TITE POULETTE.
Kristian Koppig was a rosy-faced, beardless young Dutchman. He was oneof that army of gentlemen who, after the purchase of Louisiana, swarmedfrom all parts of the commercial world, over the mountains ofFranco-Spanish exclusiveness, like the Goths over the Pyrenees, andsettled down in New Orleans to pick up their fortunes, with thediligence of hungry pigeons. He may have been a German; the distinctionwas too fine for Creole haste and disrelish.
He made his home in a room with one dormer window looking out, andsomewhat down, upon a building opposite, which still stands, flush withthe street, a century old. Its big, round-arched windows in a long,second-story row, are walled up, and two or three from time to time havehad smaller windows let into them again, with odd little latticedpeep-holes in their batten shutters. This had already been done whenKristian Koppig first began to look at them from his solitary dormerwindow.
All the features of the building lead me to guess that it is a remnantof the old Spanish Barracks, whose extensive structure fell bygovernment sale into private hands a long time ago. At the end towardthe swamp a great, oriental-looking passage is left, with an archedentrance, and a pair of ponderous wooden doors. You look at it, andalmost see Count O'Reilly's artillery come bumping and trundling out,and dash around into the ancient Plaza to bang away at King St.Charles's birthday.
I do not know who lives there now. You might stand about on the opposite_banquette_ for weeks and never find out. I suppose it is a residence,for it does not look like one. That is the rule in that region.
In the good old times of duels, and bagatelle-clubs, and theatre-balls,and Cayetano's circus, Kristian Koppig rooming as described, there livedin the portion of this house, partly overhanging the archway, a palishhandsome woman, by the name--or going by the name--of Madame John. Youwould hardly have thought of her being "colored." Though fading, she wasstill of very attractive countenance, fine, rather severe features,nearly straight hair carefully kept, and that vivid black eye sopeculiar to her kind. Her smile, which came and went with her talk, wassweet and exceedingly intelligent; and something told you, as you lookedat her, that she was one who had had to learn a great deal in thistroublesome life.
"But!"--the Creole lads in the street would say--"--her daughter!"and there would be lifting of arms, wringing of fingers, rolling ofeyes, rounding of mouths, gaspings and clasping of hands. "So beautiful,beautiful, beautiful! White?--white like a water lily! White--like amagnolia!"
Applause would follow, and invocation of all the saints to witness.
And she could sing.
"Sing?" (disdainfully)--"if a mocking-bird can _sing_! Ha!"
They could not tell just how old she was; they "would give her aboutseventeen."
Mother and daughter were very fond. The neighbors could hear them calleach other pet names, and see them sitting together, sewing, talkinghappily to each other in the unceasing French way, and see them go outand come in together on their little tasks and errands. "'TitePoulette," the daughter was called; she never went out alone.
And who was this Madame John?
"Why, you know!--she was"--said the wig-maker at the corner to KristianKoppig--"I'll tell you. You know?--she was"--and the rest atomized offin a rasping whisper. She was the best yellow-fever nurse in a thousandyards round; but that is not what the wig-maker said.
A block nearer the river stands a house altogether different from theremnant of old barracks. It is of frame, with a deep front gallery overwhich the roof extends. It has become a den of Italians, who sell fuelby daylight, and by night are up to no telling what extent of deviltry.This was once the home of a gay gentleman, whose first name happened tobe John. He was a member of the Good Children Social Club. As hisparents lived with him, his wife would, according to custom, have beencalled Madame John but he had no wife. His father died, then his mother;last of all, himself. As he is about to be off, in comes Madame John,with 'Tite Poulette, then an infant, on her arm.
"Zalli," said he, "I am going."
She bowed her head, and wept.
"You have been very faithful to me, Zalli."
She wept on.
"Nobody to take care of you now, Zalli."
Zalli only went on weeping.
"I want to give you this house, Zalli; it is for you and the littleone."
An hour after, amid the sobs of Madame John, she and the "little one"inherited the house, such as it was. With the fatal caution whichcharacterizes ignorance, she sold the property and placed the proceedsin a bank, which made haste to fail. She put on widow's weeds, and worethem still when 'Tite Poulette "had seventeen," as the frantic ladswould say.
How they did chatter over her. Quiet Kristian Koppig had never seen thelike. He wrote to his mother, and told her so. A pretty fellow at thecorner would suddenly double himself up with beckoning to a knot ofchums; these would hasten up; recruits would come in from two or threeother directions; as they reached the corner their countenances wouldquickly assume a genteel severity, and presently, with her mother, 'TitePoulette would pass--tall, straight, lithe, her great black eyes madetender by their sweeping lashes, the faintest tint of color in herSouthern cheek, her form all grace, her carriage a wonder of simpledignity.
The instant she was gone every tongue was let slip on the marvel of herbeauty; but, though theirs were only the loose New Orleans morals ofover fifty years ago, their unleashed tongues never had attempted anygreater liberty than to take up the pet name, 'Tite Poulette. And yetthe mother was soon to be, as we shall discover, a paid dancer at the_Salle de Conde_.
To Zalli, of course, as to all "quadroon ladies," the festivities of theConde-street ball-room were familiar of old. There, in the happy dayswhen dear Monsieur John was young, and the eighteenth century old, shehad often repaired under guard of her mother--dead now, alas!--andMonsieur John would slip away from the dull play and dry society ofTheatre d'Orleans, and come around with his crowd of elegant friends;and through the long sweet hours of the ball she had danced, andlaughed, and coquetted under her satin mask, even to the baffling andtormenting of that prince of gentlemen, dear Monsieur John himself. Noman of questionable blood dare set his foot within the door. Many noblegentlemen were pleased to dance with her. Colonel De ---- and GeneralLa ----: city councilmen and officers from the Government House. Therewere no paid dancers then. Every thing was decorously conducted indeed!Every girl's mother was there, and the more discreet always left beforethere was too much drinking. Yes, it was gay, gay!--but sometimesdangerous. Ha! more times than a few had Monsieur John knocked down somelong-haired and long-knifed rowdy, and kicked the breath out of him forlooking saucily at her; but that was like him, he was so brave andkind;--and he is gone!
There was no room for widow's weeds there. So when she put these on, herglittering eyes never again looked through her pink and white mask, andshe was glad of it; for never, never in her life had they so looked foranybody but her dear Monsieur John, and now he was in heaven--so thepriest said--and she was a sick-nurse.
Living was hard work; and, as Madame John had been brought up tenderly,and had done what she could to rear her daughter in the same mistakenway, with, of course, no more education than the ladies in society got,they knew nothing beyond a little music and embroidery. They struggledas they could, faintly; now giving a few private dancing lessons, nowdressing hair, but ever beat back by the steady detestation of theirimperious patronesses; and, by and by, for want of that pricelessworldly grace known among the flippant as "money-sense," these two poorchildren, born of misfortune and the complacent badness of the times,began to be in want.
Kristian Koppig noticed from his dormer window one day a man standing atthe big archway opposite, and clanking the brass knocker on the wicketthat was in one of the doors. He was a smooth man, with his hair partedin the middle, and his cigarette poised on a tiny gold holder. He waiteda moment, politely cursed the dust, knocked again, threw his slendersword-cane under his arm, and wiped the inside of his hat with hishandkerchief.
r /> Madame John held a parley with him at the wicket. 'Tite Poulette wasnowhere seen. He stood at the gate while Madame John went up-stairs.Kristian Koppig knew him. He knew him as one knows a snake. He was themanager of the _Salle de Conde_. Presently Madame John returned with alittle bundle, and they hurried off together.
And now what did this mean? Why, by any one of ordinary acuteness thematter was easily understood, but, to tell the truth, Kristian Koppigwas a trifle dull, and got the idea at once that some damage was beingplanned against 'Tite Poulette. It made the gentle Dutchman miserablenot to be minding his own business, and yet--
"But the woman certainly will not attempt"--said he to himself--"no, no!she cannot." Not being able to guess what he meant, I cannot say whethershe could or not. I know that next day Kristian Koppig, glancing eagerlyover the "_Ami des Lois_," read an advertisement which he had alwaysbefore skipped with a frown. It was headed, "_Salle de Conde_," and,being interpreted, signified that a new dance was to be introduced, the_Danse de Chinois_, and that _a young lady_ would follow it with thefamous "_Danse du Shawl_."
It was the Sabbath. The young man watched the opposite window steadilyand painfully from early in the afternoon until the moon shone bright;and from the time the moon shone bright until Madame John!--joy!--MadameJohn! and not 'Tite Poulette, stepped through the wicket, much dressedand well muffled, and hurried off toward the _Rue Conde_. Madame Johnwas the "young lady;" and the young man's mind, glad to return to itsown unimpassioned affairs, relapsed into quietude.
Madame John danced beautifully. It had to be done. It brought some pay,and pay was bread; and every Sunday evening, with a touch here and thereof paint and powder, the mother danced the dance of the shawl, thedaughter remaining at home alone.
Kristian Koppig, simple, slow-thinking young Dutchman, never noticingthat he staid at home with his window darkened for the very purpose,would see her come to her window and look out with a little wild,alarmed look in her magnificent eyes, and go and come again, and again,until the mother, like a storm-driven bird, came panting home.
Two or three months went by.
One night, on the mother's return, Kristian Koppig coming to his roomnearly at the same moment, there was much earnest conversation, which hecould see, but not hear.
"'Tite Poulette," said Madame John, "you are seventeen."
"True, Maman."
"Ah! my child, I see not how you are to meet the future." The voicetrembled plaintively.
"But how, Maman?"
"Ah! you are not like others; no fortune, no pleasure, no friend."
"Maman!"
"No, no;--I thank God for it; I am glad you are not; but you will belonely, lonely, all your poor life long. There is no place in this worldfor us poor women. I wish that we were either white or black!"--and thetears, two "shining ones," stood in the poor quadroon's eyes.
Tha daughter stood up, her eyes flashing.
"God made us, Maman," she said with a gentle, but stately smile.
"Ha!" said the mother, her keen glance darting through her tears, "Sinmade _me_, yes."
"No," said 'Tite Poulette, "God made us. He made us Just as we are; notmore white, not more black."
"He made you, truly!" said Zalli. "You are so beautiful; I believe itwell." She reached and drew the fair form to a kneeling posture. "Mysweet, white daughter!"
Now the tears were in the girl's eyes. "And could I be whiter than Iam?" she asked.
"Oh, no, no! 'Tite Poulette," cried the other; "but if we were only_real white!_--both of us; so that some gentleman might come to see meand say 'Madame John, I want your pretty little chick. She is sobeautiful. I want to take her home. She is so good--I want her to be mywife.' Oh, my child, my child, to see that I would give my life--I wouldgive my soul! Only you should take me along to be your servant. I walkedbehind two young men to-night; they ware coming home from their office;presently they began to talk about you."
'Tite Poulette's eyes flashed fire.
"No, my child, they spoke only the best things One laughed a little attimes and kept saying 'Beware!' but the other--I prayed the Virgin tobless him, he spoke such kind and noble words. Such gentle pity; such aholy heart! 'May God defend her,' he said, _cherie_; he said, 'May Goddefend her, for I see no help for her.' The other one laughed and lefthim. He stopped in the door right across the street. Ah, my child, doyou blush? Is that something to bring the rose to your cheek? Many finegentlemen at the ball ask me often, 'How is your daughter, MadameJohn?'".
The daughter's face was thrown into the mother's lap, not so wellsatisfied, now, with God's handiwork. Ah, how she wept! Sob, sob, sob;gasps and sighs and stifled ejaculations, her small right hand clinchedand beating on her mother's knee; and the mother weeping over her.
Kristian Koppig shut his window. Nothing but a generous heart and aDutchman's phlegm could have done so at that moment. And even thou,Kristian Koppig!--for the window closed very slowly.
He wrote to his mother, thus:
"In this wicked city, I see none so fair as the poor girl who livesopposite me, and who, alas! though so fair, is one of those whom thetaint of caste has cursed. She lives a lonely, innocent life in themidst of corruption, like the lilies I find here in the marshew, and Ihave great pity for her. 'God defend her,' I said to-night to a fellowclerk, 'I see no help for her.' I know there is a natural, and I thinkproper, horror of mixed blood (excuse the mention, sweet mother), and Ifeel it, too; and yet if she were in Holland today, not one of a hundredsuitors would detect the hidden blemish."
In such strain this young man wrote on trying to demonstrate the utterimpossibility of his ever loving the lovable unfortunate, until themidnight tolling of the cathedral clock sent him to bed.
About the same hour Zalli and 'Tite Poulette were kissing good-night.
"'Tite Poulette, I want you to promise me one thing."
"Well, Maman?"
"If any gentleman should ever love you and ask you to marry,--notknowing, you know,--promise me you will not tell him you are not white."
"It can never be," said 'Tite Poulette.
"But if it should," said Madame John pleadingly.
"And break the law?" asked 'Tite Poulette, impatiently.
"But the law is unjust," said the mother.
"But it is the law!"
"But you will not, dearie, will you?"
"I would surely tell him!" said the daughter.
When Zalli, for some cause, went next morning to the window, shestarted.
"'Tite Poulette!"--she called softly without moving. The daughter came.The young man, whose idea of propriety had actuated him to this display,was sitting in the dormer window, reading. Mother and daughter bent asteady gaze at each other. It meant in French, "If he saw us lastnight!"--
"Ah! dear," said the mother, her face beaming with fun--
"What can it be, Maman?"
"He speaks--oh! ha, ha!--he speaks--such miserable French!"
It came to pass one morning at early dawn that Zalli and 'Tite Poulette,going to mass, passed a cafe, just as--who should be coming out butMonsieur, the manager of the _Salle de Conde_. He had not yet gone tobed. Monsieur was astonished. He had a Frenchman's eye for thebeautiful, and certainly there the beautiful was. He had heard of MadameJohn's daughter, and had hoped once to see her, but did not but couldthis be she?
They disappeared within the cathedral. A sudden pang of piety moved him;he followed. 'Tite Poulette was already kneeling in the aisle. Zalli,still in the vestibule, was just taking her hand from the font ofholy-water.
"Madame John," whispered the manager.
She courtesied.
"Madame John, that young lady--is she your daughter?"
"She--she--is my daughter," said Zalli, with somewhat of alarm in herface, which the manager misinterpreted.
"I think not, Madame John." He shook his head, smiling as one too wiseto be fooled.
"Yes, Monsieur, she is my daughter."
"O no, Madame John, it is only make-believe, I
think."
"I swear she is, Monsieur de la Rue."
"Is that possible?" pretending to waver, but convinced in his heart ofhearts, by Zalli's alarm, that she was lying. "But how? Why does she notcome to our ball-room with you?"
Zalli, trying to get away from him, shrugged and smiled. "Each to histaste, Monsieur; it pleases her not."
She was escaping, but he followed one step more. "I shall come to seeyou, Madame John."
She whirled and attacked him with her eyes. "Monsieur must not givehimself the trouble!" she said, the eyes at the same time adding, "Dareto come!" She turned again, and knelt to her devotions. The managerdipped in the font, crossed himself, and departed.
Several weeks went by, and M. de la Rue had not accepted the fiercechallenge of Madame John's eyes. One or two Sunday nights she hadsucceeded in avoiding him, though fulfilling her engagement in the_Salle_; but by and by pay-day,--a Saturday,--came round, and though thepay was ready, she was loath to go up to Monsieur's little office.
It was an afternoon in May. Madame John came to her own room, and, witha sigh, sank into a chair. Her eyes were wet.
"Did you go to his office, dear mother?" asked 'Tite Poulette.
"I could not," she answered, dropping her face in her hands.
"Maman, he has seen me at the window!"
"While I was gone?" cried the mother.
"He passed on the other side of the street. He looked up purposely, andsaw me." The speaker's cheeks were burning red.
Zalli wrung her hands.
"It is nothing, mother; do not go near him."
"But the pay, my child."
"The pay matters not."
"But he will bring it here; he wants the chance."
That was the trouble, sure enough.
About this time Kristian Koppig lost his position in the Germanimporting house where, he had fondly told his mother, he wasindispensable.
"Summer was coming on," the senior said, "and you see our young men arealmost idle. Yes, our engagement _was_ for a year, but ah--we could notforesee"--etc., etc., "besides" (attempting a parting flattery), "yourfather is a rich gentleman, and you can afford to take the summer easy.If we can ever be of any service to you," etc., etc.
So the young Dutchman spent the afternoons at his dormer window readingand glancing down at the little casement opposite, where a small, rudeshelf had lately been put out, holding a row of cigar-boxes withwretched little botanical specimens in them trying to die. 'TitePoulette was their gardener; and it was odd to see,--dry weather orwet,--how many waterings per day those plants could take. She neverlooked up from her task; but I know she performed it with thatunacknowledged pleasure which all girls love and deny, that of beinglooked upon by noble eyes.
On this peculiar Saturday afternoon in May, Kristian Koppig had beenwitness of the distressful scene over the way. It occurred to 'TitePoulette that such might be the case, and she stepped to the casement toshut it. As she did so, the marvellous delicacy of Kristian Koppig movedhim to draw in one of his shutters. Both young heads came out at onemoment, while at the same instant--
"Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap!" clanked the knocker on the wicket. The blackeyes of the maiden and the blue over the way, from looking into eachother for the first time in life, glanced down to the arched doorwayupon Monsieur the manager. Then the black eyes disappeared within, andKristian Koppig thought again, and re-opening his shutter, stood up atthe window prepared to become a bold spectator of what might follow.
But for a moment nothing followed.
"Trouble over there," thought the rosy Dutchman, and waited. The managerwaited too, rubbing his hat and brushing his clothes with the tips ofhis kidded fingers.
"They do not wish to see him," slowly concluded the spectator.
"Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap!" quoth the knocker, and M. de la Rue looked uparound at the windows opposite and noticed the handsome young Dutchmanlooking at him.
"Dutch!" said the manager softly, between his teeth.
"He is staring at me," said Kristian Koppig to himself;--"but then I amstaring at him, which accounts for it."
A long pause, and then another long rapping.
"They want him to go away," thought Koppig.
"Knock hard!" suggested a street youngster, standing by.
"Rap, rap"--The manager had no sooner recommenced than several neighborslooked out of doors and windows.
"Very bad," thought our Dutchman; "somebody should make him go off. Iwonder what they will do."
The manager stepped into the street, looked up at the closed window,returned to the knocker, and stood with it in his hand.
"They are all gone out, Monsieur," said the street-youngster.
"You lie!" said the cynosure of neighboring eyes.
"Ah!" thought Kristian Koppig; "I will go down and ask him"--Here histhoughts lost outline; he was only convinced that he had somewhat to sayto him, and turned to go down stairs. In going he became a little vexedwith himself because he could not help hurrying. He noticed, too, thathis arm holding the stair-rail trembled in a silly way, whereas he wasperfectly calm. Precisely as he reached the street-door the managerraised the knocker; but the latch clicked and the wicket was drawnslightly ajar.
Inside could just be descried Madame John. The manager bowed, smiled,talked, talked on, held money in his hand, bowed, smiled, talked on,flourished the money, smiled, bowed, talked on and plainly persisted insome intention to which Madame John was steadfastly opposed.
The window above, too,--it was Kristian Koppig who noticed that,--openeda wee bit, like the shell of a terrapin; Presently the manager liftedhis foot and put forward an arm, as though he would enter the gate bypushing, but as quick as gunpowder it clapped--in his face!
You could hear the fleeing feet of Zalli pounding up the staircase.
As the panting mother re-entered her room, "See, Maman," said 'TitePoulette, peeping at the window, "the young gentleman from over the wayhas crossed!"
"Holy Mary bless him!" said the mother.
"I will go over," thought Kristian Koppig, "and ask him kindly if he isnot making a mistake."
"What are they doing, dear?" asked the mother, with clasped hands.
"They are talking; the young man is tranquil, but 'Sieur de la Rue isvery angry," whispered the daughter; and just then--pang! came a sharp,keen sound rattling up the walls on either side of the narrow way, and"Aha!" and laughter and clapping of female hands from two or threewindows.
"Oh! what a slap!" cried the girl, half in fright, half in glee, jerkingherself back from the casement simultaneously with the report. But the"ahas" and laughter, and clapping of feminine hands, which stillcontinued, came from another cause. 'Tite Poulette's rapid action hadstruck the slender cord that held up an end of her hanging garden, andthe whole rank of cigar-boxes slid from their place, turned gracefullyover as they shot through the air, and emptied themselves plump upon thehead of the slapped manager. Breathless, dirty, pale as whitewash, hegasped a threat to be heard from again, and, getting round the corner asquick as he could walk, left Kristian Koppig, standing motionless, themost astonished man in that street.
"Kristian Koppig, Kristian Koppig," said Greatheart to himself, slowlydragging up-stairs, "what a mischief you have done. One poor womancertainly to be robbed of her bitter wages, and another--so lovely!--putto the burning shame of being the subject of a street brawl! What willthis silly neighborhood say? 'Has the gentleman a heart as well as ahand?' 'Is it jealousy?'" There he paused, afraid himself to answer thesupposed query; and then--"Oh! Kristian Koppig, you have been such adunce!" "And I cannot apologize to them. Who in this street would carrymy note, and not wink and grin over it with low surmises? I cannot evenmake restitution. Money? They would not dare receive it. Oh! KristianKoppig, why did you not mind your own business? Is she any thing to you?Do you love her? _Of course not_! Oh!--such a dunce!"
The reader will eagerly admit that however faulty this young man'scourse of reasoning, his conclusion was correct. For mark
what he did.
He went to his room, which was already growing dark, shut his window,lighted his big Dutch lamp, and sat down to write. "Something _must_ bedone," said he aloud, taking up his pen; "I will be calm and cool; Iwill be distant and brief; but--I shall have to be kind or I may offend.Ah! I shall have to write in French; I forgot that; I write it sopoorly, dunce that I am, when all my brothers and sisters speak it sowell." He got out his French dictionary. Two hours slipped by. He made anew pen, washed and refilled his inkstand, mended his "abominable!"chair, and after two hours more made another attempt, and anotherfailure. "My head aches," said he, and lay down on his couch, the betterto frame his phrases.
He was awakened by the Sabbath sunlight. The bells of the Cathedral andthe Ursulines' chapel were ringing for high mass, and a mocking-bird,perching on a chimney-top above Madame John's rooms, was carolling,whistling, mewing, chirping, screaming, and trilling with the ecstasy ofa whole May in his throat. "Oh! sleepy Kristian Koppig," was the youngman's first thought, "--such a dunce!"
Madame John and daughter did not go to mass. The morning wore away, andtheir casement remained closed. "They are offended," said KristianKoppig, leaving the house, and wandering up to the little Protestantaffair known as Christ Church.
"No, possibly they are not," he said, returning and finding the shuttersthrown back.
By a sad accident, which mortified him extremely, he happened to see,late in the afternoon,--hardly conscious that he was looking across thestreet,--that Madame John was--dressing. Could it be that she was goingto the _Salle de Conde_? He rushed to his table, and began to write.
He had guessed aright. The wages were too precious to be lost. Themanager had written her a note. He begged to assure her that he was agentleman of the clearest cut. If he had made a mistake the previousafternoon, he was glad no unfortunate result had followed except hishaving been assaulted by a ruffian; that the _Danse du Shawl_ waspromised in his advertisement, and he hoped Madame John (whose wageswere in hand waiting for her) would not fail to assist as usual. Lastly,and delicately put, he expressed his conviction that Mademoiselle waswise and discreet in declining to entertain gentlemen at her home.
So, against much beseeching on the part of 'Tite Poulette, Madame Johnwas going to the ball-room. "Maybe I can discover what 'Sieur de la Rueis planning against Monsieur over the way," she said, knowing certainlythe slap would not be forgiven; and the daughter, though tremblingly, atonce withdrew her objections.
The heavy young Dutchman, now thoroughly electrified, was writing likemad. He wrote and tore up, wrote and tore up, lighted his lamp, startedagain, and at last signed his name. A letter by a Dutchman inFrench!--what can be made of it in English? We will see:
"MADAME AND MADEMOISELLE:
"A stranger, seeking not to be acquainted, but seeing and admiring alldays the goodness and high honor, begs to be pardoned of them for themistakes, alas! of yesterday, and to make reparation and satisfaction indestroying the ornaments of the window, as well as the loss ofcompensation from Monsieur the manager, with the enclosed bill of the_Banque de la Louisiane_ for fifty dollars ($50). And, hoping they willseeing what he is meaning, remains, respectfully,
"KRISTIAN KOPPIG.
"P.S.--Madame must not go to the ball."
He must bear the missive himself. He must speak in French. What shouldthe words be? A moment of study--he has it, and is off down the longthree-story stairway. At the same moment Madame John stepped from thewicket, and glided off to the _Salle de Conde_, a trifle late.
"I shall see Madame John, of course," thought the young man, crushing ahope, and rattled the knocker. 'Tite Poulette sprang up from praying forher mother's safety. "What has she forgotten?" she asked herself, andhastened down. The wicket opened. The two innocents were stunned.
"Aw--aw"--said the pretty Dutchman, "aw,"--blurted out something invirgin Dutch, ... handed her the letter, and hurried down street.
"Alas! what have I done?" said the poor girl, bending over her candle,and bursting into tears that fell on the unopened letter. "And whatshall I do! It may be wrong to open it--and worse not to." Like her sex,she took the benefit of the doubt, and intensified her perplexity andmisery by reading and misconstruing the all but unintelligible contents.What then? Not only sobs and sighs, but moaning and beating of littlefists together, and outcries of soul-felt agony stifled against thebedside, and temples pressed into knitted palms, because of one who"sought _not to be_ acquainted," but offered money--money!--in pity to apoor--shame on her for saying that!--a poor _nigresse_.
And now our self-confessed dolt turned back from a half-hour's walk,concluding there might be an answer to his note. "Surely Madame Johnwill appear this time." He knocked. The shutter stirred above, andsomething white came fluttering wildly down like a shot dove. It was hisown letter containing the fifty-dollar bill. He bounded to the wicket,and softly but eagerly knocked again.
"Go away," said a trembling voice from above.
"Madame John?" said he; but the window closed, and he heard a step, thesame step on the stair. Step, step, every step one step deeper into hisheart. 'Tite Poulette came to the closed door.
"What will you?" said the voice within.
"I--I--don't wish to see you. I wish to see Madame John."
"I must pray Monsieur to go away. My mother is at the _Salle de Conde_."
"At the ball!" Kristian Koppig strayed off, repeating the words for wantof definite thought. All at once it occurred to him that at the ball hecould make Madame John's acquaintance with impunity. "Was it courtingsin to go?" By no means; he should, most likely, save a woman fromtrouble, and help the poor in their distress.
Behold Kristian Koppig standing on the floor of the _Salle de Conde_. Alarge hall, a blaze of lamps, a bewildering flutter of fans and floatingrobes, strains of music, columns of gay promenaders, a long row ofturbaned mothers lining either wall, gentlemen of the portlier sortfilling the recesses of the windows, whirling waltzers gliding here andthere--smiles and grace, smiles and grace; all fair, orderly, elegant,bewitching. A young Creole's laugh mayhap a little loud, and--trulythere were many sword-canes. But neither grace nor foulness satisfiedthe eye of the zealous young Dutchman.
Suddenly a muffled woman passed him, leaning on a gentleman's arm. Itlooked like--it must be, Madame John. Speak quick, Kristian Koppig; donot stop to notice the man!
"Madame John"--bowing--"I am your neighbor, Kristian Koppig."
Madame John bows low, and smiles--a ball-room smile, but is frightened,and her escort,--the manager,--drops her hand and slips away.
"Ah! Monsieur," she whispers excitedly, "you will be killed if you stayhere a moment. Are you armed? No. Take this." She tried to slip a dirkinto his hands, but he would not have it.
"Oh, my dear young man, go! Go quickly!" she plead, glancing furtivelydown the hall.
"I wish you not to dance," said the young man.
"I have danced already; I am going home. Come; be quick! we will gotogether." She thrust her arm through his, and they hastened into thestreet. When a square had been passed there came a sound of men runningbehind them.
"Run, Monsieur, run!" she cried, trying to drag him; but MonsieurDutchman would not.
"_Run,_ Monsieur! Oh, my God! it is 'Sieur"--
"_That_ for yesterday!" cried the manager, striking fiercely with hiscane. Kristian Koppig's fist rolled him in the dirt.
"_That_ for 'Tite Poulette!" cried another man dealing the Dutchman aterrible blow from behind.
"And _that_ for me!" hissed a third, thrusting at him with somethingbright.
"_That_ for yesterday!" screamed the manager, bounding like a tiger;"That!" "THAT!" "Ha!"
Then Kristian Koppig knew that he was stabbed.
"That!" and "That!" and "That!" and the poor Dutchman struck wildly hereand there, grasped the air, shut his eyes, staggered, reeled, fell, rosehalf up, fell again for good, and they were kicking him and jumping onhim. All at once they scampered. Zalli had found the night-watch.
r /> "Buz-z-z-z!" went a rattle. "Buz-z-z-z!" went another.
"Pick him up."
"Is he alive?"
"Can't tell; hold him steady; lead the way, misses."
"He's bleeding all over my breeches."
"This way--here--around this corner."
"This way now--only two squares more."
"Here we are."
"Rap-rap-rap!" on the old brass knocker. Curses on the narrow wicket,more on the dark archway, more still on the twisting stairs.
Up at last and into the room.
"Easy, easy, push this under his head: never mind his boots!"
So he lies--on 'Tite Poulette's own bed.
The watch are gone. They pause under the corner lamp to countprofits;--a single bill--_Banque de la Louisiane_, fifty dollars.Providence is kind--tolerably so. Break it at the "Guillaume Tell." "Butdid you ever hear any one scream like that girl did?"
And there lies the young Dutch neighbor. His money will not flutter backto him this time; nor will any voice behind a gate "beg Monsieur to goaway." O, Woman!--that knows no enemy so terrible as man! Come nigh,poor Woman, you have nothing to fear. Lay your strange, electric touchupon the chilly flesh; it strikes no eager mischief along the faintingveins. Look your sweet looks upon the grimy face, and tenderly lay backthe locks from the congested brows; no wicked misinterpretation lurks tobite your kindness. Be motherly, be sisterly, fear nought. Go, watch himby night; you may sleep at his feet and he will not stir. Yet he lives,and shall live--may live to forget you, who knows? But for all that, begentle and watchful; be womanlike, we ask no more; and God reward you!
Even while it was taking all the two women's strength to hold the dooragainst Death, the sick man himself laid a grief upon them.
"Mother," he said to Madame John, quite a master of French in hisdelirium, "dear mother, fear not; trust your boy; fear nothing. I willnot marry 'Tite Poulette; I cannot. She is fair, dear mother, but ah!she is not--don't you know, mother? don't you know? The race! the race!Don't you know that she is jet black. Isn't it?"
The poor nurse nodded "Yes," and gave a sleeping draught; but before thepatient quite slept he started once and stared.
"Take her away,"--waving his hand--"take your beauty away. She is jetwhite. Who could take a jet white wife? O, no, no, no, no!"
Next morning his brain was right.
"Madame," he weakly whispered, "I was delirious last night?"
Zalli shrugged. "Only a very, very, wee, wee trifle of a bit."
"And did I say something wrong or--foolish?"
"O, no, no," she replied; "you only clasped your hands, so, and prayed,prayed all the time to the dear Virgin."
"To the virgin?" asked the Dutchman, smiling incredulously.
"And St. Joseph--yes, indeed," she insisted; "you may strike me dead."
And so, for politeness' sake, he tried to credit the invention, but grewsuspicions instead.
Hard was the battle against death. Nurses are sometimes amazons, andsuch were these. Through the long, enervating summer, the contestlasted; but when at last the cool airs of October came stealing in atthe bedside like long-banished little children, Kristian Koppig roseupon his elbow and smiled them a welcome.
The physician, blessed man, was kind beyond measure; but said someinexplicable things, which Zalli tried in vain to make him speak in anundertone. "If I knew Monsieur John?" he said, "certainly! Why, we werechums at school. And he left you so much as that, Madame John? Ah! myold friend John, always noble! And you had it all in that naughty bank?Ah, well, Madame John, it matters little. No, I shall not tell 'TitePoulette. Adieu."
And another time:--"If I will let you tell me something? With pleasure,Madame John. No, and not tell anybody, Madame John. No, Madame, not even'Tite Poulette. What?"--a long whistle--"is that pos-si-ble?--andMonsieur John knew it?--encouraged it?--eh, well, eh, well!--But--can Ibelieve you, Madame John? Oh! you have Monsieur John's sworn statement.Ah! very good, truly, but--you _say_ you have it; but where is it? Ah!to-morrow!" a sceptical shrug. "Pardon me, Madame John, I think perhaps,_perhaps_ you are telling the truth.
"If I think you did right? Certainly! What nature keeps back, accidentsometimes gives, Madame John; either is God's will. Don't cry. 'Stealingfrom the dead?' No! It was giving, yes! They are thanking you in heaven,Madame John."
Kristian Koppig, lying awake, but motionless and with closed eyes, hearsin part, and, fancying he understands, rejoices with silent intensity.When the doctor is gone he calls Zalli.
"I give you a great deal of trouble, eh, Madame John?"
"No, no; you are no trouble at all. Had you the yellow fever--ah! then!"
She rolled her eyes to signify the superlative character of thetribulations attending yellow fever.
"I had a lady and gentleman once--a Spanish lady and gentleman, just offthe ship; both sick at once with the fever--delirious--could not telltheir names. Nobody to help me but sometimes Monsieur John! I never hadsuch a time,--never before, never since,--as that time. Four days andnights this head touched not a pillow."
"And they died!" said Kristian Koppig.
"The third night the gentleman went. Poor Senor! 'Sieur John,--he didnot know the harm,--gave him some coffee and toast! The fourth night itrained and turned cool, and just before day the poor lady"--
"Died!" said Koppig.
Zalli dropped her arms listlessly into her lap and her eyes ran brimful.
"And left an infant!" said the Dutchman, ready to shout with exultation.
"Ah! no, Monsieur," said Zalli.
The invalid's heart sank like a stone.
"Madame John,"--his voice was all in a tremor,--"tell me the truth. Is'Tite Poulette your own child?"
"Ah-h-h, ha! ha! what foolishness! Of course she is my child!" AndMadame gave vent to a true Frenchwoman's laugh.
It was too much for the sick man. In the pitiful weakness of hisshattered nerves he turned his face into his pillow and wept like achild. Zalli passed into the next room to hide her emotion.
"Maman, dear Maman," said 'Tite Poulette, who had overheard nothing, butonly saw the tears.
"Ah! my child, my child, my task--my task is too great--too great forme. Let me go now--another time. Go and watch at his bedside."
"But, Maman,"--for 'Tite Poulette was frightened,--"he needs no carenow."
"Nay, but go, my child; I wish to be alone."
The maiden stole in with averted eyes and tiptoed to the window--_thatwindow_. The patient, already a man again, gazed at her till she couldfeel the gaze. He turned his eyes from her a moment to gatherresolution. And now, stout heart, farewell; a word or two of friendlyparting--nothing more.
"'Tite Poulette."
The slender figure at the window turned and came to the bedside.
"I believe I owe my life to you," he said.
She looked down meekly, the color rising in her cheek.
"I must arrange to be moved across the street tomorrow, on a litter."
She did not stir or speak.
"And I must now thank you, sweet nurse, for your care. Sweet nurse!Sweet nurse!"
She shook her head in protestation.
"Heaven bless you, 'Tite Poulette!"
Her face sank lower.
"God has made you very beautiful, Tite Poulette!"
She stirred not. He reached, and gently took her little hand, and as hedrew her one step nearer, a tear fell from her long lashes. From thenext room, Zalli, with a face of agonized suspense, gazed upon the pair,undiscovered. The young man lifted the hand to lay it upon his lips,when, with a mild, firm force, it was drawn away, yet still rested inhis own upon the bedside, like some weak thing snared, that could onlynot get free.
"Thou wilt not have my love, 'Tite Poulette?"
No answer.
"Thou wilt not, beautiful?"
"Cannot!" was all that she could utter, and upon their clasped hands thetears ran down.
"Thou wrong'st me, 'Tite Poulette. Thou dost not trust me; thou fearest
the kiss may loosen the hands. But I tell thee nay. I have struggledhard, even to this hour, against Love, but I yield me now; I yield; I amhis unconditioned prisoner forever. God forbid that I ask aught but thatyou will be my wife."
Still the maiden moved not, looked not up, only rained down tears.
"Shall it not be, 'Tite Poulette?" He tried in vain to draw her.
"'Tite Poulette?" So tenderly he called! And then she spoke.
"It is against the law."
"It is not!" cried Zalli, seizing her round the waist and dragging herforward. "Take her! she is thine. I have robbed God long enough. Hereare the sworn papers--here! Take her; she is as white as snow--so! Takeher, kiss her; Mary be praised! I never had a child--she is theSpaniard's daughter!"