A Louisiana Purchase

CHAPTER I

The Arrival

There was no division between the earth and the sky. There was only the sound of swirling water as ‘The Pride of New Orleans,’ a most majestic riverboat, belched a final gasp of pollutants from its stacks, and glided—with staggering effort—through the dense gray veil of a winter morning toward the crescent curve of the Mississippi River. Pacing its sodden deck—from port to starboard and back again—a young traveler observed the jagged shards of almost palpable clouds as they intertwined with the mist that arose from the hidden waters. As he watched, feathery plumes of wood smoke drifting from the land merged with both sea and sky; their couplings obscuring the hoped-for view of the landing site. He grew impatient to reacquaint himself with the city’s legendary appeal: New Orleans—his New Orleans—was hidden behind those funereal clouds, as they metamorphosed—from powdery plump cherubs—into molten-leaden gargoyles. Was this an omen of his homecoming? Damn this shroud! He knew that the sun would ultimately burn a pathway for the pilot’s guidance, but the pallid sun would not reach its true effectiveness for hours, and the passengers on the paddle-wheeler had reached that unhappy state where tolerance and readiness collide. So near, and yet so far.

* * *

Louis-David Bertrand Henri de Sévigné, aged two and twenty, had been born into this land of rich promise—the fruits of the 1803 purchase—but had not seen his homeland during his years of study in Paris. How unfitting, he mused, that my return should be masked in these despondent shades of gray. It is not at all how I remembered La Nouvelle Orléans. I envisioned her in less stark a contrast—contradictions of brilliant colors, yes—but not just black and white or a dismal gray! Bertrand knew that the mystical image of his beloved city must soon materialize from these underdeveloped shadows, the product of a cold December light. Would that image do justice to his memory? He would have to balance his intimate knowledge with the face she now showed to the world. In exchange, his own new self would be revealed, but would she—the city of his birthing—recognize him? He had changed in so many ways, and had grown to worldly manhood. His simple, child-of-the-earth spirit had been retained and was ready for a new life to begin. This was the terminus of his journey from France—the completion of his education—and the return to his home and his family.

It was the winter holiday season in the year of our Lord: 1839.

CHAPTER II

Bertrand

Bertrand de Sévigné was a victim of nature’s incongruity: an ordinary man to whom extraordinary things ‘happened’—sometimes to his favor, other times to his regret—but seldom through his singular fault. He hoped that this day would not be regrettable; it was the first day of his return to his native New Orleans, the first day of his new life.

The initial realization of his abnormal attraction for bizarre experiences appeared to a black house servant when Bertrand was but five years of age: a dead, slack-jawed snake was found at the side of his bed; its body ripped from within by the unusually sharp spine of a hard-skinned iguana. How either creature had found its way to an upper-floor bedroom, or into so unnaturally fatal positioning, could not be readily explained, not even by an application of prevailing voodoo rationale.

At nine, Bertrand and several companions—cavorting in a bayou swimming hole—were savagely attacked by an alligator. Most of his friends suffered injuries varying from slight to critical. Bertrand remained unscathed, but for a few bruises acquired in aid to his companions; others were less fortunate.

By age thirteen, La Nouvelle Orléans had already revealed (and Bertrand had joyfully indulged in) most of its legendary seductive vices. As a planter’s son, his sexual awakening had been arranged in the typical custom of the day: with a young, black female slave on his father’s plantation—one who was presumed to be virginal—or, at least, broken to the ritual of droit de seigneur, the medieval right to deflower a new bride by the lord of the realm. Unfortunately, Bertrand was stricken with an uncontrollable wave of nausea and vomiting that shocked and horrified his father and postponed the initiation for several days—whereupon he did the deed to the satisfaction of one and all—but with a more comely partner. The nausea was attributed to ill-prepared game. It was during that pause, however, that the original slave selected for Bertrand’s initiation was discovered to be afflicted with the ‘French disease’—courtesy of a rapacious overseer, who suffered the dual consequences of the disease and his abrupt dismissal.

Bertrand excused his own reaction to servitude abuse as youthful, humanitarian concern, rather than revulsion, and to prove his manliness—on his next birthday—performed more than adequately at Madame Feydeau’s bordello, with three newly-arrived, young and attractive purveyors of pleasure, their accolades for the birthday boy’s staying power becoming legend. Sadly, several other members of the birthday party fell victim to the risks resulting from exposure to the world’s oldest profession. Once again, Bertrand remained unscathed.

In his early years, Bertrand’s friendships were few, but acquaintances were numerous. Access to his ‘inner-being’ was not only guarded by his own selectivity, but restricted by the father—under the blanket explanation of parental protection. It was as though a tether had yanked him away from any closeness, or significant relationship, with another.

Bertrand became obsessed with ‘religion’ and soon weighed the prospect of taking the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience within the Catholic Church. His intentions were encouraged by his mother, who was of that faith, but aborted by his father, who was fanatic about Bertrand’s providing him with a grandson and heir. It was the revelation that his grandfather’s entire family had been converted from Judaism to Christianity—several years prior to the French Revolution—that caused Bertrand to question many religions, and found them all wanting. None, except his sister, was privy to his subliminal conflict about an adopted faith. He thus declared religion a non-issue, but accepted his mother’s ministering of his religious education. Bertrand considered it an unnatural relinquishment to share his inner views. There were often periods of non-communication and introspection while questions were posed and answers sought from within himself. There were few with whom his confidences had been entrusted: Antoine, his close friend, a son of a lumber mill owner; and his sister, Ariel, when she had reached that phase of adolescence where females are considered to have developed a parallel maturity with older males. Etienne, his father’s dutiful servant and Bertrand’s mentor, was another confidante, but neither father nor mother had been so honored, except in the most basic communication between a child and a parent. Few, if any, male or female, managed to penetrate the barriers he had constructed to protect the ultimate sharing of privacy, confidences, or emotional involvement, which neither aloofness nor condescension were requisite to maintain. Bertrand’s younger sibling, Ariel, remained his primary confidante and confessor. No womb-shared bonding could have been substituted for their closeness. His interests in the pictorial arts, and hers in the world of literature, proved perfect foils for the two, extending well into their teens. Others failed to detract from their closeness, although they tried.

Bertrand’s lack of a desire toward social commitment had seemed the trait of a dilettante to his parents, as well as to their friends and acquaintances with eligible daughters. His charm, manners, and pleasant disposition had, nevertheless, made him welcome to every home and ballroom. Forthrightness, sincerity in casual intercourse, good health, and the ability to go cup-for-cup with his drinking companions—as well as to attract the prettiest members of the opposite sex—made him more than welcome in male society. Bertrand’s attentiveness to the ladies was often construed as flirtatious—and an invitation to closer involvement, a characteristic frowned upon by many a Creole parent, but relished and reciprocated ultimately by les jeune filles.

Prior to the transfer of Louisiana into the process of Americanization, an advanced education in France was considered by a Creole as de rigueur. The influx of English-speaking Northerners had made drastic changes in Louisiana’s educational curriculum an absolute necessity. Advanced education in the professions and the arts was attainable exclusively in Europe or in few of the northern states. Louisiana’s allegiance had been solely to its mother country, France, but statehood made a new allegiance of primary importance; the language of commerce became the new mother tongue. In due time, Bertrand’s education had come to an uncharted crossroad, and a compromise had to be reached. A talent for portrait painting had been endorsed by no lesser authorities on art than John James Audubon, an artist and family acquaintance; and Dominique Canova, New Orleans’ most respected muralist and an instructor in art at Jefferson College in Convent. Both had been shown some of Bertrand’s sketches, and immediately determined that exposure to Europe’s heritage of portrait artists was a must for the budding artist. Even though his own talents had been encouraged in Milan, Mr. Canova saw Paris as the city for Bertrand’s development rather than any location on either continent. There was little doubt that Bertrand would learn well in the proximity to the canvasses of an Ingres, a David, a Delacroix, a Gros, or a Girodet; his graphite sketches already approximated those masters at a similar age.

It is the brush that will be the true test of his talents, Monsieur Canova had stated. "There are far too few masterpieces in our galleries, and they are too far apart to be considered for instruction. Yes, Paris must be his first destination—then Rome and Amsterdam—for a bit of lagniappe! In the final analysis, however; it was Monsieur Canova’s dictum that carried the greater weight than Monsieur Audubon’s. The boy has talent, Monsieur de Sévigné; his sketches show real introspection. They are not mere caricatures like those precious silhouettes of which the ladies are so fond. They are portraits! Your son captures something of the true presence of his subjects. The talent should be fostered. The galleries of Europe and its academies are the exposure Bertrand needs. An apprenticeship to a native artist would be a disservice to the boy! Several years abroad will produce an artistic talent of which we can all be proud, of this I feel most certain."

How simply it had transpired: the portfolio was viewed, an opinion had been expressed, and a decision ensued. Bertrand’s life had been inexorably altered; he would study abroad! It was not an uncommon thing for the scions of wealthy planters to be educated abroad, but this was not to be the standard schooling; the arts were involved. Bertrand’s studies were to be extended beyond the classical training, and into the ateliers of Paris. He had known for some years about his father’s plans for him. He was reluctant to dream of such a course, even though his desires were in complete accord; they were never elicited.

‘Education’ in the arts, in the Paris of 1836, could be considered ‘diverse,’ and well beyond a structured program. To Bertrand, it was all merely lagniappe—those delectable extras, in which he proudly excelled—that included riding lessons, fencing, acquiring a few (not too sizable) gambling debts, and disposing of a generous allowance for modest sowing of his seed without descending into the pitfalls of being labeled a ‘rake’—all of which were considered essential traits toward a healthy lifestyle for a Creole aristocrat.

Before he had departed for his studies, Bertrand had been a minor observer of the New Orleans cosmopolitan scene. Now he aspired to becoming a major participant in its urbane circus.

Bertrand was well aware that he was possessed of a countenance that was difficult to categorize. He was endowed with pleasant features which, though not of Olympian standard, were quick to capture the female glance. Likewise, he could not be considered as uncontestedly handsome; the sun and the tropics had left him with minor blemishes, and even a few scars that were attributable to childhood carelessness. His penetrating, dark hazel eyes were framed by arcanely arched brows set against pale skin that bore a hint of olive, while generous lips underlined a recently introduced moustache and a firm but heavily-shadowed jaw that, on occasion, conveyed a lusty virility to many an intrigued female. At just under two meters, Bertrand’s lithe, athletic frame made him appear taller, and a cascading cap of dark chestnut-brown hair made him look younger than his chronological years. His no-nonsense hands were articulate in their gestures; firm, yet aesthetic. His feet were quite the opposite—long and wide—definitely not an aristocratic feature, but a secure foundation and, fortunately, without the curse of clumsiness. His persona took on a wholly new dimension on the dance floor due, in part, to a shapely thigh and superb posture. The ladies of all ages, needless to say, were charmed by his agility and his manner. Such an exotic image hinted at a broad origin of cultures that spanned the Mediterranean, from the Iberian peninsula to the Levant. Bertrand had been mistaken, on innumerable occasions, for Spanish, Italian, Greek, Irish—and even full Arabian. In truth, Bertrand was one of New Orleans’ many pampered young French Creole sons.

Having been raised along New Orleans’ placid Bayou St. John, Bertrand had been strongly influenced by the vagaries of a diabolically oppressive climate and the dangers posed by tropical insects and the denizens of the swamp-like terrain. In private, Bertrand’s clothing was frequently shed, and his body exposed to light and air. Water was his friend and ally, and he felt comfortable whether submerged in its shallow depths or gliding over its glassy surface in a native pirogue. He was as one with the delights of the virginal swamp as well as the cultivated gardens of New Orleans. His outlook on life assumed a hedonistic overtone wherein if it was natural, it was good. Ultimately, he would give his philosophy a more adult aphorism that advocated: moderation in all things.

Social values and social graces—many of which were alien to the urbane views of La Nouvelle Orléans—were encountered in great rapidity when Bertrand arrived in Paris. Acceptance by one’s peers is seldom an issue for a child of nature. Bertrand was appraised by his new acquaintances as a personality not worthy to the proletariat—and was, unhesitatingly elevated into the sexually ambivalent world of an aristocratic Bohemia that prevailed in the Paris of 1836. Bertrand was willingly transported and found much to incorporate in his philosophies. His Parisian education thus served to refine his previous social skills—and, in passing, added several new ones. Bertrand’s indoctrination was undertaken with the zeal of a religious convert. He was adjudged a connoisseur of erotic indulgence within a single summer.

Philosophies inevitably change geographically, and Bertrand’s was altered, inexorably, during his sojourn abroad. Les belles de Paris were more than delighted to contribute to his advanced education in the arts of love. He was a deliriously apt student. The former maxim was thus modified from moderation in all things to an addendum of "but, by all means, all things!"

In the final analysis, Bertrand’s debaucheries proved unsatisfying. He was cognizant of the destructiveness of his hedonism, and foresaw that his student years would be but a modest precursor to his adult proclivities. Their lack of validation—the yielding to sybaritic temptation—proved an empty lesson. Life was far worthier of investigation than mere indulgence in one deadly sin!

He was intrigued by the ease with which the ladies of Paris were able to enter into a liaison while the ladies of New Orleans (as far as he knew) were too closely observed to be able to give rein to such dalliances.

Bertrand had felt only marginally rebellious against the perceived yardsticks of his country’s middle-class morality; accomplishment, respect, recognition, acquisition, family, status, all those things expected of him—by his father primarily—but a total rejection of such values was not in his makeup. He was a survivor, and must not succumb to the simple-mindedness of an unchecked rogue existence. His epiphany was a salvation of sorts; he resolved to partake of his newfound freedoms but in moderation. Bertrand noted introspectively that a moderation of lust is a contradiction of some magnitude; it would have to be achieved or the consequences would result in his inevitable downfall.

Bertrand had left his homeland with the perception that he was not a particularly aggressive young man. His return would be as a libidinous champion, not unlike the religieuse lusting for a spectral god. His cerebral conformity, however, would accede to the standards set by his father and the elders of his community. Laissez-faire would be easy to preach but not easy to achieve.

CHAPTER III

New Orleans

As the morning mists parted, Bertrand shuddered, "We are so much alike, this city and I. We have weathered the years with more than our share of mercurial occurrences—all not of our doing—that it is wonder that this citizenry and I have been able to retain our perspectives. How could the good people of New Orleans have reacted in other than utter disbelief at their being disenfranchised twice in the span of forty years—to be foisted off to a Spanish Bourbon in 1762 by Louis XV and again to the United States in 1805 by the First Consul of France, Napoleon Bonaparte—both times because of a threat from England? Ironically, the citizens of New Orleans were not made aware of the 1763 ceding of the territory to Charles III of Spain until two years later; and it was not until 1766 that a Spanish governor arrived to claim his prize. Needless to say, he was not met with open arms, but rather with open hostility and acts of rebellion. For forty years the animosity festered.

It was an additional slap in the face to the community when, in 1803, it was learned that the Louisiana Territory had been secretly returned to France in 1800 as reparation for Napoleon’s successful Peninsular War. The Cabildo was stunned by the negligence of their mother country.

In perhaps the greatest example of political obfuscation, it was the 1802 Spanish governor’s cancellation of a 1795 treaty with the United States for navigation of the Mississippi River—and the right to deposit goods in New Orleans without payment of duty—that led to President Thomas Jefferson’s efforts to acquire New Orleans. The Spanish governor was not aware that Spain had been forced to return the Louisiana Territory to France under the secret treaty of San Ildefonso in 1800, and that cancellation of the 1795 treaty was totally illegal. Spain no longer owned it.

In 1803, Monsieur de Laussat, who was sent by the First Consul, Napoleon Bonaparte, to correct this serious oversight, was instead compelled to lower the Spanish flag over the Cabildo, raise the French flag ten days later, lower it, then replace it with the flag of the United States of America. Within minutes the Louisiana Territory—consisting of 838 thousand square miles of land—was added to the existing United States to make it one of the world’s super powers. On April 30, 1812, the flag of the State of Louisiana was raised over the Cabildo. New Orleans was firmly a part of those United States of America.

* * *

"Welcome to La Nouvelle Orléans, mon ami, Bertrand spouted in a heavy French speech pattern that belied his New World origin. You will fit right in like a hand in a well-worn glove! She will take you to her bosom like the cocotte that she is! Desire anything of her and it is a fait accompli."

Bertrand winced at the wording—without having been exposed to the steady infiltration of American influence—the French Creole patois had been easy to maintain on his trip abroad. After all, he reflected, there were so few in Paris who spoke the true French; one more variation made little difference.

I must admit, I like the sound of that, the taller man acquiesced—with a boyishly knowing grin—amused, in part, by his companion’s Gallic accent. Bertrand managed his insertions of hastily recalled Americanisms, feeling that they were a last minute attempt to resuscitate a tongue not used for many months.

‘English’ or, rather, the bastardized version of that language spoken by Americans, now appeared in complete control of the city’s commercial interaction. German, Italian, Spanish, and Irish could be heard within a few feet of one another.

We had best gather our belongings and offer a few coins for some assistance at the landing. I perceive how we might be compelled to travel a distance before getting to your carriage. Clay’s words were somewhat premature in their assessment, however; Bertrand did not hesitate to enlighten the young friend of his familiarity with the docking procedures.

"We still have a distance to cover, mon ami. There are a few formalities before we can depart, but I fear you are correct in your assumptions; we shall have to wait to dock against the levee. Let us delay until the other passengers have prodded their way ashore. The carriage will wait. Meanwhile, feast your eyes on my city! The haze should be burned off before long and this is an excellent spot from which to view it emerging."

In the misty middle ground they could discern the contours of the Place d’Armes—carelessly manicured, but beckoning them to its miniscule sea of tranquility—though this was not her most stylish season. Spread out before them rose the Cabildo and the Presbytere along with the second of the Catholic edifices to bear the name; The Cathedral of Saint Louis. The square was flanked by somber buildings that sought relief from their dullness with snippets of dark, lacy grillwork. The morning haze gave the city a wretchedly drab countenance, but it did not deflect the prodigal’s enthusiasm.

There, on the left, Bertrand pointed to the twin spires of the cathedral knowing it required no identification, and there, observe it is a remnant of our Spanish past: The Cabildo. Much of the city functions from there. Look at the ships; I have never seen such a clutter!

Tethered several vessels deep against the wharf, there arose out of the mists a frenzied calligraphy of naked, cruciform masts slashing the color-blanched sky. Their semblance to madhouse delineation was not lost to Bertrand’s aesthetically-conditioned mind. He wondered if his friend’s observations were as critical. The burgeoning waterfront extended out much farther than he remembered it, groping toward the dimly defined horizon where it was lost in a blur of dark, unidentifiable trees. The city’s fringe areas were still ornamented by graceful palmetto and paw-paw trees, but the once-heavy undergrowth was now relegated to the opposite shore of the river, well beyond the water-bound stumps of cypress, or the gnarled network of mangrove roots. Not a blade of grass or leafy bough marred the levee.

"The true city—the Vieux Carré, as we know it—is back in there on the right. It is now referred to as the ‘French Quarter’ since the Americans have established a counterculture on the other side of that broad space. We refer to that span as the ‘neutral zone’! The competition with the Union arrivistes has been quite keen at times; it has developed into a real tug-of-war ever since the ‘Purchase.’ We have theatre and opera in French and English. And our rues have been relabeled ‘streets.’ Is that not a glove to the face? Even our ten-dollar banknotes have been bastardized into ‘dix-ees,’ and our state rechristened ‘dix-ee-land’!"

As Bertrand spoke—jumping increasingly from French to English in an effort to make a rapid readjustment into the community—he knew that shops would change and merchandise be renamed. It had been going on since the area became a state in ‘12.

Where is the magnificence that but a short time ago I had compared so favorably to the real France? Have I been hypnotized, disillusioned, perhaps, or does the mind play tricks with one’s memories? Has my city disappeared completely, or is it hidden under this damnable penetrating fog? Was it dull-fostered out of recognition by the intimidating river—so commandingly hostile—nearby? Bertrand’s increasing volume of questions would not have the satisfaction of being readily answered.

"I must acquaint myself with whole new attitudes and demeanors, not just the cosmetic changes to my city. The façades are little changed in the landing area, but I must be reacquainted with parishes that I thought I knew and understood—both its passages and its people. Now I realize that changes have occurred within me as well. My old friends—my family, too—shall have to learn about the new me! At least my new friend, Clay, can see it all through unfamiliar eyes. He must tell me all that he sees and learns about the city. It will, most certainly, be as foreign an experience to him as it was for me in Paris. He will have to contend with the language barrier, unless that, too, has been obliterated in my absence. I suspect he will have less difficulty adjusting than I. He does seem to have a quick grasp of a situation. I am obligated to offer him whatever help I can. I warrant, however, that he will seek out his own destiny without my guidance; ‘Kaintuck’ does not require a nursemaid!" Bertrand had learned this from his observations of the river-boatmen who regularly invaded the city on their one-way journey aboard overloaded flatboats. The sold-off lumber from those vessels would be recycled into new structures, while the boatmen would return to their up-river homes via the ever-increasing volume of paddle-wheelers able to navigate in both directions.

It was the river, ironically, that was the most arbitrarily influential factor in the welfare of the communities on its banks. It controlled their destinies as it moved imperiously in its commercial ventures, but it shifted from benign to despotic when the waters angrily challenged their boundaries. Those in its path suffered the contempt of a mighty power for intruding upon her domain. The results were often catastrophic. Conversely, fires had laid waste to vast acres without any assistance from man, although that insatiable element had played a significant role in the ruinous destruction of New Orleans in 1788, and again in 1794. The Phoenix had been roused, again and again; each time more splendidly than before.

Bertrand proceeded to wax eloquently about his city:

New Orleans, as a foreign outpost of France, has existed side-by-side for two hundred years with the American colonies and the new republic. Now, less than forty years as a part of the United States, she is considered the fourth largest port in the world. She far excels any other city in the New World in its singularly exotic offerings of temptations and vices. Wine, women, and song are amateur definitions of its offerings. Prurient interests are catered to—in the shadows of the city’s recesses—by tawdry vendors who ply their scabrous profession with efficiency and dispatch.

Bertrand knew that he spoke with authority, for every adult male was well aware of the city’s opportunities for the libertine.

On a more visible level, fencing salons prevail—against civil constraints—to promote daily (and sometimes deadly) duals amidst our noble oaks; they most urbanely cease at the first drawing of blood. Horse racing—though viewed by many with a jaundiced eye—parades as ‘The Sport of Kings’ and draws fashionable crowds, as do all other games of chance in less visible gambling dens. Cock-fights are flaunted openly, even though totally illegal. The resultant body parts of mutilated fowls are recycled under the menacing shadow of voodoo, where a spell can be cast for love or evil in exchange for one’s soul. Admittance to the finest abodes—to learn the secrets of their occupants—is accomplished by ex-slave hairdressers and their backstairs co-conspirators. Land, slaves, cotton, and sugar cane are the commodities on which currency is based and all are shamelessly—and very profitably—exploited. It is the accepted mode of plantation economics. ‘Cotton is King!’ is boldly shouted, much to the aggravation of the world outside of the South’s growing confines. New Orleans society’s closely-meshed structure caters not only to the excesses of the flesh but panders as well to the cultural soporifics for its citizenry.

Bertrand paused and reflected that his diatribe had illuminated only the most sordid scenes of his beloved city, and made haste to amend that perception:

My fellow Creoles enjoy the best of theatre, opera, orchestral concerts, vocal recitals by international favorites, gala ballets, and splendid masked balls, all of which are still awaiting their debuts in most of the Union’s larger cities. New Orleans thrives under a uniquely public suspension of the rules of propriety; those who fall under her spell often remain as willing hostages.

Bertrand had sorely missed his city and was chafing to be returned to her fold. The thought brought a gasp and then a lump to his throat before he became aware that his friend was speaking to him:

In which direction is your home, Bertrand? Can we see it from here?

Clay delivered the native son from his reveries.

"Mais non, mon ami. The Esplanade house is beyond the Vieux Carré. The plantation house is on the Bayou St. John, out towards the lake. It is not a working plantation. The city’s streets will eventually reach our door. Maman and my sister, Ariel, spend most of the summer there while mon pére remains in town. However, they shall be at the Esplanade for the holidays and the winter’s social events; of that I can be certain!"

Are you as certain I shall not be an inconvenience? I still feel guilty about accepting your hospitality before you have had the opportunity to notify your family.

"Nonsense, Clay. The garçonniere is easily readied for gentlemen guests; it has served several quite satisfactorily. It is not a problem. And when my parents learn how you rescued me from a certain fate in Natchez, I am secure that you will be received with open arms."

Although Bertrand felt confident of such a reception for his new friend, there was still much that remained unexplored about the forthright young visitor from Kentucky that would, undoubtedly, be queried by the de Sévigné family—and particularly by his sister, Ariel, whose ability to unleash such information was uncanny.

You are too generous with your praise, Bertrand. The situation was rife with danger, yes, but you were doing an excellent job of acquitting yourself against those villains when I arrived on the scene, Henry Clay continued.

I would not have endured for long with such odds. Your arrival did the trick, my friend, and your final clout to the head of that foul-smelling lad really sent them running to their hovels, Bertrand responded.

The question had remained unasked and, therefore unexplained, but the moment now seemed auspicious for the Kentuckian’s pursuit.

Whatever possessed you to enter that den without even a pistol for protection? Your throat could have been slit for a ‘kerchief’!

Bertrand hesitated in his response. He was still not certain what had lured him to enter the proscribed area. Was it the sound of revelry off in the distance, the temptation of ‘forbidden fruit,’ or was it the buxom slattern who preceded him on that path? He realized that any answer would be an excuse.

I did not perceive the area as truly dangerous. It has been several years since I have even heard it whispered about. We have our own ‘district’ in New Orleans—referred to as the ‘Swamp.’ Some of my companions profess to have ventured into that den of iniquity without incident, but I doubt the veracity of such claims, for the women of the Swamp are reputed to be Amazons with the inclination of opiated scorpions, and men have been found bloodied and naked in the gutter after a session with one of those females. Fortuitously, Bertrand mused, the woman in Natchez had disappeared before the ambuscade.

Your reward is well-earned, Monsieur. Do not deprive me of my small token of appreciation, and your companionship as well. Your stay on the Esplanade will be far more comfortable than at one of those overpriced, or flea-infested accommodations in the city. Now, I do believe we have reached the moment of our departure. The passengers are almost gone.

The two companions charted a path toward the levee following the last stragglers to leave the riverboat. As they traversed the cloistered vessel, the air became alive with the sounds of the waterfront. Before them, there appeared endless avenues of cotton bales, barrels, hogsheads, and kegs of goods awaiting shipment on the unseasonably clogged area. It was a bit unusual for so much late cargo—a delayed ship, no doubt. Surely they could not all be for the Christmas bonfires! Oh, what a lovely conflagration that would make!

Bertrand watched as through the panorama of the waterfront there emerged a ribbon of life that encompassed white, black, brown, and red skins of varying shades and origins. Slaves and free-people-of-color were in the majority, but attire signaled the participation of Choctaw, Mexican, German, Italian and Irish. The cacophonous interplay of their dialects was awesome to the unconditioned ear. Body scents were masked only minimally by the cool air while the pungent smells of stale tobacco and whiskey blended with damp, raw leather and grease-stained blankets.

At the start of the new century in New Orleans (as in many European cities) businesses, shops, markets and taverns remained open on Sundays. The day of rest was unenforced in this Catholic community since statehood had altered the demographics as Americans had entered the workplace. This condition added to the city’s reputation for corruption and sin, although the planter aristocracy left such temptations to their less-occupied progeny—at least outwardly—and the bourgeoisie were too preoccupied amassing money to partake of the leisures at their disposal. The attendant luxuries of sin thus became the province of visitors and newly arrived settlers, adventurers and vagabonds, military and naval personnel, as well as the crews from the harbor-clogging fleet of foreign and coastal merchant vessels, and the glaring presence of women of dubious purpose, although the latter were in the minority at this time of day. Only the melodic chants of the street vendors—with their endless pronouncement of their wares—confirmed other female presence. The rich aroma of coffee assailed the traveler’s nostrils, and Bertrand welcomed its omen of hospitality. As they inched their way from the levee, the aroma was replaced by the stench of vileness and squalor. The odors of human waste and rotting carcasses of long-dead animals assailed their unsuspecting olfactory glands.

New Orleans’ sewage continued to fill the city’s over-challenged gutters, unnoticed and untouched by the city fathers, or their emissaries, whose interests were more inclined toward commerce than cleanliness. Drainage was deficient—flooding from heavy rainfall not uncommon—and drinking water came from sources whose purity was most often suspect; the lake, the rivers, and cisterns.

Cover it, please, with a blanket of night, Bertrand prayed silently as he attempted to divert his friend’s attentions to more acceptable attributes of his beloved city: "Alors!—over there!—observe! It is Etienne with the carriage, he announced to the adjacent figure. La rouge plume, the red feather, in that tall black hat, do you see it, Clay? That is Etienne. I knew he would be here."

His gesture was readily observed by the tall figure who clutched about him his less elegant high-collared long coat, a necessary adjunct to shield out the clammy chill surrounding the Crescent City on this wintry morning.

The red feather, bouncing against a shiny silk hat, proved a veritable beacon that led Bertrand and Clay toward the waiting carriage. There, attired proudly in his impeccable livery, was Etienne, who had served in so many capacities throughout his formative years that Bertrand had considered him more of a substitute father rather than a mere house servant. Etienne had been considered as Bertrand’s gentleman’s gentleman for the trip to France, but Etienne had a wife and family, and Madame de Sévigné had pressured against that idea, thinking it too cruel to separate that family for several years. Antoine de la Roche, one of Bertrand’s limited inner circle, had been suggested as well, but Bertrand’s father had reached a last-minute decision that his son must no longer be pampered by a man servant. A companion was an extravagance. The pension in Paris supplied all the necessary services when requested to do so, but at a price that made Monsieur de Sévigné regret his change of plan for Etienne’s attendance on his son. Ironic, Bertrand reflected, it was always Etienne who had been sought out to help him in his decision-making, and it was that same encouragement that had fostered Bertrand’s best efforts. His father’s decision had been a difficult one to accept, but he would now thank him for the newly-assertive independence he had acquired as a consequence of that decision.

Monsieur de Sévigné, although frustrated by the deviation of his son’s educational path, still clung to his vision of a dynastic empire equal to the legendary Spanish Louisianan André Almonester (who had elevated himself from a simple notary to his adopted city’s most generous benefactor) without the tragic consequences of the unfortunate marriage that had befallen his daughter, and heiress, Micaela—the ill-fated Baroness de Pontalba—whose bequests to the city did not reflect the marital atrocities to which she had been subjected. With a male heir to his estate, Monsieur de Sévigné felt secure that the ample fruits of his endeavors would not meet the fate of that unfortunate pawn of a greedy father-in-law. Monsieur de Sévigné did extract from his son the promise to enter his escalating world of acquisitions and, within five years, take a bride—more specifically a ‘Catholic’ bride—from amongst the candidates eligible for a suitable marriage, should his career in portraiture meet with any unforeseen obstruction to a successful career. The stipulation of a ‘Catholic’ bride did not seem at all unusual to Bertrand. The entire region—under France, then Spain, and once again to France—had remained Catholic by royal decree. As a consequence of the Purchase, however, new religions were being introduced by the increase in immigration and the forced alignment with a predominantly Protestant United States.

There was another factor that was of major importance to Bertrand’s particular pairing with a Catholic bride; he was not truly of that faith, the previous generation having been converted from Judaism. Bertrand was the first male of the family line to be born of a Catholic mother. Her Provençal ancestry might have been tainted by the proximity of the Moorish occupation of the region from the eighth to the fifteenth centuries. Recently, the marriage of a Jewish male to a Catholic female had become acceptable to many in New Orleans society due in part to those inclined to participate in the primarily Christian social event of the year: Mardi Gras. That function had been fostered by Bertrand’s father in its reemergence in 1827 after a ban of twenty years. Prior to that time, Monsieur de Sévigné’s marriage to a Christian had produced an heir and he was welcomed to participate in the celebrations.

The festive, but fundamentally religious, observances of Mardi Gras were unique to white Christian males, thus Jews were automatically excluded from participating in the newest societal fancy by those restrictions. Jews had been banned from Louisiana under the French but had gained access under the Spanish interim rule. A number of Jewish males—excluded from the Mardi Gras festivities by reason of their birth religion—chose to circumvent the ban by taking a Catholic bride and converting to Christianity. Both religions maintained the mother’s religion to be the one to be observed by any offspring of the union.

Ironically, Bertrand, from the age of fifteen, had challenged all organized or imposed religions after being gifted with a copy of Thomas Paine’s "Age of Reason. Thence forward, he condensed all faiths into their basic belief for a Supreme Being—or deity—conceding that they were fostering the results of historic alterations and distortion of half facts conjoined with the conflicting testimonies of those who went unchallenged as to their expositions of the concept of divinity. He chose instead for his own religion a path down the middle of the road; seeking answers and solutions—whether sacred or profane—that eliminated extremes" of any nature. He allowed himself the freedom to indulge in the delights of the mind and the flesh—on a very satisfying non-secular basis—unrestricted by tenets, dogma, creed, or the fear of a vengeful God. Bertrand’s regard for another human was equally pragmatic; mutual consideration was foremost in his day-to-day endeavors. Even a pagan god, he felt confident, would be very pleased with such a philosophy, but Bertrand’s conclusions were shared with none but his sister. Ariel’s literary bent tempted her to challenge Bertrand’s gleanings, but she had resisted that lure of compliance and concluded that Bertrand was mature enough to chart whatever path he found most gratifying. She, however, did not succumb to her brother’s arresting dénoûment, and wisely suggested that he refrain from openly discussing such views with either parent. Their mother’s faith would remain disaffected, but their father would be doubly appalled.

Having been raised in a sternly patriarchal surrounding as an only male child, a father’s words and decisions were considered to be unchallengeable. Unfortunately for him, Bertrand was the only other white male on his father’s plantation—except for the overseer and his sons—so any questioning of authority was met with a rebuff taught early in his childhood. Only Etienne had remained as a true guide through those impressionable years; he was Bertrand’s rock. He looked up at the gleaming face of the carriage driver. Crow’s feet furrowed an otherwise unlined countenance. Etienne’s eyes were set in deep hollows, deeper than Bertrand remembered. The once jet-black hair was now heavily flecked with gray. The body was a little fuller but still erect and proud. (Etienne would never tolerate a poor posture.) Bertrand recalled more than one attention-getting jab to his ribs, even though such an action by a slave warranted a whiplashing on any other plantation. He also observed that Etienne’s arthritic joints did not fare well in the clammy New Orleans winter and the reins were being held with extra caution.

Monsieur Bertrand, Monsieur Bertrand—you are home at last, the black man beamed with delight at the return of his charge. Where is your luggage? I hope you kept it in sight; these wharf children are gypsies and thieves, and can steal your purse with little effort.

Mr. Burdette is familiar with the breed, Etienne; he is keeping a watchful eye on our bags. Ah, here they are now! Clay, this is Etienne. I guarantee he will protect you as one of his own, and there are quite a few of those.

Etienne was overjoyed at the arrival of a guest with his young master and gushed profusely at the introduction of Mr. Henry Clay Burdette from Louisville, Kentucky. With the greetings out of the way and the luggage loaded into the carriage, the journey to the Esplanade commenced. It was sounds that triggered a wave of nostalgia; the sound of strummed instruments, the thump of a hand on a tautly stretched animal hide, and the doleful voices of a Negro chorus that, of a sudden, proved a shock to Bertrand’s auditory senses. The sights and smells were anticipated, but the sounds were far more soul-satisfying. It was music itself that he had missed, not just voices or instruments, but street sounds: whirring carriage wheels, horses’ hammering hooves, wind agitating tree leaves. Their absence had eluded him in his quest for remembering. Paris had its own music in its salons, its cabarets, its music halls, and its opera house—all of it orchestrated—but the city of Paris was bereft of the spontaneity of New Orleans. Music came from places unexpected; her identity was wrapped in music! He could not suppress the desire to share this epiphany with his friend:

"There, mon ami—carried on the wind—do you not hear the sounds? It is the poetry of this wonderful city. It is New Orleans’ siren song. The music assembles in layers, from all directions; here, over there, and off in the distance—it comes from a thousand sources. I had forgotten how basic it is, not to one group but to every segment of the population, whether white or black, Creole or immigrant, affluent or destitute. It does not bear any less relevance if it is the street vendor’s offerings of calas or fresh strawberries, a whistler on the banquette, the clapping of hands at a Sunday dance in Congo Square, a ballad from the fields, or a hymn emanating from the Cathedral. It is the music of the world, from South America, Havana, Saint Domingue, New York, Paris, Africa. It is all right here with us. Hear how the sounds overlap; they lure you with harp strings of promise, then lull you into peaceful submission with a gentle crooning, only to awaken your senses with an impudent crash of cymbals and a drum beat that makes your feet move in involuntary spasms, and your heart beat to a bursting point with its infectious rhythms. It matters little who performs: slaves, free-men-of-color, children clickety-clacking their sticks, singers; all are worthy of a performance at the Théatre d’Orléans or the St. Charles Theater. It is a part of the daily program of the populace, so seductive, so subliminal. She is irresistible!"

You wax most poetic, Bertrand, I would suspect your choice of profession has been a compromise. I have been aware of your ‘siren songs’ since my arrival, but could not determine their origins. Thank you for clarifying the mystique.

The renewed kinship with Bertrand’s city of birth was, thus, completed. Would his family reunion be as rewarding?

As the jolting carriage traversed the cobblestoned streets and continued on to an unpaved roadway, the musical wraiths followed, only in diminishing decibels as they left the frenzied activity of the Quarter. Bertrand’s countenance fell as landmark after landmark approached and disappeared; not that everything had changed, but nothing seemed to be exactly as he remembered it. Again, there were doubts: Had this distance been so short? Had that statue been so small? Was it always this noisy? Had it always been this crowded, this dirty? Some things had not changed. Dogs still chased carriages. Cats still cowered in the tall grass waiting to pounce on some unsuspecting being, man or beast. A whimpering blood-stained cur crouched under a bush, intent on ridding himself of some annoying parasite. Well-seated horsemen in military garb maneuvered their mounts through the morning traffic, skirting the golden droppings of earlier riders.

I must not reflect upon the petty annoyances, Bertrand reflected, it is too soon after arriving. Tomorrow I shall see things in a better light.

It seemed longer than four years since he had seen the happy faces of Etienne and his young wife, Mathilde. (‘Mattie’ had been Ariel’s pet name for the girl who became a companion to her… rather more than a servant.) Their wedding had been such a joyous occasion—Madame de Sévigné had avowed that; Weddings should not be exclusive to whites! . . . with lots of singing and dancing… and happy sounds. Bertrand remembered how Etienne’s face had glowed for days after his first son’s birth, and wondered if his own pride would be as gloriously visible when it was his turn to father a child.

How sad, the prodigal son reflected, "how few memories I am able to recall of my father: only a very special holiday when I was three and spent the entire time bedded down with some childhood ailment. He had brought me soup—not one of the servants. (I loved him then) and the birthday gathering when I was given a pony and all of my friends were permitted to ride—until Ariel fell from the saddle. She was given her very own cake the next day, but the pony disappeared and my riding lessons were secretly taught by the overseer’s son.

There was, of course, the weekly drill of family dinner, but my father’s appearance was quite often not ’til Ariel and I were in bed. We did attend the theatre and the opera together as a family, but father always disappeared during the performances. It was never possible to discuss the music or the acting with him. Maman went directly to her room after each event. Bertrand reflected, instead, on his sister. Ariel had made those outings pleasurable with her observations which were so apparent to her, so oblivious to others. She, in fact, had been the guiding spirit for the household since her early teens and was as much of a martinet as her father had been in years past. Ariel had let it be known that she aspired to be a writer but the development of her potential, along such a path, had been limited by her father’s open denunciation of most of the contemporary French purveyors of words and the limitations imposed by the Ursuline sisters who found Racine, Moliere and Voltaire too close to the borderline of propriety for a young girl’s inspection. Books were considered a luxury and a public library still a dream, so secreted copies of macabre gothic novels, as well as contemporary masterworks by Balzac, Dumas, Père, and Georges Sand, had been funneled to her through the schoolgirl underground that is inherent in every segregated institution. It was, however, the Convent’s introduction of the new American language, whereby Ariel’s literary education had been greatly enhanced. The English writers: Miss Austen, Mr. Dickens, Sir Walter Scott, and Mary Wollstonecraft—that bastion of women’s rights—that made a profound impression on the youthful reader and prospective writer. A ‘woman of the romantic period’ was a trait acceptable by some abroad, but the borders of discretion were still observed in this tightly-knit community. Thus, Ariel’s desire for a higher education was preordained to receive the rejection accorded her gender. She knew firsthand why so few women had achieved success in literature.

Correspondence from Bertrand’s father had been quite reserved and less than satisfying in its coverage. On the other hand, his dearest sister’s copious notes had been far more intuitive, and related more personal insights than his father was inclined to commit to paper. In her communications, Ariel’s news of her peremptory position in the household was viewed by Bertrand as an area for contention. Her mother’s withdrawal from public participation, shortly after her son’s departure, had placed Ariel in a most visible role as her father’s escort at an inopportune time when newspapers were inciting comment and provoking gossip pertinent to incestuous disclosures of widowed and isolated parents and their proximity to a source for sexual release. Such speculation had not yet been brought to the de Sévigné doorstep, but could such a premise be far off? The siblings had agreed that possession of such worldly knowledge would not be made known to their father; any supposition of impropriety in inter-family relationships would be tantamount to immense social embarrassment. Bertrand vowed to broach the subject of his sister’s future at his first meeting with his father, and hoped that he would not become ensnared by his father’s premature conclusion of interference with parental authority.

How wonderfully she twirls him about her fingertips, he mused, and the mere thought provoked a smile of endearment on his face. Together we might alter father’s views for my future—independently I stand little chance—but perhaps that, too, has changed.

Clay could not resist comment relevant to Bertrand’s smile: Pleasant thoughts? It would appear they are worth more than a penny!

I was thinking of Ariel, my sister. I know that you will find her more than just ‘interesting’—she is frequently impetuous and is known to express her views straight-forwardly and without the usual niceties and pretexts that clutter most polite conversation these days. She will, most likely, have you dangling on a puppet string within seconds of your meeting, so be forewarned!

Clay grinned at the thought of so winsome a challenge. I think I am going to like your family, Bertrand.

"I daresay that my little sister will have you as an entry in her journal before this night is over. You will be dissected, scrutinized, and analyzed as I am sure that my own person shall be reviewed as new to her discerning eyes. I am the only one to have been privy to her journals. Our parents would have long since cloistered her in a nunnery had they been aware of some of her observations of New Orleans’ elite; their finery stripped off, and the bare bones of motivation and morality exposed by her pen. I doubt that anyone entered in Mother’s guest book has been spared her commentary. There must be several dozen of her journals by this time and many entries have been added during my absence. I suspect that even I shall not be granted perusal rights of that segment! She has been my father’s hostess during my mother’s incapacitation and has been introduced to dignitaries, politicians, civic leaders, military men, socialites and captains of industry, although it might be more correct to say that they have been exposed to her critique. I pity their foibles; they are fair game for her pen and ink! Be careful of your words; insincerity is anathema to her!"

Thank you for your insightful caution. I shall make every attempt to avoid the shallow and the pithy, but our culture has made the banal into an accepted art and I might succumb to the temptation of suppressing an honest opinion in favor of politeness while in the presence of others, but shall remain ‘sincere’ in our private discourse.

Bertrand smiled a proud smile at his friend’s grasp of the confidence and patted the Kentuckian’s shoulder in imitation of a Dutch uncle.

There was still private wonderment as Bertrand reflected upon his own statement. Will Ariel have acquired a more demure behavior? Spontaneity was ever her bête noir! Such a change would certainly please Pa-pa, who was often at a loss for words at some of Ariel’s private commentary, particularly when her analyses exposed the failings of some of Pa-pa’s prominent acquaintances. She could see through cajolery and subterfuge in the blink of an eye and could reduce a fawning suitor to a quivering mass with a snap of her fan. Bertrand and Ariel heavily influenced one another; there existed no sibling rivalry, and dreams were shared as readily as all of their daily activities. Ariel’s provocative confidence had overshadowed Bertrand’s casual laissez-faire approach to life, but that was then, and now she would encounter some competition. Bertrand’s reserve had been transformed into worldliness, an adult philosophy and, most of all, assurance. As the carriage rolled toward the Esplanade, Bertrand realized that his family was about to meet a different Bertrand de Sévigné, but would that alone prove sufficient to offset his father’s reaction when he learned that his son’s future in the world of art was doomed to an untimely demise through no fault of his progeny? How was he to explain to that parent that science had toppled art from its creative pedestal? Would there be another pivotal intervention in his behalf?

CHAPTER IV

Esplanade

The Esplanade house was suddenly before them, and Bertrand’s reveries were joltingly interrupted. The petit mansion rose, in staid formality, from the group of well-spaced houses that lined the boulevard. A sparsely landscaped median accommodated a host of whitewash-banded trees that totally lost their identity in their leafless wintery state. Deciduous trees were uncommon to the area and it was fortuitous that the de Sévigné house sat amidst avenues of magnolia, orange, lemon, oleander, pomegranate, banana, and paw-paw trees. In the late spring, and throughout the summer, their fragrance would be enhanced by additional scents of camellias, azaleas, gardenias, day-lilies and roses; and feathered creatures of endless species would flock to the area as their migratory patterns dictated. In their given time, ducks, egrets, ibises, roseate spoonbills, blue herons, and pelicans would glide through the infinite blue cover overhead, and twirl in lazy curlicues, before plummeting to their oafish landings in the Marigny Canal, just beyond the Esplanade.

The divided boulevard was wide enough for several carriages in either direction, and was the joy of its residents for Sunday outings that would convey whole families to its extremes… toward Lake Pontchartrain.

The Sévigné residence conformed to the existing demand for an immense wrap-around verandah that split the building into three horizontal compositions. Both of the lower sections of the house were dissected by floor-to-ceiling doors and windows, silhouetted in dark contrast of glass against white woodwork. A pitched, slate-capped mansard roof, crowned with a lacy widow’s walk, was interrupted by round-topped dormer windows, and a pair of book-end brick chimneys that completed the upper third of the house. The five-step foundation of unpainted brick formed a natural background for a variety of flowering shrubs that included unhappily-dormant crape myrtle and night jasmine. Situated at both corners of the porch were towering, outspread sprays of masochistic bougainvillea that thrived on wind-whipping and contradictory weather, and stretched clear to the roof of the upper floor—providing shaded bowers, but with a clear view of the road in either direction. Bertrand recollected that he and Ariel had hidden behind those leaves and flowers many times while observing the comings and goings of their father’s visitors.

A black wrought-iron fence spanned the property frontage—interrupted by a single welcoming arch in the center—and a highly ornamented pair of hinged gates at the carriage entrance that also led to a wisteria-canopied garden in the rear of the house. Fantasies of pirates and hidden treasure had been part of the garden’s appeal for the children; they claimed it as their private retreat—according otherworldly attributes to every leaf and bloom in the garden—but lately it had been reclaimed by Madame de Sévigné for her own opportunity to commune with nature in what she considered as ‘hallowed’ ground.

A pair of tall, round out-buildings flanked the entrance to the house; a garçonnière (for the accommodation of young male visitors) and