Elise didn’t call the next morning. I assumed that meant she had gone into meetings earlier than usual. Was something going on? As usual, I had not done a good job of following current events. I hadn’t read a newspaper in days, and hadn’t turned on the tv since coming to New Orleans. I promised myself I would start doing a better job of staying current. In the meantime, I called Elise and left a private message.
Over breakfast in the empty hotel restaurant I pulled a newspaper from the top of a very large stack and scanned for events that might be confronting the powers of Green Bay. But things seemed unchanged. People were still migrating south to Louisiana or east into the U.S. One article said now over one hundred thousand Protestants were temporarily in the U.S. Various U.S. politicians were saying the usual things about helping people “in their time of need.” But there had been no fighting or destruction. The Versailles immigration post was open again and all others were functioning well. If there was a significant new development in the current situation, I couldn’t spot it.
After breakfast I warned the front desk that I would probably be checking out in two days. The manager was gracious about it, but I wondered if I was the last guest they had. These were not good times for the hotel business.
My goal for the day was to read the other two diaries Margaret had given me. Maybe if I got through them in one day, I could even start for Green Bay tomorrow. It would be a push, given the difficulty of the reading, but I would try. I walked quickly to the provincial library, spoke briefly with Monsieur Guillard, and then got to my study carrel.
The second diary was that of a young woman, Marguerite Guillard, but its tone was hardly feminine. This was angry woman. Some of the words I never could translate, but they seemed to be local profanity. Those curses I could understand were elaborate and very nasty. I soon discovered she had killed. The year of this diary was 1702 and began with the family joining a caravan of other Huguenots leaving France. The destination seemed to be Magdeburg in Germany, so this would be a long trek. The first few pages are filled with mild anger at having to leave home. Most of her friends were also in the caravan, but some had stayed behind, and that was a point of sadness for her. She wondered if she would ever see her friends again, or look out across a valley that she found beautiful.
There was also a bit of excitement in the first few pages. She had heard Magdeburg was a large city with lots of other Huguenots, and they would pass through Frankfurt and other larger German cities along the way. She wondered if they would find other people from their village along the way.
They traveled in wagons and two carriages, a total of sixty people, all the men armed to protect them from robbers. Sixty people was enough so that there were other children her age (I guessed fifteen or sixteen from the references she made), and there was one boy who appeared for a few lines in the early pages. This might have been a bittersweet journey for her.
The first days describe the countryside and the care the caravan is taking to avoid contact with officials. It has always been illegal for Huguenots to emigrate, but in past years officials looked the other way, glad to be rid of them. But now so many have left that pressure is being put on to capture and try Huguenots attempting to flee. The caravan leaders had a cover story – they were headed to the market in Paris, and they had enough produce with them that they thought they could bribe or bluff their way past some officials – but they knew it only took one officious sheriff, or one angry priest to cost them their lives. So they advanced cautiously.
Things went well enough at first, but after four days the caravan is surrounded by troops. They were outside the town of Pont-du-Mauvert, a town they had wanted to bypass, but were unable to without traveling weeks out of the way. This was the town of the Francois du Chayla, a priest they knew about and feared. He had already tried and hung Huguenot émigrés. Rumors had put him in Chartres for the month, but obviously the rumors were wrong. The soldiers took the men’s muskets and ordered the caravan into the town and into the fortress home of du Chayla. Here the men were locked on one room, the women in another, and they all waited breathlessly for the Priest to come.
Hours passed and then du Chayla appeared. He ordered them to their knees and demanded that they pray for forgiveness from their sins. He kept them on their knees for hours while he harangued them about their sins. They can burn forever in Hell, or they can beg his forgiveness now and be saved. No one replies. He leaves saying he will be back in the morning to accept their conversion or to force the demons from their bodies with the fire of God. They are locked in their rooms again to suffer in fear through the night.
Then a miracle occurs. A butcher’s helper, Jean Cavalier, is allowed into the rooms to provide some food. He asks the men if they are willing to fight for their freedom. They are. At the bottom of a bucket of gruel he pulls out half a dozen kitchen knives. He tells the men they will have to use them. They say they are ready. He then goes to the women’s room and tells them the men will fight. Will they too? They agree. He pulls more knives from the bottom of the bucket. Six of the women, including Marguerite’s mother take them. The other women are to hide and protect themselves as best they can.
Cavalier then draws several soldiers to the women’s room. He asks if he can have one of the women as a slave. That gets the soldiers talking amongst themselves about which women they can have. Soon most of the guard detail, about eight men, is in the women’s room, talking to the women and making their selections. Somehow Cavalier has jimmied the lock on the men’s door, and now they come in from behind the soldiers. Two soldiers are stabbed before they even see the men. The others turn to fight but are stabbed from behind by the very women they had selected. Within a minute all the soldiers are dead.
Three soldiers and the priest come running, all (including the priest) with muskets at the ready. They fire into the crowd, killing four, including Marguerite’s mother. In the struggle that follows they stab several more with their bayonets before the Huguenots overcome them. It is Marguerite, picking up a musket near her, who puts a bayonet into du Chayla. She writes of feeling his body moving on the end of her musket. She can endure it for just a moment before dropping the weapon. Others in the group finish the priest off.
Townspeople now begin to gather. It appears no one misses the priest much, but they know other troops will come and the town will be punished. Most want to hide, others want to kill the people in the caravan to save the town. Cavalier rallies the crowd. It isn’t much as speeches go, but he points out the travelers now have a dozen muskets, so they make better friends than enemies. As for hiding, where would they hide? The best response is to act first before the authorities know what has happened. To the castle! All the men from the caravan and half the women, including Marguerite, immediately follow him. A couple dozen of Jean’s friends also join in. They run up the hill to where the local nobleman keeps a small castle. He has a few guards who have weapons at the ready, but they run off when they see so many people coming.
Cavalier leads the group inside. They hesitate when they find no opposition, and are standing in the courtyard when the duc du Plessis walks out to meet them. He draws his sword and orders the townsfolk out of his castle. A few obey. But Cavlier raises his musket and kills the duc. Now the townsfolk have free run of the castle and they begin to loot it. Once the looting starts the rest of the town comes to join in and the people from the caravan go back down the hill in search of their wagons. They want to leave.
For the next hours, the town is chaos. The caravan finds its wagons and loads up all who survive. The dead and the dying are left in the home of the priest, their families crying and screaming as they are pulled away into the wagons. Marguerite has a final moment to kiss her dead mother’s face, and then she is pulled into a wagon by her brothers. They race out of town just as the castle is put to the torch. The fire will be visible for miles; the best they can hope is that they are far away before tro
ops descend on the town.
The next weeks are a horror. Afraid to travel during the day, they cover as many miles as they can each night, making for safe houses they have heard about from other Huguenots. They learn a patrol is searching for them. They also hear that Cavalier is having some success killing troops that near his town. They can barely cover fifteen miles a night, and feel that getting out of France is taking an eternity.
Much of the rest of the diary is vague. Aware that if they are captured her diary will be read, she says nothing about which roads they take, which towns they visit, and which homes shelter them. Instead, much of the diary is a lament over the loss of her mother. She is now the senior woman of the household, and has to do all the cooking and cleaning. She wishes her mother were alive to show her how to cook, and how to sew. Her skills are so meager compared to her mother’s. And she misses her companionship.
There are more narrow escapes along the way, much suffering as food runs low, illness from bad water and fatigue, the deaths of two older women, but eventually they cross the Rhine into safer lands. They still have to fear robbers, but at least now officialdom will not arrest and kill them. Weeks pass and eventually they get first to Berlin and then to Magdeburg and the Huguenot colonies that have grown up in both cities. She and the remainder of her family are safe now – exiled, but safe. At this point the diary ends.
I closed the book and sat back in my chair. I was exhausted both from the content of the diary and from the effort to translate the text. I checked my watch and discovered it was already after three. That explained my hunger and fatigue. I put away my French/English dictionary, slowly straightened up the desk top, and closed my study carrel. I needed fresh air and some food.
The day outside was hot and blustery. It appeared the day was building up to thunderstorms. But so far there was no rain and the wind felt good. I headed for a small café just a couple blocks down Canal Street. I had just taken a seat at a table inside, when David Starr took the chair opposite mine.
“I came to apologize to you.” He said. I said nothing. Since I had knocked him over the day before, I was waiting for him to retaliate. It was a small café with little room for a fight. He must have read my mind, because he raised both his hands, is if in surrender. “I didn’t come here for trouble. I don’t like getting knocked on my ass, but I was out of line, and I admit it.”
“Fair enough.” I replied. “I apologize as well. I value my privacy, but it was not fair for me to push you.”
“Apology accepted.” He held out his hand and we shook, although I have to say I was still wary of the man. What did he want? And how had he found me? Was he following me? I set back in my chair as if things really were settled between us, and looked over at the waiter. He came right over. Service was certainly exceptional in New Orleans that summer. We ordered food and wine and went back to staring at each other.
“Maybe it would help if I explained my rudeness.” He was gesturing with both hands, waving them about as if to indicate he was being casual and open. “Since you seemed to know a great deal, and since you had told me you had a connection to Senator Dodson, I thought you might be connected to another government office. I have seen that happen before, where multiple agencies get involved in some project, often not knowing that there are other people from other agencies trying to do the same job. It gets all confusing, and can lead to real problems.”
“You mean like multiple offices trying to help Americans get out of a troublespot?”
“Yes,” he smiled. “That would be one example. And you can imagine that in times of conflict, there might be other examples.” His smile now was so knowing, it irritated me. He was looking at me like a professor whose best student has just given a very good answer. But he was no professor, and I was damned if I would be his student.
“But I have never worked for the government, and so I don’t know about such agencies, whether it involves rescuing Americans or any other type of work.” I felt ridiculous talking in code like this. I just wanted to scream, “Whatever you are going to do August 24th, I don’t want any part of it.”
“I know that now. You are what you say you are – a history professor. But you do have some exceptional skills. Very few people could have grasped what you did about historical events. You also travel widely and talk with an interesting mix of people. You could be of great use to your country.” At this point he just stopped and looked at me. There was an offer on the table – it was up to me to make the next move. The waiter brought some wine, some bread, and some water. I took some bread, sipped my wine, and then realized I was taking much too long to answer. Each minute of my silence made it appear that I was interested in the offer.
“No.” I said it quickly, and I thought firmly. Explanations might or might not come later. For now, it was most important that I make my position clear. Starr waited patiently for me to say more, and then finally responded when it was clear I was done for the moment.
“I think if you really knew what I was asking, your answer would be ‘yes.’ So let me be simple and direct. One evening next month some young Americans, some of whom you have met, will be risking their lives on behalf of their country. All I want to know from you is if those young men will die. What I am asking you to do for your country is to help save those men’s lives. Will you help those men?”
“You should send those men home.”
“Why? Do the French know about that date?”
“Send the men home.” In truth, I did not know what the French knew, nor did I want to know. But I did recall Elise’s answer when I had told her about the 24th – ‘That’s an interesting date.’ The word “interesting” had been rattling around my brain for two days. Something was up about that date. It hadn’t occurred to me until just now that the men I had met two days before were at risk.
“So the French know?”
“I don’t know what the French know, nor do I want to know. I am just recommending that you send the men home. Their French is terrible and they drink too much. They are a danger to themselves. Send them home.”
“I need more from you before I can make that decision.”
“You aren’t going to get any more. I have said all I will say.”
“Fair enough.” His hands, which had been flying around the air while he talked, now came down flat on the table – his signal of finality. “I won’t push you. After all I can’t have you roughing me up two days in a row.” We both chuckled at that, me assuming that if he was who I thought he was, he was trained well enough to handle history professors without too much effort, not matter what their size. But I was glad he had stopped pushing. “Will I see you at the Granary tonight?”
“Probably not. I am trying to finish up my research at the library. I would like to leave Saturday morning and get back to Green Bay. I need to get my classes ready for the fall.”
“Well, if you happen to stop in before you leave, I’ll tell the boys they owe you a round of drinks.” He stood up and left, even though his lunch had not yet arrived. I got stuck with a fairly hefty bill for lunch, but I was glad to see him go. Even the new, improved, smiling David Starr was a problem. I didn’t want to see those young men hurt, and I wanted to help my country, but I didn’t want to betray my friends. If I could stay away from Starr, I hoped, maybe I could avoid that problem. I was wrong about that, as I was about so much else, but I still think I had the right idea.
It was nearly five by the time I was finished with my meal, and I was tempted to just go back to the hotel, but I was feeling pushed to finish up at the library. And then, as I started up the stairs, a name struck me – Marguerite Guillard. I had been so busy translating her words, that I had paid no attention to her name – Guillard. I knew another person named Guillard, the reference librarian. I headed straight for his desk.
“Monsieur Guillard, I have been reading the diary of Marguerite Guillard. Coul
d it be that she is an ancestor of yours?”
“So, I see Margaret is still promoting my family tree,” he said with a smile. “You will find that there are several hundred Guillards in Louisiana. We are actually descended from her brother Guillaume, but we are proud to be related to Marguerite as well.”
“So the family made it to Louisiana?”
“Oh yes, they were on the first ships to arrive in 1720. Half the Huguenots of Magdeburg and Berlin came that first year, and more the next. They say when people met on the street they didn’t know whether to address each other in French or German.”
“Could you recommend a book that describes that migration?”
“Of course. Everyone here reads Jacques Madere’s history. Let me show you.” He went to a nearby shelf where several copies awaited us. “We always keep a dozen copies in stock.”
“May I take it out of the library?” He agreed, and after some additional small talk, I checked out the book and headed back to my hotel. I felt excited. Here was another piece of the puzzle. I had tracked the Huguenots for a century in France. It was time I learned about their arrival in Louisiana.
Back at the hotel I turned my cell phone on, left a message for Elise, deleted two messages from Starr, and then set the phone down next to my chair in case Elise returned my call. I sat back and began reading Madere’s history of New Orleans.
He begins in an odd way – not with the people, but with the geography. In sum, he believes that the Mississippi river is in some ways defective. A typical port is located near the mouth of a river, where a narrows creates a natural fort, or where higher ground provides safety from floods, or where a natural valley brings a trade route close. The Mississippi has none of those. It enters the Gulf of Mexico in three places, not one, is basically the same width all the way south from Illinois, and has no high ground at all. For the last five hundred miles of the river, there is no location that would be a natural place for a port. One of the world’s great rivers has no site for a port.
As a consequence, the first port used by the French was at Biloxi. Here the ground was higher, and since the port was directly on the Gulf, it seemed closer to the security of France. At least the supply ships could get there faster than they could to some swampy outpost on the Mississippi. Since the early settlers were totally dependent upon France for food and clothing, proximity to such a port must have meant much.
Here I put the book down and thought about Biloxi and the cathedral blast. To me, and I guess to many others, Biloxi was just one more town in Louisiana. I had driven to its outskirts when I had visited with President Jolliet, but I really hadn’t given it any thought. Now I saw that Biloxi might be viewed very differently from the perspective of Louisiana natives. This was their port of entry. This was their connection to the motherland. I suppose it was their Ellis Island. Putting a large religious symbol there now struck me as a questionable idea. I wondered how much thinking the diocese had put into that location.
Meanwhile, back at the history, explorers pushed inland. Baton Rouge was settled first, and was made the official capital of Louisiana, although few wanted to live there. It was on the Mississippi River, but it was many miles up river, and must have felt like an island in the midst of unending swamp. Resupply was a nightmare. There had to be a place on the river that was less alien.
Finally some Choctaws showed Frenchmen a way to get from the Gulf to the river via Lake Pontchartrain. There was water almost all the way, plus a slight ridge running parallel so a wagon road could be built. Best yet, settlers could get from the gulf to this place on the river in two days travel. The river bent at right angles two times here, and each bend had attracted sediment deposits as the river slowed for the bend. Over the millennia, those bends had collected enough deposits to be a few yards above water. The land still was flood prone, but at least it was not complete swamp. This is where they built their new city – New Orleans.
Enough geography, now the history turned to people. The town was founded in 1716 when Louis XV was a boy of six. King since the death of Louis XIV in 1715, the country was being run by the Duc d’Orleans. The good Duc and Louis would eventually run France into bankruptcy, but both would be dead before the mobs took out their poverty on Louis XVI. The mobs probably should have struck earlier. The Duc certainly gave them cause. Determined to get settlers to his namesake, d’Orleans came up with a plan to get the moneyed people of France to pay for the settlement. He used a charmer from England named John Law to start a Mississippi Company and to sell stock to the moneyed and gullible. A port at the end of the world’s greatest river was a guarantee of riches to all wiling to take a slight risk – or so they said. The fact that the “port” was at that moment just a clear spot in the swamps and that there would be no exports for decades, did not hold back the enthusiastic. After all, they could look at a map and see the strategic value of the town. They were right about the strategic value, but wrong about the timing. When no valuable exports had appeared by 1720, folks began to sell their shares. With few buyers, values fell, a panic ensued, and the “Mississippi Bubble” burst. John Law had to leave Paris fast, but somehow the Duc and the boy King survived with their heads.
Now how could they support their settlement in New Orleans? The duc came up with the Huguenot Proposal. The Huguenots were a major problem for the crown. A million strong, most had managed to escape to neighboring countries where they happily fought in every war against France, and even started a few. Germany and England had never been so strong as they were now, augmented by the peoples and money of the Huguenots. Something needed to be done.
Why not kill two birds with one stone? By offering safe passage, free land, and royal titles to all Huguenots willing to move to a state where freedom of the Protestant religion was guaranteed, the King could populate his swamp, secure his American possessions, and get a lot of Huguenots out of Europe. In secret negotiations, the ten year-old king and the Duc d’Orleans promised Huguenot leaders that no Catholic clergy would be allowed passage to Louisiana for a period of fifty years. Tired of royal lies, the Huguenots demanded the guarantees in writing, but did promise not to publish the documents beyond their own congregations. The Huguenot Proposals were accepted, and emigration began in the summer of 1720.
The newly arrived Huguenots found a mess. The French crown had been trying to populate Louisiana with convicts and soldiers. The convicts had done nothing but steal from each other and wait for the next ship to arrive with food, and the soldiers were drunk and diseased. The Huguenots off-loaded in Biloxi, shot the first five convicts who attempted to steal from them, and then went looking for the governor. In the four years of its existence, New Orleans had had three governors, each dumber than the last. They had paid Duc d’Orleans for the office, dreaming of riches from bribes. The first one died of malaria his first year. The second took two years to realize there was no money in Louisiana and that he was better off poor in France than dead and poor in New Orleans.
The current governor, the Marquese d’urbeville, had been in Louisiana long enough to know there was no money in the colony. But he had hopes there was money he could take from the Huguenots. He invited their leaders to his house on the Mississippi, and made sure he was surrounded by what remained of his troops. He would intimidate the Huguenots and take their money as petty officials had done all over France for generations. The Huguenots arrived with fifty men. Ten went inside, while forty surrounded the house and trained their muskets on the Governor’s party. Negotiations went fast. The Governor and his troops could die on the spot, or they could accept a deal. The soldiers could give up their muskets, return to their barracks, and be given food and wine and their back wages. They would return to France on the next ship. The Governor would be paid a small stipend and he would retain his title. He would also be given a housing and entertainment allowance so he could go through the motions of being a person of significance. The Huguenot
Council would draft all rules for the colony. The Governor would sign all rules passed by the Council, no questions asked.
Since the troops had already accepted the deal – they were given gold coins for their muskets as they turned them in (most were so rusted they wouldn’t fire anyway) – the governor had little choice but to accept his portion of the bargain. He was given fifty gold coins on the spot, and told he would be the host of a welcoming ball in two week’s time. Thus began his main role as social director for the colony. It turned out he was a good dancer, told an entertaining story, and served as colony host for over a decade.
As I read of this encounter, I could see why the Medere history was so popular in Louisiana. I made a mental note to also look for a history of Louisiana when I got back to Green Bay. I suspected events would be colored somewhat differently there.
Madere’s description of the next few years included less drama and more danger. Instead of facing soldiers and thieves, enemies they could handle with ease, the Huguenots were attacked by mosquitoes, water moccasins, and bad water. Already weakened by the long ocean voyage, dozens died within the first two months in Louisiana. They organized themselves into congregations and went to work building the kinds of institutions they knew were their only protection.
One congregation they sent to New Orleans to begin building there, and to keep an eye on the governor. The rest of the immigrants stayed near Biloxi where they worked on food. Aware they could not count of France to ship food to Huguenots, they planted multiple crops in multiple locations. They were testing the land. One of the local priests had been planting rice. He hadn’t been able to get much to grow, but two Huguenots experimented with this crop as well, and eventually they found approaches that worked. The priest never saw the rice paddies produce – the Huguenots had put him (and the other three priests) on the next ship back to France.
Land was cleared, fields planted, roads built, homes built, and wells dug. Rains came and destroyed some crops and washed out roads. Mosquitoes brought illness. Snake bites killed more. The summer of 1721 saw more ships arrive, this time to a struggling, but stable community. For those who had survived their first year in Louisiana, the ships were a chance to get French food, manufactured goods, and to hear of relatives left in Europe. It also marked a milestone in their lives. They had survived a year. The growing cemetery on the edge of Biloxi showed how many others had not made it.
At this point I heard shouting out on the street. This was very unusual. During my time here I had heard an occasional car go past the hotel, but I couldn’t remember a single human voice. I walked out onto my balcony to see what was happening, and saw an elderly man being chased up the street by several teenage boys. All were shouting at him, and one was throwing stones at him. I ran down through the hotel and came out onto the street just as the group got to the front of the hotel.
“Stop that.” I yelled. The boys, probably fifteen or sixteen years old, did stop. They were too young to take on an adult, but not too young to argue.
“He’s a priest.” One shouted.
“So?” I shouted back. I was now just a few feet from the boys, and they were backing away.
“Priests killed our relatives.” Said the one with the stones. He was trying to hold his ground, but I had over fifty pounds on him, and he couldn’t stop himself from edging away.
“Oh, which relative of yours did he kill? Give me a name.” Now the boy was really confused, but he couldn’t bring himself to quit in front of his friends.
“You know, lots of them. Back in the eighteen hundreds.”
“Does this man look like he was around in the eighteen hundreds? No priests were. They were banned from Louisiana by order of the King. Now all of you go home and tell your fathers you need to be spanked. While you are there, read a book or two.” The boys were backing away pretty fast, but it looked like the one with the stones wanted to take one swipe at me before running off. I took a step toward him as he was winding up to swing, and then he took off running with the rest.
“Priest lover” was the worst they could think to shout as they ran off into the darkness. The priest, meanwhile, was leaning against a post breathing hard. He was a short man with gray hair and had to be in his seventies. He was much too old to be running.
“Are you hurt?” I asked. I held an arm out in case he fell, which, frankly, looked like it might occur at any moment.
“I just need to catch my breath. Those damn heretics…” he mumbled something more under his breath. He was obviously upset and angry.
“Let’s go over to the hotel and sit down until you have caught your breath.” I suggested.
“No, I should get back to my residence before more come back. It is not safe out here any more.” He tried to stand straight, but it was obvious he was still weak. I grabbed his arm above the elbow.
“OK, father. If you will just tell me what parish is yours, I will help you get back there.”
“You called me father.” He looked directly at me now. “Is there any chance that you are Catholic?” I nodded. “Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, thank you. I thought I was the last Catholic left in this city of sin. Bless you, my son.”
“Thank you for the blessing, father. Now, if you will tell me where you live…”
“Just up on Rampart Street, my son. Mary, mother of God, I already feel ten years younger, just knowing I am not alone.” He gathered himself up, caught his breath, and walked with me up the street. When his breath would allow, he told me the story of his day. He had ventured out to see an old parishioner, hoping to be home before dark, but she had much to confess, and it was dark before he could leave. The boys had spotted him almost immediately, even though he had dressed carefully not to draw attention to himself. But the boys had guessed who he was. Under other circumstances I might have laughed. He was wearing a dark suit in the midst of summer, and his clerical collar would be a beacon to anyone hunting priests. He might as well have had “Priest” written in neon on his back.
He asked about me, and I explained that I was an American visiting for a few days. The fact that I was an American seemed to scare him. I could feel his arm tense up under my hand. “Are you sure you are Catholic, my son?”
“Just as sure as I am Irish.” I held open my shirt so he could see my crucifix.
“Saints be praised for sending me a good Irish boy in my time of need. Come inside and let me give you a taste of the old country.” We had reached him residence and he led me up onto the porch. Under normal circumstances I would expect him to spend his evenings on that porch talking with passersby. But there were no chairs on the porch now and he led me inside. I helped him to a chair in the living room while another priest came hurrying from the back of the house. As I reached over to turn on a light near his chair, the other priest shouted to stop me.
“Please, don’t turn on that light. We’ll have rocks through the window again.” I looked over and saw that the blinds were pulled all the way down, but were moving from the air coming through several holes in the windows.
“Father Claude,” the priest I had been helping said, “This is my Irish savior.” I shook hands with Father Claude. He was easily as old as the other priest, and seemed slower in his movements. I could see why the first priest had been the one to visit the parishioner.
“You might want to sit with…” I began and then turned to the first priest. “I am sorry, but I don’t know your name.”
“Oh my. I am too old. I am sorry. My name is Father Jacques duPlessis.”
“Father Jacques had some difficulties with a few boys this evening,” I told Father Claude. “He should rest. A visit with a doctor would not be a bad thing either.” Father Jacques of course objected, and then he and Father Claude had a long talk about what had happened. Father Claude seemed more upset about it. He seemed fearful. I saw him glancing at the front windows as if more boys might be coming any mi
nute. I waited a few minutes until it appeared Father Jacques was regaining his strength, and then I started edging toward the door.
“Please, my son.” Father Jacques had caught my movements. “Stay and have a drink with us. I would be a poor host if I did not offer you that at least. If you would not mind, there is a bottle of cognac on the sideboard over there. “ I found the sideboard easily enough. It was a monstrous assemblage of dark oak with carvings and inlays all over. It would have taken months to build something that ugly. Unfortunately, it fit the room well. I would have guessed it had been decorated once about half a century ago, maybe when these men had first arrived from seminary, and had remained unchanged since. The chairs sagged, the wall paper peeled away from the corners, and the carpet had long since gone to a threadbare brown. I found three dusty glasses and poured about an inch of cognac into each. Each priest accepted his glass with shaking hands.
For the next half hour I sipped my cognac, refilled their glasses once, and listened to two old men talk about better days. Theirs had never been a large parish, but there had been good times. Now they were mostly alone. Their housekeeper had moved north with her family, and only one Sunday service was needed in the small cathedral next door. Even that service had shrunk to nearly nothing.
“Now we are to abandon our church.” Father Jacques said. Father Claude nodded, nearly in tears. “The diocese has told us to come to the retreat house in St Louis until order returns to this region. We are to leave after fifty years. Will we ever come back? God only knows.”
“When will you leave?” I asked.
“We should have left weeks ago, but traveling is not so easy. If we call a taxi to take us to the airport, they drive off when they see we are priests.” These men were old, but they were not fools. They just sat and looked at me at this point, and waited. I held out about fifteen seconds, and then made the offer they were surely waiting for.
“I will be driving up to St. Louis on Saturday. I would be happy to take you with me. Could you be ready to travel by then?” The response was a series of “Saints be praised” and “Thank you Mary” and other priestly expressions of enthusiasm. They would be ready. I was to pull into the alley behind the residence by five, while it was still dark, and they would have everything ready to go. I gave them my number at the hotel to call in case there were any last minute changes, and then I left. I didn’t really regret the offer I had made. I was going to St. Louis anyway, and beside, how could I leave two old men in a house full of broken windows?
I stood on the street in front of their residence for a few minutes and looked around me. What kind of person would throw rocks at a priest or at their house? I saw no one. The street was empty and completely quiet. Finally I walked back to my hotel and went to bed.
Chapter Eight
Huguenot History - badly told