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Chapter One
IN THE VIEUX CARRE
Toward the end of the first quarter of the nineteenth
century, New Orleans, the little city planted on the
banks of the Mississippi, was in the full tide of a newborn
prosperity. Always French at heart, in spite of the successive
strains of alien humanity which penetrated and
mingled with its population--Spanish, Indian, African, English,
Irish, American--it had been nearly a score of years
under the government of the United States. Eight or ten
years before, General Jackson, defeating the British in a
famous battle, had firmly established the American influence,
and made the word "Yankee" a symbol of respect, instead of,
as formerly, a term of suspicion and reproach. Prosperity had
followed the incorporation of the colony into the Republic.
From 1812 to 1821 the population had nearly doubled. The
Mississippi swarmed with steamboats, laden with cotton and
sugar from the up-river districts, destined for shipment to
Europe or the North. The old city walls had been torn down,
the moat filled up and converted into boulevards. From a
sleepy, slow, but picturesque provincial French town, with a
Spanish veneer, the Crescent City had been swept into the
current of American life, and pulsed and throbbed with the
energy of the giant young nation of the West.
Nevertheless, these changes were in many respects as yet
merely superficial. The great heart of the community,--the
thoughts, the feelings, the customs, the prejudices, the religion
of the people,--remained substantially unchanged. The
current was swifter, but the water was the same. The Americans,
while tolerated socially, were still a class apart, though
by virtue of their superior energy and genius for politics they
were rapidly becoming the ruling class. The Creoles had their
own very proud and exclusive society. They had resented the
Spanish dominion; they were not yet quite reconciled to the
American occupation. They were the professional men and
the owners of land and slaves, the rentiers, or gentlemen of
independent income.
Descending by easy grades, there were the people of
color--octoroons, quadroons, mulattoes--many of them
small tradesmen, a few of them large merchants or planters,
and more than one the inheritor of substantial means from a
white father or grandfather--an inferior but not entirely degraded
class. A battalion of free colored men, for instance,
had served gallantly in the War of 1812, and had won the
praise of the commander-in-chief; while the quadroon
women were famous for their beauty and their charm, neither
of which could have existed without some friendly encouragement.
At the basis of all lay the black slaves, whose
arduous and unrequited toil, upon the broad, deep-soiled
plantations of indigo, rice, cotton and sugar cane, furnished
the wherewithal to maintain the wealth and luxury of the
capital.
One day in the spring of 1821, about ten o'clock in the
morning, an old colored woman entered the vieux carre, or
old square, with a large basket upon her head, and took up
her stand in front of the porch of the Cabildo, or Hotel de
Ville, or City Hall, as it was successively called under the various
regimes, the beautiful old Spanish building which still
faces the Place d'Armes, now Jackson Square. She placed her
basket on the pavement, removed the clean white cotton
cloth which covered it, and disposed for exhibition the contents,
consisting of pralines, or little crisp sweet cakes, a popular
Creole delicacy. She then pulled out from behind one of
the columns of the porch a three-legged wooden stool, hers
by right of property or prescription, and took her seat upon
it by the basket.
"Pralines! fresh and sweet! Pralines, messieurs! Pralines,
mesdames! Pralines, mes enfants!"
Her mellow voice resounded beneath the arches of the
porch, and out over the Place d'Armes. The leisurely activities
of the city were in full swing. It was about the hour for the
courts to open, and, as it was a feast day in Lent, a second service
in the Cathedral was to begin shortly. More than one
gentleman with a sweet tooth stopped in front of the old
woman long enough to purchase one of the crisp cakes, which
he munched surreptitiously as he went on. Others dropped a
coin into the basket, accepting nothing in return but a bow, a
curtsey, or the old woman's voluble thanks. A minor city official,
entering the Cabildo, stopped a moment to chaff with
the old street vendor. The day was warm, the gentleman was
stout, and he had removed his hat, which he held in his hand.
"Bon jour, Zabet!" he said, "You grow younger and
younger. You do not look a day over a hundred." Zabet's reputed
great age was a popular myth.
"Bon jour, miche (monsieur). Voulez vous des pralines? It
is hard to determine your age, Monsieur l'Interprete, by looking
at you. Did you lose your hair from age or early piety?"
The bystanders laughed, and the interpreter, acknowledging
his defeat with a shrug and a grimace, entered the
building.
An elderly lawyer, with a dignified and imposing mien,
attended by a colored servant carrying a brief-case, drew
near. He was absorbed in thought and seemed not to observe
the old woman's deferential salute. She respected his mood
and did not accost him.
"There, my children," she observed sententiously to
the group of loiterers about her, "there goes Miche Jules
Renard, the great advocate. He is lawyer for Pere Antoine,
the rector of the parish, and for the very rich Miche Pierre
Beaurepas. It was not from any lack of courtesy or consideration
that he did not speak to me, for he is one of my best
friends, but because he has business on his mind of such moment
that he can think of nothing else."
A judge went by. To him Zabet bowed as deeply as her
seated position and her girth would permit. No native of
New Orleans respected authority more than old Zabet
Philosophe--as she was called--Elizabeth the wise woman.
For twenty-odd years a fixture in the vieux carre, she had
been a public institution, known and respected of all men,
since General Jackson, nine years before, in the flail tide of his
popularity, had publicly shaken hands with her on the steps
of the Cathedral, had praised her patriotism, commended the
gallantry of the free colored troops, and given Zabet a silver
dollar. She had kept the dollar ever since, though often offered
for it many times its value. It was a standing joke to try
to purchase this souvenir.
The judge nodded to the cake-woman. Zabet gave to her
audience details, in Gumbo or Negro French, of the judge's
imposing pedigree and the grandeur of his ancestors. When
addressing white people she spoke excellent French, having
lived the greater part of her life in the houses of the rich and
cultured, first in San Domingo, from which she had fled,
with her master's children, during the insurrection of 1793,
and later in New Orleans, where, in recognition of her loyalty,
she had for half a century enjoyed the privileges of a free
woman. Indeed, her immunity from slavery had lasted so
long that her free papers were never asked for--no more than
one would have looked for the charter of the city or the title
deeds of the Cabildo. She was old, and fat, and brown as old
mahogany; but she had once been young and fair and slender,
and her wisdom was that of a varied, not to say variegated
experience. She had been by turns seamstress,
hairdresser, laundress, nurse and midwife, and had become a
seller of cakes only when age and rheumatism had disqualified
her somewhat for more active pursuits. She was the
repository of more than one family secret, and discretion was
one of her few virtues.
Shortly after the judge had disappeared within the doorway
of the city hall, a Creole gentleman of about thirty,
dressed in the European fashion which the Creoles affected,
with very high collar, full shirt front and voluminous cravat,
top boots with large flaps, and somewhat stouter of build and
less open of countenance than most men of his race, approached
old Zabet on the way to the Cabildo. To this gentleman,
a member of the family which held the dormant title
to the old cake-woman,--she being, though she had forgotten
it, a chattel personal,--Zabet Philosophe instinctively
yielded the deference due his name, and, rising laboriously
from her stool, greeted him with a profound curtsey, to
which he responded with an absent-minded nod.
"Miche Adolphe seems depressed," suggested the old
woman, insinuatingly.
The appearance of the stout gentleman bore out this
conjecture. He looked decidedly worried. At the old
woman's remark he paused in front of her and sighed.
"I had a dream, last night, Miche Adolphe," she said, "in
which you had fallen into the river. You had gone down
twice, and were throwing up your hands for the last time."
It was a superstitious age, and Zabet's dreams were an
easy expedient, by which she was able to talk to white people
with a freedom which would not have been permitted to less
privileged colored persons.
"You should not presume to dream of me, old witch, unless
your dreams are good ones. No need to predict bad
luck--it is mine already!"
"But you are too impatient, master! That was not all of
my dream. You were rescued at the last moment."
"By whom?" he demanded eagerly.
Zabet Philosophe's dreams had often come true; this had
been known to happen many times. The guesses of a shrewd
observer who understands the character and circumstances of
those about, may often hit the mark. Moreover Zabet's
dreams were often shrewdly calculated, as in this instance, to
accomplish indirectly some very definite purpose.
"By your uncle Pierre," she rejoined, "who threw you a
plank, mon Dieu, upon which you swam safely ashore!"
Adolphe Beaurepas's face lit up with hope. Was this
dream of the old mulatress a good omen? Was it at all possible
that his close-fisted uncle Pierre would help him to lift
the miserable mortgage, ripe for foreclosure, which covered
the whole of his small estate?
"Tell me, Zabet!" he said, dropping into the Philosophe's
basket one of his few pieces of silver, "do you think
he would care to see me?"
"He received you affectionately in my dream," returned
Zabet, "which was one of the true kind. I saw Miche Pierre
only last night, and he spoke of his dear nephews and of how
much he loved them. And he added that he was growing old,
and must decide upon his heir."
"Dear, good uncle! replied Adolph Beaurepas, with a
cunning smile. "He does not know how much I love him. I
think I shall pay him a visit."
"By all means," returned Zabet. "I should not neglect it.
Out of sight, out of mind."
"Merci, Zabet, I'll go and see him."
"Go in the morning, Miche Adolphe, when he is fresh
and his mind clear. You will have a better reception."
The court had not yet opened, but the hour for opening
was at hand, and several belated lawyers hurried past with
their clients and witnesses. As a gentleman, taller of stature
than most Creole men, who as a rule, though athletic, were
of about the middle height, passed old Zabet in too great
haste to notice her, she called out to him.
"There is no need to hurry, Miche Henri. The judge has
not yet gone in. I was at Miche Pierre's house this morning."
"And how is my uncle?" queried Henri Beaurepas, another
of the nephews of the rich Creole proprietor referred to
by Zabet.
"Failing, Miche Henri, though he does not seem to realize
it."
Standing in the glare of the morning sun, Henri Beaurepas's
face showed indubitable marks of dissipation. Late
hours do not conduce to early rising or firm cheeks or clear
eyes. He had sat in a gambling house on Canal Street until
three o'clock that morning, and had suffered heavy losses at
cards, for which he had given his notes of hand, payable on
demand, thus increasing the total of his debts by several
thousand dollars. His expression brightened when the old
woman spoke.
"Why do you think he is failing, Zabet?" he asked with
restrained eagerness.
"Why, Miche Henri? Because he is thinking of his heir.
He asked about you. He spoke very kindly. I think he would
like to see you."
Another silver piece dropped into the old woman's
basket.
"I'll go and see him, Zabet. When is he in the best
humor?"
"I should go just before noon, Miche Henri--before
luncheon. He is apt then to be in a pleasant mood. But there
comes your judge."
"Then I must hurry in, and finish my testimony. I am a
witness in the Janvier case. Merci, Zabet; when I come into
the estate, I'll not forget you." The Janvier case was a famous,
long drawn out piece of litigation involving the tide to
a large tract of valuable land.
"Merci, Miche," said Zabet, with a curtsey, but the smile
with which she followed the gentleman as he entered the city
hall, had more of shrewd cynicism than of the servility which
had marked it when face to face with her interlocutor.
Among other things which slavery had taught Zabet, if she
needed any instruction, was, when she chose, the ability to so
control her features that they did not reveal her thoughts, a
very valuable accomplishment for one of her condition.
There was a lull in the street movement for a brief space,
and then the bells of the Cathedral nearby rang out for
morning mass. This venerable and imposing pile, with its
mixture of rustic, Tuscan and Roman Doric styles of architecture,
its towers lined with low spires, and its arched door
with clustered columns on either hand, occupied one side of
the old square, and was the recognized center of the Creole
life of New Orleans.
As the bells rang out, a shabby one-horse carriage, drawn
by a flea-bitten gray gelding, which, in spite of its age,
showed signs of breeding, entered the Square from St. Anne
Street, and passing old Zabet, who dropped an unnoticed
curtsey to the occupants, drew up in front of the Cathedral
door. From it dismounted an elderly Spaniard, with the
pointed Velasquez beard affected by men of his race. He was
followed by a young woman of rare beauty, whom he assisted
to alight. They might have been, as they were in fact, father
and daughter.
Zabet, who stood not far from the door of the church,
with her eyes fixed upon the couple, did not, for the moment,
perceive two gentlemen who were approaching her on the
street from opposite directions. Each of these, it seemed, was
also intent upon the pair in front of the Cathedral, and neither
perceived the other until they came into personal contact,
though with no great degree of violence, for both were walking
slowly, immediately in front of the old cake merchant.
One of the two, a handsome young man, of about the
middle height, with a proud expression, tinged with a melancholy
discontent, had drawn back deprecatingly, and was lifting
his hat with a murmured apology, when the other, with a
truculent air, drew back his arm almost involuntarily, and
struck the first a stinging blow upon the cheek.
"You should stick to the gutter, canaille, if you cannot
keep out of the way of gentlemen! If you kept your eyes in
front of you, instead of stating insolently at white ladies, it
would be the better for you. This is not your first offense.
You will need more than one lesson to teach you your place."
The person thus addressed, who was apparently no more
responsible for the accident than the speaker, turned white at
first,--whether with fear or with anger,--but almost instantly
the tide of blood flowed back and flushed his cheek a dark
crimson, and from his black eyes blazed the fierce resentment
to which the blow had given rise. Such of the bystanders as
did not know the two men, held their breath for a moment,
in anticipation of the tragedy which would in all probability
follow so grievous an insult. The men of New Orleans were
hot-blooded and impulsive, prone to act first and think afterwards,
if the matter demanded thought. Among the Creole
French and Spaniards the point of honor was jealously
guarded, and frequent resort was had to the code for its
maintenance, while among the American adventurers who
came down the Mississippi were many violent men who had
sought the city because of its distance from courts where
their presence was urgently desired. Only the week before, a
prominent citizen had been shot down for a less offense than
a blow or running into another, and brawls between commoner
men were of frequent occurrence.
To the surprise and disappointment of the bystanders,
however, the man who had been struck, after a visible effort
to restrain himself, made no reply, but merely turned upon
his heel and walked quietly away. Around the next corner,
however, in a quiet street where he was out of sight and hearing,
he first relieved his mind by a flow of strong language
which he muttered under his breath, accompanied by gestures
significative of defiance and revenge, and then, after
this harmless and somewhat childish though perfectly natural
performance, drew from his pocket a set of tablets, glanced at
the clock in the cathedral nearby, and made a careful memorandum
with the gold lead pencil which dangled from his
watch-chain.
"It is an interesting record," he muttered, running his
eye over the page, "and when the credit entries are made, it
will be more interesting still. My time will come--I feel it! I
am free-born,--I am rich--I am as white as they; and I have
been better educated. Yet they treat me like a Negro, and
when I am struck I cannot return the blow, under pain of losing
my liberty or my life. Ah, could I but face them as man to
man!" he cried, putting his hand to his side, upon an imaginary
sword-hilt. "But I forget--nom de Dieu--a man of color
cannot bear arms! But we shall see! We shall see!"
"What insolence!" cried old Zabet, insinuatingly, as the
other gentleman, maintaining his position upon the sidewalk,
still stared across toward the cathedral door into which
the Spaniard and his daughter were disappearing.
The gentleman, absorbed in his own thoughts, made no
reply.
"What heavenly beauty, Monsieur Raoul!" crooned the
old woman.
The young man glanced at the speaker. The white girl
had gone in, and the old brown woman offered a ready foil
to her radiant youth and beauty. Nevertheless his irritation
had not yet subsided, and he only scowled at the old cakewoman.
"If only justice were done, Monsieur Raoul," Zabet, intent
upon her own purpose, persisted, "and you, as the eldest
born, were acknowledged as your uncle's heir, you would
not need to look at her from a distance. I saw old Miche
Pierre this morning. He is in a bad way, poor man!"
"How so, Zabet?" demanded the gentleman, his brow
clearing somewhat at the old woman's words. "Is it his heart,
or his gout, or both together?"
Zabet shook her head with a portentous sigh.
"His gout, Monsieur Raoul, is threatening his heart. And
his spirits are low. He complains that his nephews do not love
him, that they neglect their old uncle, that they seldom come
near him."
Raoul Beaurepas, sugar and cotton broker, roue and
speculator, who had just received a call for additional margins
to save him from a loss which threatened bankruptcy,
jumped at the hook, like a hungry fish at a fat worm. Another
silver piece found lodgment in Zabet's basket. The younger
Beaurepas were prodigal, while their money lasted.
"Merci, Zabet, he shall no longer complain. When is he
in the most amiable mood?"
"In the afternoon, Monsieur Raoul, after his siesta, you
will make a better impression."