And who was this Madame John?
"Why, you know!--she was"--said the wig-maker at the corner to Kristian Koppig--"I"ll tell you. You know?--she was"--and the rest atomized off in a rasping whisper. She was the best yellow-fever nurse in a thousand yards round; but that is not what the wig-maker said.
A block nearer the river stands a house altogether different from the remnant of old barracks. It is of frame, with a deep front gallery over which the roof extends. It has become a den of Italians, who sell fuel by daylight, and by night are up to no telling what extent of deviltry.
This was once the home of a gay gentleman, whose first name happened to be John. He was a member of the Good Children Social Club. As his parents lived with him, his wife would, according to custom, have been called Madame John but he had no wife. His father died, then his mother; last of all, himself. As he is about to be off, in comes Madame John, with "Tte Poulette, then an infant, on her arm.
"Zalli," said he, "I am going."
She bowed her head, and wept.
"You have been very faithful to me, Zalli."
She wept on.
"n.o.body to take care of you now, Zalli."
Zalli only went on weeping.
"I want to give you this house, Zalli; it is for you and the little one."
An hour after, amid the sobs of Madame John, she and the "little one"
inherited the house, such as it was. With the fatal caution which characterizes ignorance, she sold the property and placed the proceeds in a bank, which made haste to fail. She put on widow"s weeds, and wore them still when "t.i.te Poulette "had seventeen," as the frantic lads would say.
How they did chatter over her. Quiet Kristian Koppig had never seen the like. He wrote to his mother, and told her so. A pretty fellow at the corner would suddenly double himself up with beckoning to a knot of chums; these would hasten up; recruits would come in from two or three other directions; as they reached the corner their countenances would quickly a.s.sume a genteel severity, and presently, with her mother, "t.i.te Poulette would pa.s.s--tall, straight, lithe, her great black eyes made tender by their sweeping lashes, the faintest tint of color in her Southern cheek, her form all grace, her carriage a wonder of simple dignity.
The instant she was gone every tongue was let slip on the marvel of her beauty; but, though theirs were only the loose New Orleans morals of over fifty years ago, their unleashed tongues never had attempted any greater liberty than to take up the pet name, "t.i.te Poulette. And yet the mother was soon to be, as we shall discover, a paid dancer at the _Salle de Conde_.
To Zalli, of course, as to all "quadroon ladies," the festivities of the Conde-street ball-room were familiar of old. There, in the happy days when dear Monsieur John was young, and the eighteenth century old, she had often repaired under guard of her mother--dead now, alas!--and Monsieur John would slip away from the dull play and dry society of Theatre d"Orleans, and come around with his crowd of elegant friends; and through the long sweet hours of the ball she had danced, and laughed, and coquetted under her satin mask, even to the baffling and tormenting of that prince of gentlemen, dear Monsieur John himself. No man of questionable blood dare set his foot within the door. Many n.o.ble gentlemen were pleased to dance with her. Colonel De ---- and General La ----: city councilmen and officers from the Government House. There were no paid dancers then. Every thing was decorously conducted indeed!
Every girl"s mother was there, and the more discreet always left before there was too much drinking. Yes, it was gay, gay!--but sometimes dangerous. Ha! more times than a few had Monsieur John knocked down some long-haired and long-knifed rowdy, and kicked the breath out of him for looking saucily at her; but that was like him, he was so brave and kind;--and he is gone!
There was no room for widow"s weeds there. So when she put these on, her glittering eyes never again looked through her pink and white mask, and she was glad of it; for never, never in her life had they so looked for anybody but her dear Monsieur John, and now he was in heaven--so the priest said--and she was a sick-nurse.
Living was hard work; and, as Madame John had been brought up tenderly, and had done what she could to rear her daughter in the same mistaken way, with, of course, no more education than the ladies in society got, they knew nothing beyond a little music and embroidery. They struggled as they could, faintly; now giving a few private dancing lessons, now dressing hair, but ever beat back by the steady detestation of their imperious patronesses; and, by and by, for want of that priceless worldly grace known among the flippant as "money-sense," these two poor children, born of misfortune and the complacent badness of the times, began to be in want.
Kristian Koppig noticed from his dormer window one day a man standing at the big archway opposite, and clanking the bra.s.s knocker on the wicket that was in one of the doors. He was a smooth man, with his hair parted in the middle, and his cigarette poised on a tiny gold holder. He waited a moment, politely cursed the dust, knocked again, threw his slender sword-cane under his arm, and wiped the inside of his hat with his handkerchief.
Madame John held a parley with him at the wicket. "t.i.te Poulette was nowhere seen. He stood at the gate while Madame John went up-stairs.
Kristian Koppig knew him. He knew him as one knows a snake. He was the manager of the _Salle de Conde_. Presently Madame John returned with a little bundle, and they hurried off together.
And now what did this mean? Why, by any one of ordinary acuteness the matter was easily understood, but, to tell the truth, Kristian Koppig was a trifle dull, and got the idea at once that some damage was being planned against "t.i.te Poulette. It made the gentle Dutchman miserable not to be minding his own business, and yet--
"But the woman certainly will not attempt"--said he to himself--"no, no!
she cannot." Not being able to guess what he meant, I cannot say whether she could or not. I know that next day Kristian Koppig, glancing eagerly over the "_Ami des Lois_," read an advertis.e.m.e.nt which he had always before skipped with a frown. It was headed, "_Salle de Conde_," and, being interpreted, signified that a new dance was to be introduced, the _Danse de Chinois_, and that _a young lady_ would follow it with the famous "_Danse du Shawl_."
It was the Sabbath. The young man watched the opposite window steadily and painfully from early in the afternoon until the moon shone bright; and from the time the moon shone bright until Madame John!--joy!--Madame John! and not "t.i.te Poulette, stepped through the wicket, much dressed and well m.u.f.fled, and hurried off toward the _Rue Conde_. Madame John was the "young lady;" and the young man"s mind, glad to return to its own unimpa.s.sioned affairs, relapsed into quietude.
Madame John danced beautifully. It had to be done. It brought some pay, and pay was bread; and every Sunday evening, with a touch here and there of paint and powder, the mother danced the dance of the shawl, the daughter remaining at home alone.
Kristian Koppig, simple, slow-thinking young Dutchman, never noticing that he staid at home with his window darkened for the very purpose, would see her come to her window and look out with a little wild, alarmed look in her magnificent eyes, and go and come again, and again, until the mother, like a storm-driven bird, came panting home.
Two or three months went by.
One night, on the mother"s return, Kristian Koppig coming to his room nearly at the same moment, there was much earnest conversation, which he could see, but not hear.
""t.i.te Poulette," said Madame John, "you are seventeen."
"True, Maman."
"Ah! my child, I see not how you are to meet the future." The voice trembled plaintively.
"But how, Maman?"
"Ah! you are not like others; no fortune, no pleasure, no friend."
"Maman!"
"No, no;--I thank G.o.d for it; I am glad you are not; but you will be lonely, lonely, all your poor life long. There is no place in this world for us poor women. I wish that we were either white or black!"--and the tears, two "shining ones," stood in the poor quadroon"s eyes.
Tha daughter stood up, her eyes flashing.
"G.o.d made us, Maman," she said with a gentle, but stately smile.
"Ha!" said the mother, her keen glance darting through her tears, "Sin made _me_, yes."
"No," said "t.i.te Poulette, "G.o.d made us. He made us Just as we are; not more white, not more black."
"He made you, truly!" said Zalli. "You are so beautiful; I believe it well." She reached and drew the fair form to a kneeling posture. "My sweet, white daughter!"
Now the tears were in the girl"s eyes. "And could I be whiter than I am?" she asked.
"Oh, no, no! "t.i.te Poulette," cried the other; "but if we were only _real white!_--both of us; so that some gentleman might come to see me and say "Madame John, I want your pretty little chick. She is so beautiful. I want to take her home. She is so good--I want her to be my wife." Oh, my child, my child, to see that I would give my life--I would give my soul! Only you should take me along to be your servant. I walked behind two young men to-night; they ware coming home from their office; presently they began to talk about you."
"t.i.te Poulette"s eyes flashed fire.
"No, my child, they spoke only the best things One laughed a little at times and kept saying "Beware!" but the other--I prayed the Virgin to bless him, he spoke such kind and n.o.ble words. Such gentle pity; such a holy heart! "May G.o.d defend her," he said, _cherie_; he said, "May G.o.d defend her, for I see no help for her." The other one laughed and left him. He stopped in the door right across the street. Ah, my child, do you blush? Is that something to bring the rose to your cheek? Many fine gentlemen at the ball ask me often, "How is your daughter, Madame John?"".
The daughter"s face was thrown into the mother"s lap, not so well satisfied, now, with G.o.d"s handiwork. Ah, how she wept! Sob, sob, sob; gasps and sighs and stifled e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns, her small right hand clinched and beating on her mother"s knee; and the mother weeping over her.
Kristian Koppig shut his window. Nothing but a generous heart and a Dutchman"s phlegm could have done so at that moment. And even thou, Kristian Koppig!--for the window closed very slowly.
He wrote to his mother, thus:
"In this wicked city, I see none so fair as the poor girl who lives opposite me, and who, alas! though so fair, is one of those whom the taint of caste has cursed. She lives a lonely, innocent life in the midst of corruption, like the lilies I find here in the marshew, and I have great pity for her. "G.o.d defend her," I said to-night to a fellow clerk, "I see no help for her." I know there is a natural, and I think proper, horror of mixed blood (excuse the mention, sweet mother), and I feel it, too; and yet if she were in Holland today, not one of a hundred suitors would detect the hidden blemish."
In such strain this young man wrote on trying to demonstrate the utter impossibility of his ever loving the lovable unfortunate, until the midnight tolling of the cathedral clock sent him to bed.
About the same hour Zalli and "t.i.te Poulette were kissing good-night.
""t.i.te Poulette, I want you to promise me one thing."