When the war began, there stood on Cote Joyeuse an imposing mansion

of red brick, shaped like the Pantheon. A grove of majestic live-oaks

surrounded it.

Thirty years later, only the thick walls were standing, with the dull

red brick showing here and there through a matted growth of clinging

vines. The huge round pillars were intact; so to some extent was the

stone flagging of hall and portico. There had been no home so stately

along the whole stretch of Cote Joyeuse. Everyone knew that, as they

knew it had cost Philippe Valmet sixty thousand dollars to build, away

back in 1840. No one was in danger of forgetting that fact, so long as

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his daughter Pelagie survived. She was a queenly, white-haired woman of

fifty. "Ma'ame Pelagie," they called her, though she was unmarried, as

was her sister Pauline, a child in Ma'ame Pelagie's eyes; a child of

thirty-five.

The two lived alone in a three-roomed cabin, almost within the shadow of

the ruin. They lived for a dream, for Ma'ame Pelagie's dream, which was

to rebuild the old home.

It would be pitiful to tell how their days were spent to accomplish this

end; how the dollars had been saved for thirty years and the picayunes

hoarded; and yet, not half enough gathered! But Ma'ame Pelagie felt sure

of twenty years of life before her, and counted upon as many more for

her sister. And what could not come to pass in twenty--in forty--years?

Often, of pleasant afternoons, the two would drink their black coffee,

seated upon the stone-flagged portico whose canopy was the blue sky of

Louisiana. They loved to sit there in the silence, with only each other

and the sheeny, prying lizards for company, talking of the old times

and planning for the new; while light breezes stirred the tattered vines

high up among the columns, where owls nested.

"We can never hope to have all just as it was, Pauline," Ma'ame Pelagie

would say; "perhaps the marble pillars of the salon will have to be

replaced by wooden ones, and the crystal candelabra left out. Should you

be willing, Pauline?"

"Oh, yes Sesoeur, I shall be willing." It was always, "Yes, Sesoeur," or

"No, Sesoeur," "Just as you please, Sesoeur," with poor little Mam'selle

Pauline. For what did she remember of that old life and that old

spendor? Only a faint gleam here and there; the half-consciousness of

a young, uneventful existence; and then a great crash. That meant the

nearness of war; the revolt of slaves; confusion ending in fire and

flame through which she was borne safely in the strong arms of Pelagie,

and carried to the log cabin which was still their home. Their brother,

Leandre, had known more of it all than Pauline, and not so much as

Pelagie. He had left the management of the big plantation with all its

memories and traditions to his older sister, and had gone away to dwell

in cities. That was many years ago. Now, Leandre's business called him

frequently and upon long journeys from home, and his motherless daughter

was coming to stay with her aunts at Cote Joyeuse.




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