The Exiles

by Gilbert, Morris

  The riding pathways were not crowded one fine day in August when she and Lady were out enjoying the bright weather. When Chantel saw a man riding a bay horse ahead, she determined to pass him. She kicked Lady’s flanks and spoke to her, and the mare broke into a run. As they passed the man, Chantel heard the bay pick up his pace and a voice call her name. Soon the rider pulled up even with her, and she saw with surprise the smiling face of Neville Harcourt.

  “Mr. Neville!” she cried and pulled Lady down to a walk. “I’ve looked for you many times, but I’ve never seen you here.”

  “I’ve been a little busy lately. It’s so good to see you. You look fine, Chantel. How are things going with your schooling?”

  Chantel hesitated, then she remembered with warmth how Neville had taken her out of his father’s office and treated her like an adult. Words tumbled from her lips as she began to tell him all about her experiences at the convent. Finally she stopped and blinked. “I’m talking too much.”

  “Not at all. I’m very interested. And I’m very glad you’re living at home again. Tell me all your other problems.”

  Chantel giggled. “You don’t want to hear them all.”

  “Yes, I do. I’ve thought about you a lot.”

  “I hated to disappoint my father. That was the worst thing about all that trouble at school. He really wanted a son, Mr. Neville.”

  “I think you can leave the Mister off, Chantel. We’re good friends, aren’t we?”

  Chantel smiled warmly and nodded. “Yes, I suppose we are. Anyway, my father always wanted a son, but he only got girls.”

  “Well, I can understand his disappointment. But he did get a fine young lady out of it. He ought to be proud of you.”

  “I don’t think he is, really.”

  “Of course he is.” Neville assured her, and tried to bolster her confidence. “But you’re not the only one who has problems.”

  “You have problems? I didn’t think adults had problems like young people.”

  Neville laughed. “This is the happiest time of your life. Everything’s downhill from now on, Chantel.” He saw her expression, reached over, and tweaked her hair. “I’m just teasing you. You’ll have a beautiful life.”

  “What are your problems, Neville?”

  Neville Harcourt was silent for a moment. He studied Chantel’s eager face. “Well, my father is unhappy with me.”

  Chantel was amazed. “But why?”

  “I’m not really interested in the law. I do the best I can, but I don’t think I’ll ever please him. And he doesn’t like my appearance.”

  Immediately Chantel turned her face on him. “Why, you look fine!” she said. She ducked her head and said, “My father’s disappointed in my appearance, too. I’m not beautiful like my mother.”

  “But you’re not grown yet. In another year or two you’ll have men following you around the streets of New Orleans begging you to marry them.”

  Chantel laughed. “That’s silly!”

  “It is not! It’s true.”

  “That’s what Elise says. I don’t believe either one of you. They call me ‘Stick Legs’ at school.”

  “Don’t pay any attention to them.”

  “What’s wrong with the way you look?” Chantel asked. “I think you look very nice.” Actually she had not thought he was handsome at all when she first met him, but she had since changed her mind.

  “Well, I’m not a large man, as you can see. As a matter of fact, I expect when you’re grown, you and I will be about the same height. My father wants men to be big like he is.”

  “Don’t you pay any attention to him! You look very nice,” she said again.

  Indeed, Neville had a pleasant face. He was always neatly dressed, and although he was not as large as her own father or as Mr. Oliver Harcourt, he was well-knit and cut a handsome figure in his riding clothes.

  “Well, I suppose we’ve told each other all of our problems.”

  As they rode on, Chantel found herself able to talk to Neville quite freely. “I’ve been reading the Bible you gave me a lot.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes, I do. It’s so exciting. I’ve read all of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.”

  “What did you think, Chantel?”

  Chantel was silent. The Catholic church taught that only priests were qualified to read and interpret the Bible. She did not want to be disloyal to her own beliefs, but, indeed, the New Testament had become one of her favorite pieces of reading. “I love Jesus,” she said softly. “He was so kind, and He helped everybody.”

  “I’m glad you see that. I feel the same way.”

  “And they were so mean to kill Him. Why did they have to do that, Neville?”

  “Well, it’s a little bit complicated.”

  “I’m very intelligent. You can explain it to me,” Chantel said firmly.

  “You’re not overly modest though. Well, it’s like this, Chantel. All you have to do is look around to see that something’s wrong with the world. There’s evil everywhere, injustice, and people getting hurt. That’s because of sin. When sin came into the world, it didn’t stop with Adam. All of us, his descendants, are affected by it.”

  “I know. I confess my sins every week to one of the priests.”

  “We all need to confess our sins. Do you remember John the Baptist?”

  “Oh, yes, I liked him. Herod killed him. He was a mean king.”

  “He certainly was. Do you remember the first thing John the Baptist said when he saw Jesus?”

  Chantel thought hard. “He said, ‘Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world.’”

  “Exactly right! You have a fine memory. Well, what did he mean by that?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t understand it.”

  “As you read the Old Testament you’ll find out that the Jews always sacrificed a lamb, the most perfect lamb they could find. They confessed their sins to the priest, and the priest killed the lamb, and symbolically the sins of the people were on that lamb. The lamb couldn’t really take away sin, although God could, of course. But when Jesus came John said, ‘Here is the real Lamb of God!’ So, when Jesus died, Chantel, all the sins of the world were on Him.”

  “I get scared when I read about Him dying.”

  “So do I. Perhaps because God had forsaken Him.”

  “How could that be?”

  “Because the sins of the world were on Him—my sins and yours. All people sin. But now all sinners can be forgiven because Jesus died for our sins.”

  Chantel was silent. She was an introspective child with an ability to reason far beyond her years. Finally she said, “Catholics have to do penance. You’re not a Catholic, are you, Neville?”

  “No, I’m what you would call a Protestant.”

  “Do you have to do penance?”

  “Not as you would think of it.”

  “When I tell the priest I did something wrong, he makes me say twenty Hail Marys or do without something good that I like.”

  “It probably does you good to fast, and prayer is always a good thing. But actually when I sin, I do things quite differently.”

  Chantel was fascinated. “What do you do? You don’t go to a priest?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do—but not to one that you can see.”

  Chantel’s eyes were huge. “You can’t see him? Is he invisible?”

  “In a way. The Bible says that Jesus is our High Priest, and that we can go directly to Him and confess our sins. When you go home, look in First John. Not the gospel of John, but the first letter in the back written by the same man who wrote the gospel. Look at the first chapter, verse nine. It says this: ‘If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’”

  Chantel listened carefully and then said, “So, you just pray and ask God, and He forgives you?”

  “That’s right. When I was sixteen, I asked Jesus to come into my heart, and He did. And He
’s been there ever since. I hope you’ll ask Him into your heart, Chantel.”

  All this was strange to her. She looked at him and said, “I don’t understand it, Neville. It’s too complicated.”

  “You have a good heart, Chantel. God won’t let you go wrong. I pray for you every day. Did you know that?”

  Chantel was shocked. “Do you really?”

  “I really do.”

  Chantel felt warm. “Thank you, Neville,” she said. “That makes me feel very good.”

  The two finished their ride, and Chantel went home. She wanted to tell someone what had happened, but somehow she knew that what she had heard would not sit well with her father, who was a staunch Catholic—in doctrine at least. She did not even tell Elise, who was also a Catholic. Everyone she knew was a Catholic, but Chantel knew she would think long and hard about what Neville had said.

  Chantel usually said formal prayers before she got into bed, but this night was different. “God,” she said, “Neville prays for me every night, and I’m praying for him. Make his father like him better.” She hesitated, then said, “And I need to be forgiven. I was so angry with Angelique and Laurel. I really hated them. That was wrong. Jesus never hated anybody, so I ask you to forgive me.” She waited for a moment, expecting perhaps to hear a voice. But hearing none she said, “Amen,” and got into bed.

  “I have something to tell you that may be a little difficult for you to understand, Chantel.”

  Chantel was sitting at the breakfast table with her father. She had mentioned her ride with Neville but did not reveal the details of their conversation. She looked at her father curiously. “I’m going to have to go back and live at the school?”

  “No, indeed, you’re not. This, I think, is very good news if you’ll have it so.”

  Chantel could not understand his meaning. “What is it, Papa?”

  “Well, you’re going to have a new mother.”

  Instantly Chantel seemed to grow cold. She stared at her father, speechless, and finally she said, “Is it Miss Culver?”

  “Yes, I have learned to care very much for the lady, and I want to marry her. She could never take the place of your mama, of course, but I hope you will accept her.”

  Chantel could not speak, and Cretien saw that she was deeply shocked. He tried to calm her fears, but his words did not seem to register. Finally he said, “I hope you will come to accept Collette. We will never forget your mama or your sister, but life goes on.” He leaned over and kissed her, but when she did not respond, he shrugged and left the room.

  For a time Chantel sat there, then she got up and went out in the courtyard. She grasped the black iron bars that fenced the house off from the street. People passed by, but she did not see them. Finally she grew angry.

  “Why does Papa have to get married? We don’t need her!” She could not think of anything else to say. She could not even think clearly. She stared up at the sky and said, “God, You’re not fair! I don’t need a mother! Nobody can take my mama’s place. Why would You let this happen?”

  She knew she was being foolish, but she couldn’t help it. She stood there gripping the cold iron bars, tears running down her face, and she feared for what would happen in the days to come.

  Chapter ten

  Chantel squinted at the book before her, holding it so tightly that her fingertips grew white. Her mouth twisted to one side in an angry grimace—and suddenly she lifted the book in one hand and flung it as hard as she could. “I hate poetry!” she shouted.

  The book sailed across the room, pages fluttering, and struck a delicate porcelain vase of fresh flowers. The blow sent the vase off the table, and it smashed on the floor, scattering broken glass and white blossoms everywhere.

  Chantel stared at the wreckage. Before she could move, the door opened and Elise hurried in, her eyes wide. “Are you all right?” She looked over at the fragments of the vase and the scattered petals. “How in the world?”

  For one moment Chantel tried desperately to think of some excuse. Then she sighed. “I threw my book.” She went over and began to pick up pieces of glass. “I didn’t mean to break the vase. I just threw the book before I thought.”

  “Here, you’ll cut yourself. Let me clean this up,” Elise said quickly.

  The two cleaned up the mess together, carefully looking to be sure there were no shards of glass scattered on the carpet that could cut Chantel’s bare feet.

  Then Elise said, “Here, sit down and let me fix your hair.”

  Chantel marched over to the chair in front of the dresser and sat glumly staring at her features while Elise began to brush her hair.

  Elise spoke lightly enough, but it was obvious that her young mistress was not in a good mood. “What’s the matter? You’re out of sorts this morning.”

  “Did Papa come back yet?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, I was coming up to give you this. Robert came back this morning and brought it.”

  Quickly Chantel took the small envelope, extracted the note, and read her father’s message:

  Dear, your mama and I are going to stay with her family in Baton Rouge until Monday. I know you will be a good girl. Be sure and go to Mass Sunday morning with Elise.

  Chantel stared at the words, then crumpled the note into a small ball and threw it across the room.

  “That’s no way to treat your papa’s note!”

  “I don’t care! He’s never home.”

  Elise ran the brush through the thick, lustrous hair and tried to speak soothingly. “You must remember he has only been married three months. It’s only to be expected that he and his bride would want to spend a great deal of time together.”

  Chantel suddenly rose and said, “I don’t want my hair brushed any more!”

  “Well, what do you want? I can never please you these days.”

  “I want to go somewhere and get out of this house.”

  “All right. Get dressed, and we’ll go shopping over at the square. After all, it’s almost Christmastime. Do you have any money?”

  “Yes! I’ve been saving it, and I’m going to spend it all.”

  Despite her bad mood, Chantel enjoyed her walk around the plaza. It was a fine morning, warmer than usual for December. She was wearing a fine wool coat that her father had bought her. She remembered how the two of them had shopped all over New Orleans for it and had finally found what she wanted at Holmes Department Store. That had been a good day! But the feel of the coat only reminded her that her father was not with her now.

  They passed a store with a sign in the window that Chantel found intriguing: Indian Doctor. She turned to Elise. “Does that mean he’s an Indian—or that his patients are Indians?”

  “Oh, who knows? There are so many charlatans in this city I can’t keep them straight.”

  Chantel read the advertisement. “Doctor W. K. Lowe, by long intercourse with many different tribes of savages, and much practice, is able to give relief in desperate cases. Can cure scurvy, bilious complaints, fits, fevers, agues, diabetes, ulcers, cancers, and bedsores.”

  “I’ll just bet he can,” Elise scoffed. “Come on, Chantel. Don’t ever let yourself fall into the hands of someone like that.”

  The plaza was crowded for such an early hour, swarming with colorfully dressed blacks. Many of the women wore tignons, a madras head kerchief. Indians were a common sight, many of them having emigrated from Santo Domingo, and several negro nursemaids pushed perambulators along the streets. An enormous African woman bellowed out at the top of her powerful lungs, “Blackberries— berries very fine!” Another was selling pralines out of a basket, some brown, some pink, some white coconut.

  They passed by the Place d’Armes hotel with its low-pitched high roof and arcaded side. All around them snatches of English, French, German, and Spanish made a perfect babble on the air. The market was so crowded with sellers and buyers that it was almost impossible to move about.

  “This is a bad time to come,” said Elise.

&n
bsp; “I like it,” Chantel said. She led the way down the street, threading her way between the people. Once she passed by a bald-headed gentleman sitting in a rocking chair at the door of the Pharmacie, reading the Abeille de la Nouvelle Orleans. Beside him his grave spouse was sitting reading the Propagateur Catholique. Peering into the dim recesses of the store, Chantel could see rows of shelves laden with bottles of drugs. A strong scent emanated from the shop.

  Suddenly Chantel paused in front of a shop and said, “Let’s go in here.” Before Elise could protest, she had stepped inside a shop that advertised guns and knives.

  There were several customers inside, all male. One of them was staring down the long barrel of a rifle, and he took his eye off to gawk at the two who entered. He grinned and said to his friend, who was twirling a heavy pistol, “Watch out, Jake, the females are comin’ in.”

  A short, balding man with alert gray eyes came over. He was wearing a black suit and a rather colorful neckerchief. “May I help you ladies?”

  “I want to look at your pistols.”

  The shopkeeper hid a smile, or tried to, and said, “Certainly, miss. What sort did you have in mind?”

  “A small one. One that I can hold.”

  The shopkeeper motioned to a counter with a glass top. “Here is our collection of smaller guns.” He opened the lid and took out a sample. “How does this one feel?”

  Chantel took the small gun, which was like none she had ever seen. “It’s so little,” she said. “It just fits.”

  “This one fires only two shots, you see. One over and one under.”

  “Who you plannin’ on shootin’, missy?” the man named Jake inquired.

  Chantel turned to look at him and said frostily, “I haven’t decided yet.” She turned back to the shopkeeper. “How much is it?”

  “That one is fifteen dollars.”

  Chantel shook her head. “I don’t have quite that much. I’ll have to get some more from my papa.”

  “Your papa will never let you have a gun, Chantel! Now come out of here!”

  Chantel ignored Elise, saying, “I’ll be back when I get the rest of the money. I only need six more dollars. You save it for me, you hear?”