Short Fiction - Kate Chopin (animal farm read .txt) 📗

Lolotte, Aunt Minty; you mus’ yaird ’er crooked; hein, Nonomme?”

The quizzical look in his good-natured features was irresistible. Nonomme fairly shook with merriment.

“My head feel so good,” he declared. “I wish Lolotte would come, so I could tole ’er.” And he turned in his bed to look down the long, dusty lane, with the hope of seeing her appear as he had watched her go, sitting on one of the cotton bales and guiding the mules.

But no one came all through the hot morning. Only at noon a broad-shouldered young negro appeared in view riding through the dust. When he had dismounted at the cabin door, he stood leaning a shoulder lazily against the jamb.

“Well, heah you is,” he grumbled, addressing Sylveste with no mark of respect.

“Heah you is, settin’ down like comp’ny, an’ Marse Joe yonda sont me see if you was dead.”

“Joe Duplan boun’ to have his joke, him,” said Sylveste, smiling uneasily.

“Maybe it look like a joke to you, but ’t aint no joke to him, man, to have one o’ his wagons smoshed to kindlin’, an’ his bes’ team tearin’ t’rough de country. You don’t want to let ’im lay han’s on you, joke o’ no joke.”

“Malédiction!” howled Sylveste, as he staggered to his feet. He stood for one instant irresolute; then he lurched past the man and ran wildly down the lane. He might have taken the horse that was there, but he went tottering on afoot, a frightened look in his eyes, as if his soul gazed upon an inward picture that was horrible.

The road to the landing was little used. As Sylveste went he could readily trace the marks of Lolotte’s wagon-wheels. For some distance they went straight along the road. Then they made a track as if a madman had directed their course, over stump and hillock, tearing the bushes and barking the trees on either side.

At each new turn Sylveste expected to find Lolotte stretched senseless upon the ground, but, there was never a sign of her.

At last he reached the landing, which was a dreary spot, slanting down to the river and partly cleared to afford room for what desultory freight might be left there from time to time. There were the wagon-tracks, clean down to the river’s edge and partly in the water, where they made a sharp and senseless turn. But Sylveste found no trace of his girl.

“Lolotte!” the old man cried out into the stillness. “Lolotte, ma fille, Lolotte!” But no answer came; no sound but the echo of his own voice, and the soft splash of the red water that lapped his feet.

He looked down at it, sick with anguish and apprehension.

Lolotte had disappeared as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed her. After a few days it became the common belief that the girl had been drowned. It was thought that she must have been hurled from the wagon into the water during the sharp turn that the wheel-tracks indicated, and carried away by the rapid current.

During the days of search, old Sylveste’s excitement kept him up. When it was over, an apathetic despair seemed to settle upon him.

Madame Duplan, moved by sympathy, had taken the little four-year-old Nonomme to the plantation Les Chêniers, where the child was awed by the beauty and comfort of things that surrounded him there. He thought always that Lolotte would come back, and watched for her every day; for they did not tell him the sad tidings of her loss.

The other two boys were placed in the temporary care of Aunt Minty; and old Sylveste roamed like a persecuted being through the country. He who had been a type of indolent content and repose had changed to a restless spirit.

When he thought to eat, it was in some humble negro cabin that he stopped to ask for food, which was never denied him. His grief had clothed him with a dignity that imposed respect.

One morning very early he appeared before the planter with a disheveled and hunted look.

“M’sieur Duplan,” he said, holding his hat in his hand and looking away into vacancy, “I been try ev’thing. I been try settin’ down still on de sto’ gall’ry. I been walk, I been run; ’t ain’ no use. Dey got al’ays some’in’ w’at push me. I go fishin’, an’ it’s some’in’ w’at push me worser ’an ever. By gracious! M’sieur Duplan, gi’ me some work!”

The planter gave him at once a plow in hand, and no plow on the whole plantation dug so deep as that one, nor so fast. Sylveste was the first in the field, as he was the last one there. From dawn to nightfall he worked, and after, till his limbs refused to do his bidding.

People came to wonder, and the negroes began to whisper hints of demoniacal possession.

When Mr. Duplan gave careful thought to the subject of Lolotte’s mysterious disappearance, an idea came to him. But so fearful was he to arouse false hopes in the breasts of those who grieved for the girl that to no one did he impart his suspicions save to his wife. It was on the eve of a business trip to New Orleans that he told her what he thought, or what he hoped rather.

Upon his return, which happened not many days later, he went out to where old Sylveste was toiling in the field with frenzied energy.

“Sylveste,” said the planter, quietly, when he had stood a moment watching the man at work, “have you given up all hope of hearing from your daughter?”

“I don’ know, me; I don’ know. Le’ me work, M’sieur Duplan.”

“For my part, I believe the child is alive.”

“You b’lieve dat, you?” His rugged face was pitiful in its imploring lines.

“I know it,” Mr. Duplan muttered, as calmly as he could. “Hold up! Steady yourself, man! Come; come with me to the house. There is someone there who knows it, too; someone who has seen her.”

The room into which the