FullReads

And another time:–“If I will let you tell me something? With pleasure, Madame John. No, and not tell anybody, Madame John. No, Madame, not even ‘Tite Poulette. What?”–a long whistle–“is that pos-si-ble?–and Monsieur John knew it?–encouraged it?–eh, well, eh, well!–But–can I believe you, Madame John? Oh! you have Monsieur John’s sworn statement. Ah! very good, truly, but–you say you have it; but where is it? Ah! to-morrow!” a sceptical shrug. “Pardon me, Madame John, I think perhaps, perhaps you are telling the truth.

“If I think you did right? Certainly! What nature keeps back, accident sometimes gives, Madame John; either is God’s will. Don’t cry. ‘Stealing from the dead?’ No! It was giving, yes! They are thanking you in heaven, Madame John.”

Kristian Koppig, lying awake, but motionless and with closed eyes, hears in part, and, fancying he understands, rejoices with silent intensity. When the doctor is gone he calls Zalli.

“I give you a great deal of trouble, eh, Madame John?”

“No, no; you are no trouble at all. Had you the yellow fever–ah! then!”

She rolled her eyes to signify the superlative character of the tribulations attending yellow fever.

“I had a lady and gentleman once–a Spanish lady and gentleman, just off the ship; both sick at once with the fever–delirious–could not tell their names. Nobody to help me but sometimes Monsieur John! I never had such a time,–never before, never since,–as that time. Four days and nights this head touched not a pillow.”

“And they died!” said Kristian Koppig.

“The third night the gentleman went. Poor Senor! ‘Sieur John,–he did not know the harm,–gave him some coffee and toast! The fourth night it rained and turned cool, and just before day the poor lady”–

“Died!” said Koppig.

Zalli dropped her arms listlessly into her lap and her eyes ran brimful.

“And left an infant!” said the Dutchman, ready to shout with exultation.

“Ah! no, Monsieur,” said Zalli.

The invalid’s heart sank like a stone.

“Madame John,”–his voice was all in a tremor,–“tell me the truth. Is ‘Tite Poulette your own child?”

“Ah-h-h, ha! ha! what foolishness! Of course she is my child!” And Madame gave vent to a true Frenchwoman’s laugh.

It was too much for the sick man. In the pitiful weakness of his shattered nerves he turned his face into his pillow and wept like a child. Zalli passed into the next room to hide her emotion.

“Maman, dear Maman,” said ‘Tite Poulette, who had overheard nothing, but only saw the tears.

“Ah! my child, my child, my task–my task is too great–too great for me. Let me go now–another time. Go and watch at his bedside.”

“But, Maman,”–for ‘Tite Poulette was frightened,–“he needs no care now.”

“Nay, but go, my child; I wish to be alone.”

The maiden stole in with averted eyes and tiptoed to the window–that window. The patient, already a man again, gazed at her till she could feel the gaze. He turned his eyes from her a moment to gather resolution. And now, stout heart, farewell; a word or two of friendly parting–nothing more.

“‘Tite Poulette.”

The slender figure at the window turned and came to the bedside.

“I believe I owe my life to you,” he said.

She looked down meekly, the color rising in her cheek.

“I must arrange to be moved across the street tomorrow, on a litter.”

She did not stir or speak.

“And I must now thank you, sweet nurse, for your care. Sweet nurse! Sweet nurse!”

She shook her head in protestation.

“Heaven bless you, ‘Tite Poulette!”

Her face sank lower.

“God has made you very beautiful, Tite Poulette!”

She stirred not. He reached, and gently took her little hand, and as he drew her one step nearer, a tear fell from her long lashes. From the next room, Zalli, with a face of agonized suspense, gazed upon the pair, undiscovered. The young man lifted the hand to lay it upon his lips, when, with a mild, firm force, it was drawn away, yet still rested in his own upon the bedside, like some weak thing snared, that could only not get free.

“Thou wilt not have my love, ‘Tite Poulette?”

No answer.

“Thou wilt not, beautiful?”

“Cannot!” was all that she could utter, and upon their clasped hands the tears ran down.

“Thou wrong’st me, ‘Tite Poulette. Thou dost not trust me; thou fearest the kiss may loosen the hands. But I tell thee nay. I have struggled hard, even to this hour, against Love, but I yield me now; I yield; I am his unconditioned prisoner forever. God forbid that I ask aught but that you will be my wife.”

Still the maiden moved not, looked not up, only rained down tears.

“Shall it not be, ‘Tite Poulette?” He tried in vain to draw her.

“‘Tite Poulette?” So tenderly he called! And then she spoke.

“It is against the law.”

“It is not!” cried Zalli, seizing her round the waist and dragging her forward. “Take her! she is thine. I have robbed God long enough. Here are the sworn papers–here! Take her; she is as white as snow–so! Take her, kiss her; Mary be praised! I never had a child–she is the Spaniard’s daughter!”