“Why is that?” Désirée asked.
“They call me ‘The French Girl,’ and tease me.”
“Are there no other Creole girls there?”
“Not many. Most are Americans, and they all speak English. That’s why it’s hard for me to speak French here.”
“It’s a very fine school,” Estelle said. “We want only the best for our daughter, and a good education is important.”
“Quite so,” Matilde said. “William and I plan to send Carrie to boarding school, too, when the time comes.”
“You’ll be home before Christmas,” Estelle said, placing her hand on the girl’s thin arm.
“But that seems like a long time away,” Jo replied tearfully.
“We promise to write often,” Estelle said.
Estelle knew that Jo dreaded leaving, but like other good Creole families, she wanted her daughter brought up reading French literature, studying music and dancing, and learning the social skills and etiquette that would ensure a good marriage for her. She herself had many advantages and had gone to France before her marriage at eighteen. French culture was important to well-bred Creoles in New Orleans, and, like René, she wanted their children to speak French as fluently as English.
When lunch ended, she and her daughter inspected the clothes she would need for school.
“Maman, I don’t want to go. I want to be here when the new baby comes,” Jo said.
“You will be, I’m sure,” Estelle said, giving her daughter a hug.
René and Edgar alighted from the carriage in front of a four-story building on Carondelet Street. Edgar followed his brother upstairs through the humid heat trapped in the stairwell. Panting and mopping his forehead, Edgar asked, “Will I be underdressed if I take my coat off?”
“Yes. In the office you’ll look like a worker standing around in shirt-sleeves, rather than one of the owners, which our family members are,” his brother replied.
“I would think dressing less formally makes good sense. How can anyone work in this appalling heat?”
Edgar took off his coat. René stared at him in obvious disapproval but held his tongue.
A door with a glass pane confronted them on the landing in gold lettering: MUSSON, PRESTIDGE, & COMPANY: COTTON FACTORS AND COMMISSION MERCHANTS. Inside they encountered a buzz of male voices. Clouds of tobacco smoke filled the air, and mounds of white cotton lay on a long table in the middle of the room. Several gentlemen sporting bowler hats bent to examine the wares, and one grabbed a handful, held it up to his nose, and scrupulously picked the wad of cotton apart, opening his palm as if to weigh it. A man in the corner poured over a set of ledgers, making notes on the pages.
“Welcome to the world of cotton,” Achille said, coming forward to Edgar. Dressed in a tan jacket and a bowler hat, he pumped his brother’s hand vigorously.
“Let me show you around,” René said, guiding Edgar to the far side of the room. Michel Musson sat at a desk wearing a top hat. He rose to greet his nephew.
“Eh bien, Edgar, wonderful stuff, this cotton, as you can see. It’s of the best quality. Here, touch it.”
Edgar reached onto the table loaded with raw cotton and grasped a handful.
“It’s soft like snow and has the scent of dry grass, I think. Where does it come from?”
“From plantations on the River Road,” Michel said. “Some belong to friends of ours—the Millaudon family, for example. You must visit their property.”
“It would be my pleasure. I’ve never seen a cotton plant before. Is it large? All I know of the material is what I see in a shirt,” he said, pointing to the white one he was wearing.
“The plants are not large, only about waist-high,” René said. “Now let me explain to you about the cycle of cotton production.”
“I understand that they tend the plants at the plantations, but who picks the cotton?” Edgar asked.
“Uh . . . that’s a slight problem, perhaps our biggest one these days.” René said.
“What do you mean?”
“Before the war, the one they call the Civil War, we used Negro slaves, but since the war ended seven years ago, we can no longer rely on them for labor. As you’ve learned, slavery is outlawed, and few of the freed slaves are willing to work now in the fields. That has affected production along with prices. Still, as cotton factors, we manage, and do our best.”
“What are cotton factors?” Edgar asked.
“That is what we do; we buy, sell, receive, and forward goods from planters to buyers. For this, we receive a commission, called factorage. We work with others, brokers and agents of buyers as well as sellers. Our company represents several growers, and we keep books and records of credit and other transactions for them. We’re a sort of bank, similar to Father’s in Paris.”
“Is there, then, an element of risk?”
René, ignoring the question, said, “This is not a country for people with faint hearts. It’s a land of opportunity for people with nerve.”
“All right, but nerve shouldn’t imply risk taking,” his brother said.
“Spoken like a true son of bankers,” René said, frowning.
“Oh, please don’t accuse me of understanding money. I only know about paint, and I’ve no intention of asserting myself here. I can tell that you’re running the business successfully. Good for you,” Edgar said, smiling.
“Don’t rule out the charms of cotton. How can you resist appreciating the magic of turning plant fibers into cloth? It’s amazing,” René said.
“I would like to see the plants growing,”
“Very well, but not today. That’s enough business talk for now. We can discuss more about this later. You know a little about our work, and I hope you’ll come here every day to learn more.”
“I’ll come as often as possible, but so far I can’t see that I can be of much help,” Edgar said.
“Well then, there is one reason for coming that may interest you.” René said. “We receive and send letters from here.”
“Now, that does indeed interest me; is the mail delivered every day?”
“Yes, every day. Now, let’s go to lunch. You’ll have to put your coat on to eat at Antoine’s. They require formal dress there.”
Edgar complied, and the brothers went back down the stairwell and into the street. They crossed wide Canal Street, took Bourbon Street to St. Louis, and turned right. As they walked, a pungent smell of frying chicken filled the air, causing Edgar to wrinkle his nose in obvious disgust.
“Is this the food we’re about to eat?” he asked.
René laughed. “No, don’t worry. That’s American food. We’ll eat Creole-style. You’ll love it.”
Antoine’s stood in the middle of the block. As they entered the restaurant, they stopped for a few minutes, allowing their eyes to adjust to the dim interior.
“I fear my eyes will not take kindly to your New Orleans sunlight,” Edgar said. “You see, mine are sensitive and I must take pains to protect them for the sake of my art.”
René looked at his brother. “Don’t concern yourself. I’m sure you will become used to our climate in due course. It’s always a shock at first, coming to America from France. Even I notice it, still.”
The maître d’ approached them. “Monsieur De Gas, you will sit at your usual table, je suppose?”
“Mais certainement,” René replied.
They passed through a large room crowded by diners sitting at many small tables and proceeded to a nook in the back. As in the outer room, dark wood panels covered the walls, and white linen cloths adorned the tables. A crystal chandelier gleamed overhead.
“You’re about to experience some of the finer cooking in this food-loving city,” René said as he sat down. “I’ll order for both of us. We’ll start with oysters, then have redfish for the main course, and finish with banana pudding. Would you prefer red or white wine?”
“I prefer white for this meal, which sounds delicious.”
They ate
their meal, savoring every course. When they had finished, Edgar sat back, a look of satisfaction on his face.
“I understand now that I did not need to bring Clothilde to ensure I would have excellent food,” he said, “though I miss her arms.”
“Her arms?” René asked, winking at Edgar.
“Oh, I see what you’re thinking.” Edgar frowned. “I mean arms for painting. Clothilde used to be a laundress, and I’ve taken great pleasure in drawing the bare arms of such women as they go about the task of ironing.”
René looked again at his brother and smirked. “Only an artist would find such things interesting. Now cotton, that’s the stuff of life, don’t you agree?”
Edgar made no reply. René raised his glass, drained the last drop of wine, and set it down with a thump.
Estelle received a response to her invitation. Sophie would come at four o’clock. After leaving instructions for Clarice about dinner, she refreshed the flower arrangement on the dining room table. She liked flowers, particularly the brightly colored gladioli. Tiring easily, she wanted to take a nap before her friend arrived. To her distress, she spent less time among her children these days. With a sigh, she reminded herself that she needed to preserve her strength for the new baby, and she could not take care of everyone else at the expense of herself.
Sophie arrived on foot from her house a few blocks away on Esplanade Avenue. Beulah opened the door and brought her into the parlor where Estelle awaited her. Sophie, seven years older than Estelle, was still a beautiful woman. She wore a pale green dress with flounces around the hem, and her shiny dark hair was piled stylishly on top of her head.
“Don’t get up,” Sophie said, bending to grasp Estelle’s hands. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m well, a little tired, that’s all. You remember how it is, or have you forgotten? Your youngest, Marguerite, is almost sixteen now, isn’t she?”
“She is, but I remember my confinement well,” Sophie said.
“Please sit down. Tea will be here in a minute. How’s your family? How are Philippe and Maurice?”
“Maurice is away at school. His latest interest at eighteen is travel. He wants to go to Europe, perhaps in the spring. Philippe spends most of his time painting.”
“That is what I wanted to talk to you about, Sophie. Could you tell me where your husband buys his painting materials?”
“I don’t know; why do you ask?”
“My cousin and brother-in-law Edgar is visiting from Paris. He’s an artist and has no paints here. I would like to introduce him to you and your family. Would you and Philippe like to come to dinner on Saturday?”
“Thank you. That would be lovely,” Sophie said. “I’ve been meaning to inquire, how’s your family’s business coming along?”
Estelle looked away and avoided meeting her friend’s eyes as she replied, “Going well, so I understand.”
“I only ask because of all the gossip these days about the difficulty for businesses in the city trying to recover after the war. Of course, your family is well respected, and you have many members to help.”
Estelle smiled. “Of course.”
Clarice brought a plate of madeleines and a pot of tea on a tray and placed it on a low table between the two women. Estelle poured a cup for each of them.
“You’re fortunate to have such an accomplished cook,” Sophie said. “I need to hire a new one. We don’t entertain as much as you, but I’d like to introduce Marguerite to some eligible young men. She’s old enough to attend dinner parties alongside adults now and to learn some manners.”
“Well, then, you’re welcome to bring her with you to dinner this weekend. I’ll include her in the invitation.”
“That’s very kind,” Sophie said.
At five Sophie rose to leave. “I look forward to seeing you on Saturday and to meeting your cousin,” she said, giving Estelle a hug. “Thank you for the tea.”
Estelle went upstairs to dress for dinner. Although she considered Sophie a good friend, she did not want her or any of their other neighbors prying into the family’s business. She wondered how Edgar’s first visit to the cotton office had gone, and if the industry had awakened any interest in him. She would find out soon enough.
Chapter 7
October 1970
At five o’clock on a Thursday in late October, Anne completed her project cataloging drawings at the museum. Three months into her internship, she still didn’t know her career’s direction. She strongly believed in the importance of preserving works of art and figured her time at the New Orleans museum might serve as a stepping-stone to work in the field. Now she wasn’t so sure. She acknowledged that Sam’s presence made the job more attractive to her, but that was not a good reason for staying. Anne dawdled on her way from the museum to the car. At home, yet another letter from Stella awaited her, asking when renovations at the house would be complete.
She needed to talk to Stella again. In fact, the guilt she experienced about her half-sister’s lost inheritance haunted her day and night: like a dull drumbeat, ignore it as she might, it never went away, and she would have to deal with it or go crazy from the constant throbbing in her head. Besides, she ought to inform herself about the urban redevelopment project that might deprive Stella of her present home. There were so many questions to answer. Too many. She slid into the car’s front seat and drove slowly home.
It was a warm evening, and despite her gloomy mood, she looked forward to her date with Sam the following weekend. When she was with him, she forgot about decisions that weighed upon her conscience. The second-floor room that she rented faced a garden, and the late afternoon sun crept into the window. The golden light cheered her, and she wished she could capture it in a painting.
On the easel sat the beginnings of her last painting, started months earlier, an oil study of horses. It needed more work, but she had little time these days, and besides, she wasn’t satisfied with the results. It lacked life and hope, like fallen leaves. She’d paint over it and start again. Lifting the canvas from the easel, she turned its face to the wall.
She remembered that horses had been a favorite subject for Degas. Perhaps he had gone to the racetrack at the end of Esplanade Avenue to sketch. She’d never seen any paintings he’d completed in New Orleans and wondered if other obligations or interests had interfered with his artistic career while here. Had the great artist given up on any paintings, before he had finished them? Had he perhaps loved someone, someone who kept him from painting? Or become stultified by some deep disappointment?
She wondered if Marguerite had anything to say on the subject and picked up the red-covered journal that sat on her nightstand. She hadn’t opened it since she’d put it aside the month before.
November 7, 1872
We met Monsieur Edgar De Gas at the Mussons’ house last weekend. Maman, Papa, and I were invited to dine. All the Musson and De Gas family members were there. I wore my new white tulle dress. It’s a little too big for me, but it looks stylish, and I like the lace trim. My satin slippers were too tight, but we sat down for aperitifs in the lounge before dining, and I could kick my shoes off under the table in the dining room with no one noticing. I must remember to ask Maman for some new dressy shoes. I did not have an opportunity to speak much to Monsieur De Gas because he sat at the other end of the table and talked to Papa, but I liked what I saw of him—he dresses well and has nice manners, and I hope we see him again soon.
November 10, 1872
Today Maman and I shopped at the Gentilhomme department store for shoes. We bought a pair of white ones suitable for dancing. The Mardi Gras balls will start in January, and it’s not too soon to be choosing gowns. Last year’s pink dress, my favorite, is much worn and only suitable for children’s parties. I’m older this year, and I’ll attend a ball. I would like a new dress with ruffles around the neck and low enough to show some decolletage. Maman says that is fine for evening wear. I hope we are invited to some of the best balls this year; the
invitations should arrive soon. Very exciting!
November 12, 1872
Maman has invited the Musson family and M. De Gas to take tea soon. I hope I can talk to him this time. Maman is having the floors polished and the chandeliers shined especially for the occasion. The Musson home is so grand! Ours is fine, but not nearly as large or splendid.
November 14, 1872
Today we entertained the Musson and De Gas families for tea. Maman worried about the petits fours, but the cook made them well: tender and sweet, with colored icing and small flower decorations on top. They were much admired. M. Degas (we discovered that is how he spells his last name) was not familiar with these patisseries. The people who came were René De Gas and his wife, Estelle; Mathilde and her husband, William; and their uncle Michel Musson. I talked to Estelle. She has a very pleasing manner but did not eat much. Her baby is due next month. She asked me if I have any suitors. I told her not yet, and she said that surprised her, since I am such a pretty young woman. I said I expected to meet some eligible young men at the carnival events next year, and that last year I could not attend many because of my illness. I am better now.
P.S. Maman explained to me that the name De Gas is pretentious, and Edgar (she uses his Christian name now, and he calls her Sophie) doesn’t approve, since his family origins are humble. That’s why he uses the last name Degas. I like him even more now that I’ve learned this.
Anne put the journal down, fascinated as she read the girl’s thoughts. Marguerite struggled with the desire to join the adult world, just as she, Anne had, and in some ways still did. Marguerite’s relationship to Anne’s family wasn’t clear, but she seemed to be the teenage daughter of her own great-great-grandparents, Philippe and Sophie. Of course, Sophie was the woman in the painting Anne had discovered in the attic, and whom she resembled. Anne had heard nothing about a child from that marriage, but the journal detailed the connection between the families. Impatient to learn more about Marguerite’s relationship with Degas, even though she bore some guilt at reading the girl’s private diary, she turned the page.
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