Short Fiction Kate Chopin (best e reader for android .txt) đ
- Author: Kate Chopin
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And walking behind this white-haired old man, who was again leading the way, something of childish superstition crept back into Bertrandâs heart. It was the same feeling with which he had often sat, long ago, in the weird firelight of some negroâs cabin, listening to tales of witches who came in the night to work uncanny spells at their will.
Madame DelmandĂ© had never abandoned the custom of washing her own silver and dainty china. She sat, when the breakfast was over, with a pail of warm suds before her that âCindy had brought to her, with an abundance of soft linen cloths. Her little granddaughter stood beside her playing, as babies will, with the bright spoons and forks, and ranging them in rows on the polished mahogany. St. Ange was at the window making entries in a notebook, and frowning gloomily as he did so.
The group in the dining-room were so employed when the old tramp came staggering in, Bertrand close behind him.
He went and stood at the foot of the table, opposite to where Madame Delmandé sat, and let fall the box upon it.
The thing in falling shattered, and from its bursting sides gold came, clicking, spinning, gliding, some of it like oil; rolling along the table and off it to the floor, but heaped up, the bulk of it, before the tramp.
âHereâs money!â he called out, plunging his old hand in the thick of it. âWho says St. Ange shall not go to school? The warâs overâ âhereâs money! St. Ange, my boy,â turning to Bertrand and speaking with quick authority, âtell Buck Williams to hitch Black Bess to the buggy, and go bring Judge Parkerson here.â
Judge Parkerson, indeed, who had been dead for twenty years and more!
âTell him thatâ âthatââ âand the hand that was not in the gold went up to the withered forehead, âthatâ âBertrand DelmandĂ© needs him!â
Madame DelmandĂ©, at sight of the man with his box and his gold, had given a sharp cry, such as might follow the plunge of a knife. She lay now in her sonâs arms, panting hoarsely.
âYour father, St. Angeâ âcome back from the deadâ âyour father!â
âBe calm, mother!â the man implored. âYou had such sure proof of his death in that terrible battle, this may not be he.â
âI know him! I know your father, my son!â and disengaging herself from the arms that held her, she dragged herself as a wounded serpent might to where the old man stood.
His hand was still in the gold, and on his face was yet the flush which had come there when he shouted out the name Bertrand Delmandé.
âHusband,â she gasped, âdo you know meâ âyour wife?â
The little girl was playing gleefully with the yellow coin.
Bertrand stood, pulseless almost, like a young ActĂŠon cut in marble.
When the old man had looked long into the womanâs imploring face, he made a courtly-bow.
âMadame,â he said, âan old soldier, wounded on the field of Gettysburg, craves for himself and his two little children your kind hospitality.â
A Rude AwakeningâTake de doâ anâ go! You year me? Take de doâ!â
Lolotteâs brown eyes flamed. Her small frame quivered. She stood with her back turned to a meagre supper-table, as if to guard it from the man who had just entered the cabin. She pointed toward the door, to order him from the house.
âYou mighty cross tonight, Lolotte. You musâ got up wid de wrong foot to âs moâninâ. Hein, Veveste? hein, Jacques, wâat you say?â
The two small urchins who sat at table giggled in sympathy with their fatherâs evident good humor.
âIâm weâ out, me!â the girl exclaimed, desperately, as she let her arms fall limp at her side. âWork, work! Fu wâat? Fu feed de laziesâ man in Natchitoches paâish.â
âNow, Lolotte, you think wâat you sayinâ,â expostulated her father. âSylveste Bordon donâ ax nobody to feed âim.â
âWâen you brought a pounâ of suga in de house?â his daughter retorted hotly, âor a pounâ of coffee? Wâen did you brought a piece oâ meat home, you? Anâ Nonomme all de time sick. Coân bread anâ poâk, datâs good fu Veveste anâ me anâ Jacques; but Nonomme? no!â
She turned as if choking, and cut into the round, soggy âponeâ of corn bread which was the main feature of the scanty supper.
âPoâ liâle Nonomme; we musâ fine someâinâ to break dat fevah. You want to kill a chicken once a wâile fu Nonomme, Lolotte.â He calmly seated himself at the table.
âDid nâ I done put de lasâ roostah in de pot?â she cried with exasperation. âNow you come axen me fu kill de henâ! Wâere I goen to fine aiggâ to trade wid, wâen de henâ be gone? Is I got one picayune in de house fu trade wid, me?â
âPapa,â piped the young Jacques, âwâat dat I yeard you drive in de yard, wâile go?â
âDatâs it! Wâen Lolotte would nâ been talkenâ so fasâ, I could tole you âbout dat job I got fu tomorrow. Dat was Joe Duplanâs team of muleâ anâ wagon, wid târee baleâ of cotton, wâat you yaird. I got to go soon in de moâninâ wid dat load to de landinâ. Anâ a man musâ eat wâat got to work; datâs sho.â
Lolotteâs bare brown feet made no sound upon the rough boards as she entered the room where Nonomme lay sick and sleeping. She lifted the coarse mosquito net from about him, sat down in the clumsy chair by the bedside, and began gently to fan the slumbering child.
Dusk was falling rapidly, as it does in the South. Lolotteâs eyes grew round and big, as she watched the moon creep up from branch to branch of the moss-draped live-oak just outside her
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