Arizona republican. [volume], February 23, 1911, Page 9, Image 9

About Arizona republican. [volume] (Phoenix, Ariz.) 1890-1930

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THE ARIZONA REPUBLICAN, THURSDAY MORNING-, FEBRUARY 23, 1911.
ANGE,LE'S ANDREAS
By LOUISE. C. BOWLES
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OWN there in the French Quarter they had
I grown up; in one of the fine old houses
I B that looked sternly upon the street and
JL smiled only within the privacy of the
walled garden where a fountain cooled
the heated air and tall palms guarded the
stately entrance (huge iron doors, which rarely
swuns open to let out the troop of merry, laughing
children).
Their mother, incapable of realizing the necessity
of action, had drifted on with the tide, when she
found herself, pt the close of the war, a widow with
three little girls, a small income, a great house, and
a horde of domestics, as incapable of taking -care
of themselves as was she. She made no change
in her way of living; she did not know how. The
armoires were replenished as regularly as the sea
sons changed, and the little Jarreaus presented at
school as dainty an appearance as though Monsieur
Jarreau still rode, -watchfully, through the fields of
cane and no ruinous mortgages menaced. the splen
did estates that had descended in his family from
generation to generation. It had almost broken
Madame's heart that, as her girls grew older, she
was forced to send them to public schools, where
they not only mingled with Americans, but were
taught by them. "Mon Dicu! What will they be?"
she cried. "The Amerieaincs arc so crude they
have no manners!" t
Alas! The time came when Madame was forced
to live in the midst of f Amerieaincs. The old
house passed out of her possession, and the terrible
question of self-support presented itself.
"What shall we do, my children? I have so little,
that it is nothing' It was Jeanne, the eldest daugh
ter, who answered this acal.
"We will move up-town; wc will take a house
there; we will have boarders; I will teach music.
Clemence will give French lessons. Angele shall
help you keep the house."
"Impossible!" said Madame Jarreau. "Never yet
has one of my house disgraced herself thus. No, it
shall not be. We shall starve first." She threw out
her hands with a fierce gesture, her delicate features
were suffused with indignant color. But the cool,
common sense ox Jeanne prevailed, and before very
long the little family were established, in a large
house in the garden district, so high above Canal
Street that not a sound of that other life of the old
, town penetrated to sadden them with vain sugges
tions in their brave efforts to attain independence.
Madame Jarreau did not concern herself much about
the house"; she thoacht it was encygn that she, the
widow of Omcrc Jarreau, should open her doors;
besides, there was old Liscttc in the kitchen, and
who could ask more than to drink her coffee, and
to cat the dclicicus c'-bos, for which she was so
justly celebrated?
If Madame took any interest in the welfare of the
"nouse, it was shown m her' firm, bat courteous, in
sistence upon credentials. She knew too well what
was due to her, to allow the nr.v or the vulgar rich
i to penetrate the atrnosplicr: ci aristocratic refine
ment which her eld nzzzz and her old silver alike
helped to create.
They were very brave and very cheerful, those
Creole women. All dry the two older girls went
from house to house, giving their lessons; and all
day the little Angele tripped up and down the long
stairs, encouraging and scolding the old servants,
who had known her as a little child; and all day
Madame, who used to sit in a high, cool chamber,
with vines clambering over the windows, sat in a
little gallery-room such as her servants had, and
mended her children's clothes, and sighed over a
'past that would never come back again.
In the evenings they all made toilettes for dinner,
and they were so gay, so bright, so full of mirth and
laughter, that one could not imagine that they could
be tired- Often they went to the opera, and if the
soles of their little shoes were not above reproach,
the dimpled shoulders that rose from their simple
muslin dresses were, and the sparkling, animated
faces, radiant with courage and with health, drew
many an eye to their box, and made youth and age
alike pause beside them.
. Oftentimes on 'Sunday they had soirees. There
was music and conversation, and sometimes dancing;
little cakes and ices were handed about. Some of the
boarders did not approve of this; they thought it
would be better if the lunches were less meagre and
the soirees fewer. But they were frugal Americans
of New England stock. Perhaps they could not
- know that these crcole girls, with their Celtic tem
peraments, their love of excitement, would have
'drooped and withered under the monotonous exis
tence which the boarders would have prescribed as
befitting their poverty. What did they know of get
ting ahead? What did they care? They had a home,
they had the necessities of life, and God had planted
in their hearts the necessity of song, and so they
sang. And one sang with them. He was a creole
too. ,
.He was a crcole too that is, he was a Cuban,
and he had come into their midst with a certain
lif.le "air of mystery and reserve, which had melted
away und;r the genial influence of their home. He
was handsome, in a swarthy .way, and there was
something that 'was melancholy in his soft dark
eyes. Unlike most Cubans, he was tall and athletic
,' in his build. After the first barriers were passed, he
took his place as prime favorite in the household,
d it was perhaps not unnatural that the girls
auld spoil him. .He was so big and yet so gentle.
Whence came in to dinner Jeanne would exclaim.
-, tycs alight with mischief: "I.c-toi! I.e roi!"
Clemence would make room for him to sit beside
her; but the little Angele said nothing; would only
give him one swift glance from under her long,
black lashes; and it was perhaps for this reason
that his eyes were oftencst fastened upon her demure
face.
It came about very quietly. One day Angele said
to her mother, "Mamma, I have promised to marry
Andreas de Ccrillo."
"You have promised to marry Andreas de
Cerillo!" cried Madame, horror-stricken. "Mon
Dicu! What are we coming to? It is I, your
mother, who should have made a marriage for you,
and you, a baby, tell mc that .you have promised to
marry! It is impossible, I say!"
Angele laughed and repeated obstinately: "I have
promised to marry Andreas. I am an American
now. I will marry like an American girl, the man
I love, not a man'picked out for me."
"My father said to me," Madame Jarreau began,
feebly, "'Monsieur Jarreau has done us the honor to
ask for your hand. I have promised it.' And I
said, 'I thank you, my father, and I was a glad and
happy wife."
dark eyes. She sang more gayly in the mornings
when she gave out the linen, and soon she was seen
sitting in corners, shyly rolling and whipping the
dainty ruffles that are so large a part of a creole
trousseau. The whole family rolled -and whipped
ruffles, and did dainty hemstitching; and there was
many a gay laugh and jest. Andreas himself was
not backward in adding his share to thc.kindly teas
ings that brought the rich color to the young girl's
J soft cheeks.
The world seemed full of-love. The baliCy breath
of the tea-olive filled the air. Never before had the
magnolias opened their smooth loveliness more lav
ishly to the moon. Never Before had the roses flung
their sweetness more prodigally upon the summer
night. Every whispering breeze was laden with love,
and Andreas and Angele walked in that enchanted
garden of young hope where every pathway led to
the altar of a united life. The days sped, and they
were counting the moments, when a change came
over the life of the old town; an excitement, at first
suppressed, grew into a terror that pictured itself
uoon the faces of the timid, that forced the fool
hardy into bravado, and the brave into helpful ac-
Mnrfrimf Tarrenu. who had lone since Riven over her
old opposition to njm, cat beside him and nursed
him tenderly. Angele crept in from time to time
and would stand motionless beside him, but he sel
dom knew her. His consciousness came and went
at intervals.
For the most part, the room was very still and
dark, and the high bed with its canopied top seemed
like a catafalque, and Madame sitting there, the
Mother of Sorrows One morning Angele opened
the doof of the sick-room and ushered in a closely
veiled woman. When she threw back her veil it
was seen that she was almost white, and that her
features bore a striking resemblance to those out
lined upon the pillow, a resemblance that made
Madame stare haughtily, and awakened an uneasy
interest in Angele's breast. The woman did not
wait to be interrogated, but advanced swiftly and
softly.
"Is he asleep?" she said.
"No,". Madame answered; "he is in a stupor."
The woman sank down upon her kees at the bed
side and lifted one of the thin hands, kissing it
passionately. Andreas opened his eyes and gazed
1
HIS EYES WERE OFTEN SET FASTENED OX HER DEMURE FACE
"It is all changed," said Angele.
"I will never consent," said Madame. -
But she did consent in the end. The way had
been pointed out too long for her o be able to
tread a path for her own making. But she could
not resist the temptation of confiding to one of the
boarders,' in her charming broken English, the state .
of mind in which she found herself:
"Me! I was astonish when Angele say to me,
'Mamma, I go to marry Andreas dc Ccrillo.' Those
girls make me astonish, tout le temps; they are not
like the young girls that I know. They wish to be
like the Americaines; they wish to marry like the
Amerieaincs; and, mon Dieu, they have come to
treat vie like the Americaine mothers. It is not one
outrage? Me, myself That Monsieur Ccrillo he is
rcech, and he is loving Angele a great deal but
I do nbt know mc it is all so strange and so out
o'f nature " But the little Angele "did hot think
sn. Slic wr.t about now with' a new 'light in her
: ..
tion. At first there was only a whisper that "the
fever," that dread scourge, of the, semi-tropical
town, had, against all precautions, forced itself into
New Orleans. The women and children, wherever
it was possible, were sent away, and soon ugon the
houses of the rich and poor alike were seen the
placards that warned the passers-by of the tainted
atmosphere. Brave men and women were, organ
ized into relief bands, to nurse the sick and bury
the dead, and many fell by the waysidet and one of,
these was Andreas.
No longer the night lured the lovers Into -the
garden, no more the moth and the firefly fluttered
around them. The lesson of love is pain, and Angele
was learning hers in the hours o anguish which she
spent alone while Andreas gave Ins every energy
and thought to the saving of life in the stricken
city.
One day they brought hinrhome andMaidhim on
his bqd. He knew no qne-and:babblcdinccs5antly.
UfJUU ilGi Willi 14U tiJ7aiViib it.V5HIUWIt.
"My son," she said, softly, "do you not .know
me? My son, speak to me." This time her voice
seemed to penetrate the dulled brain; one of the
recurrent intervals of consciousness had come, but
the effort to remember seemed painful to him; there
was almost a look of agony in his eyes.
"My son," she whispered again, "do you not know
me?"
"Yes," he said, faintly.'
Madame t Jarreau listened eagerly. Angele no
longer fluttered in the doorway. She leaned against
it for support.
"Mammy! My mammy," said the sick man.
Madame Jarreau breathed freely. Angele closed
the door softly and went away, a strange lightness
at her heart.
The octoroon. rose to her feet. She was very tall
and her.'black gown fell ingraceful lines about her
figure. Her hands trembled a little as she removed
her bonnet and veil.
"You will let me watch beside him." she said,
pleadingly.
Madame consented. It had been many nights
since she had slept unbrokenly. and in those trou- '
blous times it was no uncommon thing to accept
service even from strangers, and Andreas had tailed
her "Mammy.'.' There was so little to be done m
the sick-chamber, only to watch the patient and cool
the parched lips. Madame established the woman
in her own chair, repeated the doctor's instructions,
and left the room on tip-toe.
When she came back, some hours later, there
was a change for the worse in Andreas. He was
raving deliriously, and whenever his nurse would
approach him he become more violent.
"She is black, I tell you. Take her away. Bleed
it out! Bleed it out!" he would cry. "Save me from
that woman!" Then he would change. "Where is
mammy? I want her mammy, mammy!" he cried,
like a petulant child.
A tortured soul looked out from the octoroon's
eyes.
"I must go away," she said, desperately.. JX do
him harm, not good and I would give my life for
him."
She caught up her bonnet and left the house.
For a week the chances of life and death hung
evenly balanced, and every day at a certain hour a
veiled woman came to ask news of the sick man.
One day she found crepe upon the door. She did
not ring the bell, but passed into the house unchal
lenged, and into the chamber of death.
Angele was there alone, kneeling at the bedside.
Everything: had been done; the figure lay calm and
straight, the hands were folded on the breast, and
upon the beautiful features of the Cuban was
stamped the seal of divine love and strength.
The woman stood silently beside the sobbing
girl. She neither spoke nor wept.
Angele looked up. "Why are you here?" she
cried, fiercely. "It is you who have killed him. Ha
was doing very well until you came. What right
have you "
"I am his mother," answered the woman.
"Oh, no, no!" Angele said, shudderingly.
"He denied me," the woman went on, in a mono-,
tonous voice; "he called me his nurse, and I had
borne him. 'Mammy,' he called me, because my
skin is yellow, and he knew that your pride would '
make you spurn him if he told you of that on
festering drop of black blood in his veins. I let it "
pass when I thought that he would live, but now, II
have come to claim my dead! What does it mat
ter? Black and white are the same to God."
Angele shrank from her in speechless horror, tht
warm blood rushed hotly through her veins. Th
shame of it was more than she could bear. The
love within her seemed turned to hate. She gartd
upon the dead man's face with loathing. He hai
deceived her, he had dared to dream of linking; to
her pure blood, the blood of a degraded people. It
was a crime. Her tears had ceased to flow; her
heart seemed turned to fire; she walked haughtily away
The woman caught her hand. "Ah no, do not
leave me!" she cried. "Listen and I will tell you
how it happened.
"I was a free woman, one of those unfortunate
women, too good for a negro's wLe, and not good
enough for a white man's. But one white man saw
me, and loved me enough to make me his wife.
Not here, oh no; he took me to England and mar
ried me there. When my son was born we were- in
Cuba, where no one asked why my skin was dark.
"When my husband died, Andreas, who was al
ways hot-headed, got himself mixed up in'.Qtie of
the political plots that are always going on in Cuba,
and he was forced to come away he was proscribed,
and he came here to live. I followed him, to find
myself once more despised, to realize that--JFn"e was
to be respected, to make his way in the world,", I
must keep my distance that I must give hfm up.
And so I have kept apart from him, and now-he
is dead."
For the first time the woman showed' emotfon.
She wrung her hands in anguish.
The nobler qualities of Angele's' nature awoke.
She threw her arms around the woman's neck, and
they wept together.
"We both loved him you more than I," Angela
said softly. She took the mother's hand and stood
with her for a long time, gazing silently upon the
face of the dead.
"Andreas," she called. The name lingered on- the
silence, but the peace of the dead face was unbroken.
She drew the sheet up.
"It is better that he cannot answer," she said.
Nobody knew but .Angele that the tall yellow
woman, who stood in the background as the coffin
was slipped into the vault where the bones of the
dead Jarreaus had reposed for generations, was the
mother of Andreas de Cerillo. Sometimes the girl
goes to see her in the convent, where the sad and
sorrowful of a despised race find refuge; and some
times they meet in the old St. Louis Cemetery,
each with her hands full of flowers; and sometime.
God willing the heart of the little Angele will
bloom again, its season of blight over,- and its
flowering shall be all the sweeter because of the
deeper nature that God gave her in place of the
child's heart which had been buried in the grave of
her young lover; but the heart of that other woman,
the mother, who had been born in the shadow,
would have no belated blossoming.
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