A Night in Acadie Read Online Free

afta we done married those tetes-de-mulets yonda on bayou de Glaize can say w'at they want."
            "W'at's his name?"
            "André Pascal."
            The name meant nothing to Telèsphore. For all he knew, André Pascal might be one of the shining lights of Avoyelles; but he doubted it.
            "You betta turn 'roun'," he said. It was an unselfish impulse that prompted the suggestion. It was the thought of this girl married to a man whom even Jules Trodon would not suffer to enter his house.
            "I done give my word," she answered.
            "W'at's the matte with 'im? W'y don't yo' father and mother want you to marry 'im?"
            "W'y? Because it's always the same tune! W'en a man's down eve'ybody's got stones to throw at 'im. They say he's lazy. A man that will walk from St. Landry plumb to Rapides lookin' fo' work; an' they call that lazy! Then, somebody's been spreadin' yonda on the Bayou that he drinks. I don' b'lieve it. I neva saw 'im drinkin', me. Anyway, he won't drink afta he's married to me; he's too fon'
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    of me fo' that. He say he'll blow out his brains if I don' marry 'im."
            "I reckon you betta turn roun'."
            "No, I done give my word." And they went creeping on through the woods in silence.
            "W'at time is it?" she asked after an interval. He lit a match and looked at his watch
            "It's quarta to one. W'at time did he say?"
            "I tole 'im I'd come about one o'clock. I knew that was a good time to get away f'om the ball."
            She would have hurried a little but the pony could not be induced to do so. He dragged himself, seemingly ready at any moment to give up the breath of life. But once out of the woods he made up for lost time. They were on the open prairie again, and he fairly ripped the air; some flying demon must have changed skins with him.
            It was a few minutes of one o'clock when they drew up before Wat Gibson's house. It was not much more than a rude shelter, and in the dim starlight it seemed isolated, as if standing alone in the middle of the black, far- reaching prairie. As they halted at the gate a dog within set up a furious barking; and
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    an old negro who had been smoking his pipe at that ghostly hour, advanced toward them from the shelter of the gallery. Telèsphore descended and helped his companion to alight.
            "We want to see Mr. Gibson," spoke up Zaïda. The old fellow had already opened the gate. There was no light in the house.
            "Marse Gibson, he yonda to ole Mr. Bodel's playin' kairds. But he neva' stay atter one o'clock. Come in, ma'am; come in, suh; walk right 'long in." He had drawn his own conclusions to explain their appearance. They stood upon the narrow porch waiting while he went inside to light the lamp.
            Although the house was small, as it comprised but one room, that room was comparatively a large one. It looked to Telèsphore and Zaïda very large and gloomy when they entered it. The lamp was on a table that stood against the wall, and that held further a rusty looking ink bottle, a pen and an old blank book. A narrow bed was off in the corner. The brick chimney extended into the room and formed a ledge that served as mantel shelf. From the big, low-hanging rafters swung an assortment of fishing tackle, a gun, some discarded
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    articles of clothing and a string of red peppers. The boards of the floor were broad, rough and loosely joined together.
            Telèsphore and Zaïda seated themselves on opposite sides of the table and the negro went out to the wood pile to gather chips and pieces of bois-gras with which to kindle a small fire.
            It was a little chilly; he supposed the two would want coffee and he knew that Wat Gibson would ask for a cup the first thing on his arrival.
            "I