CHAPTER IX

“CHERCHEZ la femme”

Sunday came with the soft haziness of a June morning, and the dew sucked a fresh fragrance from the blossoms and the grass.  I looked out of our window at the orchard, all pink and white in the early sun, and across a patch of clover to the stone kitchen.  A pearly, feathery smoke was wafted from the chimney, a delicious aroma of Creole coffee pervaded the odor of the blossoms, and a cotton-clad negro a pieds nus came down the path with two steaming cups and knocked at our door.  He who has tasted Creole coffee will never forget it.  The effect of it was lost upon Nick, for he laid down the cup, sighed, and promptly went to sleep again, while I dressed and went forth to make his excuses to the family.  I found Monsieur and Madame with their children walking among the flowers.  Madame laughed.

“He is charming, your cousin,” said she.  “Let him sleep, by all means, until after Mass.  Then you must come with us to Madame Chouteau’s, my mother’s.  Her children and grandchildren dine with her every Sunday.”

“Madame Chouteau, my mother-in-law, is the queen regent of St. Louis, Mr. Ritchie,” said Monsieur Gratiot, gayly.  “We are all afraid of her, and I warn you that she is a very determined and formidable personage.  She is the widow of the founder of St. Louis, the Sieur Laclede, although she prefers her own name.  She rules us with a strong hand, dispenses justice, settles disputes, and—­sometimes indulges in them herself.  It is her right.”

“You will see a very pretty French custom of submission to parents,” said Madame Gratiot.  “And afterwards there is a ball.”

“A ball!” I exclaimed involuntarily.

“It may seem very strange to you, Mr. Ritchie, but we believe that Sunday was made to enjoy.  They will have time to attend the ball before you send them down the river?” she added mischievously, turning to her husband.

“Certainly,” said he, “the loading will not be finished before eight o’clock.”

Presently Madame Gratiot went off to Mass, while I walked with Monsieur Gratiot to a storehouse near the river’s bank, whence the skins, neatly packed and numbered, were being carried to the boats on the sweating shoulders of the negroes, the half-breeds, and the Canadian boatmen,—­bulky bales of yellow elk, from the upper plains of the Missouri, of buffalo and deer and bear, and priceless little packages of the otter and the beaver trapped in the green shade of the endless Northern forests, and brought hither in pirogues down the swift river by the red tribesmen and Canadian adventurers.

Afterwards I strolled about the silent village.  Even the cabarets were deserted.  A private of the Spanish Louisiana Regiment in a dirty uniform slouched behind the palings in front of the commandant’s quarters,—­a quaint stone house set against the hill, with dormer windows in its curving roof, with a wide porch held by eight sturdy hewn pillars; here and there the muffled figure of a prowling Indian loitered, or a barefooted negress shuffled along by the fence crooning a folk-song.  All the world had obeyed the call of the church bell save these—­and Nick.  I bethought myself of Nick, and made my way back to Monsieur Gratiot’s.