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.
The birthday of the little girl fell in June, that month when all the world is dressed in flowers, and when the sky above seems to bend its bluest arch. On this occasion Annette was to have a party, her very first, and all the children from the neighbouring plantations had been bidden; and papa had made a special trip to New Orleans and come home with some wonderful and mysterious packages, which had been quickly hidden away. At last the day arrived, and Annette felt it to be the happiest one she had ever known.
“To be nine years old and to have a party! Just think of that, Auguste!” she cried, as she helped the little boy to dress.
Auguste was thinking of it with so much glee that it made the dressing of him more than usually difficult, and Annette turned to little Pierre; but his whole attention was given to “keeping a secret,” for mamma had said that Annette was not to know what her present was to be till they were all gathered at the table for breakfast.
But he knew, did little Pierre, and it was a hard burden not to tell sister Annette. At last the little ones were ready, and Annette had seen that the simple fare which formed the breakfast—fruit and hominy, with coffee for the father and mother—was on the table.
Such a clamour as arose.
“Oh, mother, let me tell.”
“No, let me.”
“Oh, sister Annette—” But they got no further, for Annette herself pulled the cover off a big box which was laid on her chair, and there within lay a white dress—oh, such a pretty one!—and a little pair of slippers, with long, narrow ribbons to lace them criss-cross about the ankles, and, most lovely of all, a long blue sash, which had on its two ends a fringe of gold.
“Oh, dearest mother,” cried Annette, “was there ever anything so lovely; and the little brodequins,” pointing to the little slippers, “and a fan! Oh, mother, and you, too, father, how can I thank you both enough?”
Her father kissed her fondly and said,—
“My little daughter repays me every day.”
The mother was well contented with Annette’s pleasure for all the pains she had taken.
“And, sister Annette, see, I gave you the fan.”
“And oh, sister, look at the pretty mouchoir; that is from me.”
And the happy Annette kissed and thanked, and they were all so pleased that breakfast was quite forgotten and would have grown cold if black Mimi had not put her head in at the door to remind them of it.
When Annette had put on the new birthday dress, laced the slippers around her slender ankles, and held the fan and kerchief, she ran into her mother’s room to show her the effect.
“See, mamma, it just fits me”; and she gave the small skirts a toss and a pat, while her mother turned from the table where she had been standing with a small casket in her hand.
“Dearest Annette,” said she, in quite a solemn voice, “I shall let you wear to-day what my father gave to me, saying that one day it was to be thine. When you are grown to be a big girl, it shall be yours to have always, but to-day you shall wear it because you are my good child, and I love you fondly.”
As Madame Valvier spoke, she clasped about Annette’s neck the pearl necklace, the only remnant of the packet of jewels which had come from France, and which had been drawn on when crops failed, or for the purchase of slaves, or for some of the many needs in a new country where money is scarce.
“Oh, mamma!” and Annette’s voice was low with pleasure as she gently touched the rows of shining pearls which seemed far too costly a jewel for the neck of a little girl, and quite out of place over the modest frock.
“Are these really for me some day? Did grandpère say it should be so?” and Annette listened while her mother told her of her grandfather’s injunction, and how old Marie had hidden them in Annette’s own clothes and saved them from the highwaymen.
The time passed quickly before the little guests began to arrive, for it was to be an afternoon party, and some were brought by boat on the Bayou, while others rode on pillions behind black Philippe or Jean, as the case might be, sitting very still so that the best frocks would not be rumpled.
Many games they played in the long, cool galleries, or on the grass before the house. Ball was one of them, and when they were tired of this they played at hide-and-seek, finding many good and secret nooks among the trees and wax-myrtle shrubs, which were so bushy and so green.
“What shall we play next?” asked Annette, anxious that her guests should have a good time, and some one suggested “Hugh, Sweet Hugh,” that game of many verses which has been played by high and low through so many centuries and in all countries.
The children made a pretty sight as, circling in a ring, they sang merrily,—
“Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh,
Come up and get the ball.”
“I will not come, I may not come,
Without my bonny boys all.”
Even after the tragic death of Sweet Hugh their voices rang out clearly till the last verse,—
“And all the bells of merry France
Without men’s hands were rung;
And all the books of merry France
Were read without men’s tongue.
Never was such a burial
Since Adam’s days begun.”
Then, half frightened at their own game, they scampered into the house, where Madame Valvier was awaiting them, and where, spread on trestle-boards, were all the dainties so loved of children,—fresh figs with cream, sweet chocolate, little cakes made of nuts and honey, and right in the centre a great round birthday cake with a dove on the very top.
At this last touch Annette was as much surprised as the other children, and in answer to her wondering look her mother said,—
“Your father brought it from New Orleans; it is his gift to you.”
After it had been admired, Annette cut the first piece, and the merry meal seemed over all too quickly for the children who had to take their way homewards, reluctant to have an end put to such unusual festivities, and not half aware of the necessity of being safe in their own homes before nightfall.
When the last one had gone, Annette took off her unaccustomed finery, and, holding in her hands the splendid necklace, looked with wonder on the round globes of pearls, which showed on their satiny faces the shifting tones of rose, blue, pale green, and yellow.
“Ah, mother,” she sighed, “to think that so beautiful a thing should be mine!”
“Remember always, little daughter, that it was first my mother’s portion, then mine, and shall be yours, never to part with.”
“Of a truth, dear mother, I should wish to keep it always. But,” and here she hesitated, “you know the other jewels which grandpère gave have all gone.”
“Those were my own, but this is different, and should be kept always, except in case of gravest need.”
“Gravest need—what is that, mamma?” and Annette’s blue eyes looked up solemnly into her mother’s face.
“Does it mean to save a life, mamma?”
Madame Valvier, hardly appreciating the earnest little soul which was listening to her words, answered,—
“Yes, to save life or honour. Now, put it in its box, and come with me till I show you where it is hidden.”
In a small room where the children kept their few playthings, some rude toys and some bright shells and beans, Madame Valvier paused, and, stooping, took from beneath the window a small board, which disclosed a box-like cupboard lined with lead.
“Here it is kept with the rest of our treasures, Annette, the papers which belong to your father and the grants of our land. I show this place to you because you have a wisdom beyond your years, and are indeed my little comfort.”
Annette’s face grew rosy with pleasure at these words, and holding her mother’s hand, she whispered,—
“I love you truly, dearest mamma, and I am the happiest girl in the world.”
When the little ones were in bed, Annette crept up on her father’s lap and had the crowning joy of the day, a long story of his childhood’s days in France; and she listened entranced, as she had hundreds of times before, to his descriptions of the old grey chateau at Étaples, the rose garden with its sun-dial, and, best of all, to the tales of how he and her mother used to scull down the broad shallow Canache, and then at the river’s mouth search among the rocks and seaweed for shrimps, while out at sea the big ships went sailing past, with their white or brown sails swelling with the fresh wind.
Even with the interest she felt in the story, poor Annette, tired with so much pleasure, nestled lower and lower in her father’s arms, and finally her head fell on his shoulder.
“She sleeps,” he said, “poor little girl, fairly tired out with too much happiness”; and taking her in his strong arms, he carried her off to her room, where she was soon settled in her bed, the process of undressing hardly waking her.