Argosy and Railroad Man's Magazine — page 50: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

392 We made out.way under the vast, low, weather-beaten shed, through bawling ven- dors of the season’s products, past the odor- ots fish and meat stalls to a fragrant spot near the early fruits. We sat down on little wooden benches against big, square posts with long mirrors at our backs. A little octoroon ran forward asking if we would have coffee au lait or coffee noir. French, English, Spanish, and creple— the latter a compound of the first three— mingled in a confusing babble, with shrill cries and joyous laughter. Old carriages and the modern car passed us. Sitting there watching. what was to me the strangest scene in America, we drank strong coffee and nibbled rice-cakes and “ stage-planks.” New York seemed very far away. Negroes, octoroons, and whites crowded around Nita, each trying to give her some of his wares. Directly the market-house folk began hurriedly and silently to disperse as by a sudden word or sign of mutual con- sent. I turned in some surprise. De Charleu stood just behind me. How he had found us he did not say. Nita did not ask. It was plain to see that the market folk felt none of the warmth toward him that they had evinced at sight of his wife. I wondered in a vague way how he had got Tid of his guest so as to reach the market almost as soon as we did, and whether he had come on purpose to meet us. He helped us into the carriage; then took the vacant seat beside Uncle Jesse. He faced back toward us, however, and began to talk in his easy way, the while his eyes left my face now and again in quick flashes at his wife. He pointed out quaint shops, antique stores, and old mansions, telling me many pretty legends about them, and curious superstitions. “There is the haunted house once occu- pied by Louis Philippe and also by Lafay- ette,” he said. “One of them still occupies it,” he laughed. “But surely the De Charleus haven’t—” I began. “A ghost? We have a legend and a curse. We are pursued by a pair of fantom hands,” he said lightly. ‘“ Nearly two hun- dred years ago a De Charleu cut off his ARGOSY AND RAILROAD MAN’S MAGAZINE, young wife’s hands because he saw them caressing another man’s head. With the aid of her old nurse she committed suicide. The count, her husband, buried her in the court because she was unworthy to lie in the vault with his people. “He built the fountain over her to sig- nify his overflowing joy that she had left no children to reign over the house of De Charleu. He was the first to see the fan- tom hands. They followed him every- where; haunted, tortured him, until he hanged himself in his room, after leaving in a note the prophetic curse that has fol- lowed us. “Tt was a long time before they were seen again. Then one night they appeared to one of the De Charleus. He had blown out the candle and retired, and they were suddenly on the wall—white as marble against the blackness of the room. The next day he killed his best friend over a game of cards; and shot himself after he realized what he had done. “From that time on the hands have al- ways appeared before a tragedy in the fam- ily. Usually they have signified that the one to whom they appeared, would, with his own hands, do a cruel murder; not al- ways; but they meant, at least, death by violence. “My own great-grandfather saw them and killed his wife and himself.” His eyes were on Nita’s face, not mine, and they seemed to hold a menace. “And,” he added significantly, “it has been our cus- tom this past century to choose some gala time for a family tragedy—as if we would end with laughter, in spite of the curse. We are always on the watch for it when the city is in full dress.” “You surely do not believe such—” I began. He shrugged his shoulders. “I must. The history of our family is in the proof. Is it not so, ma chére?” he said to Nita, who sat curiously rigid beside me. His eyes glittered strangely even while he smiled; and his lightly spoken words had an ugly sound. Here was, somehow, the key to Nita’s regard of her hands. Just what the relation might be I was at a loss to understand. comicbooks- com