Short Fiction Kate Chopin (best e reader for android .txt) 📖

to my frien’ Mr. Sanchun? That’s the way with them Cajuns,” Aiken offered apologetically to his guest; “ain’t got sense enough to know a white man when they see one.” Grégoire took her hand.

“I’m mighty glad to see you, ’Tite Reine,” he said from his heart. She had for some reason been unable to speak; now she panted somewhat hysterically:⁠—

“You mus’ escuse me, Mista Grégoire. It’s the truth I did n’ know you firs’, stan’in’ up there.” A deep flush had supplanted the former pallor of her face, and her eyes shone with tears and ill-concealed excitement.

“I thought you all lived yonda in Grant,” remarked Grégoire carelessly, making talk for the purpose of diverting Aiken’s attention away from his wife’s evident embarrassment, which he himself was at a loss to understand.

“Why, we did live a right smart while in Grant; but Grant ain’t no parish to make a livin’ in. Then I tried Winn and Caddo a spell; they wasn’t no better. But I tell you, suh, Sabine’s a damn’ sight worse than any of ’em. Why, a man can’t git a drink o’ whiskey here without going out of the parish fer it, or across into Texas. I’m fixin’ to sell out an’ try Vernon.”

Bud Aiken’s household belongings surely would not count for much in the contemplated “selling out.” The one room that constituted his home was extremely bare of furnishing⁠—a cheap bed, a pine table, and a few chairs, that was all. On a rough shelf were some paper parcels representing the larder. The mud daubing had fallen out here and there from between the logs of the cabin; and into the largest of these apertures had been thrust pieces of ragged bagging and wisps of cotton. A tin basin outside on the gallery offered the only bathing facilities to be seen. Notwithstanding these drawbacks, Grégoire announced his intention of passing the night with Aiken.

“I’m jus’ goin’ to ask the privilege o’ layin’ down yere on yo’ gall’ry tonight, Mr. Aiken. My hoss ain’t in firs’-class trim; an’ a night’s res’ ain’t goin’ to hurt him o’ me either.” He had begun by declaring his intention of pushing on across the Sabine, but an imploring look from ’Tite Reine’s eyes had stayed the words upon his lips. Never had he seen in a woman’s eyes a look of such heartbroken entreaty. He resolved on the instant to know the meaning of it before setting foot on Texas soil. Grégoire had never learned to steel his heart against a woman’s eyes, no matter what language they spoke.

An old patchwork quilt folded double and a moss pillow which ’Tite Reine gave him out on the gallery made a bed that was, after all, not too uncomfortable for a young fellow of rugged habits.

Grégoire slept quite soundly after he laid down upon his improvised bed at nine o’clock. He was awakened toward the middle of the night by someone gently shaking him. It was ’Tite Reine stooping over him; he could see her plainly, for the moon was shining. She had not removed the clothing she had worn during the day; but her feet were bare and looked wonderfully small and white. He arose on his elbow, wide awake at once. “W’y, ’Tite Reine! w’at the devil you mean? w’ere’s yo’ husban’?”

“The house kin fall on ’im, ’t en goin’ wake up Bud w’en he’s sleepin’; he drink’ too much.” Now that she had aroused Grégoire, she stood up, and sinking her face in her bended arm like a child, began to cry softly. In an instant he was on his feet.

“My God, ’Tite Reine! w’at’s the matta? you got to tell me w’at’s the matta.” He could no longer recognize the imperious ’Tite Reine, whose will had been the law in her father’s household. He led her to the edge of the low gallery and there they sat down.

Grégoire loved women. He liked their nearness, their atmosphere; the tones of their voices and the things they said; their ways of moving and turning about; the brushing of their garments when they passed him by pleased him. He was fleeing now from the pain that a woman had inflicted upon him. When any overpowering sorrow came to Grégoire he felt a singular longing to cross the Sabine River and lose himself in Texas. He had done this once before when his home, the old Santien place, had gone into the hands of creditors. The sight of ’Tite Reine’s distress now moved him painfully.

“W’at is it, ’Tite Reine? tell me w’at it is,” he kept asking her. She was attempting to dry her eyes on her coarse sleeve. He drew a handkerchief from his back pocket and dried them for her.

“They all well, yonda?” she asked, haltingly, “my popa? my moma? the chil’en?” Grégoire knew no more of the Baptiste Choupic family than the post beside him. Nevertheless he answered: “They all right well, ’Tite Reine, but they mighty lonesome of you.”

“My popa, he got a putty good crop this yea’?”

“He made right smart o’ cotton fo’ Bayou Pierre.”

“He done haul it to the relroad?”

“No, he ain’t quite finish pickin’.”

“I hope they all ent sole ‘Putty Girl’?” she inquired solicitously.

“Well, I should say not! Yo’ pa says they ain’t anotha piece o’ hossflesh in the pa’ish he’d want to swap fo’ ‘Putty Girl.’ ” She turned to him with vague but fleeting amazement⁠—“Putty Girl” was a cow!

The autumn night was heavy about them. The black forest seemed to have drawn nearer; its shadowy depths were filled with the gruesome noises that inhabit a southern forest at night time.

“Ain’t you ’fraid sometimes yere, ’Tite Reine?” Grégoire asked, as he felt a light shiver run through him at the weirdness of the scene.

“No,” she answered promptly, “I ent ’fred o’ nothin’ ’cep’ Bud.”

“Then he treats you mean? I thought so!”

“Mista Grégoire,” drawing close to him and whispering in his face, “Bud’s killin’ me.” He clasped her arm, holding her near him, while an expression of profound pity