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Updated: June 8, 2025
Next week there was another letter, even more wonderful than the first. Sylves' had found work. He was making cigars, and was earning two dollars a day. Such wages! Ma'am Mouton and Louisette began to plan pretty things for the brown cottage on the Teche. That was a pleasant winter, after all. True, there was no Sylves', but then he was always in New Orleans for a few months any way.
It was very sweet of Louisette to ask me." Glorupvej, Denmark 1900. "What you write in answer to my saying that I like 'whole soulness': it is precisely the whole soulness which is not a conscious conquest that I like.
Ma'am Mouton had kept up bravely until the last, when with one final cry she extended her arms to the pitiless train bearing him northward. Then she and Louisette went home drearily, the one leaning upon the other. Ah, that was a great day when the first letter came from Chicago! Louisette came running in breathlessly from the post-office, and together they read it again and again.
"Oh, Sylves'," wailed Louisette, "den you'll forget me!" "Non, non, ma chere," he answered tenderly. "I will come back when the bayou overflows again, an' maman an' Louisette will have fine present." Ma'am Mouton had bowed her head on her hands, and was rocking to and fro in an agony of dry-eyed misery. Sylves' went to her side and knelt. "Maman," he said softly, "maman, you mus' not cry.
Even as she spoke a quick nervous step was heard crunching up the brick walk. Sylves' paused an instant without the kitchen door, his face turned to the setting sun. He was tall and slim and agile; a true 'cajan. "Bon jour, Louisette," he laughed. "Eh, maman!" "Ah, my son, you are ver' late." Sylves' frowned, but said nothing. It was a silent supper that followed.
Louisette was sad, Ma'am Mouton sighed now and then, Sylves' was constrained. "Maman," he said at length, "I am goin' away." Ma'am Mouton dropped her fork and stared at him with unseeing eyes; then, as she comprehended his remark, she put her hand out to him with a pitiful gesture. "Sylves'!" cried Louisette, springing to her feet.
"Hit will rain to-morrow, sho'. I mus' git in my t'ings." Ma'am Mouton's remark must have been addressed to herself or to the lean dog, for no one else was visible. She moved briskly about the yard, taking things from the line, when Louisette's voice called cheerily: "Ah, Ma'am Mouton, can I help?" Louisette was petite and plump and black-haired.
He said he wanted to get home and give Louisette her diamond ring, when the bayou overflowed." He might have had another name; we never knew. Some one had christened him Mr. Baptiste long ago in the dim past, and it sufficed.
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