Creole Hearts (24 page)

"No one blames you," Nicolas said. "Or Antoine Proulx."

Guy thought Nicolas didn't seem as upset as one might think a man would be when he's lost his fiancée to another.

"I hope you won't challenge Ignace," Joubert said to Nicolas. "It's up to you, of course, but the boy truly went out of his head over Julienne. I should have suspected there was something between them that day I saw him kneel beside her bed. She looked into his eyes for a long, long time with none of her usual little ways. I thought it was because she was ill.”

Estelle would claim her love potion worked, Guy told himself.

"I have no intention of challenging Ignace Proulx," Nicolas said. "He forfeited all right to be challenged the night of the party."

Joubert again looked from Guy to Nicolas. "But now, you two. . . ?"

"We must fight," Nicolas said. He took a deep breath and, looking considerably more pained than he had over Julienne's defection, he said to Guy, "I'll amend my challenge to be satisfied with first blood. Is that satisfactory?"

"Completely satisfactory. Accepted," Guy told him. Again they faced one another. Nicolas thrust out his knife and ran the point down the back of Guy's hand. Drops of blood beaded the scratch.

"First blood!" Marc's cry was echoed by Andre.

Nicolas threw down his knife. Guy did the same.

The beginning of January, 1820, was the coldest Guy could remember since the battle of Chalmette. In the middle of the month, a carriage pulled up at Lac Belle and Guy saw Ancin begin to unload boxes and bags under the direction of a bonneted woman.

Madelaine!

Guy ran out to the carriage, lifting her off her feet to hug her.

"I've missed you," he said.

"I've missed you, too. I know I said I've never come back, but . . ." She stopped, eyeing him nervously. "Have you heard about Annette Louise?"

"What about her?"

She took a deep breath, let it out. "We'll go inside and I'll tell you."

Over coffee in the parlor, she chattered on about trivia until he grew impatient.

"I couldn't be happier to see you," he said. "I'm glad you're home. But what's all this about Annette Louise?"

"I expect you to behave reasonably over this," Madelaine warned him. "No nonsense about challenges."

"
Bon Dieu
, tell me!"

"Annette Louise and Nicolas Roulleaux are to be married."

His mouth dropped open. This was a match he'd never expected.

"I was surprised, too," Madelaine said, "She never said a word to me. Apparently he was seeing her while Julienne was ill. At first he went to see little Gabe, but then they fell in love."

"I can't believe it," Guy said.

"I know. She was terribly upset over the duel, but I thought it was because of me. She confessed later she'd have died if Nicolas had been killed."

"I can only hope she'll be happy with him."

"You don't still feel a little tenderness for her?"

Guy shook his head.

"So, you see, I had to come home. You couldn't expect me to stay in the home of a woman who was marrying a Roulleaux." She looked at him, only a trace of mockery in her smile, then got up and kissed him on the cheek. "Oh, Guy, I'm so happy you and Nicolas found a way to settle the duel without harm to either of you."

"No wonder he wasn't too upset by Joubert's news," Guy said.

But the next November, when Annette Louise bore Nicolas' son, Guy found himself envious of Nicolas. Not for his wife, but for his son. His heir.

I must marry, he told himself.

The Creole girls were as pretty as ever. He was attracted first to one, then to another, but none kept his interest. How could he be expected to share his bed and his home with one of these light headed creatures for the rest of his life?

"Why not court Yolande?" Madelaine asked.

"One entanglement with a daughter of Joubert Le Moyne was enough," Guy told her. "No, Yolande's a fine girl but there's no feeling between us. What I want in a wife is a woman who's lived long enough to know something of the ways of the world, who speaks with some intelligence. She must be pretty and desirable, but sensible, as well. We should feel a mutual attraction but also have a meeting of minds."

I know a woman who's all of those things, Guy told himself sadly. Who suited me as no one has before or since. I knew her and I could have had her.

"You've left out one thing," Madelaine said. "I'd have thought it was uppermost in your thoughts."

“What’s that?”

“This wonderful paragon you describe must also produce a La Branche heir.

He sighed. “No, I haven’t forgotten.”

Chapter 24

On May 5, 1821, Napoleon died on St. Helena. Dominique You's group of Creoles, who were finally ready to sail to rescue him, wept when the word came. Indeed, all Creoles felt a sadness, for Napoleon had been much admired in New Orleans.

The next news from Europe to electrify the city came in 1824, when the
marquis
Marie Joseph de Lafayette made his long awaited visit to the United States, sailing from Le Havre on the American frigate Cadmus the day before Bastille Day, July thirteenth, and arriving in New York a month later. He journeyed to New Orleans the following year.

The
Natchez
brought Lafayette to the levee. The
marquis
was an old man who wasn't in the best of health, but he was a gallant and beloved hero all the same. An arc de triomphe was erected in the Place d'Armes and he was driven beneath it in a landau drawn by six matched greys, with a troop of cavalry as an honor guard.

One hundred Choctaw braves who'd camped outside the city for a month waiting to see "the great warrior, brother of the “great white father, Washington," passed in review in full war paint and feathers as Lafayette watched from the balcony of the Cabildo. The Indians were followed by the new militia company organized in honor of the visit, the Lafayette Guards.

"
Vive
Lafayette!" the crowds shouted. "
Viva la liberte
!"

The marquis stayed in rooms fitted for his living quarters in the Cabildo, but visited at the plantations, including Lac Belle.

"Why have you not been back to France?" he asked Guy. "Our visit there was so short, and I'd looked forward to your return."

"I plan to return someday, of course," Guy said.

"I think, sir, my brother will be sailing quite soon for
la belle
France," Madelaine put in.

Guy slanted a quick look her way.

"We have a
cousine
who longs to come to New Orleans," Madelaine went on. "As she's nearing marriageable age, we hope to help her meet an eligible Creole and settle here in Louisiana."

"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 winery, 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!