Creole Hearts Read online

  "Your country is what you proclaim it to be—the land of opportunity," the marquis said. "If I were a young man with no responsibilities to France, I would surely come to Louisiana and never leave." He looked at Guy. "When you arrive to escort your cousine to New Orleans, you must certainly visit me again."

  "It would be an honor," Guy said.

  After Lafayette left Lac Belle, Guy confronted Madelaine.

  "What's all this about a cousine?"

  I've suggested more than once in the past year that you send for Cecile. She's almost ten and it's time she came to live with us." Madelaine shrugged. "You ignored me, so I spoke in front of the marquis to prod you. Don't forget what you promised me, Guy."

  He sighed. "It was a promise, but I don't consider a girl of ten years to be marriageable. I'll sail when she has reached an appropriate age, no earlier."

  "I want her with me, Guy."

  Tears glistened in Madelaine's eyes.

  But it was not until five years after Lafayette's visit that Guy finally set off for France. He left Madelaine behind at her request, surprised that she didn't want to go with him.

  "My memories of France are unhappy," she said. "I've no wish to go there ever again. Bring Cecile home to me, that's all I ask."

  Guy found the voyage crowded with his own memories of the past, particularly the bizarre and perverse attachment between himself and Estelle. Vedette was dead, Estelle had taken her mother's place as voodoo queen and Guy heard of her from time to time, for everyone in the city was aware of her power among the blacks, both slave and free. He hadn't seen her since the day in the cottage when she faced him with the knife.

  And poor Madelaine. She'd been a tragic figure when he'd taken her to France to give birth to Cecile. She was now as beloved among the free blacks for her efforts to educate their children as Estelle was feared among them as a voodooienne. Still, he wished Madelaine had found a man she could love and marry. It was such a waste.

  "You're a fine one to give such advice," she always told him when he brought it up. "I don't see you married."

  Fabrienne was in France. He couldn't see her, of course, for her husband wouldn't appreciate a visit from a past lover. He thought of her often, the memory of the time they'd spent together living vividly in his mind. He could picture her grey green eyes, relive the feel of her warm embrace. Helas, that it was only a memory now.

  Once in France, Guy stopped first at the Paris academy where Anton was now being trained.

  "He excels in fencing," the abbe at St. Ambrose had written Guy two years earlier, "and rides like he was born on a horse. As to being a scholar—it is not his metier.”

  With the abbe's help, Guy had arranged for Anton to transfer to a fencing academy.

  The sight of Anton took Guy aback, for it might well have been a younger Francois standing before him a slim, lithe lad, graceful, his warm brown skin glowing with health.

  "I'm told you are the academy's star pupil," Guy said after they'd embraced.

  "I try. It's what I like to do best in all the world." Anton spoke eagerly but with a trace of reserve.

  "He'll one day be a fencing master," the director of the academy assured Guy.

  Where was the little boy who'd sobbed when he'd left him at St. Ambrose? This nearly mature eighteen year old made Guy feel suddenly old,

  Guy went next to see Denis. When Denis was ready to leave St. Ambrose, Georges Lafreniere had spoken to a banker friend and Denis now worked in one of the man's Paris banks.

  "Yes, Papa, I'm quite satisfied," Denis told him as they sat over apertifs at a sidewalk cafe. "I'm certain to advance, as I've heard my work pleases those above me. I do sometimes think of returning to New Orleans."

  "You're better off here," Guy said. "Things are viewed differently in Louisiana than France. There'd be no banking position for you in New Orleans."

  "Yes, I've met Creoles—gens de coleur libres, free people of color, as you say—visiting Paris. They've told me of their problems. Have you read Hippolyte Castra's poem about the battle with the English? I believe that expresses something of what they feel."

  "No, I don't know that poem."

  "I can quote the last stanza from memory."

  Arriving on the field of battle

  I fought like a brave warrior

  Neither the bullets nor the shrapnel

  Could ever fill me with fear

  I fought with great valor

  With the hope of serving my country

  Not thinking that for recompense

  I would be an object of scorn.

  "It's true the free colored fought bravely," Guy said.

  "Yet the great general, Jackson, didn't keep his promise to make them full citizens, n'est ce pas?"

  "They're certainly not slaves!"

  "But not, so I understand, considered equal to you or your friends, Papa."

  Guy shrugged. "Things are as they are. I'm glad to see you doing so well here, Denis."

  Denis was handsome. His well-groomed dark hair fell in ringlets, his cafe au lait skin was accented by a flashing white smile. He dressed elegantly and, Guy noticed with a stab of pride, wore the ruby ring.

  "Have you a lady friend?" Guy asked.

  Denis winked at his father. "Ah, Papa, you don't expect me to kiss and tell? Someday, I shall visit New Orleans and see the beautiful women I hear so much about. But I think I'll live in France, for I fear I wouldn't enjoy life in Louisiana."

  Guy was glad and sorry at the same time, for he liked the man Denis had become.

  Guy dined with Georges Lafreniere and his wife and several other guests at their home on the Ile St. Louis. During the soup course, Guy, who'd had the question on the tip of his tongue since entering the house, asked if they ever heard anything of Fabrienne Cordeaux.

  "At least that was her name years ago. I understand she married a man named Fronchot."

  "I've had no word of her since her marriage," Georges said. "We didn't know her well, you understand."

  The next day Guy looked up the Venaches, Fabrienne's friends, but they'd sold their home and left Paris. No one seemed to know where they'd gone.

  Guy was left with no more information than he'd come to France with: Fabrienne had married a man named Fronchot who was somehow connected with wine. Perhaps Georges would be able to find out more about the man, but Guy was embarrassed to ask.

  He was surprised himself at his persistence in trying to track down Fabrienne. Hadn't he promised himself he wouldn't call on her? What was the point? Besides, her husband might be angry at the presumption.

  After several futile attempts to discover the right Fronchot, Guy went to Denis.

  "I met Fabrienne when I brought you and your brother to France," Guy told him. "I'd like to find her again."

  "Fourteen years ago? She must have made quite an impression!"

  "She's married," Guy said shortly. He gave Denis the scant facts he had.

  "I'll do what I can," Denis assured him. "It may take a few days, maybe a week."

  While Guy was waiting for whatever Denis could uncover, he left Paris for La Grange to visit the marquis de Lafayette, now ailing but still cordial and happy to see him.

  "Helas, I shall never see your beautiful country again," the marquis said. "Tell me, is New Orleans still as merry and carefree?"

  "It grows too fast," Guy said. "It's become a city of drays, sometimes there are block long tie ups of traffic, and now there's talk of a railroad. I hardly recognize the city of my birth."

  "That's the way of America—growth. I would that France had her vigor. I sometimes feel my country grows old along with me."

  Back in Paris, Guy went immediately to Denis.

  "I think I have the right Fronchot," Denis told him. "A man named Henri. He owns vineyards and a winery near Bordeaux."

  I'll go there, Guy told himself. I'll say I was passing through and discovered by chance that her husband owned the winery.

  In a small farming community near the wi
nery, Henri Fronchot's chateau was pointed out to Guy. "You must pass Monsieur Jean Fronchot's holdings, they are first. Then Monsieur Henri's, they are next," Guy was told. The chateau was impressively large, though not so vast as the one of grey stone he passed first, presumably Jean's. Fabrienne was surely content with her lot, for obviously Henri Fronchot could give her everything. Perhaps she had come to love him as well.

  I should turn around and go back, Guy told himself. But he couldn't do it.

  "Monsieur Fronchot is not at home," Guy was told by the manservant who opened the door.

  "Perhaps Madame will see me," Guy said. "Tell her we met some years ago in Paris, if you please,"

  He was shown into a high ceilinged room adjoining the foyer. Unable to relax enough to sit in one of the high backed gilt chairs, he walked to a window to look out over a formal garden of topiary and statues.

  What would she look like? She must be nearing forty.

  "Monsieur La Branche?" a woman's voice asked.

  Guy whirled about and found himself looking at a woman he'd never seen before. She was older than he, her grey hair immaculately arranged, her cheeks discreetly touched with rouge.

  "You are—you're Madame Henri Fronchot?" he asked.

  "Oui. But I fear I do not know you."

  "I thought, that is, I've made a mistake. I had heard an old acquaintance of mine married Henri Fronchot. Obviously I heard wrong. A thousand pardons, madame, for inconveniencing you."

  "I'm sorry you were misinformed," she said.

  He bowed and was about to leave when he thought to ask one further question. "Is your husband related to the Jean Fronchot who lives near here?"

  Her manner turned frosty. She drew herself up. "That name isn't mentioned in this house, monsieur."

  Guy apologized and withdrew.

  As his horse trotted back past the grey stone chateau, he checked him and, impulsively, turned in at the open gates. The Jean Fronchots could do no more than tell him to leave. He'd never be satisfied if he didn't stop. I won't ask for him, Guy decided, but for her.

  "Madame does not receive strangers," the manservant told him.

  "I'm not a stranger, though it's been years since we've seen one another. Please take her my name, as I've asked you to do." He stared the man in the eye, disliking his supercilious manner. No servant at Lac Belle would dare behave in such a way!

  The man showed him, rather reluctantly, into a reception room that had no outside windows. Murals of nymphs bathing in woodland streams decorated the walls, and the ceiling was festooned with gilt cupids. He stood watching the door, determined not to be taken by surprise a second time.

  He heard footsteps hurrying across the slate of the foyer, then Madame Jean Fronchot appeared in the doorway.

  "Guy!" Fabrienne cried.

  He strode toward her as she rushed forward, hands outstretched. He caught her hands in his, wishing he dared take her in his arms.

  "I could hardly believe it when Jacques told me you were here," she said, smiling up at him.

  "I thought perhaps you'd forgotten my name."

  "Never!"

  Fabrienne looked older, though her face was still beautiful. She'd kept the same delightful figure he recalled so well.

  "I've thought of you more times than I care to tell you," he said.

  She disengaged her hands. "Have you come to France often since those long ago days?"

  She's affected by seeing me, he thought, noting her flushed face and quickened breathing. He wondered if she noticed his own excitement.

  "This is my first visit since then."

  "You've made this trip, perhaps, to bring sons to school again?"

  "No."

  Fabrienne raised her eyebrows. Her eyes were the green of the Atlantic at mid ocean.

  "You've had only daughters?" she asked.

  "Fabrienne, I didn't marry."

  She put her fingertips to her lips.

  Though he hadn't meant to say it to her, to Madame Fronchot, so well married, Guy found himself pouring out what he felt.

  "I was a fool to let you go. No one has suited me since, you've spoiled me for other women."

  “But children? An heir?”

  “I couldn't bring myself to marry for that alone."

  "Oh, Guy . .." Her eyes filled with tears.

  He could stand it no longer and reached for her, taking her into his arms, holding her next to him. He put his lips to her hair, to her temple. She brought her hands up to his chest, pushing him away.

  He stepped back. "I forgot myself," he said. "I beg your pardon."

  "It's just that I can't yet believe you're actually here," she said. "That you've come to my house. Is this the reason you returned to France?"

  "No. I came to bring a young cousine to live with my sister and me in New Orleans. But I knew I couldn't leave the country without seeing you again."

  "I didn't realize you had a sister. You never mentioned her."

  "Yes. Madelaine's a year or two older than you."

  "I can't express how happy I am to see you," Fabrienne said. "Of course you'll stay for dinner, for the night."

  "No."

  The hurt in her face made him wince inwardly. He decided he must tell her the truth.

  “I still love you, Fabrienne and I don't want to know anything about the man lucky enough to have you for a wife."

  Her eyes grew round with surprise. "Did no one in the village tell you?"

  "Tell me what? I've met only Madame Henri, for I thought she was you. She informed me Monsieur Jean's name was not to be said aloud in her house."

  Fabrienne began to laugh. She laughed so hard she had to hold on to Guy to keep her balance. He put an arm about her.

  "How upset she must have been," Fabrienne said when she could speak. "Her husband and mine fell out before I married Jean. A family feud— you know how unreasonable those are. I tried more than once to reconcile them but it was impossible." She leaned against his arm and smiled at him.

  His grip tightened. "Fabrienne, I want very much to kiss you and never stop. I think I'd better make my . . ."

  "What a wonderful idea," she said. "Why don't you kiss me?"

  "But I—your husband. . . ?"

  "I've been trying to tell you. Jean's been dead for two years. I'm a widow, as I was when we first met."

  Fabrienne reached up and pulled his head down until his lips met hers, and Guy lost himself in the remembered wonder of her embrace.

  Chapter 25

  Mardi Gras is coming, coming," little Ninette sang to a tune all her own. "Coming, coming, I can't wait for Mardi Gras."

  "That's a nice song, Ninette, but it's not what the words on the page say.” Madelaine told her.

  Try as she might, Madelaine couldn't seem to teach Ninette to read. The quadroon girl was her first complete failure and she didn't know why. Certainly Ninette was bright enough, she'd learned ciphering as quickly as any of the children.

  "Mademoiselle Madelaine, I like to sing better," Ninette told her. "Going to sing and dance at Mardi Gras. Sing about Layotte—you know about Layotte?" Ninette rose and began to pirouette.

  Eh! pou' la belle Layotte: For the fair Layotte

  Ma mourri 'nocent : I must crazy die

  Oui 'nocent ma mourri : Yes, I must crazy die.

  Ninette raised her arms and twisted her body as though she heard drumbeats. “I’ll dance the Calinda, bamboula. I'll dance voodoo, I'll dance and dance till the alligators crawl from the swamp, till Bras Coupe comes riding old alligator. Bras Coupe going to dance with me, going to dance ..."

  Madelaine stopped listening when the child mentioned Bras Coupe. He'd become a legend among the colored, still living in the swamp according to them, and appearing to dance voodoo sometimes.

  But of course he was dead, had been dead for many years. I remember him, Madelaine thought. I remember how he danced with me, something strange and compelling in his eyes making me forget where I was, who I was. Something called to me and, t
hough I feared that summons, at the same time I yearned to follow where it led. What lay between us was more than attraction between a man and a woman, though that was there, too. Something mysterious—perhaps evil—beckoned me, and I longed to go.

  "Boujoum, boujoum!" Ninette sang, imitating the big African drums.

  Madelaine took a deep breath. She was forty two years old and still daydreamed of dancing voodoo, of her rendezvous with Philippe along the bayous. Living in the past. In a few months Guy would bring Cecile home to her, home from France, her fifteen year old daughter who wouldn't know her, who'd call her cousine, not maman. Perhaps seeing Cecile would make her feel as old as she was.

  How was it possible to feel so young inside, forever eighteen?

  "Will you dance in the Mardi Gras?" Ninette asked.

  "I don't know," Madelaine said.

  She'd never joined the street processions of costumed maskers, started four years ago by Creole youths just back from Paris. Mardi Gras had always been a Creole celebration, lasting from Twelfth Night to Mardi Gras, Shrove Tuesday, with balls, public and private.

  The Americains had frowned on masks in the early years of their takeover of Louisiana, and still issued edicts against them from time to time, but any true Creole loved to dress up and wear a mask.

  Why not costume herself and parade unrecognized? Excitement flared in Madelaine.

  "I have a costume with wings," Ninette said. "Pink and blue butterfly wings and my mask is pink and my slippers are blue and I'll maybe even fly." She leaped into the air, a graceful child as well as pretty. Did it matter she couldn't read? In a few years some Creole youth would undoubtedly ask her to be his placee.

  Cecile would be no placee. Madelaine vowed her daughter would marry young, marry a man she loved.

  What did Cecile look like? Madelaine had missed seeing her grow up, would never know her childish ways. A sense of loss dissipated her excitement. Philippe had been dead fifteen years and she'd been deprived of her child for almost as long.

  Ninette's hands on her arm startled her.

  "I wish you would wear a beautiful costume and be with me in the parade," Ninette said. "You look so sad, like you might cry. No one can be sad at Mardi Gras."