“Nor do I, Mr. Robb,” Layton replied, obviously taking up a conversation of an earlier period of which the boy had not been a part. He listened as Mr. Robb described the offer of Madame Livaudais to sell to the Lafayette Council, now the Fourth District Aldermen, the entire square of Washington, Sixth, Levee, Fulton, including the house, for $80,000, to serve as a Municipal Hall and market. Layton commented that, since the present location served the government’s need at $1,100 per year, and since a new market on Soraparu was under consideration, it would not be of interest.
John Layton Jr., had clasped the seat of the carriage so hard that his knuckles were white, and as the carriage turned around and headed back toward Washington Street, he couldn’t even summon courage for a furtive glance back at the ruin to see if the reported red lights danced from the cracks in the crumbling and once proud home of the family de Livaudais.
The street lamps had been lit at each intersection as the fine pair pulled the carriage steadily out Washington.
Chippewa Street John knew because he loved to play in Clay Square between it, Second, Third and Annunciation Streets. The last street he had first known as Jersey. Laurel Street, where the heavy doors and the iron bars of the jail, just a block from his school, served as a reminder to the little boys to stay in line. Constance Street, first known to him as Live Oak, was familiar as the location of Holy Trinity Church, corner of Second, where his family worshipped. The new church on Jackson was not yet ready.
Magazine Street was next, and this held special charm for him because on Washington, from Magazine to Camp, Live Oak Square formed a vast, tree-shaded playground where he and his young friends staged many a mock battle, refighting the famous engagement at Chalmette, as told to them by some of the veterans themselves, men who had known Jackson, Lafitte and Dominique You in the flesh! Often the boys surrendered the wonderful grounds to real soldiers who encamped there and had military drills; sometimes, to wagon-loads of picnickers of a Sunday. The moss-draped oaks indeed beckoned to him even in the twilight and seemed to whisper, “We’ll be waiting.”
And in the next block they saw the rough foundation outlines of Mr. Robb’s house, an Italian villa he said it would be. The granite foundation stones being hewn, the stacks of the finest cypress and imported mahogany, the piles of red bricks made of the best lake sand—no ordinary house was abuilding here!
Mr. Robb slowed his carriage, but as it was too dark to make out much, they sped onward, turning right at Chestnut Street for the final lap back home to Jackson.
“What a day this has been in the life of the former city of Lafayette,” thought John Layton, Sr. “I wonder,” he mused that night at home, “if the boy really grasped the impact? Maybe I’d better....”
It was too late for that night. John, Jr., had long before gone to sleep.
