M. Beloiseau reached across his workbench and hung up his hammer and tongs. The varied notes of two or three remote steam-whistles told him that the hour, of the day after the holiday, was five.
He glanced behind him, through his shop to the street door, where some one paused awaiting his welcome. He thought of Chester but it was Landry, with an old broad book under his elbow.
"Ah, come in, Ovide."
As he laid aside his apron he handed the visitor the piece of metal he had been making beautiful, and waved him to the drawing whose lines it was taking.
"But those whistles," the bookman said, "they stop the handworkman too."
"Yes. In the days of my father, the days of handwork, they meant only steamboat', coming, going; but now swarm' of men and women, boys, and girl', coming, going, living by machinery the machine-made life."
"'Sieur Beloiseau," Landry good-naturedly, said, "you're too just to condemn a gift of the good God for the misuse men make of it."
Scipion glared and smiled at the same time: "Then let that gift of the good God be not so hideouzly misuse'."
But Ovide amiably persisted: "Without machinery--plenty of it--I should not have this book for you, nor I, nor you, ever have been born."
Chester, entering, found Beloiseau looking eagerly into the volume. "All the same, Landry," the newcomer said, "you're no more a machine product than Mr. Beloiseau himself."
The bookman smiled his thanks while he followed the craftsman's scrutiny of the pages. "'Tis what you want?" he asked, and Chester saw that it was full of designs of ironwork, French and Spanish.
Scipion beamed: "Ah, you've foun' me that at the lazt, and just when I'm wanting it furiouzly."
"Mr. Beloiseau," said Chester, "has a beautiful commission from the new Pan-American Steamship Company."
"Thanks to Mr. Chezter," said Beloiseau, "who got me the job. Hence for this book spot cash." He turned aside to a locked closet and drawer.
"You had a pleasant holiday yesterday," said Landry to Chester.
"Who told you?"
"Mesdemoiselles, the two sisters Chapdelaine. I chanced to meet them just now at the house of the archbishop, on the steps, they coming out, I going in. I had a book also for him."
"Why! What's taking them to the archbishop?" Chester put away a frown: "Did they reflect the pleasure of the holiday?"
"Mr. Chester, no." There was an exchange of gazes, but Scipion returned, counting and tendering the price of the book.
"Well, good evening," Landry said, willing to linger; but "good evening," said both the others.
Chester turned: "Beloiseau, I want to talk with you. Go, give yourself a dip, brush some of that hair, and we'll dine alone in some place away from things."
"A dip, hah! Always I scrub me any'ow till I come to the skin. Also I'll put a clean shirt. You can wait? I'll leave you this book."
Chester waited. When presently, with Scipion still picturesque though clean-shirted, they left the shop together, he gave the book a word of praise that set its owner off on the history of his craft. "But hammered into a matrix"--he drew his watch and halted: "Spanish Fort, juzt too late; half-hour till negs train; I'll show you an example, my father's work." They turned back.
Thus they lost a second train, and dined in the same snug nook as on the day before with Aline and the rest. At twilight they took seats in Jackson Square on a cast-iron bench "hardly worthy of the place," as Chester suggested.
And Scipion flashed back: "Or, my dear sir, of any worthy place! But you was asking me----"
"About those four boys over in France, one of them yours."
"Biccause sinze all day yesterday----?"
"That's it. I can't help thinking that mademoiselle is somehow the cause of their going."
"Ah, of three she is, but of my son, no. My son he was already there when that war commence', and the cause of that was a very simple and or-din-ary in him, but not in the story of my father. I would like to tell you ab-out that biccause tha'z also ab-out that house where we was juz' seeing all that open-work on those balconie', and biccause so interested, you, in old building', you are bound to hear ab-out that some day and probably hear it wrong."
"Let's have it now; she told me yesterday to ask you for it."
"Mighty solid," the ironworker said, "that old house, so square and high. They are no Creole brick it is make with, that old house."
Chester began to speak approvingly of the wide balconies running unbrokenly around its four sides at both upper stories, but Beloiseau shook his head: "They don't billong to the firz' building of that house, else they might have been Spanish, like here on the Cabildo and that old Café Veau-qui-tête. They would not be cast iron and of that complicate' disign, hah! But they are not even a French cast iron, like those and those"--he waved right and left to the wide balconies of the Pontalba buildings flanking the square with such graceful dignity. "Oh, they make that old house look pretty good, those balconie', but tha'z a pity they were not wrought iron, biccause M. Lefevre--he was rich--sugar-planter--could have what he choose, and she was a very fashionable, his ladie. They tell some strange stories ab-out them and that 'ouse; cruelty to slave', intrigue with slave', duel' ab-out slave'. Maybe tha'z biccause those iron bar' up and down in sidewalk window', old Spanish fashion; maybe biccause in confusion with that Haunted House in Royal Street, they are so allike, those two house'. But they are cock-an'-bull, those tale'. Wha's true they don't tell, biccause they don' know, and tha'z what I'm telling you ad the present.
"When my father he was yet a boy, fo'teen, fiv'teen, those Lefevre' they rent' to the grand-mère of both Castanado and Dubroca, turn ab-out, a li'l' slave girl so near white you coul'n' see she's black! You coul'n' even suspec' that, only seeing she's rent', that way, and knowing that once in a while, those time, that whitenezz coul'n' be av-void'. Myseff, me, I've seen a man, ex-slave, so white you woul'n' think till they tell you; but then you'd see it--black! But that li'l' girl of seven year', nobody coul'n' see that even avter told. Some people said: 'Tha'z biccause she's so young; when she's grow' up you'll see. And some say, 'When she get chil'ren they'll show it, those chil'ren--an' some be even dark!'
"Any'ow some said she's child of monsieur, and madame want to keep her out of sight that beneficent way. They would bet you any money if you go on his plantation you find her slave mother by the likenezz. She di'n' look like him but they insist' that also come later. Any'ow she's rent' half-an'-half by those grand-mère' of Castanado and Dubroca, at the firzt just to call 'shop'! at back door when a cuztomer come in, and when growing older to make herseff many other way' uzeful. And by consequence she was oft-en playmate with the chil'ren of all that coterie there in Royal Street. Excep' my father; he was fo'teen year' to her seven."
"Was she a handsome child?" Chester ventured.
"I think no. But in growing up she bic-came"--the craftsman handed out a pocket flash-light and an old carte-de-visite photograph of a black-haired, black-eyed girl of twenty or possibly twenty-three years. "You shall tell me," he said:
"And you'll trust me, my sincerity?"
"Sir! if I di'n' truzt you, ab-so-lutely, you shoul'n' touch that with a finger."
"Well, then, I say yes, she's handsome, trusting you not to gild my plain words with your imagination. She's handsome, but in a way easily overlooked; a way altogether apart from the charms of color and texture, I judge, or of any play of feeling; not floral, not startling, not exquisite; but statuesque, almost heavily so, and replete with the virtues of character."
"Well," said Beloiseau, putting away the picture, "sixteen year' she rimain' rent' to mesdames that way, and come to look lag that. And all of our parent'--gran'parent'--living that simple life like you see us, their descendant', now, she biccame like one of those familie'--Dubroca--Castanado--or of that coterie entire.
"So after while they want' to buy her, to put her free. But Mme. Lefevre she rif-use' any price. She say, 'If Fortune'--that was her name--'would be satisfi' to marry a nize black man like Ovide, who would buy his friddom--ah, yes! But no! If I make her free without, she'll right off want to be marrie' to a white man. Tha'z the only arrengement she'll make with him; she's too piouz for any other arrengement, while same time me I'm too piouz to let her marry a white man; my faith, that would be a crime! And also she coul'n' never be 'appy that way; she's too good and high-mind' to be marrie' to any white man wha'z willin' to marry a nigger.'
"So, then, it come to be said in all those card-club' that my father he's try to buy Fortune so to marry her. An' by that he had a quarrel with one of those young Lefevre', who said pretty much like his mother, only in another manner, pretty insulting. And, same old story, they fought, like we say, 'under those oak,' Métairie Ridge, with sharpen' foil'. And my father he got a bad wound. And he had to be nurse' long time, and biccause all those shop' got to be keep she nurse' him more than everybody elze.
"Well, human nature she's strong. So, when he get well he say, 'Papa, I can' stay any mo' in rue Royale, neither in that vieux carré, neither in that Louisiana.' And my grandpère and all that coterie they say: 'To go at Connect-icut, or Kanzaz, or Californie, tha'z no ril-ief; you muz' go at France and Spain, wherever 'tis good to study the iron-work, whiles we are hoping there will be a renaissance in that art and that businezz; and same time only the good God know' what he can cause to happen to lead a child of the faith out of trouble and sorrow.'
"So my father he went, and by reason of that he di'n' have to settle that queztion of honor what diztress all the balance of the coterie; whether to be on the side of Louisiana, or the Union. He di'n' run away to ezcape that war; he di'n' know 'twas going to be, and he came back in the mi'l' of it, whiles the city was in the han' of that Union army. Also what cause him to rit-urn was not that war. 'Twas one of those thing' what pro-juce' that saying that the truth 'tis mo' stranger than figtion.
"Mr. Chezter, 'twas a wonderful! And what make it the mo' wonderful, my father he wasn' hunting for that, neither hadn' ever dream' of it. He was biccome very much a wanderer. One day he juz' chance' to be in a village in Alsace, and there he saw some chil'ren, playing in the street. And he was very thirzty, from long time walking, and he request' them a drink of water. And a li'l' girl fetch' him a drink. But she was modess and di'n' look in his face till he was biggening to drink. Then she look' up--she had only about seven year', and my father he look' down, and he juz' drop that cup by his feet that it broke--the handle. And when she cry, and he talk' with her and say don' cry, he can make a cem-ent juz' at her own house to mend that to a perfegtion, he was astonizh' at her voice as much as her face. And when he ask her name and she tell him, her firz' name, and say tha'z the name of her grand'-mère, he's am-aze'! But when he see her mother meeting them he's not surprise', he's juz' lightning-struck.
"Same time he try to hide that, and whiles he's mixing that cem-ent and sticking that handle he look' two-three time' into the front of the hair of that li'l' girl, till the mother she get agitate', and she h-ask him: 'What you're looking? Who told you to look for something there? Ma foi! you're looking for the pompon gris of my mother and grandmother! You'll not fine it there. Tha'z biccause she's so young; when she's grow' up you'll see; but'--she part' as-ide her own hair in front and he see', my father, under the black a li'l' patch of gray, and he juz' say, 'Mon dieu!' while she egsclaim'--
"'If you know anybody's got that pompon in Louisiana, age of me, or elze, if older, the sizter of my mother, she's lost yonder sinze mo' than twen'y-five year'. My anceztor' they are name' Pompon for that li'l' gray spot.'
"Well, then they--and her 'usband, coming in--they make great frien'. My father he show' them thiz picture, and when he tell them the origin-al of that also is name' Fortune, like that child an' her mother, and been from in-fancy a slave, they had to cry, all of them together. And then they tell my father all ab-out those two sizter', how they get marrie' in that village with two young men, cousin' to each other, and how one pair, a year avter, emigrate' to Louisiana with li'l' baby name' Fortune, and--once mo' that old story--they are bound to the captain of the ship for the prise of the passage till somebody in Ammerica rid-eem them and they are bound to him to work that out. And coming accrozz, the father--ship-fever--die', and arriving, the passage is pay by the devil know' who'.
"Then my father he tell them that chile muz' be orpheline at two-three year', biccause while seeming so white she never think she wasn' black.
"And so my father, coming ad that village the moz' unhappy in the worl', he went away negs day the moz' happy. And he took with him some photo' showing that mother and chile with the mother's hair comb' to egspose that pompon gris; and also he took copy from those record' of babtism of the babtism of that li'l' Fortune, émigré.
"Same time, here at home, our Fortune she was so sick with something the doctor he coul'n' make out the nature, and she coul'n' eat till they're af-raid she'll die. And one day the doctor bring her father confessor, there where she's in bed, and break that gently that my father he's come home, and then that he's bring with him the perfec' proof that she's as white as she look'. Well, negs day she's out of bed; secon' she's dress--and laughing!--and eating! And every day my father he's paying his intention', and Mme. Lefevre she's rij-oice, biccause that riproach is pass' from monsieur her 'usband and pritty quick they are marrie', and tha'z my mother."
After a reverent silence Chester spoke: "And lived long and happily together?"
"Yes, a long, beautiful life. Maybe that life woul'n' be of a diztinction sufficient to you, but to them, yes. They are gone but since lately."
"And that Lefevre house?"
"Ah, you know! Full of Italian'--ten-twelve familie', with washing on street veranda eight day ev'ry week. Pauvre vieux carré!"
"I suppose," Chester said, breaking another silence, "you and that mother, and your father, have sat in the flowery sunshine of this old plaza together----"
"A thousan' time'," the ironworker replied, mused a bit, and added: "My frien', you are a so patient listener as I never see. Biccause I know you are all that time waiting for a differen' story. And now--I shall tell you that?"
"Yes, however it hits me I've got to know it."
"Well, after that, a year and half, I am born. I grow up. I 'ave brother' and sizter'. We all get marrie', and they, they are scatter' over the face of Louisiana. But me, I'm the oldest and my father take great trouble in educating me to sugceed him in his businezz, and so I did, like you see. And the same with Dubroca and with Castanado--Ducatel he's different he's come into that antique businezz by his mizfortune and he's--oh, he's all right only he's not of the same inspiration to be of that li'l' clique. He's up-town Creole and with the up-town Creole mind. And those De l'Isle' they also got a son, and Mme. Alexandre she have a very amiable daughter; and, laz', not leazt, you know, those Chapdelaine'----"
"I certainly do," Chester murmured.
"Yes, assuredlie," said Beloiseau. "Well, now: In those generation' befo' there was in Royal Street--and Bourbon--and Dauphine--bisside' crozz-street'--so many of our--I ignore the Englizh word for that--our affinité, that our whole market of mat-rim-ony was not juz' in one square of Royal; but presently, it break out like an épidémique, ammongs' our chil'ren, to marry juz' accrozz and accrozz the street; a Beloiseau to a Castanado, a Castanado to a Dubroca, and so forth--even fifth!" The speaker smiled benignly. "Hah! many year' they work' my geniuz hard to make iron candlestick'--orig-in-al diz-ign--for wedding-present'. The moze of them, they marrie' without any romanze, egcep' what cann' be av-oid', inside the heart, when both partie' are young, and in love together, and not rich neither deztitute. But year biffo' laz' we have the romanze of that daughter of Mme. Alexandre and son of De l'Isle and son of Dubroca."
"Is that Mélanie, whom you all mention so often but whom I've never seen?"
"Yes. Reason you don't see her---- But I'll tell you that. Mr. Chezter, that would make a beautyful story to go with those other' in that book of Mlle. Aline--but of co'se by changing those name', and by preten'ing that happen' at Hong Kong, or Chicago, or Bogota. Presently 'tis too short, but you can easy mazk and coztume that in a splendid rhétorique till it's plenty long enough."
"H'mm!" said Chester, wondering at the artisan's artlessness off his beaten track. "Go on."
"Well, she's not beautyful, Mélanie; same time she's not bad-looking and she's kindess of the kind, and whoever she love'--her mother, for example--and Mlle. Aline--tha'z pretty touching, to see with what an inten-city she love'.
"Now, what I tell you, tha'z a very sicret bitwin you and me. Biccause even those Dubroca', père and mère, and those De l'Isle', père and mère, they do' know all that; and me I know that only from Castanado, who know' it only from his wife; biccause she, she know' it only from Mlle. Aline, and none of them know that I know egcep' those Castanado'.
"Well! sinze chilehood those three--Mélanie, De l'Isle, Dubroca,--they are playmate' together, and Dubroca he's always call' Mélanie his swit-heart. But De l'Isle, no. Always biffo', those De l'Isle they are of the, eh, the beau monde and though li'l' by li'l' losing their fortune, keeping their frien', some of them rich, yet still ad the same time nize people. And that young De l'Isle he's a good-looking, well-behave', ambitiouz, and got--what you call--dash!
"That was the condition when they are all graduate' from school and go each into his o'cupation, or hers, up to the eyebrow'. Mélanie and Mlle. Aline they work' with Mme. Alexandre, though not precizely together, biccause Mélanie she show' only an ability to keep those account' and to assist keeping shop, whiles Mlle. Aline she rimain' always up-stair' employing that great talent tha'z too valu'ble to be interrupt'."
"Doesn't she keep the books now?"
"Yes, but tha'z only to assist Mélanie whiles Mélanie she's, eh, away. Dubroca he go' into businezz with his father, likewise Castanado with his father, but De l'Isle he's made a secretary in City-hall. So he have mo' time than those other' and he go' oft-en into society, and he get those manner' and cuztom' of society. And then that young Dubroca biggen very plain to pay his intention' to Mélanie, and we are all pretty glad to notiz that, biccause whiles he don't got that dash of De l'Isle, he's modess, yet still brave to a perfegtion; and he's square and got plenty sense, and he's steady and he's kind. Every way they are suit' to each other and we think--if that poor old rue Royale con-tinue to run down, that will even be good to join those two businezz' together. And bisside', sinze a li'l' shaver Dubroca he ain't never love nobody else, only Mélanie.
"But also De l'Isle, like Dubroca, he was always pretty glad of every egscuse to drop in there at Mme. Alexandre and pass word with Mélanie. 'Twas easy to see 'tis to Mlle. Aline he's in love and he come talk to Mélanie biccause tha'z the nearess he can reach to Mlle. Aline egcep' juz' saying good-day whiles passing on street or at church door. Oh, he behave the perfec' gen'leman, and still tha'z one reason she get that li'l' 'Ector. Yes, we all see that, only Mélanie she don't. So Mlle. Aline she ezcape' him all she could, but, with that dash he's got, he persevere' to hang on. And tha'z the miztake they both did, him and Mélanie, in doing that American way, keeping that to themselve' instead of--French way--telling their parent'.
"Then another thing tranzpire'. My son and that son of Castanado bigin, both--but that come' mo' later. Any'ow one day Mélanie she bring Mlle. Aline a note from De l'Isle sol-iciting if she and Mélanie will go at matinée with him and Dubroca. And when mademoiselle bigin to make egscuse' Mélanie implore' her to go, biccause Mme. Alexandre say no Creole girl cann' go juz' with one man, or even with two. 'And mamma she's right,' Mélanie say--with tear',--'even in that Am'erican way they got a limit, and same time I'm perishing to go!'
"And when mademoiselle hear' what that play is ab-out she consent' at the lazt to go. Biccause tha'z ab-out a girl what billieve' a man's in love to her, biccause he pay her those li'l' galanterie of high life--li'l' pol-ite figtion'--what every man---unless he's marrie'--egspect to pay to every girl, to make thing' pleasant, you know?
"And that play turn out a so egcellent that many people, paying admission ad the door, find they got to pay ag-ain, secon' time, ad their seat, in tear' that they weep; and that make it not so hard for Mélanie, who weep ab-out ten price'. Negs day, Sunday, avter church and dinner, she come yonder ad the home of mademoiselle, you know, Bourbon Street, and sit with her in the gol'fish bower of that li'l' garden behine. And she's very much bow' down. And she h-ask mademoiselle if she ain't notiz sinz long time how De l'Isle is paying intention to her, Mélanie. But mademoiselle di'n' have to be embarrazz' what to answer, biccause Mélanie she's so rattle' she don't wait to hear. And Mélanie she say tha'z one cause that she was wanting De l'Isle to see that play; biccause sinz lately she's notiz he's make himseff very complimentary also to mademoiselle, and she, Mélanie, she want' him to notiz how that way he's in danger to make mizunderstanding and diztress to himseff and--all concern'.
"And she prod-uce' a piece paper fill' with memorandum' of compliment' he's say to her one time and other, what she's wrote down whiles frezh spoken and what she billieve' are proof that he's in love to her and inten' to make his proposition so soon he's got good sign' he'll be accept'. 'But I ain't never give' him sign,' she say, 'biccause a girl she cann' never be too careful. And so I think I'm bound to show that to you, biccause I muz'n' be careful only for myseff, and if he's say such thing' likewise to you, then tha'z to be false to both of us together. But, I think,' she say, 'M. De l'Isle he coul'n' never do that!'"
"How did she say all that, angrily or meekly?"
"Oh! meek and weeping till mademoiselle she's compel' to weep likewise. And ad the end she's compel' to tell Mélanie yes, De l'Isle he's pay her those same kind of sentimental plaisanteries; rosebud' to pin on the heart outside, a few minute', till the negs cavalier. Castanado, she say, Beloiseau, they do the same--even more. 'Ah!' Mélanie say, 'but only to you! and only biccause to say any mo' they are yet af-raid! Mademoiselle, those both, they are both in love to you!'
"And when Mélanie say that, Mlle. Aline take the both hand' of Mélanie in her both han' and ask her if she ain't herseff put them both, Castanado, Beloiseau, up to that--to fall in love to her. And pretty soon Mélanie she's compel' to confezz that, not with word', but juz' with the fore-head on the knee of mademoiselle and crying like babie. And she say she's sin'. And yet same time while she h-ask' mademoiselle to pray the good God and the mother of God to forgive that sin, she h-ask her to pray also that they'll make De l'Isle to love her.
"Biccause, she say, 'tis those unfortunate rosebud' of sentimental plaisanterie he give her what firz' make her to love him. And mademoiselle she ag-ree' to that if Mélanie she'll tell that whole story also to her mother; biccause mademoiselle she see what a hole that put them both in, her and Mélanie, when she, mademoiselle, is bound to know he's paying, De l'Isle, all his real intention' to herseff. And Mélanie she's in agonie and say no-no-no! but if mademoiselle will tell it, yes! And by reason that she's kep' that from her mother sinze the firz', she say tell not Mme. Alexandre but Mme. Castanado, even when mademoiselle say if Mme. Castanado then also monsieur; biccause madame she'll certainly make that condition, and biccause monsieur he can assist her to commenze that whole businezz over, French way. And same time Mélanie she take very li'l' stock in that French way, by reason that, avter all, those De l'Isle, though their money's gone, are still pretty high-life.
"And tha'z how it come that those Castanado' have to tell me. Biccause madame she cann' skip ar-ound pretty light, you know, and biccause they think my, eh--pull--with those De l'Isle' is the moze of anybody, and biccause I require to know how they are sure 'tis uzeless any mo' for my son, or their son, than for the son of De l'Isle, to sed the heart on Mlle. Aline. Also tha'z to egsplain me why Mlle. Aline say if all those intention' to her don't finizh righd there, she got to stop coming ad Mme. Alexandre. And of co'se! You see that, I su'pose?"
"And where was young Dubroca in all this?"
"Ah, another migsture! He was nowhere. Any'ow, tha'z how he feel; and those other three boy' they di'n' feel otherwise. You see? We coul'n' egsplain them anything--ab-out Mlle. Aline,--all we can say: 'Road close'--stim-roller.' So ad the end Dubroca he have, slimly, the advantage; for him, to Mélanie, the road any 'ow seem' open; yet in vain. So there, all at same time, in that li'l' gang, rue Royale, was five heart' blidding for love, and nine other' blidding for those five and for Mlle. Aline.
"Well, of co'se--you see?--nobody cann' stand that! Firzt to find his way out of that is Mélanie. Mélanie's confessor he think tha'z a sin to keep any longer those fact' from her mother, and she confezz them to Mme. Alexandre, and ad the end she say: 'Mamma, in our li'l' coterie I cann' look anybody in the face any mo', and I'm going to biccome train' nurse. Tha'z not running away, yet same time tha'z not every evening to be getting me singe' in the same candle.'
"Then, almoze while she saying that, that son of De l'Isle he say to my son--who he's fon' of like a brother, and my son of him likewise, though the one is a so dashing and the other a so quiet--''Oiseau,' he say,--biccause tha'z the nickname of my son,--'papa and me we visit' the French consul to-day and arrange' a li'l' affair.'
"And when he want' to tell some mo' my son he stop' him: 'Enough! I div-ine that. Why you di'n' take me al-ong? You'll arrange to go at that France, of my grand'mère, and that Alsace, of her mother, to be fighting aviateur, and leave 'Oiseau behine? Ah, you cann' do that!' And when that young Dubroca and Castanado get the win' of them, the all four, all of same sweet maladie, they go together; two to be juz' poilu', two, aviateur'. That old remedie, you know; if they can't love--they'll fight! They are yonder, still al-ive, laz' account."
Mainly to himself Chester said, "And I am here, my land still at peace, last account."
"And also you, you've h-ask' mademoiselle, I think," said the ironworker, "and alas, she's say aggain, no, eh?"
The reply was a gaze and a nod.
"Well, Mr. Chezter, I'm sorrie! Her reason--you can't tell. 'Tis maybe juz' biccause those hero' are yonder. 'Tis maybe only that those two aunt' are here. Maybe 'tis biccause both, maybe neither. You can't tell. Maybe you h-ask too soon. Ad the present she know' you only sinze a few week'. She don't know none of yo' hiztorie, neither yo' familie--egcep' that h-angel of the Lord. Yo' char-acter, she may like that very well yet same time she know' how easy that is for women to make miztake' about. Maybe y'ought to 'ave ask' M'sieu' Thorndyke-Smith to write at yo' home-town and get you recommen'. Even a cook he's got to 'ave that--or a publisher, eh?"
"I've got that--within reach; my law firm has it. But, pshaw! I think, Beloiseau, while all your maybe's may be right the thing that explains mademoiselle's whole situation is that she's never seen a man worthy to touch a hem of her robe; and the only argument a lover can lay at her feet is that she never will."
"And you'll lay that, negs time?"
"Not till that manuscript business is settled, don't you see? Come, you must go to bed."
Shrimps, rice, and watered wine for a sunset dinner. At its end the three Chapdelaines, each with her small cup of black coffee, left the table and its remnants to the other two members of the household, and passed out as usual to the bower benches and the goldfish pool.
Humming-birds were there, drinking frenziedly from honeysuckle cups to the health of all things beautiful and ecstatic. Mlle. Yvonne stood at a bench's end to watch one of them dart from bloom to bloom. "Ah, Corinne," she sighed, "if we could all be juz' humming-bird'!"
"Chérie," cried her sister, "you are spilling yo' coffee!"
Whether for the coffee, for the fact that we can't all be humming-birds, or for some thought not yet spoken, Mlle. Corinne's eyes were all but spilling their tears. As the trio sat down. Aline said in gentlest accusation to the younger aunt:
"You are trembling. Why is that?"
The younger sister looked appealingly to the elder. "Chère," Mlle. Corinne said to the girl, "we are anxiouz to confezz you something. We woul'n' never be anxiouz to confezz that, only we're af-raid already you've foun' us out!"
"Yes. I came this evening by Ovide's shop to return a book----"
"An' he tell you he's meet us----?"
"On the steps of the archevêché."
"Ah, chèrie," Yvonne tearfully broke in, "can you ever pardon that to us?"
Aline smiled: "Oh, yes; in the course of time, I suppose. That was not like a drinking-saloon."
"Ah-h! not in the leas'! We di'n' touch there a drop--nobodie di'n' offer us!"
The niece addressed the other aunt: "Go on. Tell me why you were there."
"Aline, we'll confess us! We wend there biccause--we are orphan'! Of co'se, we know that biffo', sinze long time, many, many year'; but only sinze a few day'----"
"Joy-ride day," Aline put in, a bit tensely.
"Ah, no! Chérie, you muz' not supose----"
"Never mind; 'last few days'--go on."
"Well, sinze those laz' few day' we bigin to feel like we juz' got to take step' ab-oud that!"
"So you took those steps of the archevêché."
"Chère, we'll tell you! Yvonne and me, avter all those many 'appy year' with you, we think we want--ah, chérie, you'll pardon that?--we want ad the laz' to live independent! So we go ad the archbishop. And he say, 'How I'm going to make you that? You think to be independent by biccoming Sizter' of Charitie--of Mercy--of St. Joseph?'
"'Ah, no,' we say, 'we have not the geniuz to be those; not even to be Li'l'-Sizter'-of-the-Poor. All we want--and we coul'n' make ourselv' the courage to ask you that, only we've save' you so large egspenses not asking you that already sinze twenty-thirty year' aggo--we want you to put us in orphan asylum.' We was af-raid at firz' he's goin' to be mad; but he smile very kine and say: 'Yes, yes; you want, like the good Lord say, to biccome like li'l' children, eh?'
"'Ah, yes!' we tell him, 'tha'z what we be glad to do. They got nothing in the worl' we can do, Yvonne and me, so easy like that! And same time we be no egspense, like those li'l' orpheline'; we can wash dish', make bed', men' apron'; and in that way we be independent!' Well, he scratch his head; yet same time he smile', while he say, 'Go, li'l' children, to yo' home. I'll see if Mère Veronique can figs that, and if yes, I'll san' for you.' And, chérie, juz' the way he said that, we are sure he's goin' to san'."
With her tears running freely Aline softly laughed. She rose, took a hand of each aunt, laid the two together, bent low, and kissed them, saying: "He will not, for he shall not. Nothing shall ever part us but heaven."
One evening M. Castanado sat reading to his wife from a fresh number of the weekly Courier des Etats-Unis.
It was not long after the incident last mentioned. Chester had become accustomed to his new lift in fortune, but as yet no further word as to the manuscript had reached him; he had only just written a second letter of inquiry after it. Also that summons to the two aunts, from the archbishop, of which the pair were so sure, was still unheard; no need had arisen for Aline to take any counter-step. We could name the exact date, for it was the day of the week on which the Courier always came, and the week was the last in which a Canal Street movie-show beautifully presented the matchless Bernhardt as a widowed shopkeeper--like Mme. Alexandre, but with a son, not daughter, in love.
The door-bell rang. Castanado went down to the street. There, letting in a visitor, he spoke with such animation that madame, listening from her special seat, guessed, and before the two were half up-stairs knew, who it was. It was Mélanie Alexandre.
No one answered her mother's bell, she said, kissing madame lingeringly, twice on the forehead and once on either vast cheek. She was short and square, with such serene kindness of face and voice as to be the last you would ever pick out to fall into a mistake of passion, however exalted. Of course, that serenity may have come since the mistake. Both Castanados seemed to take note of it as if it had come since, and she to be willing they should note it.
"No," they said, "Mme. Alexandre had gone with Dubroca and his wife to that movie of Sarah."
"And also with M. Beloiseau?" asked Mélanie, with a lurking smile, as she sat down so fondly close to madame as to leave both her small hands in one of her friend's.
"Ah, now," madame exclaimed, "there is nothing in that! You ought to be rijoice' if there was."
The new look warmed in Mélanie's eyes. "I'll be very glad if that time ever comes," she said.
"Then you billieve in the second love?"
"Ah, in a case like that! Indeed, yes. In their first love they both were happy; the second would be in praise of the first."
"And to separate them there is only the street," Castanado suggested, "and Royal Street, street of their birth and chilehood, and so narrow, it have the effect to join, not separate. But!"--he made a wary motion--"kip quite, eize they will not go into the net, those old bird', hah!"
There was a smiling silence, and then--"Well," madame said, "they are all to stop here as they riturn. Waiting here, you'll see them all."
"Yes, and beside', I have some good news for you; news anyhow to me."
The pair smiled brightly: "You 'ave another letter from Dubroca!"
"Yes. He's again wounded and in hospital."
"Oh-h, terrible! tha'z to you good news?"
"Yes. Look, monsieur; he has, at the front, the chance to be hit so many times. If he's hit and only wounded his chances to be hit again are made one less, eh? And while he's in hospital they are again two or three less. Shall we not be glad for that? And moreover, how he got his wound, that is better. He got that taking, by himself, nine Boches! And still the best news is what he writes about his friend Castanado."
"Ah, Mélanie! And you hold that back till now? And you know we are without news of him sinze a month! He's promote'? He's decorate'?"
"He's found a treasure. I think maybe you'll get his letter to-morrow. Me, I got mine soon; passing the post-office I went in and asked."
"But how, he found a treasure? and what sort?"
"He just happened to dig it up, in a cellar, in Rheims. He's betrothed.'
"Mélanie! What are you saying?"
"What he says. And that's all he says. I hope you'll hear all about that to-morrow."
"Oh, any'ow tha'z the bes' of news!" Castanado said, kissing his wife's hand and each temple. "Doubtlezz he's find some lovely orphan of that hideouz war; we can trus' his good sense, our son. But, Mélanie, he muz' have been sick, away from the front, to make that courtship."
"I do not know. Everything happens terribly fast these days. I hope you'll hear all about that to-morrow."
Castanado playfully lifted a finger: "Mélanie, how is that, you pass that poss-office, when it is up-town, while you--?" The question hung unfinished--maybe because Mélanie turned so red, maybe because the door-bell rang again.
Enlivened by the high art they had been enjoying and by the fresh night air, a full half-dozen came in: M. and Mme. De l'Isle, whom the others had chanced upon as they left the theatre; Dubroca and his wife; Mme. Alexandre; and finally Beloiseau. "Mélanie!" was the cry of each of these as he or she turned from saluting madame; this was one of madame's largest joys; to get early report from larger or smaller fractions of the coterie, on the good things they had seen or heard, from which her muchness otherwise debarred her. The De l'Isles, however, were not such a matter of course as the others, and Mme. De l'Isle, as she greeted Mme. Castanado, said, in an atmosphere that trembled with its load of mingled French and English:
"We got something to show you!"
In the same atmosphere--"And how got you away from yo' patient?" Mme. Alexandre asked her daughter as they embraced a second time.
"I tore myself," said Mélanie, while Castanado, to all the rest, was saying:
"And such great news as Mél'----"
But a sharp glance from Mélanie checked him. "Such great news as we have receive'! Our son is bethroath'!--to a good, dizcreet, beautiful French girl; which he foun', in a cellar at Rheims!" When a drum-fire of questions fell on him he grew reticent and answered quietly: "We have only that by firz' letter. Full particular' pretty soon, perchanze to-morrow."
"Then to-morrow we'll come hear ab-out it," Beloiseau said, "and tell ab-out the movie. Mme. De l'Isle she's also got fine news, what she cann' tell biffo' biccause"--he waved to Mme. De l'Isle to say why, but her husband spoke for her.
"Biccause," he said, "'tis all in a pigture, war pigture, on a New York Sunday paper, and of co'se we coul'n' stop under street lamp for that; and with yo' permission"--to Mme. Castanado--"we'll show that firz' of all to Scipion."
Beloiseau put on glasses and looked. "'General Joffre--'" he began to read.
"No, no! not that! This one, where you know the général only by the back of his head."
"Ah--ah, yes; 'Two aviateur' riceiving from General Joffre'--my God! De l'Isle--my God! madame,"--Scipion pounded his breast with the paper--"they are yo' son and mine!"
The company rushed to his elbows. "My faith! Castanado, there are their name'! and 'For destrugtion of their eighteenth enemy aeroplane, under circumstance' calling for exceptional coolnezz and intrepid-ity!'"
There was great and general rejoicing and some quite pardonable boasting, under cover of which Mélanie and her mother slipped out by the inside way, without mention of the young Dubroca, his prisoners, sickness, or letter, except to his father and mother, who told of him more openly when the Alexandres were safely gone. That brought fresh gladness and praise, a fair share of which was for Mélanie.
So presently the remaining company vanished, leaving Mme. Castanado free to embrace her kneeling husband and boast again the power of prayer.
The cathedral that year was undergoing repairs.
Its cypress-log foundations, which had kept sound from colonial days in a soil always wet, had begun to decay when a new drainage system began to dry it out. Fact, but also allegory.
It may have been in connection with this work, or with some change in the house of the Discalceated Sisters of Mt. Carmel, or of the archbishop, or of St. Augustine's Church, that a certain priest of exceptional taste, Beloiseau's father confessor, dropped in on him to order an ornamental wrought-iron grille for the upper half of a new door. While looking at patterns he asked:
"And what is the latest word from your son?"
Scipion showed him that picture--he had bought one for himself--the dear old unmistakable back of "Papa Joffre," and the dear young unmistakable faces of the two boys, Beloiseau and De l'Isle.
A talk followed, on the conflict between a father's pride and his yearning to see his only son safely delivered from constant deadly peril. They spoke of Aline. Not for the first time; Scipion, unaware that the good father was her confessor also, had told him before of his son's hopeless love, to ask if it was not right for him, the father, to help Chester win the marvellous girl, since winning would win the two boys home again.
Patterns waited while the ironworker said that to the tender chagrin of all the coterie Chester was refused--a man of such fineness, such promise, mind, charm, and integrity, and so fitted for her in years, temperament, and tastes, that no girl, however perfect, could hope to be courted by more than one such in a lifetime.
In brief Creole prose he struck the highest key of Shakespeare's sonnets: "Was she not doing a grievous wrong to herself and Chester, to the whole coterie that so adored her, especially to the De l'Isles and himself, and even to society at large? Her reasons," he said, shifting to English, "I can guess at them, but guessing at 'alf-a-dozen convinze' me of none!"
"Have you guess' at differenze of rilligious faith?" the priest inquired.
"Yes, but--nothing doing; I 'ave to guess no."
"Tha'z a great matter to a good Catholic."
"Ah, father! Or-din-arily, yes. Bud this time no. Any'ow, this time tha'z not for us Catholic' to be diztress' ab-out. . . . Ah, yes, chil'ren. But, you know? If daughter', they'll be of the faith and conduc' of the mother; if son', faith of the mother, conduc' of the father; and I think with that even you, pries' of God, be satizfie', eh?
"My dear frien', you know what I billieve? Me, I billieve in heaven they are waiting impatiently for that marriage."
The priest may have been professionally delinquent, but he chose to leave the argument unrefuted. He smilingly looked at his watch. "Well," he said, "I choose this design. Make it so. Good evening." He turned away. Beloiseau called after him, but the man of God kept straight on.
The ironworker loitered back to where the chosen pattern lay, and stood over it still thinking of Chester. Presently a soft voice sounded so close by that he turned abruptly. At his side was an extremely winsome stranger. His artistic eye instantly remarked not only her well-preserved beauty, but its gentle dignity, rare refinement, and untypical quality. Whether it was Creole or Américain, Southern, Northern, or Western, nothing betrayed; on the surface at least, the provincial, as far as the ironworker could see, was wholly bred out of her. He noted also the unimpaired excellence of her erect and girlish slightness and, under her pretty hat and early whitened hair, the carven fineness of her features. Her whole attire pleasantly befitted her years, which might have been anything short of fifty; and yet, if Scipion was right, she might have dressed for thirty.
"Are you Mr. Beloiseau?" she inquired.
"I am," he said.
"Mr. Beloiseau, I'm the mother of Geoffry Chester. You know him, I believe?"
"Oh, is that possible? He is my esteem' frien', madame. Will you"--he began to dust a lone chair.
"No, thank you; I came to find Geoffry's quarters. I left the hotel with my memorandum, but must have dropped it. I remember only Bienville Street."
"He's not there any mo'. Sinze only two day' he's move'. Mrs. Chezter, if you'll egscuse me till I can change the coat I'll show you those new quarter'. Whiles I'm changing you can look ad that book of pattern', and also--here--there's a pigtorial of New York; that--tha'z of my son and the son of my neighbor up-stair', De l'Isle, ric'iving medal' from Général Joffre----"
"Why, Mr. Beloiseau can it be!"
"But you know, Mrs. Chezter, he's not there presently, yo' son. He's gone at St. Martinville, to the court there."
"Yes, to be back to-morrow or next day. They told me in his office this forenoon. I reached the city only at eleven, train late. He didn't know I was coming. My telegram's on his desk unopened. But having time, I thought I'd see whether he's living comfortably or only fancies he is."
On their way Mrs. Chester and her guide hardly spoke until Scipion asked: "Madame, when you was noticing yo' telegram on the desk of yo' son you di'n' maybe notiz' a letter from New York? We are prettie anxiouz for that to come to yo' son. I do' know if you know about that or no, but M. De l'Isle and madame, and Castanado and his madame, and Dubroca and his madame, and Mme. Alexandre and me, and three Chapdelaine', we are all prettie anxiouz for that letter."
"Yes, I know about it, and there is one, from a New York publishing-house, on Geoffry's desk."
"Well, madame, Marais Street, here's the place. Ah! and street-car--or jitney--passing thiz corner will take you ag-ain at yo' hotel."