University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
An Arrival.

THE fire of my segar glowed in
the dusk like a panther's eye. I
sat in the verandah of our cottage-house
in Rue de —— smoking a
Manilla cheroot, and yielding myself
up to the influences of one of
those southern nights which make
a man forget that he must die.

The stars were heavy and lustrous, and the
clouds sailed through the sky, mere thistle-down.
Every stir of air brought me the odors of orange-blossoms,
and wafted the snaky smoke of my
cheroot among the honeysuckle vines, which
clambered erratically over the portico, shutting me
out from the dense moonlight.

Three stone steps led from the porch into the
garden, where a marble Naiad filled a cup of
lapis lazuli from a slender urn of antique design.
The jets of water, breaking on the rim of the
goblet, and dripping down in shattered crystals on
the gold-fish in the bowl of the fountain, made
drowsy music. It was like the uneasy bubbling
of a narghillé.

A sly, white pelican waded in the dank grass,
and would have liked to split a gold-fish with its
long bill.

What a fairy garden it was, with its shelly walks
leading to nowhere in particular; its dwarfish
fig-trees with their pointed leaves; its beds of
mignonette; its house-pots of fragrant jonquelles
and camelias; its one heavy magnolia, growing
alone like Père Antoine's date-palm; and the
picket of mulberries, just within the lattice-fence,
marking the boundaries of our demesne.

It was not an extensive sweep of land, but the
moonlight created interminable vistas, and destroyed
one's idea of distance. It appeared as if

the whole earth were a tropical forest, stretching
out from our door-step.

The only sounds that broke, or, rather, mingled
with my reverie, were the gurglings of the fountain,
the sleepy rustling of the leaves, and the
inarticulate music of women's voices, blown to me
from neighboring balconies.

The inhabitants of this arid land dwell out of
doors after sundown. As you stroll through the
streets, in the twilight, you see groups, assembled
on the piazzas of the low-roofed French houses, or
sauntering unceremoniously in front gardens; and
many a creole brunette and many a rich southern
blonde, bends tender eyes on you as you pass.
You catch glimpses of charming domestic tableaux
— Old Age in his arm-chair on the porch, and
Youth and Beauty (with cherry-colored ribbons,)
making love under the rose. I think life is an
easy sort of inconvenience in warm latitudes.

The fountain gurgled, the leaves whispered, and
my cheroot went out, a single spark flying upward
— the soul of St. Nicotine! I sat watching a

lithe chameleon that undulated out of the dark,
and clad itself in a suit of moonlight on the stone
step. There it lay, moist, glimmering, dead with
ecstacy. Whether it was the torpor of the animal
that extended itself to me, or the effect of the
opium, sometimes wrapt in cheroots, I am not
able to state; but without warning, a drowsiness
directly overpowered my senses. I slept, and
dreamed.

I scarcely know how to tell the dream which
came to me—if it were a dream.

An unnatural stillness fell upon the world;
the liquid music of the fountain fainted in the
distance; the leaves drooped in the sultry, motionless
air, like velvet. The atmosphere became
strangely oppressive, and the aromas from the pot-plants
grew so penetrating that it was almost pain
to inhale them.

Rising from my seat, I walked with difficulty to
the open end of the verandah. The sky presented
a startling appearance.

The clouds were opaque and stagnant, the stars

shrivelled with waning fires, and a sickly, saffron
tinge around the edge of the moon, made it look
as if it had commenced to decay.

I felt that these phenomena were not the prelude
to one of those tornadoes which frequently
burst upon the breathless quiet of tropical regions;
for there was no electricity in the close air, no
muttering of the elements; but a deep, brooding
silence, infinitely more appalling than any tumult.

A vague apprehension of some awful calamity
took possession of me. I shuddered at being
alone.

The odors grew heavier and heavier, orange,
heliotrope, magnolia — subtle and noxious, they
were, like the exhalations from the poisoned
flowers in Rappaccini's garden. I was faint with
them.

Suddenly the street-gate swung to with a clang.
I heard footfalls on the gravelled walks. Thank
heaven! some one was coming to me.

Cip stumbled up the steps. He saw me, and
paused, resting against the balustrade, his hat
slouched over his face. I called to him.

“Tell me, Cip, do you see that dreadful skv, or
am I still dreaming?”

The negro did not lift his head, but said,
huskily,

“Marster, it has come, It has come!”

“What has come?”

“Lord, look down an' help us,” murmured
the negro solemnly.

“Why don't you answer me! Where is Mr.
Howland? Who has come? What has come?”

“The - the —”

“The — what?”

“The Chol'ra, marster!”