by Kate Chopin
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?”16 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 à rien17 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!”18 and Maman Chavan laughed, and her fat shoulders quivered under the white volante19 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 road, 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.
These pleasing recollections of ’Tite Reine lent a warmth that might otherwise have been lacking to Grégoire’s manner, when he greeted her husband.
“I hope I fine you well, Mr. Aiken,” he exclaimed cordially, as he approached and extended his hand.
“You find me damn’ porely, suh; but you ’ve got the better o’ me, ef I may so say.” He was a big good-looking brute, with a straw-colored “horse-shoe” moustache quite concealing his mouth, and a several days’ growth of stubble on his rugged face. He was fond of reiterating that women’s admiration had wrecked his life, quite forgetting to mention the early and sustained influence of “Pike’s Magnolia”1 and other brands, and wholly ignoring certain inborn propensities capable of wrecking unaided any ordinary existence. He had been lying down, and looked frouzy and half asleep.
“Ef I may so say, you ’ve got the better o’ me, Mr.—er”—
“Santien, Grégoire Santien. I have the pleasure o’ knowin’ the lady you married, suh; an’ I think I met you befo’,—somew’ere o’ ’nother,” Grégoire added vaguely.
“Oh,” drawled Aiken, waking up, “one o’ them Red River Sanchuns!” and his face brightened at the prospect before him of enjoying the society of one of the Santien boys. “Mortimer!” he called in ringing chest tones worthy a commander at the head of his troop. The negro had rested his axe and appeared to be listening to their talk, though he was too far to hear what they said.
“Mortimer, come along here an’ take my frien’ Mr. Sanchun’s hoss. Git a move thar, git a move!” Then turning toward the entrance of the cabin he called back through the open door: “Rain!” it was his way of pronouncing ’Tite Reine’s name. “Rain!” he cried again peremptorily; and turning to Grégoire: “she ’s ’tendin’ to some or other housekeepin’ truck.” ’Tite Reine was back in the yard feeding the solitary pig which they owned, and which Aiken had mysteriously driven up a few days before, saying he had bought it at Many.
Grégoire could hear her calling out ás she approached: “I ’m comin’, Bud. Yere I come. W’at you want, Bud?” breathlessly, as she appeared in the door frame and looked out upon the narrow sloping gallery where stood the two men. She seemed to Grégoire to have changed a good deal. She was thinner, and her eyes were larger, with an alert, uneasy look in them; he fancied the startled expression came from seeing him there unexpectedly. She wore cleanly homespun garments, the same she had brought with her from Bayou Pierre; but her shoes were in shreds. She uttered only a low, smothered exclamation when she saw Grégoire.
“Well, is that all you got to say to my frien’ Mr. Sanchun? That ’s the way with them Cajuns,” Aiken offered apologetically to his guest; “ain’t got sense enough to know a white man when they see one.” Grégoire took her hand.
“I ’m mighty glad to see you, ’Tite Reine,” he said from his heart. She had for some reason been unable to speak; now she panted somewhat hysterically:—
“You mus’ escuse me, Mista Grégoire. It ’s the truth I did n’ know you firs’, stan’in’ up there.” A deep flush had supplanted the former pallor of her face, and her eyes shone with tears and ill-concealed excitement.
“I thought you all lived yonda in Grant,” remarked Grégoire carelessly, making talk for the purpose of diverting Aiken’s attention away from his wife’s evident embarrassment, which he himself was at a loss to understand.
“Why, we did live a right smart while in Grant; but Grant ain’t no parish to make a livin’ in. Then I tried Winn and Caddo a spell; they was n’t no better. But I tell you, suh, Sabine ’s a damn’ sight worse than any of ’em. Why, a man can’t git a drink o’ whiskey here without going out of the parish fer it, or across into Texas. I ’m fixin’ to sell out an’ try Vernon.”
Bud Aiken’s household belongings surely would not count for much in the contemplated “selling out.” The one room that constituted his home was extremely bare of furnishing,—a cheap bed, a pine table, and a few chairs, that was all. On a rough shelf were some paper parcels representing the larder. The mud daubing had fallen out here and there from between the logs of the cabin; and into the largest of these apertures had been thrust pieces of ragged bagging and wisps of cotton. A tin basin outside on the gallery offered the only bathing facilities to be seen. Notwithstanding these drawbacks, Grégoire announced his intention of passing the night with Aiken.
“I ’m jus’ goin’ to ask the privilege o’ layin’ down yere on yo’ gall’ry to-night, Mr. Aiken. My hoss ain’t in firs’-class trim; an’ a night’s res’ ain’t goin’ to hurt him o’ me either.” He had begun by declaring his intention of pushing on across the Sabine, but an imploring look from ’Tite Reine’s eyes had stayed the words upon his lips. Never had he seen in a woman’s eyes a look of such heartbroken entreaty. He resolved on the instant to know the meaning of it before setting foot on Texas soil. Grégoire had never learned to steel his heart against a woman’s eyes, no matter what language they spoke.
An old patchwork quilt folded double and a moss pillow which ’Tite Reine gave him out on the gallery made a bed that was, after all, not too uncomfortable for a young fellow of rugged habits.
Grégoire slept quite soundly after he laid down upon his improvised bed at nine o’clock. He was awakened toward the middle of the night by some one gently shaking him. It was ’Tite Reine stooping over him; he could see her plainly, for the moon was shining. She had not removed the clothing she had worn during the day; but her feet were bare and looked wonderfully small and white. He arose on his elbow, wide awake at once. “W’y, ’Tite Reine! w’at the devil you mean? w’ere ’s yo’ husban’?”
“The house kin fall on ’im, ’t en goin’ wake up Bud w’en he ’s sleepin’; he drink’ too much.” Now that she had aroused Grégoire, she stood up, and sinking her face in her bended arm like a child, began to cry softly. In an instant he was on his feet.
“My God, ’Tite Reine! w’at ’s the matta? you got to tell me w’at ’s the matta.” He could no longer recognize the imperious ’Tite Reine, whose will had been the law in her father’s household. He led her to the edge of the low gallery and there they sat down.
Grégoire loved women. He liked their nearness, their atmosphere; the tones of their voices and the things they said; their ways of moving and turning about; the brushing of their garments when they passed him by pleased him. He was fleeing now from the pain that a woman had inflicted upon him. When any overpowering sorrow came to Grégoire he felt a singular longing to cross the Sabine River and lose himself in Texas. He had done this once before when his home, the old Santien place, had gone into the hands of creditors. The sight of ’Tite Reine’s distress now moved him painfully.
“W’at is it, ’Tite Reine? tell me w’at it is,” he kept asking her. She was attempting to dry her eyes on her coarse sleeve. He drew a handkerchief from his back pocket and dried them for her.
“They all well, yonda?” she asked, haltingly, “my popa? my moma? the chil’en?” Grégoire knew no more of the Baptiste Choupic family than the post beside him. Nevertheless he answered: “They all right well, ’Tite Reine, but they mighty lonesome
of you.”
“My popa, he got a putty good crop this yea’?”
“He made right smart o’ cotton fo’ Bayou Pierre.”
“He done haul it to the relroad?”
“No, he ain’t quite finish pickin’.”
“I hope they all ent sole ‘Putty Girl’?” she inquired solicitously.
“Well, I should say not! Yo’ pa says they ain’t anotha piece o’ hossflesh in the pa’ish he ’d want to swap fo’ ‘Putty Girl.’ ” She turned to him with vague but fleeting amazement,—“Putty Girl” was a cow!
The autumn night was heavy about them. The black forest seemed to have drawn nearer; its shadowy depths were filled with the gruesome noises that inhabit a southern forest at night time.
“Ain’t you ’fraid sometimes yere, ’Tite Reine?” Grégoire asked, as he felt a light shiver run through him at the weirdness of the scene.
“No,” she answered promptly, “I ent ’fred o’ nothin’ ’cep’ Bud.”
“Then he treats you mean? I thought so!”
“Mista Grégoire,” drawing close to him and whispering in his face, “Bud ’s killin’ me.” He clasped her arm, holding her near him, while an expression of profound pity escaped him. “Nobody don’ know, ’cep’ Unc’ Mort’mer,” she went on. “I tell you, he beats me; my back an’ arms—you ought to see—it ’s all blue. He would ’a’ choke’ me to death one day w’en he was drunk, if Unc’ Mort’mer had n’ make ’im lef go—with his axe ov’ his head.” Grégoire glanced back over his shoulder toward the room where the man lay sleeping. He was wondering if it would really be a criminal act to go then and there and shoot the top of Bud Aiken’s head off. He himself would hardly have considered it a crime, but he was not sure of how others might regard the act.
“That ’s w’y I wake you up, to tell you,” she continued. “Then sometime’ he plague me mos’ crazy; he tell me ’t ent no preacher, it ’s a Texas drummer w’at marry him an’ me; an’ w’en I don’ know w’at way to turn no mo’, he say no, it ’s a Meth’dis’ archbishop, an’ keep on laughin’ ’bout me, an’ I don’ know w’at the truth!”
