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Neither tribe daring
to invite a battle after that, hostilities were stopped, but some time
later the young captain met the girl of his heart on the shore, and
before the amazon could prepare for either fight or flight he had
caught her in his arms. They renewed their oaths of fidelity, and at
the wedding the chief proclaimed eternal peace and blessed the waters
they had met beside, the blessing being potent to this day.
Another reason for
the enchantments that are worked here may be that the lake is occupied
by a demon-fish or serpent that crawls, slimy and dripping, through
the underbrush, whenever it sees two lovers together, and listens to
their words. If the man prove faithless he would best beware of
returning to this place, for the demon is lurking there to destroy
him. This monster imprisons the soul of an Ozark princess who flung
herself into the lake when she learned that the son of the Spanish
governor, who had vowed his love to her, had married a woman of his
own rank and race in New Orleans. So they call the lake Creve Coeur,
or Broken Heart. On the day after the suicide the Ozark chief gathered
his men about him and paddled to the middle of the water, where he
solemnly cursed his daughter in her death, and asked the Great Spirit
to confine her there as a punishment for giving her heart to the
treacherous white man, the enemy of his people. The Great Spirit gave
her the form in which she is occasionally seen, to warn and punish
faithless lovers.
The Scare Cure
Early in this century
a restless Yankee, who wore the uninspiring name of Tompkinson, found
his way into Carondelet--or Vuide Poche, the French settlement on the
Mississippi since absorbed by
St. Louis
and cast about for something to do. He had been in hard luck on his
trip from New England to the great river. His schemes for
self-aggrandizement and the incidental enlightenment and prosperity of
mankind had not thriven, and it was largely in pity that M. Dunois
gave shelter to the ragged, half-starved, but still jaunty and
resourceful adventurer. Dunois was the one man in the place who could
pretend to some education, and the two got on together famously.
As soon as Tompkinson
was in clothes and funds--the result of certain speculations--he took
a house, and hung a shingle out announcing that there he practiced
medicine. Now, the fellow knew less about doctoring than any village
granny, but a few sick people that he attended had the rare luck to
get well in spite of him, and his reputation expanded to more than
local limits in consequence. In the excess of spirits that prosperity
created he flirted rather openly with a number of virgins in
Carondelet, to the scandal of Dunois, who forbade him his house, and
of the priest, who put him under ban. |
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For the priest he cared
nothing, but Dunois's anger was more serious—for the only maid of all that
he really loved was Marie Dunois, his daughter. He formally proposed for
her, but the old man would not listen to him. Then his "practice" fell
away. The future looked as dark for him as his recent past had been, until
a woman came to him with a bone in her throat and begged to be relieved.
His method in such cases was to turn a wheel-of-fortune and obey it. The
arrow this time pointed to the word, "Bleeding."
He grasped a scalpel and
advanced upon his victim, who, supposing that he intended to cut her
throat open to extract the obstacle, fell a-screaming with such violence
that the bone flew out. What was supposed to be his ready wit in this
emergency restored him to confidence, and he was able to resume the
practice that he needed so much. In a couple of years he displayed to the
wondering eyes of Dunois so considerable an accumulation of cash that he
gave Marie to him almost without the asking, and, as Tompkinson afterward
turned Indian trader and quadrupled his wealth by cheating the red men, he
became one of the most esteemed citizens of the West.
Twelfth Night At Cahokia
It was Twelfth Night, and
the French village of Cahokia, near
St. Louis,
was pleasantly agitated at the prospect of a dance in the old court
saloon, which was assembly-room and everything else for the little place.
The thirteen holy fires were alight--a large one, to represent Christ; a
lesser one, to be trampled out by the crowd, typing Judas. The twelfth
cake, one slice with the ring in it, was cut, and there were drink and
laughter, but, as yet, no music. Gwen Malhon, a drift-wood collector, was
the most anxious to get over the delay, for he had begged a dance from
Louison. Louison Florian was pretty, not badly off in possessions and
prospects, and her lover, Beaurain, had gone away. She was beginning to
look a little scornful and impatient, so Gwen set off for a fiddler.
He had inquired at nearly
every cabin without success, and was on his way toward the ferry when he
heard music. Before him, on the moonlit river, was a large boat, and near
it, on the bank, he saw a company of men squatted about a fire and bousing
together from a bottle. At a little distance, on a stump, sat a thin, bent
man, enveloped in a cloak, and it was he who played. Gwen complimented him
and pleaded the disappointment of the dancers in excuse of an urgent
appeal that he should hurry with him to the court saloon. The stranger was
courteous. He sprang into the road with a limping bound, shook down his
cloak so as to disclose a curled moustache, shaggy brows, a goat's beard,
and a pair of glittering eyes. "I'll give them a dance!" he exclaimed. "I
know one tune. They call it 'Returned from the Grave.' Pay? We'll see how
you like my playing."
On entering the room
where the caperish youth were already shuffling in corners, the musician
met Mamzel Florian, who offered him a slice of the cake. He bent somewhat
near to take it, and she gave a little cry. He had found the ring, and
that made him king of the festival, with the right to choose the prettiest
girl as queen. A long drink of red wine seemed to put him in the best of
trim, and he began to fiddle with a verve that was irresistible. In one
minute the whole company--including the priest, some said--was jigging it
lustily. "Whew!" gasped one old fellow. "It is the devil who plays. Get
some holy water and sprinkle the floor."
Gwen watched the musician
as closely as his labors would allow, for he did not like the way the
fiddler had of looking at Louison, and he thought to himself that Louison
never blushed so prettily for him. Forgetting himself when he saw the
fiddler smile at the girl, he made a rush for the barrel where that artist
was perched. He bumped against a dancer and fell. At that moment the light
was put out and the hall rang with screams and laughter. The tones of one
voice sounded above the rest: "By right of the ring the girl is mine."
"He has me," Louison was heard to say, yet
seemingly not in fear. Lights were brought. Louison and the fiddler were
gone, the stranger's cloak and half of a false moustache were on the
floor, while Gwen was jammed into the barrel and was kicking desperately
to get out. When released he rushed for the river-side where he had seen
the boat. Two figures flitted before him, but he lost sight of them, and
in the silence and loneliness his choler began to cool. Could it really
have been the devil? An owl hooted in the bush. He went away in haste.
There was a rumor in after years that Beaurain was an actor in a company
that went up and down the great river on a barge, and that a woman who
resembled Louison was also in the troupe. But Gwen never told the story of
his disappointment without crossing himself.
Added May, 2005
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