seven evenings later we gathered in my study, de grandin, ned and i, and from the little frenchman's shining eyes i knew his quest had been productive of results.
"my friends," he told us solemnly, "i am a clever person, and a lucky one, as well. the morning after my arrival at new orleans i enjoyed three ramos fizzes, then went to sit in city park by the old dueling-oak and wished with all my heart that i had taken four. and while i sat in self-reproachful thought, sorrowing for the drink that i had missed, behold, one passed by whom i recognized. he was my old schoolfellow, paul dubois, now a priest in holy orders and attached to the cathedral of saint louis.
dr. de grandin.
"he took me to his quarters, that good, pious man, and gave me luncheon. it was friday and a fast day, so we fasted. mon dieu, but we did fast! on créole gumbo and oysters à la rockefeller, and baked pompano and little shrimp fried crisp in olive oil and chicory salad and seven different kinds of cheese and wine. when we were so filled with fasting that we could not eat another morsel my old friend took me to another priest, a native of new orleans whose stock of local lore was second only to his marvelous capacity for fine champagne. morbleu, how i admire that one! and now, attend me very carefully, my friends. what he disclosed to me makes many hidden mysteries all clear:
"in new orleans there lived a wealthy family named d'ayen. they possessed much gold and land, a thousand slaves or more, and one fair daughter by the name of julie. when this country bought the louisiana territory from napoléon and your army came to occupy the forts, this young girl fell in love with a young officer, a lieutenant philip merriwell. tenez, army love in those times was no different than it is today, it seems. this gay young lieutenant, he came, he wooed, he won, he rode away, and little julie wept and sighed and finally died of heartbreak. in her lovesick illness she had for constant company a slave, an old mulatress known to most as maman dragonne, but to julie simply as grand'tante, great-aunt. she had nursed our little julie at the breast, and all her life she fostered and attended her. to her little white 'mamselle' she was all gentleness and kindness, but to others she was fierce and frightful, for she was a 'conjon woman,' adept at obeah, the black magic of the congo, and among the blacks she ruled as queen by force of fear, while the whites were wont to treat her with respect and, it was more than merely whispered, retain her services upon occasion. she could sell protection to the duelist, and he who bore her charm would surely conquer on the field of honor; she brewed love-drafts which turned the hearts and heads of the most capricious coquettes or the most constant wives, as occasion warranted; by merely staring fixedly at someone she could cause him to take sick and die, and—here we commence to tread upon our own terrain—she was said to have the power of changing to a snake at will.
"very good. you follow? when poor young julie died of heartbreak it was old maman dragonne—the little white one's grand'tante—who watched beside her bed. it is said she stood beside her mistress' coffin and called a curse upon the fickle lover; swore he would come back and die beside the body of the sweetheart he deserted. she also made a prophecy. julie should have many loves, but her body should not know corruption nor her spirit rest until she could find one to keep his promise and return to her with words of love upon his lips. those who failed her should die horribly, but he who kept his pledge would bring her rest and peace. this augury she made while she stood beside her mistress' coffin just before they sealed it in the tomb in old saint denis cemetery. then she disappeared."
"you mean she ran away?" i asked.
"i mean she disappeared, vanished, evanesced, evaporated. she was never seen again, not even by the people who stood next to her when she pronounced her prophecy."
"but——"
"no buts, my friend, if you will be so kind. years later, when the british stormed new orleans, lieutenant merriwell was there with general andrew jackson. he survived the battle like a man whose life is charmed, though all around him comrades fell and three horses were shot under him. then, when the strife was done, he went to the grand banquet tendered to the victors. while gayety was at its height he abruptly left the table. next morning he was found upon the grass before the tomb of julie d'ayen. he was dead. he died from snake-bite.
"the years marched on and stories spread about the town, stories of a strange and lovely belle dame sans merci, a modern circe who lured young gallants to their doom. time and again some gay young blade of new orleans would boast a conquest. passing late at night through royal street, he would have a flower dropped to him as he walked underneath a balcony. he would meet a lovely girl dressed in the early empire style, and be surprized at the ease with which he pushed his suit; then—upon the trees in chartres street appeared his funeral notices. he was dead, invariably he was dead of snake-bite. parbleu, it got to be a saying that he who died mysteriously must have met the lady of the moonlight as he walked through royal street!"
he paused and poured a thimbleful of brandy in his coffee. "you see?" he asked.
"no, i'm shot if i do!" i answered. "i can't see the connection between——"
"night and breaking dawn, perhaps?" he asked sarcastically. "if two and two make four, my friend, and even you will not deny they do, then these things i have told you give an explanation of our young friend's trouble. this girl he met was most indubitably julie, poor little julie d'ayen on whose tombstone it is carved: 'ici repose malheureusement—here lies unhappily.' the so mysterious snake which menaces young monsieur minton is none other than the aged maman dragonne—grand'tante, as julie called her."
"but ned's already failed to keep his tryst," i objected. "why didn't this snake-woman sting him in the hotel, or——"
"do you recall what julie said when first the snake appeared?" he interrupted. "'not this one, grand'tante!' and again, in the old cemetery when the serpent actually struck at him, she threw herself before him and received the blow. it could not permanently injure her; to earthly injuries the dead are proof, but the shock of it caused her to swoon, it seems. monsieur," he bowed to ned, "you are more fortunate than any of those others. several times you have been close to death, but each time you escaped. you have been given chance and chance again to keep your pledged word to the dead, a thing no other faithless lover of the little julie ever had. it seems, monsieur, this dead girl truly loves you."
"how horrible!" i muttered.
"you said it, doctor trowbridge!" ned seconded. "it looks as if i'm in a spot, all right."
"mais non," de grandin contradicted. "escape is obvious, my friend."
"how, in heaven's name?"
"keep your promised word; go back to her."
"good lord, i can't do that! go back to a corpse, take her in my arms—kiss her?"
"certainement, why not?"
"why—why, she's dead!"
"is she not beautiful?"
"she's lovely and alluring as a siren's song. i think she's the most exquisite thing i've ever seen, but——" he rose and walked unsteadily across the room. "if it weren't for nella," he said slowly, "i might not find it hard to follow your advice. julie's sweet and beautiful, and artless and affectionate as a child; kind, too, the way she stood between me and that awful snake-thing, but—oh, it's out of the question!"
"then we must expand the question to accommodate it, my friend. for the safety of the living—for mademoiselle nella's sake—and for the repose of the dead, you must keep the oath you swore to little julie d'ayen. you must go back to new orleans and keep your rendezvous."
