“Ah! v’là2 Chouchoute!” some one called.
“Eh! Chouchoute!”
“Jus’ in time, Chouchoute; yere ’s Miss Léontine waitin’ fer a partna.”
“S’lute yo’ partnas!” Uncle Ben was thundering forth; and Chouchoute, with one hand gracefully behind him, made a profound bow to Miss Léontine, as he offered her the other.
Now Chouchoute was noted far and wide for his skill as a dancer. The moment he stood upon the floor, a fresh spirit seemed to enter into all present. It was with renewed vigor that Uncle Ben intoned his “Balancy all! Fus’ fo’ fo’ard an’ back!”
The spectators drew close about the couples to watch Chouchoute’s wonderful performance; his pointing of toes; his pigeonwings in which his feet seemed hardly to touch the floor.
“It take Chouchoute to show ’em de step, va!” proclaimed Gros-Léon, with a fat satisfaction, to the audience at large.
“Look ’im! look ’im yonda! Ole Ben got to work hard’ ’an dat, if he want to keep up wid Chouchoute, I tell you!”
So it was; encouragement and adulation on all sides, till, from the praise that was showered on him, Chouchoute’s head was soon as light as his feet.
At the windows appeared the dusky faces of negroes, their bright eyes gleaming as they viewed the scene within and mingled their loud guffaws with the medley of sound that was already deafening.
The time was speeding. The air was heavy in the room, but no one seemed to mind this. Uncle Ben was calling the figures now with a rhythmic sing-song:—
“Right an’ lef’ all ’roun’! Swing co’nas!”
Chouchoute turned with a smile to Miss Félicie on his left, his hand extended, when what should break upon his ear but the long, harrowing wail of a locomotive!
Before the sound ceased he had vanished from the room. Miss Félicie stood as he left her, with hand uplifted, rooted to the spot with astonishment.
It was the train whistling for his station, and he a mile and more away! He knew he was too late, and that he could not make the distance; but the sound had been a rude reminder that he was not at his post of duty.
However, he would do what he could now. He ran swiftly to the outer road, and to the spot where he had left his pony.
The horse was gone, and with it the United States mail-bag!
For an instant Chouchoute stood half-stunned with terror. Then, in one quick flash, came to his mind a vision of possibilities that sickened him. Disgrace overtaking him in this position of trust; poverty his portion again; and his dear mother forced to share both with him.
He turned desperately to some negroes who had followed him, seeing his wild rush from the house:—
“Who saw my hoss? W’at you all did with my hoss, say?”
“Who you reckon tech yo’ hoss, boy?” grumbled Gustave, a sullen-looking mulatto. “You did n’ have no call to lef’ ’im in de road, fus’ place.”
“ ’Pear to me like I heahed a hoss a-lopin’ down de road jis’ now; did n’ you, Uncle Jake?” ventured a second.
“Neva heahed nuttin’—nuttin’ ’t all, ’cep’ dat big-mouf Ben yonda makin’ mo’ fuss ’an a t’unda-sto’m.”
“Boys!” cried Chouchoute, excitedly, “bring me a hoss, quick, one of you. I ’m boun’ to have one! I ’m boun’ to! I ’ll give two dolla’ to the firs’ man brings me a hoss.”
Near at hand, in the “lot” that adjoined Uncle Jake’s cabin, was his little creole pony, nibbling the cool, wet grass that he found, along the edges and in the corners of the fence.
The negro led the pony forth. With no further word, and with one bound, Chouchoute was upon the animal’s back. He wanted neither saddle nor bridle, for there were few horses in the neighborhood that had not been trained to be guided by the simple motions of a rider’s body.
Once mounted, he threw himself forward with a certain violent impulse, leaning till his cheek touched the animal’s mane.
He uttered a sharp “Hei!” and at once, as if possessed by sudden frenzy, the horse dashed forward, leaving the bewildered black men in a cloud of dust.
What a mad ride it was! On one side was the river bank, steep in places and crumbling away; on the other, an unbroken line of fencing; now in straight lines of neat planking, now treacherous barbed wire, sometimes the zigzag rail.
The night was black, with only such faint light as the stars were shedding. No sound was to be heard save the quick thud of the horse’s hoofs upon the hard dirt road, the animal’s heavy breathing, and the boy’s feverish “hei-hei!” when he fancied the speed slackened.
Occasionally a marauding dog started from the obscurity to bark and give useless chase.
“To the road, to the road, Bon-à-rien!”3 panted Chouchoute, for the horse in his wild race had approached so closely to the river’s edge that the bank crumbled beneath his flying feet. It was only by a desperate lunge and bound that he saved himself and rider from plunging into the water below.
Chouchoute hardly knew what he was pursuing so madly. It was rather something that drove him; fear, hope, desperation.
He was rushing to the station, because it seemed to him, naturally, the first thing to do. There was the faint hope that his own horse had broken rein and gone there of his own accord; but such hope was almost lost in a wretched conviction that had seized him the instant he saw “Gustave the thief” among the men gathered at Gros-Léon’s.
“Hei! hei, Bon-à-rien!”
The lights of the railway station were gleaming ahead, and Chouchoute’s hot ride was almost at an end.
With sudden and strange perversity of purpose, Chouchoute, as he drew closer upon the station, slackened his horse’s speed. A low fence was in his way. Not long before, he would have cleared it at a bound, for Bon-à-rien could do such things. Now he cantered easily to the end of it, to go through the gate which was there.
His courage was growing faint, and his heart sinking within him as he drew nearer and nearer.
He dismounted, and holding the pony by the mane, approached with some trepidation the young station-master, who was taking note of some freight that had been deposited near the tracks.
“Mr. Hudson,” faltered Chouchoute, “did you see my pony ’roun’ yere anywhere? an’—an’ the mail-sack?”
“Your pony ’s safe in the woods, Chou’te. The mail-bag ’s on its way to New Orleans”—
“Thank God!” breathed the boy.
“But that poor little fool darkey of yours has about done it for himself, I guess.”
“Wash? Oh, Mr. Hudson! w’at ’s—w’at ’s happen’ to Wash?”
“He ’s inside there, on my mattress. He ’s hurt, and he ’s hurt bad; that ’s what ’s the matter. You see the ten forty-five had come in, and she did n’t make much of a stop; she was just pushing out, when bless me if that little chap of yours did n’t come tearing along on Spunky as if Old Harry4 was behind him.
“You know how No. 22 can pull at the start; and there was that little imp keeping abreast of her ’most under the thing’s wheels.
“I shouted at him. I could n’t make out what he was up to, when blamed if he did n’t pitch the mail-bag clean into the car! Buffalo Bill5 could n’t have done it neater.
“Then Spunky, she shied; and Wash he bounced against the side of that car and back, like a rubber ball, and laid in the ditch till we carried him inside.
“I ’ve wired down the road for Doctor Campbell to come up on 14 and do what he can for him.”
Hudson had related these events to the distracted boy while they made their way toward the house.
Inside, upon a low pallet, lay the little negro, breathing heavily, his black face pinched and ashen with approaching death. He had wanted no one to touch him further than to lay him upon the bed.
The few men and colored women gathered in the room were looking upon him with pity mingled with curiosity.
When he saw Chouchoute he closed his eyes, and a shiver passed through his small frame. Those about him
thought he was dead. Chouchoute knelt, choking, at his side and held his hand.
“O Wash, Wash! W’at you did that for? W’at made you, Wash?”
“Marse Chouchoute,” the boy whispered, so low that no one could hear him but his friend, “I was gwine ’long de big road, pas’ Marse Gros-Léon’s, an’ I seed Spunky tied dah wid de mail. Dar warn’t a minute—I ’clar’, Marse Chouchoute, dar warn’t a minute—to fotch you. W’at makes my head tu’n ’roun’ dat away?”
“Neva mine, Wash; keep still; don’t you try to talk,” entreated Chouchoute.
“You ain’t mad, Marse Chouchoute?”
The lad could only answer with a hand pressure.
“Dar warn’t a minute, so I gits top o’ Spunky—I neva seed nuttin’ cl’ar de road like dat. I come ’long side—de train—an’ fling de sack. I seed ’im kotch it, and I don’ know nuttin’ mo’ ’cep’ mis’ry, tell I see you—a-comin’ frough de do’. Mebby Ma’ame Verchette know some’pin,” he murmured faintly, “w’at gwine make my—head quit tu’nin’ ’round dat away. I boun’ to git well, ’ca’se who—gwine—watch Marse—Chouchoute?”
A Visit to Avoyelles
EVERY ONE who came up from Avoyelles had the same story to tell of Mentine. Cher Maître!1 but she was changed. And there were babies, more than she could well manage; as good as four already. Jules was not kind except to himself. They seldom went to church, and never anywhere upon a visit. They lived as poorly as pine-woods people. Doudouce had heard the story often, the last time no later than that morning.
“Ho-a!” he shouted to his mule plumb in the middle of the cotton row. He had staggered along behind the plow since early morning, and of a sudden he felt he had had enough of it. He mounted the mule and rode away to the stable, leaving the plow with its polished blade thrust deep in the red Cane River soil. His head felt like a windmill with the recollections and sudden intentions that had crowded it and were whirling through his brain since he had heard the last story about Mentine.
He knew well enough Mentine would have married him seven years ago had not Jules Trodon come up from Avoyelles and captivated her with his handsome eyes and pleasant speech. Doudouce was resigned then, for he held Mentine’s happiness above his own. But now she was suffering in a hopeless, common, exasperating way for the small comforts of life. People had told him so. And somehow, to-day, he could not stand the knowledge passively. He felt he must see those things they spoke of with his own eyes. He must strive to help her and her children if it were possible.
Doudouce could not sleep that night. He lay with wakeful eyes watching the moonlight creep across the bare floor of his room; listening to sounds that seemed unfamiliar and weird down among the rushes along the bayou. But towards morning he saw Mentine as he had seen her last in her white wedding gown and veil. She looked at him with appealing eyes and held out her arms for protection,—for rescue, it seemed to him. That dream determined him. The following day Doudouce started for Avoyelles.
Jules Trodon’s home lay a mile or two from Marksville. It consisted of three rooms strung in a row and opening upon a narrow gallery. The whole wore an aspect of poverty and dilapidation that summer day, towards noon, when Doudouce approached it. His presence outside the gate aroused the frantic barking of dogs that dashed down the steps as if to attack him. Two little brown bare-footed children, a boy and girl, stood upon the gallery staring stupidly at him. “Call off you’ dogs,” he requested; but they only continued to stare.
“Down, Pluto! down, Achille!” cried the shrill voice of a woman who emerged from the house, holding upon her arm a delicate baby of a year or two. There was only an instant of unrecognition.
“Mais Doudouce, that ent you, comment! Well, if any one would tole me this mornin’! Git a chair, ’Tit Jules. That ’s Mista Doudouce, f’om ’way yonda Natchitoches w’ere yo’ maman use’ to live. Mais, you ent change’; you’ lookin’ well, Doudouce.”
He shook hands in a slow, undemonstrative way, and seated himself clumsily upon the hide-bottomed chair, laying his broad-rimmed felt hat upon the floor beside him. He was very uncomfortable in the cloth Sunday coat which he wore.
“I had business that call’ me to Marksville,” he began, “an’ I say to myse’f, ‘Tiens, you can’t pass by without tell’ ’em all howdy.’ ”
“Par exemple! w’at Jules would said to that! Mais, you’ lookin’ well; you ent change’, Doudouce.”
“An’ you’ lookin’ well, Mentine. Jis’ the same Mentine.” He regretted that he lacked talent to make the lie bolder.
She moved a little uneasily, and felt upon her shoulder for a pin with which to fasten the front of her old gown where it lacked a button. She had kept the baby in her lap. Doudouce was wondering miserably if he would have known her outside her home. He would have known her sweet, cheerful brown eyes, that were not changed; but her figure, that had looked so trim in the wedding gown, was sadly misshapen. She was brown, with skin like parchment, and piteously thin. There were lines, some deep as if old age had cut them, about the eyes and mouth.
“An’ how you lef’ ’em all, yonda?” she asked, in a high voice that had grown shrill from screaming at children and dogs.
“They all well. It ’s mighty li’le sickness in the country this yea’. But they been lookin’ fo’ you up yonda, straight along, Mentine.”
“Don’t talk, Doudouce, it ’s no chance; with that po’ wo’ out piece o’ lan’ w’at Jules got. He say, anotha yea’ like that, he ’s goin’ sell out, him.”
The children were clutching her on either side, their persistent gaze always fastened upon Doudouce. He tried without avail to make friends with them. Then Jules came home from the field, riding the mule with which he had worked, and which he fastened outside the gate.
“Yere ’s Doudouce f’om Natchitoches, Jules,” called out Mentine, “he stop’ to tell us howdy, en passant.”2 The husband mounted to the gallery and the two men shook hands; Doudouce listlessly, as he had done with Mentine; Jules with some bluster and show of cordiality.
“Well, you’ a lucky man, you,” he exclaimed with his swagger air, “able to broad like that, encore!3 You could n’t do that if you had half a dozen mouth’ to feed, allez!”4
“Non, j’te garantis!”5 agreed Mentine, with a loud laugh. Doudouce winced, as he had done the instant before at Jules’s heartless implication. This husband of Mentine surely had not changed during the seven years, except to grow broader, stronger, handsomer. But Doudouce did not tell him so.
After the mid-day dinner of boiled salt pork, corn bread and molasses, there was nothing for Doudouce but to take his leave when Jules did.
At the gate, the little boy was discovered in dangerous proximity to the mule’s heels, and was properly screamed at and rebuked.
“I reckon he likes hosses,” Doudouce remarked. “He take’ afta you, Mentine. I got a li’le pony yonda home,” he said, addressing the child, “w’at ent no use to me. I’m goin’ sen’ ’im down to you. He ’s a good, tough li’le mustang. You jis’ can let ’im eat grass an’ feed ’im a han’ful o’ co’n, once a w’ile. An’ he ’s gentle, yes. You an’ yo’ ma can ride ’im to church, Sundays. Hein! you want?”
“W’at you say, Jules?” demanded the father. “W’at you say?” echoed Mentine, who was balancing the baby across the gate. “ ’Tit sauvage, va!”6
Doudouce shook hands all around, even with the baby, and walked off in the opposite direction to Jules, who had mounted the mule. He was bewildered. He stumbled over the rough ground because of tears that were blinding him, and that he had held in check for the past hour.
He had loved Mentine long ago, when she was young and attractive, and he found that he loved her still. He had tried to put all disturbing thought of her away, on that wedding-day, and he supposed he had succeeded. But he loved her now as he never had. Because she was no longer beautiful, he loved her. Because the delicate bloom of her existence had been rudely brushed away; because she was in a manner
fallen; because she was Mentine, he loved her; fiercely, as a mother loves an afflicted child. He would have liked to thrust that man aside, and gather up her and her children, and hold them and keep them as long as life lasted.
After a moment or two Doudouce looked back at Mentine, standing at the gate with her baby. But her face was turned away from him. She was gazing after her husband, who went in the direction of the field.
A Wizard from Gettysburg
IT was one afternoon in April, not long ago, only the other day, and the shadows had already begun to lengthen.
Bertrand Delmandé, a fine, bright-looking boy of fourteen years,—fifteen, perhaps,—was mounted, and riding along a pleasant country road, upon a little Creole pony, such as boys in Louisiana usually ride when they have nothing better at hand. He had hunted, and carried his gun before him.
It is unpleasant to state that Bertrand was not so depressed as he should have been, in view of recent events that had come about. Within the past week he had been recalled from the college of Grand Coteau to his home, the Bon-Accueil1 plantation.
He had found his father and his grand-mother depressed over money matters, awaiting certain legal developments that might result in his permanent withdrawal from school. That very day, directly after the early dinner, the two had driven to town, on this very business, to be absent till the late afternoon. Bertrand, then, had saddled Picayune and gone for a long jaunt, such as his heart delighted in.
He was returning now, and had approached the beginning of the great tangled Cherokee hedge that marked the boundary line of Bon-Accueil, and that twinkled with multiple white roses.
The pony started suddenly and violently at something there in the turn of the road, and just under the hedge. It looked like a bundle of rags at first. But it was a tramp, seated upon a broad, flat stone.
Bertrand had no maudlin consideration for tramps as a species; he had only that morning driven from the place one who was making himself unpleasant at the kitchen window.
But this tramp was old and feeble. His beard was long, and as white as new-ginned cotton, and when Bertrand saw him he was engaged in stanching a wound in his bare heel with a fistful of matted grass.