Ghost Stories of Old New Orleans

The Lost Pearl

('874) The Lost Pearl Late in January of 1874, two Orleanians, Hubert Grahame and Numa Pilot, went on a hunting trip. Returning with wellfilled gamebags, they thought to save time by taking a shorter route home. They were near Lake Pontchartrain, and turned to cross what was then known as the "cut-off," in Bayou Saint-Jean. It was nearly dark, and the white shell road underfoot was only a gray ribbon blending with the dusk. "We'll both have fine dinners tomorrow," remarked Grahame as they crossed the little bridge. "I promised my brotherin -law a brace of rabbits, but I'll do much better than that by him." "It was becasse I was after," returned his friend, "and I got twenty or more, besides a dozen becassine. My wife stuffs them with truffes—which is hard on my pockelbook, but worth the expenditure." "Ah," rejoined the other, "you make my mouth water. It'll be pitch dark before we get home, and I am already starved." "Of course," grinned Pilot. "Wait a momeni while I light a cigar." A brisk wind was blowing, and Grahame held his cap in a way lhal would shield ihe feeble flame of Pilol's spullering sulphur malch. As ihe malch flared higher il made a dazzling splolch of lighl againsl ihe blackness of ihe swamp. They had just stepped off the bridge. As the flame leaped up ihey saw a woman slanding close beside ihem. She seemed 327 328 Ghost Stories of Old New Orleans to have sprung from nowhere, and both men stared in astonishment. She was a young woman, scarcely more than a girl, and she was dressed all in black. Her hair shone like pale gold, and there were little ringlets on her white forehead. Lying across her shoulder was a tiny babe, sleeping sweetly, its long white dress, with tucks and lace, like a cloud of gauze against the young woman's black gown. She clasped the infant tightly, almost jealously, as though she were afraid someone might attempt to wrest it from her arms. "Ah, madame, pardonnez-moi!" exclaimed Pitot, seeing that they stood directly in her path. "It is dark—we did not see you coming." She answered not a word, nor even glanced in their direction . Instead, she crossed the road, stepped to the edge of the bridge, and walked . . . where? There was only one place to go—the water, dark and deep and slow-moving, creeping with the queer night creatures which stared out into the shadows with strange, unblinking eyes, wriggling their slimy bodies along the wet banks and among the bayou plants. No splash, no cry, no rippling of the muddy waters. And yet—the woman was gone. Had she suffered from some mental agony so keen and cruel that the waters understood and received her soundlessly? Who was she, that she came out here to drown herself and her slumbering babe? It had all happened in an instant. The two men gaped at each other in bewilderment. "Now, what did she go and do that for?" gasped Grahame, dropping his cap in his perplexity. "A pretty ending to a fine day's hunting, I should say—watching a woman commit suicide !" "I never saw anything so quick," said Pitot. "One moment she was here, so close we could have touched her—and then she was walking right into the bayou. We must try to rescue her, Hubert—we can't let her drown like that!" Dropping his bag and gun, he stripped off his coat and shoes. In a moment he was floundering in the murky bayou, splashing about in an effort to locate the woman. In vain he searched. "The water's icy," Grahame called from the bridge. "You'd She answered not a word . . . 33° Ghost Stories of Old New Orleans better climb out and we'll try to get help. No use catching your death of cold—she's beyond help by this time, anyhow." Finally Pitot hoisted himself onto the bridge. "I can't imagine what became of her," he puffed. "She went down right here, I know she did, and she never rose. But I never touched anything. Ugh, I'm cold—and the water's a stinking mess!" He pulled on his coat and shoes, and they started away. "We're sure to meet somebody," Grahame said. "They'll probably know who she...