The Awakening and Selected Short Stories - Page 129/161

Some of the more daring gathered about her, and followed at her heels,

only to fall back with new terror when she turned her distorted face

upon them. Her eyes were bloodshot and the saliva had gathered in a

white foam on her black lips.

Someone had run ahead of her to where P'tit Maitre sat with his family

and guests upon the gallery.

"P'tit Maitre! La Folle done cross de bayou! Look her! Look her yonda

totin' Cheri!" This startling intimation was the first which they had of

the woman's approach.

She was now near at hand. She walked with long strides. Her eyes were

fixed desperately before her, and she breathed heavily, as a tired ox.

At the foot of the stairway, which she could not have mounted, she laid

the boy in his father's arms. Then the world that had looked red to

La Folle suddenly turned black,--like that day she had seen powder and

blood.

She reeled for an instant. Before a sustaining arm could reach her, she

fell heavily to the ground.

When La Folle regained consciousness, she was at home again, in her own

cabin and upon her own bed. The moon rays, streaming in through the open

door and windows, gave what light was needed to the old black mammy who

stood at the table concocting a tisane of fragrant herbs. It was very

late.

Others who had come, and found that the stupor clung to her, had gone

again. P'tit Maitre had been there, and with him Doctor Bonfils, who

said that La Folle might die.

But death had passed her by. The voice was very clear and steady with

which she spoke to Tante Lizette, brewing her tisane there in a corner.

"Ef you will give me one good drink tisane, Tante Lizette, I b'lieve I'm

goin' sleep, me."

And she did sleep; so soundly, so healthfully, that old Lizette without

compunction stole softly away, to creep back through the moonlit fields

to her own cabin in the new quarters.

The first touch of the cool gray morning awoke La Folle. She arose,

calmly, as if no tempest had shaken and threatened her existence but

yesterday.

She donned her new blue cottonade and white apron, for she remembered

that this was Sunday. When she had made for herself a cup of strong

black coffee, and drunk it with relish, she quitted the cabin and walked

across the old familiar field to the bayou's edge again.

She did not stop there as she had always done before, but crossed with a

long, steady stride as if she had done this all her life.