La Petite had determined upon trying to fit herself to the strange,
narrow existence which she knew awaited her at Cote Joyeuse. It went
well enough at first. Sometimes she followed Ma'ame Pelagie into the
fields to note how the cotton was opening, ripe and white; or to count
the ears of corn upon the hardy stalks. But oftener she was with her
aunt Pauline, assisting in household offices, chattering of her brief
past, or walking with the older woman arm-in-arm under the trailing moss
of the giant oaks.
Mam'selle Pauline's steps grew very buoyant that summer, and her eyes
were sometimes as bright as a bird's, unless La Petite were away
from her side, when they would lose all other light but one of uneasy
expectancy. The girl seemed to love her well in return, and called her
endearingly Tan'tante. But as the time went by, La Petite became very
quiet,--not listless, but thoughtful, and slow in her movements. Then
her cheeks began to pale, till they were tinged like the creamy plumes
of the white crepe myrtle that grew in the ruin.
One day when she sat within its shadow, between her aunts, holding a
hand of each, she said: "Tante Pelagie, I must tell you something,
you and Tan'tante." She spoke low, but clearly and firmly. "I love you
both,--please remember that I love you both. But I must go away from
you. I can't live any longer here at Cote Joyeuse."
A spasm passed through Mam'selle Pauline's delicate frame. La Petite
could feel the twitch of it in the wiry fingers that were intertwined
with her own. Ma'ame Pelagie remained unchanged and motionless. No human
eye could penetrate so deep as to see the satisfaction which her soul
felt. She said: "What do you mean, Petite? Your father has sent you to
us, and I am sure it is his wish that you remain."
"My father loves me, tante Pelagie, and such will not be his wish when
he knows. Oh!" she continued with a restless, movement, "it is as though
a weight were pressing me backward here. I must live another life; the
life I lived before. I want to know things that are happening from day
to day over the world, and hear them talked about. I want my music,
my books, my companions. If I had known no other life but this one of
privation, I suppose it would be different. If I had to live this life,
I should make the best of it. But I do not have to; and you know, tante
Pelagie, you do not need to. It seems to me," she added in a whisper,
"that it is a sin against myself. Ah, Tan'tante!--what is the matter
with Tan'tante?"