In course of time a Mme. Peuch took possession of the house on the St. Charles street corner, and, horrors! opened a boarding house, whereupon the aristocratic element gradually fluttered away. The Smiths and Labouisses went, as we thought, into the wilderness, up Carondelet Street to a kind of country place, with lots of ground and fig trees. The Buckners flew still further. I think they halted at Jackson Street—I am not sure the street had as yet a name. The Mathews moved to Annunciation Street. My father took his lares et penates to Canal Street, and Mrs. Slocomb still further away, to Europe. The infection spread, and in a short time the whole “13 Buildings” pimpled out into cheap boarding houses or rented rooms. Sic transit! Where are all those fine people now? And what of the “13 Buildings”? Do they still stand and flaunt their signs over the places once adorned with immaculately shining brass name plates? or have they, in the march of events, also silently departed, and left places to be filled by a newer generation of buildings, in imitation of the lords of the earth that knew them and loved them and patronized them in their heyday?
XXIV
“OLD CREOLE DAYS” AND WAYS
It was in the autumn of 1846 La Belle Creole carried me, a young girl, to Dr. Doussan’s home, on the coast, above New Orleans. I was sent there to learn to speak French, which I had been fairly well taught to read and write. Both Dr. and Mme. Doussan were past middle life. The doctor was a native of France, madame a Creole, and the few arpents they owned were her inheritance. Their home was surrounded by a settlement of Creoles, pure and simple Creoles, such as I doubt exists to-day in the changed conditions that seventy years bring.
The simple natives, who had little patches, some of which amounted to little over an arpent (about an acre), were domiciled so conveniently near that it afforded an unending source of interest to a wide-awake American girl to see, listen to, and talk with them. They were not “poor folks” except possibly in the one meaning of the term. There was a family of Grandprés in that little settlement. Hearing the name Grandpré would instantly call to mind the Grandprés of Louisiana’s early days. Was not a Grandpré Governor, or Captain General, or something else as notable and commanding in Louisiana history, in the French, or more likely Spanish, occupancy of the country? This family descended from the original proud stock. The children, grown, half-grown, babies, at the time of which I write actually had a resident tutor, M. Marr, a man of no mean ability. I do not know how far they advanced in other branches of education, but their beautiful chirography would put to the blush any college graduate who hovers around our young girls to-day, and they signed themselves, too, with a grand flourish, De Grandpré. My old red and gilt album (every girl had an album and her friends wrote fulsome nonsense in it) has a “Je suis très flatté, mademoiselle, de pouvoir m’inscrire,” etc. signed L. De Grandpré. Looks as if I had flattered a nobleman of France! Doesn’t it?
That flock of children of all ages and sizes were being educated well for their day and generation, albeit Grandpré mère strolled about in a gingham blouse volante, her frosty hair covered with a plaid tignon; and Grandpré père sniffled around (he had some catarrhal trouble, I guess) in carpet slippers. I do not think he ever did anything but bear the high-sounding name, and I never heard, after those album days, that the sons did either.
A family of Lafitons lived so near that we heard their parrot screaming for “mon déjeuner” every morning, long before it was time for anybody’s breakfast. I think the bond of friendship that existed between le vieux Lafiton and Dr. Doussan must have been that they came from the same province in France. Most nights, Sundays as well, “mon voisin,” as the doctor called him, came for a game at cards. Long after my supper was served on a tray, and I was safely tucked into bed, madame presided at a banquet of gumbo, jumbalaya and salad, with their beloved Bordeaux, which was spread for the old gentlemen. Lafiton had straggling locks of white hair, falling over the collar of his great coat, reminding me of the picture of Little Nell’s grandfather, and the home of the Lafitons carried out the simile, for it was as melancholy and cheerless as any “Old Curiosity Shop” could be. There were two bright, capable girls in it, though, who never knew or saw anything better than the rickety old house, way up on stilts, that they lived in. There they stitched and darned and mended and patched all day (Creole women are not lazy), and managed to make a creditable appearance for an afternoon promenade on the levee.
The two grown sons caught driftwood and fish, and when they tired of that exertion made crawfish nets. (En parenthèse, when I had a fifteenth birthday, Pete, the long-legged one, gave me a finger ring he had made of the tooth of a shell comb.) They did not own a skiff, much less a horse or voiture. For ever so long I thought Mme. Lafiton had chronic toothache, or some trouble in her jaws, for she always wore a handkerchief over her head, tied under the chin, and also a look of discomfort. In time I discovered that style of headdress, and that troubled smile, were peculiarly her own, and did not signify anything in particular.
We had other neighbors less picturesque than those I have mentioned. Madame had a cousin living quite near, who had, as had all Creole women in those days, a great flock of children. The Dubroca family seemed to be fairly well-to-do. Mr. Dubroca was sugar-maker for a nearby planter. Madame and her daughter Alzire were thrifty, hospitable and kindly. The sons, as they grew up, were sent to schools and colleges. Madame was a sister of Mrs. (Judge) Eustis of New Orleans, both being daughters of Valèrie Allain, a planter of means, whose property when divided among his children did not amount to much for each.