“Oh, but, Pierre,” she began; but he stopped her with,—
“Yes, I know what you would say, silks and a log-cabin. But I have good news. The indigo seed brought such a high price that I have bought all that was needful for a house, and already it is loaded on barges and on its way hither.”
“Good news, indeed, that is. Marie, did you hear that we are to have a house at last? Who knows, perhaps it may be ready for the little Pierre’s christening.”
The parish in which lay the Valviers’ plantation also contained the homes of several other planters. These were either earlier settlers or blessed with greater riches than the Valviers, and their plantations were dignified with dwellings which seemed commodious enough in those days, simple as they would appear in our eyes now.
The planters’ homes were often built in what was called the “Italian style,” with pillars supporting the galleries, which were in reality roomy piazzas. The houses were surrounded by gardens of gorgeous flowering plants, and approached by avenues of wild orange trees.
It was such a house which soon rose on the bank of the Bayou Gentilly, among the trees which flourished in that teeming soil, and the rude cabin was moved into the background to serve as the quarters for the slaves. Nor were there gaieties wanting, for the planters visited among their neighbours, the ladies coming in huge lumbering coaches drawn by many horses, or by pirogue, while the men almost always rode, the saddle-horse for the master being almost a necessity.
The succeeding years passed quickly, if not too prosperously, and tobacco was added to the productions of the Valvier plantation. Pierre had made himself honoured and respected among the men in his own and the neighbouring parishes, and his ardent love for France kept him ever a Frenchman, even though his home lay across the sea.
Annette was by this time eight years old, quite a little mother, as Clemence fondly called her, since, grave beyond her years, she looked out for the little brothers and sister who had been born at the Bayou Gentilly. Poor Marie had died, a victim to an attack of the fever which hangs like a dark pall over that enchanting region, and more care had fallen on the shoulders of little Annette than really belonged there. She saw not only to the welfare of the children, but ruled the blacks and looked after the house in a fashion which astonished her mother, whose health had sadly failed, and upon whose natural energy the relaxing climate had laid its enervating spell. The French thrift which is so marked a quality in the women of that nation seemed to have passed by the mother and bloomed in the nature of the daughter, and Annette’s efforts were all which kept the home from being better than a cabin, left to the mercies of the negligent slaves.
V
There was one thing for which Annette’s mother never lacked strength or energy, and that was the celebration of the birthdays—“fête days,” she called them—of the little family. There was always some little gift forthcoming, were it only a basket of fine figs or a garland of flowers; and for Annette particularly her mother always made an extra effort.