Tempter (10 page)

‘Who is seeing to Miss Eugenie?’ I asked.

‘Mamma John, the
chasse-femme
. She is the one who helps the slaves birth their babies.’

I was aghast at this news and insisted that Auguste accompany Puck to Dr. Drummond’s. I hurried to Seraphine, expecting to find Donatien pacing the floor, awaiting news as to the fate of his wife and child, but he was nowhere to found. The little parlor maid, Ester, informed me that Master Donatien had left for New Orleans to celebrate Twelfth Night and the commencement of the Carnival season. I doubt Eugenie’s screams of agony—audible throughout the entire house—suited his taste. Not long after I arrived Dr. Drummond appeared, but Auguste was conspicuous by his absence.

When Drummond went to relieve Mamma John of her duties, the old midwife simply shook her head and said: ‘T’aint’ no good. She all broke-up inside. Don’t need to be no school doctor to see that.’

When Drummond finally left Eugenie’s room he was a horrible sight to behold, with his shirt and vest stained with blood. He cradled a pathetic bundle of bloody linen in his hands. ‘She’ll live, but any more children are out of the question. I've got her heavily sedated with laudanum.’

‘Laudanum? Is it safe?’ I gasped.

‘Queen Victoria swears by it.’

‘And the baby?’

‘It died in the womb. Her pelvis was so badly broken there was no way she could have delivered it, even if it had lived. I pray I got to her before childbed fever had a chance to set in. For all its worth, it would have been a boy.’ He handed what would have been Placide Legendre’s grandson to the stony-faced midwife. ‘See that the priest blesses it. And, for the love of God, don’t let Miz Eugenie see it.’

Drummond and I retired to my home, where we drank coffee and whiskey well into the night. It was then that I realized that I had not seen Auguste since I sent him to fetch the doctor. I had Puck awakened and quizzed the boy regarding Auguste’s whereabouts. Poor Puck burst into tears and confessed that he had promised Auguste not to tell anyone. Once I assured Puck I meant no harm, he told me that Auguste had run away. I was baffled. Why should Auguste run off? It’s not like he’s a field hand.

‘He said he were skeered, Master Lucien.’

‘Scared? Scared of what?’

‘The Master.’

‘Why should he be scared of Master Donatien? Auguste has known him since he was in diapers.’

‘He was skeered on account of what he seen.’

‘And what was that?’

Puck simply shrugged and shook his head. I thanked him for being honest with me and sent the boy back to bed. I’ve known Auguste since I myself was a youth. He served Placide for the better part of forty years. He is not the type to turn rabbit. As an officer of the court, I am duty-bound to report his escape to the authorities. And I would do so, without the slightest hesitation, if I did not feel that there is more to his desertion than meets the eye.

Jerry thumbed through the rest of the entries, most of which were dry accounts of petty lawsuits and notary functions in a small, rural parish. He closed the book and picked up the second volume, which, like the first, fell open to a certain passage.

***

May 25, 1850:

Went out to Seraphine today on business and spent some time with Eugenie. She seems to be doing better. Before his death last spring, Dr. Drummond claimed Eugenie was a laudanum addict. Not surprising, really, seeing how much pain that hip has given her over the years. The rise in Eugenie’s spirits seems to be caused by her maid, Jazrel. The girl is obedient and adores her mistress, and Eugenie seems to delight in her company as well, but I cannot help but feel that their attachment is an unhealthy one. If Donatien were a proper husband to his wife, Eugenie would not be forced to seek company amongst the darkies. Donatien never takes her with him on his trips to New Orleans, and Eugenie’s bad hip has made her a virtual prisoner of that rambling old house. It does not help matter that what little family she has are all in Mobile. I suspect that aside from visits from Father Jean-Luc, I am the only white company she receives.

***

July 22, 1851:

Donatien stopped by my offices today. He was in as foul a temper as I’ve ever seen him, which is saying something. He was waving a copy of
The National Era,
one of those wretched abolitionist newspapers, and ranting about libel. It seems
The Era
has been running a serialized antislavery fiction and that the villain of the piece bears a strong resemblance to Narcisse Legendre, Donatien’s late grandfather. The authoress, sister to that troublemaking Yankee preacher Beecher, has no doubt heard some third-or-fourth hand gossip and used it to her advantage.

After listening to Donatien carry on, I hastened to assure him that suing a publication like the
Era
would only be playing into their hands. Once the serialization is finished, it will be quickly forgotten. After all, it’s just a story. What harm can it possibly do? This seems to mollify him somewhat, and he left my offices in a slightly better mood.

Jerry flipped through the pages, scanning for further mention of the Legendre family, but found nothing of real interest. He picked up the third volume and let it fall open. He could tell a good deal of time had passed, as the attorney’s well-mannered penmanship showed the tell-tale tremble of advanced age.

***

September 19, 1859:

How can I begin? My hands still shake. Whether from grief or rage, I cannot say. Eugenie is dead. Father Jean-Luc officiated at the service, for none know the truth behind her demise save for a handful of loyal servants, Donatien and myself. I am certain Our Savior will forgive my sweet Eugenie her trespasses. It happened two days ago. I received a note from her, delivered by one of the cook’s myriad children. It was a sad and rambling letter, relating how Donatien, resentful of anything that might make her happy, had taken away her precious Jazrel and sold her to a sporting house in New Orleans. I was already well aware of Donatien’s perverse jealousy regarding her wife when the little lap dog I gave her disappeared without a trace years ago. But this was truly vicious behavior, even for Donatien. Unnerved by the tone of her letter, I hurried out to Seraphine, but I was too late. Eugenie had already consumed enough laudanum to kill a brace of mules. Donatien was nowhere to be found and did not even bother to put in an appearance at his own wife’s funeral. I am told he is in Kentucky, looking at horses.

***

October 9, 1859:

I promised myself I would have no more dealings with Donatien Legendre following the shameful treatment of his unhappy wife. Today he sought me out, as contrite and self-effacing as monk. It seems he has gotten himself in trouble, the kind that even a double handful of Legendre money stuffed in a judge’s pocket cannot fix. Donatien shot and killed a gambler while playing cards at a notorious whorehouse in New Orleans. That, in and of itself, would not be much to worry about, save that the victim was the nephew of a highly placed politician. After his repeatedly throwing his late father in my face, I caved in and agreed to help him. I recommended that he leave the country as soon as possible and that he sign power of attorney over the plantation and the Legendre business interests to me. He is leaving for France tonight. Whatever Europe holds for him, he could do no worse than he already has in his native land.

The rest of the ledger was filled with elaborate accountings of the Legendre finances spanning the years of the Civil War. It was evident from the bookkeeping that Napier had been successful in keeping Seraphine out of the hands of usurers and carpetbaggers. However, it was also clear that the war had a deleterious effect on the Legendre fortunes. Although Donatien was far from destitute, he was no longer the heir to vast wealth he had once been. Jerry opened the fourth book, curious as to see how things would turn out when the murderous profligate came home.

***

February 10, 1867:

Seraphine’s master has returned. I wish I could say I am glad to see my godson resume his place as the rightful head of the Legendre estate, but there is no percentage in lying to myself. Donatien’s self-imposed exile in Europe has not improved him; if anything, he is actually worse than before. I tried to explain to him the depredations done the Legendre monies by the recent misfortune, but he is unwilling to hear the truth. Instead of showing me any appreciation for the work I have done on his behalf, he chose to verbally abuse me. He was outraged that I have been paying the field hands. I told him that they are freemen now and must be paid if they are to work, but he refused to listen to me. As it is, there are barely enough hands on the place to keep Seraphine from returning to the swamp.

***

March 31, 1867:

Donatien continues to ignore my counsel regarding his diminished financial status. I have before me a sheaf of IOUs from various gambling houses, wine merchants and clothiers in New Orleans. After all the time I spent keeping Seraphine secure during the recent misfortune, it saddens me to see my godson so determined to throw it all away.

I fear Donatien’s cruel streak has finally blossomed into madness. Last week he set fire to the old slave shacks. Hired field hands occupied over half of the cabins. Luckily, no one was killed, but fifteen of the twenty-five sharecroppers working the place walked off. A neighbor who saw the fire from his house went out to investigate and claims to have seen Donatien running about stark naked, chasing the frightened workers and their families with a bullwhip. If this story gets out, it will be impossible to find anyone, colored or white, willing to work Seraphine.

***

June 26, 1867:

I am glad my friend Placide is already dead, for his son’s scandalous behavior would certainly kill him. I found it necessary to travel out to Seraphine today to get Donatien’s signature on some papers. When I arrived, I found myself in the middle of something out of Petronius. Gamblers, whores, carpetbaggers, pimps, white trash and worse filled the grand rooms that once hosted the most elegant and refined Creole families. The sound of their bestial merrymaking was everywhere, with the women screaming like cats in heat while the men guffawed and fired their pistols into the ceiling.

Donatien was holding court in the old dining room. Two men were sharing a woman in plain sight of the other guests, while a pair of sodomites manipulated one another in a most lewd and disgusting display. In the middle of the table stood a naked whore who was performing the infamous oyster dance, while those in attendance accompanied her obscene movements by clapping their hands and stomping their feet.

Although debauchery and perversion rioted and roared about him like a whirlwind, Donatien looked profoundly bored. Disgusted and appalled by the depth to which my godson had sunk, I left Seraphine determined to abandon him to the fate he so richly deserves.

***

January 18, 1868:

I have received the first news of Donatien in nearly a year. While I remain firm in my decision to no longer aid him, I cannot help but feel some concern for his welfare. I am an old man and closer to God’s kingdom with each passing day, and I wonder if there was not something more I could have done when he was a lad that might have saved him from this life of sin and degradation. After all, I was the boy’s godfather and, thus, nominally responsible for his moral and religious education. Perhaps if Placide had not elected to send the boy to France, or if he had not insisted on Donatien marrying Eugenie so young, things would have turned out differently. Then again, perhaps not, for I fear the key that locked Donatien’s heart was turned at birth. Narcisse Legendre’s cruelty and madness has found new life in the grandson he never knew.

It seems Donatien’s motley retinue abandoned him once he proved no longer capable of financing their weeklong orgies. In the months since I last saw him, Donatien has discovered the hard truth concerning his circumstances. While the Legendre name is still influential in certain circles, it can no longer command instant credit. His creditors are busy dismantling what little is left of his inheritance. It is rumored that Donatien has sold every stick of furniture in Seraphine, save for the contents of his grandfather’s study on the second floor.

The vast Legendre holdings have been carved up like winter calves. If he is lucky, Donatien will be able to keep the house itself from the moneylenders and brothel-keepers. To think I have lived to see the Legendre name reduced to such shameful circumstances.

The next page the book opened to was covered in a rushed, spiky hand, with numerous cross-outs and blots of ink in the margins. Over the course of reading Napier’s journal entries, Jerry had developed a mental picture of the lawyer as a soft-spoken, orderly bachelor, with a keen sense of pride in his work. For some reason, the sight of such uncharacteristic sloppiness unnerved him.

***

May 12, 1868:

This will be my last entry in this journal. As of midnight tonight I hope to be a on a train headed west. I will not be coming back to Redeemer Parish. I have lived my life in Louisiana, and I do not pretend that so dramatic a change at my age will be easy. I do not leave my home out of bitterness or with hopes of building a new and better life elsewhere. I am too old for such romantic claptrap; I am leaving because I fear for my life...and my immortal soul.

I came across some papers yesterday that escaped my notice when I ended my business relationship with Donatien Legendre last year. I decided to ride out to Seraphine on my own, to see for myself if the rumors concerning the mansion’s decline were true. I also hoped that perhaps this experience might have humbled and humanized Donatien somewhat. I was of the mind that if my godson showed any sign of remorse, I would volunteer my help and make sure that Placide’s only child would, at least, not go naked or hungry.

Due to complications at my office, it was nearly dusk by the time I reached Seraphine. Although the light was bad, it was easy to see, even with these old, tired eyes, that the tales of the plantation’s neglect were painfully accurate. The gardens, once Janelle’s pride and joy, are now overgrown, the rosebushes reverting to their wild state and threatening to turn the front yard into a briar patch; the creeping vines are busy reclaiming the south wing of the mansion, and all the windows have been shuttered.