Part 6

The Crescent City lay before them, the white-walled houses gleaming in the sunshine, while the bells of the Ursuline Convent pealed a welcome, and there burned before the chapel of “Our Lady of Prompt Succour” votive candles, to commemorate the safe arrival of another band of travellers from the distant land which every one in his heart called “home.”

“Pierre,” cried Clemence, surprise showing in every tone of her clear voice, “but what a beautiful city! And oh, Pierre, behold the lovely ladies! Scarce ever in my life have I seen such brave apparel.”

Her eyes were fixed, as she spoke, on a group which came idly down towards the landing, the ladies elegant in robes of damask silk loaded with lace and ribbons, while beside them lounged officers in rich court suits, both men and women wearing powdered hair and having their faces decorated with black patches.

Louisiana was passing through an interesting period of its growth, a changing from the pioneer days when the young officers from Canadian forts came down and made things lively with their merry pranks and boyish larks, their ceremonies and festivals. The Marquis de Vaudreuil was governor now, and brought with him the elegances and dignity which he had learned in years of life at the French court. The French and Swiss officers, but newly arrived, bore also the stamp of continental training; and the house of the Marquis, reflecting as well as might be the elegance of Versailles, was the centre of all that was most refined in the city.

Tradition chatters yet of the gracious manners of the Marquis, and there are still drawn from chests and carved presses robes which once figured at his balls, when court dress was the only wear. Though these gowns are now faded and tarnished, in the time when they were first worn they flaunted brilliant flowers on a ground of gold. The yellow bits of lace at elbow and corsage are frail now as a spider’s web, but then they were the latest patterns from Alençon and Flanders, and fit companions for the jewels which sparkled amongst them.

It was at this time, when New Orleans boasted the greatest beauty and elegance of any city in the New World, that our little family landed on its quay.

It is hard to conceive that while within the limits of the city there flowed such gay life as that seen in the Governor’s mansion, without, and but a few miles away, were untrod wildernesses.

But so it was.

Pierre and Clemence rested but a few days before they sought out the plantation where they so fondly hoped to raise a home and enjoy the fruits of the rich country which they had chosen as their own.

The roads were poor, horses high in price and not at all plenty, so that Pierre bought some pirogues, a species of small boat, to take them and their goods the twenty miles up the Bayou Gentilly, to where their plantation lay.

Poor Clemence, how gloomy looked the cypress swamps which stretched away on either hand as the heavily laden boats moved slowly along! Strange and unfamiliar were the long curtains of grey moss which swung back and forth from the branches of the trees, seeming to wave in a ghostly fashion even when there was no wind, and creeping up to the tops of the tallest trees in its silent fashion, but ever turning aside from the bunches of mistletoe which stood out, great rosettes of bright green where all else seemed marked for decay.

Even the brilliant-hued birds which flitted cheerfully from one twig to another, and sang from time to time, did not cheer her, for they seemed so unfamiliar, her mind clinging more to those modest-coated friends, the linnets and finches, which she had fed in the rose garden at the chateau at Étaples.

Ever anxious to cheer her, Pierre said at last,—

“Sing, dearest Clemence. It seems so long since I heard your voice.”

“How can I sing when my heart is sad?” But even as she spoke she was sorry, since she knew that the good spirits of the little party depended largely on herself.

“What shall I sing, Pierre?” she asked, after a moment’s pause, and then, as if it had been on the tip of her tongue all the while, began,—

“Chante, rossignol, chante, Toi qu’as le cœur tant gai.

“Pour moi, je ne l’ai guère, Mon amant m’a quittée,

“Pour un bouton de rose Que trop tôt j’ai donné.

“Je voudrais que la rose Fût encore au rosier;

“Et que la rosier même Fût encore a planter;

“Et que mon ami Pierre Fût encore a m’aimer.

“Tra la la, la la lere, Tra la lere, de la ri ra.”

No doubt it was the mocking-bird’s song which rang from the trees which brought to the mind of Clemence this song, which had been a favourite of theirs at home, and which told so musically of the nightingale’s song, of the red of the rose, and of the love of “Pierre.”

In five minutes the scene seemed to change from gloom to gaiety. Annette was cooing, Marie kept time to the gay little tune with the great fan which seldom left her hand, while the little cat in her efforts to gain her freedom tipped over her basket and set them all laughing.

The Bayou Gentilly, up which they were travelling in the pirogues, which were hardly more than dug-out canoes, was bordered at intervals on either side by the plantations of settlers who had owned the land for fifty years and over in some cases.

“Why, Pierre, how is this?” said Clemence, breaking off her song; “first the wilderness, then, see, the fields are planted!”

“These plantations are worked by the order of the King,” answered Pierre, “and the little shrubs with berries which have such fresh green leaves are the myrtle-wax bushes, from which wax for candles is made. We ourselves will have our plantation bordering on the Bayou set with such bushes as these; it is so directed.”

“But I thought indigo and sugar-cane were what we were to plant. I know that I could not bring half the things I wished, lest there should not be room for the indigo seeds and the little canes.”

Pierre smiled and said,—

“Truly a house, dear girl, is the first thing to be considered, and that may best be obtained by a good crop of indigo seed, since the planters hereabouts must needs get their seed from France, unless some are willing to raise seed only.”

On the forenoon of the second day the boats drew up to the shore, and Pierre, anxious, but looking cheerful, said,—

“Welcome to your new home, Clemence. Give me the little Annette, Marie, since she, with her mother, must be the first to step on shore.”

“Home, say you, Pierre?” and Clemence laughed, and looked ruefully, too, at the little log-cabin which had been hastily built by the negroes sent on in advance by Pierre.

“Patience but for a little while, and in place of that rude home you shall see a house as fair as any in these plantations.”

Laughing like two children, the young parents hastened to touch to the ground one of Annette’s tiny feet cased in its sandal, and as Monsieur Valvier handed the child back to its mother, he said,—

“What is that which makes the child’s garments so stiff?”

A warning glance from Clemence and a smothered exclamation from Marie made him remember that it was the precious packet with the pearl necklace and jewels, of which the little girl was still the unconscious custodian.

In New Orleans, indeed, they had been forced to draw on the packet, since it was necessary to have slaves to help them build and plant, and though there were frequent importations of them from Africa, the value of one working slave was equal to a thousand dollars of our money, and while it was generally paid in rice, Pierre, a new-comer, was obliged to pay in money. In order to do this, and also buy the precious seed which was so necessary, his own store was more than exhausted, and but for the packet so thoughtfully provided by Monsieur Bienville they would have been obliged to start out ill provided.

IV

Although the log-cabin was far different from the old chateau, and the garden planted with indigo and young sugar-canes a great contrast to the rose garden with its sun-dial at Étaples, the young couple were not unhappy, and little Annette grew apace.

The only person who took the change sadly to heart was old Marie, and her love for her mistress and the little one was all that kept her alive.

The fertile soil, so rich on the shores of the Bayou that it was fairly black, was soon heavily planted. There were rice fields in addition to those of indigo and sugar-cane, and for the home were planted watermelons, potatoes, peas, and beans; figs and bananas as well as pumpkins were abundant, and there were wild grapes and pecans to be had for the gathering.

With a gun the larder could be kept supplied with ducks, geese, wild swan, venison, pheasants, and partridges, and, most curious of all, wild beef, for unbranded cattle were considered common property, and many of them escaped from the ranges and roamed the forests in increasing companies.

The second year the plantation showed the results of Monsieur Valvier’s unceasing care, and he carried to New Orleans a crop of indigo seed which exceeded by many bushels his greatest hopes.

As the slaves pushed off from the landing, Pierre, standing in the stern of the boat, called out,—

“What shall I bring thee back, Clemence?”

“Whatever you think I shall like best,” she answered, waving her hand in farewell.

“What for the little daughter?” and as if she had only been waiting for the chance, Annette called out gaily,—

“Dolly.”

“How shall I get a dolly? Would you not rather have something else, a toy or a new frock?”

“No, papa, a dolly”; and Annette pressed in her arms the bit of stick enveloped in a piece of gay calico which served her as a substitute for the dearest of all toys.

Two days later, when the little girl was helping her mother to gather the wax berries from the twigs, so that the yearly supply of candles might be made, they heard from the Bayou the cheerful song of the negroes as they rowed homeward.

“Come, mamma, oh, come and see my dolly”; and Annette ran away, while her mother followed more slowly, talking to old Marie, who was carrying in her arms a young Pierre, Annette’s little brother, who had been born since they had lived in the new home.

With a pleased face Monsieur Valvier leaped ashore, hardly waiting for the boat to reach the landing. In his arms he held two parcels carefully wrapped in silver paper.

“Now, mamma shall guess first what is in her parcel,” he said; but Annette could not wait for that, and stood close at his side, saying over softly to herself,—

“My dolly, my pretty, pretty dolly.”

“Give Annette hers first,” said Madame Valvier; “it will take me much time to guess what my parcel contains.”

Annette sat soberly down and brought forth from many wrappings a beautiful doll, with red cheeks and blue eyes, dressed like a court lady, and newly come from France, as her father explained.

“She is most too beautiful to love,” exclaimed the little girl, as she gently held the gay lady; and the father and mother could only smile at the serious face of the child as she regarded the doll she had so fondly desired.

“Now look at your gift, dear wife. I hope it will please you as much as Annette’s pleases her”; and Monsieur Valvier put into his wife’s hands the second packet. With almost as much excitement as Annette, her mother unrolled her gift, and exclaimed with pleasure at the length of shining silk which greeted her delighted eyes.

“Oh, but, Pierre,” she began; but he stopped her with,—

“Yes, I know what you would say, silks and a log-cabin. But I have good news. The indigo seed brought such a high price that I have bought all that was needful for a house, and already it is loaded on barges and on its way hither.”

“Good news, indeed, that is. Marie, did you hear that we are to have a house at last? Who knows, perhaps it may be ready for the little Pierre’s christening.”

The parish in which lay the Valviers’ plantation also contained the homes of several other planters. These were either earlier settlers or blessed with greater riches than the Valviers, and their plantations were dignified with dwellings which seemed commodious enough in those days, simple as they would appear in our eyes now.

The planters’ homes were often built in what was called the “Italian style,” with pillars supporting the galleries, which were in reality roomy piazzas. The houses were surrounded by gardens of gorgeous flowering plants, and approached by avenues of wild orange trees.

It was such a house which soon rose on the bank of the Bayou Gentilly, among the trees which flourished in that teeming soil, and the rude cabin was moved into the background to serve as the quarters for the slaves. Nor were there gaieties wanting, for the planters visited among their neighbours, the ladies coming in huge lumbering coaches drawn by many horses, or by pirogue, while the men almost always rode, the saddle-horse for the master being almost a necessity.

The succeeding years passed quickly, if not too prosperously, and tobacco was added to the productions of the Valvier plantation. Pierre had made himself honoured and respected among the men in his own and the neighbouring parishes, and his ardent love for France kept him ever a Frenchman, even though his home lay across the sea.

Annette was by this time eight years old, quite a little mother, as Clemence fondly called her, since, grave beyond her years, she looked out for the little brothers and sister who had been born at the Bayou Gentilly. Poor Marie had died, a victim to an attack of the fever which hangs like a dark pall over that enchanting region, and more care had fallen on the shoulders of little Annette than really belonged there. She saw not only to the welfare of the children, but ruled the blacks and looked after the house in a fashion which astonished her mother, whose health had sadly failed, and upon whose natural energy the relaxing climate had laid its enervating spell. The French thrift which is so marked a quality in the women of that nation seemed to have passed by the mother and bloomed in the nature of the daughter, and Annette’s efforts were all which kept the home from being better than a cabin, left to the mercies of the negligent slaves.

V

There was one thing for which Annette’s mother never lacked strength or energy, and that was the celebration of the birthdays—“fête days,” she called them—of the little family. There was always some little gift forthcoming, were it only a basket of fine figs or a garland of flowers; and for Annette particularly her mother always made an extra effort.

The birthday of the little girl fell in June, that month when all the world is dressed in flowers, and when the sky above seems to bend its bluest arch. On this occasion Annette was to have a party, her very first, and all the children from the neighbouring plantations had been bidden; and papa had made a special trip to New Orleans and come home with some wonderful and mysterious packages, which had been quickly hidden away. At last the day arrived, and Annette felt it to be the happiest one she had ever known.

“To be nine years old and to have a party! Just think of that, Auguste!” she cried, as she helped the little boy to dress.

Auguste was thinking of it with so much glee that it made the dressing of him more than usually difficult, and Annette turned to little Pierre; but his whole attention was given to “keeping a secret,” for mamma had said that Annette was not to know what her present was to be till they were all gathered at the table for breakfast.

But he knew, did little Pierre, and it was a hard burden not to tell sister Annette. At last the little ones were ready, and Annette had seen that the simple fare which formed the breakfast—fruit and hominy, with coffee for the father and mother—was on the table.

Such a clamour as arose.

“Oh, mother, let me tell.”

“No, let me.”

“Oh, sister Annette—” But they got no further, for Annette herself pulled the cover off a big box which was laid on her chair, and there within lay a white dress—oh, such a pretty one!—and a little pair of slippers, with long, narrow ribbons to lace them criss-cross about the ankles, and, most lovely of all, a long blue sash, which had on its two ends a fringe of gold.

“Oh, dearest mother,” cried Annette, “was there ever anything so lovely; and the little brodequins,” pointing to the little slippers, “and a fan! Oh, mother, and you, too, father, how can I thank you both enough?”

Her father kissed her fondly and said,—

“My little daughter repays me every day.”

The mother was well contented with Annette’s pleasure for all the pains she had taken.

“And, sister Annette, see, I gave you the fan.”

“And oh, sister, look at the pretty mouchoir; that is from me.”

And the happy Annette kissed and thanked, and they were all so pleased that breakfast was quite forgotten and would have grown cold if black Mimi had not put her head in at the door to remind them of it.

When Annette had put on the new birthday dress, laced the slippers around her slender ankles, and held the fan and kerchief, she ran into her mother’s room to show her the effect.

“See, mamma, it just fits me”; and she gave the small skirts a toss and a pat, while her mother turned from the table where she had been standing with a small casket in her hand.

“Dearest Annette,” said she, in quite a solemn voice, “I shall let you wear to-day what my father gave to me, saying that one day it was to be thine. When you are grown to be a big girl, it shall be yours to have always, but to-day you shall wear it because you are my good child, and I love you fondly.”

As Madame Valvier spoke, she clasped about Annette’s neck the pearl necklace, the only remnant of the packet of jewels which had come from France, and which had been drawn on when crops failed, or for the purchase of slaves, or for some of the many needs in a new country where money is scarce.

“Oh, mamma!” and Annette’s voice was low with pleasure as she gently touched the rows of shining pearls which seemed far too costly a jewel for the neck of a little girl, and quite out of place over the modest frock.

“Are these really for me some day? Did grandpère say it should be so?” and Annette listened while her mother told her of her grandfather’s injunction, and how old Marie had hidden them in Annette’s own clothes and saved them from the highwaymen.

The time passed quickly before the little guests began to arrive, for it was to be an afternoon party, and some were brought by boat on the Bayou, while others rode on pillions behind black Philippe or Jean, as the case might be, sitting very still so that the best frocks would not be rumpled.

Many games they played in the long, cool galleries, or on the grass before the house. Ball was one of them, and when they were tired of this they played at hide-and-seek, finding many good and secret nooks among the trees and wax-myrtle shrubs, which were so bushy and so green.

“What shall we play next?” asked Annette, anxious that her guests should have a good time, and some one suggested “Hugh, Sweet Hugh,” that game of many verses which has been played by high and low through so many centuries and in all countries.

The children made a pretty sight as, circling in a ring, they sang merrily,—

“Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh, Come up and get the ball.” “I will not come, I may not come, Without my bonny boys all.”

Even after the tragic death of Sweet Hugh their voices rang out clearly till the last verse,—

“And all the bells of merry France Without men’s hands were rung; And all the books of merry France Were read without men’s tongue. Never was such a burial Since Adam’s days begun.”

Then, half frightened at their own game, they scampered into the house, where Madame Valvier was awaiting them, and where, spread on trestle-boards, were all the dainties so loved of children,—fresh figs with cream, sweet chocolate, little cakes made of nuts and honey, and right in the centre a great round birthday cake with a dove on the very top.

At this last touch Annette was as much surprised as the other children, and in answer to her wondering look her mother said,—

“Your father brought it from New Orleans; it is his gift to you.”

After it had been admired, Annette cut the first piece, and the merry meal seemed over all too quickly for the children who had to take their way homewards, reluctant to have an end put to such unusual festivities, and not half aware of the necessity of being safe in their own homes before nightfall.

When the last one had gone, Annette took off her unaccustomed finery, and, holding in her hands the splendid necklace, looked with wonder on the round globes of pearls, which showed on their satiny faces the shifting tones of rose, blue, pale green, and yellow.

“Ah, mother,” she sighed, “to think that so beautiful a thing should be mine!”

“Remember always, little daughter, that it was first my mother’s portion, then mine, and shall be yours, never to part with.”

“Of a truth, dear mother, I should wish to keep it always. But,” and here she hesitated, “you know the other jewels which grandpère gave have all gone.”

“Those were my own, but this is different, and should be kept always, except in case of gravest need.”

“Gravest need—what is that, mamma?” and Annette’s blue eyes looked up solemnly into her mother’s face.

“Does it mean to save a life, mamma?”

Madame Valvier, hardly appreciating the earnest little soul which was listening to her words, answered,—

“Yes, to save life or honour. Now, put it in its box, and come with me till I show you where it is hidden.”

In a small room where the children kept their few playthings, some rude toys and some bright shells and beans, Madame Valvier paused, and, stooping, took from beneath the window a small board, which disclosed a box-like cupboard lined with lead.

“Here it is kept with the rest of our treasures, Annette, the papers which belong to your father and the grants of our land. I show this place to you because you have a wisdom beyond your years, and are indeed my little comfort.”

Annette’s face grew rosy with pleasure at these words, and holding her mother’s hand, she whispered,—

“I love you truly, dearest mamma, and I am the happiest girl in the world.”

When the little ones were in bed, Annette crept up on her father’s lap and had the crowning joy of the day, a long story of his childhood’s days in France; and she listened entranced, as she had hundreds of times before, to his descriptions of the old grey chateau at Étaples, the rose garden with its sun-dial, and, best of all, to the tales of how he and her mother used to scull down the broad shallow Canache, and then at the river’s mouth search among the rocks and seaweed for shrimps, while out at sea the big ships went sailing past, with their white or brown sails swelling with the fresh wind.

Even with the interest she felt in the story, poor Annette, tired with so much pleasure, nestled lower and lower in her father’s arms, and finally her head fell on his shoulder.

“She sleeps,” he said, “poor little girl, fairly tired out with too much happiness”; and taking her in his strong arms, he carried her off to her room, where she was soon settled in her bed, the process of undressing hardly waking her.

VI

With each succeeding year there were more and more settlers coming to the flowery land of Louisiana. If they had flocked thither in the time of the Regent, that clever and witty intriguer, they came more eagerly during the reign of Louis XV, so shallow a king that it is hard to conceive how he won the name of “The Well-beloved.”