1889
                    THE MAID OF SAINT PHILIPPE

                          by Kate Chopin









şiElectronically Enhanced Text (c) Copyright 1996, World Library(R)
DAK Upgraded Edition, Copyright 2000, DAK Industries 2000, Inc(R)şI

{MAID_OF_ST_PHILIPPE
                    The Maid of Saint Philippe


  Marianne was tall, supple, and strong. Dressed in her worn
buckskin trappings she looked like a handsome boy rather than like the
French girl of seventeen that she was. As she stepped from the woods
the glimmer of the setting sun dazzled her. An instant she raised
her hand- palm outward- to shield her eyes from the glare, then she
continued to descend the gentle slope and make her way toward the
little village of Saint Philippe that lay before her, close by the
waters of the Mississippi.
  Marianne carried a gun across her shoulder as easily as a soldier
might. Her stride was as untrammelled as that of the stag who treads
his native hillside unmolested. There was something stag-like, too, in
the poise of her small head as she turned it from side to side, to
snuff the subtle perfume of the Indian summer. But against the red
western sky curling columns of thin blue smoke began to ascend from
chimneys in the village. This meant that housewives were already
busy preparing the evening meal; and the girl quickened her steps,
singing softly as she strode along over the tufted meadow where
sleek cattle were grazing in numbers.
  Less than a score of houses formed the village of Saint Philippe,
and they differed in no wise from one another except in the matter
of an additional room when the prosperity of the owner admitted of
such. All were of upright logs, standing firmly in the ground, or
rising from a low foundation of stone, with two or more rooms
clustering round a central stone chimney. Before each was an
inviting porch, topped by the projection of the shingled roof.
  Gathered upon such a porch, when Marianne walked into the village,
were groups of men talking eagerly and excitedly together with much
gesture and intensity of utterance.
  The place was Sans-Chagrin's tavern; and Marianne stopped beside the
fence, seeing that her father, Picote Laronce, was among the number
who crowded the gallery. But it was not he, it was young Jacques
Labrie who when he saw her there came down to where she stood.
  "Well, what luck, Marianne?" he asked, noting her equipment.
  "Oh, not much," she replied, slapping the gamebag that hung rather
slack at her side. "Those idle soldiers down at the fort have no
better employment than to frighten the game away out of reach. But
what does this talk and confusion mean? I thought all the trouble with
monsieur le cure was settled. My father stands quiet there in a
corner; he seems to be taking no part. What is it all about?"
  "The old grievance of a year ago, Marianne. We were content to
grumble only so long as the English did not come to claim what is
theirs. But we hear today they will soon be at Fort Chartres to take
possession."
  "Never!" she exclaimed. "Have not the Natchez driven them back
each time they attempted to ascend the river? And do you think that
watchful tribe will permit them now to cross the line?"
  "They have not attempted the river this time. They have crossed
the great mountains and are coming from the east."
  "Ah," muttered the girl with pale exasperation, "that is a monarch
to be proud of! Your Louis who sits in his palace at Versailles and
gives away his provinces and his people as if they were baubles! Well,
what next?"
  "Come, Marianne," said the young man as he joined her outside.
"Let me walk to your home with you, I will tell you as we go along.
Sans-Chagrin, you know, returned this morning from the West
Illinois, and he tells astonishing things of the new trading post over
there- Laclede's village."
  "The one they call Saint Louis?" she asked halfheartedly, "where old
Toussaint of Kaskaskia has taken his family to live?"
  "Old Toussaint is far seeing, Marianne, for Sans-Chagrin says the
town across the water is growing as if by enchantment. Already it is
double the size of Saint Philippe and Kaskaskia put together. When the
English reach Fort Chartres, St. Ange de Bellerive will relinquish the
fort to them, and with his men will cross to Laclede's village- all
but Captain Vaudry, who has leave to return to France."
  "Capt. Alexis Vaudry will return to France!" she echoed in tones
that rose and fell like a song of lamentation. "The English are coming
from the east! And all this news has come today while I hunted in
the forest."
  "Do you not see what is in the air, Marianne?" he asked, giving
her a sideward cautious glance.
  They were at her portal now, and as he followed her into the house
she half turned to say to him:
  "No, Jacques, I can see no way out of it." She sat down languidly at
the table, as though heavy fatigue had suddenly weighted her limbs.
  "We hate the English," Jacques began emphatically, leaning upon
the table as he stood beside her.
  "To be sure, we hate the English," she returned, as though the
fact were a self-evident one that needed no comment.
  "Well, it is only the eastern province of Louisiana that has been
granted to England. There is hardly a man in Saint Philippe who
would not rather die than live subject to that country. But there is
no reason to do either," he added smiling. "In a week from now,
Marianne, Saint Philippe will be deserted."
  "You mean that the people will abandon their homes, and go to the
new trading post?"
  "Yes, that is what I mean."
  "But I have heard- I am sure I have heard, long ago, that King Louis
made a gift of his Louisiana possessions to his cousin of Spain;
that they jointly granted the East Illinois to England. So that leaves
the West under the Spanish dominion, Jacques."
  "But Spain is not England," he explained, a little disconcerted. "No
Frenchman who respects himself will live subject to England," he added
fiercely. "All are of one mind- to quit Saint Philippe at once. All
save one, Marianne."
  "And that one?"
  "Your father."
  "My father! Ah, I might have known. What does he say?" she
questioned eagerly.
  "He says he is old, that he has dwelt here many years-"
  "That is true," the girl mused. "I was born here in Saint
Philippe; so were you, Jacques."
  "He says," continued the young man, "that he could not dispose of
his mill and that he would not leave it."
  "His mill- his mill! no!" exclaimed Marianne, rising abruptly, "it
is not that. Would you know why my father will never leave Saint
Philippe?" approaching as she said this a rear window whose shutters
were partly closed, and throwing them wide open. "Come here,
Jacques. That is the reason," pointing with her strong shapely arm
to where a wooden cross marked the presence of a grave out under the
wide-spreading branches of a maple.
  They both stood for a while silently gazing across the grassy
slope that reflected the last flickering gleams of the setting sun.
Then Jacques muttered as if in answer to some unspoken thought:
  "Yes, he loved her very dearly. Surely the better part of himself
went with her. And you, Marianne?" he questioned gently.
  "I, Jacques? Oh, it is only the old whose memories dwell in graves,"
she replied a little wearily. "My life belongs to my father. I have
but to follow his will, whatever that may be."
  Then Marianne left Jacques standing by the open window, and went
into the adjoining room to divest herself of her hunting raiment. When
she returned she was dressed in the garments that had been her
mother's once- a short camlet skirt of sober hue; a green laced bodice
whose scantiness was redeemed by a muslin kerchief laid in deep
folds across the bosom; and upon her head was the white cap of the
French workingwoman.
  Jacques had lighted the fire for her in the big stone chimney, and
gone silently away.
  It was indeed true. During that autumn of 1765, a handful of
English, under command of Captain Sterling of the Highlanders, crossed
the Alleghanies and were coming to take peaceful possession of their
hitherto inaccessible lands in the Illinois.
  To none did this seem a more hated intrusion than to the people of
Saint Philippe. After the excited meeting at Sans-Chagrin's tavern,
all went to work with feverish haste to abandon the village which
had been the only home that many of them had ever known. Men, women,
and children seemed suddenly possessed with demoniac strength to
demolish. Doors, windows, and flooring; everything that could serve in
building up the new was rifled from the old. For days there was
gathering together and hauling away in rough carts constructed for the
sole purpose. Cattle were called from the pasture lands and driven
in herds to the northward.
  When the last of these rebellious spirits was gone, Saint Philippe
stood like the skeleton of its former self; and Picote Laronce with
his daughter found themselves alone amid the desolate hearthstones.
  "It will be a dreary life, my child, for you," said the old man,
gathering Marianne in a close embrace.
  "It will not be dreary," she assured him, disengaging herself to
look into his eyes. "I shall have much work to do. We shall forget-
try to forget- that the English are at our door. And some time when we
are rich in peltries, we will go to visit our friends in that great
town that they talk so much about. Do not ever think that I am sad,
father, because we are alone."
  But the silence was very desolate. So was the sight of those
abandoned homes, where smiling faces no longer looked from windows,
and where the music of children's laughter was heard no more.
  Marianne worked and hunted and grew strong and stronger. The old man
was more and more like a child to her. When she was not with him, he
would sit for hours upon a rude seat under the maple tree, with a
placid look of content in his old, dim eyes.
  One day when Captain Vaudry rode up from Fort Chartres, fine as
could be in his gay uniform of a French officer, he found Picote and
Marianne sitting in the solitude hand in hand. He had heard how they
had remained alone in Saint Philippe, and he had come to know if it
was true, and to persuade them, if he could, to return with him to
France- to La Rochelle, where Picote had formerly lived. But he
urged in vain. Picote knew no home save that in which his wife had
dwelt with him, and no resting place on earth except where she lay.
And Marianne said always the same thing- that her father's will was
hers.
  But when she came in from her hunt one evening and found him
stretched in the eternal sleep out under the maple, at once she felt
that she was alone, with no will to obey in the world but her own.
Then her heart was as strong as oak and her nerves were like iron.
Lovingly she carried him into the house. And when she had wept because
he was dead, she lit two blessed candles and placed them at his head
and she watched with him all through the still night.
  At the break of day she barred the doors and windows, and mounting
her fleet Indian pony, away she galloped to the fort, five miles
below, to seek the aid she needed.
  Captain Vaudry, and others as well, made all haste to Saint Philippe
when they learned this sad thing that had befallen Marianne. Word was
sent to the good cure of Kaskaskia, and he came too, with prayer and
benediction. Jacques was in Kaskaskia when the tidings of Picote's
death reached there, and with all the speed at his command he hurried
to Marianne to help her in her need.
  So Marianne was not alone. Good and staunch friends were about
her. When Picote- had been laid to rest- under the maple- and the last
blessing had been spoken, the good cure turned to Marianne and said:
  "My daughter, you will return with me to Kaskaskia. Your father
had many friends in that village, and there is not a door but will
open to receive you. It would be unseemly, now he is gone, to live
alone in Saint Philippe."
  "I thank you, my father," she answered, "but I must pass this
night alone, and in thought. If I decide to go to my good friend in
Kaskaskia, I shall ride into town early, upon my pony."
  Jacques, too, spoke to her, with gentle persuasion: "You know,
Marianne, what I want to say, and what my heart is full of. It is
not I alone but my father and mother as well to whom you are dear, and
who long to have you with us- one of us. Over there in the new village
of Saint Louis a new life has begun for all of us. Let me beg that you
will not refuse to share it till you have at least tried."
  She held up her hand in token than she had heard enough and turned
resolutely from him. "Leave me, my friend," she said, "leave me alone.
Follow the cure, there where he goes. If I so determine, you shall
hear from me, if not, then think no longer of Marianne."
  So another silent night fell upon Saint Philippe, with Marianne
alone in her home. Not even the dead with her now. She did not know
that under the shelter of a neighboring porch Captain Vaudry lay
like a sentinel wrapped in his mantle.
  Near the outer road, but within the inclosure of Marianne's home,
was "the great tree of Saint Philippe" under which a rude table and
benches stood. Here Picote and his daughter had often taken their
humble meals, shared with any passer-by that chose to join them.
  Seated there in the early morning was Captain Vaudry when Marianne
stepped from her door, in her jerkin of buckskin and her gun across
her shoulder.
  "What are you doing here, Captain Vaudry?" she asked with startled
displeasure when she saw him there.
  "I have waited, Marianne. You cannot turn me from you as lightly
as you have the others." And then with warm entreaty in his voice he
talked to her of France:
  "Ah, Marianne, you do not know what life is, here in this wild
America. Let the cure of Kaskaskia say the words that will make you my
wife, and I will take you to a land, child, where men barter with
gold, and not with hides and peltries. Where you shall wear jewels and
silks and walk upon soft and velvet carpets. Where life can be a round
of pleasure. I do not say these things to tempt you; but to let you
know that existence holds joys you do not dream of- that may be
yours if you will."
  "Enough, Capt. Alexis Vaudry! I have sometimes thought I should like
to know what it is that men call luxury; and sometimes have felt
that I should like to live in sweet and gentle intercourse with men
and women. Yet these have been but fleeting wishes. I have passed
the night in meditation and my choice is made."
  "I love you, Marianne." He sat with hands clasped upon the table,
and his handsome enraptured eyes gazing up into her face, as she stood
before him. But she went on unheedingly:
  "I could not live here in Saint Philippe or there in Kaskaskia.
The English shall never be masters of Marianne. Over the river it is
no better. The Spaniards may any day they choose give a rude awakening
to those stolid beings who are living on in a half-slumber of
content."
  "I love you; oh, I love you, Marianne!"
  "Do you not know, Captain Vaudry," she said with savage
resistance, "I have breathed the free air of forest and stream, till
it is in my blood now. I was not born to be the mother of slaves."
  "Oh, how can you think of slaves and motherhood! Look into my
eyes, Marianne, and think of love."
  "I will not look into your eyes, Captain Vaudry," she murmured,
letting the quivering lids fall upon her own, "with your talk and your
looks of love- of love! You have looked it before, and you have spoken
it before till the strength would go from my limbs and leave me feeble
as a little child, till my heart would beat like that of one who has
been stricken. Go away, with your velvet and your jewels and your
love. Go away to your France and to your treacherous kings; they are
not for me."
  "What do you mean, Marianne?" demanded the young man, grown pale
with apprehension. "You deny allegiance to England and Spain; you
spurn France with contempt; what is left for you?"
  "Freedom is left for me!" exclaimed the girl, seizing her gun that
she lifted upon her shoulder. "Marianne goes to the Cherokees! You
cannot stay me; you need not try to. Hardships may await me, but let
it be death rather than bondage."
  While Vaudry sat dumb with pain and motionless with astonishment;
while Jacques was hoping for a message; while the good cure was
looking eagerly from his doorstep for signs of the girl's approach,
Marianne had turned her back upon all of them.
  With gun across her shoulder she walked up the gentle slope, her
brave, strong face turned to the rising sun.


                               THE END