The Renaissance at Charleroi

by O. Henry

Grandemont Charles was a little Creole gentleman, aged thirty-four,with a bald spot on the top of his head and the manners of a prince.By day he was a clerk in a cotton broker's office in one of thosecold, rancid mountains of oozy brick, down near the levee in NewOrleans. By night, in his three-story-high /chambre garnier/ in theold French Quarter he was again the last male descendant of theCharles family, that noble house that had lorded it in France, and hadpushed its way smiling, rapiered, and courtly into Louisiana's earlyand brilliant days. Of late years the Charleses had subsided into themore republican but scarcely less royally carried magnificence andease of plantation life along the Mississippi. Perhaps Grandemont waseven Marquis de Brasse. There was that title in the family. But aMarquis on seventy-five dollars per month! /Vraiment/! Still, it hasbeen done on less. Grandemont had saved out of his salary the sum of six hundred dollars.Enough, you would say, for any man to marry on. So, after a silence oftwo years on that subject, he reopened that most hazardous question toMlle. Adele Fauquier, riding down to Meade d'Or, her father'splantation. Her answer was the same that it had been any time duringthe last ten years: "First find my brother, Monsieur Charles." This time he had stood before her, perhaps discouraged by a love solong and hopeless, being dependent upon a contingency so unreasonable,and demanded to be told in simple words whether she loved him or no. Adele looked at him steadily out of her gray eyes that betrayed nosecrets and answered, a little more softly: "Grandemont, you have no right to ask that question unless you can dowhat I ask of you. Either bring back brother Victor to us or the proofthat he died." Somehow, though five times thus rejected, his heart was not so heavywhen he left. She had not denied that she loved. Upon what shallowwaters can the bark of passion remain afloat! Or, shall we play thedoctrinaire, and hint that at thirty-four the tides of life are calmerand cognizant of many sources instead of but one--as at four-and-twenty? Victor Fauquier would never be found. In those early days of hisdisappearance there was money to the Charles name, and Grandemont hadspent the dollars as if they were picayunes in trying to find the lostyouth. Even then he had had small hope of success, for the Mississippigives up a victim from its oily tangles only at the whim of its malignwill. A thousand times had Grandemont conned in his mind the scene ofVictor's disappearance. And, at each time that Adele had set herstubborn but pitiful alternative against his suit, still clearer itrepeated itself in his brain. The boy had been the family favourite; daring, winning, reckless. Hisunwise fancy had been captured by a girl on the plantation--thedaughter of an overseer. Victor's family was in ignorance of theintrigue, as far as it had gone. To save them the inevitable pain thathis course promised, Grandemont strove to prevent it. Omnipotent moneysmoothed the way. The overseer and his daughter left, between a sunsetand dawn, for an undesignated bourne. Grandemont was confident thatthis stroke would bring the boy to reason. He rode over to Meade d'Orto talk with him. The two strolled out of the house and grounds,crossed the road, and, mounting the levee, walked its broad path whilethey conversed. A thunder-cloud was hanging, imminent, above, but, asyet, no rain fell. At Grandemont's disclosure of his interference inthe clandestine romance, Victor attacked him, in a wild and suddenfury. Grandemont, though of slight frame, possessed muscles of iron.He caught the wrists amid a shower of blows descending upon him, bentthe lad backward and stretched him upon the levee path. In a littlewhile the gust of passion was spent, and he was allowed to rise. Calmnow, but a powder mine where he had been but a whiff of the tantrums,Victor extended his hand toward the dwelling house of Meade d'Or. "You and they," he cried, "have conspired to destroy my happiness.None of you shall ever look upon my face again." Turning, he ran swiftly down the levee, disappearing in the darkness.Grandemont followed as well as he could, calling to him, but in vain.For longer than an hour he pursued the search. Descending the side ofthe levee, he penetrated the rank density of weeds and willows thatundergrew the trees until the river's edge, shouting Victor's name.There was never an answer, though once he thought he heard a bubblingscream from the dun waters sliding past. Then the storm broke, and hereturned to the house drenched and dejected. There he explained the boy's absence sufficiently, he thought, notspeaking of the tangle that had led to it, for he hoped that Victorwould return as soon as his anger had cooled. Afterward, when thethreat was made good and they saw his face no more, he found itdifficult to alter his explanations of that night, and there clung acertain mystery to the boy's reasons for vanishing as well as to themanner of it. It was on that night that Grandemont first perceived a new andsingular expression in Adele's eyes whenever she looked at him. Andthrough the years following that expression was always there. He couldnot read it, for it was born of a thought she would never otherwisereveal. Perhaps, if he had known that Adele had stood at the gate on thatunlucky night, where she had followed, lingering, to await the returnof her brother and lover, wondering why they had chosen so tempestuousan hour and so black a spot to hold converse--if he had known that asudden flash of lightning had revealed to her sight that short, sharpstruggle as Victor was sinking under his hands, he might haveexplained everything, and she-- I know what she would have done. But one thing is clear--there wassomething besides her brother's disappearance between Grandemont'spleadings for her hand and Adele's "yes." Ten years had passed, andwhat she had seen during the space of that lightning flash remained anindelible picture. She had loved her brother, but was she holding outfor the solution of that mystery or for the "Truth"? Women have beenknown to reverence it, even as an abstract principle. It is said therehave been a few who, in the matter of their affections, haveconsidered a life to be a small thing as compared with a lie. That Ido not know. But, I wonder, had Grandemont cast himself at her feetcrying that his hand had sent Victor to the bottom of that inscrutableriver, and that he could no longer sully his love with a lie, I wonderif--I wonder what she would have done! But, Grandemont Charles, Arcadian little gentleman, never guessed themeaning of that look in Adele's eyes; and from this last bootlesspayment of his devoirs he rode away as rich as ever in honour andlove, but poor in hope. That was in September. It was during the first winter month thatGrandemont conceived his idea of the /renaissance/. Since Adele wouldnever be his, and wealth without her were useless trumpery, why needhe add to that hoard of slowly harvested dollars? Why should he evenretain that hoard? Hundreds were the cigarettes he consumed over his claret, sitting atthe little polished tables in the Royal street cafes while thinkingover his plan. By and by he had it perfect. It would cost, beyonddoubt, all the money he had, but--/le jeu vaut la chandelle/--for somehours he would be once more a Charles of Charleroi. Once again shouldthe nineteenth of January, that most significant day in the fortunesof the house of Charles, be fittingly observed. On that date theFrench king had seated a Charles by his side at table; on that dateArmand Charles, Marquis de Brasse, landed, like a brilliant meteor, inNew Orleans; it was the date of his mother's wedding; of Grandemont'sbirth. Since Grandemont could remember until the breaking up of thefamily that anniversary had been the synonym for feasting,hospitality, and proud commemoration. Charleroi was the old family plantation, lying some twenty miles downthe river. Years ago the estate had been sold to discharge the debtsof its too-bountiful owners. Once again it had changed hands, and nowthe must and mildew of litigation had settled upon it. A question ofheirship was in the courts, and the dwelling house of Charleroi,unless the tales told of ghostly powdered and laced Charleses hauntingits unechoing chambers were true, stood uninhabited. Grandemont found the solicitor in chancery who held the keys pendingthe decision. He proved to be an old friend of the family. Grandemontexplained briefly that he desired to rent the house for two or threedays. He wanted to give a dinner at his old home to a few friends.That was all. "Take it for a week--a month, if you will," said the solicitor; "butdo not speak to me of rental." With a sigh he concluded: "The dinnersI have eaten under that roof, /mon fils/!" There came to many of the old, established dealers in furniture,china, silverware, decorations and household fittings at their storeson Canal, Chartres, St. Charles, and Royal Streets, a quiet young manwith a little bald spot on the top of his head, distinguished manners,and the eye of a /connoisseur/, who explained what he wanted. To hirethe complete and elegant equipment of a dining-room, hall, reception-room, and cloak-rooms. The goods were to be packed and sent, by boat,to the Charleroi landing, and would be returned within three or fourdays. All damage or loss to be promptly paid for. Many of those old merchants knew Grandemont by sight, and theCharleses of old by association. Some of them were of Creole stock andfelt a thrill of responsive sympathy with the magnificently indiscreetdesign of this impoverished clerk who would revive but for a momentthe ancient flame of glory with the fuel of his savings. "Choose what you want," they said to him. "Handle everythingcarefully. See that the damage bill is kept low, and the charges forthe loan will not oppress you." To the wine merchants next; and here a doleful slice was lopped fromthe six hundred. It was an exquisite pleasure to Grandemont once moreto pick among the precious vintages. The champagne bins lured him likethe abodes of sirens, but these he was forced to pass. With his sixhundred he stood before them as a child with a penny stands before aFrench doll. But he bought with taste and discretion of other wines--Chablis, Moselle, Chateau d'Or, Hochheimer, and port of right age andpedigree. The matter of the cuisine gave him some studious hours until hesuddenly recollected Andre--Andre, their old /chef/--the most sublimemaster of French Creole cookery in the Mississippi Valley. Perhaps hewas yet somewhere about the plantation. The solicitor had told himthat the place was still being cultivated, in accordance with acompromise agreement between the litigants. On the next Sunday after the thought Grandemont rode, horseback, downto Charleroi. The big, square house with its two long ells lookedblank and cheerless with its closed shutters and doors. The shrubbery in the yard was ragged and riotous. Fallen leaves fromthe grove littered the walks and porches. Turning down the lane at theside of the house, Grandemont rode on to the quarters of theplantation hands. He found the workers just streaming back fromchurch, careless, happy, and bedecked in gay yellows, reds, and blues. Yes, Andre was still there; his wool a little grayer; his mouth aswide; his laughter as ready as ever. Grandemont told him of his plan,and the old /chef/ swayed with pride and delight. With a sigh ofrelief, knowing that he need have no further concern until the servingof that dinner was announced, he placed in Andre's hands a liberal sumfor the cost of it, giving /carte blanche/ for its creation. Among the blacks were also a number of the old house servants.Absalom, the former major domo, and a half-dozen of the younger men,once waiters and attaches of the kitchen, pantry, and other domesticdepartments crowded around to greet "M'shi Grande." Absalom guaranteedto marshal, of these, a corps of assistants that would perform withcredit the serving of the dinner. After distributing a liberal largesse among the faithful, Grandemontrode back to town well pleased. There were many other smaller detailsto think of and provide for, but eventually the scheme was complete,and now there remained only the issuance of the invitations to hisguests. Along the river within the scope of a score of miles dwelt some half-dozen families with whose princely hospitality that of the Charleseshad been contemporaneous. They were the proudest and most august ofthe old regime. Their small circle had been a brilliant one; theirsocial relations close and warm; their houses full of rare welcome anddiscriminating bounty. Those friends, said Grandemont, should oncemore, if never again, sit at Charleroi on a nineteenth of January tocelebrate the festal day of his house. Grandemont had his cards of invitation engraved. They were expensive,but beautiful. In one particular their good taste might have beendisputed; but the Creole allowed himself that one feather in the capof his fugacious splendour. Might he not be allowed, for the one dayof the /renaissance/, to be "Grandemont du Puy Charles, of Charleroi"?He sent the invitations out early in January so that the guests mightnot fail to receive due notice. At eight o'clock on the morning of the nineteenth, the lower coaststeamboat /River Belle/ gingerly approached the long unused landing atCharleroi. The bridge was lowered, and a swarm of the plantation handsstreamed along the rotting pier, bearing ashore a strange assortmentof freight. Great shapeless bundles and bales and packets swathed incloth and bound with ropes; tubs and urns of palms, evergreens, andtropical flowers; tables, mirrors, chairs, couches, carpets, andpictures--all carefully bound and padded against the dangers oftransit. Grandemont was among them, the busiest there. To the safe conveyanceof certain large hampers eloquent with printed cautions to delicatehandling he gave his superintendence, for they contained the fragilechina and glassware. The dropping of one of those hampers would havecost him more than he could have saved in a year. The last article unloaded, the /River Belle/ backed off and continuedher course down stream. In less than an hour everything had beenconveyed to the house. And came then Absalom's task, directing theplacing of the furniture and wares. There was plenty of help, for thatday was always a holiday at Charleroi, and the Negroes did not sufferthe old traditions to lapse. Almost the entire population of thequarters volunteered their aid. A score of piccaninnies were sweepingat the leaves in the yard. In the big kitchen at the rear Andre waslording it with his old-time magnificence over his numerous sub-cooksand scullions. Shutters were flung wide; dust spun in clouds; thehouse echoed to voices and the tread of busy feet. The prince had comeagain, and Charleroi woke from its long sleep. The full moon, as she rose across the river that night and peepedabove the levee saw a sight that had long been missing from her orbit.The old plantation house shed a soft and alluring radiance from everywindow. Of its two-score rooms only four had been refurnished--thelarger reception chamber, the dining hall, and two smaller rooms forthe convenience of the expected guests. But lighted wax candles wereset in the windows of every room. The dining-hall was the /chef d'oeuvre/. The long table, set withtwenty-five covers, sparkled like a winter landscape with its snowynapery and china and the icy gleam of crystal. The chaste beauty ofthe room had required small adornment. The polished floor burned to aglowing ruby with the reflection of candle light. The rich wainscotingreached half way to the ceiling. Along and above this had been set therelieving lightness of a few water-colour sketches of fruit andflower. The reception chamber was fitted in a simple but elegant style. Itsarrangement suggested nothing of the fact that on the morrow the roomwould again be cleared and abandoned to the dust and the spider. Theentrance hall was imposing with palms and ferns and the light of animmense candelabrum. At seven o'clock Grandemont, in evening dress, with pearls--a familypassion--in his spotless linen, emerged from somewhere. Theinvitations had specified eight as the dining hour. He drew anarmchair upon the porch, and sat there, smoking cigarettes and halfdreaming. The moon was an hour high. Fifty years back from the gate stood thehouse, under its noble grove. The road ran in front, and then came thegrass-grown levee and the insatiate river beyond. Just above the leveetop a tiny red light was creeping down and a tiny green one wascreeping up. Then the passing steamers saluted, and the hoarse dinstartled the drowsy silence of the melancholy lowlands. The stillnessreturned, save for the little voices of the night--the owl'srecitative, the capriccio of the crickets, the concerto of the frogsin the grass. The piccaninnies and the dawdlers from the quarters hadbeen dismissed to their confines, and the melee of the day was reducedto an orderly and intelligent silence. The six coloured waiters, intheir white jackets, paced, cat-footed, about the table, pretending toarrange where all was beyond betterment. Absalom, in black and shiningpumps posed, superior, here and there where the lights set off hisgrandeur. And Grandemont rested in his chair, waiting for his guests. He must have drifted into a dream--and an extravagant one--for he wasmaster of Charleroi and Adele was his wife. She was coming out to himnow; he could hear her steps; he could feel her hand upon hisshoulder-- "/Pardon moi, M'shi Grande/"--it was Absalom's hand touching him, itwas Absalom's voice, speaking the /patois/ of the blacks--"but it iseight o'clock." Eight o'clock. Grandemont sprang up. In the moonlight he could see therow of hitching-posts outside the gate. Long ago the horses of theguests should have stood there. They were vacant. A chanted roar of indignation, a just, waxing bellow of affront anddishonoured genius came from Andre's kitchen, filling the house withrhythmic protest. The beautiful dinner, the pearl of a dinner, thelittle excellent superb jewel of a dinner! But one moment more ofwaiting and not even the thousand thunders of black pigs of thequarter would touch it! "They are a little late," said Grandemont, calmly. "They will comesoon. Tell Andre to hold back dinner. And ask him if, by some chance,a bull from the pastures has broken, roaring, into the house." He seated himself again to his cigarettes. Though he had said it, hescarcely believed Charleroi would entertain company that night. Forthe first time in history the invitation of a Charles had beenignored. So simple in courtesy and honour was Grandemont, and,perhaps, so serenely confident in the prestige of his name, that themost likely reasons for the vacant board did not occur to him. Charleroi stood by a road travelled daily by people from thoseplantations whither his invitations had gone. No doubt even on the daybefore the sudden reanimation of the old house they had driven pastand observed the evidences of long desertion and decay. They hadlooked at the corpse of Charleroi and then at Grandemont'sinvitations, and, though the puzzle or tasteless hoax or whatever thething meant left them perplexed, they would not seek its solution bythe folly of a visit to that deserted house. The moon was now above the grove, and the yard was pied with deepshadows save where they lightened in the tender glow of outpouringcandle light. A crisp breeze from the river hinted at the possibilityof frost when the night should have become older. The grass at oneside of the steps was specked with the white stubs of Grandemont'scigarettes. The cotton-broker's clerk sat in his chair with the smokespiralling above him. I doubt that he once thought of the littlefortune he had so impotently squandered. Perhaps it was compensationenough for him to sit thus at Charleroi for a few retrieved hours.Idly his mind wandered in and out many fanciful paths of memory. Hesmiled to himself as a paraphrased line of Scripture strayed into hismind: "A certain /poor/ man made a feast." He heard the sound of Absalom coughing a note of summons. Grandemontstirred. This time he had not been asleep--only drowsing. "Nine o'clock, /M'shi Grande/," said Absalom in the uninflected voiceof a good servant who states a fact unqualified by personal opinion. Grandemont rose to his feet. In their time all the Charleses had beenproven, and they were gallant losers. "Serve dinner," he said calmly. And then he checked Absalom's movementto obey, for something clicked the gate latch and was coming down thewalk toward the house. Something that shuffled its feet and mutteredto itself as it came. It stopped in the current of light at the footof the steps and spake, in the universal whine of the gaddingmendicant. "Kind sir, could you spare a poor, hungry man, out of luck, a littleto eat? And to sleep in the corner of a shed? For"--the thingconcluded, irrelevantly--"I can sleep now. There are no mountains todance reels in the night; and the copper kettles are all scouredbright. The iron band is still round my ankle, and a link, if it isyour desire I should be chained." It set a foot upon the step and drew up the rags that hung upon thelimb. Above the distorted shoe, caked with the dust of a hundredleagues, they saw the link and the iron band. The clothes of the trampwere wreaked to piebald tatters by sun and rain and wear. A mat ofbrown, tangled hair and beard covered his head and face, out of whichhis eyes stared distractedly. Grandemont noticed that he carried inone hand a white, square card. "What is that?" he asked. "I picked it up, sir, at the side of the road." The vagabond handedthe card to Grandemont. "Just a little to eat, sir. A little parchedcorn, a /tortilla/, or a handful of beans. Goat's meat I cannot eat.When I cut their throats they cry like children." Grandemont held up the card. It was one of his own invitations todinner. No doubt some one had cast it away from a passing carriageafter comparing it with the tenantless house of Charleroi. "From the hedges and highways bid them come," he said to himself,softly smiling. And then to Absalom: "Send Louis to me." Louis, once his own body-servant, came promptly, in his white jacket. "This gentleman," said Grandemont, "will dine with me. Furnish himwith bath and clothes. In twenty minutes have him ready and dinnerserved." Louis approached the disreputable guest with the suavity due to avisitor to Charleroi, and spirited him away to inner regions. Promptly, in twenty minutes, Absalom announced dinner, and, a momentlater, the guest was ushered into the dining hall where Grandemontwaited, standing, at the head of the table. The attentions of Louishad transformed the stranger into something resembling the politeanimal. Clean linen and an old evening suit that had been sent downfrom town to clothe a waiter had worked a miracle with his exterior.Brush and comb had partially subdued the wild disorder of his hair.Now he might have passed for no more extravagant a thing than one ofthose /poseurs/ in art and music who affect such oddity of guise. Theman's countenance and demeanour, as he approached the table, exhibitednothing of the awkwardness or confusion to be expected from hisArabian Nights change. He allowed Absalom to seat him at Grandemont'sright hand with the manner of one thus accustomed to be waited upon. "It grieves me," said Grandemont, "to be obliged to exchange nameswith a guest. My own name is Charles." "In the mountains," said the wayfarer, "they call me Gringo. Along theroads they call me Jack." "I prefer the latter," said Grandemont. "A glass of wine with you, Mr.Jack." Course after course was served by the supernumerous waiters.Grandemont, inspired by the results of Andre's exquisite skill incookery and his own in the selection of wines became the model host,talkative, witty, and genial. The guest was fitful in conversation.His mind seemed to be sustaining a seccession of waves of dementiafollowed by intervals of comparative lucidity. There was the glassybrightness of recent fever in his eyes. A long course of it must havebeen the cause of his emaciation and weakness, his distracted mind,and the dull pallor that showed even through the tan of wind and sun. "Charles," he said to Grandemont--for thus he seemed to interpret hisname--"you never saw the mountains dance, did you?" "No, Mr. Jack," answered Grandemont, gravely, "the spectacle has beendenied me. But, I assure you, I can understand it must be a divertingsight. The big ones, you know, white with snow on the tops, waltzing--/decollete/, we may say." "You first scour the kettles," said Mr. Jack, leaning toward himexcitedly, "to cook the beans in the morning, and you lie down on ablanket and keep quite still. Then they come out and dance for you.You would go out and dance with them but you are chained every nightto the centre pole of the hut. You believe the mountains dance, don'tyou, Charlie?" "I contradict no traveller's tales," said Grandemont, with a smile. Mr. Jack laughed loudly. He dropped his voice to a confidentialwhisper. "You are a fool to believe it," he went on. "They don't reallyadvance. It's the fever in your head. It's the hard work and the badwater that does it. You are sick for weeks, and there is no medicine.The fever comes on every evening, and then you are as strong as twomen. One night the /compania/ are lying drunk with /mescal/. They havebrought back sacks of silver dollars from a ride, and they drink tocelebrate. In the night you file the chain in two and go down themountain. You walk for miles--hundreds of them. By and by themountains are all gone, and you come to the prairies. They do notdance at night; they are merciful, and you sleep. Then you come to theriver, and it says things to you. You follow it down, down, but youcan't find what you are looking for." Mr. Jack leaned back in his chair, and his eyes slowly closed. Thefood and wine had steeped him in a deep calm. The tense strain hadbeen smoothed from his face. The languor of repletion was claiminghim. Drowsily he spoke again. "It's bad manners--I know--to go to sleep--at table--but--that was--such a good dinner--Grande, old fellow." /Grande/! The owner of the name started and set down his glass. Howshould this wretched tatterdemalion whom he had invited, Caliph-like,to sit at his feet know his name? Not at first, but soon, little by little, the suspicion, wild andunreasonable as it was, stole into his brain. He drew out his watchwith hands that almost balked him by their trembling, and opened theback case. There was a picture there--a photograph fixed to the innerside. Rising, Grandemont shook Mr. Jack by the shoulder. The weary guestopened his eyes. Grandemont held the watch. "Look at this picture, Mr. Jack. Have you ever--" "/My sister Adele/!" The vagrant's voice rang loud and sudden through the room. He startedto his feet, but Grandemont's arms were about him, and Grandemont wascalling him "Victor!--Victor Fauquier! /Merci, merci, mon Dieu/!" Too far overcome by sleep and fatigue was the lost one to talk thatnight. Days afterward, when the tropic /calentura/ had cooled in hisveins, the disordered fragments he had spoken were completed in shapeand sequence. He told the story of his angry flight, of toils andcalamities on sea and shore, of his ebbing and flowing fortune insouthern lands, and of his latest peril when, held a captive, heserved menially in a stronghold of bandits in the Sonora Mountains ofMexico. And of the fever that seized him there and his escape anddelirium, during which he strayed, perhaps led by some marvellousinstinct, back to the river on whose bank he had been born. And of theproud and stubborn thing in his blood that had kept him silent throughall those years, clouding the honour of one, though he knew it not,and keeping apart two loving hearts. "What a thing is love!" you maysay. And if I grant it, you shall say, with me: "What a thing ispride!" On a couch in the reception chamber Victor lay, with a dawningunderstanding in his heavy eyes and peace in his softened countenance.Absalom was preparing a lounge for the transient master of Charleroi,who, to-morrow, would be again the clerk of a cotton-broker, butalso-- "To-morrow," Grandemont was saying, as he stood by the couch of hisguest, speaking the words with his face shining as must have shone theface of Elijah's charioteer when he announced the glories of thatheavenly journey--"To-morrow I will take you to Her."

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