The house—an old Spanish one, broad, low and completely encircled by a wide gallery—was far down in the French quarter of New Orleans. It stood upon a square of ground that was covered thick with a semi-tropical growth of plants and flowers. An impenetrable board fence, edged with a formidable row of iron spikes2, shielded the garden from the prying3 glances of the occasional passer-by.
156Madame Carambeau’s widowed daughter, Madame Cécile Lalonde, lived with her. This annual party, given to her little son, Gustave, was the one defiant4 act of Madame Lalonde’s existence. She persisted in it, to her own astonishment5 and the wonder of those who knew her and her mother.
For old Madame Carambeau was a woman of many prejudices—so many, in fact, that it would be difficult to name them all. She detested6 dogs, cats, organ-grinders, white servants and children’s noises. She despised Americans, Germans and all people of a different faith from her own. Anything not French had, in her opinion, little right to existence.
She had not spoken to her son Henri for ten years because he had married an American girl from Prytania street. She would not permit green tea to be introduced into her house, and those who could not or would not drink coffee might drink tisane of fleur de Laurier for all she cared.
Nevertheless, the children seemed to be having it all their own way that day, and the organ-grinders were let loose. Old madame, 157in her retired8 corner, could hear the screams, the laughter and the music far more distinctly than she liked. She rocked herself noisily, and hummed “Partant pour la Syrie.”
She was straight and slender. Her hair was white, and she wore it in puffs9 on the temples. Her skin was fair and her eyes blue and cold.
Suddenly she became aware that footsteps were approaching, and threatening to invade her privacy—not only footsteps, but screams! Then two little children, one in hot pursuit of the other, darted10 wildly around the corner near which she sat.
The child in advance, a pretty little girl, sprang excitedly into Madame Carambeau’s lap, and threw her arms convulsively around the old lady’s neck. Her companion lightly struck her a “last tag,” and ran laughing gleefully away.
The most natural thing for the child to do then would have been to wriggle11 down from madame’s lap, without a “thank you” or a “by your leave,” after the manner of small and thoughtless children. But she did not 158do this. She stayed there, panting and fluttering, like a frightened bird.
Madame was greatly annoyed. She moved as if to put the child away from her, and scolded her sharply for being boisterous12 and rude. The little one, who did not understand French, was not disturbed by the reprimand, and stayed on in madame’s lap. She rested her plump little cheek, that was hot and flushed, against the soft white linen13 of the old lady’s gown.
Her cheek was very hot and very flushed. It was dry, too, and so were her hands. The child’s breathing was quick and irregular. Madame was not long in detecting these signs of disturbance14.
Though she was a creature of prejudice, she was nevertheless a skillful and accomplished15 nurse, and a connoisseur16 in all matters pertaining17 to health. She prided herself upon this talent, and never lost an opportunity of exercising it. She would have treated an organ-grinder with tender consideration if one had presented himself in the character of an invalid18.
159Madame’s manner toward the little one changed immediately. Her arms and her lap were at once adjusted so as to become the most comfortable of resting places. She rocked very gently to and fro. She fanned the child softly with her palm leaf fan, and sang “Partant pour la Syrie” in a low and agreeable tone.
The child was perfectly19 content to lie still and prattle20 a little in that language which madame thought hideous21. But the brown eyes were soon swimming in drowsiness22, and the little body grew heavy with sleep in madame’s clasp.
When the little girl slept Madame Carambeau arose, and treading carefully and deliberately23, entered her room, that opened near at hand upon the gallery. The room was large, airy and inviting24, with its cool matting upon the floor, and its heavy, old, polished mahogany furniture. Madame, with the child still in her arms, pulled a bell-cord; then she stood waiting, swaying gently back and forth25. Presently an old black woman answered the summons. She wore gold hoops26 in her ears, and 160a bright bandanna27 knotted fantastically on her head.
“Louise, turn down the bed,” commanded madame. “Place that small, soft pillow below the bolster28. Here is a poor little unfortunate creature whom Providence29 must have driven into my arms.” She laid the child carefully down.
“Ah, those Americans! Do they deserve to have children? Understanding as little as they do how to take care of them!” said madame, while Louise was mumbling31 an accompanying assent32 that would have been unintelligible33 to any one unacquainted with the negro patois34.
“There, you see, Louise, she is burning up,” remarked madame; —“she is consumed. Unfasten the little bodice while I lift her. Ah, talk to me of such parents! So stupid as not to perceive a fever like that coming on, but they must dress their child up like a monkey to go play and dance to the music of organ-grinders.
“Haven’t you better sense, Louise, than to take off a child’s shoe as if you were removing the boot from the leg of a cavalry35 officer?” Madame would have required fairy fingers 161to minister to the sick. “Now go to Mamzelle Cécile, and tell her to send me one of those old, soft, thin nightgowns that Gustave wore two summers ago.”
When the woman retired, madame busied herself with concocting36 a cooling pitcher37 of orange-flower water, and mixing a fresh supply of eau sédative with which agreeably to sponge the little invalid.
Madame Lalonde came herself with the old, soft nightgown. She was a pretty, blonde, plump little woman, with the deprecatory air of one whose will has become flaccid from want of use. She was mildly distressed38 at what her mother had done.
“But, mamma! But, mamma, the child’s parents will be sending the carriage for her in a little while. Really, there was no use. Oh dear! oh dear!”
If the bedpost had spoken to Madame Carambeau, she would have paid more attention, for speech from such a source would have been at least surprising if not convincing. Madame Lalonde did not possess the faculty39 of either surprising or convincing her mother.
162“Yes, the little one will be quite comfortable in this,” said the old lady, taking the garment from her daughter’s irresolute40 hands.
“But, mamma! What shall I say, what shall I do when they send? Oh, dear; oh, dear!”
“That is your business,” replied madame, with lofty indifference41. “My concern is solely42 with a sick child that happens to be under my roof. I think I know my duty at this time of life, Cécile.”
As Madame Lalonde predicted, the carriage soon came, with a stiff English coachman driving it, and a red-cheeked Irish nurse-maid seated inside. Madame would not even permit the maid to see her little charge. She had an original theory that the Irish voice is distressing43 to the sick.
Madame Lalonde sent the girl away with a long letter of explanation that must have satisfied the parents; for the child was left undisturbed in Madame Carambeau’s care. She was a sweet child, gentle and affectionate. And, though she cried and fretted44 a little throughout the night for her mother, she seemed, after all, to take kindly45 to madame’s gentle nursing. It was not much of a fever that 163afflicted her, and after two days she was well enough to be sent back to her parents.
Madame, in all her varied46 experience with the sick, had never before nursed so objectionable a character as an American child. But the trouble was that after the little one went away, she could think of nothing really objectionable against her except the accident of her birth, which was, after all, her misfortune; and her ignorance of the French language, which was not her fault.
But the touch of the caressing47 baby arms; the pressure of the soft little body in the night; the tones of the voice, and the feeling of the hot lips when the child kissed her, believing herself to be with her mother, were impressions that had sunk through the crust of madame’s prejudice and reached her heart.
She often walked the length of the gallery, looking out across the wide, majestic48 river. Sometimes she trod the mazes49 of her garden where the solitude50 was almost that of a tropical jungle. It was during such moments that the seed began to work in her soul—the seed planted by the innocent and undesigning hands of a little child.
164The first shoot that it sent forth was Doubt. Madame plucked it away once or twice. But it sprouted51 again, and with it Mistrust and Dissatisfaction. Then from the heart of the seed, and amid the shoots of Doubt and Misgiving52, came the flower of Truth. It was a very beautiful flower, and it bloomed on Christmas morning.
As Madame Carambeau and her daughter were about to enter her carriage on that Christmas morning, to be driven to church, the old lady stopped to give an order to her black coachman, François. François had been driving these ladies every Sunday morning to the French Cathedral for so many years—he had forgotten exactly how many, but ever since he had entered their service, when Madame Lalonde was a little girl. His astonishment may therefore be imagined when Madame Carambeau said to him:
“François, to-day you will drive us to one of the American churches.”
“I say, you will drive us to one of the American churches. Any one of them,” she added, 165with a sweep of her hand. “I suppose they are all alike,” and she followed her daughter into the carriage.
Madame Lalonde’s surprise and agitation54 were painful to see, and they deprived her of the ability to question, even if she had possessed55 the courage to do so.
François, left to his fancy, drove them to St. Patrick’s Church on Camp street. Madame Lalonde looked and felt like the proverbial fish out of its element as they entered the edifice56. Madame Carambeau, on the contrary, looked as if she had been attending St. Patrick’s church all her life. She sat with unruffled calm through the long service and through a lengthy57 English sermon, of which she did not understand a word.
When the mass was ended and they were about to enter the carriage again, Madame Carambeau turned, as she had done before, to the coachman.
“François,” she said, coolly, “you will now drive us to the residence of my son, M. Henri Carambeau. No doubt Mamzelle Cécile can inform you where it is,” she added, with a 166sharply penetrating58 glance that caused Madame Lalonde to wince59.
Yes, her daughter Cécile knew, and so did François, for that matter. They drove out St. Charles avenue—very far out. It was like a strange city to old madame, who had not been in the American quarter since the town had taken on this new and splendid growth.
The morning was a delicious one, soft and mild; and the roses were all in bloom. They were not hidden behind spiked60 fences. Madame appeared not to notice them, or the beautiful and striking residences that lined the avenue along which they drove. She held a bottle of smelling-salts to her nostrils61, as though she were passing through the most unsavory instead of the most beautiful quarter of New Orleans.
Henri’s house was a very modern and very handsome one, standing30 a little distance away from the street. A well-kept lawn, studded with rare and charming plants, surrounded it. The ladies, dismounting, rang the bell, and stood out upon the banquette, waiting for the iron gate to be opened.
167A white maid-servant admitted them. Madame did not seem to mind. She handed her a card with all proper ceremony, and followed with her daughter to the house.
Not once did she show a sign of weakness; not even when her son, Henri, came and took her in his arms and sobbed62 and wept upon her neck as only a warm-hearted Creole could. He was a big, good-looking, honest-faced man, with tender brown eyes like his dead father’s and a firm mouth like his mother’s.
Young Mrs. Carambeau came, too, her sweet, fresh face transfigured with happiness. She led by the hand her little daughter, the “American child” whom madame had nursed so tenderly a month before, never suspecting the little one to be other than an alien to her.
“What a lucky chance was that fever! What a happy accident!” gurgled Madame Lalonde.
“Cécile, it was no accident, I tell you; it was Providence,” spoke7 madame, reprovingly, and no one contradicted her.
They all drove back together to eat Christmas dinner in the old house by the river. Madame held her little granddaughter upon 168her lap; her son Henri sat facing her, and beside her was her daughter-in-law.
Henri sat back in the carriage and could not speak. His soul was possessed by a pathetic joy that would not admit of speech. He was going back again to the home where he was born, after a banishment63 of ten long years.
He would hear again the water beat against the green levee-bank with a sound that was not quite like any other that he could remember. He would sit within the sweet and solemn shadow of the deep and overhanging roof; and roam through the wild, rich solitude of the old garden, where he had played his pranks64 of boyhood and dreamed his dreams of youth. He would listen to his mother’s voice calling him, “mon fils,” as it had always done before that day he had to choose between mother and wife. No; he could not speak.
But his wife chatted much and pleasantly—in a French, however, that must have been trying to old madame to listen to.
“I am so sorry, ma mère,” she said, “that our little one does not speak French. It is 169not my fault, I assure you,” and she flushed and hesitated a little. “It—it was Henri who would not permit it.”
“That is nothing,” replied madame, amiably65, drawing the child close to her. “Her grandmother will teach her French; and she will teach her grandmother English. You see, I have no prejudices. I am not like my son. Henri was always a stubborn boy. Heaven only knows how he came by such a character!”
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1
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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spikes
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| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
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3
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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4
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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8
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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10
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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11
wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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12
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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13
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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15
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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17
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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20
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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21
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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24
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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26
hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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bandanna
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| n.大手帕 | |
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bolster
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| n.枕垫；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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31
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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32
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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35
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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36
concocting
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的现在分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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37
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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38
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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39
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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40
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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41
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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42
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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43
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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44
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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45
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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46
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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48
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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49
mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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50
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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51
sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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52
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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53
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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55
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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56
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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57
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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58
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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59
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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60
spiked
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| adj.有穗的；成锥形的；有尖顶的 | |
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61
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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62
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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63
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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64
pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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65
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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