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  They entered a cab, and seemed to drive for an interminable time through the streets, mostly over cobble-stones that rendered conversation difficult. Nevertheless he talked incessantly, while she peered from the windows to catch what glimpses she could, through the night, of that New Orleans of which she had heard so much. The sounds were bewildering; so were the lights, that were uneven, too, serving to make the patches of alternating gloom more mysterious.

  She had not thought of asking him where he was taking her. And it was only after they crossed Canal and had penetrated some distance into Royal Street, that he told her. He was taking her to a friend of his, the dearest little woman in town. That was Maman Chavan, who was going to board and lodge her for a ridiculously small consideration.

  Maman Chavan lived within comfortable walking distance of Canal Street, on one of those narrow, intersecting streets between Royal and Chartres. Her house was a tiny, single-story one, with overhanging gable, heavily shuttered door and windows and three wooden steps leading down to the banquette. A small garden flanked it on one side, quite screened from outside view by a high fence, over which appeared the tops of orange trees and other luxuriant shrubbery.

  She was waiting for them — a lovable, fresh-looking, white-haired, black-eyed, small, fat little body, dressed all in black. She understood no English; which made no difference. Suzanne and Hector spoke but French to each other.

  Hector did not tarry a moment longer than was needed to place his young friend and charge in the older woman’s care. He would not even stay to take a bite of supper with them. Maman Chavan watched him as he hurried down the steps and out into the gloom. Then she said to Suzanne: “That man is an angel, Mademoiselle, un ange du bon Dieu.”

  “Women, my dear Maman Chavan, you know how it is with me in regard to women. I have drawn a circle round my heart, so — at pretty long range, mind you — and there is not one who gets through it, or over it or under it.”

  “Blagueur, va!” laughed Maman Chavan, replenishing her glass from the bottle of sauterne.

  It was Sunday morning. They were breakfasting together on the pleasant side gallery that led by a single step down to the garden. Hector came every Sunday morning, an hour or so before noon, to breakfast with them. He always brought a bottle of sauterne, a paté, or a mess of artichokes or some tempting bit of charcuterie. Sometimes he had to wait till the two women returned from hearing mass at the cathedral. He did not go to mass himself. They were both making a Novena on that account, and had even gone to the expense of burning a round dozen of candles before the good St. Joseph, for his conversion. When Hector accidentally discovered the fact, he offered to pay for the candles, and was distressed at not being permitted to do so.

  Suzanne had been in the city more than a month. It was already the close of February, and the air was flower-scented, moist, and deliciously mild.

  “As I said: women, my dear Maman Chavan” —

  “Let us hear no more about women!” cried Suzanne, impatiently. “Cher Maître! but Hector can be tiresome when he wants. Talk, talk; to say what in the end?”

  “Quite right, my cousin; when I might have been saying how charming you are this morning. But don’t think that I have n’t noticed it,” and he looked at her with a deliberation that quite unsettled her. She took a letter from her pocket and handed it to him.

  “Here, read all the nice things mamma has to say of you, and the love messages she sends to you.” He accepted the several closely written sheets from her and began to look over them.

  “Ah, la bonne tante,” he laughed, when he came to the tender passages that referred to himself. He had pushed aside the glass of wine that he had only partly filled at the beginning of breakfast and that he had scarcely touched. Maman Chavan again replenished her own. She also lighted a cigarette. So did Suzanne, who was learning to smoke. Hector did not smoke; he did not use tobacco in any form, he always said to those who offered him cigars.

  Suzanne rested her elbows on the table, adjusted the ruffles about her wrists, puffed awkwardly at her cigarette that kept going out, and hummed the Kyrie Eleison that she had heard so beautifully rendered an hour before at the Cathedral, while she gazed off into the green depths of the garden. Maman Chavan slipped a little silver medal toward her, accompanying the action with a pantomime that Suzanne readily understood. She, in turn, secretly and adroitly transferred the medal to Hector’s coat-pocket. He noticed the action plainly enough, but pretended not to.

  “Natchitoches has n’t changed,” he commented. “The everlasting cancans! when will they have done with them? This is n’t little Athénaïse Miché, getting married! Sapristi! but it makes one old! And old Papa Jean-Pierre only dead now? I thought he was out of purgatory five years ago. And who is this Laballière? One of the Laballières of St. James?”

  “St. James, mon cher. Monsieur Alphonse Laballière; an aristocrat from the ‘golden coast.’ But it is a history, if you will believe me. Figurez vous, Maman Chavan, — pensez done, mon ami” — And with much dramatic fire, during which the cigarette went irrevocably out, she proceeded to narrate her experiences with Laballière.

  “Impossible!” exclaimed Hector when the climax was reached; but his indignation was not so patent as she would have liked it to be.

  “And to think of an affront like that going unpunished!” was Maman Chavan’s more sympathetic comment.

  “Oh, the scholars were only too ready to offer violence to poor little André, but that, you can understand, I would not permit. And now, here is mamma gone completely over to him; entrapped, God only knows how!”

  “Yes,” agreed Hector, “I see he has been sending her tamales and boudin blanc.”

  “Boudin blanc, my friend! If it were only that! But I have a stack of letters, so high, — I could show them to you, — singing of Laballière, Laballière, enough to drive one distracted. He visits her constantly. He is a man of attainment, she says, a man of courage, a man of heart; and the best of company. He has sent her a bunch of fat robins as big as a tub” —

  “There is something in that — a good deal in that, mignonne,” piped Maman Chavan, approvingly.

  “And now boudin blanc! and she tells me it is the duty of a Christian to forgive. Ah, no; it ‘s no use; mamma’s ways are past finding out.”

  Suzanne was never in Hector’s company elsewhere than at Maman Chavan’s. Beside the Sunday visit, he looked in upon them sometimes at dusk, to chat for a moment or two. He often treated them to theatre tickets, and even to the opera, when business was brisk. Business meant a little notebook that he carried in his pocket, in which he sometimes dotted down orders from the country people for wine, that he sold on commission. The women always went together, unaccompanied by any male escort; trotting along, arm in arm, and brimming with enjoyment.

  That same Sunday afternoon Hector walked with them a short distance when they were on their way to vespers. The three walking abreast almost occupied the narrow width of the banquette. A gentleman who had just stepped out of the Hotel Royal stood aside to better enable them to pass. He lifted his hat to Suzanne, and cast a quick glance, that pictured stupefaction and wrath, upon Hector.

  “It ‘s he!” exclaimed the girl, melodramatically seizing Maman Chavan’s arm.

  “Who, he?”

  “Laballière!”

  “No!”

  “Yes!”

  “A handsome fellow, all the same,” nodded the little lady, approvingly. Hector thought so too. The conversation again turned upon Laballière, and so continued till they reached the side door of the cathedral, where the young man left his two companions.

  In the evening Laballière called upon Suzanne. Maman Chavan closed the front door carefully after he entered the small parlor, and opened the side one that looked into the privacy of the garden. Then she lighted the lamp and retired, just as Suzanne entered.

  The girl bowed a little stiffly, if it may be said that she did anything stiffly. “Monsieur Laballière.” That was all she
said.

  “Mademoiselle St. Denys Godolph,” and that was all he said. But ceremony did not sit easily upon him.

  “Mademoiselle,” he began, as soon as seated, “I am here as. the bearer of a message from your mother. You must understand that otherwise I would not be here.”

  “I do understan’, sir, that you an’ maman have become very warm frien’s during my absence,” she returned, in measured, conventional tones.

  “It pleases me immensely to hear that from you,” he responded, warmly; “to believe that Madame St. Denys Godolph is my friend.”

  Suzanne coughed more affectedly than was quite nice, and patted her glossy braids. “The message, if you please, Mr. Laballière.”

  “To be sure,” pulling himself together from the momentary abstraction into which he had fallen in contemplating her. “Well, it’s just this; your mother, you must know, has been good enough to sell me a fine bit of land — a deep strip along the bayou” —

  “Impossible! Mais w’at sorcery did you use to obtain such a thing of my mother, Mr. Laballière? Lan’ that has been in the St. Denys Godolph family since time untole!”

  “No sorcery whatever, Mademoiselle, only an appeal to your mother’s intelligence and common sense; and she is well supplied with both. She wishes me to say, further, that she desires your presence very urgently and your immediate return home.”

  “My mother is unduly impatient, surely,” replied Suzanne, with chilling politeness.

  “May I ask, mademoiselle,” he broke in, with an abruptness that was startling, “the name of the man with whom you were walking this afternoon?”

  She looked at him with unaffected astonishment, and told him: “I hardly understan’ yo’ question. That gentleman is Mr. Hector Santien, of one of the firs’ families of Natchitoches; a warm ole frien’ an’ far distant relative of mine.”

  “Oh, that’s his name, is it, Hector Santien? Well, please don’t walk on the New Orleans streets again with Mr. Hector Santien.”

  “Yo’ remarks would be insulting if they were not so highly amusing, Mr. Laballière.”

  “I beg your pardon if I am insulting; and I have no desire to be amusing,” and then Laballière lost his head. “You are at liberty to walk the streets with whom you please, of course,” he blurted, with ill-suppressed passion, “but if I encounter Mr. Hector Santien in your company again, in public, I shall wring his neck, then and there, as I would a chicken; I shall break every bone in his body” — Suzanne had arisen.

  “You have said enough, sir. I even desire no explanation of yo’ words.”

  “I did n’t intend to explain them,” he retorted, stung by the insinuation.

  “You will escuse me further,” she requested icily, motioning to retire.

  “Not till — oh, not till you have forgiven me,” he cried impulsively, barring her exit; for repentance had come swiftly this time.

  But she did not forgive him. “I can wait,” she said. Then he stepped aside and she passed by him without a second glance.

  She sent word to Hector the following day to come to her. And when he was there, in the late afternoon, they walked together to the end of the vine-sheltered gallery, — where the air was redolent with the odor of spring blossoms.

  “Hector,” she began, after a while, “some one has told me I should not be seen upon the streets of New Orleans with you.”

  He was trimming a long rose-stem with his sharp penknife. He did not stop nor start, nor look embarrassed, nor anything of the sort.

  “Indeed!” he said.

  “But, you know,” she went on, “if the saints came down from heaven to tell me there was a reason for it, I could n’t believe them.”

  “You would n’t believe them, ma petite Suzanne?” He was getting all the thorns off nicely, and stripping away the heavy lower leaves.

  “I want you to look me in the face, Hector, and tell me if there is any reason.”

  He snapped the knife-blade and replaced the knife in his pocket; then he looked in her eyes, so unflinchingly, that she hoped and believed it presaged a confession of innocence that she would gladly have accepted. But he said indifferently: “Yes, there are reasons.”

  “Then I say there are not,” she exclaimed excitedly; “you are amusing yourself — laughing at me, as you always do. There are no reasons that I will hear or believe. You will walk the streets with me, will you not, Hector?” she entreated, “and go to church with me on Sunday; and, and — oh, it ‘s nonsense, nonsense for you to say things like that!”

  He held the rose by its long, hardy stem, and swept it lightly and caressingly across her forehead, along her cheek, and over her pretty mouth and chin, as a lover might have done with his lips. He noticed how the red rose left a crimson stain behind it.

  She had been standing, but now she sank upon the bench that was there, and buried her face in her palms. A slight convulsive movement of the muscles indicated a suppressed sob.

  “Ah, Suzanne, Suzanne, you are not going to make yourself unhappy about a bon ô rien like me. Come, look at me; tell me that you are not.” He drew her hands down from her face and held them a while, bidding her good-by. His own face wore the quizzical look it often did, as if he were laughing at her.

  “That work at the store is telling on your nerves, mignonne. Promise me that you will go back to the country. That will be best.”

  “Oh, yes; I am going back home, Hector.”

  “That is right, little cousin,” and he patted her hands kindly, and laid them both down gently into her lap.

  He did not return; neither during the week nor the following Sunday. Then Suzanne told Maman Chavan she was going home. The girl was not too deeply in love with Hector; but imagination counts for something, and so does youth.

  Laballière was on the train with her. She felt, somehow, that he would be. And yet she did not dream that he had watched and waited for her each morning since he parted from her.

  He went to her without preliminary of manner or speech, and held out his hand; she extended her own unhesitatingly. She could not understand why, and she was a little too weary to strive to do so. It seemed as though the sheer force of his will would carry him to the goal of his wishes.

  He did not weary her with attentions during the time they were together. He sat apart from her, conversing for the most time with friends and acquaintances who belonged in the sugar district through which they traveled in the early part of the day.

  She wondered why he had ever left that section to go up into Natchitoches. Then she wondered if he did not mean to speak to her at all. As if he had read the thought, he went and sat down beside her.

  He showed her, away off across the country, where his mother lived, and his brother Alcée, and his cousin Clarisse.

  On Sunday morning, when Maman Chavan strove to sound the depth of Hector’s feeling for Suzanne, he told her again: “Women, my dear Maman Chavan, you know how it is with me in regard to women,” — and he refilled her glass from the bottle of sauterne.

  “Farceur va!” and Maman Chavan laughed, and her fat shoulders quivered under the white volante she wore.

  A day or two later, Hector was walking down Canal Street at four in the afternoon. He might have posed, as he was, for a fashion-plate. He looked not to the right nor to the left; not even at the women who passed by. Some of them turned to look at him.

  When he approached the corner of Royal, a young man who stood there nudged his companion.

  “You know who that is?” he said, indicating Hector.

  “No; who?”

  “Well, you are an innocent. Why, that’s Deroustan, the most notorious gambler in New Orleans.”

  IN SABINE

  The sight of a human habitation, even if it was a rude log cabin with a mud chimney at one end, was a very gratifying one to Grégoire.

  He had come out of Natchitoches parish, and had been riding a great part of the day through the big lonesome parish of Sabine. He was not following the regular Texas ro
ad, but, led by his erratic fancy, was pushing toward the Sabine River by circuitous paths through the rolling pine forests.

  As he approached the cabin in the clearing, he discerned behind a palisade of pine saplings an old negro man chopping wood.

  “Howdy, Uncle,” called out the young fellow, reining his horse. The negro looked up in blank amazement at so unexpected an apparition, but he only answered: “How you do, suh,” accompanying his speech by a series of polite nods.

  “Who lives yere?”

  “Hit’s Mas’ Bud Aiken w’at live’ heah, suh.”

  “Well, if Mr. Bud Aiken c’n affo’d to hire a man to chop his wood, I reckon he won’t grudge me a bite o’ suppa an’ a couple hours’ res’ on his gall’ry. W’at you say, ole man?”

  “I say dit Mas’ Bud Aiken don’t hires me to chop ‘ood. Ef I don’t chop dis heah, his wife got it to do. Dat w’y I chops ‘ood, suh. Go right ‘long in, suh ; you g’ine fine Mas’ Bud some’eres roun’, ef he ain’t drunk an’ gone to bed.”

  Grégoire, glad to stretch his legs, dismounted, and led his horse into the small inclosure which surrounded the cabin. An unkempt, vicious-looking little Texas pony stopped nibbling the stubble there to look maliciously at him and his fine sleek horse, as they passed by. Back of the hut, and running plumb up against the pine wood, was a small, ragged specimen of a cotton-field.

  Grégoire was rather undersized, with a square, well-knit figure, upon which his clothes sat well and easily. His corduroy trousers were thrust into the legs of his boots; he wore a blue flannel shirt; his coat was thrown across the saddle. In his keen black eyes had come a puzzled expression, and he tugged thoughtfully at the brown moustache that lightly shaded his upper lip.

  He was trying to recall when and under what circumstances he had before heard the name of Bud Aiken. But Bud Aiken himself saved Grégoire the trouble of further speculation on the subject. He appeared suddenly in the small doorway, which his big body quite filled ; and then Grégoire remembered. This was the disreputable so-called “Texan” who a year ago had run away with and married Baptiste Choupic’s pretty daughter, ‘Tite Reine, yonder on Bayou Pierre, in Natchitoches parish. A vivid picture of the girl as he remembered her appeared to him: her trim rounded figure; her piquant face with its saucy black coquettish eyes ; her little exacting, imperious ways that had obtained for her the nickname of ‘Tite Reine, little queen. Grégoire had known her at the ‘Cadian balls that he sometimes had the hardihood to attend.