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.He ent goin’ to stan’ to have that kine o’ writin’ put down un’neath his picture!”She almost ran from the room, half blinded by the emotion that had helped her to make so daring a speech.Descending the gallery steps she ran full against her father who was ascending, bearing in his arms the little boy, Archie Sublet.The child was most grotesquely attired in garments far too large for his diminutive person—the rough jeans clothing of some negro boy.Evariste himself had evidently been taking a bath without the preliminary ceremony of removing his clothes, that were now half dried upon his person by the wind and sun.“Yere you’ li’le boy,” he announced, stumbling into the room.“You ought not lef dat li’le chile go by hisse’f comme ça1 in de pirogue.” Mr.Sublet darted from his chair; the others following suit almost as hastily.In an instant, quivering with apprehension, he had his little son in his arms.The child was quite unharmed, only somewhat pale and nervous, as the consequence of a recent very serious ducking.Evariste related in his uncertain, broken English how he had been fishing for an hour or more in Carancro lake, when he noticed the boy paddling over the deep, black water in a shell-like pirogue.Nearing a clump of cypress-trees that rose from the lake, the pirogue became entangled in the heavy moss that hung from the tree limbs and trailed upon the water.The next thing he knew, the boat had overturned, he heard the child scream, and saw him disappear beneath the still, black surface of the lake.“W’en I done swim to de sho’ wid ’im,” continued Evariste, “I hurry yonda to Jake Baptiste’s cabin, an’ we rub ’im an’ warm ’im up, an’ dress ’im up dry like you see.He all right now, M’sieur; but you mus’n lef ’im go no mo’ by hisse’f in one pirogue.”Martinette had followed into the room behind her father.She was feeling and tapping his wet garments solicitously, and begging him in French to come home.Mr.Hallet at once ordered hot coffee and a warm breakfast for the two; and they sat down at the corner of the table, making no manner of objection in their perfect simplicity.It was with visible reluctance and ill-disguised contempt that Wilkins served them.When Mr.Sublet had arranged his son comfortably, with tender care, upon the sofa, and had satisfied himself that the child was quite uninjured, he attempted to find words with which to thank Evariste for this service which no treasure of words or gold could pay for.These warm and heart felt expressions seemed to Evariste to exaggerate the importance of his action, and they intimidated him.He attempted shyly to hide his face as well as he could in the depths of his bowl of coffee.“You will let me make your picture now, I hope, Evariste,” begged Mr.Sublet, laying his hand upon the ’Cadian’s shoulder.“I want to place it among things I hold most dear, and shall call it ‘A hero of Bayou Têche.’ ” This assurance seemed to distress Evariste greatly.“No, no,” he protested, “it ’s nuttin’ hero’ to take a li’le boy out de water.I jus’ as easy do dat like I stoop down an’ pick up a li’le chile w’at fall down in de road.I ent goin’ to ’low dat, me.I don’t git no picture took, va!”Mr.Hallet, who now discerned his friend’s eagerness in the matter, came to his aid.“I tell you, Evariste, let Mr.Sublet draw your picture, and you yourself may call it whatever you want.I ’m sure he ’ll let you.”“Most willingly,” agreed the artist.Evariste glanced up at him with shy and child-like pleasure.“It ’s a bargain?” he asked.“A bargain,” affirmed Mr.Sublet.“Popa,” whispered Martinette, “you betta come home an’ put on yo’ otha pant’loon’ an’ yo’ good coat.”“And now, what shall we call the much talked-of picture?” cheerily inquired the planter, standing with his back to the blaze.Evariste in a business-like manner began carefully to trace on the tablecloth imaginary characters with an imaginary pen; he could not have written the real characters with a real pen—he did not know how.“You will put on’neat’ de picture,” he said, deliberately, “ ‘Dis is one picture of Mista Evariste Anatole Bonamour, a gent’man of de Bayou Têche.’ ”A Lady of Bayou St.JohnTHE days and the nights were very lonely for Madame Delisle.Gustave, her husband, was away yonder in Virginia somewhere, with Beauregard, and she was here in the old house on Bayou St.John, alone with her slaves.Madame was very beautiful.So beautiful, that she found much diversion in sitting for hours before the mirror, contemplating her own loveliness; admiring the brilliancy of her golden hair, the sweet languor of her blue eyes, the graceful contours of her figure, and the peach-like bloom of her flesh.She was very young.So young that she romped with the dogs, teased the parrot, and could not fall asleep at night unless old black Manna-Loulou sat beside her bed and told her stories.In short, she was a child, not able to realize the significance of the tragedy whose unfolding kept the civilized world in suspense.It was only the immediate effect of the awful drama that moved her: the gloom that, spreading on all sides, penetrated her own existence and deprived it of joyousness.Sépincourt found her looking very lonely and disconsolate one day when he stopped to talk with her.She was pale, and her blue eyes were dim with unwept tears.He was a Frenchman who lived near by.He shrugged his shoulders over this strife between brothers, this quarrel which was none of his; and he resented it chiefly upon the ground that it made life uncomfortable; yet he was young enough to have had quicker and hotter blood in his veins.When he left Madame Delisle that day, her eyes were no longer dim, and a something of the dreariness that weighted her had been lifted away [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]