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Za darmoA Rude Awakening
Kate Chopin
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“Take the door and go! You hear me? Take the door!”
Lolotte’s brown eyes blazed. Her small frame trembled. She stood with her back to the meager supper table, as if to shield it from the man who had just stepped inside the cabin. She pointed toward the door, ordering him out of the house.
“You’re mighty cross tonight, Lolotte. You must have got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Eh, Veveste? Eh, Jacques, what do you say?”
The two small boys sitting at the table giggled, sharing in their father’s easy humor.
“I’m worn out, me!” the girl cried desperately, letting her arms fall limp at her sides. “Work, work! For what? To feed the laziest man in Natchitoches parish!”
“Now, Lolotte, think what you’re saying,” her father reasoned. “Sylveste Borden doesn’t ask anyone to feed him.”
“When did you bring a pound of sugar into this house?” his daughter shot back hotly. “Or a pound of coffee? When did you bring home a piece of meat, you? And Nonomme sick all the time. Corn bread and pork, that’s fine for Veveste and me and Jacques, but Nonomme? No!”
She turned as if choking, and cut into the round, soggy loaf of corn bread, the main part of the scanty supper.
“Poor little Nonomme; we must find something to break that fever.
You want to kill a chicken once in a while for Nonomme, Lolotte.” He calmly sat down at the table.
“Didn’t I already put the last rooster in the pot?” she cried with exasperation. “Now you ask me to kill the hen! Where am I going to find eggs to trade with when the hen is gone? Do I have a picayune in the house to trade with, me?”
“Papa,” piped young Jacques, “what’s that I heard you drive into the yard while ago?”
“That’s it! If Lolotte hadn’t been talking so fast, I could have told you about that job I got for tomorrow. That was Joe Duplan’s team of mules and wagon, with three bales of cotton, that you heard. I got to go early in the morning with that load to the landing. And a man must eat who has to work; that’s sure.”
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-d738437cd6da4c999b1885943128aaaa
# book_title: A Rude Awakening
# chapter_id: 1-a-rude-awakening
# chapter_title: A Rude Awakening
# book_page: 1 / 8
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
“Take the door and go! You hear me? Take the door!”
Lolotte’s brown eyes blazed. Her small frame trembled. She stood with her back to the meager supper table, as if to shield it from the man who had just stepped inside the cabin. She pointed toward the door, ordering him out of the house.
“You’re mighty cross tonight, Lolotte. You must have got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Eh, Veveste? Eh, Jacques, what do you say?”
The two small boys sitting at the table giggled, sharing in their father’s easy humor.
“I’m worn out, me!” the girl cried desperately, letting her arms fall limp at her sides. “Work, work! For what? To feed the laziest man in Natchitoches parish!”
“Now, Lolotte, think what you’re saying,” her father reasoned. “Sylveste Borden doesn’t ask anyone to feed him.”
“When did you bring a pound of sugar into this house?” his daughter shot back hotly. “Or a pound of coffee? When did you bring home a piece of meat, you? And Nonomme sick all the time. Corn bread and pork, that’s fine for Veveste and me and Jacques, but Nonomme? No!”
She turned as if choking, and cut into the round, soggy loaf of corn bread, the main part of the scanty supper.
“Poor little Nonomme; we must find something to break that fever.
You want to kill a chicken once in a while for Nonomme, Lolotte.” He calmly sat down at the table.
“Didn’t I already put the last rooster in the pot?” she cried with exasperation. “Now you ask me to kill the hen! Where am I going to find eggs to trade with when the hen is gone? Do I have a picayune in the house to trade with, me?”
“Papa,” piped young Jacques, “what’s that I heard you drive into the yard while ago?”
“That’s it! If Lolotte hadn’t been talking so fast, I could have told you about that job I got for tomorrow. That was Joe Duplan’s team of mules and wagon, with three bales of cotton, that you heard. I got to go early in the morning with that load to the landing. And a man must eat who has to work; that’s sure.”Lolotte’s bare brown feet made no sound on the rough boards as she entered the room where Nonomme lay sick and sleeping. She lifted the coarse mosquito net from around him, sat down in the clumsy chair by the bedside, and began gently to fan the sleeping child.
Dusk fell quickly, as it does in the South. Lolotte’s eyes grew round and big as she watched the moon climb from branch to branch of the moss-draped live oak just outside her window. Soon the weary girl slept as deeply as Nonomme. A little dog slipped into the room and socially licked her bare feet. The touch, moist and warm, woke Lolotte.
The cabin was dark and still. Nonomme was crying softly, because the mosquitoes were biting him. In the room beyond, old Sylveste and the others slept. When Lolotte had quieted the child, she went outside to get a pail of cool, fresh water from the cistern. Then she crept into bed beside Nonomme, who slept again.
That night Lolotte dreamed of her father returning from work, his pockets full of luscious oranges for the sick child.
At the very break of day, she heard him stirring in his room, and a certain comfort stole into her heart. She lay and listened to the faint noises of his preparations to leave. When he had left the house, she waited to hear him drive the wagon out of the yard.
She waited, but heard no sound of horse’s hoof or wagon wheel. Anxious, she went to the cabin door and looked out. The big mules were still where they had been fastened the night before. The wagon was there, too.
Her heart sank. She glanced quickly along the low rafters supporting the roof of the narrow porch, to where her father’s fishing pole and pail always hung. Both were gone.
“It ain’t no use, it ain’t no use,” she said, turning back into the house with a trace of anguish in her eyes.
When the meager breakfast was eaten and the dishes cleared away, Lolotte turned with a determined look to her two little brothers.
“Veveste,” she said to the older, “go see if they got corn in that wagon for feeding the mules.”
“Yes, they got corn. Papa already fed them, ’cause I saw the corncob in the trough.”
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-d738437cd6da4c999b1885943128aaaa
# book_title: A Rude Awakening
# chapter_id: 1-a-rude-awakening
# chapter_title: A Rude Awakening
# book_page: 2 / 8
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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Lolotte’s bare brown feet made no sound on the rough boards as she entered the room where Nonomme lay sick and sleeping. She lifted the coarse mosquito net from around him, sat down in the clumsy chair by the bedside, and began gently to fan the sleeping child.
Dusk fell quickly, as it does in the South. Lolotte’s eyes grew round and big as she watched the moon climb from branch to branch of the moss-draped live oak just outside her window. Soon the weary girl slept as deeply as Nonomme. A little dog slipped into the room and socially licked her bare feet. The touch, moist and warm, woke Lolotte.
The cabin was dark and still. Nonomme was crying softly, because the mosquitoes were biting him. In the room beyond, old Sylveste and the others slept. When Lolotte had quieted the child, she went outside to get a pail of cool, fresh water from the cistern. Then she crept into bed beside Nonomme, who slept again.
That night Lolotte dreamed of her father returning from work, his pockets full of luscious oranges for the sick child.
At the very break of day, she heard him stirring in his room, and a certain comfort stole into her heart. She lay and listened to the faint noises of his preparations to leave. When he had left the house, she waited to hear him drive the wagon out of the yard.
She waited, but heard no sound of horse’s hoof or wagon wheel. Anxious, she went to the cabin door and looked out. The big mules were still where they had been fastened the night before. The wagon was there, too.
Her heart sank. She glanced quickly along the low rafters supporting the roof of the narrow porch, to where her father’s fishing pole and pail always hung. Both were gone.
“It ain’t no use, it ain’t no use,” she said, turning back into the house with a trace of anguish in her eyes.
When the meager breakfast was eaten and the dishes cleared away, Lolotte turned with a determined look to her two little brothers.
“Veveste,” she said to the older, “go see if they got corn in that wagon for feeding the mules.”
“Yes, they got corn. Papa already fed them, ’cause I saw the corncob in the trough.”“Then you’re going to help me hitch those mules to the wagon. Jacques, go down the lane and ask Aunt Minty if she can come sit with Nonomme while I drive those mules to the landing.”
Lolotte had clearly made up her mind to take on her father’s work. Nothing could dissuade her—not the children’s astonishment, nor Aunt Minty’s scathing disapproval. The plump black woman came trudging into the yard just as Lolotte climbed onto the wagon.
“Get down from there, child! Are you plumb crazy?” she exclaimed.
“No, I’m not crazy; I’m hungry, Aunt Minty. We’re all hungry. Somebody’s got to work in this family.”
“That ain’t no work for a girl not yet seventeen: driving Marse Duplan’s mules! What am I going to tell your pa?”
“For me, you can tell him whatever you like. But you watch Nonomme. I already cooked his rice and set it aside.”
“Don’t you worry,” replied Aunt Minty; “I got something here for my boy. I’ll tend to him.”
Lolotte had noticed Aunt Minty slip something out of sight when she came up, and insisted she show it. It was a heavy fowl.
“Since when did you start raising Brahma chickens, you?” Lolotte asked suspiciously.
“My, but you are a curious somebody! Everything with feathers on its legs is a Brahma chicken to you. This here old hen—”
“All the same, you haven’t got to give that chicken to Nonomme to eat. You haven’t got to cook it in my house.”
Aunt Minty, paying no attention, turned toward the house with a bustling inquiry for her boy, while Lolotte drove off with a great clatter.
Lolotte knew that, despite her warning, the chicken would be cooked and eaten. She might even taste it herself when she returned, if hunger drove her too hard.
“Next thing, I’ll be a thief,” she muttered, and the tears gathered and fell one by one on her cheeks.
“It does look like a Brahma, Aunt Mint,” remarked small, wiry Jacques, as he watched the woman pluck the plump fowl.
“How old are you?” was her quiet reply.
“I don’t know, me.”
“Then if you don’t know that much, you better keep your mouth shut, boy.”
Silence fell, broken only by the monotonous chant the woman hummed as she worked. Jacques spoke again.
“It does look like one of Ma’me Duplan’s Brahmas, Aunt Mint.”
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-d738437cd6da4c999b1885943128aaaa
# book_title: A Rude Awakening
# chapter_id: 1-a-rude-awakening
# chapter_title: A Rude Awakening
# book_page: 3 / 8
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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“Then you’re going to help me hitch those mules to the wagon. Jacques, go down the lane and ask Aunt Minty if she can come sit with Nonomme while I drive those mules to the landing.”
Lolotte had clearly made up her mind to take on her father’s work. Nothing could dissuade her—not the children’s astonishment, nor Aunt Minty’s scathing disapproval. The plump black woman came trudging into the yard just as Lolotte climbed onto the wagon.
“Get down from there, child! Are you plumb crazy?” she exclaimed.
“No, I’m not crazy; I’m hungry, Aunt Minty. We’re all hungry. Somebody’s got to work in this family.”
“That ain’t no work for a girl not yet seventeen: driving Marse Duplan’s mules! What am I going to tell your pa?”
“For me, you can tell him whatever you like. But you watch Nonomme. I already cooked his rice and set it aside.”
“Don’t you worry,” replied Aunt Minty; “I got something here for my boy. I’ll tend to him.”
Lolotte had noticed Aunt Minty slip something out of sight when she came up, and insisted she show it. It was a heavy fowl.
“Since when did you start raising Brahma chickens, you?” Lolotte asked suspiciously.
“My, but you are a curious somebody! Everything with feathers on its legs is a Brahma chicken to you. This here old hen—”
“All the same, you haven’t got to give that chicken to Nonomme to eat. You haven’t got to cook it in my house.”
Aunt Minty, paying no attention, turned toward the house with a bustling inquiry for her boy, while Lolotte drove off with a great clatter.
Lolotte knew that, despite her warning, the chicken would be cooked and eaten. She might even taste it herself when she returned, if hunger drove her too hard.
“Next thing, I’ll be a thief,” she muttered, and the tears gathered and fell one by one on her cheeks.
“It does look like a Brahma, Aunt Mint,” remarked small, wiry Jacques, as he watched the woman pluck the plump fowl.
“How old are you?” was her quiet reply.
“I don’t know, me.”
“Then if you don’t know that much, you better keep your mouth shut, boy.”
Silence fell, broken only by the monotonous chant the woman hummed as she worked. Jacques spoke again.
“It does look like one of Ma’me Duplan’s Brahmas, Aunt Mint.”“Yonder, where I come from, before the war—”
“Old Kaintuck, Aunt Mint?”
“Old Kaintuck.”
“That ain’t a country like this here, Aunt Mint?”
“You’re mighty right, child. That ain’t such a country as this here. Yonder in Kaintuck, when boys say the words ‘Brahma chicken,’ we take and gag them, and tie their hands behind them, and force them to stand up watching folks sit down eating chicken soup.”
Jacques passed the back of his hand across his mouth; but afraid that wasn’t enough to keep his promise, he prudently slipped away to sit beside Nonomme and wait as patiently as he could for the coming feast.
And what a treat it was! The rich soup—a whole pot of it—golden yellow, thickened with the flaky rice that Lolotte had set carefully on the shelf. Each mouthful seemed to carry fresh blood into the veins and new brightness into the eyes of the hungry children who ate it.
But that wasn’t all. The day brought abundance. Their father came home with glistening perch and trout that Aunt Minty broiled deliciously over glowing coals and basted with the rich chicken fat.
“You see,” explained old Sylveste, “when I got up this morning and saw it was cloudy, I said to myself, ‘Sylveste, when you take that cotton, remember you’ve got no tarpaulin. Maybe it’ll rain and spoil the cotton. Better you go yonder to Lafirme Lake, where the trout are biting faster than mosquitoes, and so get a good meal for the children.’ Lolotte—what’s she going to do yonder? You ought to have stopped Lolotte, Aunt Minty, when you saw what she was set on doing.”
“Didn’t I try to stop her? Didn’t I ask her, ‘What am I going to tell your pa?’ And she said, ‘Tell him to go hang himself, the trifling old rascal! I’m the one who’s running this family!’”
“That doesn’t sound like Lolotte, Aunt Minty; you must have heard her wrong; eh, Nonomme?”
The quizzical look on his good-natured face was irresistible. Nonomme fairly shook with laughter.
“My head feels so good,” he said. “I wish Lolotte would come, so I could tell her.” And he turned in bed to look down the long, dusty lane, hoping to see her appear as he had watched her go, sitting on one of the cotton bales and guiding the mules.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-d738437cd6da4c999b1885943128aaaa
# book_title: A Rude Awakening
# chapter_id: 1-a-rude-awakening
# chapter_title: A Rude Awakening
# book_page: 4 / 8
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
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“Yonder, where I come from, before the war—”
“Old Kaintuck, Aunt Mint?”
“Old Kaintuck.”
“That ain’t a country like this here, Aunt Mint?”
“You’re mighty right, child. That ain’t such a country as this here. Yonder in Kaintuck, when boys say the words ‘Brahma chicken,’ we take and gag them, and tie their hands behind them, and force them to stand up watching folks sit down eating chicken soup.”
Jacques passed the back of his hand across his mouth; but afraid that wasn’t enough to keep his promise, he prudently slipped away to sit beside Nonomme and wait as patiently as he could for the coming feast.
And what a treat it was! The rich soup—a whole pot of it—golden yellow, thickened with the flaky rice that Lolotte had set carefully on the shelf. Each mouthful seemed to carry fresh blood into the veins and new brightness into the eyes of the hungry children who ate it.
But that wasn’t all. The day brought abundance. Their father came home with glistening perch and trout that Aunt Minty broiled deliciously over glowing coals and basted with the rich chicken fat.
“You see,” explained old Sylveste, “when I got up this morning and saw it was cloudy, I said to myself, ‘Sylveste, when you take that cotton, remember you’ve got no tarpaulin. Maybe it’ll rain and spoil the cotton. Better you go yonder to Lafirme Lake, where the trout are biting faster than mosquitoes, and so get a good meal for the children.’ Lolotte—what’s she going to do yonder? You ought to have stopped Lolotte, Aunt Minty, when you saw what she was set on doing.”
“Didn’t I try to stop her? Didn’t I ask her, ‘What am I going to tell your pa?’ And she said, ‘Tell him to go hang himself, the trifling old rascal! I’m the one who’s running this family!’”
“That doesn’t sound like Lolotte, Aunt Minty; you must have heard her wrong; eh, Nonomme?”
The quizzical look on his good-natured face was irresistible. Nonomme fairly shook with laughter.
“My head feels so good,” he said. “I wish Lolotte would come, so I could tell her.” And he turned in bed to look down the long, dusty lane, hoping to see 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 Black man rode into view through the dust. When he dismounted at the cabin door, he stood leaning a shoulder lazily against the doorframe.
“Well, here you are,” he grumbled, addressing Sylveste without a mark of respect.
“Here you are, sitting like company, and Marse Joe yonder sent me to see if you was dead.”
“Joe Duplan’s bound to have his joke, him,” said Sylveste, smiling uneasily.
“Maybe it looks like a joke to you, but it ain’t no joke to him, man, to have one of his wagons smashed to kindling and his best team tearing through the country. You don’t want to let him lay hands on you, joke or no joke.”
“Malédiction!” howled Sylveste, staggering to his feet. He stood for a moment undecided, then lurched past the man and ran wildly down the lane. He might have taken the horse, but instead went tottering on foot, a frightened look in his eyes, as if his soul was staring at some horrible inward picture.
The road to the landing was little used. As Sylveste hurried along, he could easily trace the marks of Lolotte’s wagon wheels. For some distance they ran straight. Then they made a track as if a madman had steered the wagon, over stumps and hillocks, tearing through bushes and scraping the bark off trees on either side.
At every bend, Sylveste expected to find Lolotte lying senseless on the ground, but there was never a sign of her.
At last he reached the landing, a dreary spot sloping down to the river, partly cleared to allow room for whatever freight might be left there from time to time.
There were the wagon tracks, running clean to the river’s edge and partly into the water, where they made a sharp, senseless turn. But Sylveste found no trace of his girl.
“Lolotte!” the old man cried out into the stillness. “Lolotte, my child, Lolotte!” But there was no answer, only the echo of his own voice and the soft splash of the red water lapping at his feet.
He stared down at it, sick with anguish and dread.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-d738437cd6da4c999b1885943128aaaa
# book_title: A Rude Awakening
# chapter_id: 1-a-rude-awakening
# chapter_title: A Rude Awakening
# book_page: 5 / 8
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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But no one came all through the hot morning. Only at noon a broad-shouldered young Black man rode into view through the dust. When he dismounted at the cabin door, he stood leaning a shoulder lazily against the doorframe.
“Well, here you are,” he grumbled, addressing Sylveste without a mark of respect.
“Here you are, sitting like company, and Marse Joe yonder sent me to see if you was dead.”
“Joe Duplan’s bound to have his joke, him,” said Sylveste, smiling uneasily.
“Maybe it looks like a joke to you, but it ain’t no joke to him, man, to have one of his wagons smashed to kindling and his best team tearing through the country. You don’t want to let him lay hands on you, joke or no joke.”
“Malédiction!” howled Sylveste, staggering to his feet. He stood for a moment undecided, then lurched past the man and ran wildly down the lane. He might have taken the horse, but instead went tottering on foot, a frightened look in his eyes, as if his soul was staring at some horrible inward picture.
The road to the landing was little used. As Sylveste hurried along, he could easily trace the marks of Lolotte’s wagon wheels. For some distance they ran straight. Then they made a track as if a madman had steered the wagon, over stumps and hillocks, tearing through bushes and scraping the bark off trees on either side.
At every bend, Sylveste expected to find Lolotte lying senseless on the ground, but there was never a sign of her.
At last he reached the landing, a dreary spot sloping down to the river, partly cleared to allow room for whatever freight might be left there from time to time.
There were the wagon tracks, running clean to the river’s edge and partly into the water, where they made a sharp, senseless turn. But Sylveste found no trace of his girl.
“Lolotte!” the old man cried out into the stillness. “Lolotte, my child, Lolotte!” But there was no answer, only the echo of his own voice and the soft splash of the red water lapping at his feet.
He stared down at it, sick with anguish and dread.Lolotte had vanished as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed her. After a few days, people came to believe she had drowned. They thought she must have been thrown from the wagon into the water during that sharp turn, as the wheel tracks suggested, and carried off by the rapid current.
During the days of searching, old Sylveste’s excitement kept him going. When it was over, a dull despair settled over him.
Madame Duplan, moved by sympathy, took little four-year-old Nonomme to the plantation Les Chêniers, where the child was awed by the beauty and comfort around him. He kept thinking Lolotte would come back and watched for her every day, for they didn’t tell him the sad news of her loss.
The other two boys were left in Aunt Minty’s temporary care, and old Sylveste roamed the countryside like a haunted man. He who had once been the picture of idle contentment had become a restless spirit.
When he thought to eat, he stopped at some humble Black family’s cabin to ask for food, which was never refused. His grief had given him a dignity that commanded respect.
One morning very early, he came to the planter’s house, looking disheveled and hunted.
“M’sieur Duplan,” he said, holding his hat in his hand and staring into the distance, “I’ve tried everything. I’ve tried sitting still on the store gallery. I’ve walked, I’ve run; it’s no use. There’s always something pushing me. I go fishing, and it pushes me even harder. By gracious! M’sieur Duplan, give me work!”
The planter handed him a plow at once, and no plow on the whole plantation dug so deep, nor so fast, as Sylveste’s. He was first in the field and last out, working from dawn to nightfall and beyond, until his limbs refused to obey.
People began to marvel, and the Black workers whispered about demonic possession.
When Mr. Duplan gave careful thought to Lolotte’s strange disappearance, an idea came to him. But he was so afraid of raising false hopes in those mourning the girl that he shared his suspicions only with his wife. It was on the eve of a business trip to New Orleans that he told her what he thought—or rather, what he hoped.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-d738437cd6da4c999b1885943128aaaa
# book_title: A Rude Awakening
# chapter_id: 1-a-rude-awakening
# chapter_title: A Rude Awakening
# book_page: 6 / 8
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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Lolotte had vanished as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed her. After a few days, people came to believe she had drowned. They thought she must have been thrown from the wagon into the water during that sharp turn, as the wheel tracks suggested, and carried off by the rapid current.
During the days of searching, old Sylveste’s excitement kept him going. When it was over, a dull despair settled over him.
Madame Duplan, moved by sympathy, took little four-year-old Nonomme to the plantation Les Chêniers, where the child was awed by the beauty and comfort around him. He kept thinking Lolotte would come back and watched for her every day, for they didn’t tell him the sad news of her loss.
The other two boys were left in Aunt Minty’s temporary care, and old Sylveste roamed the countryside like a haunted man. He who had once been the picture of idle contentment had become a restless spirit.
When he thought to eat, he stopped at some humble Black family’s cabin to ask for food, which was never refused. His grief had given him a dignity that commanded respect.
One morning very early, he came to the planter’s house, looking disheveled and hunted.
“M’sieur Duplan,” he said, holding his hat in his hand and staring into the distance, “I’ve tried everything. I’ve tried sitting still on the store gallery. I’ve walked, I’ve run; it’s no use. There’s always something pushing me. I go fishing, and it pushes me even harder. By gracious! M’sieur Duplan, give me work!”
The planter handed him a plow at once, and no plow on the whole plantation dug so deep, nor so fast, as Sylveste’s. He was first in the field and last out, working from dawn to nightfall and beyond, until his limbs refused to obey.
People began to marvel, and the Black workers whispered about demonic possession.
When Mr. Duplan gave careful thought to Lolotte’s strange disappearance, an idea came to him. But he was so afraid of raising false hopes in those mourning the girl that he shared his suspicions only with his wife. It was on the eve of a business trip to New Orleans that he told her what he thought—or rather, what he hoped.Upon his return, only a few days later, he went to where old Sylveste was toiling in the field with frantic energy.
“Sylveste,” said the planter quietly, after watching him a moment, “have you given up all hope of hearing from your daughter?”
“I don’t know, me. I don’t know. Let me work, M’sieur Duplan.”
“For my part, I believe the child is alive.”
“You believe that, you?” His rugged face was pitiful in its desperate pleading.
“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.”
Into the big, cool, beautiful room the planter led the old man. It was filled with the delicate scent of flowers and shaded by half-closed shutters. Yet there was enough light for Sylveste to see Lolotte at once, seated in a large wicker chair.
She was almost as white as the dress she wore. Her neatly shod feet rested on a cushion, and her black hair, which had been cut short, was beginning to curl in little rings around her temples.
“Aie!” he cried sharply at the sight of her, clutching his wrinkled throat. Then he laughed like a madman, and then he sobbed.
He knelt on the floor beside her, kissing her knees and her hands, which reached for his. Little Nonomme was close by, with a healthy flush spreading on his cheeks. Veveste and Jacques stood there, awed by the mystery and grandeur of it all.
“Whereabouts did you find her, M’sieur Duplan?” Sylveste asked, when the first rush of joy had passed and he was wiping his eyes with his rough cotton sleeve.
“M’sieur Duplan found me way yonder in the city, papa, in the hospital,” said Lolotte, before the planter could find his voice. “I didn’t know who anybody was, me. I didn’t even know myself until one day I turned around and saw M’sieur Duplan standing there.”
“You were sure to know M’sieur Duplan, Lolotte,” laughed Sylveste, like a child.
“Yes, and I remember right away how those mules got frightened when the boat whistled to stop, and threw me flat on the ground. And I remember that there was a mulatto woman who called herself a chambermaid, always by my side.”
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-d738437cd6da4c999b1885943128aaaa
# book_title: A Rude Awakening
# chapter_id: 1-a-rude-awakening
# chapter_title: A Rude Awakening
# book_page: 7 / 8
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Upon his return, only a few days later, he went to where old Sylveste was toiling in the field with frantic energy.
“Sylveste,” said the planter quietly, after watching him a moment, “have you given up all hope of hearing from your daughter?”
“I don’t know, me. I don’t know. Let me work, M’sieur Duplan.”
“For my part, I believe the child is alive.”
“You believe that, you?” His rugged face was pitiful in its desperate pleading.
“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.”
Into the big, cool, beautiful room the planter led the old man. It was filled with the delicate scent of flowers and shaded by half-closed shutters. Yet there was enough light for Sylveste to see Lolotte at once, seated in a large wicker chair.
She was almost as white as the dress she wore. Her neatly shod feet rested on a cushion, and her black hair, which had been cut short, was beginning to curl in little rings around her temples.
“Aie!” he cried sharply at the sight of her, clutching his wrinkled throat. Then he laughed like a madman, and then he sobbed.
He knelt on the floor beside her, kissing her knees and her hands, which reached for his. Little Nonomme was close by, with a healthy flush spreading on his cheeks. Veveste and Jacques stood there, awed by the mystery and grandeur of it all.
“Whereabouts did you find her, M’sieur Duplan?” Sylveste asked, when the first rush of joy had passed and he was wiping his eyes with his rough cotton sleeve.
“M’sieur Duplan found me way yonder in the city, papa, in the hospital,” said Lolotte, before the planter could find his voice. “I didn’t know who anybody was, me. I didn’t even know myself until one day I turned around and saw M’sieur Duplan standing there.”
“You were sure to know M’sieur Duplan, Lolotte,” laughed Sylveste, like a child.
“Yes, and I remember right away how those mules got frightened when the boat whistled to stop, and threw me flat on the ground. And I remember that there was a mulatto woman who called herself a chambermaid, always by my side.”“You must not talk too much, Lolotte,” interrupted Madame Duplan, coming to place her hand gently on the girl’s forehead to feel her pulse.
Then, to spare the child further effort, she herself told how the boat had stopped at that lonely landing to take on a load of cottonseed. Lolotte had been found lying unconscious by the river, apparently fallen from the sky, and had been taken aboard.
The boat had later changed course to other waters and never returned to Duplan’s Landing. Those who had cared for Lolotte and left her at the hospital had no doubt assumed she would eventually reveal her identity, and so had not troubled themselves further.
“And there you are!” almost shouted Aunt Minty, her black face beaming in the doorway. “There you are, sitting there looking just like white folks!”
“Ain’t I always been white folks, Aunt Mint?” smiled Lolotte, weakly.
“Go on, child. You know me. I mean no harm.”
“And now, Sylveste,” said Mr. Duplan, as he rose and paced the floor with his hands in his pockets, “listen to me. It will be a long time before Lolotte is strong again. Aunt Minty will look after things until she is fully recovered. But what I want to say is this: I will trust these children into your hands once more, and I want you never again to forget that you are their father—do you hear?—that you are a man!”
Old Sylveste stood holding Lolotte’s hand, rubbing it lovingly against his cheek.
“By gracious! M’sieur Duplan,” he answered, “when God wants to help me, I’ll try my best!”
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-d738437cd6da4c999b1885943128aaaa
# book_title: A Rude Awakening
# chapter_id: 1-a-rude-awakening
# chapter_title: A Rude Awakening
# book_page: 8 / 8
# chapter_page: 8
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
“You must not talk too much, Lolotte,” interrupted Madame Duplan, coming to place her hand gently on the girl’s forehead to feel her pulse.
Then, to spare the child further effort, she herself told how the boat had stopped at that lonely landing to take on a load of cottonseed. Lolotte had been found lying unconscious by the river, apparently fallen from the sky, and had been taken aboard.
The boat had later changed course to other waters and never returned to Duplan’s Landing. Those who had cared for Lolotte and left her at the hospital had no doubt assumed she would eventually reveal her identity, and so had not troubled themselves further.
“And there you are!” almost shouted Aunt Minty, her black face beaming in the doorway. “There you are, sitting there looking just like white folks!”
“Ain’t I always been white folks, Aunt Mint?” smiled Lolotte, weakly.
“Go on, child. You know me. I mean no harm.”
“And now, Sylveste,” said Mr. Duplan, as he rose and paced the floor with his hands in his pockets, “listen to me. It will be a long time before Lolotte is strong again. Aunt Minty will look after things until she is fully recovered. But what I want to say is this: I will trust these children into your hands once more, and I want you never again to forget that you are their father—do you hear?—that you are a man!”
Old Sylveste stood holding Lolotte’s hand, rubbing it lovingly against his cheek.
“By gracious! M’sieur Duplan,” he answered, “when God wants to help me, I’ll try my best!”
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