Bayou Folk and a Night in Acadie

by Kate Chopin

  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’of-fice, 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 evenful 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—l.”

  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 flannel 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 Italien1 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!’2 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 on
e fiddle I got for sell,” she announced, resolutely, to the first who questioned her.

  It was very funny to have a shabby little girl sitting there wanting to sell a fiddle, and the child was soon surrounded.

  The lustreless instrument was brought forth and examined, first with amusement, but soon very seriously, especially by three gentlemen: one with very long hair that hung down, another with equally long hair that stood up, the third with no hair worth mentioning.

  These three turned the fiddle upside down and almost inside out. They thumped upon it, and listened. They scraped upon it, and listened. They walked into the house with it, and out of the house with it, and into remote corners with it. All this with much putting of heads together, and talking together in familiar and unfamiliar languages. And, finally, they sent Fifine away with a fiddle twice as beautiful as the one she had brought, and a roll of money besides!

  The child was dumb with astonishment, and away she flew. But when she stopped beneath a big chinaberry-tree, to further scan the roll of money, her wonder was redoubled. There was far more than she could count, more than she had ever dreamed of possessing. Certainly enough to top the old cabin with new shingles; to put shoes on all the little bare feet and food into the hungry mouths. Maybe enough—and Fifine’s heart fairly jumped into her throat at the vision—maybe enough to buy Blanchette and her tiny calf that Unc’ Siméon wanted to sell!

  “It ’s jis like you say, Fifine,” murmured old Cléophas, huskily, when he had played upon the new fiddle that night. “It ’s one fine fiddle; an’ like you say, it shine’ like satin. But some way or udder, ’t ain’ de same. Yair, Fifine, take it—put it ’side. I b’lieve, me, I ain’ goin’ play de fiddle no mo’.”

  Beyond the Bayou

  THE BAYOU curved like a crescent around the point of land on which La Folle’s cabin stood. Between the stream and the hut lay a big abandoned field, where cattle were pastured when the bayou sup-plied them with water enough. Through the woods that spread back into unknown regions the woman had drawn an imaginary line, and past this circle she never stepped. This was the form of her only mania.

  She was now a large, gaunt black woman, past thirty-five. Her real name was Jacqueline, but every one on the plantation called her La Folle, because in childhood she had been frightened literally “out of her senses,” and had never wholly regained them.

  It was when there had been skirmishing and sharpshooting all day in the woods. Evening was near when P’tit Maître,1 black with powder and crimson with blood, had staggered into the cabin of Jacqueline’s mother, his pursuers close at his heels. The sight had stunned her childish reason.

  She dwelt alone in her solitary cabin, for the rest of the quarters had long since been removed beyond her sight and knowledge. She had more physical strength than most men, and made her patch of cotton and corn and tobacco like the best of them. But of the world beyond the bayou she had long known nothing, save what her morbid fancy conceived.

  People at Bellissime2 had grown used to her and her way, and they thought nothing of it. Even when “Old Mis’ ” died, they did not wonder that La Folle had not crossed the bayou, but had stood upon her side of it, wailing and lamenting.

  P’tit Maître was now the owner of Bellissime. He was a middle-aged man, with a family of beautiful daughters about him, and a little son whom La Folle loved as if he had been her own. She called him Chéri,3 and so did every one else because she did.

  None of the girls had ever been to her what Chéri was. They had each and all loved to be with her, and to listen to her wondrous stories of things that always happened “yonda, beyon’ de bayou.”

  But none of them had stroked her black hand quite as Chéri did, nor rested their heads against her knee so confidingly, nor fallen asleep in her arms as he used to do. For Chéri hardly did such things now, since he had become the proud possessor of a gun, and had had his black curls cut off.

  That summer—the summer Chéri gave La Folle two black curls tied with a knot of red ribbon—the water ran so low in the bayou that even the little children at Bellissime were able to cross it on foot, and the cattle were sent to pasture down by the river. La Folle was sorry when they were gone, for she loved these dumb companions well, and liked to feel that they were there, and to hear them browsing by night up to her own inclosure.

  It was Saturday afternoon, when the fields were deserted. The men had flocked to a neighboring village to do their week’s trading, and the women were occupied with household affairs,—La Folle as well as the others. It was then she mended and washed her handful of clothes, scoured her house, and did her baking.

  In this last employment she never forgot Chéri. To-day she had fashioned croquignoles4 of the most fantastic and alluring shapes for him. So when she saw the boy come trudging across the old field with his gleaming little new rifle on his shoulder, she called out gayly to him, “Chéri! Chéri!”

  But Chéri did not need the summons, for he was coming straight to her. His pockets all bulged out with almonds and raisins and an orange that he had secured for her from the very fine dinner which had been given that day up at his father’s house.

  He was a sunny-faced youngster of ten. When he had emptied his pockets, La Folle patted his round red cheek, wiped his soiled hands on her apron, and smoothed his hair. Then she watched him as, with his cakes in his hand, he crosssed her strip of cotton back of the cabin, and disappeared into the wood.

  He had boasted of the things he was going to do with his gun out there.

  “You think they got plenty deer in the wood, La Folle?” he had inquired, with the calculating air of an experienced hunter.

  “Non, non!” the woman laughed. “Don’t you look fo’ no deer, Chéri. Dat ’s too big. But you bring La Folle one good fat squirrel fo’ her dinner to-morrow, an’ she goin’ be satisfi’.”

  “One squirrel ain’t a bite. I’ll bring you mo’ ’an one, La Folle,” he had boasted pompously as he went away.

  When the woman, an hour later, heard the report of the boy’s rifle close to the wood’s edge, she would have thought nothing of it if a sharp cry of distress had not followed the sound.

  She withdrew her arms from the tub of suds in which they had been plunged, dried them upon her apron, and as quickly as her trembling limbs would bear her, hurried to the spot whence the ominous report had come.

  It was as she feared. There she found Chéri stretched upon the ground, with his rifle beside him. He moaned piteously:—

  “I’m dead, La Folle! I’m dead! I’m gone!”

  “Non, non!” she exclaimed resolutely, as she knelt beside him. “Put you’ arm ’roun’ La Folle’s nake, Chéri. Dat ’s nuttin’; dat goin’ be nuttin’.” She lifted him in her powerful arms.

  Chéri had carried his gun muzzle-downward. He had stumbled,—he did not know how. He only knew that he had a ball lodged somewhere in his leg, and he thought that his end was at hand. Now, with his head upon the woman’s shoulder, he moaned and wept with pain and fright.

  “Oh, La Folle! La Folle! it hurt so bad! I can’ stan’ it, La Folle!”

  “Don’t cry, mon bébé, mon bébé, mon Chéri!”5 the woman spoke soothingly as she covered the ground with long strides. “La Folle goin’ mine you; Doctor Bonfils goin’ come make mon Chéri well agin.”

  She had reached the abandoned field. As she crossed it with her precious burden, she looked constantly and restlessly from side to side. A terrible fear was upon her,—the fear of the world beyond the bayou, the morbid and insane dread she had been under since childhood.

  When she was at the bayou’s edge she stood there, and shouted for help as if a life depended upon it:—

  “Oh, P’tit Maître! P’tit Maître! Venez donc! Au secours! Au secours!”6

  No voice responded. Chéri’s hot tears were scalding her neck. She called for each and every one upon the place, and still no answer came.

  She shouted, she wailed; but whether her voice remained unheard or unheeded, no re
ply came to her frenzied cries. And all the while Chéri moaned and wept and entreated to be taken home to his mother.

  La Folle gave a last despairing look around her. Extreme terror was upon her. She clasped the child close against her breast, where he could feel her heart beat like a muffled hammer. Then shutting her eyes, she ran suddenly down the shallow bank of the bayou, and never stopped till she had climbed the opposite shore.

  She stood there quivering an instant as she opened her eyes. Then she plunged into the footpath through the trees.

  She spoke no more to Chéri, but muttered constantly, “Bon Dieu, ayez pitié La Folle! Bon Dieu, ayez pitié moi!”7

  Instinct seemed to guide her. When the pathway spread clear and smooth enough before her, she again closed her eyes tightly against the sight of that unknown and terrifying world.

  A child, playing in some weeds, caught sight of her as she neared the quarters. The little one uttered a cry of dismay.

  “La Folle!” she screamed, in her piercing treble. “La Folle done cross de bayer!”

  Quickly the cry passed down the line of cabins.

  “Yonda, La Folle done cross de bayou!”

  Children, old men, old women, young ones with infants in their arms, flocked to doors and windows to see this awe-inspiring spectacle. Most of them shuddered with superstitious dread of what it might portend. “She totin’ Chéri!” some of them shouted.

  Some of the more daring gathered about her, and followed at her heels, only to fall back with new terror when she turned her distorted face upon them. Her eyes were bloodshot and the saliva had gathered in a white foam on her black lips.

  Some one had run ahead of her to where P’tit Maître sat with his family and guests upon the gallery.

  “P’tit Maître! La Folle done cross de bayou! Look her! Look her yonda totin’ Chéri!” This startling intimation was the first which they had of the woman’s approach.