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Louis rode his horse down the filthy alley ways of eighteenth century New Orleans. He had no idea one day this squalid piece of real-estate would some day be the location of the French Quarter with its upscale restaurants, expensive stores, and vendors selling everything from baseball cards to paintings. Two hundred years from now, in the twenty first century, he himself would be one of those artists sitting quietly in a folding chair, making small talk with his friends and passerby's, selling his paintings of New Orleans' scenery. He had his pistol cocked and ready in his great coat. His confident manner kept the pimps, sailors, and cut throats away.
He dismounted from his horse, tying it to a post in front of a shabby Greek revival building. A filthy child ran at him, bumping into him.
"Excuse me," the child muttered, trying to get past Louis.
"Non, excuse me," Louis said politely, capturing the boy, retrieving his wallet the child had stolen. The child's hungry face grimaced in fear. Such an offense even for one as young as he was a hangable offense. He squirmed and twisted trying to escape. Ducking his head, he fully expected the dark haired, tall man to back hand him.
Laughing, Louis scooted down to be at his level. He said very gently, "Look in your pocket young man. I think this must have fallen out of it."
"What?" the twelve year old boy said confused.
"This," Louis said smiling, dropping a coin on the ground which would feed the boy for at least a week, "Now hasten away."
Without a word of thanks the boy scurried away, searching for more pockets.
Chuckling ruefully, Louis opened the gate and made his way up to the house. The garden in the yard was overgrown and neglected with weeds and jasmine growing aimlessly and wild. The air smelled of taverns and of the grinding poverty from recent emigrants from Germany.
He was greeted by a burly heavy jawed woman. Inside of the house the walls were decorated with yellowing, cracked old paintings of nudes.
Women with heavy haunches, ample bosoms, and unnaturally pinched waists were encouraging drunken patrons to drink their glasses dry and to order up another one. All of the women seemed as fading as the tired nudes hanging on the peeling wall paper. They looked to be as old as his mother except for a few young squinty eyed whores.
"You'll be coming to your regular room then?" said Mrs. Old Sally, an Irish woman who had the appearance of being a burly black smith dressed in his wife's clothing rather than a madam of a whore house.
"Oui, " Louis said politely, tipping his hat to her, subduing the anticipation he felt out of his voice. He inquired about her health, and asked if she had received any word from her family back home, treating her with the respect he would treat any woman of his acquaintance.
"You be happy to know the room is occupied" she lisped out of those enormous lips.
"Merci, Madam," he said, earning from her the declaration: he was quite the gentleman.
Going up the stairs, the gas lights making his face seem greenish, he entered into the bedroom. The whole room reeked of feminine odors, dirty laundry, perfumes, slops, and make up.
The occupant pacing in the room was not a woman; he was a twenty year old man.
The sight of him wrung Louis' heart out.
"Jean what is the matter?" he asked calmly.
"We can't continue with our friendship."
Jean sat quietly on the bed, tears falling from his soft brown eyes. Jean came from a family of middle class merchants. Louis flopped lazily on the bed, laying his head on the stale moist pillow ,studying the cracks in the ceiling. He really didn't care now that Jean was crying. He lived this scenario enough time. He knew exactly what Jean was going to say.
"I'm going to be married next month."
Of course, thought Louis wearily.
"She's a fine girl. My cousin. It's the custom of our family to marry our cousins," Jean rambled.
I'm sure it is, Louis thought, cocking one leg up, smiling a vague smile. He heard it all before from past lovers. The first time he head the "speech" he had been somewhat devastated. Now he simply froze inside.
Louis you have to understand it's a matter of duty. Besides, what you and I have been doing. How could it continue? It's not real love. How could the two of us have a family? I want children."
Now that hit a nerve, Louis had to admit he wanted to be a father too. He often thought what with Paul destined for the priesthood and himself being the way he was how could it be possible for a child to be born into the world--a child who had his father's hands. Who would that child be? If not child, perhaps it would have to be a grandchild who would have the same color of green eyes and the same slender but strong hands his father bequeathed him. He supposed it fell upon his sister to bring such children into the world so his father's line would continue, it almost, non it did seem to be a monstrous betrayal on his part not to have children. After all his father brought him into the world, and he did not consider his father to be a much flawed man. He loved his father very much, he wanted to see a child who would copy his mannerisms, the very mannerisms he copied from Valmont. Besides there was the issue of loneliness, Louis thought to himself above the noise of Jean who was muttering on and on about honor.
He couldn't possibly imagine himself any lonelier with or without a woman in his life. Perhaps he would resent her, but it seemed to him many men at least once in a while had occasions where they resented their wives for capturing away their youth from them. He wasn't getting any younger and the thought of being an eccentric bachelor ran sourly through his mind. No one to watch over him in all the small ways a wife takes care of a husband. No one to distract him from his ledgers, the plantation, to sit with him quietly in the parlor, watching the fire burn down the logs in the heath. No one was a frightful concept. To be nothing but on his own till the end of his death was intolerable.
"I never got the impression," Jean said wiping his eyes, blowing his nose "that I ever met much to you."
Louis knew from the past experiences he had with other men, what would happen next of course after this evening was over. In about a week perhaps two, he would receive little notes from Jean At first formal notes, then the notes would be expressive using warmer words. Words tinted with regret and longing, followed up by an invitation to meet once again. An invitation silly with declarations of love and how he was missed, and what a fool the sender was to have broken it off with him.
And all those little notes and the invitation would pose as little more than an insult to Louis.. When it's over, it's over. Conjuring up the ghost of an ended relationship was for the weak minded.
Getting up off the bed Louis thought for a moment about spending a Christmas with children he one day hoped to have. Their small hands busy receiving presents. He with an indulgent proud smile on his face. A son or daughter sitting on the floor. His or her head pressed against his knee. His hand on his child's hair, giving the same advice and homilies he learned from his father's lips. Valmont sometimes found himself taken away from his children's inner lives because of his responsibilities but he always made sure he was there to watch events such as his daughter Therese's dancing at her first ball, or listening quietly to Paul's dreams of being a priest, or to take Louis through the necessities he would have to know to run the plantation some day. Valmont was their stern guide through life. His wife Maria now that he was gone had became quite a reclusive as Paul. Spending her days in a small chapel Valmont built for her in the house. Therese spent her days in her room, reading romance novels, staying with her friends for weeks at a time.
He considered Jean's face. Louis kept his eyes cast down so Jean would be unaware of the hard, cold criticism in them. All Jean's physical faults Louis was willing to excuse him for because of his availability blared out to him. Jean's eyes were piggish and ill humored, really, through his face was quite handsome enough. Jean's frame which his skin fell on was too slight and almost womanly. And his mannerisms were often high keyed and hysterical. Jean talked too much. Louis bit back the word congratulations, he felt it to be too bitter of a word for the occasion, through the would be sure to send a nice wedding present.
He left the house, leaving Jean. He went home in the twilight hours.
Once he was home, he noticed Jamie stumbling up from the oratory, heading for the back door to fall exhausted on his cot in a small room off of the kitchen.
Louis almost felt a sad kind of kinship with Jamie, a kinship he quickly dismissed from his mind.
Going to his room, Louis opened up a bottle of brandy he kept on his bed table. He sipped the hot liquid down, determined to drink himself into a pleasant oblivion. A place where no one would lay a claim on his attentions. He knew his father disapproved of pubic drunkenness. This was the way a true gentleman got himself drunk--in a quiet place.
Sullenly, he put his empty bottle down, taking the trail to the maids' bedroom. Opening the door, he said in a low hurt voice "Yvette, I'm cold. Come lay in bed with me."
Yvette woke from her slumber, moaning and groaning a little. She exchanged glances with the other house slaves in the bedroom they all shared. She followed Louis up to his room. She was a merry plump little mulatto. She could barely suppress a triumph laugh. Doctor Rodin de Bones, a witch doctor, sold her a charm to catch her master's fancy, and it was finally working.
She shook her behind as she walked. Dr. Rodin de Bone's laughter running though her head along with his words that no magic in this world or the other world would warm that man up for a woman's bed. Even so, Dr. Rodin de Bones had been happy enough to take a chicken she stole in exchange for the love charm. She held her breath going under the covers and sheet with Louis. If she could only manage to keep Louis interested in her charm, he would free her, set her up in a fine small house in town, their children would have the opportunities slave children had no access to. She wondered if she could talk him into adopting her two older children. They had black complexions, but if he loved her, surely Louis would treat them as almost well as the children they would have together. She reached her hand determinedly between Louis' legs, touching him like she enjoyed touching her man Francis, a field hand.
Rolling over, his hips pressed against her groin, he fell asleep in a drunken stupor, appreciating her warmth if nothing else.
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