At the remote period of his birth he had been named César François Xavier, but no one ever thought of calling him anything but Chicot, or Nég, or Maringouin. Down at the French market, where he worked among the fishmongers, they called him Chicot, when they were not
calling him names that are written less freely than they are spoken. But one felt privileged to call him almost anything, he was so black, lean, lame, and shriveled. He wore a head- kerchief, and whatever other rags the fishermen and their wives chose to bestow upon him. Throughout one whole winter he wore a woman’s discarded jacket with puffed sleeves.
Among some startling beliefs entertained by Chicot was one that “Michié St. Pierre et Michié St. Paul” had created him. Of “Michié bon Dieu” he held his own private opinion, and not a too flattering one at that. This fantastic notion
concerning the origin of his being he owed to the early
teaching of his young master, a lax believer, and a great
farceur in his day. Chicot had once been thrashed by a
robust young Irish priest for expressing his religious views, and at another time knifed by a Sicilian. So he had come to hold his peace upon that subject.
Upon another theme he talked freely and harped continuously. For years he had tried to convince his associates that his master had left a progeny, rich, cultured, powerful, and numerous beyond belief. This
prosperous race of beings inhabited the most imposing mansions in the city of New Orleans. Men of note and position, whose names were familiar to the public, he
swore were grandchildren, great-grandchildren, or, less
frequently, distant relatives of his master, long deceased.
Ladies who came to the market in carriages, or whose
elegance of attire attracted the attention and admiration of the fishwomen, were all des ’tites cousines to his former master, Jean Boisduré. He never looked for recognition
from any of these superior beings, but delighted to
discourse by the hour upon their dignity and pride of birth and wealth.
Chicot always carried an old gunny-sack, and into this went his earnings. He cleaned stalls at the market, scaled fish, and did many odd offices for the itinerant merchants, who usually paid in trade for his service. Occasionally he saw the color of silver and got his clutch upon a coin, but he accepted anything, and seldom made terms. He was
glad to get a handkerchief from the Hebrew, and grateful if the Choctaws would trade him a bottle of filé for it. The butcher flung him a soup bone, and the fishmonger a few crabs or a paper bag of shrimps. It was the big mulatresse, vendeuse de café, who cared for his inner man.
Once Chicot was accused by a shoe-vender of
attempting to steal a pair of ladies’ shoes. He declared he was only examining them. The clamor raised in the market was terrific. Young Dagoes assembled and squealed like rats; a couple of Gascon butchers bellowed like bulls.
Matteo’s wife shook her fist in the accuser’s face and called him incomprehensible names. The Choctaw women, where
they squatted, turned their slow eyes in the direction of the fray, taking no further notice; while a policeman jerked
Chicot around by the puffed sleeve and brandished a club. It was a narrow escape.
Nobody knew where Chicot lived. A man—even a nég créol—who lives among the reeds and willows of Bayou St.
John, in a deserted chicken-coop constructed chiefly of
tarred paper, is not going to boast of his habitation or to
invite attention to his domestic appointments. When, after market hours, he vanished in the direction of St. Philip street, limping, seemingly bent under the weight of his gunny-bag, it was like the disappearance from the stage of some petty actor whom the audience does not follow in
imagination beyond the wings, or think of till his return in another scene.
There was one to whom Chicot’s coming or going
meant more than this. In la maison grise they called her La Chouette, for no earthly reason unless that she perched
high under the roof of the old rookery and scolded in shrill sudden outbursts. Forty or fifty years before, when for a
little while she acted minor parts with a company of French players (an escapade that had brought her grandmother to
the grave), she was known as Mademoiselle de Montallaine. Seventy-five years before she had been christened Aglaé Boisduré.
No matter at what hour the old negro appeared at her threshold, Mamzelle Aglaé always kept him waiting till she finished her prayers. She opened the door for him and
silently motioned him to a seat, returning to prostrate
herself upon her knees before a crucifix, and a shell filled with holy water that stood on a small table; it represented in her imagination an altar. Chicot knew that she did it to aggravate him; he was convinced that she timed her devotions to begin when she heard his footsteps on the stairs. He would sit with sullen eyes contemplating her long, spare, poorly clad figure as she knelt and read from her book or finished her prayers. Bitter was the religious warfare that had raged for years between them, and
Mamzelle Aglaé had grown, on her side, as intolerant as Chicot. She had come to hold St. Peter and St. Paul in such
utter detestation that she had cut their pictures out of her prayer-book.
Then Mamzelle Aglaé pretended not to care what
Chicot had in his bag. He drew forth a small hunk of beef and laid it in her basket that stood on the bare floor. She
looked from the corner of her eye, and went on dusting the table. He brought out a handful of potatoes, some pieces of sliced fish, a few herbs, a yard of calico, and a small pat of butter wrapped in lettuce leaves. He was proud of the butter, and wanted her to notice it. He held it out and asked her for something to put it on. She handed him a saucer,
and looked indifferent and resigned, with lifted eyebrows. “Pas d’ sucre, Nég?”
Chicot shook his head and scratched it, and looked like a black picture of distress and mortification. No sugar! But tomorrow he would get a pinch here and a pinch there, and would bring as much as a cupful.
Mamzelle Aglaé then sat down, and talked to Chicot
uninterruptedly and confidentially. She complained bitterly, and it was all about a pain that lodged in her leg; that crept and acted like a live, stinging serpent, twining about her
waist and up her spine, and coiling round the shoulder- blade. And then les rheumatismes in her fingers! He could see for himself how they were knotted. She could not bend them; she could hold nothing in her hands, and had let a saucer fall that morning and broken it in pieces. And if she were to tell him that she had slept a wink through the night, she would be a liar, deserving of perdition. She had sat at the window la nuit blanche, hearing the hours strike and the market-wagons rumble. Chicot nodded, and kept
up a running fire of sympathetic comment and suggestive remedies for rheumatism and insomnia: herbs, or tisanes,
or grigris, or all three. As if he knew! There was Purgatory Mary, a perambulating soul whose office in life was to pray for the shades in purgatory,—she had brought Mamzelle
Aglaé a bottle of eau de Lourdes, but so little of it! She might have kept her water of Lourdes, for all the good it did,—a drop! Not so much as would cure a fly or a
mosquito! Mamzelle Aglaé was going to show Purgatory Mary the door when she came again, not only because of her avarice with the Lourdes water, but, beside that, she
brought in on her feet dirt that could only be removed with a shovel after she left.
And Mamzelle Aglaé wanted to inform Chicot that there would be slaughter and bloodshed in la maison grise if the
people below stairs did not mend their ways. She was convinced that they lived for no other purpose than to
torture and molest her. The woman kept a bucket of dirty water constantly on the landing with the hope of Mamzelle Aglaé falling over it or into it. And she knew that the
children were instructed to gather in the hall and on the stairway, and scream and make a noise and jump up and down like galloping horses, with the intention of driving her to suicide. Chicot should notify the policeman on the beat, and have them arrested, if possible, and thrust into the parish prison, where they belonged.
Chicot would have been extremely alarmed if he had ever chanced to find Mamzelle Aglaé in an uncomplaining mood. It never occurred to him that she might be otherwise. He felt that she had a right to quarrel with fate, if ever mortal had. Her poverty was a disgrace, and he
hung his head before it and felt ashamed.
One day he found Mamzelle Aglaé stretched on the bed, with her head tied up in a handkerchief. Her sole complaint that day was, “Aïe—aïe—aïe! Aïe—aïe—aïe!”
uttered with every breath. He had seen her so before, especially when the weather was damp.
“Vous pas bézouin tisane, Mamzelle Aglaé? Vous pas veux mo cri gagni docteur?”
She desired nothing. “Aïe—aïe—aïe!”
He emptied his bag very quietly, so as not to disturb her; and he wanted to stay there with her and lie down on the floor in case she needed him, but the woman from below had come up. She was an Irishwoman with rolled sleeves.
“It’s a shtout shtick I’m afther giving her, Nég, and she do but knock on the flure it’s me or Janie or wan of us
that’ll be hearing her.”
“You too good, Brigitte. Aïe—aïe—aïe! Une goutte d’eau sucré, Nég! That Purg’tory Marie,—you see hair, ma bonne Brigitte, you tell hair go say li’le prayer là-bas au
Cathédral. Aïe—aïe—aïe!”
Nég could hear her lamentation as he descended the stairs. It followed him as he limped his way through the city streets, and seemed part of the city’s noise; he could hear it in the rumble of wheels and jangle of car-bells, and in the voices of those passing by.
He stopped at Mimotte the Voudou’s shanty and bought a grigri—a cheap one for fifteen cents. Mimotte held her charms at all prices. This he intended to introduce next day into Mamzelle Aglaé’s room,—somewhere about the altar,— to the confusion and discomfort of “Michié bon Dieu,” who persistently declined to concern himself with the welfare of a Boisduré.
At night, among the reeds on the bayou, Chicot could
still hear the woman’s wail, mingled now with the croaking of the frogs. If he could have been convinced that giving up his life down there in the water would in any way have
bettered her condition, he would not have hesitated to sacrifice the remnant of his existence that was wholly
devoted to her. He lived but to serve her. He did not know it himself; but Chicot knew so little, and that little in such a
distorted way! He could scarcely have been expected, even in his most lucid moments, to give himself over to self- analysis.
Chicot gathered an uncommon amount of dainties at
market the following day. He had to work hard, and scheme and whine a little; but he got hold of an orange and a lump of ice and a choufleur. He did not drink his cup of café au lait, but asked Mimi Lambeau to put it in the little new tin
pail that the Hebrew notion-vender had just given him in
exchange for a mess of shrimps. This time, however, Chicot had his trouble for nothing. When he reached the upper
room of la maison grise, it was to find that Mamzelle Aglaé had died during the night. He set his bag down in the
middle of the floor, and stood shaking, and whined low like a dog in pain.
Everything had been done. The Irishwoman had gone for the doctor, and Purgatory Mary had summoned a priest.
Furthermore, the woman had arranged Mamzelle Aglaé
decently. She had covered the table with a white cloth, and had placed it at the head of the bed, with the crucifix and two lighted candles in silver candlesticks upon it; the little bit of ornamentation brightened and embellished the poor room. Purgatory Mary, dressed in shabby black, fat and
breathing hard, sat reading half audibly from a prayerbook. She was watching the dead and the silver candlesticks,
which she had borrowed from a benevolent society, and for
which she held herself responsible. A young man was just leaving,—a reporter snuffing the air for items, who had
scented one up there in the top room of la maison grise.
All the morning Janie had been escorting a procession
of street Arabs up and down the stairs to view the remains.
One of them—a little girl, who had had her face washed
and had made a species of toilet for the occasion—refused to be dragged away. She stayed seated as if at an entertainment, fascinated alternately by the long, still
figure of Mamzelle Aglaé, the mumbling lips of Purgatory Mary, and the silver candlesticks.
“Will ye get down on yer knees, man, and say a prayer for the dead!” commanded the woman.
But Chicot only shook his head, and refused to obey. He approached the bed, and laid a little black paw for a
moment on the stiffened body of Mamzelle Aglaé. There was nothing for him to do here. He picked up his old
ragged hat and his bag and went away.
“The black h’athen!” the woman muttered. “Shut the dure, child.”
The little girl slid down from her chair, and went on
tiptoe to shut the door which Chicot had left open. Having resumed her seat, she fastened her eyes upon Purgatory Mary’s heaving chest.
“You, Chicot!” cried Matteo’s wife the next morning. “My man, he read in paper ’bout woman name’ Boisduré,
use’ b’long to big-a famny. She die roun’ on St. Philip—po’, same-a like church rat. It’s any them Boisdurés you alla talk ’bout?”
Chicot shook his head in slow but emphatic denial. No, indeed, the woman was not of kin to his Boisdurés. He
surely had told Matteo’s wife often enough—how many times did he have to repeat it!—of their wealth, their social standing. It was doubtless some Boisduré of les Attakapas; it was none of his.
The next day there was a small funeral procession
passing a little distance away,—a hearse and a carriage or two. There was the priest who had attended Mamzelle Aglaé, and a benevolent Creole gentleman whose father
had known the Boisdurés in his youth. There was a couple of player-folk, who, having got wind of the story, had thrust their hands into their pockets.
“Look, Chicot!” cried Matteo’s wife. “Yonda go the fune’al. Mus-a be that-a Boisduré woman we talken ’bout yesaday.”
But Chicot paid no heed. What was to him the funeral of a woman who had died in St. Philip street? He did not
even turn his head in the direction of the moving procession. He went on scaling his red-snapper.
