The Pearl Necklace 1767

I

“Good-bye,” she said.

And then again, “Good-bye.”

The voice of the young girl was choked with sobs, and tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.

“Good-bye, dear garden; good-bye, dear home”; and as she spoke she stopped and looked up at the old grey chateau which the warm afternoon sun had made glow with tints of rose and gold.

She made a pretty picture standing there, even though her eyes were red 130with weeping, for her clustering curls were drawn high on her graceful head with a great comb, the lack of powder letting their bright chestnut tones shine in the warm evening light. A gaily flowered gown of simple muslin, less ample in its cut than the style affected by those who lived nearer the court, was fashioned so as to show a slender white throat. The delicate ruffles at elbow and neck showed that even in the country Mechlin, the lace of the hour, had its wearers.

Looking about, eyes even less partial than hers would cease to be surprised that parting with so fair a scene should cause such grief. To Clemence Valvier the chateau was home. There she was born, had grown to girlhood, and though but seventeen was not only a wife, but the mother of a tiny child for whose sake she was preparing to leave 131parents, country, home, and friends, and seek that little known land across the sea where so many of her countrymen had gained a footing in the wilderness.

The pointed turrets of the chateau stood out sharply against the deep blue of the afternoon sky, and the glass panes in the small windows sparkled as the late sunbeams rested on them. On one side huge vines of ivy clambered up the rough stones till they reached the roof, and amid their hospitable leaves sheltered many a nest of linnet and of sparrow, whose cheerful songs made music at morning and at sunset.

Clemence stood in the garden looking sadly at the roses whose sweet profusion was due in no small measure to her care. There was the garden seat; here the sun-dial; yonder, above 132the wall which bounded the garden, rose the dove-cote, around which constantly hovered some of her feathered pets.

“How can I leave you all!” she cried, as each familiar object rose before her eyes. “My courage wellnigh fails me”; and she sank on her knees before the dial,—a grey veteran which gave no hint of time this afternoon, since it marked only sunny hours, and already the long shadows cast by the chateau fell across its face of stone.

Just at that moment, when she was almost willing to abandon the thought of the long and terrible journey, she heard a footstep on the gravel of the paths.

“Ah, Clemence, dear heart, it grieves me almost past endurance to see your grief. Say but one word, and I will go forth alone, and shall send back for 133you and the little one when a home is made ready and when I have some comforts for you.”

At the first sound of her husband’s voice Clemence had jumped to her feet, and running to him had laid her tear-stained face upon his shoulder. As he finished speaking, she had almost brought a smile to drive away the tears, and looking into his face she bravely made answer,—

“If it wrings my heart to leave dear France, Pierre, it would be a thousand times worse to have you go and leave me here, me and little Annette, for whose sake we undertake all these perils.”

“If I could think that this was really so”; and Pierre, scarce more than a youth himself, as he yet wanted several months of seeing twenty years, bore on his face a gravity that is rarely seen on 134one so young. His dark eyes were sad, and though he smiled when he comforted his youthful wife, it seemed as though it was but to cheer her. In truth, all his life he had comforted and protected her, for Pierre Valvier, like Clemence, had called the old chateau, the rose garden, the long straight terrace, and the fertile fields his home.

Left an orphan at an early age, under the guardianship of Monsieur Bienville, the father of Clemence, the two children had played together, studied together, and finally were wedded, and now were preparing to go forth to the New World together.

At this time Louis XV sat upon the throne of France. He was a weak monarch, devoted to his pleasures, and content to let his ministers rule, although he always took an active part 135in all the religious quarrels which disturbed and agitated France. Jealousy, which had long been smouldering between France and England on account of the various colonies in America to which each country laid claim, broke out into war in 1756, and its effects were felt over the whole world.

The brilliant victory of Admiral Galissonière at Fort St. Philip, the chief citadel of Port Mahon on the Minorca Islands, the most important naval victory which France had gained in fifty years, filled the whole French nation with joy. Yet the succeeding years brought little but ignominy and defeat, and The Seven Years War, as this struggle was ultimately called, lost France not only the greater part of her navy, but, what was even more galling, many of her possessions in the New World.

136Disapproval of the King and his ministers drove to what was left of these colonies in America many Frenchmen of high character who foresaw nothing but disaster left for France herself. Among these was Pierre Valvier, who sought for himself and his little family a home in that new country where liberty of person and creed was assured. They were to start on the morrow for Calais, and thence take ship for New Orleans.

The old chateau—old even in 1756—stood upon a gentle slope looking down upon the little fishing village of Étaples. Such a tiny village it was, with its one-story huts,—you could scarcely call them more,—set upon the banks of the Canache, a broad shallow river so influenced by the ocean that when the tide was low the fisher-girls kilted up their scant skirts and waded 137across with their baskets of shrimps upon their strong young shoulders.

Such a little village, and so poor!

“Petit sou, petit sou, donnez-moi un petit sou!” That was the cry heard on every side. There was hardly a hand in the hamlet which would not be held out in expectation of a small copper coin, should anyone from the chateau chance to pass through its one ill-paved street.

Every year the poverty seemed to increase. Every year the revenues of the chateau grew less,—which was but another reason why Pierre, young and strong, should seek a home where those of gentle birth were made welcome, and where the Crown gave broad acres of land to each and all who would go and settle there.

Still, even with Hope and Courage beckoning, the parting was sad for all. 138Monsieur Bienville, the father of Clemence, was a soldier of the old régime. Tall, elegant, with the true air of grandeur which is born, not bred, he watched with sad eyes the preparations for departure. Madame his wife could not suppress her grief, and declared that never, never again should she see her loved ones.

“Ah,” cried she, “the poor children will be devoured by frightful beasts, I know it well,—if not by those that roam on land, by those more awful ones which dwell in the sea!”

The distant land was to her a wilderness, a desert; and, in truth, a few miles away from the city of New Orleans it was little else.

139

II

The rain was falling heavily as the old travelling carriage, drawn by four horses, lumbered up to the door of the chateau the next morning. Into it had been packed the necessaries for the journey to Calais, and two heavy wains had been sent off some days previously, laden with such goods as the young people were to take with them to the New World.

Within doors the daughter was taking leave of her parents, and as if to shorten the sad moment, her father took her hand, and placed within it a packet carefully bound in silk.

“Dear daughter,” said he, “see that this packet is carefully guarded. In it is thy heritance, the pearl necklace which my mother had from her 140mother, and which in its turn must go to thy daughter, the little Annette.”

“Oh, father, why give to me that most precious thing? Safeguard it till we come again, as, if God is willing, we shall.”

“It is yours, and then the daughter’s, and,” he whispered in her ear, “I have added all the jewels which were my mother’s portion. Keep them till time of need.”

The impatient stamping of the horses on the cobblestones of the court, warned them all that they must part, and Pierre led Clemence to the carriage, where little Annette was sleeping on the broad lap of old Marie, who had petted and scolded her mother through her babyhood and was now going with her on that long journey to the land of which they knew so little and feared so much.

141As if desirous of making up for lost time, Jacques cracked his whip, and with the words, “Farewell, farewell,” ringing in the air, the coach passed quickly down the long drive and through the gates leading to the highroad, and turned in the direction of Boulogne, where they were to pass that night.

The familiar scenes of her childhood never seemed so fair to Clemence as at this moment when she was parting from them. Here was the little church nestling among the trees, where she had received her first communion, and there stood Père Joseph, waving adieux from the old grey porch, the unfamiliar tear stealing down his wrinkled cheek.

Farther along on the other side of the road was the Rose d’Or, the quaint old inn, before whose hospitable door 142the village yokels were wont to gather of a summer’s evening and play at bowls upon the green. The very signboard as it hung above the door and swung in the wind seemed to creak “farewell,” and as the travelling chariot rolled by, Clemence hid her face upon her husband’s shoulder.

At last her sobs grew less violent, and as if to call attention from her grief, little Annette awoke, and lying comfortable and rosy upon the lap of her nurse, cooed out her satisfaction as only a healthy, happy baby can. Pierre took the child in his arms, and the baby stretched out her hands towards her mother, who, turning to take her, found neglected in her own lap the parcel of jewels so carefully wrapped and handed to her by her father as a parting gift.

“See, Pierre, my father gave to me 143the pearl necklace which I wore on my wedding day, and it is to be the portion of little Annette, when she too marries.”

Hardly had the words passed her lips, when rude shouts were heard, and the coach gradually came to a standstill.

“Halt!” cried a voice almost beside the window, and old Jacques the coachman could be heard saying,—

“But, messieurs, my master and mistress—”

“Peace, knave, let thy betters speak for themselves.”

At this a rude leering face was thrust into the window, and a man pulled roughly at the carriage door and cried,—

“Step out, and quickly too, and bring out your valuables with you.”

“But we are travellers, and have with us barely enough to carry us to 144Calais, where our ship lies at anchor,” said Pierre, trying not to let his voice show his anger and disgust.

“What will serve you will serve us also at a pinch. Is it not so, Jean?” and he turned to a third ruffian who stood at hand, holding by the bridle some sorry-looking horses.

“Truth, if we take all they have, ’t will be enough, but do not wait too long,” answered the one named Jean, who wore a soldier’s cap with a soiled and broken feather trailing over one ear.

At the first appearance of the highwaymen at the carriage window, Clemence had handed little Annette to Marie, and in so doing had managed to slip among her clothes the precious packet of jewels. She gave Marie a warning look, and when they were commanded to step from the coach, 145she begged, for the sake of the child, that it and the nurse might sit within.

“You can see for yourselves that neither the infant nor the aged woman has aught of value,” said she.

After hurriedly searching through the coach and finding nothing more, the highwaymen contented themselves with carrying off Pierre’s sword and a fair pearl ring which Clemence wore upon her finger, and a small bag of golden doubloons which Pierre had in the pocket of his travelling coat. The villainous trio had scarcely got safely away, when the reason of their haste became apparent, for a captain and four men-at-arms came around a turn in the road, urging their horses to a smart trot, when they saw the travelling carriage drawn up by the side of the ditch.

“Have three renegadoes passed this 146way?” called the leader, as they drew rein.

“Truly, but a few moments since,” said Pierre, with a rueful face, as he thought of his bag of gold. “It would have pleased me much had you come this way but a few moments earlier, since I then had been the richer for a purse of doubloons.”

“Stole they aught beside?” asked the captain, as he put spurs to his horse and hardly waited for Pierre’s answer as they rode hastily away in the direction the robbers had taken.

When once more the coach was in motion, Clemence turned to Annette and clasped her in her arms, saying,—

“Of a truth, little one, ’twas fortunate indeed that you saved your inheritance this time,—you and Marie.”

“Let us hide the packet better, Madame,” said Marie. “Who can tell 147when another band of cutthroats may be upon us, and truly, as thou saidst, it was but chance that saved us this time.”

Without any delay the packet was carefully tied among the long skirts of little Annette, and Marie hardly ceased to tremble till the coach rolled into the yard of the inn at Boulogne, and the red light streaming from the open door showed them that warmth and shelter were to be had within.

Early astir the next morning, refreshed and cheered because the rain had ceased and the sun shone cheerfully abroad, our travellers during the late afternoon of the next day entered the grey old town of Calais, the little Annette unconsciously guarding the packet which held her inheritance as well as the jewels which Monsieur Bienville had given as a parting token to his daughter.

148It was quite dark when the carriage was at last unpacked, and not till then did Pierre draw from behind a secret panel in the side of the coach the store of gold which was to suffice for their needs on board ship, and till they were established in the new home which awaited them on the other side of the ocean.

III

In the harbour of Calais rode at anchor the ship “Espérance,” which was taking on passengers and their goods for the long voyage to New Orleans. Owing to the shallow water, the ship could not approach the quay, and all the watermen of the town were busy carrying back and forth those who, like our travellers, were outward bound, or those who came merely to say a last farewell.

149On the walls of the town were gathered a motley crew, who, not having friends on board, sought to gain some excitement by watching the partings of others; and as from time to time the chimes rang out from the belfry behind the citadel, the little craft in the harbour became even more animated, since they now carried out to the “Espérance” some who had been belated on their way thither, and sought to get themselves and their goods safely aboard before the turn of the tide should serve to carry the ship out through the Straits into the English Channel.

Watching this scene from the cramped deck of the ship, Clemence and Pierre stood together, the former giving free vent to her tears, which rolled unheeded down her cheeks at the thought that she was leaving behind 150her so much which had hitherto made her life joyful.

Her sadness was reflected in her husband’s face, and at last he spoke.

“Dear wife, ’tis not yet too late to return. Say one word, and I can call one of those dingeys which shall carry us back to shore.”

“Nay, Pierre, I would go with you. But indeed I must weep, since never again do these eyes expect to look on my beautiful France.”

“I pray your sacrifice may not cost too dear,” said Pierre, pressing her hand; and as she wept she whispered,—

“The grief I feel at parting from France is naught compared to what I should feel at parting from you.”

Even as she spoke, there began such a scene of bustle and confusion that Clemence perforce dried her eyes to 151gaze upon it. The sailors were running to and fro stowing the goods of passengers away, and piled on the deck were feather-beds and pallets of straw, each passenger providing such beds and covering as his station in life permitted, since the ship provided only the room in which these might be laid. Boatloads of people were leaving the ship, some merry, some grave, and above all the noise rose the sharp commands of the Captain. At last sounded the shrill notes of the boatswain’s whistle, and the crew began to man the capstan bars. One of the sailors commenced to sing to ease the labour off a bit, and at the sound of the well-known chorus,

“Ho, ho, batelier, batelier,

Tirez, tirez,

Ancre de flot,

Tirez Roget, tirez Notet,”

152the crew joined in, so that the bars worked like magic, and the anchor rose into sight, then came short up, and finally, with another drive of the bars, swung all wet and dripping at the bows.

Ere this the huge sails had been bent into place, and now with the fresh evening breeze began to draw, while from every side came the curious creak and tugging noise which is present in every sailing craft. ’Twas not many moments ere the “Espérance” had her nose pointed seaward, and was bowling along with the white foam flying in her wake. All too quickly the shores and buildings of the town receded from the sight of those who gazed on them with tears, and even the belfry chimes had a melancholy sound as they floated out over the water.

153Pierre and Clemence stood by the rail, rather apart from the other passengers, and when the purple twilight had swallowed up France, Pierre said,—

“See, Clemence, a good omen. Look at the new moon.”

“It is a happy sign, and glad am I to see it. How silvery it looks, and see the horn dips not at all, which argues well for a smooth voyage.”

Though the “Espérance” was not a swift craft, she was a steady one. There were three weary months spent on board of her, and the moon proved a false prophet, since they encountered storms and head winds, and in addition had the alarm of pirates and the heat of the tropics. Worse even than the perils of the Atlantic were those encountered when they entered the Gulf of Mexico, where also pirates lay in 154wait, where there were contrary currents, and worse than all, sandbars, upon which the ship grounded. Many manœuvres were tried to ease her off, and there was despair felt on all sides when it was ordered that the baggage should be thrown overboard. Fortunately this sacrifice became unnecessary, as the second high-tide floated her off, and slowly the “Espérance” glided into deeper water. Pierre and Clemence heard with joy the rattle of the chain as the anchor was thrown overboard in the harbour of the Belize, thinking, poor souls, that the sufferings of the journey were over. Clemence turned with a bright smile to poor Marie, who sat upon a pile of bedding which lay on the deck, where it had been thrown in order to be ready for departure from the ship. The old nurse had suffered greatly during the 155long, tedious journey, and even now she looked sad and worn as she sat there in the sunshine, holding little Annette on her knees.

“Come, Marie, look less sad; soon will we reach the spot where our home is to be. Let me hold the little one.”

“Oh, Madame, little did I know of the horrors before us! Praise God that we still live, we and the little cat.”

“Truly the little cat and Annette seem to have fared better than the rest of us,” said Clemence, laughing. “Let us hope there will be fewer mice than you expect.”

“But, Madame, a cat is so comfortable, and in this wild land there be few enough comforts, I well know.”

Just at this moment Pierre hurried up to them, and said,—

“Come, Clemence, bring Annette, 156while Marie helps me, for the Captain says we are to go ashore and wait at the house of the Commandant till boats come for us from New Orleans.”

It was with scant ceremony that our little party and some of the other passengers were packed into the ship’s boats and taken to Dauphin Island. Here they were made comfortable, and during the week of their stay recovered somewhat from the sufferings on shipboard.

It was in two pirogues and two barges that they at last started on the trip up the river to New Orleans, and for discomfort the seven days passed in this journey far outdid all the fatigues sustained in the “Espérance.”

“Oh, Madame,” said Marie, “who ever saw ‘Messieurs les Maringouins’ of such size and with such stings before?” and as she spoke she waved 157again the huge fan with which she tried to protect Annette from the ravages of the mosquitoes.

An hour before sunset the rowers stopped each day, and the whole party encamped on shore, so as to get safely tucked in beneath the mosquito bars before “les Messieurs” should begin operations.

If the nights were dreadful, the days were scarcely better, since the boats were piled high with goods, so that the passengers were cramped in narrow spaces and hardly dared to move. In fact, the little cat in its wicker basket, and Annette carried on the broad breast of Marie, were the most comfortable members of the party. They had no fears of going to feed the fishes, as had some of their elders.

At length the weary trip was over, 158and when at length the boats drew up at the landing much of the discomfort was forgotten.

The Crescent City lay before them, the white-walled houses gleaming in the sunshine, while the bells of the Ursuline Convent pealed a welcome, and there burned before the chapel of “Our Lady of Prompt Succour” votive candles, to commemorate the safe arrival of another band of travellers from the distant land which every one in his heart called “home.”

“Pierre,” cried Clemence, surprise showing in every tone of her clear voice, “but what a beautiful city! And oh, Pierre, behold the lovely ladies! Scarce ever in my life have I seen such brave apparel.”

Her eyes were fixed, as she spoke, on a group which came idly down towards the landing, the ladies elegant in robes 159of damask silk loaded with lace and ribbons, while beside them lounged officers in rich court suits, both men and women wearing powdered hair and having their faces decorated with black patches.

Louisiana was passing through an interesting period of its growth, a changing from the pioneer days when the young officers from Canadian forts came down and made things lively with their merry pranks and boyish larks, their ceremonies and festivals. The Marquis de Vaudreuil was governor now, and brought with him the elegances and dignity which he had learned in years of life at the French court. The French and Swiss officers, but newly arrived, bore also the stamp of continental training; and the house of the Marquis, reflecting as well as might be the elegance of Versailles, 160was the centre of all that was most refined in the city.

Tradition chatters yet of the gracious manners of the Marquis, and there are still drawn from chests and carved presses robes which once figured at his balls, when court dress was the only wear. Though these gowns are now faded and tarnished, in the time when they were first worn they flaunted brilliant flowers on a ground of gold. The yellow bits of lace at elbow and corsage are frail now as a spider’s web, but then they were the latest patterns from Alençon and Flanders, and fit companions for the jewels which sparkled amongst them.

It was at this time, when New Orleans boasted the greatest beauty and elegance of any city in the New World, that our little family landed on its quay.

161It is hard to conceive that while within the limits of the city there flowed such gay life as that seen in the Governor’s mansion, without, and but a few miles away, were untrod wildernesses.

But so it was.

Pierre and Clemence rested but a few days before they sought out the plantation where they so fondly hoped to raise a home and enjoy the fruits of the rich country which they had chosen as their own.

The roads were poor, horses high in price and not at all plenty, so that Pierre bought some pirogues, a species of small boat, to take them and their goods the twenty miles up the Bayou Gentilly, to where their plantation lay.

Poor Clemence, how gloomy looked the cypress swamps which stretched away on either hand as the heavily 162laden boats moved slowly along! Strange and unfamiliar were the long curtains of grey moss which swung back and forth from the branches of the trees, seeming to wave in a ghostly fashion even when there was no wind, and creeping up to the tops of the tallest trees in its silent fashion, but ever turning aside from the bunches of mistletoe which stood out, great rosettes of bright green where all else seemed marked for decay.

Even the brilliant-hued birds which flitted cheerfully from one twig to another, and sang from time to time, did not cheer her, for they seemed so unfamiliar, her mind clinging more to those modest-coated friends, the linnets and finches, which she had fed in the rose garden at the chateau at Étaples.

Ever anxious to cheer her, Pierre said at last,—

163“Sing, dearest Clemence. It seems so long since I heard your voice.”

“How can I sing when my heart is sad?” But even as she spoke she was sorry, since she knew that the good spirits of the little party depended largely on herself.

“What shall I sing, Pierre?” she asked, after a moment’s pause, and then, as if it had been on the tip of her tongue all the while, began,—

“Chante, rossignol, chante,

Toi qu’as le cœur tant gai.

“Pour moi, je ne l’ai guère,

Mon amant m’a quittée,

“Pour un bouton de rose

Que trop tôt j’ai donné.

“Je voudrais que la rose

Fût encore au rosier;

“Et que la rosier même

Fût encore a planter;

164“Et que mon ami Pierre

Fût encore a m’aimer.

“Tra la la, la la lere,

Tra la lere, de la ri ra.”

No doubt it was the mocking-bird’s song which rang from the trees which brought to the mind of Clemence this song, which had been a favourite of theirs at home, and which told so musically of the nightingale’s song, of the red of the rose, and of the love of “Pierre.”

In five minutes the scene seemed to change from gloom to gaiety. Annette was cooing, Marie kept time to the gay little tune with the great fan which seldom left her hand, while the little cat in her efforts to gain her freedom tipped over her basket and set them all laughing.

The Bayou Gentilly, up which they 165were travelling in the pirogues, which were hardly more than dug-out canoes, was bordered at intervals on either side by the plantations of settlers who had owned the land for fifty years and over in some cases.

“Why, Pierre, how is this?” said Clemence, breaking off her song; “first the wilderness, then, see, the fields are planted!”

“These plantations are worked by the order of the King,” answered Pierre, “and the little shrubs with berries which have such fresh green leaves are the myrtle-wax bushes, from which wax for candles is made. We ourselves will have our plantation bordering on the Bayou set with such bushes as these; it is so directed.”

“But I thought indigo and sugar-cane were what we were to plant. I know that I could not bring half the 166things I wished, lest there should not be room for the indigo seeds and the little canes.”

Pierre smiled and said,—

“Truly a house, dear girl, is the first thing to be considered, and that may best be obtained by a good crop of indigo seed, since the planters hereabouts must needs get their seed from France, unless some are willing to raise seed only.”

On the forenoon of the second day the boats drew up to the shore, and Pierre, anxious, but looking cheerful, said,—

“Welcome to your new home, Clemence. Give me the little Annette, Marie, since she, with her mother, must be the first to step on shore.”

“Home, say you, Pierre?” and Clemence laughed, and looked ruefully, too, at the little log-cabin which had been 167hastily built by the negroes sent on in advance by Pierre.

“Patience but for a little while, and in place of that rude home you shall see a house as fair as any in these plantations.”

Laughing like two children, the young parents hastened to touch to the ground one of Annette’s tiny feet cased in its sandal, and as Monsieur Valvier handed the child back to its mother, he said,—

“What is that which makes the child’s garments so stiff?”

A warning glance from Clemence and a smothered exclamation from Marie made him remember that it was the precious packet with the pearl necklace and jewels, of which the little girl was still the unconscious custodian.

In New Orleans, indeed, they had been forced to draw on the packet, 168since it was necessary to have slaves to help them build and plant, and though there were frequent importations of them from Africa, the value of one working slave was equal to a thousand dollars of our money, and while it was generally paid in rice, Pierre, a new-comer, was obliged to pay in money. In order to do this, and also buy the precious seed which was so necessary, his own store was more than exhausted, and but for the packet so thoughtfully provided by Monsieur Bienville they would have been obliged to start out ill provided.

IV

Although the log-cabin was far different from the old chateau, and the garden planted with indigo and young sugar-canes a great contrast to 169the rose garden with its sun-dial at Étaples, the young couple were not unhappy, and little Annette grew apace.

The only person who took the change sadly to heart was old Marie, and her love for her mistress and the little one was all that kept her alive.

The fertile soil, so rich on the shores of the Bayou that it was fairly black, was soon heavily planted. There were rice fields in addition to those of indigo and sugar-cane, and for the home were planted watermelons, potatoes, peas, and beans; figs and bananas as well as pumpkins were abundant, and there were wild grapes and pecans to be had for the gathering.

With a gun the larder could be kept supplied with ducks, geese, wild swan, venison, pheasants, and partridges, and, most curious of all, wild beef, for unbranded 170cattle were considered common property, and many of them escaped from the ranges and roamed the forests in increasing companies.

The second year the plantation showed the results of Monsieur Valvier’s unceasing care, and he carried to New Orleans a crop of indigo seed which exceeded by many bushels his greatest hopes.

As the slaves pushed off from the landing, Pierre, standing in the stern of the boat, called out,—

“What shall I bring thee back, Clemence?”

“Whatever you think I shall like best,” she answered, waving her hand in farewell.

“What for the little daughter?” and as if she had only been waiting for the chance, Annette called out gaily,—

“Dolly.”

171“How shall I get a dolly? Would you not rather have something else, a toy or a new frock?”

“No, papa, a dolly”; and Annette pressed in her arms the bit of stick enveloped in a piece of gay calico which served her as a substitute for the dearest of all toys.

Two days later, when the little girl was helping her mother to gather the wax berries from the twigs, so that the yearly supply of candles might be made, they heard from the Bayou the cheerful song of the negroes as they rowed homeward.

“Come, mamma, oh, come and see my dolly”; and Annette ran away, while her mother followed more slowly, talking to old Marie, who was carrying in her arms a young Pierre, Annette’s little brother, who had been born since they had lived in the new home.

172With a pleased face Monsieur Valvier leaped ashore, hardly waiting for the boat to reach the landing. In his arms he held two parcels carefully wrapped in silver paper.

“Now, mamma shall guess first what is in her parcel,” he said; but Annette could not wait for that, and stood close at his side, saying over softly to herself,—

“My dolly, my pretty, pretty dolly.”

“Give Annette hers first,” said Madame Valvier; “it will take me much time to guess what my parcel contains.”

Annette sat soberly down and brought forth from many wrappings a beautiful doll, with red cheeks and blue eyes, dressed like a court lady, and newly come from France, as her father explained.

“She is most too beautiful to love,” 173exclaimed the little girl, as she gently held the gay lady; and the father and mother could only smile at the serious face of the child as she regarded the doll she had so fondly desired.

“Now look at your gift, dear wife. I hope it will please you as much as Annette’s pleases her”; and Monsieur Valvier put into his wife’s hands the second packet. With almost as much excitement as Annette, her mother unrolled her gift, and exclaimed with pleasure at the length of shining silk which greeted her delighted eyes.

“Oh, but, Pierre,” she began; but he stopped her with,—

“Yes, I know what you would say, silks and a log-cabin. But I have good news. The indigo seed brought such a high price that I have bought all that was needful for a house, and 174already it is loaded on barges and on its way hither.”

“Good news, indeed, that is. Marie, did you hear that we are to have a house at last? Who knows, perhaps it may be ready for the little Pierre’s christening.”

The parish in which lay the Valviers’ plantation also contained the homes of several other planters. These were either earlier settlers or blessed with greater riches than the Valviers, and their plantations were dignified with dwellings which seemed commodious enough in those days, simple as they would appear in our eyes now.

The planters’ homes were often built in what was called the “Italian style,” with pillars supporting the galleries, which were in reality roomy piazzas. The houses were surrounded by gardens of gorgeous flowering plants, and 175approached by avenues of wild orange trees.

It was such a house which soon rose on the bank of the Bayou Gentilly, among the trees which flourished in that teeming soil, and the rude cabin was moved into the background to serve as the quarters for the slaves. Nor were there gaieties wanting, for the planters visited among their neighbours, the ladies coming in huge lumbering coaches drawn by many horses, or by pirogue, while the men almost always rode, the saddle-horse for the master being almost a necessity.

The succeeding years passed quickly, if not too prosperously, and tobacco was added to the productions of the Valvier plantation. Pierre had made himself honoured and respected among the men in his own and the neighbouring parishes, and his ardent love for 176France kept him ever a Frenchman, even though his home lay across the sea.

Annette was by this time eight years old, quite a little mother, as Clemence fondly called her, since, grave beyond her years, she looked out for the little brothers and sister who had been born at the Bayou Gentilly. Poor Marie had died, a victim to an attack of the fever which hangs like a dark pall over that enchanting region, and more care had fallen on the shoulders of little Annette than really belonged there. She saw not only to the welfare of the children, but ruled the blacks and looked after the house in a fashion which astonished her mother, whose health had sadly failed, and upon whose natural energy the relaxing climate had laid its enervating spell. The French thrift which is so marked 177a quality in the women of that nation seemed to have passed by the mother and bloomed in the nature of the daughter, and Annette’s efforts were all which kept the home from being better than a cabin, left to the mercies of the negligent slaves.

V

There was one thing for which Annette’s mother never lacked strength or energy, and that was the celebration of the birthdays—“fête days,” she called them—of the little family. There was always some little gift forthcoming, were it only a basket of fine figs or a garland of flowers; and for Annette particularly her mother always made an extra effort.

The birthday of the little girl fell in June, that month when all the world 178is dressed in flowers, and when the sky above seems to bend its bluest arch. On this occasion Annette was to have a party, her very first, and all the children from the neighbouring plantations had been bidden; and papa had made a special trip to New Orleans and come home with some wonderful and mysterious packages, which had been quickly hidden away. At last the day arrived, and Annette felt it to be the happiest one she had ever known.

“To be nine years old and to have a party! Just think of that, Auguste!” she cried, as she helped the little boy to dress.

Auguste was thinking of it with so much glee that it made the dressing of him more than usually difficult, and Annette turned to little Pierre; but his whole attention was given to “keeping a secret,” for mamma had said that 179Annette was not to know what her present was to be till they were all gathered at the table for breakfast.

But he knew, did little Pierre, and it was a hard burden not to tell sister Annette. At last the little ones were ready, and Annette had seen that the simple fare which formed the breakfast—fruit and hominy, with coffee for the father and mother—was on the table.

Such a clamour as arose.

“Oh, mother, let me tell.”

“No, let me.”

“Oh, sister Annette—” But they got no further, for Annette herself pulled the cover off a big box which was laid on her chair, and there within lay a white dress—oh, such a pretty one!—and a little pair of slippers, with long, narrow ribbons to lace them criss-cross about the ankles, and, most lovely of 180all, a long blue sash, which had on its two ends a fringe of gold.

“Oh, dearest mother,” cried Annette, “was there ever anything so lovely; and the little brodequins,” pointing to the little slippers, “and a fan! Oh, mother, and you, too, father, how can I thank you both enough?”

Her father kissed her fondly and said,—

“My little daughter repays me every day.”

The mother was well contented with Annette’s pleasure for all the pains she had taken.

“And, sister Annette, see, I gave you the fan.”

“And oh, sister, look at the pretty mouchoir; that is from me.”

And the happy Annette kissed and thanked, and they were all so pleased that breakfast was quite forgotten and 181would have grown cold if black Mimi had not put her head in at the door to remind them of it.

When Annette had put on the new birthday dress, laced the slippers around her slender ankles, and held the fan and kerchief, she ran into her mother’s room to show her the effect.

“See, mamma, it just fits me”; and she gave the small skirts a toss and a pat, while her mother turned from the table where she had been standing with a small casket in her hand.

“Dearest Annette,” said she, in quite a solemn voice, “I shall let you wear to-day what my father gave to me, saying that one day it was to be thine. When you are grown to be a big girl, it shall be yours to have always, but to-day you shall wear it because you are my good child, and I love you fondly.”

As Madame Valvier spoke, she clasped 182about Annette’s neck the pearl necklace, the only remnant of the packet of jewels which had come from France, and which had been drawn on when crops failed, or for the purchase of slaves, or for some of the many needs in a new country where money is scarce.

“Oh, mamma!” and Annette’s voice was low with pleasure as she gently touched the rows of shining pearls which seemed far too costly a jewel for the neck of a little girl, and quite out of place over the modest frock.

“Are these really for me some day? Did grandpère say it should be so?” and Annette listened while her mother told her of her grandfather’s injunction, and how old Marie had hidden them in Annette’s own clothes and saved them from the highwaymen.

The time passed quickly before the 183little guests began to arrive, for it was to be an afternoon party, and some were brought by boat on the Bayou, while others rode on pillions behind black Philippe or Jean, as the case might be, sitting very still so that the best frocks would not be rumpled.

Many games they played in the long, cool galleries, or on the grass before the house. Ball was one of them, and when they were tired of this they played at hide-and-seek, finding many good and secret nooks among the trees and wax-myrtle shrubs, which were so bushy and so green.

“What shall we play next?” asked Annette, anxious that her guests should have a good time, and some one suggested “Hugh, Sweet Hugh,” that game of many verses which has been played by high and low through so many centuries and in all countries.

184The children made a pretty sight as, circling in a ring, they sang merrily,—

“Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh,

Come up and get the ball.”

“I will not come, I may not come,

Without my bonny boys all.”

Even after the tragic death of Sweet Hugh their voices rang out clearly till the last verse,—

“And all the bells of merry France

Without men’s hands were rung;

And all the books of merry France

Were read without men’s tongue.

Never was such a burial

Since Adam’s days begun.”

Then, half frightened at their own game, they scampered into the house, where Madame Valvier was awaiting them, and where, spread on trestle-boards, were all the dainties so loved of children,—fresh figs with cream, sweet chocolate, little cakes made of 185nuts and honey, and right in the centre a great round birthday cake with a dove on the very top.

At this last touch Annette was as much surprised as the other children, and in answer to her wondering look her mother said,—

“Your father brought it from New Orleans; it is his gift to you.”

After it had been admired, Annette cut the first piece, and the merry meal seemed over all too quickly for the children who had to take their way homewards, reluctant to have an end put to such unusual festivities, and not half aware of the necessity of being safe in their own homes before nightfall.

When the last one had gone, Annette took off her unaccustomed finery, and, holding in her hands the splendid necklace, looked with wonder on the round globes of pearls, which showed on their 186satiny faces the shifting tones of rose, blue, pale green, and yellow.

“Ah, mother,” she sighed, “to think that so beautiful a thing should be mine!”

“Remember always, little daughter, that it was first my mother’s portion, then mine, and shall be yours, never to part with.”

“Of a truth, dear mother, I should wish to keep it always. But,” and here she hesitated, “you know the other jewels which grandpère gave have all gone.”

“Those were my own, but this is different, and should be kept always, except in case of gravest need.”

“Gravest need—what is that, mamma?” and Annette’s blue eyes looked up solemnly into her mother’s face.

“Does it mean to save a life, mamma?”

187Madame Valvier, hardly appreciating the earnest little soul which was listening to her words, answered,—

“Yes, to save life or honour. Now, put it in its box, and come with me till I show you where it is hidden.”

In a small room where the children kept their few playthings, some rude toys and some bright shells and beans, Madame Valvier paused, and, stooping, took from beneath the window a small board, which disclosed a box-like cupboard lined with lead.

“Here it is kept with the rest of our treasures, Annette, the papers which belong to your father and the grants of our land. I show this place to you because you have a wisdom beyond your years, and are indeed my little comfort.”

Annette’s face grew rosy with pleasure at these words, and holding her mother’s hand, she whispered,—

188“I love you truly, dearest mamma, and I am the happiest girl in the world.”

When the little ones were in bed, Annette crept up on her father’s lap and had the crowning joy of the day, a long story of his childhood’s days in France; and she listened entranced, as she had hundreds of times before, to his descriptions of the old grey chateau at Étaples, the rose garden with its sun-dial, and, best of all, to the tales of how he and her mother used to scull down the broad shallow Canache, and then at the river’s mouth search among the rocks and seaweed for shrimps, while out at sea the big ships went sailing past, with their white or brown sails swelling with the fresh wind.

Even with the interest she felt in the story, poor Annette, tired with so much 189pleasure, nestled lower and lower in her father’s arms, and finally her head fell on his shoulder.

“She sleeps,” he said, “poor little girl, fairly tired out with too much happiness”; and taking her in his strong arms, he carried her off to her room, where she was soon settled in her bed, the process of undressing hardly waking her.

VI

With each succeeding year there were more and more settlers coming to the flowery land of Louisiana. If they had flocked thither in the time of the Regent, that clever and witty intriguer, they came more eagerly during the reign of Louis XV, so shallow a king that it is hard to conceive how he won the name of “The Well-beloved.”

190It was a strange company which made up the population of the Crescent City, not only those from Paris with their elegances and velvet coats, beneath which beat such loyal hearts, but rubbing shoulders with them in street and café were many of far rougher exterior, who had come down from the settlements in Canada, and learned to adore the little city which was so different from the homes which they had left in the cold North.

Yet each and every one of these, marquis from France or pioneer from Canada, or even the sad-faced Acadian refugee who had been welcomed to these hospitable shores, had a heart which beat for France alone.

With but the least assistance they would have swept the Gulf and made themselves masters of that inland sea, and not only held the possessions of 191the mother country on land, but added to them.

Frenchmen in language and in their hearts, they put up with the expulsion of their beloved Ursuline sisters, since the mother country so willed it, only allowing themselves the liberty of giving vent to their feelings by indulging in an unlimited number of satirical songs, burlesques, and pasquinades, as they were called. Little did they know, as they trod the white streets of the city, the deadly blow to those same stout hearts which France was plotting,—France, whom they loved so fondly and in whom they trusted so implicitly.

Completely dominated by his prime minister, Choiseul, Louis XV followed where this ugly, brilliant, inconstant man led, and trafficked first with Austria and then with Spain, till in 1761 192Choiseul put in shape his famous “Pacte de Famille,” which united all the royalties of Bourbon blood and which formed into one great band the thrones of France, Spain, Turin, Naples, and Sicily.

Although Choiseul had the audacity to frame this agreement, and Louis XV had the folly to sign it, they did not have the courage to proclaim it, and so it remained a secret for several years.

It was not till October, 1764, that the news arrived at New Orleans that Louisiana had, by secret treaty, been ceded to Spain, and instructions were sent to Monsieur D’Abadie, the Governor, to hand over to the envoy of Spain, who would shortly arrive, the whole colony and its possessions.

The blow was stunning!

At first it could not be credited. To 193be tossed like a plaything from France to Spain, that cowardly Spain who had never assisted them in any way, who had not even fought to get them, whom they had outwitted and overmatched in every contest,—this was too much!

Not many hours elapsed before the city was in a ferment. Groups gathered on the street corners and loudly denounced the proceedings. The wine-shops held excited bands who declaimed in passionate language against both king and country that could treat a colony in such fashion, and the chorus which rose and swelled protested that it could not be borne.

Swift pirogues carried the news among the plantations which lay along the Bayous, while men on horseback went to those in the interior.

Meetings were called in the parishes 194first, and then a convention was planned in New Orleans itself, to which every parish in the State was to send delegates. The subject was to be discussed, and then the King was to be informed of this cruel, this awful thing that he was doing, and he was to be petitioned to listen to the voice which echoed his own tongue, and which under every trial had spoken but loyal words of him.

Every parish sent its most notable men, and of these Monsieur Valvier, Annette’s father, was one. The meeting at New Orleans was a gathering of all that was wise and distinguished throughout the whole State, and it was unanimously decided to send to France a delegation of three men, to bear to the King himself their petition.

These three men left for France on the first vessel which sailed, and one 195can imagine the passionate nature of the appeal which they carried with them, in which the whole colony besought the King to let them die as they had lived,—Frenchmen to their hearts’ core.

Think of the feeling of relief which swelled every heart as the crowds gathered to see the envoys depart bearing the message to France and to their King!

Not one doubted but that the eloquence of Jean Milhet, who headed it, would win back their loved State from the hated Spaniard, and that he would speedily return with the joyful news, and that once more it would be French land for French men.

To the doors of France are laid many acts of cruelty and oppression, but there is no sadder story than the grief and humiliation to which this little 196delegation was subjected. For one whole year they waited, were put off from day to day with first one excuse and then another, and at last, sick and heart-broken, sailed back to New Orleans without ever having seen the King nor presented their petition!

Even though their chief envoy did not return, and there was no news of the success of their petition, the people of Louisiana seemed to have no doubt as to its success. Judge then of the fever of excitement into which they were thrown when a letter arrived in July, 1766, saying that Don Antonio de Ulloa, the Spanish envoy, was on his way to take possession.

What should be done?

Whither should they turn? New meetings were called, the militia was strengthened as much as possible; but month after month passed away and 197Don Antonio did not arrive, so that the people quieted down and hope bubbled up afresh.

One morning in February, 1767, when the Commandant awoke, he found anchored below the Belize, that old fortress at the mouth of the river, a large frigate flying the Spanish colours. On board was Don Antonio with his personal suite, two companies of Spanish infantry, and some Capuchin monks.

In March, in a frightful storm of wind and rain, they landed on the levee in New Orleans, and were met by a sullen crowd of citizens and by a mass of unwilling French troops.

The Spanish envoy, haughty, severe in aspect, and a martinet in demanding that deferential ceremonial etiquette which was so firmly engrafted into Spanish nature, either could not or 198would not understand the feelings which prompted the ardent Louisianians to cling to their nationality. He expected the people to change at his coming their flag and their allegiance, the soldiers their service, and all to hasten to assume the Spanish yoke. He could not understand their refusal to do so, and when the Superior Council of the city requested him to show his credentials, he abruptly refused, although he agreed to defer taking possession till more Spanish soldiers were sent to him.

This was at least the form to which he agreed; but he proceeded to get control as far as possible, visiting in turn all the military posts, and replacing the French flag and the French commanders with Spanish ones.

Over New Orleans alone did the French flag still wave.

199It may be easily understood that such high-handed deeds were not accomplished without protest on the part of the people of Louisiana. Curtailed of their possessions on every side, for by the “Treaty of Paris” much had been ceded to the English, they proposed to make as stubborn a resistance as possible.

In the remote parishes the feeling flamed almost higher than at New Orleans itself, since the sight of the detested Spanish flag was an ever-present insult.

During the year which had passed since the deputation had been sent to Paris bearing the memorial to the King, Monsieur Valvier had wasted neither time nor effort to arouse those with whom he came in contact, and keep them rigorously opposed to Spanish rule.

200There were stormy meetings in the parish to which he belonged, in which he was always an impassioned leader. There were secret meetings at his and the neighbouring plantations. He became gloomy, a man with but one thought in his head,—the disgrace of belonging to Spain.

It was small wonder that with its head so distraught the plantation fell into neglect. The crops of indigo and tobacco failed, since the master’s eye no longer kept watch on careless servants.

Madame Valvier’s ill-health increased as the winter season approached, and on little Annette fell more and more the care of the family and home. Scant crops made scant money, and it was only by unceasing care that Annette kept the active little brothers clothed and fed, and saw that the languid mother 201had her fresh fruit and café au lait, and that her favourite gowns of delicate white were kept mended and ever fresh.

Nor were these all her duties.

At evening, when her father returned depressed and miserable from a never-ending discussion with neighbouring planters as to the ignominy of their lot, it was Annette who met and tried to cheer him. She had ever something ready for him, were it only a bowl of fresh figs; and the earnest child at last became the confidant of the despairing man.

One memorable evening he returned later than usual, and to Annette’s surprise and pleasure his eyes were bright and shining, and he carried his head proudly and with confidence. Tenderly embracing Annette, he cried,—

“At last, at last have I prevailed on 202these neighbours who hate and yet fear the Spanish. All is ready, and to-morrow we at least will show Don Ulloa that there are loyal Frenchmen enough in Louisiana to refuse to live under the Spanish flag and his detestable rule.”

“But, father, what is it you would do?”

“Lean closer, my child, for none here must learn of this till everything is ready and we leave for the city.”

“Does mother know, dear father?”

“No, Annette, I dare not tell her; her constant illness makes her timorous.”

The young girl pressed closer to his knee, her large, serious eyes fixed on his face. So wrapped was the man in his own thoughts that he knew not the heavy burden he was laying on the already overcrowded young shoulders.

To her the father unfolded his plans.

“Well you know the cruel blow 203that has been dealt to us from France, and how the Spaniard Don Antonio has sought to make Spaniards of us all,—true-born Frenchmen that we are; how he has hoisted the Spanish flag, and manned all our forts with Spanish soldiers. To-morrow evening there will start from this plantation Monsieur Biron, myself, and all the owners of the plantations in this parish, with such of their men as they can arm, and by boat we will go down the Bayou, stopping at each plantation as we go, and gathering men together till we reach New Orleans.”

“Oh, father!” interrupted Annette, breathlessly, “will you take an army into the city?”

“So I hope; and these, with the loyal French Guard and the citizens, will enable us to sweep onwards, and Don Antonio will find what manner of 204men he has to deal with, and we will not rest till he is safely confined within the walls of the Belize.”

In the excitement of his story Monsieur Valvier’s voice rose till there came from the room beyond, where Madame Valvier lay, the sleepy question as to why they talked so late.

Putting his finger to his lip to warn Annette, he replied,—

“I but tell a tale to Annette, who will go now to bed.” Kissing her fondly good night, he whispered in her ear,—

“Remember to tell not a word, Annette, and lest I do not see you alone again, I say farewell, till we put the hated Spaniard where he will do no further harm.”

Although Annette crept to bed, her eyes for a long time stared into the darkness. She feared, not for the success 205of her father’s mission, but lest in some way he be hurt. She saw, as he described it, Don Ulloa safely confined in the dreaded Belize, and she rejoiced in her childish heart over the grand part her father was to take in keeping Louisiana for the French.

When the next night came, she peeped cautiously out from between the casements, and saw dark figures take their places in the pirogues drawn up at the landing and silently paddle down the Bayou.

She saw her father in the leading boat, and with him were several of their own men, and in the flaring light of the single torch she saw the gleaming of the guns.

In a silent adieu she waved her hand, even though she knew that her father could not see her, and confiding on his belief and assurance of success, she fell 206into a deep and dreamless sleep, and over the whole plantation rested an absolute quiet.

But her father—Ah, the sadness of that night trip!

The few men who had started with him from the plantation in the hope that they would be joined by many more of wealth and power were cruelly disabused of their beliefs. There was but a handful more; but in the small group was the spirit of an army, and it was hoped that Don Ulloa could be surprised just before dawn, and with the first successful blow many would hasten to join the victorious party.

It was the old story of a forlorn hope.

In some way Don Ulloa had been apprised of the uprising, and the party had barely set foot on the levee at New Orleans before they were surrounded 207and taken prisoners by a strong party of Spanish soldiers.

Monsieur Valvier, as the leader, was not detained in the city, but sent up the Bayou to Fort St. John, a desolate spot on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain, at the head of Bayou St. John.

During the first two days of his imprisonment Monsieur Valvier was stunned. He seemed incapable of realising the misfortune which had befallen not himself alone, but the little family at home. Too late he saw that the lukewarm policy of the others whom he had tried to induce to join him was not all selfish, and as happens so often to the enthusiast, he saw too late the folly of his actions.

It was the stinging thought of these helpless sufferers at home which at last aroused him, and spurred him on to see if their welfare could not be in some 208way assured. The intendant in charge of the fort was hard and cold, but, as Monsieur Valvier soon learned, was not averse to accepting a ransom.

Indeed, he informed Monsieur Valvier of this fact himself, and allowed him to send a letter home telling of his personal safety, and that his liberty could be bought. Till this letter arrived the plantation on the Bayou Gentilly had been a sad place.

When, as one day after another passed and Monsieur Valvier did not return, Annette, not knowing what to do, told her mother of the uprising, and Madame Valvier, with health already undermined, became so seriously ill that poor Annette knew not which way to turn.

One or two of the slaves had strayed home, and from them Annette had learned that at least her father was 209alive, and at last came the letter which told that he could be ransomed if a sufficient sum of money could be raised. The letter ended,—

“Alas, dear child, I know too well that there is naught left which may be turned into money to procure my freedom. I see too late that I have been led away from my duties to my little ones and their mother. God grant that they may be kept in safety; as for me my heart is breaking!”

Madame Valvier was too ill to give Annette any counsel. All day long the child kept saying to herself,—

“My father must be ransomed, but how? Where shall I get the gold? Oh, mamma, if you could but help me!”

At last, passing through the children’s room while waiting on her mother, Annette’s eyes fell upon the 210boards which concealed the leaden-lined box containing the papers and necklace.

“The pearl necklace,” she cried softly to herself, “why have I not thought of it before?” Removing the cover, she felt hurriedly within the enclosure to assure herself that it was safe.

The rest of that day, as she went about her duties, her one thought was of the way to get it to her father, and at last she decided that she must go with it herself. There was no one whom she could trust with this price of her father’s freedom, and her heart was full of the thought of saving him, so that there was no room for fear.

She determined to start that night, and, used from infancy to the management of a boat, she did not hesitate as to the means of travelling.

But her mother—how to leave her?

211She called the woman from the kitchen, an old slave but a faithful one, and bade her sleep within the next room, so that if Madame called she should hear her.

“For,” said Annette, “see, Tignon, I must go on a message for my father. When my mother wakens, tell her that I shall soon return,—remember, Tignon, soon return.”

As soon as it was dark, Annette took from its hiding-place the necklace, and as the cool, milky globes slipped through her fingers, she kissed them, saying,—

“Dear father, to think that these may save thy life. I remember my mother said that they were never to be parted with save ‘for life or honour.’ Perhaps this time it may be both, but I cannot tell.”

For a moment she was at a loss how 212to carry them, and then putting them about her neck she snapped the clasp securely and drew over them the waist of her gown, which was fashioned to come high in the neck.

“’Tis the easiest and the simplest way, and certainly none would think that such a thing lay beneath my calico frock.”

She kissed the little brothers and sister, and bade Pierre take good care of them till she should return, whispering in his ear,—

“I go for father, but tell of this to no one till I return.”

And Pierre, with his wide-staring eyes fixed on her face, could only say,—

“I will promise.”

At the landing Annette chose the smallest and lightest pirogue, and, with the caution one would have expected 213from an older and wiser head, put in the bottom an extra paddle and a small basket of food. She pushed off the little dug-out, and turning its head down stream looked back with confidence, saying in her brave young heart,—

“Shortly I shall return, and with my father.”

All night the child floated and paddled down the silent and lonely Bayou, often terrified by the strange night sounds which came from the swamps, and occasionally cheered by the light glimmering in the window of some of the planters’ homes on the shore. When she was most alarmed, she would reassure her little trembling heart by putting her hand on the breast of her frock, beneath which lay the necklace, and by whispering to herself the beloved name of “father.”

214The rising sun saw her heading her boat into the small channel which led into Bayou St. John, and it was late afternoon when the weary Annette saw frowning before her the rough palisades which enclosed Fort St. John.

The soldier on duty could scarcely believe his eyes when the little pirogue came alongside the quay, and was still more astonished when with trembling voice Annette said,—

“Sir, may I please see the Governor?”

“The Governor! why, what should the Governor do here? Who are you, and what would you with the Governor?”

“I have business with the Governor, sir.”

At this reply the man laughed long and loud, and poor Annette was ready to weep with disappointment and fatigue. Then remembering that at any 215rate her father was within those walls, she plucked up courage and began again.

“If Monsieur the Governor is not here, is there any great general here?” The soldier laughed again, and said below his breath,—

“Great general—no; but the great Sir Intendant is here, if you can do your business with him”; and there was another burst of laughter as the burly man looked at the slender form standing before him.

“Take me to him, please,” said she, and she gave one touch to the frock below which lay the precious heirloom as the soldier turned to lead the way within the enclosure.

“Ho, Roget!” he called, “this lady comes on business with Monsieur the Intendant”; and poor frightened Annette was passed along mid the rude 216jests of the soldiers, till she reached an ante-room to which was attached the small office of the Intendant. At last a voice said,—

“You may enter”; and Annette, who between fright and fatigue was ready to weep, found herself standing before a man with flashing eyes and a brilliant scarlet and gold uniform, who was looking at her with unconcealed interest.

“Well, child, what would you with me?” and Annette, raising her head, bravely answered,—

“I come to ransom my father, Monsieur Valvier.”

The Intendant frowned; and surely the pale child before him, in a simple calico gown, with empty hands and eyes full of unshed tears, hardly seemed able to ransom a bird, much less a political prisoner.

217The Intendant’s voice was harsh and cold as he said,—

“Ransom means gold, child,—gold, or lands.”

“Alas, Monsieur, I have neither,” said the trembling little girl, “but I thought perhaps—” And she drew from its place of concealment the splendid necklace.

The Intendant could scarcely conceal a start.

“How came you by this?” he asked, letting the rich strings glide through his fingers.

“’Twas the marriage portion of my grandmother in France, then of my mother also, and was to be mine. I will give it to you for my father, Monsieur Valvier.”

The sight of the jewels recalled to the Intendant scenes in his native Spain, where the Spanish grandees 218loved to ruffle it in laces and jewels of the choicest description, and where the dusky Spanish beauties often chose pearls, since these milky gems but served to throw out the fire of their eyes and the rich tones of their olive skins. As he mused, passing the pearls between his fingers, poor Annette was torn with anxiety lest the necklace should fall short of the ransom desired.

“Oh, Monsieur, is it not enough?” she cried, one trembling hand holding the other; “we have naught else, my mother is ill,—I came alone”; and the tears so bravely held back now fell in showers.

The Intendant had no idea of giving up the necklace, yet was not wholly cruel; so, striking on a bell, he called to the orderly who answered it,—

“Bring Valvier hither.”

The sound of the words caused 219Annette to wipe her eyes, and in a moment, with a little scream of joy, she rushed into the arms of her father, whose wonder at her presence froze the words on his lips.

“Monsieur Valvier,” said the Intendant, “you are free. The ransom provided by your daughter is sufficient. But you must give me your parole that you will never again bear arms against the Spanish flag, and that you will accept such regulations as Spain deems best for her colonies.”

“I give my parole,” answered Monsieur Valvier; “but, Annette, ransom—what had you, poor child?”

Annette’s face was wreathed in smiles as she whispered in his ear, “The pearl necklace, dearest father.”

220