Cbe li&rarg of tf>e ^nivi^t«ttt) of iQortb Carolina I THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA AT CHAPEL HILL ENDOWED BY THE DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC SOCIETIES PS 129U .C63 n5 c UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL IflllliPlll 10000341685 This book is due at the WALTER R. DAVIS LIBRARY on the last date stamped under "Date Due." If not on hold it may be renewed by bringing it to the library. DAT! DUE RET. DATE DUE RET. MAR 2 * ** i a m.. nm VI 1 ^ SFP 0^1998 FU5195T NOV 2 2'^' _ FEB II 2000" b 1 5 - n n FEB > ?nni TTW 1L3 2002- "SEPT A Night in Acadie fflpjp <♦ ANIGHTINACADIE By KATE CHOPIN AUTHOR OF "BAYOU FOLK' MDCCCXCVII \ Copyright, 1897, by Way & Williams. i.-iUary, Umv of i Contents, , PAGE ? ^L A Night in Acadie 1 * II. Athenaise 39 y III. After the Winter 107 1* IV. Polydore 127 ?— v. Regret 145 VI. A Matter of Prejudice 155 VII. Caline .... 173 VIII. A Dresden Lady in Dixie 181 \^~ IX. Neg Creol 199 X. The Lilhss . 215 XL Azelie ? . . . 229 XII. Mamouche 251 XIII. A Sentimental Soul 271 XIV. Dead Men's Shoes 295 XV. At Cheniere Caminada 315 XVI. Odalie Misses Mass 341 XVII. Cavanelle 355 XVIII. Tante Cat'rinette 369 / XIX. A Respectable Woman 389 */ XX. Ripe Figs 399 XXI. Ozeme's Holiday . 403 J^- CO X A Night in Acadie A Night in Acadie THERE was nothing to do on the planta- tion so Telesphore, having a few dollars in his pocket, thought he would go down and spend Sunday in the vicinity of Marksville. There was really nothing more to do in the vicinity of Marksville than in the neighbor- hood of his own small farm; but Elvina would not be down there, nor Amaranthe, nor any of Ma'me Valtour's daughters to harass him with doubt, to torture him with indecision, to turn his very soul into a weather-cock for love's fair winds to play with. Telesphore at twenty-eight had long felt the need of a wife. His home without one was like an empty temple in which there is no altar, mrofferlng. So keenly did he realize the nec- essity that a dozen times at least during the past year he had been on the point of propos- ing marriage to almost as many different young 2 A Night in Acadie. women of the neighborhood.^ Therein lay the "^mic^ty7theTfduble which Telesphore experi- enced in making up his mind. Elvina's eyes were beautiful and had often tempted him to the verge of a declaration. But her skin was over swarthy for a wife; and her movements were slow and heavy; he doubted she had In- dian blood, and we all know what Indian blood is for treachery. Amaranthe presented in her person none of these obstacles to matrimony. If her eyes were not so handsome as Elvina's, her skin was fine, and being slender to a fault, she moved swiftly about her household affairs, or when she walked the country lanes in going to church or to the store. Telesphore had once reached the point of believing that Amaranthe would make him an excellent wife. He had even started out one day with the intention of declaring himself, when, as the god of chance would have it, Ma'me Valtour espied him pass- ing in the road and enticed him to enter and partake of coffee and "baignes." He would have been a man of stone to have resisted, or to have remained insensible to the charms and accomplishments of the Valtour girls. Finally there was Ganache's widow, seductive rather A Night in Acadie. 3 than handsome, with a good bit of property in her own right. While Telesphore was con- sidering his chances of happiness or even suc- cess with Ganache's widow, she married a younger man. From these embarrassing conditions, Teles- phore sometimes felt himself forced to escape; to change his environment for a day or two and thereby gain a few new insights by shift- ing his point of view. It was Saturday morning that he decided to spend Sunday in the vicinity of Marksville, and the same afternoon found him waiting at the country station for the south-bound train. He was a robust young fellow with good, strong features and a somewhat determined ex- pression — despite his vacillations in the choice of a wife. He was dressed rather carefully in navy-blue "store clothes" that fitted well be- cause anything would have fitted Telesphore. He had been freshly shaved and trimmed and carried an umbrella. He wore — a little tilted over one eye — a straw hat in preference to the conventional gray felt; for no other reason than that his uncle Telesphore would have worn a felt, and a battered one at that. His 4 A Night in Acadie. whole conduct of life had been planned on lines in direct contradistinction to those of his uncle Telesphore, whom he was thought in early youth to greatly resemble. The elder Teles- phore could not read nor write, therefore the younger had made it the object of his exist- ence to acquire these accomplishments. The uncle pursued the avocations of hunting, fish- ing and moss-picking; employments which the nephew held in detestation. And as for carry- ing an umbrella, "None" Telesphore would have walked the length of the parish in a de- luge before he would have so much as thought of one. In short, Telesphore, by advisedly shaping his course in direct opposition to that of his uncle, managed to lead a rather orderly, industrious, and respectable existence. It was a little warm for April but the car was not uncomfortably crowded and Teles- phore was fortunate enough to secure the last available window-seat on the shady side. He was not too familiar with railway travel, his ex- peditions being usually made on horse-back or in a buggy, and the short trip promised to in- terest him. A Night in Acadie. 5 There was no one present whom he knew well enough to speak to: the district attorney, whom he knew by sight, a French priest from Natchitoches and a few faces that were familiar only because they were native. But he did not greatly care to speak to any- one. There was a fair stand of cotton and corn in the fields and Telesphore gathered sat- isfaction in silent contemplation of the crops, comparing them with his own. It was toward the close of his journey that a young girl boarded the train. There had been girls getting on and off at intervals and it was perhaps because of the bustle attend- ing her arrival that this one attracted Teles- phore's attention. She called good-bye to her father from the platform and waved good-bye to him through the dusty, sun-lit window pane after entering, for she was compelled to seat herself on the sunny side. She seemed inwardly excited and preoccupied save for the attention which she lavished upon a large parcel that she carried religiously and laid reverentially down upon the seat before her. 6 A Night in Acadie. She was neither tall nor short, nor stout nor slender; nor was she beautiful, nor was she plain. She wore a figured lawn, cut a little low in the back, that exposed a round, soft nuque with a few little clinging circlets of soft, brown hair. Her hat was of white straw, cocked up on the side with a bunch of pansies, and she wore gray lisle-thread gloves. The girl seemed very warm and kept mopping her face. She vainly sought her fan, then she fanned herself with her handkerchief, and finally made an at- tempt to open the window. She might as well have tried to move the banks of Red river. Telesphore had been unconsciously watch- ing her the whole time and perceiving her straight he arose and went to her assistance. But the window could not be opened. When he had grown red in the face and wasted an amount of energy that would have driven the plow for a day, he offered her his seat on the shady side. She demurred — there would be no room for the bundle. He suggested that the bundle be left where it was and agreed to assist her in keeping an eye upon it. She accepted Telesphore's place at the shady window and he seated himself beside her. A Night in Acadie. 7 He wondered if she would speak to him. He feared she might have mistaken him for a Western drummer, in which event he knew that she would not; for the women of the country caution their daughters against speaking to strangers on the trains. But the girl was not one to mistake an Acadian farmer for a West- ern traveling man. She was not born in Avoyelles parish for nothing. "I wouldn' want anything to happen to it," she said. "It's all right w'ere it is," he assured her, following the direction of her glance, that was fastened upon the bundle. "The las' time I came over to Foche's ball I got caught in the rain on my way up to my cousin's house, an' my dress! JJ vous reponds! it was a sight. Li'le mo', I would miss the ball. As it was, the dress looked like I'd wo' it weeks without doin'-up." "No fear of rain to-day," he reassured her, glancing out at the sky, "but you can have my umbrella if it does rain; you jus' as well take it as not." "Oh, no! I wrap' the dress roun' in toile- ciree this time. You goin' to Foche's ball? 8 A Night in Acadie. Didn' I meet you once yonda on Bayou Der- banne? Looks like I know yo' face. You mus' come fom Natchitoches pa'ish." "My cousins, the Fedeau family, live yonda. Me, I live on my own place in Rapides since '92." He wondered if she would follow up her in- quiry relative to Foche's ball. If she did, he was ready with an answer, for he had decided to go to the ball. But her thoughts evidently wandered from the subject and were oc- cupied with matters that did not concern him, for she turned away and gazed silently out of the window. It was not a village; it was not even a hamlet at which they descended. The station was set down upon the edge of a cotton field. Near at hand was the post office and store; there was a section house; there were a few cabins at wide intervals, and one in the distance the girl informed him was the home of her cousin, Jules Trodon. There lay a good bit of road before them and she did not hesitate to accept Telesphore's offer to bear her bundle on the way. A Night in Acadie. 9 She carried herself boldly and stepped out freely and easily, like a negress. There was an absence nfrasprvp in hpr maimer; yrt tljfjff was no lack of womanliness. She had the air of a young person accustomed to decide for herself and for those about her. "You said yo' name was Fedeau?" she asked, looking squarely at Telesphore. Her eyes were penetrating — not sharply penetrat- ing, but earnest and dark, and a little search- ing. He noticed that they were handsome eyes; not so large as Elvina's, but finer in their expression. They started to walk down the track before turning into the lane leading to Trodon's house. The sun was sinking and the air was fresh and invigorating by contrast with the stifling atmosphere of the train. "You said yo' name was Fedeau?" she asked. "No," he returned. "My name is Teles- phore Baquette." "An* my name; it's Za'ida Trodon. It looks like you ought to know me; I don* know w'y." "It looks that way to me, somehow," he re- plied. They were satisfied to recognize this io A Night in Acadie. feeling — almost conviction — of pre-acquaint- ance, without trying to penetrate its cause. By the time they reached Trodon's house he knew that she lived over on Bayou de Glaize with her parents and a number of younger brothers and sisters. It was rather dull where they lived and she often came to lend a hand when her cousin's wife got tangled in domestic complications ; or, as she was doing now, when Foche's Saturday ball promised to be unusu- ally important and brilliant. There would be people there even from Marksville, she thought; there were often gentlemen from Alexandria. Telesphore was as unreserved as she, and they appeared like old acquaintances when they reached Trodon's gate. Trodon's wife was standing on the gallery with a baby in her arms, watching for Zaida; and four little bare-footed children were sitting in a row on the step, also waiting; but ter- rified and struck motionless and dumb at sight of a stranger. He opened the gate for the girl but stayed outside himself. Zaida presented him formally to her cousin's wife, who insisted upon his entering. A Night in Acadie. n "Ah, b'en, pour ga! you got to come in. It's any sense you goin' to walk yonda to Foche's! Ti Jules, run call yo' pa." As if Ti Jules could have run or walked even, or moved a muscle! But Telesphore was firm. He drew forth his silver watch and looked at it in a business-like fashion. He always carried a watch; his uncle Telesphore always told the time by the sun, or by instinct, like an animal. He was quite de- termined to walk on to Foche's, a couple of miles away, where he expected to secure sup- per and a lodging, as well as the pleasing dis- traction of the ball. "Well, I reckon I see you all to-night," he uttered in cheerful anticipation as he moved away. "You'll see Zaida; yes, an' Jules," called out Trodon's wife good-humoredly. "Me, I got no time to fool with balls, J' vous reponds! with all them chil'ren." "He's good-lookin' ; yes," she exclaimed, when Telesphore was out of ear-shot. "An' dressed! it's like a prince. I didn' know you knew any Baquettes, you, Zaida." 12 A Night in Acadie. "It's strange you don' know 'em yo' se'f, cousine." Well, there had been no question from Ma'me Trodon, so why should there be an answer from Zaida? Telesphore wondered as he walked why he had not accepted the invitation to enter. He was not regretting it; he was simply wondering what could have induced him to decline. For it surely would have been agreeable to sit there on the gallery waiting while Zaida prepared herself for the dance; to have partaken of sup- per with the family and afterward accompanied them to Foche's. The whole situation was so novel, and had presented itself so unexpectedly that Telesphore wished in reality to become ac- quainted with it, accustomed to it. He wanted to view it from this side and that in compari- son with other, familiar situations. The girl had impressed him — affected him in some way; but in some new, unusual way, not as the oth- ers always had. He could not recall details of her personality as he could recall such details of Amaranthe or the Valtours, of any of them. When Telesphore tried to think of her he could not think at all. He seemed to have absorbed her in some way and his brain was not so A Night in Acadie. 13 occupied with her as his senses were. At that moment he was looking forward to the ball; there was no doubt about that. Afterwards, he did not know what he would look forward to; he did not care; afterward made no difference. If he had expected the crash of doom to come after the dance at Foche's, he would only have smiled in his thankfulness that it was not to come before. There was the same scene every Saturday at Foche's ! A scene to have aroused the guardi- ans of the peace in a locality where such com- modities abound. And all on account of the mammoth pot of gumbo that bubbled, bub- bled, bubbled out in the open air. Foche in shirt-sleeves, fat, red and enraged, swore and reviled, and stormed at old black Doute for her extravagance. He called her every kind of a name of every kind of animal that suggested itself to his lurid imagination. And every fresh invective that he fired at her she hurled it back at him while into the pot went the chickens and the pans-full of minced ham, and the fists-full of onion and sage and piment rouge and piment vert. If he wanted her to 14 A Night in Acadie. cook for pigs he had only to say so. She knew how to cook for pigs and she knew how to cook for people of les Avoyelles. The gumbo smelled good, and Telesphore would have liked a taste of it. Doute was dragging from the fire a stick of wood that Foche had officiously thrust beneath the sim- mering pot, and she muttered as she hurled it smouldering to one side: "Vaux mieux y s'mele ces affairs, lui; si non!" But she was all courtesy as she dipped a steaming plate for Telesphore; though she assured him it would not be fit for a Christian or a gentleman to taste till midnight. Telesphore having brushed, "spruced" and refreshed himself, strolled about, taking a view of the surroundings. The house, big, bulky and weather-beaten, consisted chiefly of gal- leries in every stage of decrepitude and dilapi- dation. There were a few chinaberry trees and a spreading live oak in the yard. Along the edge of the fence, a good distance away, was a line of gnarled and distorted mulberry trees; and it was there, out in the road, that the people who came to the ball tied their ponies, their wagons and carts. A Night in Acadie. 15 Dusk was beginning to fall and Telesphore, looking out across the prairie, could see them coming from all directions. The little Creole ponies galloping in a line looked like hobby horses in the faint distance; the mule-carts were like toy wagons. Zalda might be among those people approaching, flying, crawling ahead of the darkness that was creeping out of the far wood. He hoped so, but he did not believe so; she would hardly have had time to dress. Foche was noisily lighting lamps, with the assistance of an inoffensive mulatto boy whom he intended in the morning to butcher, to cut into sections, to pack and salt down in a barrel, like the Colfax woman did to her old husband — a fitting destiny for so stupid a pig as the mulatto boy. The negro musicians had arrived: two fiddlers and an accordion player, and they were drinking whiskey from a black quart bottle which was passed socially from one to the other. The musicians were really never at their best till the quart bottle had been consumed. The girls who came in wagons and on ponies from a distance wore, for the most 1 6 A Night in Acadie. part, calico dresses and sun-bonnets. Their finery they brought along in pillow-slips or pinned up in sheets and towels. With these they at once retired to an upper room; later to appear be-ribboned and be-furbelowed; their faces masked with starch powder, but never a touch of rouge. Most of the guests had assembled when Zai'da arrived — "dashed up" would better ex- press her coming — in an open, two-seated buckboard, with her cousin Jules driving. He reined the pony suddenly and viciously before the time-eaten front steps, in order to produce an impression upon those who were gathered around. Most of the men had halted their vehicles outside and permitted their women folk to walk up from the mulberry trees. But the real, the stunning effect was pro- duced when Zaida stepped upon the gallery and threw aside her light shawl in the full glare of half a dozen kerosene lamps. She was white from head to foot — literally, for her slippers even were white. No one would have believed, let alone suspected that they were a pair of old black ones which she had covered with pieces of her first communion sash. There is no de- A Night in Acadie. 17 scribing her dress, it was fluffy, like a fresh powder-puff, and stood out. No wonder she had handled it so reverentially! Her white fan was covered with spangles that she herself had sewed all over it; and in her belt and in her brown hair were thrust small sprays of orange blossom. Two men leaning against the railing uttered long whistles expressive equally of wonder and admiration. "Tiens! t'es pareille comme ain mariee, Zaida;" cried out a lady with a baby in her arms. Some young women tittered and Zaida fanned herself. The women's voices were al- most without exception shrill and piercing; the men's, soft and low-pitched. The girl turned to Telesphore, as to an old and valued friend: "Tiens! c'est vous?" He had hesitated at first to approach, but at this friendly sign of recognition he drew eagerly forward and held out his hand. The men looked at him suspiciously, inwardly resenting his stylish ap- pearance, which they considered instrusive, of- fensive and demoralizing. 1 8 A Night in Acadie. How Zaida's eyes sparkled now ! What very pretty teeth Zaida had when she laughed, and what a mouth! Her lips were a revelation, a promise; something to carry away and remem- ber in the night and grow hungry thinking of next day. Strictly speaking, they may not have been quite all that; but in any event, that is the way Telesphore thought about them. He be- gan to take account of her appearance: her nose, her eyes, her hair. And when she left him to go in and dance her first dance with cousin Jules, he leaned up against a post and thought of them : nose, eyes, hair, ears, lips and round, soft throat. Later it was like Bedlam. The musicians had warmed up and were scraping away indoors and calling the figures. Feet were pounding through the dance; dust was flying. The women's voices were piped high and mingled discordantly, like the con- fused, shrill clatter of waking birds, while the men laughed boisterously. But if some one had only thought of gagging Foche, there would have been less noise. His good humor per- meated everywhere, like an atmosphere. He was louder than all the noise; he was more A Night in Acadie. 19 visible than the dust. He called the young mulatto (destined for the knife) "my boy" and sent him flying hither and thither. He beamed upon Doute as he tasted the gumbo and con- gratulated her: "C'est toi qui s'y connais, ma fille! 'ere tonnerre!" Telesphore danced with Zaida and then he leaned out against the post; then he danced with Zaida, and then he leaned against the post. The mothers of the other girls decided that he had the manners of a pig. It was time to dance again with Zaida and he went in search of her. He was carrying her shawl, which she had given him to hold. "Wat time it is?" she asked him when he had found and secured her. They were under one of the kerosene lamps on the front gallery and he drew forth his silver watch. She seemed to be still laboring under some sup- pressed excitement that he had noticed before. "It's fo'teen minutes pas' twelve," he told her exactly. "I wish you'd fine out w'ere Jules is. Go look yonda in the card-room if he's there, an' come tell me." Jules had danced with all the prettiest girls. She knew it was his custom 20 A Night in Acadie. after accomplishing this agreeable feat, to re- tire to the card-room. "You'll wait yere till I come back?" he asked. "I'll wait yere; you go on." She waited but drew back a little into the shadow. Telesphore lost no time. "Yes, he's yonda playin' cards with Foche an' some others I don' know," he reported when he had discovered her in the shadow. There had been a spasm of alarm when he did not at once see her where he had left her under the lamp. "Does he look — look like he's fixed yonda fo' good?" "He's got his coat off. Looks like he's fixed pretty comf'table fo' the nex' hour or two." "Gi' me my shawl." "You cole?" offering to put it around her. "No, I ain't cole." She drew the shawl about her shoulders and turned. as if to leave him. But a sudden generous impulse seemed to move her, and she added: "Come along yonda with me." They descended the few rickety steps that led down to the yard. He followed rather than A Night in Acadie. 21 accompanied her across the beaten and tramp- led sward. Those who saw them thought they had gone out to take the air. The beams of light that slanted out from the house were fit- ful and uncertain, deepening the shadows. The embers under the empty gumbo-pot glared red in the darkness. There was a sound of quiet voices coming from under the trees. Zaida, closely accompanied by Telesphore, went out where the vehicles and horses were fastened to the fence. She stepped care- fully and held up her skirts as if dreading the least speck of dew or of dust. "Unhitch Jules' ho'se an' buggy there an* turn 'em 'roun' this way, please." He did as instructed, first backing the pony, then lead- ing it out to where she stood in the half-made road. "You goin' home?" he asked her, "betta let me water the pony.". "Neva mine." She mounted and seating herself grasped the reins. "No, I aint goin' home," she added. He, too, was holding the reins gathered in one hand across the pony's back. .22 A Night in Acadie. "Were you gain'?" he demanded. "Neva you mine w'ere I'm goin'." "You ain't goin' anyw'ere this time o' night by yo'se'f?" "Wat you reckon I'm 'fraid of?" she laughed. "Turn loose that ho'se," at the same time urging the animal forward. The little brute started away with a bound and Teles- phore, also with a bound, sprang into the buck- board and seated himself beside Zaida. "You ain't goin' anyw'ere this time o' night by yo'se'f." It was not a question now, but an assertion, and there was no denying it. There was even no disputing it, and Zaida recogniz- ing the fact drove on in silence. There is no animal that moves so swiftly across a 'Cadian prairie as the little Creole pony. This one did not run nor trot; he seemed to reach out in galloping bounds. The buckboard creaked, bounced, jolted and swayed. Zaida clutched at her shawl while Telesphore drew his straw hat further down over his right eye and offered to drive. But he did not know the road and she would not let him. They had soon reached the woods. A Night in Acadie. 23 If there is any animal that can creep more slowly through a wooded road than the little Creole pony, that animal has not yet been dis- covered in Acadie. This particular animal seemed to be appalled by the darkness of the forest and filled with dejection. His head drooped and he lifted his feet as if each hoof were weighted with a thousand pounds of lead. Any one unacquainted with the peculiarities of the breed would sometimes have fancied that he was standing still. But Zaida and Teles- phore knew better. Zaida uttered a deep sigh as she slackened her hold on the reins and Telesphore, lifting his hat, let it swing from the back of his head. "How you don' ask me w'ere I'm goin'?" she said finally. These were the first words she had spoken since refusing his offer to drive. "Oh, it don* make any diff'ence w'ere you goin'." "Then if it don' make any diff'ence w'ere I'm goin', I jus' as well tell you." She hesi- tated, however. He seemed to have no curi- osity and did not urge her. "I'm goin' to get married," she said. 24 A Night in Acadie. He uttered some kind of an exclamation; it was nothing articulate — more like the tone of an animal that gets a sudden knife thrust And now he felt how dark the forest was. An in- stant before it had seemed a sweet, black para- dise; better than any heaven he had ever heard of. "Wy can't you get married at home?" This was not the first thing that occurred to him to say, but this was the first thing he said. "Ah, b'en oui! with perfec' mules fo' a father an' mother! it's good enough to talk." "W'y eouldn' he come an' get you? Wat kine of a scound'el is that to let you go through the woods at night by yo'se'f?" "You betta Wait till you know who you talkin' about. He didn' come an' get me be- cause he knows I ain't 'fraid; an' because he's got too much pride to ride in Jules Trodon's buckboard afta he done been put out o' Jules Trodon's house." "Wat's his name an' w'ere you goin' to fine imr "Yonda on the other side the woods up at ole Wat Gibson's — a kine of justice the peace or something. Anyhow he's goin' to marry us. A Night in Acadie. 25 An' afta we done married those tetes-de-mulets yonda on bayou de Glaize can say w'at they want." "Wat's his name?" "Andre Pascal." The name meant nothing to Telesphore. For all he knew, Andre Pascal might be one of the shining lights of Avoyelles; but he doubted it. "You betta turn 'roun'," he said. It was an unselfish impulse that prompted the sugges- tion. It was the thought of this girl married to a man whom even Jules Trodon would not suffer to enter his house. "I done give my word," she answered. "Wat's the matta with 'im? W'y don't yo' father and mother want you to marry 'im?" "W'y? Because it's always the same tune! W'en_ajnaan^s-.dawiL eve'ybody's got stones to throw at 'im. They say he's lazy. A man that wilt walk from St. Landry plumb to Rapides lookin' fo' work; an' they call that lazy! Then, somebody's been spreadin' yonda on the Bayou that he drinks. I don' b'lieve it. I neva saw 'im drinkin', me. Anyway, he won't drink afta he's married to me; he's too fon' 26 A Night in Acadie. of me fo' that. He say he'll blow out his brains if I don' marry 'im." "I reckon you betta turn roun'." "No, I done give my word." And they went creeping on through the woods in silence. "Wat time is it?" she asked after an inter- val. He lit a match and looked at his watch. "It's quarta to one. Wat time did he say?" "I tole 'im I'd come about one o'clock. I knew that was a good time to get away f'om the ball." She would have hurried a little but the pony could not be induced to do so. He dragged himself, seemingly ready at any moment to give up the breath of life. But once out of the woods he made up for lost time. They were on the open prairie again, and he fairly ripped the air ; some flying demon must have changed skins with him. It was a few minutes of one o'clock when they drew up before Wat Gibson's house. It was not much more than a rude shelter, and in the dim starlight it seemed isolated, as if standing alone in the middle of the black, far- reaching prairie. As ^they halted at the gate a dog within set up a furious barking; and A Night in Acadie. 27 an old negro who had been smoking his pipe at that ghostly hour, advanced toward them from the shelter of the gallery. Telesphore descended and helped his companion to alight. "We want to see Mr. Gibson," spoke up Zaida. The old fellow had already opened the gate. There was no light in the house. "Marse Gibson, he yonda to ole Mr. Bodel's playin' kairds. But he neva' stay atter one o'clock. Come in, ma'am; come in, suh; walk right 'long in." He had drawn his own con- clusions to explain their appearance. They stood upon the narrow porch waiting while he went inside to light the lamp. Although the house was small, as it com- prised but one room, that room was compara- tively a large one. It looked to Telesphore and Zaida very large and gloomy when they entered it. The lamp was on a table that stood against the wall, and that held further a rusty looking ink bottle, a pen and an old blank book. A narrow bed was off in the corner. The brick chimney extended into the room and formed a ledge that served as mantel shelf. From the big, low-hanging rafters swung an assortment of fishing tackle, a gun, some dis- 28 A Night in Acadie. carded articles of clothing and a string of red peppers. The boards of the floor were broad, rough and loosely joined together. Telesphore and Zaida seated themselves on opposite sides of the table and the negro went out to the wood pile to gather chips and pieces of bois-gras with which to kindle a small fire. It was a little chilly; he supposed the two would want coffee and he knew that Wat Gib- son would ask for a cup the first thing on his arrival. "I wonder w'at's keepin' 'im," muttered Za- "ida impatiently. Telesphore looked at his watch. He had been looking at it at intervals of one minute straight along. "It's ten minutes pas' one/' he said. He of- fered no further comment. At twelve minutes past one Za'ida's restless- ness again broke into speech. "I can't imagine, me, w'at's become of An- dre! He said he'd be yere sho' at one." The old negro was kneeling before the fire that he had kindled, contemplating the cheerful blaze. He rolled his eyes toward Zaida. A Night in Acadie. 29 "You talkin' 'bout Mr. Andre Pascal? No need to look fo' him. Mr. Andre he b'en down to de P'int all day raisin' Cain." "That's a lie," said Zaida. Telesphore said nothing. "Tain't no lie, ma'am; he b'en sho' raisin' de ole Nick." She looked at him, too con- temptuous to reply. The negro told no lie so far as his bald statement was concerned. He was simply mis- taken in his estimate of Andre Pascal's ability to "raise Cain" during an entire afternoon and evening and still keep a rendezvous with a lady at one o'clock in the morning. For An- dre was even then at hand, as the loud and menacing howl of the dog testified. The negro hastened out to admit him. Andre did not enter at once; he stayed a while outside abusing the dog and communi- cating to the negro his intention of coming out to shoot the animal after he had attended to more pressing business that was awaiting him within. Za'ida arose, a little flurried and excited when he entered. Telesphore remained seated. Pascal was partially sober. There had evi- 3