Authors: Lorena Dureau
"By your leave," began the monk, his clasped hands lost in
the loose folds of his long sleeves, his wizened face barely visible in
the shadowy recess between the peak of his hood and his equally pointed
beard. "I've been watching these two young girls for several minutes
now, curious to see just how far their brazenness would lead them
astray," came the monk's acrid voice from out of the dark hollow of his
hood—a voice so dry that it seemed about to break off at any
moment from the very brittleness of it. "I was just about to intervene
when you, like the gentleman you obviously are, stepped in and put an
end to such scandalous goings-on."
"It was a simple matter, Padre," replied the stranger
politely. "They were molesting these young ladies, so I sent them on
their way."
"We're going home now, Padre," Monique quickly assured the
monk.
The Capuchin turned toward her, and although she couldn't
see his face clearly since he was standing with his back to the sun,
she could feel the accusation in his gaze. "I can't help wondering what
you and your sister were doing here on the square without a chaperon in
the first place," he admonished sharply. "Looking for mischief, I
daresay!"
"Oh, no, Padre," exclaimed Monique in dismay. "It was all
perfectly innocent, I assure you."
"We only wanted to see the marionettes," ventured Celeste
timidly.
"It's not enough to shun evil," cautioned the friar. "One
should avoid the appearance of it, as well."
Monique hung her golden head, and the frilly little white
parasol on her shoulder drooped, too.
"Yes, Padre, we realize now how wrong we were to have come
out alone as we did," she admitted. "But it was as my sister says. We
wanted to see the puppet show, that was all."
"And meanwhile you are letting the devil make puppets of
you!" scolded the Capuchin mercilessly.
The Spanish gentleman felt the poor girls had suffered
enough and came to their rescue a second time. "I promise they won't
get into any more mischief today, Padre," he assured the priest. "My
own business takes me to Royal Street, so I will personally escort the
senoritas to their home if you have no objections."
The monk hesitated, while Monique squirmed uncomfortably.
The young man, sensing the monk's vacillation, continued.
"Permit me to introduce myself, Padre. I'm Miguel Vidal de la Fuente,
at your service. I arrived in
Nueva Orleans
only
a couple of hours ago on the
Maria de la Concepción
,
but I'll probably be making my home here for a while. I've just come
from presenting my credentials to His Excellency the Governor."
The monk stepped back, obviously impressed. "A pleasure to
meet you, Don Miguel. Welcome to our humble city. I see that the
senoritas are in good hands. Don't hesitate to call on me if you should
ever have need of the Holy Church in the colony. Just ask for Padre
Sebastian Montez de Barcelona. I'm at your service."
He cast a scathing glance once more toward the two
blushing sinners and added, "As for you, girls, I'll speak to your
grandmother about this incident at mass. For now, go with God." He made
a sweeping sign of the cross over their bowed heads.
Then, with a second benediction for the aristocratic young
Spaniard, he directed his parting words to the latter. "I hope to see
you attending our church services while you are here in the city, sir.
Meanwhile, God be with you."
Vidal and the two girls stood there staring after the monk
as he moved silently across the flagstones of the plaza in his bare
sandaled feet and disappeared into the crowd. It took them a moment to
recover from the impact of that strangely phantom-like presence, but
finally the aristocratic Spaniard turned his attention back to his
bewildered young companions.
"And now, ladies, if you'll be so kind as to show me the
way…"He offered them each a velvet-sleeved arm once more,
and without further objections they allowed him to escort them from the
plaza and over to Rue Royale, only a block away behind the cathedral.
As they neared an attractive little white two-story house,
Monique paused. She hoped she could be rid of their solicitous escort
without having to alert the entire household to their arrival.
"This is where we live," she told him. "We'll be all right
now, sir… Did you say your name was de la Fuente? I'm sorry,
but I was so upset before… I don't believe I caught your
full name."
She extended her hand toward him in her most ladylike
manner. "My sister and I are eternally grateful to you for your timely
intervention on our behalf today. I assure you, you'll be remembered in
our prayers tonight."
He gave her a polite bow and quickly replied, "Miguel
Vidal
y
de la Fuente, ladies, at your feet."
"Vidal?" she echoed with arched brows. "My late aunt
married a Vidal. Perhaps you know the family? She and my uncle lived in
Madrid, and I understand they were quite well known there until their
untimely death in a boating accident a couple of years ago. My uncle's
name was Roberto Vidal y Flores."
The Spaniard was taken aback.
"By all the saints! But I think you're speaking of my
father!" Disbelief bathed his angular face. "Your aunt… what
was her name? By any chance, was it Isabella?"
"Isabelle Chausson, my father's sister."
"And my stepmother! It's incredible!" A flood of rapid
Spanish surged to his lips and he spoke excitedly, his dark eyes
glowing with emotion, until he saw the looks of bewilderment on the two
young faces and realized they didn't understand a word he had been
saying. With a smile he continued a little more slowly in French. "I'm
sure you're speaking of my poor dear stepmother," he explained. "Now
tell me, little ones, do you have a grandmother by the name of Madame
Aimee Chausson?"
Now it was the young girls' turn to be taken by surprise.
"Why, yes," replied Monique confusedly. "That's
Grandmother!"
"Then this… this, I suppose, is the Chausson
residence?"
"Yes."
"The saints be praised! Then you have unwittingly led me
to my destination, for I have come to New Orleans specifically to see
Dona Aimee!"
The three of them stood there in front of the entrance to
the whitewashed house in the shadow of the iron-lace balcony hanging
above them, staring at one another with mouths agape.
"Then… then we are… in a manner of
speaking…" Monique was still unable to digest the unexpected
development and its implications completely.
"Yes, we're cousins!" Vidal assured her. "You, your little
sister here, and I are cousins. At least we are by law, and although
I'm Roberto Vidal's son by his first marriage, your aunt was really the
only mother I ever knew, bless her. But please, take me to your
grandmother at once. There's no need for us to be standing here in the
street, is there? Take me to Dona Aimee, little cousins… my
pretty little cousins!" He threw back his dark handsome head and burst
out laughing as the humor of the situation struck him.
Monique and Celeste watched in bewilderment as he took the
huge brass knocker in his hand and sounded it against the large oak
door. Then they stood there, continuing to stare at one another in
amazement while they waited for someone to come let them in.
The
arrival of Don Miguel Vidal de la Fuente from Madrid had
taken the Chausson town house so by surprise that Monique and Celeste's
escapade earlier that afternoon would be soon forgotten.
Fortunately Vidal had thought it prudent to skim lightly
over the girls' disagreeable encounter with the rivermen so as not to
upset their grandmother.
"You can see for yourself, Miguel, just how desperate the
situation is here these days!" she exclaimed as she ordered her abashed
granddaughters to their room so she could continue talking to her late
daughter's stepson in private.
Monique and Celeste were beside themselves with curiosity,
but they obediently went to the upstairs bedchamber they shared.
Confused by the latest developments, they sat apprehensively on the
side of one of the two four-poster beds in the room, trying to analyze
what it all might mean.
"I can't understand why Grandmother never said anything
about a cousin from Spain coming here," mused Monique. "Yet from the
way she received him, it's obvious she invited him."
Celeste seemed not only ready to accept Miguel Vidal as a
member of the family but to be rather pleased with the prospect.
"It might not be so bad to have him as a cousin," she observed, more dreamy-eyed than ever. "He's quite
handsome, don't you think?"
Monique tossed her head nonchalantly. "I hadn't noticed. I
suppose he is… for a Spaniard, that is," she conceded
halfheartedly.
"You can't say it wasn't very gallant of him to come up
and chase those horrid men away from us with his sword," said the young
girl as she smoothed over her golden-brown curls and puffed out her
fichu just a little more.
"Yes, but did you hear the way he called us children?"
Monique reminded her indignantly. Then, after a moment's thought, she
added, "How old do you think he is?"
"Oh, I don't think he's middle-aged yet. Cousin Miguel
can't be more than twenty-seven or so."
"Don't call him cousin! He's not really any relation of
ours," chided Monique, annoyed with even the idea that they could be
related to a Spaniard.
"I rather like him," insisted Celeste. "After all, he
tried to soften things for us with Grandmother. He could have told her
a lot more than he did, you know, and we'd be in worse trouble now if
he had!"
"Yes, he has been unusually kind, especially when you
consider where he's from."
"There you go again!" scolded Celeste. "Just because the
man is Spanish and not French…"
"You're too young to remember all the things Mama used to
tell us about what those horrid Spaniards did when they took over this
colony, but I can," Monique declared, her gray eyes suddenly flashing
sparks of flint. "That monster—that Spanish mercenary
O'Reilly—used trickery to trap our grandfather and those
other French patriots. He promised them amnesty if they surrendered,
and then, once they came out into the open to make their peace,
O'Reilly had the leaders shot or sent to prison. So much for taking
Spaniards at their word!"
"Actually, O'Reilly wasn't Spanish. He was Irish,"
ventured Celeste timidly.
"But he was acting on orders from Madrid, and came with
two thousand Spanish troops! Thanks to him, Mama's father died!"
"At least he wasn't among those executed," sighed Celeste.
"He was finally pardoned and released, wasn't he?"
"A lot of good that did!" snapped Monique angrily. "After
those horrid Spanish dungeons in Havana, he came out a broken man and
died only a few weeks after he returned home. They killed him just as
much as if they had stood him up against the wall and shot him. Believe
me, our family has good reason to hate them!"
"But all that happened so long ago," sighed Celeste. "The
governors we've had since then—at least the ones we can
remember—have been good."
Monique gave an exasperated shrug of her shoulders.
"You're just too young to understand such things, Celeste. New Orleans
is French, and the Spaniards have no right to be here in the first
place. Now that Spain and France are at war, that even makes us
enemies! Didn't you see those leaflets Maurice gave me, the ones
calling on the citizens of Louisiana to overthrow the Spanish
government? You should read them."
"Oh, Monique, it's all to complicated for me!" exclaimed
Celeste, shaking her dark blond head wearily. "Only the good Lord knows
how it will all end! But meanwhile, Cousin Miguel is here, and I think
we should try to remember he's Aunt Isabelle's stepson and treat him as
part of the family, which I'm sure is the way she would have wished us
to receive him."
"I remember only too well how Mama always lamented Aunt
Isabelle's poor taste in not only choosing a Spaniard for a husband,
but one who was a widower with a child, as well!" Monique replied.
"Papa wasn't too pleased, either, about his only sister having married
a Spaniard and gone off to live in Madrid like that."
"Oh, well, all of that happened before we were even born,"
observed Celeste. "Neither of us really knew Aunt Isabelle or Uncle
Roberto, anyway."
"Exactly, so why should we be so quick to receive their
son with open arms? After all, what do we really know about him?"
Celeste sighed again. At least what she did know, she
liked, but she knew better than to argue with her sister.
They must have been sitting there talking for over an hour
before a knock sounded on the door and one of the housemaids announced
that she had been sent to call the girls back down to the parlor.
"And your grandma says not to dally," the pert young
Negress cautioned them. "She's waiting there to see you with that
elegant Spanish gent who came in with you."
The girls rose nervously and, hastily smoothing their
multiple skirts over their little bustle pads, descended the polished
oak staircase with mounting apprehension, fearful that a second, more
severe scolding still awaited them for their recent mischief.
As they entered the parlor, they found their grandmother
seated in her favorite upholstered chair finishing a cup of hot
chocolate, while Miguel Vidal sat on one of the red velvet couches
sipping a glass of claret and instructing the houseboy to go to the
docks with a note for the captain of the newly arrived
Maria de la
Concepción
.
"You are to show the men how to get here with my luggage,"
Vidal was saying as he handed a sealed envelope to the little black boy.
On seeing his young cousins entering, Vidal quickly gave
his messenger a few final words and rose to greet them.