Tarnished Gold

15

Gone but Not Forgotten

Time dripped by like molasses. Sometimes the sun looked like a wafer pasted on the sky, barely moving toward the horizon. Everything began to irritate me: the days without the slightest breeze, the overcast nights shutting away the stars and the moon, mosquitoes and dragonflies circling madly over the water or the tall grass, the screech of a night owl. Things that I had barely noticed before or even enjoyed were suddenly oppressive.

Mama was right about my swelling up faster than I had during my previous pregnancy. I saw the bloatedness in my face and felt it in my legs. I tried to eat less and Mama bawled me out for that.

"It's not food that's doing this to you, Gabrielle. You can't diet like some lady worried about fashions. You need to keep up your strength," she warned.

But it wasn't just worry about my plumpness that stopped me from eating the way I should. These days I had little interest in anything that had interested me before, and that included food as well. Mama did her best. She made all my favorite things. Most of the time I ate more than I wanted to eat just to please her. She knew it and shook her head sadly as I moved mechanically at the table and around the shack.

I couldn't shake off this shawl of depression, no matter how I tried. With the feud between Mama and Daddy growing worse and worse every passing day, and with every day passing without my hearing a word from Pierre, the world turned gray, the flowers dull. Even when the stars were out, they lost their twinkle and resembled nothing more than flat white dots staining a shroud of sable. All the songs of birds became dirges. The swamps never looked as gloomy, the Spanish moss draped like curtains closing off the light. My precious canal world had turned into a maze of loneliness and melancholy.

I spent my days working beside Mama and listening to her stories about people she treated for this or for that. She rattled on and on, trying to fill the deep silences that fell between us. To cheer me up she would talk about things we would do in the future. She even began to describe how we would change the shack to accommodate the baby.

I attempted a little bit of reading every night, but my eyes would drift off the page and I would sit there for long intervals before realizing I was staring at nothing, my mind blank. It frightened me to see how I was dying in small ways. Mama had often told me about people she had known who had pined away when a close loved one had passed on. She said their absence created too great a hole in the hearts of the mourners, and eventually those hearts just stopped beating. I wondered if that would happen to me.

Occasionally either Mama or I would find something Daddy left for us on the front galerie. He was trapping and harvesting oysters for a living. We learned he had taken his things and gone to live in his daddy's old swamp shack. Usually he left some canned goods, sometimes some pralines. Mama didn't want to take them, and often left them there. I would bring them in before the bugs or field mice could get to them and I would put them away, but Mama would pretend she had never seen them or didn't know from whom they had come. She wouldn't discuss them either, or anything that had to do with Daddy for that matter. The moment I would mention his name, she would draw up her shoulders and sew her lips closed.

If she said anything about him, it was along the lines of "He's where he belongs, finally."

I couldn't help feeling sorry for him, no matter what he had done. One day when I was just strolling mindlessly along the canal, he came along in his pirogue. I heard him call me and then he poled to shore to show me the muskrats he had trapped, forgetting that I hated to see any of my precious swamp creatures caught and killed. As usual, there was the stink of whiskey on his breath.

"How's that woman you call Mama?" he asked, anticipating no hope of reconciliation.

"The same," I said.

"I just did what I thought was right and best," he claimed. "And I ain't ever going to apologize for it."

"I'm sorry, Daddy," I said.

"Yeah. Me too. Sorry about a lot of things," he muttered. "I'll come by later this week and leave something. She takes what I leave at least, don't she?"

"Not willingly, Daddy," I revealed.

He grunted. "Just the same, I'll come by," he added. As he poled away from the shore, he turned to me and said, "Those rich people ain't giving up on you, Gabrielle. You don't close your ears and eyes like your mother, hear?"

I looked after him, surprised. What did he mean? What else would be said? Was Pierre included in his reference to those rich people?

Before I could ask, Daddy was pushing hard and moving away quickly, his long arms extended, the muscles in his shoulders and neck lifting and stretching with his effort. I watched him disappear around a bend. My heart hadn't thumped this way for a while. I thought about what he had said; in fact, I couldn't get it out of my mind, but it wasn't until nearly a week later that I heard any more about it, and how I heard was as surprising as what I heard.

It happened one night after dinner. Mama wanted me to accompany her to visit the Baldwins. Maddie Baldwin was pregnant with her fifth child, but she had been having complications, which included the most intense back pains she ever had. Her ankles were swollen something terrible too. Mama was afraid I was heading in the same direction.

But if there was anything I wanted to avoid these days, it was seeing another pregnant woman, especially one who was having problems. I told Mama I would rather stay home. She promised to return as soon as she could.

I sat on the galerie in her rocker after she left. I was just rocking gently, listening to the monotonous song of the cicadas and peepers, when suddenly a sleek, long white limousine appeared. It was so quiet and so unexpected, it looked as if it had popped magically out of the darkness. It came to a stop in front of our shack and the driver stepped out. He looked my way, spoke to someone in the rear, and then started toward me. I stopped rocking and waited, holding my breath.

He was a tall, caramel-skinned black man with strikingly green eyes, dressed in a chauffeur's uniform with a family crest on the breast pocket. He paused at the steps and removed his cap.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle. I am looking for Mademoiselle Gabrielle Landry."

"That's me," I said.

He smiled. "I have been instructed to ask you if you would be so kind as to speak with Madame Dumas in her limousine," he said, and for a moment my tongue felt as if it had been glued to the roof of my mouth. I started to swallow and stopped to look at the limousine again.

"Who?" I finally asked.

"Madame Dumas," he said softly. "She wishes only a few minutes of your time, mademoiselle."

I didn't move; I didn't speak. He stepped back and gazed at the limousine and then he looked at me, his face full of anticipation, his smile frozen. I wasn't sure what to do. Madame Dumas? Pierre's mother was dead, so this had to be his wife. Why would his wife come here to see me? Was Pierre in the limousine as well?

"Is it just Madame Dumas?" I asked.

"Oui, mademoiselle." He raised his eyebrows.

Slowly I rose from the rocking chair.

"Why doesn't she come out of the automobile?" I asked, gazing at the sleek limousine.

"She prefers to speak with you confidentially, mademoiselle. I assure you, it's very comfortable in the limousine. There is something for you to drink, if you like," he added.

I was a little frightened of the idea, but I didn't want to appear afraid, nor did I want to appear ignorant. It wasn't just that I had never sat in a limousine. I couldn't imagine what would bring Pierre's wife here, and all sorts of dark thoughts passed through my mind.

"You'll be quite safe, mademoiselle," the driver said, interpreting my hesitation. "I assure you."

"I'm sure of that," I said as bravely as I could. "All right. I'll see her," I said, and started down the stairs.

The driver waited for me and escorted me to the automobile, the rear, windows of which were tinted so that no one would be able to look inside and see the passengers. The driver reached for the door handle and opened the door, stepping back as he did so. I gazed into the dark interior and I saw her sitting on the far side.

"Entre, s'il vous plait," she said. "I just want to talk to you," she snapped when I didn't move. I looked at the driver and then I stepped cautiously into the limousine. It had a large, plush black leather seat with a table before it on which there were glasses and a bottle of sparkling water. I was immediately struck by the heavy scent of jasmine. As soon as the driver closed the door, Madame Dumas leaned over and flipped a switch to light up the cabin.

For a long moment we contemplated each other. I could see she was a tall woman, perhaps as tall as six feet, with a regal demeanor. Her pale reddish blond hair lay softly over her sable shawl. She wore a dark blue ankle-length dress with a tight waist and a high collar. There were pearl buttons along the bodice and lace on the sleeves. So beautiful did she appear to me, with her big, light blue eyes and a mouth I couldn't have drawn more perfectly, that I wondered how any man could have risked losing her love, or would even contemplate turning from her, even for a short tryst. I thought I was in the presence of a movie star. Her radiant beauty and sophisticated demeanor made me feel so inferior, I felt sick inside.

Her lips cut a hard, cold smile in her rich peach complexion. She nodded as if to confirm a thought and then shook her head.

"You're just a child yourself," she said. "But that doesn't surprise me."

She pressed a button that lowered the window on her side and then she reached down to take a cigarette from her gold cigarette case. At the same time she pushed the lighter in and then plucked the pearl cigarette holder from the table. She didn't speak until she had lit her cigarette and blown some smoke out the open window. Then she turned back to me.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Yes," I said. "You're Pierre's wife."

"Oui, Pierre's wife. Whatever that means," she added dryly.

"Does Pierre know you've come here?" I asked.

"No, but don't worry. He will. I have no fear of telling him anything."

"What is it you want?" I asked sharply. I had my hand ready to grab the door handle so I could leap out if I wanted.

"I don't know what Pierre promised you or told you, but I assure you, none of it will come true." She took another puff of her cigarette and waited to see what I would say.

"I didn't ask for anything," I said.

"That's a pity and quite foolish. You have a right to ask for something. Your father has."

"I know. I didn't send him, nor did my mother," I told her.

She smiled coolly. "I have heard how you Cajuns can be stubborn and foolhardy. Perhaps it's a consequence of having to live in this godforsaken part of Louisiana," she commented.

"This is hardly the godforsaken part of Louisiana, madame. If God is anywhere, He is here. There is more beauty, more natural goodness, than there is in the city," I told her proudly.

"Oh? You've been to New Orleans?"

"No, but . . . I know," I said.

She smiled again.

"What is it you want from me?" I demanded. "Or did you come here just to gloat or threaten me? I didn't plan for what happened to happen, but it did."

"And you're not sorry, is that it?" she said, her eyes turning to glass.

"I don't know," I replied.

She softened, her eyebrows rising. "Oh?"

"I have brought a lot of pain to my family . . . to my mother," I said.

She stopped smoking and quickly crushed her cigarette in the ashtray. "I will come right to the point, Gabrielle—if I may call you Gabrielle?" I nodded. "I would like Pierre to have his child. It's something that his father wants very much, too. I suppose Pierre told you that we have been unable to have children. The failure to have a family has made my marriage something of a failure as well.

"My father-in-law told me of your father's demands and his willingness to permit you to give up the baby."

"And you would want this, too?" I asked, not hiding my surprise.

"I would like to see my father-in-law happy and . . . I'd like to have a child in the house. We could have adopted, of course, but he or she wouldn't have been a Dumas. You carry a Dumas and that means a great deal to my father-in-law.

"I have come here because your father has now informed my father-in-law that you refused to give up the baby, no matter how much money was offered. I hope to change your mind, but if you do, it will have to be immediately, for I am planning to take an extended holiday, during which time I will . . ."

"Pretend to be pregnant," I said. "I understand, only all too well."

"Oui. That is my plan. So you see, if this is to happen, there can't be any more delays. It will either happen or it won't now. Soon it will be obviously impossible for us, for me, to take the baby as my own."

"But no matter what you do, it won't be your baby, madame," I reminded her.

"It will be Pierre's child, and therefore, it will be mine. We are married; we are as one, whether Pierre recognizes that fact or not. I have come to assure you I will accept the child as my own and I will raise him or her to be a Dumas. The child will have all the benefits, the education, the finest things, and will be with the father," Madame Dumas added pointedly.

I started to shake my head. "I can't give up my child . . ."

"Why not? You think by holding on to the child, you will somehow hold on to Pierre?" she asked, her smile widening. "I assure you, Gabrielle, Pierre is out of your life. He is a rich Creole gentleman. He's had flings before and I've overlooked them before, but this time . . . this time he's gone too far and he knows he has.

"Look at the alternative, Gabrielle," she said, sitting back. She nodded toward the shack. "Your life will become more of a struggle. Your parents will have to work harder and harder. You will feel more and more guilty. It will affect the way you treat the child. Oui, "she said before I could protest, "it will. You won't even recognize it and maybe not even think it, but it will nevertheless.

"And if you should meet another man, someone who will want to marry you even with a child, you will be afraid that he will come to resent the child, that he will look at the child and think this is the child of another man, another man she loved, and not my child, and here I am working to support this child. Then there will be arguments and resentments.

"And if you don't ever find another man, what do you have to offer this child? What hope for the future? How will she or he attend school, for example? Will the other children in the bayou accept this fatherless child or will he or she always feel inferior? You know what happens then, Gabrielle? The child begins to resent you for bringing her or him into such a circumstance.

"Are you prepared for all this? Why should you be?" she added before I could even think of a response. "Why should you have to worry and think about ways to avoid this hardship? I am the first to admit my husband abused you."

"No," I said. "He didn't do anything that I didn't want him to do."

"I see?' She smirked and sat back again. "Then you are happy?"

She stared at me a moment. This woman with her expensive clothing, her well-manicured nails and styled coiffure, her makeup, jewels, and her urban sophistication, was so different from me, we could be speaking different languages, and yet our destinies had crossed and intertwined us in ways neither of us could ever imagine.

"You are a pretty girl," she said in a softer voice after a short pause. "A natural beauty and perhaps not as young as you appear." She leaned toward me, fixing those light blue eyes on me. "Whether we like it or not, pretty girls, beautiful women like us, are often victims simply because we are attractive. Yes, in some ways I am a victim, too. I know I look rich and successful to you, but like you, I find myself in circumstances I would like to change, but can't. Like you, I'm trapped. I'm in a different sort of cage, but nevertheless, I'm not free."

She looked away for a moment, and ray heart, which had hardened against her from the moment I set eyes on her, softened a bit.

"I'd like to be a mother," she said, facing the window and gazing at the darkness across the way. "I'd like to be the mother of my husband's child."

She dabbed her eyes with an embroidered silk handkerchief and then gazed at me. "Will you do it?" she asked. "My father-in-law will give your father the money he wanted, too. It will help your family, your mother. . . ."

"I won't do it because of the money," I said. She nodded. "If I do it, I would do it for Pierre and because . . . because a lot of what you said is probably true."

"Oui. I am sorry. I wish I had given my husband more so he wouldn't have come here to spoil your life, too."

"He didn't," I said, and then felt foolish for saying it.

"Nevertheless, if I would have been able to give him his child, my marriage would have been more successful. It still can be," she said. "You and I can take hold of some happiness and turn something bad into something good, especially for the poor, unknowing child you carry inside you. N'est-ce pas?"

I thought for a moment and then I nodded.

She smiled warmly, beaming with tears in her eyes.

"Merci, mademoiselle. Oh, mademoiselle, merci." She reached out with a hand full of rings to touch mine. I felt as if I were extending my arm from one world into another, from reality to illusion. She took hold, smiled, and then released my fingers.

"Would you like something cold to drink?" she offered, nodding at the bottle.

"No, thank you, Madame Dumas."

"You have given my father-in-law a new lease on life, Gabrielle. I can't wait to return to New Orleans to tell him. He's mostly in a state of depression these days. Perhaps you know about my brother-in-law."

"Oui. "

"And my poor mother-in-law, who died shortly after the accident. So you see, rich people have no guarantee of happiness. Money can't buy everything."

"My daddy thinks it can," I said sadly. "And unfortunately, I'm only firming up that belief now."

"Yes, well, I'm sure he will realize the truth eventually. Thank you for listening to me," she added with a tone of finality. I recognized she wanted to leave. The moment my hand touched the door handle, the chauffeur opened it and stepped back. He held it open as I turned.

"Au revoir, Gabrielle," Daphne Dumas said. She looked like a beautiful mannequin set in the corner of that long leather seat. "I don't expect we shall see each other again, but I promise to be a good mother."

I simply nodded and the chauffeur closed the door.

"Good evening, mademoiselle," he said, tipping his hat. He went around to get into the limousine. I stood there watching him drive it away, the white automobile moving like a ghost into the darkness. For a moment I wondered, had I really had this conversation, or had it all been a dream?

I returned to the galerie and sat in the rocker. I was still there when Mama returned from her traiteur mission. Orville Baldwin brought her home in his van. She was surprised to see me waiting up for her.

"I thought you would be asleep," she said as she approached the steps.

"I'm about ready for bed now, Mama."

"Me too," she said, stretching.

"How's Maddie?"

Mama shook her head. "I think she's going to have a hard delivery. I'm worried about the baby, too," she said in a dark voice. Despite the heat and humidity, her words put a chill in my bones. "I'll do what I can, of course," she said, and started for the screen door.

"Mama."

"Yes, Gabrielle?"

"I've changed my mind about my baby. I've decided Pierre should have the child and should bring him or her up in New Orleans."

"What?" She stepped back. "Why?"

"It'll be best all around, Mama."

"Are you sure of this, Gabrielle?" Her expression changed quickly as an angry thought rippled through her face. "Your daddy didn't come around here threatening or haranguing you now, did he?" she asked.

"No, Mama."

"Because if he did . . ."

"No, Mama. He didn't. I swear."

"Hmm," she said, still very suspicious. "And Pierre? Was he here?"

"No, Mama."

She thought a moment. "You've made up your mind on this?"

"Oui, Mama. I have," I said firmly.

She nodded. "Well . . . this has to be your own decision, Gabrielle. If that's what you want." She opened the screen door. "Suddenly I feel twenty years older. That bed's looking better and better to me. You had better come up to sleep, too, honey."

I stood up. Mama's eyes washed over me quickly. "I know you're hurting something bad, honey, and I'm hurting for you."

"I know, Mama," I said. I went to her and she held me for a moment, kissing my hair and my forehead. Then we went inside together, holding on to each other until we ascended the stairs and went to sleep.

Two days later Daddy appeared on the front galerie late in the morning. Mama was in the kitchen cooking, and I was folding some pillowcases and linen we had woven to sell. The moment the screen door squeaked, Mama turned. When she saw it was Daddy, she left the ingredients bubbling in her black cast-iron pot and came charging forward.

"Don't you set foot in this house, Jack Landry," she cried, holding the ladle up like a club.

He hesitated. "Now, just hold on, Catherine. I come by because I heard you and Gabrielle have come to your senses."

"What?" Mama turned to look at me as I approached. She tightened her eyes into slits of suspicion and fixed them on Daddy. "Who told you that?"

"The Dumas," he said. "Why? Ain't it true?"

"What's true is you're still the scoundrel you was before. Nothing's changed as to that."

Daddy shook his head. "I swear, Cajun women can drive you mad. I just stopped by to discuss the arrangements," he protested. "Or did you think you'd sidestep me somehow? Did ya?" he asked, turning to me, now with his own suspicions clouding his eyes.

"No, Daddy."

"All right, then. Here's what's going to be. I'm asking for half the money now and half the money on delivery. I'll have some for you in a few days' time," he said, nodding.

"Don't you bring any of that blood money around here, Jack Landry," Mama said.

"What are you talking about? You act like you don't know nothing, and you're the ones who've gone and fixed it," he protested, his voice rising in pitch.

Mama bit down on her lower lip and stared at him. He got nervous and closed the screen door between them.

"All right. I'll come by another time and we'll talk about it again. But you're going to have to keep me up-to-date now, so I will know when exactly to tell them to be here, Catherine."

"Go back to the swamp, Jack, and sleep with your pack of snakes."

"You ain't cuttin' me outta this," he threatened, waving his long right forefinger at us. "You ain't. I'll be back," he muttered, and kept mumbling as he left the galerie. The moment he was gone, Mama turned on me.

"How did he find out? How did the Dumas family find out you changed your mind, Gabrielle?"

"I'm sorry, Mama. I had hoped to take care of everything myself. I didn't want to cause you any more trouble."

"I had a inkling in my bones when I come home from Maddie Baldwin's the other night. Did you lie to me, Gabrielle? Was Pierre here?"

"No, Mama." I paused and then added, "But his wife was."

"His wife?" She sat on the overstuffed chair, her face full of amazement.

"We talked a long time in her limousine and I saw she was sincere about becoming a mother. She made sense to me and opened my eyes to reality, Mama."

"His wife came pleading for you to give them the child?" she asked with disbelief.

"Yes, Mama."

She shook her head. "She wasn't embarrassed?"

"I suppose she was, Mama, but she's a very dignified and sophisticated lady. I saw how much the baby would be offered living with the Dumas family and 'how hard things would be for us here. Besides, that's a family that's suffered a lot of tragedy, Mama. Pierre's baby might just be the medicine to cure some of the sadness and give them hope."

"After what you've been through, I know how you wanted to keep your child, Gabrielle."

"I got to do what's best for the baby, though, don't I, Mama?"

She was silent a moment and then she fixed her wise eyes on me. "What really made you change your mind about the baby, Gabrielle? I'm sure it wasn't just because they have all that money."

"No."

"Well?" Mama pursued.

"Madame Dumas said something that made me question why I wanted the baby so much, Mama. She said if I thought by keeping the baby, I was keeping a hold on Pierre, I was wrong."

Mama nodded.

"And then I thought, if I was doing that, I was being selfish and not thinking of the baby as much as I was thinking of myself. No bird, no nutria, not even an alligator, thinks of itself before it thinks of its babies."

Mama smiled. "I used to worry about your being out there in the swamp so much, but I see you got the best education from the best teacher," she said. She thought a moment. "That man will be back to be sure he gets his money. Keep him out of my sight.

"I know what I'll do," she said, and went to her cupboard to get a statue of the Virgin Mary. She took it outside and set it down in the middle of the top step. "The moment he sees that," she predicted, "he'll stop dead in his tracks."

Now that I had made my decision about the baby, a weight seemed to be lifted from my shoulders. However, my world still remained changed, and as time went by, I became even less and less energetic, dozing and sleeping longer and more frequently. My swelling continued. Mama had me taking different herbal drinks, but I still bloated and looked twice as big as I had during my first pregnancy at every step of the way. Mama was disappointed that none of this lessened during my second trimester when a pregnant woman usually felt better.

But Mama was heavily involved and distracted by Maddie Baldwin's delivery at the start of my own seventh month. Just as she had predicted, Maddie had a hard time of it, and after the baby was born, Mama said it was a very sickly infant. She didn't think he would last a week. Six days later, the baby died. It laid a heavy pall over everything we both did for days afterward. Mama always blamed herself, thinking there was something she could have done, something she could have added to the treatment and diet.

It seemed we were stuck on a merry-go-round of sadness these days, all the gloom somehow finding its way to our doorstep. It was like being in a storm that would never end. And then, a little more than two weeks later, a ray of sunshine broke through the clouds of despair.

I had finished eating a little lunch. There was the usual afternoon lull, but a wave of high clouds kept it from being too hot, and there was a cool breeze from the Gulf. So I decided to take a walk along the canal. I had stopped looking for it so long, I almost missed it when I turned the corner toward the path, but there on the dock post was Pierre's blue cravat. The surprise almost had me paralyzed. For a moment I thought I was seeing things; I was a victim of my own vivid, hungry imagination, but when I drew closer, I realized it was true.

I felt an aching in my heart, making it thud louder, making my blood race. As quickly as I could, I went to my canoe. My hands shook with excitement when I grasped the pole. My legs were trembling. I hadn't poled my pirogue for some time now and my palms had grown soft. The pole burned my skin because of my hurried efforts, but I could think of nothing else but Pierre. As the canoe moved toward the Daisys' dock, I turned and gazed ahead in anticipation, impatient with the few minutes it would take to bring me closer.

I didn't see him on the landing, but after I tied the canoe and stepped out, I saw him sitting on a wooden box right in the middle of the debris.

"Pierre!" I cried, and he turned. He stood slowly and looked my way. He was wearing a light blue suit, but he was also wearing his palmetto hat. He looked tanned and healthy and never more handsome. He started toward me and I quickened my pace, nearly stumbling over the overgrown weeds. In moments we were in each other's arms.

"Gabrielle, my Gabrielle," he said, and followed it with his lips over my forehead, my eyes, my cheeks, and then against my lips. "I'm sorry," he said as he held me to him, raining kisses. "I'm sorry."

"Where have you been, Pierre? Why didn't you come to me before this?" I asked, my eyes flooding with tears of happiness.

He let go of me and stepped back, his eyes down, his head lowered. "Because deep inside, I guess I am a coward, I am weak, I am selfish," he declared.

"No, Pierre . . ."

"Yes," he insisted. "There's no way to sugarcoat it. Your father appeared that day, wild, angry. I tried to say something, to explain and to make promises, but I saw he was not a man with whom words would work, so I ran from him. I stood by and watched him set fire to our love nest and I did nothing. When other people began to arrive, I fled to New Orleans, crawled back behind the safety of my walls and gates and left you here to bear the brunt of it all. You have every right to hate me, Gabrielle."

"I could never hate you, Pierre."

"Haven't you suffered a great deal?"

"Only because I haven't seen or heard from you," I said, smiling.

He shook his head. "You're far too good for me. I'm sure you've borne insults, and your father . . ."

"He's out of our house. He lives in the swamp," I said. "He and Mama fought terribly."

Pierre widened his eyes.

"If it wasn't this, it would have been something else," I said sadly. "Mama and Daddy have been drifting apart for a long time."

"I see. I am sorry. Shortly after your father came here and I ran home," he continued, "I told my father everything and then he and Daphne discussed it."

"He and Daphne? Not you?"

"Not right away. Daphne has sort of stepped in to look after my father since my mother died. She's actually closer to him than I am these days, and especially now," he said with more sadness than bitterness.

"You know she came here to see me?"

"Oui. She enjoyed telling me about her conversation with you. I feel even more like a cad. Here I had gone and made all these promises to you about our baby, how I was going to take care of you and provide, and then she surprises me by going to see you and gets you to do this thing. But that's Daphne," he said. "She's a remarkable woman who finds it easy to take charge of everyone's life, not just her own."

"She wants to be the mother of your child very much," I said.

He smirked. "What Daphne wants, she usually gets, one way or another."

"I had the feeling she was doing this for your father as much as she was for herself and you," I told him.

He raised his eyes again and nodded. "Yes," he said. He turned away and gazed into the cypress trees. "I haven't been completely truthful with you, Gabrielle," he said in a voice so weak and troubled, I couldn't help but tremble in expectation. "I let you think of me as a fine gentleman, a man of character and position, but the truth is, I don't deserve to stand in your presence, and I certainly don't deserve your love, or anyone's love for that matter."

"Pierre . . ."

"No," he said, pulling his head back to gaze up at the sky. "I want you to understand why I care so much about my father's happiness, even more, please forgive me, than I do yours and certainly my own."

He turned back to me.

"My brother's accident was no accident. Yes, we drank too much and we shouldn't have been out in that sort of weather, and yes, he should have known all this better than me, for he was the sailor.

"But he was everything in my father's eyes, even though he was younger. He was more of a man's man, you see, an athlete, charming, handsome. He could get more with his smile and twinkling eyes than I could with all my intelligence and knowledge.

"Even Daphne, who was my fiancée at the time, was more infatuated with him than she was with me. Ours was more of a marriage of convenience, the logical couple, but with him she was romantic, even radiant; with him . . . she was the lover," he said.

"And so, when we were out there on that lake and the opportunity came to do him harm, I did and immediately regretted it. But it was too late. The damage was done. Only I had struck a blow that reached even more deeply into my parents' hearts than Jean's. My mother suffered, had heart trouble, became an invalid, and died. My father went into deep depressions, and in fact, it was only Daphne who could bring him out of them.

"She was the one who suggested we come to the bayou to hunt. It was almost as if she knew I would find you. Of course, that's ridiculous, but still . . . Anyway, when she presented the idea to me in her usual businesslike manner, and when she told me how much my father wanted it, I couldn't stop her. I couldn't care more about my promises to you. I'm sorry. I've gotten you into a much deeper mess than you ever imagined.

"I deserve your disdain, not your love," he concluded.

"That will never be," I said.

"I won't be able to come back to see you again," he warned. "And certainly I won't be able to bring our child. It wouldn't be fair to Daphne."

"I know."

"I've never known anyone as generous and loving as you, Gabrielle. I wish you could hate me. It would be easier to live with myself."

"Then you are doomed to suffer with yourself forever and ever," I told him.

He smiled. "Look at you," he said with a small laugh. "You're very pregnant," he added.

"Am I ugly now?"

"Far from it. I wish I could be there with you, holding your hand, comforting you."

"You will be," I said.

"I promise, I'll spoil our child something awful, just because whenever I look at him or her, I will see you," he vowed.

I nodded, my own tears burning under my eyelids.

"I'd better go," he said, his voice cracking.

We simply stared at each other.

"Promise you'll send word to me if you need anything, ever," he said.

"I promise."

He stepped toward me and we embraced. He kissed me and held me for a long moment.

And then he turned and walked away, into the dark path under the cypress, disappearing just as I imagined my ghost lover would. It seemed centuries ago when, on our way home from school, I had told Yvette and Evelyn about the myth.

But it wasn't a myth for me any longer.

For me, it had come true.