 225 
 
 ual idea of comfort and security, in such high 
 good-humor all the time, laughing and shouting 
 with such boisterous hilarity, that they made 
 themselves, if possible, more annoying than ever 
 to the neighborhood, until, long as the day was, 
 it began undeniably to draw to a close. Louisa, 
 the eldest of this set of Wiggenses (Janey be- 
 longed to a long -forgotten first wife), had be- 
 thought herself at the last moment of washing 
 her frock. It was done standing, and going at 
 the dirty spots singly all around the skirt ; and 
 now, being energetic in any undertaking, the 
 basin being handy, with water and soap, she had 
 just completed the same satisfactory task for her 
 hair. She stood in the centre of the room shaking 
 her long, dripping red locks over the floor, for- 
 getting her object in fascination of the elegant 
 variegated pattern which, with a little care, she 
 could design all over the dusty surface. They 
 had had an idea of scrubbing the floor at one 
 time, but now rejoiced over the abandonment 
 of it. 
 
 " Make it go round and round like shells, sis," 
 suggested Bobbie, in envious admiration. 
 
 " No. I tell you, diamonds, diamonds is the 
 prettiest. It's too dry ; go get some more water 
 on it." 
 
 " Pshaw ! now it's too wet." 
 
 " You ought to hire yourself out for a waterin'- 
 can, sis." 
 
226 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 ** Or a whitewash brush." 
 
 "A yellow-wash brush you mean." Johnnie 
 always was the wittiest of all. 
 
 " It must feel funny to have all that stuff on 
 your head." 
 
 " Suppose a horse had his tail tied on his head ?" 
 
 " Let's cut it off, sis — eh ? Just to see how you 
 look without it." 
 
 " Geewhillikins ! I could laugh till I bust. 
 Janey she thinks I'm smoking cigar stumps round 
 by the Academy, just 'cause she told me particu- 
 lar not to." 
 
 Bobbie swaggered up and down, smoking an 
 imaginative cigar stump, his hands under an im- 
 aginary coat-tail. 
 
 " I reckon she's traipsing round now, looking 
 for me everywhere." Louisa swung and switched 
 her hair superciliously. " She seems to think I 
 can't never stay at home." 
 
 " She'll just keel over when she sees me a-lyin' 
 here all tied up," said Johnnie, pulling himself 
 together to make his bonds tighter, glancing down 
 at the immaculate bandages over his ankle. 
 
 " Tell us how it felt when it was a-coming off, 
 Johnnie." 
 
 "Oh, tell us once more." 
 
 " It felt a — " prompted Louisa. 
 
 " Pshaw ! don't be mean." 
 
 " It felt a — " continued Louisa. 
 
 " You hush up ; you don't know. Was you 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 227 
 
 there, now ? Say, was you there ?" And Johnnie 
 felt obliged to save his anecdote by telling it again 
 for the thousandth time since the accident. The 
 rest clustered around the bed not to lose the least 
 part of word or expression. 
 
 " It felt a scrinchin' " — twisting his hands as if 
 wringing something off — "and a scranchin' " — 
 twisting his face now — " and a scroonchin', and a 
 — hell !" with that side-splitting wink of his left 
 eye at them. 
 
 "I 'ain't done nuffin all day." Baby, the 
 youngest, four years old, who usually did the gut- 
 ter business, had patiently waited to enter his 
 claim. 
 
 When Janey did come home and opened the 
 door in her habitual despairing way, they must, 
 unless they were altogether insatiable, have been 
 satisfied with her surprise. At the moment, they 
 were hopping over the floor to show the delighted 
 Johnnie how he would have to walk in future; each 
 one holding the shoe off the naked upheld foot. 
 
 " Hurrah, Janey ! Here we are !" 
 
 " Every single one of us, Janey." 
 
 " We haven't been out all day, Janey." 
 
 "And we've been being good, Janey." 
 
 " Look at me, Janey !" 
 
 "Look — look at Johnnie, Janey !" 
 
 " Don't you see, Janey ?" 
 
 " I tied him, Janey." 
 
 " So did I !" 
 
228 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 "And me, too !" 
 
 " But I told 'em to do it. Didn't I ? Didn't 
 I, now ?" screamed Johnnie, over them all. 
 
 " I 'ain't done nuffin all day long, Janey," 
 claimed the baby again, looking so unnatural 
 with his clean face that it is no wonder Janey 
 kissed him over and over again for a dear little 
 fellow. 
 
 " See, we are going to hang 'em up, Jane}'," 
 showing the shoes. 
 
 " Santa Claus has got to give us something 
 this time, sure !" 
 
 " We 'ain't got stockings, but shoes will do." 
 
 "And we are going right to bed, so as Santa 
 Claus can come as soon as he likes." 
 
 "And right to sleep." 
 
 " Here's Tipple's shoe. He 'ain't got but one. 
 Had to let the old car mash off the tother one." 
 
 " In course ! in course !" Tipple would be 
 sarcastic. " It was my fault. I ought to have 
 took off my hat, and made a low bow to the dum- 
 my, and axed the cars please to stop till I took 
 off my shoe, or tell 'em to call round again, or to 
 come in summer when I was barefooted." 
 
 " I hope Santa Claus will bring me a red para- 
 sol," and Louisa sidled and arched as she imag- 
 ined the fortunate possessors of these luxuries to 
 do in their promenades through the streets. 
 
 They were indeed that evening as good and 
 affectionate children as were to be found any- 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 229 
 
 where among all the miraculously good and affec- 
 tionate children of Christmas Eve. They kept 
 their word about going to bed, and what was 
 more surprising, about going to sleep, leaving 
 Janey to novel evening hours, undisturbed by 
 care or anxiety about them, dnd scoring a point 
 in their own favor which no Santa Claus could 
 by any possibility ignore. 
 
 Janey lighted her lamp and got out her sewing 
 that she might think, for one process with her had 
 become inseparable from the other. She had 
 been a precocious adept in both, and since Lou- 
 isa's age had been hemming, running, stitching, 
 basting, and button-holeing year after year, or 
 year on year, first in one, then in another, dress- 
 maker's room, carrying her thought around with 
 her needle-book, adding chapter to chapter, pe- 
 riod to period, from childhood to Avomanhood, 
 finishing up one job of thinking to open another, 
 as if she were paid by the day for it also. 
 
 Going through heavy stuffs for the winter, light 
 ones for spring, thin for summer, light for au- 
 tumn ; as the months slipped by, she only knew 
 the seasons, in the close room, by the dry-goods 
 she sewed. Going into mourning and out of 
 mourning, changing, twisting, turning, fashioning 
 old garments to look like new, and new ones to 
 appear more than their price, receiving constantly 
 new orders about placing the whalebones, ribbons, 
 buttons, laces, hooks and eyes, cutting out one year 
 
230 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 this way, another year that, draping and undraping, 
 life had outwardly become one long monotonous 
 servitude to change. If she had had imagination, 
 she would have said that she was not a woman — 
 her woman charms drying up unused upon her 
 — but some devil's imp or gnome, one of a vast 
 league, in some stolen woman's body, sent from 
 some devil's little hell of fashion on a special 
 mission of corruption against womankind ; to 
 aid, abet, encourage, assert, and produce dissen- 
 sion between the mind and body ; to tempt into 
 perils of debt and perils of morality; to delude 
 with beauty and reward with ugliness; to uncover 
 in pretending to cover ; to disclose in pretending 
 to hide; to draw the laces tighter and tighter, 
 cut the bodice lower and lower, the sleeve higher 
 and higher, the skirts narrower and narrower ; to 
 push a suggestion to a suspicion, a suspicion to 
 a conviction of impropriety ; to efface standards ; 
 to inure to exposure ; to push flesh and blood 
 forward into ever greater evidence, and the soul 
 backward into ever greater discredit. 
 
 But such were not Janey's thoughts, although 
 a morbid companion at the work-table gave utter- 
 ance to similar ones. Her thoughts wandered in 
 other directions. They were off and away at the 
 first stitch for beautiful gardens, or for sandy 
 shores rippled by the waters of a blue lake, under 
 golden skies, listening to sweet music, locating 
 the pearly streets of heaven. Or they spent mill- 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 231 
 
 ions of money in schemes of charity, or went on 
 missions to unfortunates ; or, coming home, they 
 cleaned, repaired, and beautified the poverty and 
 disgrace-stricken domicile ; they educated Louisa 
 into a respectable young woman ; they made the 
 boys sober, honest, industrious laborers ; keeping 
 Dick from gambling, Bobbie from smoking, and 
 Tippie from catching on behind the cars ; they 
 sent the baby to a free Kindergarten, and re- 
 formed — God help her ! — her old rascally father, 
 bringing him from the grog-shop to sit at home 
 of evenings, refining from his face the blotches 
 and marks that incrusted the features, and hid 
 them from what they were in her childish recol- 
 lections of him. There was to be a table with a 
 lamp on it ; around it they all were to sit, she 
 with her sewing, the others with newspapers and 
 books. She could see the very pattern of the 
 table-cover. God help her again, and all women 
 who toil on through life after t'g/ii's /a fu us hope, to 
 be led into disappointment and a bog ! 
 
 At the end of all the planning, cleaning, re- 
 forming, at some distant point in a long vista, her 
 thoughts, and her needle too (for it was distinctly 
 officious in the process), would marry her to 
 Harry. And then the repose, the caresses, the 
 leaning on a strong arm, the reclining against 
 a strong breast ! And now, God bless those 
 thoughts which come to lonely women, and give 
 them a taste of the love they are never to know, 
 
232 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 and provide them with the mate, family, and home 
 which their nature craves, but their destiny denies ! 
 
 She had much to think about to-night, but her 
 needle threaded only stitches together. She was 
 to start anew in life to-morrow; she had taken 
 the first step already ; but her feet were already 
 tired and apathetic. The children all slept in 
 their little beds, quiet and safe. Perhaps if she 
 had had to hunt them up, as usual, to scold and 
 punish them, if they had been unkind, impudent, 
 ungrateful, as usual ! She shed tears over the 
 bitter thoughts that had come to her that day 
 about them, the bitter feelings which had lashed 
 her on to her own immolation. The revulsion 
 which their change of conduct had caused in the 
 judgment of the poor young physician was as 
 nothing to that which the young Wiggenses caused 
 in the heart of their sister, simply by coming in 
 early and going to bed quietly. 
 
 Hark ! how happy the people were outside ! 
 She threw down her work, opened the window, 
 and leaned out. Tramping by, with bundles un- 
 der their arms, men and women talked and laugh- 
 ed loudly, full of Christmas plans and presents. 
 The market stores were all ablaze with light. 
 She could hear fireworks all over the city ; an 
 occasional rocket burst in her horizon, throwing 
 new constellations over the thickly-starred heav- 
 ens. She knew they came from the aristocratic 
 mansions up-town, sent up by servants hidden in 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 233 
 
 flower-gardens to amuse the silk and lace clad la- 
 dies in the galleries. Bands of music crossed each 
 other at street-angles ; great fire-crackers like pis- 
 tols were shot off like minute-guns over a victory, 
 startling and frightening her every time. What 
 joy and merriment there could be in the world, 
 and what sorrow and heaviness of heart ! Why 
 was it that only the latter portion had come to 
 her ? The children thought it was their naughti- 
 ness had prevented Santa Claus coming to them ; 
 what would they say to-morrow when their good- 
 ness would be found unrewarded ? 
 
 " Out of the chase, 
 Out of the race, 
 Man of Bethlehem, lead !" 
 
 How the voices hurt ! the quivering, drear, ne- 
 gro voices, changing every melody into a dirge, 
 funereal in mind as in skin. 
 
 " Oiit of the tears. 
 Out of the fears, 
 j\lan of Bethlehem, lead !" 
 
 How often at night they had passed through 
 her dreams, these street minstrels, waking her 
 with tears in her eyes, and she had loved them 
 ■ for their musical gratuity, and gone to sleep 
 again singing the tune over to herself ! God may 
 have afflicted them, but He had given them the 
 expression and alleviation of music. 
 
234 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 " Eleven o'clock ! They would have passed 
 this evening together, Harry and she, the last 
 evening of their separate lives, hand in hand, 
 and — No ; when they were together, it was not 
 all endearment and embrace ; that was only in 
 her thoughts. Why should she think that which 
 had never happened, never could happen ? Why 
 now did she feel his lips upon hers ?" She hid 
 her face in her hands and stifled a moan on her 
 lips. Why should her heart involuntarily moan ? 
 
 What carousing was going on at the corner, in 
 the groggery where her father was .-' They had 
 better be at home, these men. Where were their 
 women ? Leaning out of windows, watching, sleep- 
 less, unhappy? Those fire-crackers, how could 
 the police permit them ? Murder could be done 
 by pistols under cover of their noise. Harry had 
 looked forward to to-morrow — her great, burly, 
 high-tempered Harry ! He was dull about some 
 things, but she loved him all the better for it. 
 "God knows I thought it was my duty!" She 
 said the words aloud, and started at the sound of 
 talking to herself. A black cloud had been gath- 
 ering over her for a week ; perhaps she was not 
 well, perhaps she had worked too hard, and, and 
 — if she had waited ! Would Harry go to the 
 devil as he said ? Wasn't it always a woman's 
 fault Avhen a man went to the devil ? She had 
 meant to save her little brothers — from what ? 
 What immediate danger threatened them ? Harry 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 235 
 
 had no sister, no family to look after him — Harry, 
 who had given her only the constant love-tokens 
 of an unswerving devotion. Her heart was get- 
 ting beyond her control ; bounding, leaping, de- 
 manding, crying, craving — Harry ! Harry ! no 
 brother, no sister, no father — only Harry, her 
 promised husband ! She was so weak and tired, 
 so helpless against this sudden heart fury. "Would 
 he go straight home — ah me ! — and sit in the dark 
 thinking hard things of me ; or would he go to a 
 saloon too, and make an all night of it ?" She 
 had once taken his pistol from him, and made 
 him promise never to wear it again. Would he 
 love again and get married? There were few 
 women who would not be glad of him for a hus- 
 band, and she had thrown him off — for what ? 
 To think that her life would go on the better 
 without him ! And the children, why should he 
 not have helped to train them, her husband, their 
 brother — without him no future, no — 
 
 That was a pistol this time ! again, again, and 
 again ! Screams, oaths, a rushing crowd ; a cry 
 of murder ! "Harry! Harry!" She rushed from 
 the room to the street. She would pierce the 
 crowd ; she would tear her way through ; if he 
 were there she would drag him out ; if he were 
 shot, it was she had disarmed him. There were 
 assassins and drunkards at that corner. 
 
 *' Janey, Janey, what is the matter ? Where are 
 you going } Janey !" 
 
236 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 Harry's arms held her ; Harry's voice was in 
 her ears. He had waited, as he promised tire 
 parson — waited until midnight, his last vigil on 
 the little box steps in front of her house. The 
 bells were just going to ring now. 
 
 " Janey ! little woman ! little wife !" 
 
 For she clung to him so,' she cried so over him, 
 she kissed his face, his eyes, his beard, his hands 
 — his hard, heavy, mule-driving hands. 
 
 " Harry, Harry, Harry, darling !" 
 
 That was the way she always called him to 
 herself, but it was the first time he had ever heard 
 her. 
 
 " Harry, I'm all wrong; Harry, I can't — I can't 
 live without you." 
 
 What a maddening jubilation ! what a peal the 
 bells were ringing about them ! as if all true, hap- 
 py, reunited lovers in the world were pulling at 
 the ropes' ends. 
 
 Herbert remained alone in the church to the 
 meditations, for which eighteen centuries have 
 furnished the soil, and which, even in a Christmas 
 story, perhaps cannot with discretion be revealed. 
 Whether he wandered up and down the narrow 
 aisles, or whether he stood in the dark, with his 
 head against the walls, staring blankly before 
 him, or v;hether he sat in a pew, his face in his 
 hands, or looking up at the cheap radiant star 
 over the altar ; whether he fell on his knees be- 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 237 
 
 fore the altar, murmuring inarticulate words of 
 prayer, or shedding tears on the green leaves, or 
 cried " Avaunt !" to lurking Satans, or shut his 
 lips to keep back the rising tumult in his heart, 
 it was intended for none but the eye of Him whom 
 the star typified. 
 
 Oh, the sadness that comes on Christmas Eve ! 
 All the noise and merriment is but to neutralize 
 it. Never does time appear to move so fast, and 
 good resolutions so slow ; never does childhood 
 appear so beautiful, or so remote ; never does in- 
 nocence appear more heavenly, or more impossi- 
 ble ; never do longings for the dead and gone so 
 wring and torture the heart : never does the hard 
 reality of the present so clash with the anticipa- 
 tions of what it was to be — as when, hour after 
 hour, Christmas Eve passes, and, hour after hour, 
 Christmas approaches. Herbert struggled to 
 make the present one yield some mitigations of 
 future ones ; some recollection which would stand 
 out in Christmas Eves to come, and challenge the 
 black spectre of despondency that glides in mid- 
 night hours to whisper in the ear of the consci- 
 entious, " Thou hast failed." And if any prayer 
 addressed at such a moment might be recorded 
 by profane hands, it was the prayer that rose 
 from his heart to that effect. 
 
 And he felt that the answer would come to him, 
 not in the church, but out there in the multitude, 
 surging and rolling out noise, leaving now and 
 
238 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 then a rocket here, a voice there, cast up solitary 
 and shrill on the air. 
 
 Out there were hands to be clasped, hearts to 
 be raised ; out there sympathy, companionship, 
 love ; out there a whole population for a desolate, 
 loving heart. Out there, where the barefooted 
 vision walked, were sisters and brothers at this 
 moment waiting for them both — sisters and 
 brothers in spite of religious, political, financial, 
 racial separations. 
 
 " Out of the tomb, 
 Out of the gloom, 
 Christ of Bethlehem, lead !" 
 
 The accordion was tired and tripping, the 
 voices thin and irregular ; both were on their last 
 
 round. 
 
 " Up, up above, 
 To Heaven and Love, 
 Christ of Bethlehem, lead !" 
 
 The words ran together and stopped suddenly, 
 as if butting against a wall ; the tune had been 
 lost in the various transmigration of voices. 
 "Would it be safe to leave the door open now?" 
 Had He no more use for His little church to- 
 night ? If He should come and find it closed 
 against Him ? 
 
 Herbert did not shut it as he went out. The 
 dago family hung around their shop like bunches 
 of their own tropical fruits, gorgeous in their 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 239 
 
 bright clothes, which nature must have furnished 
 and renewed from year to year, like foliage, so 
 harmonious and unconventional were they; Maria 
 with her dress open, perhaps, a trifle too much 
 over the thick yellow skin, for nature is not pru- 
 dish ; but there was a long lock of black hair to 
 fall across it, just where baby hands could clutch 
 and play with it. Every year there was a new 
 bloom, so to speak, around the door ; a new baby 
 to toy with the hair and lie on the breast, to be 
 weaned afterwards by Marianna, and then turned 
 out with the rest into the whole street for nurs- 
 ery. They slept on the stem as their fruit did, 
 for all the street knew to the contrary, the latest 
 retirers and the earliest risers never hitting on 
 the moment when their banquette was empty or 
 their house full. They were doing a rushing busi- 
 ness this evening, uniting all the forces of the 
 family — Salvatore, Maria, Marianna, down to the 
 last lisping tongue— for English in which to ne- 
 gotiate it. 
 
 The great thoroughfare still held its throng, 
 but the brilliant shops looked rifled and empty ; 
 the tired clerks leaned, pale and haggard, over 
 their disordered counters ; the flower-women were 
 gone, the street booths were being covered up, 
 buying and selling were over, yet still the moving 
 procession filled the banquettes and blocked the 
 corners. The theatres were discharging their au- 
 diences, the great octagonal circus giving forth 
 
240 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 as if it had hidden inside some inexhaustible 
 source of human beings. The easy - swinging 
 doors of the saloons swallowed some in as they 
 passed ; some went in to the grand entrances of 
 the social clubs; the cars carried loads of them 
 away ; skimming off by degrees the more respect- 
 able element, and all the women. The harmless 
 period of jollity was passing ; the horns became 
 instruments of disturbance and annoyance ; the 
 fire-crackers were too loud, and left behind them 
 the reekings of gunpowder ; evil-looking men in 
 shabby garments prowled about their lairs in ob- 
 scure side streets and dark alleyways. 
 
 Almost midnight ! Almost Christmas morning ! 
 
 Once ! Four, five, six times ! — too quick for 
 counting — well-known sharp reports fell upon the 
 air ; pistol-shots, no fire-crackers ; the imitation 
 sound, after all, was imperfect. A rush of men 
 out of a side street, with the fear of murder and 
 the witness-box behind them, gave the clew to 
 the curious. 
 
 " Killed ?" 
 
 " How many ?" 
 
 " Not dead yet ?" 
 
 " Who did it ?" 
 
 The galloping horses of the ambulance went by; 
 policemen lead through the crowd three sudden- 
 ly sobered, pale-faced men, one with a pistol still 
 in his hand. The ambulance returned slov/ly, and 
 a cab passed with men in it trying to hold erect 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 24I 
 
 an inert body ; then the bells, which had been 
 waiting a year for this moment, pealed out with 
 all their might and brazenness ; the big bells 
 calling up the little bells, the church bells sum- 
 moning the fire bells, and all together rousing 
 every bell in every factory, market, and depot, 
 till there was not an idle or a stationary bell in 
 the city. Peace, good-will, peace and good-will 
 on earth, on earth as in heaven. 
 
 The great, vague, dim ships and steamboats on 
 the river, wakened like sleeping monsters from 
 their mist and inertness, gave voice, tardily tak- 
 ing up the cry with their hoarse steam-whistles, 
 bellowing an inarticulate and beast-like accom- 
 paniment to the sweet human rejoicings of the 
 bells. And all who had breath or horns or fire- 
 works left expended them royally during the first 
 five minutes of the great Birth-morn. 
 
 Herbert obeyed the bell that called to midnight 
 mass in the cathedral, down a narrow street, over- 
 hung with iron lace-work of balconies, following 
 the file of worshippers contributed from every 
 house door. The bronze equestrian statue in the 
 square gleamed like silver through a coating of 
 dew; the sharp electric light pierced the hidden 
 places of the roses and jasmines, whose perfume 
 freighted the air into heaviness. Through the 
 open doors of the cathedral the lights of the altar 
 were seen, over an undistinguishable mass of 
 heads ; the steps in the possession of a mob, 
 
242 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 pushing and elbowing for entrance ; negro faces 
 under head -kerchiefs, white faces under laces, 
 still flushed from the dance, lips still wet with 
 champagne; the greasy jacket of the boot-black 
 rubbing against a dress-coat, the calico sacque 
 of the "marchande" brushing aside a silk cloak 
 from bare shoulders. The cross, gaunt, old uni- 
 formed Suisse burrowed in the crowd, rebuking 
 the loud-mouthed, tapping with his staff the ir- 
 reverent, collaring small boys, and cuffing them 
 all the way out to the street. The sleepy, indif- 
 ferent priest mumbles the prayers to the sleepy, 
 indifferent saints niched in the darkness above. 
 The motley congregation arrested their conversa- 
 tion to make the sign of the cross, or dropped 
 momentarily on one knee ; until the familiar voice 
 of the favorite opera singer sang the " Cantique 
 de Noel." " Noel ! Noel !" 
 
 A hush fell on them all. Even the Virgin, in 
 her gaudy incarnation of paint and gilt, must be 
 impressed. Even the most thoughtless, the wild- 
 est, the wickedest, must pause for that one mo- 
 ment of singing. 
 
 " What do men and women like those feel and 
 think in such a pause ?" 
 
 Herbert looked at a group, staying their laugh- 
 ing and jesting and undue familiarities of hand 
 and tongue. The hymn was ending, one last 
 note thrilling the air, the current of people al- 
 ready setting towards the street again. 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 243 
 
 " Where is your baby ?" Herbert recognized 
 one of the young women by an inspiration 
 tlirough her blazonry of silk and jewels — the 
 asylum girl. 
 
 Her face paled at his question as it did that 
 afternoon on the chancel steps, showing on each 
 cheek a spot of rouge in startling relief. 
 
 " My baby ?" 
 
 She tried to say it derisively, tried to make her 
 pretty eyes flash at him, tried to throw off his 
 hand, tried to laugh with the others. In vain. 
 The mother in her deserted the woman ; with all 
 her effort nothing was left of her but a weak, 
 trembling, ghastly, conscience -stricken creature, 
 with breasts throbbing wildly, hands craving their 
 burden, and a heart which all through the dinner 
 and the opera, the champagne and the revelry, 
 had been dragging her back — back to the steps 
 where she had deserted her own flesh and blood. 
 
 The men, elegant and discreet, looked before 
 them ; the women tittered, whispered, pointed ; they 
 were older than she. The crowd carried them all 
 off, leaving her standing by the young pastor. 
 
 " Have you put it in an asylum .?" 
 
 " No ! no ! no !" 
 
 " Take me to it." 
 
 He took her hand and led her out, pulling her 
 along for a square or two ; then she led him, in- 
 creasing her speed, as the bad spell on her weak- 
 ened, faster and faster, until, almost in a run, she 
 
244 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 reached the bright lights of the broad thorough- 
 fare. She pulled him across it, and on, on, past 
 house after house, to where his little church stood 
 gray and shadowy in the night. Up to the church, 
 to the steps, up the steps to the corner appro- 
 priated by the Sicilian Marianna. 
 
 " Gone ! Gone ! My baby gone !" she screamed. 
 She got down on her knees and felt the place with 
 her hands, going over and over it, as if searching 
 for a pin. " Could it have rolled down ?" She 
 rushed out in the banquette and looked up and 
 down ; she bent over the gutter and plunged her 
 hands in the slime and mud. " My baby ! My 
 baby ! Gone ! I put it here — right here " — lay- 
 ing her hand on the spot — "where the little dago 
 girl sits. She would have found it, taken care of 
 it, nursed it. Every day I've seen her here : she 
 looked like the picture of the Virgin." 
 
 " You abandoned it ; why should you care for 
 it ?" He could not ask the question of her as 
 she stood illoglcally, inconsequently weeping and 
 wringing her hands, her hat and feathers awry, 
 her long, light, wrinkled gloves wet to the elbow 
 with gutter mud. From all eternity women have 
 been mothers, only faithless momentarily. 
 
 " I resisted, I resisted, but the Christmas com- 
 ing — the noise, the lights, the music, the fire- 
 crackers — they called me out, as they called me 
 out of the asylum, out into life, into the world. 
 It was the devil again at me — the devil ! My 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 245 
 
 baby ! My pretty little baby ! She will be sent 
 to the police-station ; she will be put in an asylum, 
 to be called out, as I was, by the devil. She will 
 be taken by people who will beat her, by negroes 
 who will degrade and corrupt her. The little 
 dago girl would have been kind to her. I could 
 have seen her every day. My baby ! Now I've 
 lost her forever." 
 
 Marianna did not wait for the bell from her 
 own fosterling church, for she knew that it was 
 too poor to possess one. But about the time for 
 the other bells to ring, she ran in from her oyster 
 and banana selling to midnight mass there. No 
 crowd, no lights, no music. She slipped through 
 the open door. Was this a church on Christmas 
 Eve ? 
 
 It could not have been finer in heaven itself 
 than at San Antonio's, their patron saint's, last 
 year. The stable, the oxen, the manger, the Vir- 
 gin, the Wise Men, and St. Joseph — all life-size 
 and death-stiff. And not even in heaven, unless 
 in the Italian quarter of it, could the candles 
 (great monoliths of wax with orchidaceous efflo- 
 rescence, only slightly yellow with age), the gilt 
 and silver, the paper flowers and coloring, be ex- 
 celled. And the votive legs, arms, hearts, hands, 
 eyes — they hung around like the gleanings of a 
 battlefield ; and the mental and moral cures, with 
 the printed acknowledgments — San Antonio must 
 
246 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 surely have thought of the decoration of his own 
 church when he undertook so many miracles. 
 That was a church ! Here was nothing, abso- 
 lutely nothing, but sad green leaves. She knelt 
 down at the altar. If there had been only a bam- 
 bino for the empty manger ! Could not God, 
 who sent bambinos in quantities on the asking, 
 have spared one poor little infant for this cradle ? 
 Why did not the patron saint of this church emu- 
 late the example of the industrious San Antonio ? 
 Not one image! Not one ex iwto I Not a flower 
 or a gilt leaf ! She looked at Pepe in her arms, 
 and at the font. Here was the cradle ; here is 
 where the bambino should lie. But Pepe was 
 far beyond the age and cleanliness for the role ; 
 his time of dismissal was about come ; precocious 
 as he was, he had not learned to crawl a moment 
 too soon. The rich ladies of the neighborhood 
 might have given a bambino, or loaned one of 
 their own. 
 
 " Marianna ! Marianna !" her mother called. 
 Maria would have sent her voice into the very 
 Vatican when she was in a temper ; and the 
 Holy Father himself would hardly have dared 
 defer obedience. The little girl ran by her cor- 
 ner of the steps. Who had been invading it .-• — 
 her own temper now rising. The bundle fell 
 open at her touch, exposing the contents. 
 
 " A bambino ! a bambino ! God has sent a 
 bambino !" A beautiful bambino, clean and 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 247 
 
 white, with naked feet and hands. She dropped 
 Pepe, and carried it in quickly, and laid it on 
 the green couch in the baptismal font in time 
 for the first stroke of the great bell that led the 
 ringing choral, over-ringing her mother's vocifer- 
 ous " Marianna ! Marianna !" 
 
 " Where are you going .?" asked Herbert, taking 
 the girl by her wrist again. 
 
 " Nowhere ! nowhere ! There's no place for 
 me to go on earth. My baby ! my baby !" She 
 tried to break from him. " Let me go ! let me 
 go ! I've lost my child ! I've killed her ! Let 
 me kill myself, too !" 
 
 Her voice was loud and violent. People pass- 
 ing by turned back to look at the desperate woman 
 in struggle with a man. 
 
 There was one place open for her and all like 
 her ; the host was standing in the door to wel- 
 come her. Herbert lifted her, still struggling, up 
 the steps, and carried her, tight and fast in his 
 arms, to the spot where she had fallen prostrate, 
 a broken, helpless creature offering her child to 
 the Saviour. The star shone over the place. 
 Her eyes were quicker than his, but she thought 
 it a fantasy ; her poor brain had been so dis- 
 traught. She had been seeing this baby so long ; 
 for weary, weary months ; through the glaze of 
 fever at the hospital, through suffering, privation, 
 temptation. She had just been seeing it lost, 
 
248 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 stolen, ill-treated, dead. She could trust her 
 eyes no more ; she closed them on the vision, but 
 they would not stay closed. 
 
 He thought her cry was maniacal, and her ac- 
 tions, tearing and scattering the greens from the 
 font. 
 
 " I gave her to Him, and now He has given 
 her back to me. See ! see ! I gave her to Him, 
 and now He has given her back to me." She 
 held the bambino towards Herbert. 
 
 With the fear of the committee before his eyes, 
 Herbert replaced, as well as he could, the fontal 
 decorations, artfully trying to suggest in the re- 
 placement an impending top-heaviness. 
 
 " Where are you going now ?" 
 
 If he could only have seen the radiance, the 
 sweet holy radiance of her face ! 
 
 " Home ! home ! with my baby — my child !" 
 
 As they descended the steps a limp figure 
 rolled and lolled over a protesting accordion. 
 
 "Into the light, 
 Into the right, 
 Christ of . . ." 
 
 " Yes, sir ! that's so !" The words ended in a 
 snore. 
 
 The little church had a grand congregation, a 
 most surprising congregation, for Christmas Day. 
 Everybody who was anybody in the neighbor- 
 hood seemed to be getting up too late for any 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 249 
 
 but the one church — the gentlemen could not 
 finish their breakfasts in time, nor the ladies 
 dress themselves sufficiently fine, nor the children 
 be made ready, for the fashionable churches up- 
 town. All came. The nobodies of the neighbor- 
 hood all came, hot from dusting and sweeping 
 and washing up dishes ; the cooks ran in pulling 
 down their sleeves, the maids with their caps and 
 aprons ; the passers-by stopped in for a prayer or 
 two ; and all the roving churchless Christians, 
 who could not pay pew rent anywhere, or who 
 had been dropped by their pastors or shunned 
 by other church officers as irretrievables — the lit- 
 tle church gathered them all in ; not only them, 
 but their offerings — big donations intended for 
 bigger churches, and the mites which were too 
 small for any church but this one. The young 
 gentlemen from the boarding-house come over at 
 least in time for the plate, and those who could 
 not come sent crumpled bank-bills by their col- 
 ored waiters. 
 
 The music was wretched, every one said, the 
 sermon more commonplace than ever, the reading 
 miserable, the decorations paltry. But it was 
 soon over — a compensating merit fully appre- 
 ciated by the members of the clubs just around 
 the corner. By twelve o'clock they were all 
 away — all except a tall, burly, shy man and a 
 neat, little, pale, trembling lady, and a long file 
 of children afflicted with irrepressible hilarity, 
 
250 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 munching apples and whispering their admira- 
 tion over the agile performances of a lame boy 
 on a new crutch. 
 
 " I took your advice last night, sir, and I hope 
 you will marry us this morning, sir. I've got her 
 now, and she sha'n't give me the slip again." 
 
 There was no need to answer this, but woman- 
 like the bride would have attempted it if Herbert 
 had not immediately commenced the marriage- 
 service. The delighted vestry, with their .pocket- 
 handkerchiefs tied to bursting over the bills, 
 trade-dollars, halves, quarters, dimes, and pica- 
 yunes taken up in the collection, acted as wit- 
 nesses, and gave the bride away in a body, col- 
 lecting their kisses, however (or they would not 
 have been in the vestry), singly and individually. 
 They shook hands with the groom and tipped the 
 children, from Louisa to Baby. 
 
 When they were all leaving the church together, 
 beaming under the load of Merry Christmases 
 they had received and Merry Christmases they 
 had given, who should appear with the greatest 
 alacrity from the corner where she and her curi- 
 osity had been concealed but Mrs. Bunnyfeather, 
 note-book in hand, and mindful as ever of her 
 duty as secretary of the Sunday-school chapter. 
 Not one of those little Wiggenses was allowed to 
 depart until the last name, age, and sex had been 
 registered as Sunday-school scholars, member- 
 ship to commence that very evening at the Sun- 
 
OF A LITTLE CHURCH. 
 
 251 
 
 day-school Christmas-tree, on which, she assured 
 them, Santa Claus had hung a present for each 
 one of them by name. Surprising as it may seem, 
 such really turned out to be the case — not one 
 was forgotten. 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1870. 
 
IN THE FRENCH aUARTER. 1870. 
 
 .^OW, Margot?" 
 
 "In a moment, monsieur;" and 
 
 Margot's scrubbing-brush proceeded 
 with accelerated force. 
 
 The cathedral clock in the vicin- 
 ity struck the quarter. 
 
 "But the time passes, my good Margot." 
 
 " In just one minute, monsieur." 
 
 The clock rang the half-hour. 
 
 " Margot !" 
 
 " I am going now, monsieur, at once." 
 
 Monsieur Villeminot heard the sound of the 
 floor-cloth really ceasing at the sill of the door, 
 and a last handful of brick-dust fall scattering 
 over the wet boards, and the bucket being car- 
 ried out. 
 
 The room was so small that privacy could only 
 be obtained by standing behind him as he sat in 
 his great leather-covered easy chair, an antiquated 
 " Voltaire," whose flattened springs and stufifing 
 were assisted by pillows and cushions of divers 
 shapes and hues. Margot unpinned the piece of 
 bagging that served for an apron, let down her 
 
256 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1870. 
 
 skirt over her stockingless ankles, and passed a 
 dean calico dress over the soiled damp one she 
 had on. As she had explained to Madame St. 
 Georges only the day before, with a shrug of the 
 shoulders : " Mon dieu, madame ! I have not 
 known a more intimate garment than a dress in 
 years, years." She gave a glance of satisfaction 
 over the well-scrubbed floor. " At any rate, it is 
 done now for a week," she said, more to herself 
 than to the occupant of the chair, and shuffled 
 out of the room in her old carpet slippers. 
 
 When he heard the door close behind her, the 
 old man among his cushions began as usual to 
 mutter his thoughts audibly, a disconnected, un- 
 intelligible monologue, getting more and more dis- 
 tinct with the certainty of solitude. His fine aris- 
 tocratic language resembled Margot's daily speech 
 as the silken toilets of the ladies in the street re- 
 sembled her calico homeliness ; it was as much 
 out of place in the menial interior of his habita- 
 tion as the long row of glistening-back books that 
 filled the mantel-shelf. He bent his head forward, 
 listening to his own voice furtively, as he once 
 might have looked at his face in the glass, pro- 
 nouncing the words and phrases tentatively, inter- 
 rogatively, scanning his toothless articulation. In 
 his sightless, motionless existence the contracted 
 enclosure of his apartment set no limits to the 
 vast blank space that surrounded him; a space 
 furnished only by the dim scenery of a lived-out 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1870. 257 
 
 past, and with but one certain living reality in it — 
 himself. To-day his words came not, as sometimes, 
 from literary corners or imaginative niches in his 
 memory. Imagination for once v,'as stilled, liter- 
 ature forgotten, phantasms and visions dissolved. 
 The brows over his blind eyes wrinkled and fur- 
 rowed, his palsied hands clasped and unclasped ex- 
 citedly the arms of his chair, and his w^hite-haired 
 head, responsive to his own eloquence, rose wrath- 
 fully erect. Expressions original in their inspira- 
 tion fell from his lips, and his voice resounded so 
 firm, so determined in his own ears that, had his 
 eyes been suddenly unsealed, he would have ex- 
 pected to see not a decrepit Octogenarian, pros- 
 trate upon the cushions of an easy chair, quartered 
 in a wretched, isolated closet on a servant's gal- 
 lery ; but a youthful, heroic, vigorous figure, aflame 
 with ardor, strength, and patriotism, repulsing by 
 word and blow, in chamber or field, the audacious 
 invasion of his country; the only figure to enclose 
 a French heart, the only heart for a youth born 
 under the star of Napoleon I., the only scene and 
 action for a French patriot in the year 1870 ! A 
 fit of coughing arrested the resurrection of his 
 youthful self, and he fell back exhausted — back 
 into age, infirmity, and impotence, into the grave- 
 clothes and cofhn boundaries of his chair. 
 
 All the other rooms on the gallery that Margot 
 passed were closed and locked, the lodgers work- 
 ing out by the day. She turned into an open, 
 
258 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1870. 
 
 arched vestibule and went down the contorted, 
 narrow staircase holding the balustrade with one 
 hand, clutching at the wall with the other, and 
 trying to step upon safe places. 
 
 The railing was black and greasy from con- 
 stant handling, and the mortar had been scratch- 
 ed away from the brick all the way down by out- 
 stretched fingers. "Ah, the Pagan 1" she muttered, 
 "he will break our necks yet some day with his 
 old 'guet-a-peus.' " Had they but have material- 
 ized the reproaches and animadversions upon old 
 Grouille, the landlord, they would have incrusted 
 the roof like stalactites. 
 
 The landing-place was filled with buckets and 
 tubs, the brick iloor was mouldy from dampness, 
 and the fumes of charcoal poured from the Car- 
 lins' open room, where a furnace stood in the fire- 
 place heating its load of irons to redness. Margot 
 went in and deliberately removed them one after 
 the other carefully to the bricks. The bed in the 
 corner of the whilom kitchen was heaped with 
 rough-dry clothes; the doorless armoire held heaps 
 of ironed pieces. On the ironing-table was a bro- 
 ken basin of raw starch, a cracked soup-plate of 
 bluing and an unfinished shirt, the bosom dry- 
 ing into wrinkles; Monsieur Wilhelm's weekly 
 shirt it was, marked distinctly with red cross- 
 stitch, for the washing and ironing of which he 
 gave tri-weekly lessons in penmanship to Rou- 
 gette and Blanchette, the overgrown, but under- 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1870. 259 
 
 gifted, sixteen-year-old twin-daughters of the wid- 
 ow Carlin. It was hke the Carlins to rush out 
 thus heedlessly from their work at the first cry 
 of news; and Margot's shake of the head beto- 
 kened as much. She looked into all the other 
 rooms on the ground -floor, but, like that of the 
 Carlins, they were deserted and disordered. She 
 reluctantly crossed the court-yard, pulling at and 
 fastening her dress, and entered the long corri- 
 dor, the domain of the wealth and elite of the 
 lodging-house. 
 
 Even Monsieur Fre'jus, she saw, had been se- 
 duced away from his post behind his little glass 
 counter filled with an inestimable treasure of red 
 and white coral beads, devotional images and 
 plated silver medals, crucifixes, and prayer-beads. 
 
 A volume of mixed voices directed her to " La 
 Rose de France," the shoe-shop of Monsieur Re- 
 naudiere. There she found them all assembled, 
 the small room quite full. "Papa" Renaudiere, in 
 his shirt-sleeves and working apron, was talking 
 and gesticulating furiously, waving and rustling 
 the last "Extra" in his hands; his spectacles 
 pushed back to the bald place on the top of his 
 head, his eyes flaming, his hair and whiskers bris- 
 tling out laterally from nervous manipulation. 
 
 Monsieur Frejus's head was still moving back- 
 ward and forward in the melancholy oscillations 
 produced by the first item in the cablegram of the 
 "Extra." His spectacles, over his dim, abstracted 
 
260 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1870, 
 
 eyes, looked like the glasses of an unlighted lan- 
 tern, and his countenance was as dejected as the 
 holy effigies on his crucifixes. He stood with his 
 back to the street, leaning against the show-win- 
 dow where Monsieur Renaudiere's misfits were 
 vindictively kept on exhibition; a high -heeled, 
 pointed-toed array of pedal beauty; a temptation 
 and reproach to the slipshod passers-by, and a 
 vaunting advertisement of Monsieur Renaudiere's 
 superiority in skill and artistry over bungling, 
 clumsy Nature, and a standing taunt and chal- 
 lenge to her for competition or imitation. 
 
 All the Carlins were wedged into the back door 
 of the workshop with the journeymen ; the widow's 
 sleeves rolled to the shoulder, and her fat white 
 feet gleaming in the bottom of her sabots ; her 
 youthful twin replicas of her honest, handsome 
 face peering over her shoulder. The journeymen 
 listened open - mouthed, looking withal askance 
 at Madame Renaudiere, who, towering behind her 
 diminutive husband, led the chorus of lamenta- 
 tion with a rank Gascon accent. 
 
 " Ah, la pauvre Patrie vas !" 
 
 " Pauvre France !" 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! Mon Dieu !" 
 
 " Ah, she has no luck any longer." 
 
 " It's a malediction !" 
 
 " What will she do now ?" 
 
 " But what is it ? What is it ?" asked Margot, 
 eagerly, entering from the corridor. 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER, 1870. 261 
 
 " Sedan !" 
 
 " Sddan !" 
 
 " Sedan !" 
 
 " Mais c'est dans quoi ?" 
 
 " C'est dans le desespoir," answered IMonsieur 
 Renaudiere promptly, in his character of wit and 
 patriot. 
 
 " Ah, oui, c'est dans le desespoir." Madame 
 Renaudiere rolled out the words as if her mouth 
 Avere lined with cobble-stones. 
 
 " In truth, my friends, it is a great calamity." 
 The mincing accent of the little Parisian flower- 
 maker came from the folds of a pocket-handker- 
 chief, behind which her enterprising eyes cast lan- 
 guishing overtures towards old Grouille the land- 
 lord. He, unconscious of sympathy or notice, sat 
 on the dainty sofa reserved for customers, hold- 
 ing his bushy head with both hands, excusably 
 as Alsacian as well as Frenchman, giving him- 
 self up to those uncurbed demonstrations of grief 
 usually devoted to absconding tenants. 
 
 " Sedan, dog of a name !" snarled Jacquet from 
 the " Quincaillerie " opposite. He was Monsieur 
 Renaudiere's formidable rival in eloquence, pa- 
 triotism, and politics, and a fervent red republican, 
 priest-hater, and woman-hater to boot ; although 
 there were on-dits and shrugs and winks enough 
 in the neighborhood and suspicions enough in 
 his second-hand shop to seriously attaint the loy- 
 alty of this last profession of his at least. 
 
262 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1870. 
 
 " But — " began Margot again. 
 
 " Chut !" whispered Anais Renaudiere, pulling 
 her skirt; "it's the French, the French!" 
 
 " The French," interrupted the keen - eared 
 Monsieur Renaudiere, fiercely snatching her ex- 
 planation from her. " The French, Madame 
 Margot ; France ! . . . " He cleared his throat, 
 which was indeed husky from emotion or pro- 
 longed exertion. "France!" all looked up for 
 an expected verbal palliative. "France is — 
 France is — It is a freak of nature! It is an 
 event ! It is an occurrence ! It ! France !" He 
 looked around at them all ; he could not say 
 it. " France is eclipsed, momentarily eclipsed !" 
 He launched the word triumphantly. "A cloud 
 is passing over her ; a cloud of Prussians. Can 
 the sun, can the moon be destroyed ? Well, as 
 they are the orbs of the heavens, so is France 
 the orb of the earth, and" — he was in full 
 course now — " indestructible except by cata- 
 clysm !" 
 
 "Enfant du bon Dieu !" came in naive awe 
 from Madame Carlin. 
 
 " Ha ! it is not the end ! You think it is the 
 end ! But wait, wait for the last word. Your 
 Bice Marque, your Molque, your Que'sair ..." 
 This apostrophe, different in tone and direction, 
 caused his audience to start. " Monsieur Vil- 
 lem !" they exclaimed. Even Monsieur Frejus's 
 head stopped vibrating at the unfortunate appari- 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1870. 263 
 
 tion of the young German in the door-way behind 
 Madame Margot. 
 
 " The Prussians ! the Prussians !" screamed 
 Monsieur Renaudiere. " I defy the Almighty 
 Himself to create a Prussia that could whip 
 France !" 
 
 "But my friends," commenced the young man 
 in a French which was foreign in clearness and 
 precision — • 
 
 " Friends ! Bah !" 
 
 " Friends ! Ah, yes !" 
 
 " Friends ! French and Prussian ! Friends !" 
 
 " But we are in America ; we are Americans !" 
 
 " Americans !" 
 
 " Ah, yes ; Americans !" 
 
 " Americans ! a la bonne heure !" 
 
 " We are to call ourselves Americans, hein ? 
 now, when our country is being assassinated ?" 
 called out the ebullient Madame Renaudiere. 
 
 " Americans ! vas !" sneered the journeymen. 
 
 " Yes, when America was in danger, we were 
 Americans ; America was our country, our moth- 
 er ; but France ! France ! She is before America, 
 she is the first, the source of countries for us ; she 
 is the divine incarnation of ' la patrie ' as the 
 Virgin, as the Madonna, is the incarnation of 
 womanhood. When I say France," the tears roll- 
 ed down his face before them all, and his voice 
 broke — "when I say France, it is as if every drop 
 of blood in my body had a voice. Expatriation 
 
264 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER, 1S70. 
 
 may change the body, but the blood, the blood, it 
 is always the same, always remains loyal, Gallic ! 
 Gallic, my friends ; and," with an acute transition 
 from sentiment into anger again, "it is our Gallic 
 blood that calls for vengeance to-day, it is our 
 Gallic blood that blushes to-day at the insult of 
 destiny, and dares to reprove God." 
 
 " Gallic blood !" repeated Madame Renaudi^re, 
 impressed herself and proud of the effect of the 
 high-sounding adjective on others. 
 
 " Bravo !" responded Jacquet, applauding the 
 reproof to God. 
 
 Monsieur Frejus hastened out of the room where 
 patriotism was taking a turn inconsistent with his 
 pious trade. Monsieur Wilhelm Miiller, the plod- 
 ding young professor of Greek and Latin, looked 
 round and round in embarrassment, uncertain 
 whether a national or personal explanation would 
 be more appropriate ; a deprecating smile on his 
 lips, the color mounting under his thin skin, his 
 simple blue eyes confessing frankly the doubt be- 
 tween grief and anger. He had been fellow-lodger 
 and companion to them for years, a Prussian to 
 them for two months ; but there seemed to have 
 been a tacit nullification of all former propitiatory 
 periods and relations. From each familiar face 
 black flags and martial accoutrements waved and 
 bristled now to his peaceful overtures ; even from 
 his scholars Rougette and Blanchette, even from 
 Anais. 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1870. 265 
 
 The shoe-upper Anais held in her hand shook 
 and quivered, dancing the glistening, pendent 
 needle at the end of a long, black- silk thread. 
 Her head was tossed back, her chest heaved tur- 
 bulently; in her eyes rose up the whole terrible 
 calamity of Sedan ; those shy, alluring black eyes, 
 his paradise and temptation ! For the first time 
 they avoided the sweet intoxication of a rencon- 
 tre with his. As for Margot, she stood stupid 
 and silent, neither daring to hazard another ques- 
 tion, nor return without more definite information 
 to her husband. 
 
 The women's voices, which had been modulated 
 in woe, began to rise shrill and sharp in reflections 
 and insinuations against their elected foe, Wil- 
 helm, now in full retreat. Margot hastened after 
 him through the damp corridor as fast as her 
 slippers would allow. 
 
 " Monsieur Willem ! Monsieur Willem ! For 
 God's sake, tell me what it is all about ! I can't 
 understand a word, no one will explain — the pa- 
 tron waits, he is agonized to hear the news. It is 
 a perfect gombo." 
 
 The sharp snapping of his finger-tips ceased, 
 and he turned around, " Sddan !" 
 
 " But that's what I say ! C'est dans quoi ?" 
 
 " It's another battle." 
 
 " What ! Only another battle ! All that fuss 
 about a battle ! Mon Dieu ! I thought some one 
 had been killed !" 
 
266 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER, 1870. 
 
 " Tell Monsieur Villeminot that his nation is 
 whipped, his Emperor a prisoner, his army sur- 
 rendered ! eighty thousand men, eighty thousand 
 cowards ! . . . " 
 
 " Tell Monsieur Villeminot that ! tell ' mon pa- 
 tron' — oh. Monsieur Villem !" 
 
 " I am as big a fool as the others," the German 
 exclaimed. He looked down on the little woman 
 with her patient, earnest face raised to him, and 
 the unbecoming, ireful gleam in his eyes faded 
 away. Her feet in his own cast-off slippers ; her 
 colorless blond hair, her sallow skin, her tired, 
 faded features ; as if she had worn away her nat- 
 ural outfit of good-looks with her clothes, and life 
 had only second-hand or cast-off supplies to 
 grant to her poverty. Her figure, in the pitiful 
 manner of overtired women, bent back as if in 
 search of support ; but her eyes looked at him 
 from it all, with all their original expression of 
 trust and confidence. 
 
 " If he could read it for himself, if some one 
 else could tell him, but me ! Mon Uieu !" she 
 explained. 
 
 " No, I will not speak to any one of them ! not 
 one of them V the young man broke in resent- 
 fully at the sight of the Carlins crossing the yard 
 in his direction. " I shall come in this evening 
 myself, Madame Margot ; I shall bring the paper 
 and explain. Do not you say anything. Tell him 
 it's a mistake, the news has not arrived yet. Mon- 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1S70. 267 
 
 sieur Villeminot shall not be grieved. Tenez ! I 
 had almost forgotten the coffee and the picayune 
 for milk for to-morrow morning." He put a small, 
 fragrant, brown -paper parcel and a coin in her 
 hand, and hurriedly walked through the corridor 
 into the street. 
 
 The cathedral bells rang out their welcome or 
 illcome intervening hours, measuring their second 
 century of time and high and low masses to the 
 clockless, watchless humanity of the city in the 
 French quarter ; chiming slowly and deliberately 
 through the bright, fleshy days of the young, and 
 most cruelly prolonging the fretful impatience of 
 Monsieur Wilhelm, who awaited eagerly for the 
 stroke which was to make or lose a day in his 
 eternity. But hurrying echo, close upon stroke, 
 linking sunrise to sunset in an ever- shortening 
 chain to the old — this seemed to make but mo- 
 ments of the diminishing, flitting, ghost-like days 
 of the blind old man convulsively grasping from 
 his Voltaire chair after but life enough for one 
 more item of earth news : the viaticum of defeat 
 or victory to his country ! hoping, despairing, ex- 
 postulating, wrestling with Fate, trafficking with 
 some far-off phantom of infantile Faith, conjuring 
 up a belief in immortality, that he might barter 
 or wager it for the proud privilege of continuing 
 the triumphant traditions of a stalwart period, 
 and so provide delusions still for his — French 
 corpse. 
 
268 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER, 1870. 
 
 It was nine o'clock ringing. The gas, an alter- 
 nate mode of illumination by the economical city, 
 was being turned off. The unpunctual moon was, 
 however, behind time ; only the silvery clouds, 
 blown by a light breeze across the segment of 
 heavens above the court-yard, warranted the reli- 
 ability of the almanac, and told of the distant 
 brilliancy in store. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Anais ! Anais!" 
 
 Monsieur Wilhelm walked close to the wall 
 under the gallery, and tapped with the merest tip 
 of his finger on the glass door of the shoemaker's 
 workroom. He could see the light through the 
 gathered dimity curtains, and he knew that the cir- 
 cle of radiation inside held a head wound around 
 with thick black plaits ; a gentille little head 
 bending over button-hole making in French kid 
 bottiiies. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Anais ! Anaischen." 
 
 The tap and whisper were accentuated by his 
 ardent heart. He knew she was there ; there was 
 never any one else in the workroom at that hour. 
 Later in the season, yes, in midwinter when the 
 carnival was crowded with balls, then it would be 
 different, there would then be bustle and noise 
 enough behind the curtains. The ponderous, noisy 
 old sewing-machine would be stuttering and stitch- 
 ing through bewildering varieties of slippers, ]\Ion- 
 sieur Renaudibre would be volubly ordering and 
 directing, Madame Renaudiere no less volubly 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1870. 269 
 
 disobeying and contradicting. There would be 
 no little quiet moments like this then ! 
 
 "Anais!" 
 
 Sometimes his finger barely touched the door 
 before it flew open. If she were not sitting there 
 making button-holes, she was standing by the ta- 
 ble comparing, perhaps, some rejected shoe with 
 original measurements ; rehearsing plausible ex- 
 cuses for visible differences, protestations against 
 invisible ones, and polishing up her elocutionary 
 skill for special pleading on the morrow against 
 obdurate toe twinges; shrugging her shoulders, 
 raising her eyebrows, and gesticulating with her 
 long-nailed fingers. 
 
 Oh, he had seen her preparing often enough, 
 the coquette ! 
 
 It was very necessary to reconnoitre before 
 knocking in front, for the menage Renaudiere 
 was in as constant a state of revolution as a Cen- 
 tral American republic. There was always a 
 struggle for domination going on between the 
 stronger and weaker sex, freakishly reversed in 
 the husband and wife, but whichever party was 
 victorious, the costs of revolution never failed to 
 be extracted out of Anais and the younger chil- 
 dren. Of seven children Anais was the eldest, 
 and step-sister to the rest. It was a moment after 
 one of these reckonings which had betrothed 
 them. The good God had sent him through the 
 corridor and Anais out of the door, there to dry 
 
270 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1870. 
 
 her eyes, at the same instant. One little moment, 
 but it had been repeated and repeated whenever 
 their glances met. Only, the white eyelids of 
 Anais would always waver a moment too soon, 
 and the heavy lashes would always fall just in 
 time to hide the confession coming, always a 
 thought too late, from the frightened little heart ; 
 the tardy flush alone arriving to remain uncon- 
 cealed, and burn eloquently of hidden motives to 
 his eyes. Wilhelm's dream was some day to stay 
 those eyelids but long enough for the blush and 
 confession to meet. 
 
 The water trickled and dripped from the mossy 
 green cistern behind him which filled an angle in 
 the galleries and screened him from the rest of 
 the yard. He sat down on the bench against it, 
 upsetting the tin cup hanging over the faucet. 
 
 " Qui va la ?" (Who's there ?) 
 
 He heard Madame Renaudiere bound from her 
 bed. Her threatening tones fell from the win- 
 dow-shutters on the gallery above him. 
 
 "Who's there, I say?" 
 
 The heavy hooks dropped from the windows, 
 and she came out on the gallery, hastily pulling 
 on her blouse-volante. 
 
 " Who's there ? If you don't answer I shall 
 call my husband !" 
 
 This was intended for the ignorant, mal-inten- 
 tioned ones, who supposed that Monsieur Renau- 
 diere stayed at home of evenings attending to 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER, 1870. 271 
 
 his business, instead of discussing the war with 
 Jacquet and others at the " Quincaillerie." 
 
 " Passe, chat ! Passe !" she called, after a 
 pause. 
 
 " It is only I, Madame Renaudiere ! Margot ! 
 I must have made a noise coming through the 
 corridor, it is so dark." 
 
 "You, Madame Margot ? So late !" 
 
 " It is only a little after nine, Madame Renau- 
 diere." 
 
 " Ah, I thought it was cats !" 
 
 " The pests, they are dreadful ! I cannot sleep 
 for them myself at night. ' Dieu vous benisse !' " 
 Margot called promptly as a violent sneeze shook 
 the gallery above. 
 
 "Ah!" feeling instinctively for her snuffbox, 
 " I am catching cold ! Well, good-night, Madame 
 Margot." 
 
 "Good-night, Madame Renaudiere. No chance 
 of getting in without your knowing it; vas !" she 
 grumbled as she passed on in the direction of 
 her gallery. She stopped at the door to return 
 to Madame Carlin the bonnet and shawl bor- 
 rowed for the occasion, and proceeded up-stairs 
 to her room. 
 
 Monsieur Wilhelm, busy even in waiting, fixed 
 his eyes upon the obstinate glass doors and fell 
 mechanically to repeating the different classifica- 
 tions of English adverbs, marking them off on his 
 fingers by an original system of mnemonics. The 
 
272 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1870. 
 
 voices in the yard all died away, the different 
 rooms one by one retired into darkness, nothing 
 but the prowling cats disturbed the sleeping si- 
 lence all around. His thoughts passed on to 
 certain subtle deductions by which he hoped to 
 classify lucidly obscure similarities between the 
 German and English languages, looking to the 
 ultimate establishment of some rule for the regu- 
 lation of the pronunciation of the vowel sounds 
 of both. But it all went abruptly out of his mind 
 with the light behind the curtains, and he stared 
 blankly at the place v/here she had shone in the 
 room, as she shone in his heart. No mental exer- 
 cises, knowledge, or experience, had ever prepared 
 him for this event ! He almost forgot to breathe. 
 " Thou forgetful ! Thou heartless one ! Thou 
 ..." He abandoned his conscientious efforts 
 at English self-communication. " Thou unwom- 
 anly one ! Knowing only too well who was wait- 
 ing outside, thou couldst yet extinguish that light! 
 Without pause, without hesitation, nay, without 
 remorse !" There came over him the violent bit- 
 terness of disappointment and the stinging hu- 
 miliation of slight, insult, and a resentful reversal 
 of all the flattering epithets which only a moment 
 before had fitted his love so sweetly. " So ! it 
 is Sedan still ! So ! it is Bismarck and Napoleon 
 and Prussia and France ! So ! it is not two liv- 
 ing and loving hearts, but two inimical nations in 
 our bosoms !" 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1S70. 2^3 
 
 He jumped from his seat and stamped his foot 
 on the ground, this time driving the meddlesome 
 tin against the house ; but the madame had long 
 been lulled to sleep by the rival and perpetual 
 serenades of the "Marseillaise" and "Wacht am 
 Rhein " of recurring organ-grinders at the differ- 
 ent street- corners within hearing. He strode 
 across the yard, and, regardless of the treacher- 
 ous pitfalls of the staircase, mounted boldly to the 
 gallery, sought his room, and, with a reckless ex- 
 travagance of matches, lighted his lamp. 
 
 His blond hair glistened like a silver nimbus 
 around his red face, his light eyes were frankly 
 infuriated. He broke into a voluble, passionate 
 soliloquy, getting farther and farther away from 
 his trained pedagogical German as his indigna- 
 tion increased, and lapsing deeper and deeper 
 into the provincialisms and vulgarisms of expres- 
 sion and pronunciation of his peasant home. 
 
 " So ! That is it ! She will not open the door 
 to me ! She will not come out to me ! She does 
 not love me ! She wishes to rebuff me ! She hates 
 me ! That is enough, she is French, I am Prus- 
 sian — to put out the light in that heartless way. 
 O thou ! So snail-slow to love, so lightning-quick 
 to hate !" 
 
 He looked around his diminutive chamber. It 
 had been large enough to contain such a world 
 of ideal happiness ; all in fragments and ruin now! 
 " O thou female Samson !" On the table were 
 
274 • IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1S70. 
 
 piled the fool's - cap copy books for correction ; 
 his nightly task, the flotsam and jetsam from the 
 oceans of Greek and Latin ignorance in which 
 God had willed he should travel through life. 
 And there, ranged in file for use, were the red ink 
 and the blue ink and the black ink with their 
 symbolical values of meanings, and the smeared, 
 rumpled copy-books of Rougette and Blanchette, 
 the blotted currency with which he paid for his 
 washing. 
 
 He would never have known he was a man if 
 Anais had not grown into a woman ; grown right 
 there before his eyes, nay, publicly, before the 
 eyes of the whole world. So quietly and imper- 
 ceptibly at first, as if to slip into it befo.re they 
 knew it, but with an exotic rush at the last. Into 
 a woman ! That little girl running around in 
 short clothes when he first came to the house. 
 In the dull, dingy, damp court-yard where plants 
 were coaxed to grow and no flower cared to bloom, 
 amid the clothes -washing, the shoemaking, the 
 step-motherly assiduities, and paternal vexations, 
 the great miracle had been accomplished. The 
 transformation of her, and of him, too ! For 
 through the Greek and Latin bricklaying of his 
 monotonous life visions and dreams had come 
 to beautify his future, and novel thoughts to be- 
 set and tempt him, and in his breast a spring of 
 poetry had been unlocked to gush and flow at 
 the mere thought of her name. Napoleon III. 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1S70. 275 
 
 could have conquered Prussia and passed it 
 through a mill and not have eliminated Anais 
 from his heart ! 
 
 And she had turned the light from it all — de- 
 liberately, determinedly. It was to be all dark- 
 ness henceforth, and grovelling work. He was to 
 come through the corridor evening after evening, 
 tired, heart -hungry, and pass straight on. . . . 
 Their eyes were no more to meet. ..." Nein, 
 und wieder nein !" 
 
 He closed his lips, dragged his trunk from un- 
 der the bed, and with desperate energy began to 
 throw into it all his possessions, everything, pell- 
 mell : books, clothing, copy-books, jDens, pencils, 
 shoes. He stayed his hand at the ink-bottle, 
 which he carefully corked and put into his 
 pocket, took his umbrella, turned out the lamp, 
 and, as if he were starting out on his daily 
 routine, shut and locked the door behind 
 him. 
 
 " Is anything the matter. Monsieur Villem ?" 
 
 He had not noticed Madame Margot, standing 
 in the far corner of the gallery. 
 
 " No, nothing at all. I am going away." He 
 passed on as resolutely as if she were Anais. 
 
 "Going away? Mon Dieu !" 
 
 He awed her with his far-away, determined 
 manner. 
 
 " But stop a moment, Monsieur Villem ! Your 
 coffee, your picayune, I shall return them." 
 
276 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER, 1870. 
 
 Unfortunately, she belonged to the sex of 
 Anais ; his tone was brusque and ill-tempered, 
 
 "What do you take me for? If you do not 
 want them, throw them into the street. I shall 
 not touch them !" 
 
 She looked after him with her characteristic 
 helpless docility, 
 
 "Well, good-bye, Monsieur Villem," 
 
 " Good-bye, Madame Margot," groping his way 
 down the steps. 
 
 " Monsieur Villem ! Monsieur Villem !" 
 
 He was nearly to the landing. Looking up 
 through the dark funnel above, he saw her bend- 
 ing over the balusters peering after him, the moon- 
 light falling through the archway behind her, all 
 over her head and shoulders. Her whisper was 
 sharp and distinct. 
 
 " Remember, one teaspoonful of ' sirop de vio- 
 lettes ' in a cup of ' tisane de bourrache ' boiling 
 hot." 
 
 " Thou dear God !" Tears came into his eyes. 
 The strong fragrance of the violets came over him, 
 and the suave consciousness of maternal solici- 
 tude, and the delicious sensation of awakening 
 from pain and seeing Madame Margot with a 
 steaming delft cup in her hand, standing at his 
 bedside. Oh, those wintry nights of loneliness, 
 homesickness, orphanage, and pneumonia ! 
 
 "Thou dear God! It is the best Thou hast 
 done, after all — the mothers ! Happily for us men 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1S70. 277 
 
 Thou stationedst them all through life. Thine 
 own hospitals ! heart sanctuaries !" He ran back 
 to embrace his deputy mother, descending the 
 steps again slowly. 
 
 The moon had at last reached the yard, and 
 was poised full overhead, pouring down generous 
 largesse of splendor on the humble scene below ; 
 transfiguring the most sordid detail with heaven- 
 ly light and loveliness. Tire leaf plants in the 
 little gallery gardens glistened and shimmered in 
 the heavy September dew, pranked with a thou- 
 sand diamonds, in default of the inert blossoms 
 that could not be caressed out of their stems. 
 From the great, rounded-top central window of 
 the main building, old Grouille's vine fell in long, 
 uneven fringes over the defaced stucco. A pang, 
 which in its acuteness might have come from his 
 delicate chest, shot across Wilhelm's anger at the 
 thought of leaving the old caravansary that had 
 housed him so long; that had lent to the lodging 
 contract the kindly grace of hospitality, and so 
 well concealed the pecuniary nature of their rela- 
 tionship. How bravely and pathetically the build- 
 ing rose in the moonlight, with its rooms full of 
 tired, sleeping, homeless lodgers ! Itself an aris- 
 tocratic outcast, exiled in poverty, trading its shab- 
 by beauties, its comforts, the shelter of its roof, 
 for a mere pittance. The skeletons of for- 
 mer romances, and the ghosts of former sen- 
 timent, seemed yet to flit across the galleries, 
 
278 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1870. 
 
 look from the windows, and lurk in the dark 
 corners. 
 
 The cathedral clock preluded midnight ; was 
 every one asleep .'* Asleep and unconscious of 
 the sound of the hour and the sight of his going ? 
 Every one ? No, there was old Grouille, his heavy 
 foot descending step after step, from the third- 
 story gallery, his candle flaring up to his night- 
 capped head, coming down, as usual, to close and 
 bolt the heavy porte cochere. Wilhelm hastened 
 through, just in time to escape unperceived. 
 
 Madame Margot, still on the gallery, crossed 
 herself as if midnight were the angelus, and lis- 
 tened until the last musical stroke died away in 
 the cool, damp air. She took out a book from 
 under her sacque and held it closer and closer to 
 her eyes. The mottled paper cover, the red mo- 
 rocco back, and the lurid gilt title stood out clear- 
 ly enough, but the words that filled the inside 
 pages were all uniformly unintelligible. Just as 
 she was on the point of making one out, they all 
 seemed to sink back into the white paper pur- 
 posely to evade her. How was she ever to read 
 it ? She turned the soft, flimsy pages over, one 
 after the other, carefully with her rough fingers, 
 so many of them ! and all filled with words ! She 
 screwed her eyes almost close ; but they were 
 still too blunt to see through the fine, thin moon- 
 light medium. 
 
 She was determined to read the book, to read 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1870. 279 
 
 it for herself. That was the result of all her win- 
 ter's interviews with Madame St. Georges, of the 
 
 Convent, that and the little colored picture 
 
 of St. Roch in her room, and the candles to burn 
 before the altar. She stood and thought, hold- 
 ing the book. She could not get out of the 
 circle of what she had told Madame St. Georges 
 and what Madame St. Georges had told her. 
 More particularly what she had told Madame St. 
 Georges, for that had excited her most. It was 
 strange the way she talked then, she who never 
 could talk. The words came all of themselves. 
 Even now, at the remembrance of an expression 
 or a tone of the reverend Mother's, the same 
 words rushed again to her lips, her heart getting 
 warm, and her eyes moist, just as they did then. 
 It was Madame Carlin who had done it all. It 
 would never have come into Margot's head to 
 think of such a thing, and she would never have 
 done it for herself, only for Monsieur Villeminot. 
 Madame Carlin was a notorious gossip. She had 
 talked to Madame St. Georges about Monsieur 
 Villeminot, she had induced Margot to go to the 
 convent after Monsieur Villeminot was asleep 
 evenings, and she had persuaded Margot to take 
 surreptitiously all the volumes from the mantel- 
 piece, one after the other, to show to the rev- 
 erend Mother ; volumes written long, long before 
 she and Monsieur Villeminot had come together 
 in the sacrament of marriage. And it was Ma- 
 
280 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER, 1870. 
 
 dame Carlin who had suggested that Monsieur 
 Villeminot was bhnd, and would not miss them. 
 Madame St. Georges was the Superior of the con- 
 vent, wliere for the last five years a succession of 
 Carlin girls had been making their first commun- 
 ion. It was well that ]\Ionsieur Carlin had not 
 lived any longer, if a widow was the only support 
 he intended leaving his children, and girls the 
 only estate provided for his widow. 
 
 FIcurs Erotiqiies, Les Tropiqites de Pamour, Vies 
 Poetiques, Statistiqucs du Cceur, Romances Faii- 
 tastiqucs. Proud and confident Margot had car- 
 ried them all across the consecrated portals ; a 
 deception 'tis true towards her "patron," but then 
 . . . the admiration, the appreciation of the rev- 
 erend Mother, the homage when she had read — 
 and who knows what ensuing services and world- 
 ly comforts ? And in New Orleans, her New Or- 
 leans, who had more power, wealth, and influence 
 than the Sisters ? Oh, they could do anything ! 
 
 " My good woman," said Madame St. Georges 
 at the end of it all that very evening, " have you 
 ever read any of these books ?" 
 
 Read ! Read Monsieur Villeminot's books ! 
 The idea ! She had hardly dared handle them 
 to fetch them to the convent ! The very Sacred 
 Host of literature to be enshrined on a mantel ! 
 and worshipped with vmexamining faith and rev- 
 erence. 
 
 "Oh no, reverend Mother ! Not one of them-'"' 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1870. 281 
 
 " It is well. They are of the evil one ! Pollu- 
 tion ! Corruption ! Infectious with vice and 
 crime ! Destructive of soul and body. Moral 
 and physical poison. Burn them, burn them ; 
 destroy them ! Remove the taint from the world ! 
 Remove, if possible, by prayer and sacrifice, the 
 taint from the soul of the author ! It is such 
 books that make a hell of earth !" 
 
 " Grand Dieu, Seigneur !" Margot turned from 
 her pious attitude of admiration before the case 
 of scapularies and religious embroideries, and 
 looked at the metamorphosed, pale, calm Sister in 
 supreme amazement. 
 
 " Sin, vice ! Evil one ! Burn them. Monsieur 
 Villeminot's books ! Save his soul, Monsieur Ville- 
 minot's soul ! The reverend Mother herself must 
 be possessed." 
 
 " My poor woman, how came you to marry such 
 a man ?" 
 
 " I marry him, madame ? I ! I ! I have that 
 presumption ? No, thank God ! He married me. 
 Ah, no, madame, you do not know him. My 
 'patron' is a gentleman, an aristocrat, a 'man of 
 letters !' " 
 
 She drew herself up in rehearsal of the scene 
 just as she had done then, only now she was bare- 
 footed and without the Widow Carlin's bonnet 
 and shawl. 
 
 "What does the reverend Mother take me for?" 
 she had pursued, reproachfully. " His wife should 
 
282 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER, 1870. 
 
 have come from the ladies up there ; way up there. 
 ' Bien en haut !' " Not meaning the pictured 
 canonized ladies on the walls at which she was 
 looking, but those who had the earthly prece- 
 dence of dressing in silks and satins and riding 
 in carriages to the opera. " It is only misfortune 
 that drove him to me, poor man!" 
 
 An inspiration came to her to exonerate Mon- 
 sieur Villeminot, and in a humble way to palli- 
 ate her own conduct. 
 
 " There was a poor old gentleman sick in the 
 little corner room on the gallery where I lived. 
 Ma foi ! they called him old ten years ago ! He 
 was poor, because it was the smallest and cheap- 
 est room in the whole house. No one knew him ; 
 you see he was above every one else in the yard, 
 a gentleman in fact; an aristocrat, an 'homme de 
 lettres.' " How she loved to pronounce the three 
 words ! " They only know he was sick because 
 he ceased going out to work. He worked in a 
 printing-office. As for me, I never had seen him 
 in my life. I sewed by the day for Piton, at the 
 ' Bon Marche ;' made blouses by the dozen. But 
 I am that way, madame," explanatorily. "When 
 I hear of sickness, I cannot keep away, I sup- 
 pose the good God gave me the vocation to be a 
 sick-nurse ; I do not know. One day I was just 
 passing the door with my bundle of work, and the 
 impulse came to go in and see how the poor old 
 gentleman was, and I stayed ; in fact, I never left 
 
IN THE FRENXH QUARTER. 1870. 2S3 
 
 him day nor night. It was a long time — weeks ; 
 he suffered enough ! Naturally he could not pay 
 his rent ; how could he, madame ? Fever, rheu- 
 matism, and God knows what all ! Old Grouille 
 was for putting him in the street ; sick ! a gentle- 
 man, an aristocrat, a man of letters ! Ah, that 
 was too much ! Well, the old miser ! One room 
 was enough for both, thank God ! One day he 
 thought he was getting well, and the idea took 
 him ; he sent for a priest and married me — Mon 
 Dieu ! there has been misery enough in this world 
 for him 1" 
 
 She had forgotten the book, and was looking 
 straight before her with a smile on her lips, fill- 
 ing out from memory the precis of what she had 
 given the Sister, rounding, amplifying, beautifying, 
 and sublimating the prosaic facts as women will 
 do about their marriage ; counting over her own 
 secret little hoardings of looks, caresses, thrills, 
 and tremors — the precious private coin of love. 
 
 The time passed. How suddenly it had grown 
 dark ! She looked up in astonishment for the 
 moon. No cloud hid it ; it was only slipping 
 away along the smooth heavens, drawing stealth- 
 ily its silver light and loveliness away from the 
 sleeping world as gently and easily as a mother 
 withdraws the covering from a sleeping child. 
 The tall chimney of the next house cut a great 
 notch in the full round globe. 
 
 She was in despair. How could she manage it 
 
284 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1S70. 
 
 now? In the daytime she had her task of sew- 
 ing. If the moon had but stayed longer she might 
 yet have sharpened her eyes sufficiently. The 
 blind need no light or she might have had one in 
 her room ; although there was one there, in the 
 farthest corner behind the bed, standing on a 
 backless chair. It was neither hers nor Monsieur 
 Villeminot's ; it was St. Roch's — Madame St. 
 George's donation ; a spiritual disinfectant in be- 
 half of the old author against his own works ; ded- 
 icated to consume its substance away in acts of 
 grace before the picture of the saint. Could she, 
 dare she read by it ? 
 
 The moon disappeared entirely behind the 
 chimney. St. Roch's candle or not? She took 
 her slippers in her hand, passed into the room, 
 and stood before the improvised altar cogitating. 
 Who would ever know of it but the saint and 
 herself ? 
 
 " St. Roch, priez pour moi ! 
 
 " St. Roch, ayez pitie de moi ! 
 
 " St. Roch, daignez me secourir ! 
 
 " Enfin, he is a man, he will understand !" 
 
 There was not the same difference between 
 him and other men as between the Sisters and 
 herself. The transparent, waxen Sisters, they 
 embarrassed her with their pure eyes and lips, 
 their unsoilable hands, their immaculate bodies. 
 Spouses of the Holy Ghost, any one could see 
 that ! not of craving, ailing humanity. 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1S70. 285 
 
 She knelt at the chair and repeated her prayers 
 interrogatively, looking timidly to the armed 
 knight for some sign or token of disapproval. 
 Then, an apprehensive glance for other lurking 
 presences all around the chamber, then — a pause 
 to listen to the sleeping respiration of her hus- 
 band, then — slowly and stealthily she put her 
 hand behind her, drew a book from the floor, 
 and opened the pages of Les filles de Lucifer. 
 
 The wick neither flickered nor winced, but 
 shared its rays fairly and indiscriminately be- 
 tween the gaudy beatitudes of the saint and the 
 chastely printed type of Monsieur Villeminot's 
 luxurious imaginings. 
 
 " Les filles de Lucifer ! But who are the daugh- 
 ters of Lucifer ?" She tried to remember if her 
 knowledge of womankind had ever contained 
 them. Alas ! her schooling had been of the 
 shortest, surrounding only the year of her first 
 communion, distant now and dim. 
 
 "Lucifer? his daughters? Mon Dieu ! I did 
 not even know he had any.'' 
 
 It was hard to read words she was unfamiliar 
 with ; still harder to recognize her own every-day 
 intimate expressions in such service as was need- 
 ed to portray the charms and characteristics of 
 the ladies in question. Whole pages vanished 
 before her into the unintelligible, descriptions re- 
 mained sealed to her limited understanding. The 
 open spaces and short sentences of dialogue, how- 
 
286 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER, 1870, 
 
 ever, were loop-holes into the fiction which, in her 
 simplicity, she mistook for reality, and at last she 
 comprehended. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! mon Dieu !" she murmured, from 
 time to time, under her breath. She bent her 
 perplexed brows nearer to the book, as if her 
 heavy eyes were attempting to deceive her. At 
 intervals she raised her head, clasped her hands, 
 and looked in dispassionate appeal to the minia- 
 ture saint. Once a blush mounted under her 
 thick, sallow skin, and her heavy fist fell on the 
 passage, burying it from his sight and from hers. 
 
 "And you," apostrophizing St. Roch, "you all 
 up there, you know all this, you see all this, and 
 do nothing ! great God !" 
 
 The cocks in the neighboring bird-store began 
 to make stifled guesses at dawn from their im- 
 prisoned cages, the candle was nearing the sock- 
 et, when the last pages were reached and the 
 book fell to the floor. She stood up and held 
 her forehead tightly. Her plain, work-a-day eyes 
 burned from the pandemonium of light dancing 
 before them. Perfumes and flowers, music and 
 wine, and the intoxicating glamour of idealized 
 passion confused and staggered her. She groped 
 her way to the bed, ' les fiUes de Lucifer,' houris, 
 sultanas, sirens, joyous nights, nocturnal days, or- 
 gies, fetes, nudities, rhapsodies — the whole satur- 
 nalia of life, with grotesque lasciviousness pass- 
 ing and repassing in her brain. 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER, 1870. 287 
 
 As she Stood grasping the post the blackness 
 faded into gray, the gray Hfted like a mist, and 
 the bed slowly emerged from obscurity — the 
 tossed-up draperies, the indented pillow bearing 
 the white-haired head, with the long beard hid- 
 ing the sunken cavity of the toothless mouth, the 
 thin hands, and the body. The body that had 
 disported youthful passions and graces for the 
 daughters of Lucifer — what had become of it un- 
 der the sheets ? A bare outline ! 
 
 He lay, the unconscious author, in the heavy 
 torpid sleep of the aged, moving his hands un- 
 easily, as daylight approached, muttering, mut- 
 tering incessantly in his own private, aristocratic 
 language : 
 
 " A gentleman, an aristocrat, and an ' homme 
 de lettres !' the biographer and companion of ' les 
 filles de Lucifer !' If it were not so, why should 
 he write it ? — why write such lies ? If it were so, 
 God and St. Roch help him !" The past of St. 
 Roch himself had not been more above suspicion. 
 
 She bent over him as she had bent over his 
 book — doubting, questioning, confused. Only her 
 same old Monsieur Villeminot — her same old, 
 blind patron. Not an infirmity, not a distortion, 
 not a wrinkle missing, thank God ! 
 
 " Madame, never a cross word, never an un- 
 gentle tone, never a complaint." 
 
 Her own words recurred again, enveloped in 
 the same mist of tears that had blurred the 
 
288 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER, 1870. 
 
 Mother Superior from her eyes. "And blind, 
 hopelessly blind." How clear and well scrubbed 
 her own humble, uneducated past had been ! 
 
 " O God ! why didst Thou make men so ? or 
 why didst Thou not protect Monsieur Villeminot ?" 
 
 And again the unforgetable in her life came to 
 her and held her, while the gray light of dawn 
 broadened its streaks in the crack of the door 
 and crept down the window, shutter by shutter. 
 
 "Enfin, God knows best. She is the Mother 
 Superior of the convent, I only Margot ! Hus- 
 band for husband. He has given her the Church ; 
 but to me He has given Monsieur Villeminot." . . . 
 
 Absent-mindedly, she made and carried the 
 habitual cup of morning coffee to Monsieur Vil- 
 lem's room. It was not until after repeated 
 knocks on the door that she realized his de- 
 parture of the night before. The little flower- 
 maker was just going out to her work, " tiree 
 a quatre epingles," as usual. A suspicious char- 
 acter she was, in her tight-fitting, flounced dress- 
 es, kid gloves, and diminutive capote, tied co- 
 quettishly under her chin with bright ribbon. 
 
 " Ha, the lazy one ! Still asleep !" 
 
 " Mon Dieu !" answered Margot, with a sigh ; 
 "he is not there at all." 
 
 The flower -maker's malicious eyes tvt^inkled 
 knowingly as she minced out : 
 
 " Ah, le brigand ! but that is the way with 
 young men !" 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER, 1S70. 289 
 
 " He has gone away, mademoiselle, forever." 
 
 "Gone away forever! But where? but why?" 
 
 Margot's shrug of the shoulder left the answer 
 to the inventive powers of the other one. 
 
 "Tant mieux !" shrugging her shoulders also; 
 " one enemy less here ; one more to kill over 
 there." 
 
 There was a general excitement in the yard 
 among the lodgers over the news ; and the sat- 
 isfactory feeling of elation that France had been 
 so promptly vindicated by them continued until 
 old Grouille made his appearance with his greasy 
 bunch of pass-keys, and marched lugubriously 
 up-stairs, followed by a porter. 
 
 " Now, if the steps would crack under him — 
 hein !" the women whispered ; " that would be 
 a judgment !" 
 
 Prussia and the little black trunk were incon- 
 tinently carried ignominiously out of the corri- 
 dor, pursued by witticisms and patriotic jests, 
 which culminated in boisterous hilarity as the ban- 
 dy-legged, staggering porter finally disappeared, 
 Anais, returning from early mass, knocked against 
 him as he stepped onto the banquette. It was 
 only Wilhelm Mtiller, painted in white letters on 
 the trunk, that she saw, not Prussia ; and the 
 tender sentiments of repentance which were now 
 making her heart eloquent with contrition took 
 one bound into remorse — dumb, agonized re- 
 morse. Margot waylaid the man at the corner, 
 19 
 
ago IN THE FRENCH QUARTER, 1870. 
 
 and detained him until a message translated into 
 his native Creole had been reiterated into intelli- 
 gible conveyance on his part. 
 
 The war travelled all the way down the street 
 from Canal to Esplanade ; zigzagging like a 
 streak of lightning from banquette to banquette, 
 to separate friends from foes in all the little 
 shops and industries, neighbors for decades ; 
 playing havoc with trade, blockading sociability, 
 and laying waste whole quarters of human affecT 
 tions. From every German signboard victorious 
 Prussian armies seemed contemptuously to issue 
 with cannon, flags, sabres, and insults, to besiege 
 an opposite or proximate French heart, which 
 was daily fighting, starving, freezing, despair- 
 ing, mutinying, with Paris enshrined in its very 
 core. 
 
 In " La Rose de France " misfits accumulated 
 beyond the capacity of the show-window ; orders 
 diminished below comparison with any previous 
 era, and Anais, to her stepmother's vituperative 
 indignation, was discovering a vocation for the 
 cloister. The world had become manless for 
 her ; all her growing and blooming, dressing and 
 coquetting useless and distasteful; her dreams, 
 plans, and musings out of place and inappropri- 
 ate. She had to learn a different language from 
 the Uioonbeams and flowers. Her ears misinter- 
 preted the strains of music. Her heart bounded 
 and started on false rcents and trails. Her lamp 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1S70. 29I 
 
 burned long and bright behind the curtains. How 
 often the doors opened to illusory taps ! 
 
 The news from France ? What were battles 
 and invasions ? She, she alone, could tell what 
 real misfortune, real pain, were. The phenom- 
 enon was that life could continue at all under 
 the circumstances ; that the sun could shine, and 
 the people pass in front of the shop day after day, 
 just the same. Yes, it was evidently God's will 
 to make a nun of her. . . . Was there, could there 
 be, a greater tragedy than hers in His world, 
 among His people .' 
 
 Either France or the shoe business had to suf- 
 fer, and Monsieur Renaudiere was too good a 
 patriot to hesitate in such an emergency between 
 his workroom and Jacquet's " Quincaillerie," 
 where the war was being diligently supervised 
 and the Government vigorously reconstructed in 
 nightly seances of midnight duration. 
 
 As Napoleon waned, Jacquet waxed, and his 
 cottage rose in direct importance with the ad- 
 versities of France. Trade was never brisker. 
 The high-pointed tile roof over his shop seemed 
 hardly able to hold down the plethora of wares 
 underneath. The front room was in a constant 
 state of overflow into the back room, which in 
 turn disburdened itself onto the unpaved yard 
 in the rear, where were huddled together old cart- 
 wheels, pi-imitive sugar boilers, millstones, yellow 
 water jars (retired into desuetude by increasing 
 
292 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 187O. 
 
 use of cisterns), chains, cannon-balls, and rusty 
 heaps of mingled odds and ends, leaving barely 
 space enough in the centre for a half-dozen 
 chairs to mortise themselves comfortably in the 
 soft earth, under the reverberative periods of 
 Jacquet's hyperbolical eloquence. Here, evening 
 after evening, under sunsets, twilights, moons and 
 star risings, royalty had been guillotined, relig- 
 ion suppressed, priests extirpated, palaces and 
 churches fired, dejected imperialists coerced into 
 red-republican acquiescence by the fiery iron-mon- 
 ger, and "la patrie Madonne," coifed and cos- 
 tumed for the third representation of that drama, 
 whose fifth act this time, according to the author, 
 was to be a permanent denouement of victory 
 and peace. But constant defeat and the pro- 
 tracted siege had driven the little coterie into de- 
 spair and into the house, as winter succeeded to 
 autumn, and it was finally in the dimly-lighted 
 back room, surrounded by the shadowy forms of 
 Jacquet's favorite metal, a prey to sinister noises 
 and fancies, listeners to the stolid rejoicings of 
 foes outside and the indifferent gayety of neutrals, 
 that the compatriots suffered the full bitterness 
 of their expatriation and humiliation. At the end 
 of hope and patience, on the point of reacting 
 vindictively into royalism, they sat one night, 
 alas ! and waited for the last news from Paris 
 the terms of surrender. 
 
 " It is with a sword in the hand of a republic." 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1S70. 293 
 
 The word was, as usual with Jacquet, misfortune ; 
 instead of silencing his tongue, appearing to li- 
 cense it. 
 
 " Boutique !" (Shop !) 
 
 An old carafe to be sold, or a broken cup to be 
 matched, or five cents of nails to be bought on time, 
 or the shiftless Carlins redeeming or pawning nec- 
 essary or useless flat-irons ; and the Government 
 had to be suspended, and the priests allowed a 
 breathing-spell until, not satisfaction (for that, even 
 in a second-hand condition, was not to be found 
 in Jacquet's shop), but agreement was arrived at. 
 
 " It is iron, * le fer, le fer, le fer,' " beating down 
 as he spoke on a newly-polished stove. 
 
 " Shop !" 
 
 " Au diable la pratique !" 
 
 And they all listened listlessly to a tedious rig- 
 marole of chaffering over a coffee-pot. 
 
 " And that is the last price. Monsieur Jacquet ?" 
 
 "All that can be called 'last price.' " 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! how dear these things are !" 
 
 " Cro nom ! if I gave it to you for nothing you 
 would still call it dear, you women !" and he com- 
 menced closing and bolting his shutters, for it 
 was ringing nine o'clock. 
 
 " It is not that it is dear, Monsieur Jacquet, 
 but money is so scarce." The voice sounded of 
 an empty purse. 
 
 " There is no law to compel you to buy a cof- 
 fee-pot, saperlotte !" 
 
294 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1S70. 
 
 " And times are hard, mon Dieu, harder than 
 in our war !" 
 
 " Si ! the times are hard, but no harder for you 
 than for me, par example !" 
 
 "Well, it's no use; I had better have the old 
 one mended. Good-night, Monsieur Jacquet." 
 
 " Good-night, Madame Margot," 
 
 His voice was acrimonious and disgusted 
 enough ; he bolted the door noisily against the 
 intrusion of any more customers. 
 
 " Va-t-en, imbecile ! idiote de femme ! dear, 
 dear, dear !" whining in imitation of her tones. 
 " She could not tell the truth and say she had 
 no money ; the truth from women ; ha, bonjour ! 
 I guarantee she had not a picayune in her pock- 
 et. Ah, good God ! what fools women are ! He 
 knew what He was about when He made them 
 so. But it is not the men Vv'ho should complain 
 of it, nor her old patron — Hein, Madame Mar- 
 got ! Madame Margot!" 
 
 She was nearly through the corridor, but his 
 voice arrested her in time and brought her back. 
 
 " But come in. Don't be a fool. What are 
 you afraid of ? Here, for God's sake, take it for 
 a picayune, on time, anything, only don't talk any 
 more about it. Here, go make the ' patron ' his 
 coffee ; bon soir ! En — fin," as he sharply shut 
 the door behind her. " 1-oor wretch, if he has the 
 coffee to make. He is a Frenchman also, her 
 'patron.' He will not want for misery and dis- 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1S70. 295 
 
 grace to-morrow morning ! Blind and infirm — it 
 is very little, after all, a coffee-pot ! A gentleman, 
 an aristocrat, and a man of letters, too, according 
 to that great cow of a Widow Carlin and her two 
 heifer daughters. Pests of the earth, with their 
 flat-irons! Oui, messieurs," returning to the 
 back door, "it will come hard upon him; he 
 dates from the time of the great Napoleon when 
 there was a Franca to gurround (g-r-r-r-ound) 
 the Prussians under her heel. Ha ! The time 
 will come again ! We must begin again as they 
 did. ... As I was saying, the republic. . . . But 
 what is the matter ? You are all going ?" 
 
 He had been too busy with his own soliloquy 
 to hear the conference of the others. Old Frejus 
 had been, the orator this time; he who had sat 
 obstinately silent during the autumn and winter 
 debates of his compatriots, from whom neither 
 guillotines nor petroleum could evoke more than 
 increasingly melancholy shakes of the head and 
 increasingly dejected arrangements of feature, 
 whose tongue had refused to participate even in 
 the allowably desperate prophecies and surmises 
 of the hour; he had found a text in the dialogue 
 between Margot and Jacquet for a sermon, and 
 the language — poor old silent Frejus ! — of a Do- 
 minican in Passion Week to deliver it in. Not 
 that his friends, being Frenchmen, needed more 
 than a suggestion to kindle their hearts into gen- 
 erosity and sympathy. He buttoned up his over- 
 
296 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1S70. 
 
 coat and tied a bandanna over his head, still talk- 
 ing along in his tearful, complaining tone, as if 
 his tongue could not cease all at once the unac- 
 customed impetus and motion ; his words falling 
 through the red and yellow folds, being twisted 
 around mouth and neck. 
 
 " Humanity ! Christianity ! A good, pious 
 woman ! In poverty ! No friends ! Compan- 
 ions ! All Frenchmen alike ! Conquered by 
 Prussians ! Blind ; alone ; infirm ! \\^eather so 
 cold ! A gentleman ; an aristocrat ; a man of let- 
 ters ! Poor woman, no money, no coffee ! And we 
 sitting here spouting ! spouting ! spouting ! with 
 — he, my Saviour ! — full stomachs and warm bod- 
 ies — we let Frenchmen die of hunger and want ! 
 The Prussians kill them. We are more brutal 
 than Prussians." 
 
 It was a short speech, but the longest he had 
 ever made in his life ; and it was more effective 
 than any of Jacquet's or Renaudiere's, for it left 
 no minority. " En avant, mes amis !" command- 
 ed Jacquet. All the overcoats were buttoned up, 
 all the handkerchiefs knotted, and all stood out- 
 side the door and shivered unanimously, while 
 Jacquet hunted for the key-hole with his pass- 
 key in a darkness that seemed assembled C7i 
 masse to quell forever the impertinent efforts of 
 gas. They crossed the street, slipped against 
 and stumbled over each other in the corridor, 
 traversed the yard, and directed their steps to the 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1870. 297 
 
 stair-way, each one silently conning some Gal- 
 licism of respectful homage and love. Renau- 
 diere held back. Frejus absent-mindedly or un- 
 selfishly mounted the rotten stairs first, and was 
 miraculously followed in safety by all the rest. 
 
 The aroused Carlins peeped through their door 
 at the astounding deputation filing past, and all, 
 old and young, followed on tiptoe after ; but they 
 were not half-way up the stairs and darkness be- 
 fore they were overtaken and startled into sup- 
 pressed screams and ejaculations by the light- 
 shod Anais, who, also peeping, was also driven by 
 curiosity into following the procession. 
 
 Fre'jus discreetly tapped, then waited a while, 
 then softly opened the battened doors, and all the 
 heads came together to look through the glass 
 casement inside. Oh, the battle of Sedan had 
 been followed by defeat, bloodshed, and humilia- 
 tion enough to have cracked the panes as the 
 concentrated hatred of their gaze fell on what 
 they had accustomed themselves to regard as 
 the physiognomical expression of Prussian ava- 
 rice, cruelty, and oppression — the mild face of 
 INIonsieur Wilhelm Miiller. Rage at the sight of 
 him swept like a blast all the soft impulses away 
 from their hearts and the pretty speeches a-mak- 
 ing in their brain. 
 
 " He had not gone away, then, the liar ! He was 
 not fighting with his countrymen, the coward ! 
 He had remained rather, vilely to creep and spy 
 
29S IN THE FRENCH QUARTER, 1870. 
 
 among the unfortunate French under the cover 
 of darkness ! Bribing and corrupting poverty- 
 pinched French patriots into disgraceful social 
 intercourse ! That was like a Prussian. Sitting, 
 laughing in his sleeve at them ! After they had 
 put him out ; cast him and his trunk into the 
 street, he was mocking them ! Despising them ! 
 Ah, they would show him ! They might be beat- 
 en in France ; but here in America, in New Or- 
 leans, there was still something to be said, to be 
 done. Did he take them for children ? For ba- 
 bies ?" 
 
 Serenely unaware of the muffled heads, red 
 noses, and vindictive whispers of his mortal en- 
 emies outside, the young German seemed in the 
 dim room to be pursuing an amusing, if hesitat- 
 ing, narrative ; reading from time to time from 
 the telegraphic columns of a newspaper he held 
 in his hand. Renaudiere alone could catch the 
 drift of it, for he, sacrificing vision to hearing, was 
 bent over, holding an uncovered ear against the 
 key-hole. 
 
 " But what is it ? What is it .'"' demanded Jac- 
 quet. " What lies ? What infamies ?" 
 
 " Sacre !" A laugh, actually a laugh through 
 the orifice, to be reported by Renaudiere. A 
 pleased, easy, complacent laugh by the old man 
 in the chair to stick and quiver in their hearts. 
 A laugh by a Frenchman, at this fatal hour, and 
 before a Prussian ! 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1S70. 299 
 
 " He reads telegrams," continued Renaudiere, 
 and then opened his lips for no more items ; for, 
 though he glued his ear to the key-hole, he knew 
 that the words which he heard could only have 
 emanated from his own diseased brain. " French 
 triumphs — Prussian defeats — despair of besiegers 
 — courage and fortitude of besieged. In all prob- 
 ability peace with glory and success to France ! 
 Paris . . ." 
 
 Was he (Renaudiere) crazy, or they ? 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha, Prussians repulsed again ! Still 
 holding their own ? Ah, my brave Frenchmen, 
 my brave Parisians. My polished lions ! Star- 
 vation, shells, snow, prrut !" A cracked sound of 
 his youthful expression of contempt. " They are 
 fighting now for Paris, men ami, for no govern- 
 ment, no man, but for Paris ! Ah, you don't 
 know v*hat that means! I do, I do ! it will make 
 them indestructible. Paris surrender?" He strove, 
 but could not hide the tremulous vacillation from 
 confidence to appi^ehension. The others merely 
 stared from the outside, waiting for some event 
 to enlighten them or prompt future action. 
 
 Margot, alas, for the easy descent of it! was 
 kneeling on the floor before the picture of St. Roch, 
 but only to hold the new coffee-pot over the flame 
 of the votive candle. Her face v/as turned away 
 from her task towards Monsieur Wilhelm, whom 
 she was prompting by nods and signs and smiles 
 of encouragement. The flames played over the 
 
300 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1S70. 
 
 sides of the unsteady tin, blackening and smoking 
 it, and sending little waves of shadow over the 
 whitewashed walls. The men outside nudged 
 each other as the red and gilt backs of the books 
 lightened and darkened on the mantel, 
 
 " Look ! his books ! it's true, a famous author ; 
 a man of letters." 
 
 " Paris surrender ! Paris surrender !" Tlie 
 shrill voice came through the key-hole to Re- 
 naudiere. " Never ! Why, her paving-stones are 
 the very bone, her sewers the veins, of the French 
 people. Surrender to Prussians ! Before the last 
 soldier, the last man, the last woman, the last 
 gamins from the streets had perished in her de- 
 fence ? Before the generale had been beaten 
 throughout the whole world and the last French 
 heart securely sleeping under foreign flags roused.-' 
 Never ! never ! To arms ! To arms ! Her cry 
 would go from city to hamlet, from hamlet to 
 family, from the family to the distant wandering 
 sons in mountains, swamps, and prairies. Country 
 in danger, my children ! To arms ! To arms ! 
 Who — who of us would hold back ? On ! On !" 
 
 He was hidden by the cushions. They on the 
 outside could hear nothing, but they could see 
 his fingers creep along his chair. His white 
 head came into view bent forward in blind in- 
 tensity of expression, his thin, long beard agitated 
 by the excited utterances. 
 
 " Paris in danger ! To the rescue ! All ! all ! — 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1S70. 301 
 
 Ranks, Politics, Religions, Oriflammcs, Fleurs- 
 de-lis, Tricolor ! My country ! We come ! We 
 come !'' 
 
 The gaunt form sprang electrified from the 
 chair, and made a step forward, an extended 
 hand grasping an imaginary banner, the faded 
 dressing-gown falling (as if to free him of in- 
 firmity and disease) from the bent shoulders. 
 
 " We come ! Yes ! All ! all !" 
 
 He swayed, tottered, and fell like a clod back 
 into his cushions. 
 
 They threw open the doors and rushed in, 
 trampling over the prostrate form of Renaudiere. 
 The coffee-pot fell from Margot's hands, upset- 
 ting the candle and splashing the coffee over the 
 floor, Margot, INIonsieur Wilhelm, but, most vo- 
 ciferously, Renaudiere, interposed, and before a 
 word could be uttered by the uninitiated, excited 
 ones, they all stood committed to the suppositi- 
 tious triumphs of France, the supposititious suc- 
 cessful defence of Paris, and were made by signs 
 the confidants of Monsieur Wilhelm's nightly 
 stolen visits, his generosity, his " bonte divine," 
 his un-Prussian good-will. Jacquet lighted the 
 candle and placed it with a bow of national po- 
 liteness under the saint again, and then Margot 
 shoved them all out into the darkness and cold 
 of the gallery, entangled with Carlins, incoherent 
 of speech, and distorted from prolonged shrugs of 
 the shoulder. 
 
302 IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1870. 
 
 " Mais, que diable ! that woman, eh, she is 
 never going to allow Paris to be taken," grum- 
 bled Jacquet. 
 
 Renaudiere, after several mistakes in the ob- 
 scurity, finally seized the right man, Monsieur 
 Wilhelm, by both hands. 
 
 " Mon ami, you are great, you are noble ; don't 
 say a word, I understand, I appreciate. As a 
 Frenchman, you see, I must detest you ; as a 
 man," suiting the action to the word, " I embrace 
 you." 
 
 Old Fre'jus had not been missed until he re- 
 appeared with arms filled : crucifixes, beads, pict- 
 ures, and candles, a complete installation from 
 his show-case for the proper, fitting service of the 
 knightly, handsome St. Roch. 
 
 And she, who waiting in despair for one more 
 chance, one more tap on her window, thought 
 herself drifting towards the convent ? There 
 was no m.oon to gild the heavens above her, and 
 the water dripped into icicles from the cistern be- 
 hind her, but her vigil was neither long nor cold, 
 although the cathedral clock was striking mid- 
 night before she caught him slipping past into 
 the corridor — his nightly martyrdom, slipping 
 past love and happiness, into a cold, deserted, 
 denuded world. 
 
 She caught and held him — " Wilhelm !" And 
 it was as if there had never been war or discord 
 in the world ; as if, indeed, there had never been 
 
IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. 1S70. 303 
 
 a world but for them, for that moment. Only a 
 moment, but it was sufficient — only a moment, 
 because old Grouille was promptitude itself in 
 bolting and barring the gate of the lodging-house 
 at midnight. 
 
 THE END. 
 
W. D. IIOWELLS. 
 
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 A LITTLE JOURNEY IN THE WORLD. A Novel. Post 
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 The vigor and vividness of the tale and its sustained interest are not 
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 conspicuous dramatic power ; while her skill in the development of a 
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 Miss Woolson never once follows the beaten track of the orthodox 
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 her in very pleasant places ; or she has, perhaps, within herself the 
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 the day— a quality sadly wanting in novels of the lime.— WhitdtaU 
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SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 A Collection of Seven Stories. By Annie Trumbull 
 Slosson. pp. 286. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, 
 $1 25. 
 
 A charming collection of character sketches and stories 
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A KING OF TYEE. 
 
 A Tale of the Times of Ezra and Nehemiab. 
 By James M. Ludlow, D. D. 1 6rao, Cloth, 
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 Must be unhesitatingly set down as a highly satisfactory per- 
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 human heart tiiat animates it all. When we say that his tale 
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 are convinced that the opinion of all intelligent readers will 
 confirm the verdict. — Churchman, N. Y. 
 
 Vivid with the richness of Oriental habits and customs, and 
 the weird accompaniments of pagan worship, this tale of the 
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 Published by HARPER Sc BROTHERS, New York. 
 
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BEN-HUE: 
 
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 scenes described in the New Testament are rewritten with the power 
 and skill of an accomplished master of style. — iV". Y. Times. 
 
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 iant. . . .We are carried through a surprising variety of scenes; we 
 witness a sea-fight, a chariot-race, the internal economy of a Roman 
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 RARE BOOK 
 COLLECTION 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 AT 
 
 CHAPEL HILL 
 
 Wilmer 
 681