Complete Works of Kate Chopin Page 41

  Bartner, left alone with the girl, proceeded to introduce himself and to explain his presence there.

  “Oh! Mr. Fred Bartna of New Orleans? The commission merchant!” she exclaimed, cordially extending her hand. “So well known in Natchitoches parish. Not our merchant, Mr. Bartna,” she added, naively, “but jus’ as welcome, all the same, at my gran’father’s.”

  Bartner felt like kissing her, but he only bowed and seated himself in the big chair which she offered him. He wondered what was the longest time it could take to mend a buggy tire.

  She sat before him with her hands pressed down into her lap, and with an eagerness and pretty air of being confidential that were extremely engaging, explained the reasons for her grandfather’s singular behavior.

  Years ago, her uncle Alcibiade, in going away to the war, with the cheerful assurance of youth, had promised his father that he would return to eat Christmas dinner with him. He never returned. And now, of late years, since Monsieur Jean Ba had begun to fail in body and mind, that old, unspoken hope of long ago had come back to live anew in his heart. Every Christmas Day he watched for the coming of Alcibiade.

  “Ah! if you knew, Mr. Bartna, how I have endeavor’ to distrac’ his mine from that thought! Weeks ago, I tole to all the negroes, big and li’le, ‘If one of you dare to say the word, Christmas gif, in the hearing of Monsieur Jean Baptiste, you will have to answer it to me.’ “

  Bartner could not recall when he had been so deeply interested in a narration.

  “So las’ night, Mr. Bartna, I said to grandpère, ‘Pépère, you know tomorrow will be the great feas’ of la Trinité; we will read our litany together in the morning and say a chapelet.’ He did not answer a word; il est malin, oui. But this morning at daylight he was rapping his cane on the back gallery, calling together the negroes. Did they not know it was Christmas Day, an’ a great dinner mus’ be prepare’ for his son Alcibiade, whom he was especting!”

  “And so he has mistaken me for his son Alcibiade. It is very unfortunate,” said Bartner, sympathetically. He was a good-looking, honest-faced young fellow.

  The girl arose, quivering with an inspiration. She approached Bartner, and in her eagerness laid her hand upon his arm.

  “Oh, Mr. Bartna, if you will do me a favor! The greates’ favor of my life!”

  He expressed his absolute readiness.

  “Let him believe, jus’ for this one Christmas day, that you are his son. Let him have that Christmas dinner with Alcibiade, that he has been longing for so many year’.”

  Bartner’s was not a puritanical conscience, but truthfulness was a habit as well as a principle with him, and he winced. “It seems to me it would be cruel to deceive him; it would not be” — he did not like to say “right,” but she guessed that he meant it.

  “Oh, for that,” she laughed, “you may stay as w’ite as snow, Mr. Bartna. I will take all the sin on my conscience. I assume all the responsibility on my shoulder’.”

  “Esmée!” the old man was calling as he came trotting back, “Esmée, my child,” in his quavering French, “I have ordered the dinner. Go see to the arrangements of the table, and have everything faultless.”

  The dining-room was at the end of the house, with windows opening upon the side and back galleries. There was a high, simply carved wooden mantelpiece, bearing a wide, slanting, old-fashioned mirror that reflected the table and its occupants. The table was laden with an overabundance. Monsieur Jean Ba sat at one end, Esmée at the other, and Bartner at the side.

  Two “grif” boys, a big black woman and a little mulatto girl waited upon them; there was a reserve force outside within easy call, and the little black and yellow faces kept bobbing up constantly above the window-sills. Windows and doors were open, and a fire of hickory branches blazed on the hearth.

  Monsieur Jean Ba ate little, but that little greedily and rapidly; then he stayed in rapt contemplation of his guest.

  “You will notice, Alcibiade, the flavor of the turkey,” he said. “It is dressed with pecans; those big ones from the tree down on the bayou. I had them gathered expressly.” The delicate and rich flavor of the nut was indeed very perceptible.

  Bartner had a stupid impression of acting on the stage, and had to pull himself together every now and then to throw off the stiffness of the amateur actor. But this discomposure amounted almost to paralysis when he found Mademoiselle Esmée taking the situation as seriously as her grandfather.

  “Mon Dieu! uncle Alcibiade, you are not eating! Mais w’ere have you lef your appetite? Corbeau, fill your young master’s glass. Doralise, you are neglecting Monsieur Alcibiade; he is without bread.”

  Monsieur Jean Ba’s feeble intelligence reached out very dimly; it was like a dream which clothes the grotesque and unnatural with the semblance of reality. He shook his head up and down with pleased approbation of Esmée’s “Uncle Alcibiade,” that tripped so glibly on her lips. When she arranged his after-dinner brûlot, — a lump of sugar in a flaming teaspoonful of brandy, dropped into a tiny cup of black coffee, — he reminded her, “Your Uncle Alcibiade takes two lumps, Esmée. The scamp! he is fond of sweets. Two or three lumps, Esmée.” Bartner would have relished his brûlot greatly, prepared so gracefully as it was by Esmée’s deft hands, had it not been for that superfluous lump.

  After dinner the girl arranged her grandfather comfortably in his big armchair on the gallery, where he loved to sit when the weather permitted. She fastened his shawl about him and laid a second one across his knees. She shook up the pillow for his head, patted his sunken cheek and kissed his forehead under the soft-brimmed hat. She left him there with the sun warming his feet and old shrunken knees.

  Esmée and Bartner walked together under the magnolias. In walking they trod upon the violet borders that grew rank and sprawling, and the subtle perfume of the crushed flowers scented the air deliciously. They stooped and plucked handfuls of them. They gathered roses, too, that were blooming yet against the warm south end of the house ; and they chattered and laughed like children. When they sat in the sunlight upon the low steps to arrange the flowers they had broken, Bartner’s conscience began to prick him anew.

  “You know,” he said, “I can’t stay here always, as well as I should like to. I shall have to leave presently; then your grandfather will discover that we have been deceiving him, — and you can see how cruel that will be.”

  “Mr. Bartna,” answered Esmée, daintily holding a rosebud up to her pretty nose, “W’en I awoke this morning an’ said my prayers, I prayed to the good God that He would give one happy Christmas day to my gran’father. He has answered my prayer; an’ He does not sen’ his gif’s incomplete. He will provide.

  “Mr. Bartna, this morning I agreed to take all responsibility on my shoulder’, you remember? Now, I place all that responsibility on the shoulder’ of the blessed Virgin.”

  Bartner was distracted with admiration ; whether for this beautiful and consoling faith, or its charming votary, was not quite clear to him.

  Every now and then Monsieur Jean Ba would call out, “Alcibiade, mon fils!” and Bartner would hasten to his side. Sometimes the old man had forgotten what he wanted to say. Once it was to ask if the salad had been to his liking, or if he would, perhaps, not have preferred the turkey aux truffes.

  “Alcibiade, mon fils!” Again Bartner amiably answered the summons. Monsieur Jean Ba took the young man’s hand affectionately in his, but limply, as children hold hands. Bartner’s closed firmly around it.

  “Alcibiade, I am going to take a little nap now. If Robert McFarlane comes while I am sleeping, with more talk of wanting to buy Nég Sévérin, tell him I will sell none of my slaves; not the least little négrillon. Drive him from the place with the shot-gun. Don’t be afraid to use the shot-gun, Alcibiade, — when I am asleep, — if he comes.”

  Esmée and Bartner forgot that there was such a thing as time, and that it was passing. There were no more calls of “Alcibiade, mon fils!” As the sun dipped lower and lower
in the west, its light was creeping, creeping up and illuming the still body of Monsieur Jean Ba. It lighted his waxen hands, folded so placidly in his lap; it touched his shrunken bosom. When it reached his face, another brightness had come there before it, — the glory of a quiet and peaceful death.

  Bartner remained over night, of course, to add what assistance he could to that which kindly neighbors offered.

  In the early morning, before taking his departure, he was permitted to see Esmée. She was overcome with sorrow, which he could hardly hope to assuage, even with the keen sympathy which he felt.

  “And may I be permitted to ask, Mademoiselle, what will be your plans for the future?”

  “Oh,” she moaned, “I cannot any longer remain upon the ole plantation, which would not be home without grandpère. I suppose I shall go to live in New Orleans with my tante Clémentine.” The last was spoken in the depths of her handkerchief.

  Bartner’s heart bounded at this intelligence in a manner which he could not but feel was one of unbecoming levity. He pressed her disengaged hand warmly, and went away.

  The sun was again shining brightly, but the morning was crisp and cool; a thin wafer of ice covered what had yesterday been pools of water in the road. Bartner buttoned his coat about him closely. The shrill whistles of steam cotton-gins sounded here and there. One or two shivering negroes were in the field gathering what shreds of cotton were left on the dry, naked stalks. The horses snorted with satisfaction, and their strong hoof-beats rang out against the hard ground.

  “Urge the horses,” Bartner said; “they’ve had a good rest and we want to push on to Natchitoches.”

  “You right, suh. We done los’ a whole blesse’ day, — a plumb day.”

  “Why, so we have,” said Bartner, “I had n’t thought of it.”

  A RUDE AWAKENING

  “Take de do’ an’ go! You year me? Take de do’!”

  Lolotte’s brown eyes flamed. Her small frame quivered. She stood with her back turned to a meagre supper-table, as if to guard it from the man who had just entered the cabin. She pointed toward the door, to order him from the house.

  “You mighty cross to-night, Lolotte. You mus’ got up wid de wrong foot to ‘s mo’nin’. Hein, Veveste? hein, Jacques, w’at you say?”

  The two small urchins who sat at table giggled in sympathy with their father’s evident good humor.

  “I’m wo’ out, me!” the girl exclaimed, desperately, as she let her arms fall limp at her side. “Work, work! Fu w’at? Fu feed de lazies’ man in Natchitoches pa’ish.”

  “Now, Lolotte, you think w’at you sayin’,” expostulated her father. “Sylveste Bordon don’ ax nobody to feed ‘im.”

  “W’en you brought a poun’ of suga in de house?” his daughter retorted hotly, “or a poun’ of coffee? W’en did you brought a piece o’ meat home, you? An’ Nonomme all de time sick. Co’n bread an’ po’k, dat’s good fu Veveste an’ me an’ Jacques; but Nonomme? no!”

  She turned as if choking, and cut into the round, soggy “pone” of corn bread which was the main feature of the scanty supper.

  “Po’ li’le Nonomme; we mus’ fine some’in’ to break dat fevah. You want to kill a chicken once a w’ile fu Nonomme, Lolotte.” He calmly seated himself at the table.

  “Did n’ I done put de las’ roostah in de pot?” she cried with exasperation. “Now you come axen me fu kill de hen’! W’ere I goen to fine aigg’ to trade wid, w’en de hen’ be gone? Is I got one picayune in de house fu trade wid, me?”

  “Papa,” piped the young Jacques, “w’at dat I yeard you drive in de yard, w’ile go?”

  “Dat’s it! W’en Lolotte would n’ been talken’ so fas’, I could tole you ‘bout dat job I got fu to-morrow. Dat was Joe Duplan’s team of mule’ an’ wagon, wid t’ree bale’ of cotton, w’at you yaird. I got to go soon in de mo’nin’ wid dat load to de landin’. An’ a man mus’ eat w’at got to work; dat’s sho.”

  Lolotte’s bare brown feet made no sound upon the rough boards as she entered the room where Nonomme lay sick and sleeping. She lifted the coarse mosquito net from about him, sat down in the clumsy chair by the bedside, and began gently to fan the slumbering child.

  Dusk was falling rapidly, as it does in the South. Lolotte’s eyes grew round and big, as she watched the moon creep up from branch to branch of the moss-draped live-oak just outside her window. Presently the weary girl slept as profoundly as Nonomme. A little dog sneaked into the room, and socially licked her bare feet. The touch, moist and warm, awakened Lolotte.

  The cabin was dark and quiet. Nonomme was crying softly, because the mosquitoes were biting him. In the room beyond, old Sylveste and the others slept. When Lolotte had quieted the child, she went outside to get a pail of cool, fresh water at the cistern. Then she crept into bed beside Nonomme, who slept again.

  Lolotte’s dreams that night pictured her father returning from work, and bringing luscious oranges home in his pocket for the sick child.

  When at the very break of day she heard him astir in his room, a certain comfort stole into her heart. She lay and listened to the faint noises of his preparations to go out. When he had quitted the house, she waited to hear him drive the wagon from the yard.

  She waited long, but heard no sound of horse’s tread or wagon-wheel. Anxious, she went to the cabin door and looked out. The big mules were still where they had been fastened the night before. The wagon was there, too.

  Her heart sank. She looked quickly along the low rafters supporting the roof of the narrow porch to where her father’s fishing pole and pail always hung. Both were gone.

  “ ‘T ain’ no use, ‘t ain’ no use,” she said, as she turned into the house with a look of something like anguish in her eyes.

  When the spare breakfast was eaten and the dishes cleared away, Lolotte turned with resolute mien to the two little brothers.

  “Veveste,” she said to the older, “go see if dey got co’n in dat wagon fu feed dem mule’.”

  “Yes, dey got co’n. Papa done feed ‘em, fur I see de co’n-cob in de trough, me.”

  “Den you goen he’p me hitch dem mule, to de wagon. Jacques, go down de lane an’ ax Aunt Minty if she come set wid Nonomme w’ile I go drive dem mule’ to de landin’.”

  Lolotte had evidently determined to undertake her father’s work. Nothing could dissuade her; neither the children’s astonishment nor Aunt Minty’s scathing disapproval. The fat black negress came laboring into the yard just as Lolotte mounted upon the wagon.

  “Git down f’om dah, chile! Is you plumb crazy?” she exclaimed.

  “No, I ain’t crazy; I’m hungry, Aunt Minty. We all hungry. Somebody got fur work in dis fam’ly.”

  “Dat ain’t no work fur a gal w’at ain’t bar’ seventeen year ole; drivin’ Marse Duplan’s mules! W’at I gwine tell yo’ pa?”

  “Fu me, you kin tell ‘im w’at you want. But you watch Nonomme. I done cook his rice an’ set it ‘side.”

  “Don’t you bodda,” replied Aunt Minty; “I got somepin heah fur my boy. I gwine ‘ten’ to him.”

  Lolotte had seen Aunt Minty put something out of sight when she came up, and made her produce it. It was a heavy fowl.

  “Sence w’en you start raisin’ Brahma chicken’, you?” Lolotte asked mistrustfully.

  “My, but you is a cu’ious somebody! Ev’ything w’at got fedders on its laigs is Brahma chicken wid you. Dis heah ole hen” —

  “All de same, you don’t got fur give dat chicken to eat to Nonomme. You don’t got fur cook ‘im in my house.”

  Aunt Minty, unheeding, turned to the house with blustering inquiry for her boy, while Lolotte drove away with great clatter.

  She knew, notwithstanding her injunction, that the chicken would be cooked and eaten. Maybe she herself would partake of it when she came back, if hunger drove her too sharply.

  “Nax’ thing I’m goen be one rogue,” she muttered; and the tears gathered and fell one by one upon her cheeks.

 
“It do look like one Brahma, Aunt Mint,” remarked the small and weazened Jacques, as he watched the woman picking the lusty fowl.

  “How ole is you?” was her quiet retort.

  “I don’ know, me.”

  “Den if you don’t know dat much, you betta keep yo’ mouf shet, boy.”

  Then silence fell, but for a monotonous chant which the woman droned as she worked. Jacques opened his lips once more.

  “It do look like one o’ Ma’me Duplan’ Brahma, Aunt Mint.”

  “Yonda, whar I come f’om, befo’ de wah” —

  “Ole Kaintuck, Aunt Mint?”

  “Ole Kaintuck.”

  “Dat ain’t one country like dis yere, Aunt Mint?”

  “You mighty right, chile, dat ain’t no sech kentry as dis heah. Yonda, in Kaintuck, w’en boys says de word ‘Brahma chicken,’ we takes an’ gags em, an’ ties dar han’s behines ‘em, an’ fo’ces ‘em ter stan’ up watchin’ folks settin’ down eatin’ chicken soup.”

  Jacques passed the back of his hand across his mouth; but lest the act should not place sufficient seal upon it, he prudently stole away to go and sit beside Nonomme, and wait there as patiently as he could the coming feast.