by Kate Chopin
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” 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 as 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’ Une’ 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 Une’ 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!”
Then again, she told how Bud had induced her to mount the vicious little mustang “Buckeye,” knowing that the little brute would n’t carry a woman; and how it had amused him to witness her distress and terror when she was thrown to the ground.
“If I would know how to read an’ write, an’ had some pencil an’ paper, it ‘s long ‘go I would wrote to my popa. But it ‘s no pos’office, it ‘s no relroad, — nothin’ in Sabine. An’ you know, Mista Grégoire, Bud say he’s goin’ carry me yonda to Vernon, an’ fu’ther off yet,— ‘way yonda, an’ he ‘s goin’ turn me loose. Oh, don’ leave me yere, Mista Grégoire! don’ leave me behine you!” she entreated, breaking once more into sobs.
“ ‘Tite Reine,” he answered, “do you think I ‘m such a low-down scound’el as to leave you yere with that” — He finished the sentence mentally, not wishing to offend the ears of ‘Tite Reine.
They talked on a good while after that. She would not return to the room where her husband lay; the nearness of a friend had already emboldened her to inward revolt. Grégoire induced her to lie down and rest upon the quilt that she had given to him for a bed. She did so, and broken down by fatigue was soon fast asleep.
He stayed seated on the edge of the gallery and began to smoke cigarettes which he rolled himself of périque tobacco. He might have gone in and shared Bud Aiken’s bed, but preferred to stay there near ‘Tite Reine. He watched the two horses, tramping slowly about the lot, cropping the dewy wet tufts of grass.
Grégoire smoked on. He only stopped when the moon sank down behind the pine-trees, and the long deep shadow reached out and enveloped him. Then he could no longer see and follow the filmy smoke from his cigarette, and he threw it away. Sleep was pressing heavily upon him. He stretched himself full length upon the rough bare boards of the gallery and slept until day-break.
Bud Aiken’s satisfaction was very genuine when he learned that Grégoire proposed spending the day and another night with him. He had already recognized in the young creole a spirit not altogether uncongenial to his own.
‘Tite Reine cooked breakfast for them. She made coffee; of course there was no milk to add to it, but there was sugar. From a meal bag that stood in the corner of the room she took a measure of meal, and with it made a pone of corn bread. She fried slices of salt pork. Then Bud sent her into the field to pick cotton with old Uncle Mortimer. The negro’s cabin was the counterpart of their own, but stood quite a distance away hidden in the woods. He and Aiken worked the crop on shares.
Early in the day Bud produced a grimy pack of cards from behind a parcel of sugar on the shelf. Grégoire threw the cards into the fire and replaced them with a spic and span new “deck” that he took from his saddlebags. He also brought forth from the same receptacle a bottle of whiskey, which he presented to his host, saying that he himself had no further use for it, as he had “sworn off” since day before yesterday, when he had made a fool of himself in Cloutierville.
They sat at the pine table smoking and playing cards all the morning, only desisting when ‘Tite Reine came to serve them with the gumbo-filé that she had come out of the field to cook at noon. She could afford to treat a guest to chicken gumbo, for she owned a half dozen chickens that Uncle Mortimer had presented to her at various times. There were only two spoons, and ‘Tite Reine had to wait till the men had finished before eating her soup. She waited for Grégoire’s spoon, though her husband was the first to get through. It was a very childish whim.
In the afternoon she picked cotton again; and the men played cards, smoked, and Bud drank.
It was a very long time since Bud Aiken had enjoyed himself so well, and since he had encountered so sympathetic and appreciative a listener to the story of his eventful career. The story of ‘Tite Reine’s fall from the horse he told with much spirit, mimicking quite skillfully the way in which she had complained of never being permitted “to teck a li’le pleasure,” whereupon he had kindly suggested horseback riding. Grégoire enjoyed the story amazingly, which encouraged Aiken to relate many more of a similar character. As the afternoon wore on, all formality of address between the two had disappeared: they were “Bud” and
“Grégoire” to each other, and Grégoire had delighted Aiken’s soul by promising to spend a week with him. ‘Tite Reine was also touched by the spirit of recklessness in the air; it moved her to fry two chickens for supper. She fried them deliciously in bacon fat. After supper she again arranged Grégoire’s bed out on the gallery.
The night fell calm and beautiful, with the delicious odor of the pines floating upon the air. But the three did not sit up to enjoy it. Before the stroke of nine, Aiken had already fallen upon his bed unconscious of everything about him in the heavy drunken sleep that would hold him fast through the night. It even clutched him more relentlessly than usual, thanks to Grégoire’s free gift of whiskey.
The sun was high when he awoke. He lifted his voice and called imperiously for ‘Tite Reine, wondering that the coffee-pot was not on the hearth, and marveling still more that he did not hear her voice in quick response with its, “I’m comin’, Bud. Yere I come.” He called again and again. Then he arose and looked out through the back door to see if she were picking cotton in the field, but she was not there. He dragged himself to the front entrance. Grégoire’s bed was still on the gallery, but the young fellow was nowhere to be seen.
Uncle Mortimer had come into the yard, not to cut wood this time, but to pick up the axe which was his own property, and lift it to his shoulder.
“Mortimer,” called out Aiken, “whur ‘s my wife?” at the same time advancing toward the negro. Mortimer stood still, waiting for him. “Whur’s my wife an’ that Frenchman? Speak out, I say, before I send you to h — 1.”
Uncle Mortimer never had feared Bud Aiken; and with the trusty axe upon his shoulder, he felt a double hardihood in the man’s presence. The old fellow passed the back of his black, knotty hand unctuously over his lips, as though he relished in advance the words that were about to pass them. He spoke carefully and deliberately:
“Miss Reine,” he said, “I reckon she mus’ of done struck Natchitoches pa’ish sometime to’ard de middle o’ de night, on dat ‘ar swif hoss o’ Mr. Sanchun’s.”
Aiken uttered a terrific oath. “Saddle up Buckeye,” he yelled, “before I count twenty, or I ‘ll rip the black hide off yer. Quick, thar! Thur ain’t nothin’ fourfooted top o’ this earth that Buckeye can’t run down.” Uncle Mortimer scratched his head dubiously, as he answered: —
“Yas, Mas’ Bud, but you see, Mr. Sanchun, he done cross de Sabine befo’ sun-up on Buckeye.”
A VERY FINE FIDDLE
When the half dozen little ones were hungry, old Cléophas would take the fiddle from its flann
el bag and play a tune upon it. Perhaps it was to drown their cries, or their hunger, or his conscience, or all three. One day Fifine, in a rage, stamped her small foot and clinched her little hands, and declared:
“It’s no two way’! I’m goin’ smash it, dat fiddle, some day in a t’ousan’ piece’!”
“You mus’ n’ do dat, Fifine,” expostulated her father. “Dat fiddle been ol’er ‘an you an’ me t’ree time’ put togedder. You done yaird me tell often ‘nough ‘bout dat Italien w’at give it to me w’en he die, ‘long yonder befo’ de war. An’ he say, ‘Cléophas, dat fiddle — dat one part my life — w’at goin’ live w’en I be dead — Dieu merci!’ You talkin’ too fas’, Fifine.”
“Well, I’m goin’ do some’in’ wid dat fiddle, va!” returned the daughter, only half mollified. “Mine w’at I say.”
So once when there were great carryings-on up at the big plantation — no end of ladies and gentlemen from the city, riding, driving, dancing, and making music upon all manner of instruments — Fifine, with the fiddle in its flannel bag, stole away and up to the big house where these festivities were in progress.
No one noticed at first the little barefoot girl seated upon a step of the veranda and watching, lynx-eyed, for her opportunity.
“It’s one fiddle I got for sell,” she announced, resolutely, to the first who questioned her.