BROUGHT TO BAY.

One may take his choice between the two, but there is no escaping both in this life: the creditor—the borrower. Either, but never neither. Narcisse caught step with Richling, and they walked side by side.

“How I learned to mawch, I billong with a fiah comp’ny,” said the Creole. “We mawch eve’y yeah on the fou’th of Mawch.” He laughed heartily. “Thass a ’ime!—Mawch on the fou’th of Mawch! Thass poetwy, in fact, as you may say in a jesting way—ha! ha! ha!”

“Yes, and it’s truth, besides,” responded the drearier man.

“Yes!” exclaimed Narcisse, delighted at the unusual coincidence, “at the same time ’tis the tooth! In fact, why should I tell a lie about such a thing like that? ’Twould be useless. Pe’haps you may ’ave notiz, Mistoo Itchlin, thad the noozpapehs opine us fiahmen to be the gau’dians of the city.”

“Yes,” responded Richling. “I think Dr. Sevier calls you the Mamelukes, doesn’t he? But that’s much the same, I suppose.”

“Same thing,” replied the Creole. “We combad the fiah fiend. You fine that building ve’y pitto’esque, Mistoo Itchlin?” He jerked his thumb toward the prison, that was still pouring forth its clouds of impish wings. “Yes? ’Tis the same with me. But I tell you one thing, Mistoo Itchlin, I assu’ you, and you will believe me, I would ’atheh be lock’ outside of that building than to be lock’ inside of the same. ’Cause—you know why? ’Tis ve’y ’umid in that building. An thass a thing w’at I believe, Mistoo Itchlin; I believe w’en a building is v’ey ’umid it is not ve’y ’ealthsome. What is yo’ opinion consunning that, Mistoo Itchlin?”

“My opinion?” said Richling, with a smile. “My opinion is that the Parish Prison would not be a good place to raise a family.”

Narcisse laughed.

“I thing yo’ opinion is co’ect,” he said, flatteringly; then growing instantly serious, he added, “Yesseh, I think you’ about a-’ight, Mistoo Itchlin; faw even if ’twas not too ’umid, ’twould be too confining, in fact,—speshly faw child’en. I dunno; but thass my opinion. If you ah p’oceeding at yo’ residence, Mistoo Itchlin, I’ll juz continue my p’omenade in yo’ society—if not intooding”—

Richling smiled candidly. “Your company’s worth all it costs, Narcisse. Excuse me; I always forget your last name—and your first is so appropriate.” It was worth all it cost, though Richling could ill afford the purchase. The young Latin’s sweet, abysmal ignorance, his infantile amiability, his artless ambition, and heathenish innocence started the natural gladness of Richling’s blood to effervescing anew every time they met, and, through the sheer impossibility of confiding any of his troubles to the Creole, made him think them smaller and lighter than they had just before appeared. The very light of Narcisse’s countenance and beauty of his form—his smooth, low forehead, his thick, abundant locks, his faintly up-tipped nose and expanded nostrils, his sweet, weak mouth with its impending smile, his beautiful chin and bird’s throat, his almond eyes, his full, round arm, and strong thigh—had their emphatic value.

So now, Richling, a moment earlier borne down by the dreadful shadow of the Parish Prison, left it behind him as he walked and laughed and chatted with his borrower. He felt very free with Narcisse, for the reason that would have made a wiser person constrained,—lack of respect for him.

“Mistoo Itchlin, you know,” said the Creole, “I like you to call me Nahcisse. But at the same time my las’ name is Savillot.” He pronounced it Sav-veel-yo. “Thass a somewot Spanish name. That double l got a twist in it.”

“Oh, call it Papilio!” laughed Richling.

“Papillon!” exclaimed Narcisse, with delight. “The buttehfly! All a-’ight; you kin juz style me that! ’Cause thass my natu’e, Mistoo Itchlin; I gatheh honey eve’y day fum eve’y opening floweh, as the bahd of A-von wemawk.”

So they went on.

Ad infinitum? Ah, no! The end was just as plainly in view to both from the beginning as it was when, at length, the two stepping across the street gutter at the last corner between Richling and home, Narcisse laid his open hand in his companion’s elbow, and stopped, saying, as Richling turned and halted with a sudden frown of unwillingness:—

“I tell you ’ow ’tis with me, Mistoo Itchlin, I’ve p’oject that manneh myseff; in weading a book—w’en I see a beaucheouz idee, I juz take a pencil”—he drew one from his pocket—“check! I check it. So w’en I wead the same book again, then I take notiz I’ve check that idee and I look to see what I check it faw. ’Ow you like that invention, eh?” “Very simple,” said Richling, with an unpleasant look of expectancy.

“Mistoo Itchlin,” resumed the other, “do you not fine me impooving in my p’onouncement of yo’ lang-widge? I fine I don’t use such bad land-widge like biffo. I am shue you muz’ ’ave notiz since some time I always soun’ that awer in yo’ name. Mistoo Itchlin, will you ’ave that kin’ness to baw me two-an-a-’alf till the lass of that month?”

Richling looked at him a moment in silence, and then broke into a short, grim laugh.

“It’s all gone. There’s no more honey in this flower.” He set his jaw as he ceased speaking. There was a warm red place on either cheek.

“Mistoo Itchlin,” said Narcisse, with sudden, quavering fervor, “you kin len’ me two dollahs! I gi’e you my honah the moze sacwed of a gen’leman, Mistoo Itchlin, I nevvah hass you ag’in so long I live!” He extended a pacifying hand. “One moment, Mistoo Itchlin,—one moment,—I implo’ you, seh! I assu’ you, Mistoo Itchlin, I pay you eve’y cent in the worl’ on the laz of that month? Mistoo Itchlin, I am in indignan’ circumstan’s. Mistoo Itchlin, if you know the distwess—Mistoo Itchlin, if you know—’ow bad I ’ate to baw!” The tears stood in his eyes. “It nea’ly kill me to b—” Utterance failed him.

“My friend,” began Richling.

“Mistoo Itchlin,” exclaimed Narcisse, dashing away the tears and striking his hand on his heart, “I am yo’ fwend, seh!”

Richling smiled scornfully. “Well, my good friend, if you had ever kept a single promise made to me I need not have gone since yesterday without a morsel of food.”

Narcisse tried to respond. “Hush!” said Richling, and Narcisse bowed while Richling spoke on. “I haven’t a cent to buy bread with to carry home. And whose fault is it? Is it my fault—or is it yours?”

“Mistoo Itchlin, seh”—

“Hush!” cried Richling, again; “if you try to speak before I finish I’ll thrash you right here in the street!”

Narcisse folded his arms. Richling flushed and flashed with the mortifying knowledge that his companion’s behavior was better than his own.

“If you want to borrow more money of me find me a chance to earn it!” He glanced so suddenly at two or three street lads, who were the only on-lookers, that they shrank back a step.

“Mistoo Itchlin,” began Narcisse, once more, in a tone of polite dismay, “you aztonizh me. I assu’ you, Mistoo Itchlin”—

Richling lifted his finger and shook it. “Don’t you tell me that, sir! I will not be an object of astonishment to you! Not to you, sir! Not to you!” He paused, trembling, his anger and his shame rising together.

Narcisse stood for a moment, silent, undaunted, the picture of amazed friendship and injured dignity, then raised his hat with the solemnity of affronted patience and said:—

“Mistoo Itchlin, seein’ as ’tis you, a puffic gen’leman, ’oo is not goin’ to ’efuse that satisfagtion w’at a gen’leman, always a-’eady to give a gen’leman,—I bid you—faw the pwesen’—good-evenin’, seh!” He walked away.

Richling stood in his tracks dumfounded, crushed. His eyes followed the receding form of the borrower until it disappeared around a distant corner, while the eye of his mind looked in upon himself and beheld, with a shame that overwhelmed anger, the folly and the puerility of his outburst. The nervous strain of twenty-four hours’ fast, without which he might not have slipped at all, only sharpened his self-condemnation. He turned and walked to his house, and all the misery that had oppressed him before he had seen the prison, and all that had come with that sight, and all this new shame, sank down upon his heart at once. “I am not a man! I am not a whole man!” he suddenly moaned to himself. “Something is wanting—oh! what is it?”—he lifted his eyes to the sky,—“what is it?”—when in truth, there was little wanting just then besides food.

He passed in at the narrow gate and up the slippery alley. Nearly at its end was the one window of the room he called home. Just under it—it was somewhat above his head—he stopped and listened. A step within was moving busily here and there, now fainter and now plainer; and a voice, the sweetest on earth to him, was singing to itself in its soft, habitual way.

He started round to the door with a firmer tread. It stood open. He halted on the threshold. There was a small table in the middle of the room, and there was food on it. A petty reward of his wife’s labor had brought it there.

“Mary,” he said, holding her off a little, “don’t kiss me yet.”

She looked at him with consternation. He sat down, drew her upon his lap, and told her, in plain, quiet voice, the whole matter.

“Don’t look so, Mary.”

“How?” she asked, in a husky voice and with flashing eye.

“Don’t breathe so short and set your lips. I never saw you look so, Mary, darling!” She tried to smile, but her eyes filled.

“If you had been with me,” said John, musingly, “it wouldn’t have happened.”

“If—if”—Mary sat up as straight as a dart, the corners of her mouth twitching so that she could scarcely shape a word,—“if—if I’d been there, I’d have made you whip him!” She flouted her handkerchief out of her pocket, buried her face in his neck, and sobbed like a child.

“Oh!” exclaimed the tearful John, holding her away by both shoulders, tossing back his hair and laughing as she laughed,—“Oh! you women! You’re all of a sort! You want us men to carry your hymn-books and your iniquities, too!”

She laughed again.

“Well, of course!”

And they rose and drew up to the board.