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 Grandpere 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."
"Grandmere Catherine told me how upset my
mother was, but I never could understand why she let
Grandpere Jack do it, why she gave up Gisselle." "It wasn't Grandpere 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 grandmere 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 court-yards."
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 Grandmere 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
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 Grandmere 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 Grandmere 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 arrivin
g 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 Grandmere 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 Grandpere 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 Grandmere 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
"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 faroff 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 do
n'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.
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