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necessary. I knew not how to do anything myself, but made him my all in all, avoiding myself every shadow of care or trouble. I must say, moreover, that since he had married me I had a kind of fear of him and was afraid that I should hear him speak to me of love; but he scarcely thought of it, poor fellow:

reverence closed his lips. Thus matters stood when

one evening Joseph
entered the room
(Opposite page of the      where I was reading,
same torn sheet. Alix          and standing
has again written           upright before
around the rent.)            me, his hat
in his hand, said

to me that he had something to tell me. His expression was so unhappy that I felt the tears mount to my eyes.

“What is it, dear Joseph?” I asked; and when he could answer nothing on account of his emotion, I rose, crying:

“More bad news? What has happened to my nurse-mother? Speak, speak, Joseph!”

“Nothing, Mme. la Viscomtesse,” he replied. “My mother and Bastien, I hope, are well. It is of myself I wish to speak.”

Then my heart made a sad commotion in my bosom, for I thought he was about to speak of love. But not at all. He began again, in a low voice:

“I am going to America, madame.”

I sprung towards him. “You go away? You go away?” I cried. “And I, Joseph?”

“You, madame?” said he. “You have money. The Revolution will soon be over, and you can return to your country. There you will find again your friends, your titles, your fortune.”

“Stop!” I cried. “What shall I be in France? You well know my chateau, my palace are pillaged and burned, my parents are dead.”

“My mother and Bastien are in France,” he responded.

“But thou–thou, Joseph; what can I do without thee? Why have you accustomed me to your tenderness, to your protection, and now come threatening to leave me? Hear me plainly. If you go I go with you.”

He uttered a smothered cry and staggered like a drunken man.

“Alix–madame–“

“I have guessed your secret,” continued I. “You seek to go because you love me–because you fear you may forget that respect which you fancy you owe me. But after all I am your wife, Joseph. I have the right to follow thee, and I am going with thee.” And slowly I drew from my dressing-case the act of our marriage.

He looked, at me, oh! in such a funny way, and–extended his arms. I threw myself into them, and for half an hour it was tears and kisses and words of love. For after all I loved Joseph, not as I had loved Abner, but altogether more profoundly.

The next day a Catholic priest blessed our marriage. A month later we left for Louisiana, where Joseph hoped to make a fortune for me. But alas! he was despairing of success, when he met Mr. Carlo, and–you know, dear girls, the rest.

* * * * *

Roll again and slip into its ancient silken case the small, square manuscript which some one has sewed at the back with worsted of the pale tint known as “baby-blue.” Blessed little word! Time justified the color. If you doubt it go to the Teche; ask any of the De la Houssayes–or count, yourself, the Carpentiers and Charpentiers. You will be more apt to quit because you are tired than because you have finished. And while there ask, over on the Attakapas side, for any trace that any one may be able to give of Dorothea Mueller. She too was from France: at least, not from Normandy or Paris, like Alix, but, like Francoise’s young aunt with the white hair, a German of Alsace, from a village near Strasbourg; like her, an emigrant, and, like Francoise, a voyager with father and sister by flatboat from old New Orleans up the Mississippi, down the Atchafalaya, and into the land of Attakapas. You may ask, you may seek; but if you find the faintest trace you will have done what no one else has succeeded in doing. We shall never know her fate. Her sister’s we can tell; and we shall now see how different from the stories of Alix and Francoise is that of poor Salome Mueller, even in the same land and almost in the same times.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Inserted by a later hand than the author’s.–TRANSLATOR.

[2] Inserted by a later hand than the author’s.–TRANSLATOR.

[3] Alix makes a mistake here of one day. The Bastille fell on the 14th.–TRANSLATOR.