Part 1 - III. In the Pirogue.

by Kate Chopin

　　In the Pirogue.“You got to set mighty still in this pirogue,” said Grégoire, as witha long oar-stroke he pulled out into mid stream.“Yes, I know,” answered Melicent complacently, arranging herselfopposite him in the long narrow boat: all sense of danger which thesituation might arouse being dulled by the attractiveness of a newexperience.Her resemblance to Hosmer ended with height and slenderness of figure,olive tinted skin, and eyes and hair which were of that dark brownoften miscalled black; but unlike his, her face was awake with aneagerness to know and test the novelty and depth of unaccustomedsensation. She had thus far lived an unstable existence, free from theweight of responsibilities, with a notion lying somewhere deep in herconsciousness that the world must one day be taken seriously; but thatcontingency was yet too far away to disturb the harmony of her days.She had eagerly responded to her brother’s suggestion of spending asummer with him in Louisiana. Hitherto, having passed her summersNorth, West, or East as alternating caprice prompted, she was ready ata word to fit her humor to the novelty of a season at the South. Sheenjoyed in advance the startling effect which her announced intentionproduced upon her intimate circle at home; thinking that her whimdeserved the distinction of eccentricity with which they chose toinvest it. But Melicent was chiefly moved by the prospect of anuninterrupted sojourn with her brother, whom she loved blindly, and towhom she attributed qualities of mind and heart which she thought theworld had discovered to use against him.“You got to set mighty still in this pirogue.”“Yes, I know; you told me so before,” and she laughed.“W’at are you laughin’ at?” asked Grégoire with amused but uncertainexpectancy.“Laughing at you, Grégoire; how can I help it?” laughing again.“Betta wait tell I do somethin’ funny, I reckon. Ain’t this a puttysight?” he added, referring to the dense canopy of an overarchingtree, beneath which they were gliding, and whose extreme branchesdipped quite into the slow moving water.The scene had not attracted Melicent. For she had been engaged inobserving her companion rather closely; his personality holding herwith a certain imaginative interest.The young man whom she so closely scrutinized was slightly undersized,but of close and brawny build. His hands were not so refinedly whiteas those of certain office bred young men of her acquaintance, yetthey were not coarsened by undue toil: it being somewhat an axiom withhim to do nothing that an available “nigger” might do for him.Close fitting, high-heeled boots of fine quality incased his feet, inwhose shapeliness he felt a pardonable pride; for a young man’sexcellence was often measured in the circle which he had frequented,by the possession of such a foot. A peculiar grace in the dance and atalent for bold repartee were further characteristics which had madeGrégoire’s departure keenly felt among certain belles of upper RedRiver. His features were handsome, of sharp and refined cut; and hiseyes black and brilliant as eyes of an alert and intelligent animalsometimes are. Melicent could not reconcile his voice to her liking;it was too softly low and feminine, and carried a note of pleading orpathos, unless he argued with his horse, his dog, or a “nigger,” atwhich times, though not unduly raised, it acquired a biting qualitythat served the purpose of relieving him from further form ofinsistence.He pulled rapidly and in silence down the bayou, that was now soentirely sheltered from the open light of the sky by the meetingbranches above, as to seem a dim leafy tunnel fashioned by man’singenuity. There were no perceptible banks, for the water spread outon either side of them, further than they could follow its flashingsthrough the rank underbrush. The dull plash of some object fallinginto the water, or the wild call of a lonely bird were the only soundsthat broke upon the stillness, beside the monotonous dipping of theoars and the occasional low undertones of their own voices. WhenGrégoire called the girl’s attention to an object near by, she fanciedit was the protruding stump of a decaying tree; but reaching for hisrevolver and taking quiet aim, he drove a ball into the black upturnednozzle that sent it below the surface with an angry splash.“Will he follow us?” she asked, mildly agitated.“Oh no; he’s glad ’nough to git out o’ the way. You betta put down yo’veil,” he added a moment later.Before she could ask a reason--for it was not her fashion to obey atword of command--the air was filled with the doleful hum of a grayswarm of mosquitoes, which attacked them fiercely.“You didn’t tell me the bayou was the refuge of such savagecreatures,” she said, fastening her veil closely about face and neck,but not before she had felt the sharpness of their angry sting.“I reckoned you’d ’a knowed all about it: seems like you knoweverything.” After a short interval he added, “you betta take yo’ veiloff.”She was amused at Grégoire’s authoritative tone and she said to himlaughing, yet obeying his suggestion, which carried a note of command:“you shall tell me always, why I should do things.”“All right,” he replied; “because they ain’t any mo’ mosquitoes;because I want you to see somethin’ worth seein’ afta while; andbecause I like to look at you,” which he was doing, with the innocentboldness of a forward child. “Ain’t that ’nough reasons?”“More than enough,” she replied shortly.The rank and clustering vegetation had become denser as they went on,forming an impenetrable tangle on either side, and pressing so closelyabove that they often needed to lower their heads to avoid the blow ofsome drooping branch. Then a sudden and unlooked for turn in the bayoucarried them out upon the far-spreading waters of the lake, with thebroad canopy of the open sky above them.“Oh,” cried Melicent, in surprise. Her exclamation was like a sigh ofrelief which comes at the removal of some pressure from body or brain.The wildness of the scene caught upon her erratic fancy, speeding itfor a quick moment into the realms of romance. She was an Indianmaiden of the far past, fleeing and seeking with her dusky lover somewild and solitary retreat on the borders of this lake, which offeredthem no seeming foot-hold save such as they would hew themselves withaxe or tomahawk. Here and there, a grim cypress lifted its head abovethe water, and spread wide its moss covered arms inviting refuge tothe great black-winged buzzards that circled over and about it inmid-air. Nameless voices--weird sounds that awake in a Southern forestat twilight’s approach,--were crying a sinister welcome to thesettling gloom.“This is a place thet can make a man sad, I tell you,” said Grégoire,resting his oars, and wiping the moisture from his forehead. “Iwouldn’t want to be yere alone, not fur any money.”“It is an awful place,” replied Melicent with a little appreciativeshudder; adding “do you consider me a bodily protection?” and feeblysmiling into his face.“Oh; I ain’t ’fraid o’ any thing I can see an on’erstan’. I can han’lemos’ any thing thet’s got a body. But they do tell some mighty queertales ’bout this lake an’ the pine hills yonda.”“Queer--how?”“W’y, ole McFarlane’s buried up there on the hill; an’ they’s folks’round yere says he walks about o’ nights; can’t res’ in his grave furthe niggas he’s killed.”“Gracious! and who was old McFarlane?”“The meanest w’ite man thet ever lived, seems like. Used to own thisplace long befo’ the Lafirmes got it. They say he’s the person thatMrs. W’at’s her name wrote about in Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”“Legree? I wonder if it could be true?” Melicent asked with interest.“Thet’s w’at they all say: ask any body.”“You’ll take me to his grave, won’t you Grégoire,” she entreated.“Well, not this evenin’--I reckon not. It’ll have to be broad day, an’the sun shinin’ mighty bright w’en I take you to ole McFarlane’sgrave.”They had retraced their course and again entered the bayou, from whichthe light had now nearly vanished, making it needful that they watchcarefully to escape the hewn logs that floated in numbers upon thewater.“I didn’t suppose you were ever sad, Grégoire,” Melicent said gently.“Oh my! yes;” with frank acknowledgment. “You ain’t ever seen me w’enI was real lonesome. ’Tain’t so bad sence you come. But times w’en Igit to thinkin’ ’bout home, I’m boun’ to cry--seems like I can’t he’pit.”“Why did you ever leave home?” she asked sympathetically.“You see w’en father died, fo’ year ago, mother she went back toFrance, t’her folks there; she never could stan’ this country--an’lef’ us boys to manage the place. Hec, he took charge the firs’ yearan’ run it in debt. Placide an’ me did’n’ have no betta luck the naxtyear. Then the creditors come up from New Orleans an’ took holt.That’s the time I packed my duds an’ lef’.”“And you came here?”“No, not at firs’. You see the Santien boys had a putty hard name inthe country. Aunt Thérèse, she’d fallen out with father years ago’bout the way, she said, he was bringin’ us up. Father, he wasn’t theman to take nothin’ from nobody. Never ’lowed any of us to come downyere. I was in Texas, goin’ to the devil I reckon, w’en she sent forme, an’ yere I am.”“And here you ought to stay, Grégoire.”“Oh, they ain’t no betta woman in the worl’ then Aunt Thérèse, w’enyou do like she wants. See ’em yonda waitin’ fur us? Reckon theythought we was drowned.”