Elise called me again first thing the next morning. She was in a great mood – apparently planning was winding down. She couldn’t really talk to me about what they were doing up there, but her mood told me everything I cared about. She wouldn’t give me a day when she would be back in Green Bay, but when I suggested I might already drive back by the following weekend, she let me know she liked the idea. I hoped that meant I might finally get to see her again.
To prove that I was actually being productive during my time in New Orleans, I mentioned August 24th.
“History is constantly rewritten and reused.” I began a lecture. She knew she was marrying a professor, so I continued without embarrassment. “The best or worst example was in South Africa. During the 1930s the Dutch South Africans – the English called them “Boers” – began a series of historical reenactments, all meant to show how glorious their history was. It helped unite them. By 1948 they were able to win the national elections and bring apartheid to the country. On August 24, 1572 twenty thousand Huguenots were massacred in France. If I were a Huguenot looking for a rallying cry, I would do something with that date.”
“August 24th is an interesting date,” was her only response. We finished our morning talk with some more intimate conversation, and then she was off to her meetings.
I had breakfast in the hotel again – many of the restaurants in the Quarter were closed for the season, or open only for dinner. I wasn’t sure how much longer the hotel restaurant would stay open. I seemed to be its only customer. Wherever all those Huguenots who had come down from the north had gone, it hadn’t been to this part of New Orleans.
The library was just as quiet. I spoke briefly to the reference librarian to thank him for his help the day before, and frankly, also to hear another human voice. The vacuum that now existed in central New Orleans was eerie. Eventually I wandered up to my carrel and began browsing books again.
The year I left off in was 1610. King Henry IV has been assassinated, but he has left the Huguenots in pretty good shape. They had the Edict of Nantes to protect them, basically giving them the same religious freedoms we would expect people to have today. The only difference was that Henry had also given them a dozen cities that were fortified, so they had a place to retreat to if not all Frenchmen were as open-minded.
Henry’s son, Louis XIII, is nine and too young to be King, but Cardinal Richelieu serves as an effective Regent. Given all the stories about Richelieu and the Three Musketeers, you would have thought the next years would be interesting, but only if you love palace intrigue. Louis’ mother wants to rule through her son and attacks Richelieu as a rival. Louis picks Richelieu over her and sends her into exile. A sad little tale. Richelieu dies and is replaced by Cardinal Mazarin who later advises the next Louis.
Both Richielieu and Mazarin serve their king well. They bring him greater power, and centralize more authority around the king so that the government begins to take a form closer to what we would recognize as a central government. The nobles across France lose out over this period, but the King does just fine. He has a big army, a solvent treasury, his laws are obeyed in a greater part of the land, and he has fewer internal rivals. Louis XIII died at 42, but it looked like he had a pretty good life while it lasted.
Louis XIV is five when his father dies. Mazarin runs the country until Louis is in his teens, and then Mazarin dies and leaves Louis to run one of the largest and most populous countries in Europe. He rules for sixty years, most of them spent fighting various neighbors.
What about the Huguenots? They are left alone by Louis XIII, and by both Cardinals. They are protected by the Edict of Nantes and live ordinary lives prospering in numerous industries. They go to church, raise their families, and live like all other successful Frenchmen.
It is actually Louis XIV, Henry of Navarre’s grandson, who crushes them. By 1685 they are dead or forcibly converted or fugitives from France. Why? One king, one country, one religion. The two Louis's have been centralizing French authority since Henry’s death in 1610. Over 75 years they have accomplished a lot. The petty nobles are broken, the borders are secure, there is just one variant from the order of the day – a million or so people who don’t go to the King’s church. He can’t have that, so he revokes the Edict of Nantes, and lets local authorities break the Protestants. Within a decade the job is done – Huguenots no longer exist in France.
By the time I got this far in my reading it was well past lunch time, so I put away the books, locked my study carrel, and stepped out for lunch. Out of habit, I turned my cell phone on as I walked out the door. I never leave a phone on while I am working. I suppose I could say I kept it off for a courtesy to other patrons, but the truth is I hate to be interrupted while I am reading. Now my finger barely hit the power button when the ringer went off, and yes, I just have a ring or buzzer on my phone, not two movements from Beethoven.
“Shawn, I am glad I was able to get a hold of you.” It was David Starr. “I would like to see you as soon as possible.”
“Well, I am walking south on Canal Street, looking for lunch. Have you had lunch?”
“Lunch would be great, but do you mind walking as far as the Granary? They have a private room where we could eat and talk without being interrupted.”
“Sure. I can be there in about ten minutes.” I liked the Granary, but I still had a bad feeling about the place after last night. I still had no idea what I had said. I gathered the men at my table were soldiers, probably guards at the consulate, but they had been rude and secretive. And obviously I had broken some rule by mentioning August 24, but how was I to know there was such a rule? And why would someone make such a rule? I walked the seven blocks to the restaurant arriving hot, sweating, and on guard.
David was waiting for me when I arrived. The consulate must be close by, or he made this his second office. He reached to shake my hand, and then pulled me toward the back room where I had seen him and the soldiers go two days earlier.
“I am very confused by you, Shawn,” was his opening after we had gotten into the room and the waiter had left. He was confused? I thought I was the one working through a mystery! “All I know so far is that you are a friend of Senator Dodson, chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee, and that you know about August 24th, which frankly, I didn’t even think the Senator knew about. How about helping me out here? Who the hell are you?”
Who the Hell was I? What a way to start lunch. I leaned forward with my elbows on the table and met his stare eye to eye. “To begin with, I am obviously not the person you think I am. I am not a friend of the Senator. My father is an acquaintance of his, and a campaign contributor. After all, he is the senator from our state. My lunch with him last month was just the second time I met the man. I have no idea what committees he is on, although I am surprised by intelligence. The man never impressed me that much. As for August 24th, I know that date because I am an historian. I am here to learn Huguenot history, and the first major event of their history is their slaughter on August 24, 1572. Twenty thousand died that day. As for you, I don’t know who you are either, but I assume you are not just in town to evacuate poor tourists.”
He had no response to that, so we sat staring at each other across the table. The waiter, Francois, came and brought us two glasses of chilled chardonnay, and then left without a word. Neither of us spoke. Finally I took my glass of wine, sat back in my chair and drank. If we were going to have a staring contest, I would at least enjoy a glass of wine while it lasted.
“So August 24th was just a lucky guess?’
“What’s so lucky about it? Twenty thousand men were cut to pieces and thrown into the Seine.”
“Yes, of course.” He went back to staring. It was annoying, but I let it pass. I sipped the wine, looked around the room, and waited for more pieces to fall into place. What could I guess so far? He and his soldier friends had something planned for the 24th. Fortunately I would be l
ong gone by August.
“Dodson assured me you don’t work for him.”
“No, I don’t. After finishing my degree I went to work for my father. He has an export business.”
“And that’s how you ended up in Green Bay.”
“Now you are annoying me.” I put down my wine and stood up. “If you are a spy, spy on the French. I am an American citizen and have the right to travel anywhere I want for any reason I want. Keep your lunch.” He made a move to stand as well, but I caught him with a hand as he was half out of his chair and sent him sprawling back over his chair. I was out of the room and back on the street before he could get back up and cause me any trouble.
The street was insufferably hot, and of course I was hot too. Historians don’t push people around very often. Too bad he was such a jerk. He was an American, I am an American, we should have been able to talk. Just a little courtesy would have made all the difference. Now I had a spy and some soldiers who were all angry with me. And I had another problem. I now knew for certain that something would occur on August 24. Did I warn Elise? I had already mentioned it to her once, did I call back and tell her more? But wouldn’t that make me a spy for the French? I might dislike the representatives my country sent to New Orleans, but I am still an American. I decided to keep my mouth shut.
Somehow my feet found their way back to the provincial library. I was still hungry, but the cool air felt amazing, and I headed straight back to my carrel. I would read myself back three centuries to where the world made more sense. I had just sat down and started wiping the sweat from my face, when a beautiful young woman appeared. She was tall, brunette, with large brown eyes, and did I say she was beautiful? She was beautiful. And, what may have been the biggest surprise – she was wearing a yellow print dress. After several days of seeing all people wearing all white, she was a shock.
“Hello, I am Margaret Riemard, library archivist.” This of course was the time for me to introduce myself, but I was still so stunned I just starred at her. She took my idiocy well. She just smiled and continued. “Monsieur Guillard explained the nature of your research and suggested I visit with you. We do not have the archives of your library in Green Bay, or in Philadelphia, but I might be able to help you find some materials of interest.”
“Thank you.” I finally managed to get my mouth in motion. “I am Shawn Murphy. I appreciate your help.” I held out my hand, only then noticing that it was still sweating from being outside and from the altercation with the spy. She reached out her hand, but I pulled mine back and wiped it on my pants. “I am afraid I am still sweating from my brief time outside.”
“If there is one thing we understand in New Orleans,” she said with a smile, “It is perspiration. Please follow me and I will take you to our collection.” She turned quickly enough that her skirt flared out a bit. I noticed. In fact I stared. I followed along behind her hoping that I could get my mind back on history.
“If I might ask,” I struggled to think of something professional to say. “I would think the humidity would have destroyed much of the old materials.”
“Yes. In truth, we have no originals.” She led me into small elevator and pressed the button for the basement. Even with my back up against a wall, I found myself very close to her – far too close. “Everything I will show you has been copied by hand, sometimes now for the seventh or eighth time. With our current climate control we can keep materials for nearly a century, but even now we cannot perfectly seal the room, so deterioration occurs much faster than it would in a temperate climate.” I tried to look at her without staring at her. I think there is a difference, and I tried to achieve it, but still I was grateful when the elevator finally arrived in the basement and we were able to exit.
“Have you worked here long?” She led me down another hallway and then unlocked a large door.
“I was an intern here as a college student – Louisiana history was my major --and then again while I was earning my Masters of Information Studies. So I have spent eight years in this room. I can show you the deed to the original ten city plots, diaries from three thousand eight hundred and thirty four people who settled here before 1800, or medical records from all nineteen major malarial outbreaks.” She walked farther into the room, but I just stood at the doorway and stared. The room was large – maybe sixty feet wide and well over a hundred feet long. Much of the right wall was taken up by equipment – computers, scanners, microfiche. It appeared they were digitizing much of the old materials. It would make an amazing web site when it was done, because there seemed to be no end of the materials in the room. There were a good ten rows of shelves, each just barely two feet apart – no wheelchair access rules here – and filled to the ten foot ceiling with folders, pamphlets, and books.
“Did you say all this material has been hand-copied?” I was incredulous. The work would have taken a factory full of people a lifetime to copy.
“We take our history very seriously down here, Dr. Murphy. Three out of every four settlers who arrived here before 1800 were dead within five years of arrival. Those people wanted their stories remembered, and their families were determined, generation after generation, to make that happen.”
“To think all of this has had to be recopied time and again…” I took a few steps into the room and looked down two of the aisles. It didn’t seem to matter how much I stared at the materials, I just couldn’t grasp all the work I was seeing before me. “Fully reviewing this collection would take a lifetime.”
“In the eight years I have been down here, I have had the time to read just over a thousand diaries. I think it will take me another twenty years or so to read them all.”
“Is that your plan?” I asked. She turned and walked toward me. I immediately turned from the room to watch her. She had no doubt been drawing the undivided attention of men for years.
“I know of no novels more interesting than these diaries. They make me cry, mostly, but sometimes they make me laugh. But always they make me understand what it means to be Louisianan. I can recommend several to you, if you like.” She was now standing much too close, even though she was still several feet away.
“That would be very helpful.”
“Just give me a minute.” Once again she spun on her heal, and once again her skirt flared up. I looked around the room for something else to draw my attention. Finally I walked over to the computing equipment. That would be safe. The computer monitor was over twenty inches in size, and high resolution. It was meant for long hours of use with finely detailed images. Currently on the screen was a database grid. The records appeared to be objects in the collection. Information fields included the original dates of creation, dates of the last copying, names of the author and copiers, and many coded fields I guessed were for location, content, length, and condition. The top record was:
Biloxi Diary | Renee Dousaults | 1732 | 1968 | Eduard Messier | CC443.98
“These are the three that I use to introduce people to the collection.” Margaret held out three books bound in black. “I would read them in the order you hold them. The top two describe the conditions we endured in France, while the last one describes early years here.” I couldn’t help but notice her use of “we.” She was not here as an impartial academic.
“Thank you. I assume they are not to leave the library?”
“No, but you may leave them in your carrel. They will be safe there.” I started the preliminary motions to go, one foot moving back, my body beginning to turn toward the door, yet I couldn’t help but notice her standing totally still and seemingly totally at peace. She stood and looked at me with the most relaxed expression on her face. I wondered what expression was on my face. I finished my turn and headed for the door. Somewhere down the hallway and halfway to the elevator I started breathing again.
Safely back in my study room I began reading the first diary. The author was Claude Renault and the y
ear was 1684. The book appeared to have about one hundred pages. The paper was good quality stock with a high rag content, and the words were handwritten in black ink. I wondered if the copyists had tried to stay true to the original handwriting. If so, the gentleman liked to start each entry with a flourish stroke that sometimes made it hard for me to decipher the first word. Gradually I got the hang of it.
The French of 1684 not only had differences in penmanship, but in syntax and dialect. I was reading the words of a miller in Normandy. I assumed he was educated, but he was educated in the language and style of his day. Reading was slow. Part of my problem was my own faulty expectations. I have read lots of historical diaries, and my experience is that they tend to fall into two groups. In the first, people try to comment on exceptional events. “Today I saw the inauguration of Lord So and so.” In truth, if Lord So and So is significant, we already have a hundred other descriptions of his events. What we tend to be more interested in after all these years is simple stuff – when you observed the inauguration, were you wearing shoes? What were they made of? How were they made? How much did they cost? When you stood on the street, was it paved? If so, how? We have far more interest in the mundane things of life, but of course that is what people never write about. The other diaries are emotional journals, and reading them feels like an invasion of privacy. “Today I was very upset with Priscilla.” After a few centuries you hope she is less upset with poor Priscilla.
As I read and reread the first page of this diary, struggling with the archaic French, I was trying to determine if I was reading an event diary, or an emotional diary. Only on my third read of the first page did I understand I was reading neither. This diary was essentially a prayer. Mr. Renault was talking to God. Part of the diary was a prayer, part was a bargain, part was a plea for forgiveness.
The prayer was for help in understanding God’s wisdom. Soldiers had been billeted at his home and at the home of all the other Huguenots in his village. But the soldiers had not been placed in the homes in order to receive food and shelter, they were in the homes to terrify and punish. Their first act had been to search the home for valuables and to steal everything they found. They made all the women their servants, cooking, cleaning, washing for them. The men they beat. After the first week a priest came and asked them if they were ready to swear off their heresy and rejoin the church. When they said "no" he went into a rage. He searched the house until he found their Bible and prayer books. The Bible was in French, obviously one of the Protestant versions printed in Geneva by the Calvinists. The priest was now even more angry. Tearing out pages, he offered them to the soldiers to be used as toilet paper. But they were afraid to use the book of God in such a way, despite the encouragement of the priest. Now so angry he was drooling and spitting, the priest threw the pages into the stove while the family screamed and cried. Finally the priest stormed out of the house, telling the soldiers they had been inadequate in their efforts to bring the heretics back to the family of God.
The next week the soldiers turned to torture. The women were tied to chairs and their feet burned. The men were hung by their arms and beaten for hours. The head of the family, Claude’s father, was nearly beaten to death. Again the priest came and again they refused to convert. There were more screams, more threats, and then the priest took one of the soldiers out behind the house and spoke with him privately. That night the head of the house was tied to a chair in the bedroom and each woman of the house was brought in and raped repeatedly in his presence.
At this point the diary went off into a long series of discussions that can only be seen as bargaining. Mr. Renault had a good grasp of his bible, and seemed to be bargaining with God using scripture. The main point was Peter. Peter had denied Christ three times before dawn, yet God had forgiven him. Would God forgive them if they denied Christ one time? The next day Claude’s father died. Now head of the household at twenty-six, Claude made his decision. He went with the head soldier to see the priest and to beg forgiveness. The priest made him stay on his knees for most of the day before he would hear his confession and permit his conversion. Then the priest went back to Claude’s house with him, heard the professions of belief of the rest of the family, and ordered the soldiers out of the house.
Much of the rest of the diary is a plea for forgiveness. They permitted the father to be buried in the Catholic cemetery, sold the mill, sold the house, and told the priest they were moving to Cherbourg to be away from the Huguenot influences in the village. No one cared that they left. The buyer of the mill and the house got a great bargain, and one more Huguenot family was gone. Within a week of arriving in Cherbourg they made contact with Protestant smugglers, and took ship to England. The diary ends with them taking shelter in a Huguenot colony that was growing near Bath. On a clear day they could see France from their second story rooms, but they knew there would be no day when they could return.
“I am pleased that you began with Mr. Renault’s diary.” Margaret was back, standing at the doorway of my study room. “His story is terrifying, but his reaction is so typical of the time. He believed he had a personal relationship with God, and he addressed all the events of his life in that context. By the way, it is almost seven, and we close the library at seven in the summer. Monsieur Guillard sent me to tell you.”
“I had no idea of the time.” And I didn’t. I had become so absorbed in Mr. Renault’s story that I had completely forgotten where I was.
“That happens to me all the time. Fortunately I have a key to the library, so I can let myself out if I stay late, although one time I did set off an alarm by mistake.” She stood patiently while I closed up the diary and stacked up the books I had been using. No one else was going to be using my carrel, but somehow it seemed appropriate to arrange things neatly. Finally I was ready to join her and we walked out of the building together. The day was amazingly hot, and coupled with the mental change I had just gone through and the physical change I was now feeling, I felt totally confused. I just stood out of the street uncertain where to go next. Margaret stood next to me, waiting patiently and not saying a word.
“I would like to talk with you about that diary. Do you have time?” I finally asked.
“Of course. If you like, there is a cafe I often go to in the evenings. It is quiet and the food is good.”
“That would be perfect.” She led the way to a traffic island where we could board a street car headed south towards the river. They were all crowded with civil servants coming down out of the provincial office buildings, an army dressed in white. We were finally able to find room on one and held a strap as the street car followed Canal Street south to the river and then crossed the Mississippi on a trestle. There was more white ahead of us as the street car ground its way around a curve and headed into a commercial district that I had never visited before. My first thought was “So this is where everyone is.” After several days of walking through an empty Old Quarter, I was surprised to see so many people on the sidewalks and in the cafes. This district was packed.
Margaret finally led me off the car and into the midst of a collection of sidewalk cafes. There must have been a hundred tables set up on both sides of the street, all with blue and white umbrellas shading the rapidly setting sun. She led the way through the crowds on the sidewalk, heading straight for a matre d’ who stood at the roped entrance to one group of tables.
“Mademoiselle Riemard! And you have brought a guest. Let me show you to your table.” He seemed genuinely happy to see her, and led both of us to a table that was doubly shaded, both by a large overhanging roof, and by an umbrella. He even held her chair out for her, something I have rarely seen. They exchanged small talk, and she introduced me as a visiting American scholar. He left with promises to have a waiter come over immediately.
“This is quite a shock for me.” I said. “I have been wandering the empty streets of the Quarter for the last se
veral days.”
“There are beautiful gardens in the Quarter, but gradually it came to feel more like a tourist destination and less like home. I sometimes walk through there, but as you can see, most people who live in New Orleans prefer the South District.” A waiter brought us a pitcher of ice water, two glasses, and a plate of lemon slices – New Orleans tradition. Margaret ordered a carafe of wine.
“I am hoping you will tell me much more about Claude Renault, but may I ask you a personal question first?” She just raised an eyebrow in response and smiled enough to let me know I could continue. “So many people here are wearing white, yet you don’t.”
“That is actually a political question, but you ask it nicely.” She paused for a moment before continuing. I found myself taken by the way she sat. Her arms were at her sides, her hands crossed in her lap, she leaned slightly back in her chair, looking as if she were at complete peace with the world. I wondered if queens sat that way. “White has always been popular down here. The sun is hot, and white clothes reflect at least a little heat. White also shows dirt – or the lack of it. After working in the fields, or in the shops, changing into white clothes meant that work was over. I think that is a feeling all people enjoy, is it not?” I nodded.
“I am not sure we paid any attention to our preference for white until several years ago when some silly travel guide talked about our clothing. It was quoted in local newspapers and was discussed, certainly more widely than the comment deserved. Local stores decided to take advantage of the discussion to push some spring fashions, and suddenly people were wearing more white and were doing it consciously. Politicians follow these things more closely than other people, and they all began to wear white as a sign of local pride, hoping obviously, to pick up a few votes in the process.”
“And you?” I asked.
“I wear white on occasion. There are very good reasons to wear white in this climate. But I like other colors as well. And as you can see, I am not the only person who feels that way.” She gestured toward the street, and I saw there were others, maybe one person in eight or one person in ten, who was wearing colors. In fact there were so few they appeared to be the exception that proved the rule. But I decided not to push the issue.
“May I change the subject then, and ask about Claude Renault? The diary ends with the family living in England. Since the diary is in your archives, can I assume he eventually made it to Louisiana?”
“Yes, he did. The family lived in southern England until 1720. They never ventured far from the coast. It’s as if they wanted to stay as close to France as possible, and they operated a series of mills. After the Mississippi bubble burst in 1720, John Law took off ahead of the mob and the Duc d’Oleans needed a new group of fools to populate this swamp. Who better than the Huguenots?” I had no idea what the Mississippi bubble was or who John Law was, but I saved my questions. There were plenty of books in the provincial library. “The Renault family arrived in 1721.”
“He would have been over sixty.” I wasn’t trying to show off my math skills; I was genuinely surprised that a man of that age would try the voyage.
“Yes. He was dead within the year – new settlers died by the score, and older folks went first. But he got his family over here, and he got his business started.”
“A mill?”
“Yes. You might know it. They made it into a fancy restaurant back in the seventies. The Granary?”
“I ate there last night.”
“That’s right. I heard it was particularly popular with Americans these days.” She stopped and gave me a look that completely baffled me. What was she implying? I made no response and she continued. “It turned out to be one of the most important buildings in New Orleans. Not only did we need a mill, but he showed us how to build big buildings on this land. You see there is no solid land here. This whole area is just dirt left from river floods. It is like building on a sea of pudding. As long as the buildings were simple wood structures, they would just float on the mud. But Claude needed a large stone structure both to hold the machinery and to keep out the rats. Fortunately, he had built on river banks before, so he had some strategies for putting heavy buildings on soft soils.”
“Did he put down pilings?”
“Unfortunately, bedrock is seventy feet down. He could never reach it with the technology of the time. What he did instead, was build his mill like a square boat. He brought in enough rocks for a floor and mortared them in place, and then built the walls. He then let it slowly sink into the mud. The main floor of the restaurant is really the second floor of the mill. The ground floor has sunk fifteen feet so far. It sinks a little more each year, as does much of New Orleans, but the walls are water tight, so the building floats solidly enough to be usable.
“That’s pretty clever.”
“Yes. He never lived to see it, but his grandsons finished the building. Once it was done and had survived a few years, others in town got the idea, and all of the buildings that survive from that time were built on that principle. We are a city of concrete boats.” A waiter brought our wine and said he would return later to take our dinner orders. When I looked a bit quizzical Margaret explained the custom.
“We never eat before eight. By then the sun is down and the air begins to cool. It is also cooler for the women who have to work in the kitchen. Besides, is it so unpleasant to sit and enjoy an evening with friends?”
“No.” I smiled. “This is very pleasant. Thank you for sharing this place with me. The restaurants in the Quarter are so empty I was beginning to feel like I was living in a haunted house.”
“New Orleans is very much alive, as I hope you will see.” At this point the conversation turned to small talk. We sipped wine, drank lots of water, and talked about college days. We had history majors in common and talked about some of the courses we had taken. She had heard of George Washington, so I got to talk a bit about him, and she told me tales of Jean Lafite, the buccaneer. Eventually we did order dinner – blackened catfish, beans and rice. She described the arrival of rice in Louisiana and the struggle to create the first rice paddies. You could tell we were both history majors – we spoke for hours that evening and never spoke about the current century.
Sometime after ten they blocked off the street and a band stand was wheeled into place. A half dozen musicians with instruments I had never seen before began to play and folks moved out to the street to dance. The music was fast and loud and seemed to involve variations on a two-step and a waltz. Whatever they were playing, people seemed to like, since they not only danced, but shouted periodically. Within fifteen minutes the street was full of shouting, dancing people.
“Well, aren’t you going to ask me to dance?” Margaret had an amused look on her face, almost like a dare.
“Margaret, I have no idea what kind of dances those are.”
“You are here to learn about Louisiana, aren’t you?” At that point I accepted the dare and led her out to the street. Out of habit I reached back and took her hand as we snaked through the crowd. She held my hand firmly and then stood closely when we finally found an empty spot in the street.
“Hold me as you would for a waltz. This is a two-step, with a faster beat. You hop on each foot, and try to stay in time with the music.” It took me a few tries to get the beat right, but eventually we were doing something similar to what I could see other couples doing. Margaret was very quick on her feet and very forgiving if I missed a beat. With a good partner I could see that she would have been the star of this dance floor.
We were on our second dance and I was already winded when I heard my sister’s voice in my head -- “Boys are such idiots!” We were both back from a CYO dance. I was fifteen and had just started going to dances. She was seventeen, and as always, was lecturing me. “Boys always want to know, ‘Does she like me?’ when girls are telling boys all the time if they would just look. First, girls tell you b
y looking at you. If they look at you, they are interested, if they don’t, they aren’t. Isn’t that simple enough for you?” I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to answer. Usually with Kelly, it was best if I just kept my mouth shut. “Second, if girls dance with you, watch their left hand. If they put it on the front of your shoulder, they are holding you off. They are just dancing with you to be polite. They are willing to dance this one dance with you, but don’t come back for another. If they put it on the top of your shoulder, along your arm, they are neutral at the moment. It is up to you to say something nice. If they put it along the back of your shoulder, they are bringing you to them. They are interested. Does it get any simpler than that?” It took me two days to realize she wanted me to convey this message to Reginald, the boy she was currently dating. But by the time I could figure out how to talk with Reginald, she had already dumped him and moved on to another boy.
Kelly’s lecture came to mind as I danced with Margaret. She was looking at me as we danced. And her left hand? It was on the top of my shoulder. Maybe some of her fingers were towards the back of my arm. I wasn’t sure. But I thought adult women might be more complicated than seventeen-year-old Kelly knew. She was right about one thing, though. Men are idiots.
We danced several more dances, and then the band took a break. I was pleased to be able to catch my breath. Or at least I was pleased until I saw why they were interrupting the music. Several men with blue arm bands took the stage – two of them armed with rifles.
“Fellow Louisianans!” One of them shouted to the cheers of the crowd. “I love that word. Let me say it again. Fellow Louisianans!” Now the cheer was even louder. “These are historic times, aren’t they? Our friends and families are returning from the frozen north.” Another cheer. “I bet we have people here tonight who are back home again.” More cheers, and lots of hands waving. “Aren’t you glad to be back?” Deafening cheers. “We promise you will be safe here.” The men with rifles waved them in the air to more cheers. “The Louisiana Police are your police. The Louisiana Guard is your guard. And the Louisiana Nationalist Army….” He didn’t finish his sentence and the crowd thundered its approval.
“Some beautiful Louisiana ladies are going to pass among you with buckets. I want you to fill those buckets. We have a few things to buy. And I bet you know what those things are.”” Knowing laughter from the crowd. “And we have a few men in national jails who need to get out of those jails.” Loud boos. “These are historic times, and we are going to write some new history real soon. So dig deep and help your soldiers. Are you willing?” A cheer. “I said are you willing.” A bigger cheer. “I said are you willing?” A huge cheer. While the shouts still echoed off the buildings, dozens of young girls ran into the crowd with buckets. Every person I could see put some money in. I wouldn’t. I could feel Margaret staring at me, watching me. What could I say? She didn’t wait for me to explain. She simply dropped a ten franc note of her own into the bucket when the girl approached.
“This is not your war.” She told me as the girl moved on. “Unless you want it to be.”
“I will pray for peace.” I led the way back to our table. It was time to pay the bill and head back to the hotel. “Thank you for the dance lesson, and for sharing dinner with me. This was fun.” I gave the waiter some francs and finished the last of my wine.
“It was my pleasure. Thank you for dinner. I guess I should head home as well.”
“Shall I walk you home?”
“There is no need. My apartment is just across the street.” She pointed to one of the windows over the shops.”
“Isn’t it a bit loud?”
“The library is quiet all day. It is good to have some noise in one’s life too, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” I answered, but I was not sure if she was talking about the music or about something else. I walked with her across the street and stood a moment outside her door. She had beautiful eyes, and she kept them on me, waiting patiently until I said a simple “good night” and left. I followed her directions to a cab stand and rode back across the river to my hotel.
Do I agree that one should have some noise in one’s life? No. It is my nature to be quiet. Whatever she meant by noise, I didn’t really want it. I don’t think I am alone. In my teens I read numerous biographies of soldiers. What they had in common was that most returned from battle to disappear into civilian life. They wanted to be invisible – to live simply. It has been nearly a century since the last European war – the Second Franco-Prussian War. Those who survived until the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918 simply wanted to return to their families. All those veterans are dead now. Do any of their grandchildren remember the blessings of a quiet life?
Chapter 7
Huguenots Arrive in New Orleans