Short Fiction by Kate Chopin (love story books to read .txt) 📕

you ask her poin’ blank o’ not; but you do like I say.” Tranquiline was leaning over the gate when Lalie came along.

“Howdy,” offered the woman.

“Howdy,” the girl returned.

“Did you see a yalla calf wid black spots a t’arin’ down de lane, missy?”

“Non; not yalla, an’ not with black spot’. Mais I see one li’le w’ite calf tie by a rope, yonda ’roun’ the ben’.”

“Dat warn’t hit. Dis heah one was yalla. I hope he done flung hisse’f down de bank an’ broke his nake. Sarve ’im right! But whar you come f’om, chile? You look plum wo’ out. Set down dah on dat bench, an’ le’ me fotch you a cup o’ coffee.”

Azenor had already in his eagerness arranged a tray, upon which was a smoking cup of café au lait. He had buttered and jellied generous slices of bread, and was searching wildly for something when Tranquiline reentered.

“W’at become o’ that half of chicken-pie, Tranquiline, that was yere in the garde manger yesterday?”

“W’at chicken-pie? W’at garde manger?” blustered the woman.

“Like we got mo’ ’en one garde manger in the house, Tranquiline!”

“You jis’ like ole Ma’ame Azenor use’ to be, you is! You ’spec’ chicken-pie gwine las’ etarnal? W’en some’pin done sp’ilt, I flings it’ way. Dat’s me⁠—dat’s Tranquiline!”

So Azenor resigned himself⁠—what else could he do?⁠—and sent the tray, incomplete, as he fancied it, out to Lalie.

He trembled at thought of what he did; he, whose nerves were usually as steady as some piece of steel mechanism.

Would it anger her if she suspected? Would it please her if she knew? Would she say this or that to Tranquiline? And would Tranquiline tell him truly what she said⁠—how she looked?

As it was Sunday, Azenor did not work that afternoon. Instead, he took a book out under the trees, as he often did, and sat reading it, from the first sound of the Vesper bell, that came faintly across the fields, till the Angelus. All that time! He turned many a page, yet in the end did not know what he had read. With his pencil he had traced “Lalie” upon every margin, and was saying it softly to himself.

Another Sunday Azenor saw Lalie at mass⁠—and again. Once he walked with her and showed her the shortcut across the cotton-field. She was very glad that day, and told him she was going to work⁠—her grandmother said she might. She was going to hoe, up in the fields with Monsieur Le Blôt’s hands. He entreated her not to; and when she asked his reason, he could not tell her, but turned and tore shyly and savagely at the elder-blossoms that grew along the fence.

Then they stopped where she was going to cross the fence from the field into the lane. He wanted to tell her that was his house which they could see not far away; but he did not dare to, since he had fed her there on the morning she was hungry.

“An’ you say yo’ gran’ma’s goin’ to let you work? She keeps you f’om workin’, donc?” He wanted to question her about her grandmother, and could think of no other way to begin.

“Po’ ole grand’mère!” she answered. “I don’ b’lieve she know mos’ time w’at she’s doin’. Sometime she say’ I aint no betta an’ one nigga, an’ she fo’ce me to work. Then she say she know I’m goin’ be one canaille like maman, an’ she make me set down still, like she would want to kill me if I would move. Her, she on’y want’ to be out in the wood’, day an’ night, day an’ night. She ain’ got her right head, po’ grand’mère. I know she ain’t.”

Lalie had spoken low and in jerks, as if every word gave her pain. Azenor could feel her distress as plainly as he saw it. He wanted to say something to her⁠—to do something for her. But her mere presence paralyzed him into inactivity⁠—except his pulses, that beat like hammers when he was with her. Such a poor, shabby little thing as she was, too!

“I’m goin’ to wait yere nex’ Sunday fo’ you, Lalie,” he said, when the fence was between them. And he thought he had said something very daring.

But the next Sunday she did not come. She was neither at the appointed place of meeting in the lane, nor was she at mass. Her absence⁠—so unexpected⁠—affected Azenor like a calamity. Late in the afternoon, when he could stand the trouble and bewilderment of it no longer, he went and leaned over Père Antoine’s fence. The priest was picking the slugs from his roses on the other side.

“That young girl from the Bon-Dieu,” said Azenor⁠—“she was not at mass today. I suppose her grandmother has forgotten your warning.”

“No,” answered the priest. “The child is ill, I hear. Butrand tells me she has been ill for several days from overwork in the fields. I shall go out tomorrow to see about her. I would go today, if I could.”

“The child is ill,” was all Azenor heard or understood of Père Antoine’s words. He turned and walked resolutely away, like one who determines suddenly upon action after meaningless hesitation.

He walked towards his home and past it, as if it were a spot that did not concern him. He went on down the lane and into the wood where he had seen Lalie disappear that day.

Here all was shadow, for the sun had dipped too low in the west to send a single ray through the dense foliage of the forest.

Now that he found himself on the way to Lalie’s home, he strove to understand why he had not gone there before. He often visited other girls in the village and neighborhood⁠—why not have gone to her, as well? The answer lay too deep in his heart for him to be more than half-conscious of it. Fear had kept him⁠—dread to see her desolate life