IV + 

It was one morning in January. Tonie had been collecting a bill from one of the fishmongers at the French Market, in New Orleans, and had turned his steps toward St. Philip street. The day was chilly; a keen wind was blowing. Tonie mechanically buttoned his rough, warm coat and crossed over into the sun. + 

There was perhaps not a more wretched-hearted being in the whole district, that morning, than he. For months the woman he so hopelessly loved had been lost to his sight. But all the more she dwelt in his thoughts, preying upon his mental and bodily forces until his unhappy condition became apparent to all who knew him. Before leaving his home for the winter fishing grounds he had opened his whole heart to his mother, and told her of the trouble that was killing him. She hardly expected that he would ever come back to her when he went away. She feared that he would not, for he had spoken wildly of the rest and peace that could only come to him with death. + 

That morning when Tonie had crossed St. Philip street he found himself accosted by Madame Lebrun and her mother. He had not noticed them approaching, and, moreover, their figures in winter garb appeared unfamiliar to him. He had never seen them elsewhere than at Grand Isle and the Chênière during the summer. They were glad to meet him, and shook his hand cordially. He stood as usual a little helplessly before them. A pulse in his throat was beating and almost choking him, so poignant were the recollections which their presence stirred up. + 

They were staying in the city this winter, they told him. They wanted to hear the opera as often as possible, and the island was really too dreary with everyone gone. Madame Lebrun had left her son there to keep order and superintend repairs, and so on. + 

“You are both well?” stammered Tonie. + 

“In perfect health, my dear Tonie,” Madame Lebrun replied. She was wondering at his haggard eyes and thin, gaunt cheeks; but possessed too much tact to mention them. + 

“And⁠—the young lady who used to go sailing⁠—is she well?” he inquired lamely. + 

“You mean Mlle. Favette? She was married just after leaving Grand Isle.” + 

“No; I mean the one you called Claire⁠—Mamzelle Duvigé⁠—is she well?” + 

Mother and daughter exclaimed together: “Impossible! You haven’t heard? Why, Tonie,” madame continued, “Mlle. Duvigé died three weeks ago. But that was something sad, I tell you!⁠ ⁠… Her family heartbroken⁠ ⁠… Simply from a cold caught by standing in thin slippers, waiting for her carriage after the opera.⁠ ⁠… What a warning!” + 

The two were talking at once. Tonie kept looking from one to the other. He did not know what they were saying, after madame had told him, “Elle est morte.” + 

As in a dream he finally heard that they said goodbye to him, and sent their love to his mother. + 

He stood still in the middle of the banquette when they had left him, watching them go toward the market. He could not stir. Something had happened to him⁠—he did not know what. He wondered if the news was killing him. + 

Some women passed by, laughing coarsely. He noticed how they laughed and tossed their heads. A mockingbird was singing in a cage which hung from a window above his head. He had not heard it before. + 

Just beneath the window was the entrance to a barroom. Tonie turned and plunged through its swinging doors. He asked the bartender for whisky. The man thought he was already drunk, but pushed the bottle toward him nevertheless. Tonie poured a great quantity of the fiery liquor into a glass and swallowed it at a draught. The rest of the day he spent among the fishermen and Barataria oystermen; and that night he slept soundly and peacefully until morning. + 

He did not know why it was so; he could not understand. But from that day he felt that he began to live again, to be once more a part of the moving world about him. He would ask himself over and over again why it was so, and stay bewildered before this truth that he could not answer or explain, and which he began to accept as a holy mystery. + 

One day in early spring Tonie sat with his mother upon a piece of driftwood close to the sea. + 

He had returned that day to the Chênière Caminada. At first she thought he was like his former self again, for all his old strength and courage had returned. But she found that there was a new brightness in his face which had not been there before. It made her think of the Holy Ghost descending and bringing some kind of light to a man. + 

She knew that Mademoiselle Duvigné was dead, and all along had feared that this knowledge would be the death of Tonie. When she saw him come back to her like a new being, at once she dreaded that he did not know. All day the doubt had been fretting her, and she could bear the uncertainty no longer. + 

“You know, Tonie⁠—that young lady whom you cared for⁠—well, someone read it to me in the papers⁠—she died last winter.” She had tried to speak as cautiously as she could. + 

“Yes, I know she is dead. I am glad.” + 

It was the first time he had said this in words, and it made his heart beat quicker. + 

Ma’me Antoine shuddered and drew aside from him. To her it was somehow like murder to say such a thing. + 

“What do you mean? Why are you glad?” she demanded, indignantly. + 

Tonie was sitting with bis elbows on his knees. He wanted to answer his mother, but it would take time; he would have to think. He looked out across the water that glistened gem-like with the sun upon it, but there was nothing there to open his thought. He looked down into his open palm and began to pick at the callous flesh that was hard as a horse’s hoof. Whilst he did this his ideas began to gather and take form. + 

“You see, while she lived I could never hope for anything,” he began, slowly feeling his way. “Despair was the only thing for me. There were always men about her. She walked and sang and danced with them. I knew it all the time, even when I didn’t see her. But I saw her often enough. I knew that some day one of them would please her and she would give herself to him⁠—she would marry him. That thought haunted me like an evil spirit.” + 

Tonie passed his hand across his forehead as if to sweep away anything of the horror that might have remained there. + 

“It kept me awake at night,” he went on. “But that was not so bad; the worst torture was to sleep, for then I would dream that it was all true.” + 

“Oh, I could see her married to one of them⁠—his wife⁠—coming year after year to Grand Isle and bringing her little children with her! I can’t tell you all that I saw⁠—all that was driving me mad! But now”⁠—and Tonie clasped his hands together and smiled as he looked again across the water⁠—“she is where she belongs; there is no difference up there; the curé has often told us there is no difference between men. It is with the soul that we approach each other there. Then she will know who has loved her best. That is why I am so contented. Who knows what may happen up there?” + 

Ma’me Antoine could not answer. She only took her son’s big, rough hand and pressed it against her. + 

“And now, ma mère,” he exclaimed, cheerfully, rising, “I shall go light the fire for your bread; it is a long time since I have done anything for you,” and he stooped and pressed a warm kiss on her withered old cheek. + 

With misty eyes she watched him walk away in the direction of the big brick oven that stood open-mouthed under the lemon trees. + 