WHEN the war began,
there stood on Côte Joyeuse an imposing mansion of red brick, shaped like the
Pantheon. A grove of majestic live-oaks surrounded it.
Thirty years later,
only the thick walls were standing, with the dull red brick showing here and
there through a matted growth of clinging vines. The huge round pillars were
intact; so to some extent was the stone flagging of hall and portico. There had
been no home so stately along the whole stretch of Côte Joyeuse. Every one knew
that, as they knew it had cost Philippe Valmêt sixty thousand dollars to build,
away back in 1840. No one was in danger of forgetting that fact, so long as his
daughter Pélagie survived. She was a queenly, white-haired woman of fifty.
"Ma'ame Pélagie," they called her, though she was unmarried, as was
her sister Pauline, a child in Ma'ame Pélagie's eyes; a child of thirty-five.
The two lived alone in
a three-roomed cabin, almost within the shadow of the ruin. They lived for a
dream, for Ma'ame Pélagie's dream, which was to rebuild the old home.
It would be pitiful to
tell how their days were spent to accomplish this end; how the dollars had been
saved for thirty years and the picayunes hoarded; and yet, not half enough
gathered! But Ma'ame Pélagie felt sure of twenty years of life before her, and
counted upon as many more for her sister. And what could not come to pass in
twenty-in forty--years?
Often, of pleasant
afternoons, the two would drink their black coffee, seated upon the
stone-flagged portico whose canopy was the blue sky of Louisiana. They loved to
sit there in the silence, with only each other and the sheeny, prying lizards
for company, talking of the old times and planning for the new; while light
breezes stirred the tattered vines high up among the columns, where owls
nested.
"We can never hope
to have all just as it was, Pauline," Ma'ame Pélagie would say;
"perhaps the marble pillars of the salon will have to be replaced by
wooden ones, and the crystal candelabra left out. Should you be willing,
Pauline?"
"Oh, yes Sesoeur,
I shall be willing." It was always, "Yes, Sesoeur," or "No,
Sesoeur," "Just as you please, Sesoeur," with poor little
Mam'selle Pauline. For what did she remember of that old life and that old
spendor?* Only a faint gleam here and there; the half-consciousness of a young,
uneventful existence; and then a great crash. That meant the nearness of war;
the revolt of slaves; confusion ending in fire and flame through which she was
borne safely in the strong arms of Pélagie, and carried to the log cabin which
was still their home. Their brother, Léandre, had known more of it all than
Pauline, and not so much as Pélagie. He had left the management of the big
plantation with all its memories and traditions to his older sister, and had
gone away to dwell in cities. That was many years ago. Now, Léandre's business
called him frequently and upon long journeys from home, and his motherless
daughter was coming to stay with her aunts at Côte Joyeuse.
They talked about it,
sipping their coffee on the ruined portico. Mam'selle Pauline was terribly
excited; the flush that throbbed into her pale, nervous face showed it; and she
locked her thin fingers in and out incessantly.
"But what shall we
do with La Petite, Sesoeur? Where shall we put her? How shall we amuse her? Ah,
Seigneur!"
"She will sleep
upon a cot in the room next to ours," responded Ma'ame Pélagie, "and
live as we do. She knows how we live, and why we live; her father has told her.
She knows we have money and could squander it if we chose. Do not fret,
Pauline; let us hope La Petite is a true Valmêt."
Then Ma'ame Pélagie
rose with stately deliberation and went to saddle her horse, for she had yet to
make her last daily round through the fields; and Mam'selle Pauline threaded
her way slowly among the tangled grasses toward the cabin.
The coming of La
Petite, bringing with her as she did the pungent atmosphere of an outside and
dimly known world, was a shock to these two, living their dream-life. The girl
was quite as tall as her aunt Pélagie, with dark eyes that reflected joy as a
still pool reflects the light of stars; and her rounded cheek was tinged like
the pink crèpe myrtle. Mam'selle Pauline kissed her and trembled. Ma'ame Pélagie
looked into her eyes with a searching gaze, which seemed to seek a likeness of
the past in the living present.
And they made room
between them for this young life.
La Petite had
determined upon trying to fit herself to the strange, narrow existence which
she knew awaited her at Côte Joyeuse. It went well enough at first. Sometimes
she followed Ma'ame Pélagie into the fields to note how the cotton was opening,
ripe and white; or to count the ears of corn upon the hardy stalks. But oftener
she was with her aunt Pauline, assisting in household offices, chattering of
her brief past, or walking with the older woman arm-in-arm under the trailing
moss of the giant oaks.
Mam'selle Pauline's
steps grew very buoyant that summer, and her eyes were sometimes as bright as a
bird's, unless La Petite were away from her side, when they would lose all
other light but one of uneasy expectancy. The girl seemed to love her well in
return, and called her endearingly Tan'tante. But as the time went by, La
Petite became very quiet,--not listless, but thoughtful, and slow in her
movements. Then her cheeks began to pale, till they were tinged like the creamy
plumes of the white crèpe myrtle that grew in the ruin.
One day when she sat
within its shadow, between her aunts, holding a hand of each, she said:
"Tante Pélagie, I must tell you something, you and Tan'tante." She
spoke low, but clearly and firmly. "I love you both,--please remember that
I love you both. But I must go away from you. I can't live any longer here at Côte
Joyeuse."
A spasm passed through
Mam'selle Pauline's delicate frame. La Petite could feel the twitch of it in
the wiry fingers that were intertwined with her own. Ma'ame Pélagie remained
unchanged and motionless. No human eye could penetrate so deep as to see the
satisfaction which her soul felt. She said: "What do you mean, Petite?
Your father has sent you to us, and I am sure it is his wish that you
remain."
"My father loves
me, tante Pélagie, and such will not be his wish when he knows. Oh!" she
continued with a restless movement, "it is as though a weight were
pressing me backward here. I must live another life; the life I lived before. I
want to know things that are happening from day to day over the world, and hear
them talked about. I want my music, my books, my companions. If I had known no
other life but this one of privation, I suppose it would be different. If I had
to live this life, I should make the best of it. But I do not have to; and you
know, tante Pélagie, you do not need to. It seems to me," she added in a
whisper, "that it is a sin against myself. Ah, Tan'tante!--what is the matter
with Tan'tante?"
It was nothing; only a
slight feeling of faintness, that would soon pass. She entreated them to take
no notice; but they brought her some water and fanned her with a palmetto leaf.
But that night, in the
stillness of the room, Mam'selle Pauline sobbed and would not be comforted.
Ma'ame Pélagie took her in her arms.
"Pauline, my
little sister Pauline," she entreated, "I never have seen you like
this before. Do you no longer love me? Have we not been happy together, you and
I?"
"Oh, yes,
Sesoeur."
"Is it because La
Petite is going away?"
"Yes,
Sesoeur."
"Then she is
dearer to you than I!" spoke Ma'ame Pélagie with sharp resentment.
"Than I, who held you and warmed you in my arms the day you were born;
than I, your mother, father, sister, everything that could cherish you.
Pauline, don't tell me that."
Mam'selle Pauline tried
to talk through her sobs.
"I can't explain
it to you, Sesoeur. I don't understand it myself. I love you as I have always
loved you; next to God. But if La Petite goes away I shall die. I can't
understand,--help me, Sesoeur. She seems--she seems like a saviour; like one
who had come and taken me by the hand and was leading me somewhere-- somewhere
I want to go."
Ma'ame Pélagie had been
sitting beside the bed in her peignoir and slippers. She held the hand of her
sister who lay there, and smoothed down the woman's soft brown hair. She said
not a word, and the silence was broken only by Mam'selle Pauline's continued
sobs. Once Ma'ame Pélagie arose to mix a drink of orange-flower water, which
she gave to her sister, as she would have offered it to a nervous, fretful
child. Almost an hour passed before Ma'ame Pélagie spoke again. Then she
said:--
"Pauline, you must
cease that sobbing, now, and sleep. You will make yourself ill. La Petite will
not go away. Do you hear me? Do you understand? She will stay, I promise
you."
Mam'selle Pauline could
not clearly comprehend, but she had great faith in the word of her sister, and
soothed by the promise and the touch of Ma'ame Pélagie's strong, gentle hand,
she fell asleep.
Ma'ame Pélagie, when
she saw that her sister slept, arose noiselessly and stepped outside upon the
low-roofed narrow gallery. She did not linger there, but with a step that was
hurried and agitated, she crossed the distance that divided her cabin from the
ruin.
The night was not a
dark one, for the sky was clear and the moon resplendent. But light or dark
would have made no difference to Ma'ame Pélagie. It was not the first time she
had stolen away to the ruin at night-time, when the whole plantation slept; but
she never before had been there with a heart so nearly broken. She was going
there for the last time to dream her dreams; to see the visions that hitherto
had crowded her days and nights, and to bid them farewell.
There was the first of
them, awaiting her upon the very portal; a robust old white-haired man, chiding
her for returning home so late. There are guests to be entertained. Does she
not know it? Guests from the city and from the near plantations. Yes, she knows
it is late. She had been abroad with Félix, and they did not notice how the
time was speeding. Félix is there; he will explain it all. He is there beside
her, but she does not want to hear what he will tell her father.
Ma'ame Pélagie had sunk
upon the bench where she and her sister so often came to sit. Turning, she
gazed in through the gaping chasm of the window at her side. The interior of
the ruin is ablaze. Not with the moonlight, for that is faint beside the other
one--the sparkle from the crystal candelabra, which negroes, moving noiselessly
and respectfully about, are lighting, one after the other. How the gleam of
them reflects and glances from the polished marble pillars!
The room holds a number
of guests. There is old Monsieur Lucien Santien, leaning against one of the
pillars, and laughing at something which Monsieur Lafirme is telling him, till
his fat shoulders shake. His son Jules is with him--Jules, who wants to marry
her. She laughs. She wonders if Félix has told her father yet. There is young
Jerome Lafirme playing at checkers upon the sofa with Léandre. Little Pauline
stands annoying them and disturbing the game. Léandre reproves her. She begins
to cry, and old black Clémentine, her nurse, who is not far off, limps across
the room to pick her up and carry her away. How sensitive the little one is!
But she trots about and takes care of herself better than she did a year or two
ago, when she fell upon the stone hall floor and raised a great
"bo-bo" on her forehead. Pélagie was hurt and angry enough about it;
and she ordered rugs and buffalo robes to be brought and laid thick upon the
tiles, till the little one's steps were surer.
"II ne faut pas
faire mal à Pauline." She was saying it aloud --"faire mal à
Pauline."
But she gazes beyond
the salon, back into the big dining hall, where the white crèpe myrtle grows.
Ha! how low that bat has circled. It has struck Ma'ame Pélagie full on the
breast. She does not know it. She is beyond there in the dining hall, where her
father sits with a group of friends over their wine. As usual they are talking
politics. How tiresome! She has heard them say "la guerre" oftener
than once. La guerre. Bah! She and Félix have something pleasanter to talk
about, out under the oaks, or back in the shadow of the oleanders.
But they were right!
The sound of a cannon, shot at Sumter, has rolled across the Southern States,
and its echo is heard along the whole stretch of Côte Joyeuse.
Yet Pélagie does not
believe it. Not till La Ricaneuse stands before her with bare, black arms
akimbo, uttering a volley of vile abuse and of brazen impudence. Pélagie wants
to kill her. But yet she will not believe. Not till Félix comes to her in the
chamber above the dining hall--there where that trumpet vine hangs--comes to
say good-by to her. The hurt which the big brass buttons of his new gray
uniform pressed into the tender flesh of her bosom has never left it. She sits
upon the sofa, and he beside her, both speechless with pain. That room would
not have been altered. Even the sofa would have been there in the same spot,
and Ma'ame Pélagie had meant all along, for thirty years, all along, to lie
there upon it some day when the time came to die.
But there is no time to
weep, with the enemy at the door. The door has been no barrier. They are
clattering through the halls now, drinking the wines, shattering the crystal
and glass, slashing the portraits.
One of them stands
before her and tells her to leave the house. She slaps his face. How the stigma
stands out red as blood upon his blanched cheek!
Now there is a roar of
fire and the flames are bearing down upon her motionless figure. She wants to
show them how a daughter of Louisiana can perish before her conquerors. But
little Pauline clings to her knees in an agony of terror. Little Pauline must
be saved.
"Il ne faut pas
faire mal à Pauline." Again she is saying it aloud--"faire mal à
Pauline."
. . . . . . . .
The night was nearly
spent; Ma'ame Pélagie had glided from the bench upon which she had rested, and
for hours lay prone upon the stone flagging, motionless. When she dragged
herself to her feet it was to walk like one in a dream. About the great, solemn
pillars, one after the other, she reached her arms, and pressed her cheek and
her lips upon the senseless brick.
"Adieu,
adieu!" whispered Ma'ame Pélagie.
There was no longer the
moon to guide her steps across the familiar pathway to the cabin. The brightest
light in the sky was Venus, that swung low in the east. The bats had ceased to
beat their wings about the ruin. Even the mocking-bird that had warbled for
hours in the old mulberry-tree had sung himself asleep. That darkest hour
before the day was mantling the earth. Ma'ame Pélagie hurried through the wet,
clinging grass, beating aside the heavy moss that swept across her face,
walking on toward the cabin-toward Pauline. Not once did she look back upon the
ruin that brooded like a huge monster--a black spot in the darkness that
enveloped it.
Little more than a year
later the transformation which the old Valmêt place had undergone was the talk
and wonder of Côte Joyeuse. One would have looked in vain for the ruin; it was
no longer there; neither was the log cabin. But out in the open, where the sun
shone upon it, and the breezes blew about it, was a shapely structure fashioned
from woods that the forests of the State had furnished. It rested upon a solid
foundation of brick.
Upon a corner of the
pleasant gallery sat Léandre smoking his afternoon cigar, and chatting with
neighbors who had called. This was to be his pied à terre now; the home where
his sisters and his daughter dwelt. The laughter of young people was heard out
under the trees, and within the house where La Petite was playing upon the
piano. With the enthusiasm of a young artist she drew from the keys strains
that seemed marvelously beautiful to Mam'selle Pauline, who stood enraptured
near her. Mam'selle Pauline had been touched by the re-creation of Valmêt. Her
cheek was as full and almost as flushed as La Petite's. The years were falling
away from her.
Ma'ame Pélagie had been
conversing with her brother and his friends. Then she turned and walked away;
stopping to listen awhile to the music which La Petite was making. But it was
only for a moment. She went on around the curve of the veranda, where she found
herself alone. She stayed there, erect, holding to the banister rail and
looking out calmly in the distance across the fields.
She was dressed in
black, with the white kerchief she always wore folded across her bosom. Her
thick, glossy hair rose like a silver diadem from her brow. In her deep, dark
eyes smouldered the light of fires that would never flame. She had grown very
old. Years instead of months seemed to have passed over her since the night she
bade farewell to her visions.
Poor Ma'ame Pélagie!
How could it be different! While the outward pressure of a young and joyous
existence had forced her footsteps into the light, her soul had stayed in the
shadow of the ruin.