"How terrible," I said. He nodded and turned off the engine.
"My father went into a deep depression. He rarely came to work, spent long hours simply staring into space, took poorer and poorer care of himself. Daphne looked after him as best she could, but blamed herself somewhat, too. I know she did, even though she denies it to this day.
"Finally, I was able to get my father interested in some hunting trips. We traveled to the bayou to hunt duck and geese and contracted with your Grandpère Jack to guide us, That was how I met Gabrielle."
"I know," I said.
"You have to understand how dark and dreary my life seemed to me during those days. My handsome, charming brother's wonderful future had been violently ended, my mother had died, my wife couldn't have children, and my father was slipping away day by day.
"Suddenly . . . I'll never forget that moment . . . I turned while unloading our car by the dock, and I saw Gabrielle strolling along the bank of the canal. The breeze lifted her hair and made it float around her, hair as dark red as yours. She wore this angelic smile. My heart stopped and then my blood pounded so close to the surface, I felt my cheeks turn crimson.
"A rice bird lighted on her shoulder and when she extended her arm, it pranced down to her hand before flying off. I still hear that silver laugh of hers, that childlike, wonderful laugh that was carried in the breeze to my ears.
"'Who is that?' I asked your grandfather.
"'Just my daughter,' he said.
"Just his daughter? I thought, a goddess who seemed to emerge from the bayou. Just his daughter?
"I couldn't help myself, you see. I was never so smitten. Every chance I had to be with her, near her, speak to her, I took. And soon, she was doing the same thing—looking forward to being with me,
"I couldn't hide my feeling from my father, but he didn't stand in my way. In fact, I'm sure he was eager to make more trips to the bayou because of my growing relationship with Gabrielle. I didn't realize then why he was encouraging it. I should have known something when he didn't appear upset the day I told him she was pregnant with my child."
"He went behind your back and made a deal with Grandpère Jack," I said.
"Yes, I didn't want such a thing to happen. I had already made plans to provide for Gabrielle and the child, and she was happy about it, but my father was obsessed with this idea, crazed by it."
He took a deep breath before continuing.
"He even went so far as to tell Daphne everything,"
"What did you do?" I asked.
"I didn't deny it. I confessed everything."
"Was she terribly upset?"
"She was upset, but Daphne is a woman of character, she's as they say, a very classy dame," he added with a smile. "She told me she wanted to bring up my child as her own, do what my father had asked. He had made her some promises, you see. But there was still Gabrielle to deal with, her feelings and desires to consider. I told Daphne what Gabrielle wanted and that despite the deal my father was making with your grandfather, Gabrielle would object."
"Grandmère Catherine told me how upset my mother was, but I never could understand why she let Grandpère Jack do it, why she gave up Gisselle."
"It wasn't Grandpère Jack who got her to go along. In the end," he said, "it was Daphne." He paused and turned to me. "I can see from the expression on your face that you didn't know that."
"No," I said.
"Perhaps your Grandmère Catherine didn't know either. Well, enough about all that. You know the rest anyway," he said quickly. "Would you like to walk through the French Quarter? There's Bourbon Street just ahead of us," he added, nodding.
"Yes."
We got out and he took my hand to stroll down to the corner. Almost as soon as we made the turn, we heard the sounds of music coming from the various clubs, bars, and restaurants, even this early in the day.
"The French Quarter is really the heart of the city," my father explained. "It never stops beating. It's not really French, you know. It's more Spanish. There were two disastrous fires here, one in 1788 and one in 1794, which destroyed most of the original French structures," he told me. I saw how much he loved talking about New Orleans and I wondered if I would ever come to admire this city as much as he did.
We walked on, past the scrolled colonnades and iron gates of the courtyards. I heard laughter above us and looked up to see men and women leaning over the embroidered iron patios outside their apartments, some calling down to people in the street. In an arched doorway, a black man played a guitar. He seemed to be playing for himself and not even notice the people who stopped by for a moment to listen.
"There is a great deal of history here," my father explained, pointing. "Jean Lafitte, the famous pirate, and his brother Pierre operated a clearinghouse for their contraband right there. Many a swashbuckling adventurer discussed launching an elaborate campaign in these courtyards."
I tried to take in everything: the restaurants, the coffee stalls, the souvenir shops, and antique stores. We walked until we reached Jackson Square and the St. Louis Cathedral.
"This is where early New Orleans welcomed heroes and had public meetings and celebrations," my father said. We paused to look at the bronze statue of Andrew Jackson on his horse before we entered the cathedral. I lit a candle for Grandmère Catherine and said a prayer. Then we left and strolled through the square, around the perimeter where artists sold their fresh works.
"Let's stop and have a cafe au lait and some beignets," my father said. I loved beignets, a donutlike pastry covered with powdered sugar.
While we ate and drank, we watched some of the artists sketching portraits of tourists.
"Do you know an art gallery called Dominique's?" I asked.
"Dominique's? Yes. It's not far from here, just a block or two over to the right. Why do you ask?"
"I have some of my paintings on display there," I said.
"What?" My father sat back, his mouth agape. "Your paintings on display?"
"Yes. One was sold. That's how I got my traveling money."
"I can't believe you," he said. "You're an artist and you've said nothing?"
I told him about my paintings and how Dominique had stopped by one day and had seen my work at Grandmère Catherine's and my roadside stall.
"We must go there immediately," he said. "I've never seen such modesty. Gisselle has something to learn from you."
Even I was overwhelmed when we arrived at the gallery. My picture of the heron rising out of the water was prominently on display in the front window. Dominique wasn't there. A pretty young lady was in charge and when my father explained who I was, she became very excited.
"How much is the picture in the window?" he asked.
"Five hundred and fifty dollars, monsieur," she told him.
Five hundred and fifty dollars! I thought. For something I had done? Without hesitation, he took out his wallet and plucked out the money.
"It's a wonderful picture," he declared, holding it out at arm's length. "But you've got to change the signature to Ruby Dumas. I want my family to claim your talent," he added, smiling. I wondered if he somehow sensed that this was a picture depicting what Grandmère Catherine told me was my mother's favorite swamp bird.
After it was wrapped, my father hurried me out excitedly. "Wait until Daphne sees this. You must continue with your artwork. I'll get you all the materials and we'll set up a room in the house to serve as your studio. I'll find you the best teacher in New Orleans for private lessons, too," he added. Overwhelmed, I could only trot along, my heart racing with excitement.
We put my picture into the car.
"I want to show you some of the museums, ride past one or two of our famous cemeteries, and then take you to lunch at my favorite restaurant on the dock. After all," he added with a laugh, "this is the deluxe tour."
It was a wonderful trip. We laughed a great deal and the restaurant he'd picked was wonderful. It had a glass dome so we could sit and watch the steamboats and barges arriving and going up
the Mississippi.
While we ate, he asked me questions about my life in the bayou. I told him about the handicrafts and linens Grandmère Catherine and I used to make and sell. He asked me questions about school and then he asked me if I had ever had a boyfriend. I started to tell him about Paul and then stopped, for not only did it sadden me to talk about him, but I was ashamed to describe another terrible thing that had happened to my mother and another terrible thing Grandpère Jack had done because of it. My father sensed my sadness.
"I'm sure you'll have many more boyfriends," he said. "Once Gisselle introduces you to everyone at school."
"School?" I had forgotten about that for the moment.
"Of course. You've got to be registered in school first thing this week."
A shivering thought came. Were all the girls at this school like Gisselle? What would be expected of me?
"Now, now," my father said, patting my hand. "Don't get yourself nervous about it. I'm sure it will be fine. Well," he said, looking at his watch, "the ladies must all have risen by now. Let's head back. After all, I still have to explain you to Gisselle," he added.
He made it sound so simple, but as Grandmère Catherine would say, "Weaving a single fabric of falsehoods is more difficult than weaving a whole wardrobe of truth."
Daphne was sitting at an umbrella table on a cushioned iron chair on a patio in the garden where she had been served her late breakfast. Although she was still in her light blue silk robe and slippers, her face was made up and her hair was neatly brushed. It looked honey-colored in the shade. She looked like she belonged on the cover of the copy of Vogue she was reading. She put it down and turned as my father and I came out to greet her. He kissed her on the cheek.
"Should I say good morning or good afternoon?" he asked.
"For you two, it looks like it's definitely afternoon," she replied, her eyes on me. "Did you have a good time?"
"A wonderful time," I declared.
"That's nice. I see you bought a new painting, Pierre."
"Not just a new painting, Daphne, a new Ruby Dumas," he said, and gave me a wide, conspiratorial smile. Daphne's eyebrows rose.
"Pardon?"
My father unwrapped the picture and held it up. "Isn't it pretty?" he asked.
"Yes," she said in a noncommittal tone of voice. "But I still don't understand."
"You won't believe this, Daphne," he began, quickly sitting down across from her. He told her my story. As he related the tale, she gazed from him to me.
"That's quite remarkable," she said after he concluded.
"And you can see from the work and from the way she has been received at the gallery that she has a great deal of artistic talent, talent that must be developed."
"Yes," Daphne said, still sounding very controlled. My father didn't appear disappointed by her measured reaction, however. He seemed used to it. He went on to tell her the other things we had done. She sipped her coffee from a beautifully hand painted china cup and listened, her light blue eyes darkening more and more as his voice rose and fell with excitement.
"Really, Pierre," she said, "I haven't seen you this exuberant about anything for years."
"Well, I have good reason to be," he replied.
"I hate to be the one to insert a dark thought, but you realize you haven't spoken to Gisselle yet and told her your story about Ruby," she said.
He seemed to deflate pounds of excitement right before my eyes and then he nodded.
"You're right as always, my dear. It's time to wake the princess and talk to her," he said. He rose and picked up my picture. "Now where should we hang this? In the living room?"
"I think it would be better in your office, Pierre," Daphne said. To me it sounded as though she wanted it where it would be seen the least.
"Yes. Good idea. That way I can get to look at it more," he replied. "Well, here I go. Wish me luck," he said, smiling at me, and then he went into the house to talk to Gisselle. Daphne and I gazed at each other for a moment. Then she put down her coffee cup.
"Well now, you've made quite a beginning with your father, it seems," she said.
"He's very nice," I told her. She stared at me a moment.
"He hasn't been this happy for a while. I should tell you, since you have become an instant member of the family, that Pierre, your father, suffers from periods of melancholia. Do you know what that is?" I shook my head. "He falls into deep depressions from time to time. Without warning," she added.
"Depressions?"
"Yes. He can lock himself away for hours, days even, and not want to see or speak to anyone. You can be speaking to him and suddenly, he'll take on a far-off look and leave you in midsentence. Later, he won't remember doing it," she said. I shook my head. It seemed incredible that this man with whom I had just spent several happy hours could be described as she had described him.
"Sometimes, he'll lock himself in his office and play this dreadfully mournful music. I've had doctors prescribe medications, but he doesn't like taking anything.
"His mother was like that," she continued. "The Dumas family history is clouded with unhappy events."
"I know. He told me about his younger brother," I said. She looked up sharply.
"He told you already? That's what I mean," she said, shaking her head. "He can't wait to go into these dreadful things and depress everyone."
"He didn't depress me although it was a very sad story," I said. Her lips tightened and her eyes narrowed. She didn't like being contradicted.
"I suppose he described it as a boating accident," she said.
"Yes. Wasn't it?"
"I don't want to go into it all now. It does depress me," she added, eyes wide. "Anyway, I've tried and I continue to try to do everything in my power to make Pierre happy. The most important thing to remember if you're going to live here is that we must have harmony in our house. Petty arguments, little intrigues and plots, jealousies and betrayals have no place in the House of Dumas.
"Pierre is so happy about your existence and arrival that he is blind to the problems we are about to face," she continued. When she spoke, she spoke with such a firm, regal tone, I couldn't do anything but listen, my eyes fixed on her. "He doesn't understand the immensity of the task ahead. I know how different a world you come from and the sort of things you're used to doing and having."
"What sort of things, madame?" I asked, curious myself.
"Just things," she said firmly, her eyes sharp. "It's not a topic ladies like to discuss."
"I don't want or do anything like that," I protested.
"You don't even realize what you've done, what sort of life you've led up until now. I know Cajuns have a different sense of morality, different codes of behavior."
"That's not so, madame," I replied, but she continued as though I hadn't.
"You won't realize it until you've been . . . been educated and trained and enlightened," she declared.
"Since your arrival is so important to Pierre, I will do my best to teach you and guide you, of course; but I will need your full cooperation and obedience. If you have any problems, and I'm sure you will in the beginning, please come directly to me with them. Don't trouble Pierre.
"All I need," she added, more to herself than to me, "is for something else to depress him. He might just end up like his younger brother."
"I don't understand," I said.
"It's not important just now," she said quickly. Then she pulled back her shoulders and stood up.
"I'm going to get dressed and then take you shopping," she said. "Please be where I can find you in twenty minutes."
"Yes, madame."
"I hope," she said, pausing near me to brush some strands of hair off my forehead, "that in time you will become comfortable addressing me as Mother."
"I hope so, too," I said. I didn't mean it to sound the way it did—almost a threat. She pulled herself back a bit and narrowed her eyes before she flashed a small, tight smile and then left to get ready to take me shopping.
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While I waited for her, I continued my tour of the house, stopping to look in on what was my father's office. He had placed my picture against his desk before going up to Gisselle. There was another picture of his father, my grandfather, I supposed, on the wall above and behind his desk chair. In this picture, he looked less severe, although he was dressed formally and was gazing thoughtfully, not even the slightest smile around his lips or eyes.
My father had a walnut writing desk, French cabinets, and ladder-back chairs. There were bookcases on both sides of the office, the floor of which was polished hardwood with a small, tightly knit beige oval rug under the desk and chair. In the far left corner there was a globe. Everything on the desk and in the room was neatly organized and seemingly dust free. It was as if the inhabitants of this house tiptoed about with gloved hands. All the furniture, the immaculate floors and walls, the fixtures and shelves, the antiques and statues made me feel like a bull in a china shop. I was afraid to move quickly, turn abruptly, and especially afraid to touch anything, but I entered the office to glance at the pictures on the desk.
In sterling silver frames, my father had pictures of Daphne and Gisselle. There was a picture of two people I assumed to be his parents, my grandparents. My grand-mother, Mrs. Dumas, looked like a small woman, pretty with diminutive features, but an overall sadness in her lips and eyes. Where, I wondered, was there a picture of my father's younger brother, Jean?
I left the office and found there was a separate study, a library with red leather sofas and high back chairs, gold leaf tables, and brass lamps. A curio case in the study was filled with valuable looking red, green, and purple hand blown goblets, and the walls, as were the walls in all the rooms, were covered with oil paintings. I went in and browsed through some of the books on the shelves.
"Here you are," I heard my father say, and I turned to see him and Gisselle standing in the doorway. Gisselle was in a pink silk robe and the softest looking pink slippers. Her hair had been hastily brushed and looked it. Pale and sleepy eyed, she stood with her arms folded under her breasts. "We were looking for you."
"I was just exploring. I hope it's all right," I said.
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