"I had business that call' me to Marksville," he began, "an' I say to myse'f, 'Tiens, you can't pass by without tell' 'em all howdy.'"
"Par exemple! w'at Jules would said to that! Mais, you' lookin' well; you ent change', Doudouce."
"An' you' lookin' well, Mentine, Jis' the same Mentine." He regretted that he lacked talent to make the lie bolder.
She moved a little uneasily, and felt upon her shoulder for a pin with which to fasten the front of her old gown where it lacked a button. She had kept the baby in her lap. Doudouce was wondering miserably if he would have known her outside her home. He would have known her sweet, cheerful brown eyes, that were not changed; but her figure, that had looked so trim in the wedding gown, was sadly misshapen. She was brown, with skin like parchment, and piteously thin. There were lines, some deep as if old age had cut them, about the eyes and mouth.
"An' how you lef' 'em all, yonda?" she asked, in a high voice that had grown shrill from screaming at children and dogs.
"They all well. It's mighty li'le sickness in the country this yea'. But they been lookin' fo' you up yonda, straight along, Mentine."
"Don't talk, Doudouce, it's no chance; with that po' we' out piece o' lan' w'at Jules got. He say, anotha yea' like that, he's goin' sell out, him."
The children were clutching her on either side, their persistent gaze always fastened upon Doudouce. He tried without avail to make friends with them. Then Jules came home from the field, riding the mule with which he had worked, and which he fastened outside the gate.
"Yere's Doudouce f'om Natchitoches, Jules," called out Mentine, "he stop' to tell us howdy, en passant." The husband mounted to the gallery and the two men shook hands; Doudouce listlessly, as he had done with Mentine; Jules with some bluster and show of cordiality.
"Well, you' a lucky man, you," he exclaimed with his swagger air, "able to broad like that, encore! You could n't do that if you had half a dozen mouth' to feed, allez!"