The Grandissimes.
by George Washington Cable.
PHOTOGRAVURES
"They paused a little within the obscurity of the corridor, and just to rea.s.sure themselves that everything _was_ "all right"" _Frontispiece_.
"She looked upon an unmasked, n.o.ble countenance, lifted her own mask a little, and then a little more; and then shut it quickly".
"The daughter of the Natchez sitting in majesty, clothed in many-colored robes of shining feathers crossed and recrossed with girdles of serpent-skins and of wampum".
"Aurora,--alas! alas!--went down upon her knees with her gaze fixed upon the candle"s flame".
"The young man with auburn curls rested the edge of his burden upon the counter, tore away its wrappings and disclosed a painting".
"Silently regarding the intruder with a pair of eyes that sent an icy chill through him and fastened him where he stood, lay Palmyre Philosophe".
"On their part, they would sit in deep attention, shielding their faces from the fire, and responding to enunciations directly contrary to their convictions with an occasional "yes-seh," or "ceddenly," or "of coze,"
or,--prettier affirmation still,--a solemn drooping of the eyelids".
"Bras-Coupe was practically declaring his independence on a slight rise of ground hardly sixty feet in circ.u.mference and lifted scarce above the water in the inmost depths of the swamp".
""Ma lill dotter, wad dad meggin you cry? Iv you will tell me wad dad mague you cry, I will tell you--on ma _second word of honor_"--she rolled up her fist--"juz wad I thing about dad "Sieur Frowenfel!"".
"His head was bowed, a heavy grizzled lock fell down upon his dark, frowning brow, one hand clenched the top of his staff, the other his knee, and both trembled violently".
"The tall figure of Palmyre rose slowly and silently from her chair, her eyes lifted up and her lips moving noiselessly. She seemed to have lost all knowledge of place or of human presence".
"They turned in a direction opposite to the entrance and took chairs in a cool nook of the paved court, at a small table where the hospitality of Clemence had placed gla.s.ses of lemonade".
_In addition to the foregoing, the stories are ill.u.s.trated with eight smaller photogravures from drawings by Mr. Herter_.
CHAPTER I
MASKED BATTERIES
It was in the Theatre St. Philippe (they had laid a temporary floor over the parquette seats) in the city we now call New Orleans, in the month of September, and in the year 1803. Under the twinkle of numberless candles, and in a perfumed air thrilled with the wailing ecstasy of violins, the little Creole capital"s proudest and best were offering up the first cool night of the languidly departing summer to the divine Terpsich.o.r.e. For summer there, bear in mind, is a loitering gossip, that only begins to talk of leaving when September rises to go. It was like hustling her out, it is true, to give a select _bal masque_ at such a very early--such an amusingly early date; but it was fitting that something should be done for the sick and the dest.i.tute; and why not this? Everybody knows the Lord loveth a cheerful giver.
And so, to repeat, it was in the Theatre St. Philippe (the oldest, the first one), and, as may have been noticed, in the year in which the First Consul of France gave away Louisiana. Some might call it "sold."
Old Agricola Fusilier in the rumbling pomp of his natural voice--for he had an hour ago forgotten that he was in mask and domino--called it "gave away." Not that he believed it had been done; for, look you, how could it be? The pretended treaty contained, for instance, no provision relative to the great family of Brahmin Mandarin Fusilier de Grandissime. It was evidently spurious.
Being b.u.mped against, he moved a step or two aside, and was going on to denounce further the detestable rumor, when a masker--one of four who had just finished the contra-dance and were moving away in the column of promenaders--brought him smartly around with the salutation:
"_Comment to ye, Citoyen Agricola!_"
"H-you young kitten!" said the old man in a growling voice, and with the teased, half laugh of aged vanity as he bent a baffled scrutiny at the back-turned face of an ideal Indian Queen. It was not merely the _tutoiement_ that struck him as saucy, but the further familiarity of using the slave dialect. His French was unprovincial.
"H-the cool rascal!" he added laughingly, and, only half to himself; "get into the garb of your true s.e.x, sir, h-and I will guess who you are!"
But the Queen, in the same feigned voice as before, retorted:
"_Ah! mo piti fils, to pas connais to zancestres?_ Don"t you know your ancestors, my little son!"
"H-the g-hods preserve us!" said Agricola, with a pompous laugh m.u.f.fled under his mask, "the queen of the Tchoupitoulas I proudly acknowledge, and my great-grandfather, Epaminondas Fusilier, lieutenant of dragoons under Bienville; but,"--he laid his hand upon his heart, and bowed to the other two figures, whose smaller stature betrayed the gentler s.e.x--"pardon me, ladies, neither Monks nor _Filles a la Ca.s.sette_ grow on our family tree."
The four maskers at once turned their glance upon the old man in the domino; but if any retort was intended it gave way as the violins burst into an agony of laughter. The floor was immediately filled with waltzers and the four figures disappeared.
"I wonder," murmured Agricola to himself, "if that Dragoon can possibly be Honore Grandissime."
Wherever those four maskers went there were cries of delight: "Ho, ho, ho! see there! here! there! a group of first colonists! One of Iberville"s Dragoons! don"t you remember great-great grandfather Fusilier"s portrait--the gilded casque and heron plumes? And that one behind in the fawn-skin leggings and shirt of birds" skins is an Indian Queen. As sure as sure can be, they are intended for Epaminondas and his wife, Lufki-Humma!" All, of course, in Louisiana French.
"But why, then, does he not walk with her?"
"Why, because, Simplicity, both of them are men, while the little Monk on his arm is a lady, as you can see, and so is the masque that has the arm of the Indian Queen; look at their little hands."
In another part of the room the four were greeted with, "Ha, ha, ha!
well, that is magnificent! But see that Huguenotte Girl on the Indian Queen"s arm! Isn"t that fine! Ha, ha! she carries a little trunk. She is a _Fille a la Ca.s.sette!_"
Two partners in a cotillion were speaking in an undertone, behind a fan.
"And you think you know who it is?" asked one.
"Know?" replied the other. "Do I know I have a head on my shoulders? If that Dragoon is not our cousin Honore Grandissime--well--"
"Honore in mask? he is too sober-sided to do such a thing."
"I tell you it is he! Listen. Yesterday I heard Doctor Charlie Keene begging him to go, and telling him there were two ladies, strangers, newly arrived in the city, who would be there, and whom he wished him to meet. Depend upon it the Dragoon is Honore, Lufki-Humma is Charlie Keene, and the Monk and the Huguenotte are those two ladies."
But all this is an outside view; let us draw nearer and see what chance may discover to us behind those four masks.
An hour has pa.s.sed by. The dance goes on; hearts are beating, wit is flashing, eyes encounter eyes with the leveled lances of their beams, merriment and joy and sudden bright surprises thrill the breast, voices are throwing off disguise, and beauty"s coy ear is bending with a venturesome docility; here love is baffled, there deceived, yonder takes prisoners and here surrenders. The very air seems to breathe, to sigh, to laugh, while the musicians, with disheveled locks, streaming brows and furious bows, strike, draw, drive, scatter from the anguished violins a never-ending rout of screaming harmonies. But the Monk and the Huguenotte are not on the floor. They are sitting where they have been left by their two companions, in one of the boxes of the theater, looking out upon the unwearied whirl and flash of gauze and light and color.
"Oh, _cherie, cherie!_" murmured the little lady in the Monk"s disguise to her quieter companion, and speaking in the soft dialect of old Louisiana, "now you get a good idea of heaven!"
The _Fille a la Ca.s.sette_ replied with a sudden turn of her masked face and a murmur of surprise and protest against this impiety. A low, merry laugh came out of the Monk"s cowl, and the Huguenotte let her form sink a little in her chair with a gentle sigh.
"Ah, for shame, tired!" softly laughed the other; then suddenly, with her eyes fixed across the room, she seized her companion"s hand and pressed it tightly. "Do you not see it?" she whispered eagerly, "just by the door--the casque with the heron feathers. Ah, Clotilde, I _cannot_ believe he is one of those Grandissimes!"
"Well," replied the Huguenotte, "Doctor Keene says he is not."
Doctor Charlie Keene, speaking from under the disguise of the Indian Queen, had indeed so said; but the Recording Angel, whom we understand to be particular about those things, had immediately made a memorandum of it to the debit of Doctor Keene"s account.
"If I had believed that it was he," continued the whisperer, "I would have turned about and left him in the midst of the contra-dance!"