“Hah!” exclaims Madame Beausoleil, warningly, yet with sunshine and cloud on her brow at once. She likes her companion’s wit, always so deep, and yet always so delicately pointed! His hearty laugh just now disturbs her somewhat, but they are out on the wide plain again, without a spot in all the sweep of her glance where an eye or an ear may ambush them or their walking horses.
“No,” insists her fellow-traveller; “I say again, as I said before, the ‘A. of U. I.’”—he pauses at the initials, and Zoséphine’s faint smile gives him ecstasy—“hasn’t done its best. And yet it has done beautifully! Why, when did you ever see such a list as this?” He dexterously draws from an extensive inner breast-pocket, such as no coat but a book-agent’s or a shoplifter’s would be guilty of, a wide, limp, morocco-bound subscription-book. “Here!” He throws it open upon the broad Texas pommel. “Now, just for curiosity, look at it—oh! you can’t see it from away off there, looking at it sideways!” He gives her a half-reproachful, half-beseeching smile and glance, and gathers up his dropped bridle. They come closer. Their two near shoulders approach each other, the two elbows touch, and two dissimilar hands hold down the leaves. The two horses playfully bite at each other; it is their way of winking one eye.
“Now, first, here’s the governor’s name; and then his son’s, and his nephew’s, and his other son’s, and his cousin’s. And here’s Pierre Cormeaux, and Baptiste Clément, you know, at Carancro; and here’s Basilide Sexnailder, and Joseph Cantrelle, and Jacques Hébert; see? And Gaudin, and Laprade, Blouin, and Roussel,—old Christofle Roussel of Beau Bassin,—Duhon, Roman and Simonette Le Blanc, and Judge Landry, and Thériot,—Colonel Thériot,—Martin, Hébert again, Robichaux, Mouton, Mouton again, Robichaux again, Mouton—oh, I’ve got ’em all!—Castille, Beausoleil—cousin of yours? Yes, he said so; good fellow, thinks you’re the greatest woman alive.” The two dissimilar hands, in turning a leaf, touch, and the smaller one leaves the book. “And here’s Guilbeau, and Latiolais, and Thibodeaux, and Soudrie, and Arcenaux—flowers of the community—‘I gather them in,’—and here’s a page of Côte Gelée people, and—Joe Jefferson hadn’t got back to the Island yet, but I’ve got his son; see? And here’s—can you make out this signature? It’s written so small”—
Both heads,—with only the heavens and the dear old earth-mother to see them,—both heads bend over the book; the hand that had retreated returns, but bethinks itself and withdraws again; the eyes of Mr. Tarbox look across their corners at the sedate brow so much nearer his than ever it has been before, until that brow feels the look, and slowly draws away. Look to your mother, Marguerite; look to her! But Marguerite is not there, not even in Vermilionville; nor yet in Lafayette parish; nor anywhere throughout the wide prairies of Opelousas or Attakapas. Triumph fills Mr. Tarbox’s breast.
“Well,” he says, restoring the book to its hiding-place, “seems like I ought to be satisfied with that; doesn’t it to you?”
It does; Zoséphine says so. She sees the double meaning, and Mr. Tarbox sees that she sees it, but must still move cautiously. So he says:
“Well, I’m not satisfied. It’s perfect as far as it goes, but don’t expect me to be satisfied with it. If I’ve seemed satisfied, shall I tell you why it was, my dear—friend?”
Zoséphine makes no reply; but her dark eyes meeting his for a moment, and then falling to her horse’s feet, seem to beg for mercy.
“It’s because,” says Mr. Tarbox, while her heart stands still, “it’s because I’ve made”—there is an awful pause—“more money without the ‘A. of U. I.’ this season than I’ve made with it.”
Madame Beausoleil catches her breath, shows relief in every feature, lifts her eyes with sudden brightness, and exclaims: