music upon returning from
one of his excursions to New Orleans.
Miguel felt relieved knowing that his little cousins were
safely ensconced at the plantation. A young girl barely two years older
than Monique had recently vanished from the city and it wasn't known
whether she had fallen victim to foul play or simply run off. It
chilled Vidal to the marrow to think what could have happened to his
naive little wards had they continued to run around New Orleans without
a chaperon.
Vidal found himself looking forward more and more to his
visits to Le Rêve, now that he knew he had his grandmother and two
young cousins waiting there for him. As an only child, he had led a
rather solitary life until he had come to New Orleans to take charge of
the Chausson family's affairs. He rather enjoyed the sharp contrast of
the provincial life he was leading these days with the more
sophisticated one he had always led in the courts of Spain and Europe.
One of the things he especially liked was the feeling of freedom that
the open spaces of the plantation gave him; but when darkness fell, he
resented it when the shutters had to be closed tightly against the
"evils of the night," foremost of which were the droves of mosquitoes
that came out en masse from the nearby swamplands to lay siege to those
who had dared invade what the insects evidently still considered to be
their private domains.
The stuffiness of his room was intolerable, since he not
only had to barricade himself behind closed doors but retreat even
further behind yards of netting, as well, in order to keep the
bloodthirsty little pests from feeding off him while he slept and
leaving only stinging welts in return for favors received.
At least Grandmother Chausson and the girls seemed to take
such inconveniences in their stride, accepting them as a natural part
of life there in the Louisiana colony. Not that Monique was content.
Vidal, who had come to recognize the signs of impending disaster where
his ward was concerned, had noted lately how she was beginning to chafe
at the bit and look for something to break the monotony of her daily
routine.
He decided, therefore, that it was time for him to begin
introducing her to the more technical aspects of plantation life.
"Perhaps you've been wondering what I've been doing these
past few months," he ventured one morning right after breakfast.
Monique had always been curious about her guardian's
comings and goings. "I've never really given the matter much thought,"
she replied airily, trying to keep her eyes from focusing too
noticeably on the patch of dark hairs glimpsed through the opening of
his shirt collar. Until now she had mostly seen him with his
fashionable chin-high cravat, impeccably draped down to the number of
its folds.
The soft fabric of his shirt clung to the sinewy cords of
the muscles beneath it—long, lean muscles hardened by years
of fencing, horseback riding, and constant travel.
"Well, I think you should know I've been meeting and
talking with the authorities in New Orleans and some of the experienced
planters in these parts," he said, ignoring her tone of indifference,
"and I've come to the conclusion that indigo is not the best crop for a
region like this."
"But my father always planted indigo."
"And most of the others around here, but these past two
years have surely demonstrated that the caterpillar makes more profit
from it than the planters do."
"Then what do you plan to grow?"
"Sugarcane. You see, I think the future lies with sugar,
or perhaps cotton. Most certainly not indigo."
"Is that what the other plantation owners are going to
plant, too, now?"
Vidal paused a second before replying. "No," he finally
said cautiously. "Most of them are staying with indigo, but I'm afraid
they're going to lose their crops to the worms again this year. Only a
few of us, like Etienne de Bore and me, along with one or two émigrés
from Santo Domingo, have gone over to sugar. Perhaps because we who are
newer to this
one of his excursions to New Orleans.
Miguel felt relieved knowing that his little cousins were
safely ensconced at the plantation. A young girl barely two years older
than Monique had recently vanished from the city and it wasn't known
whether she had fallen victim to foul play or simply run off. It
chilled Vidal to the marrow to think what could have happened to his
naive little wards had they continued to run around New Orleans without
a chaperon.
Vidal found himself looking forward more and more to his
visits to Le Rêve, now that he knew he had his grandmother and two
young cousins waiting there for him. As an only child, he had led a
rather solitary life until he had come to New Orleans to take charge of
the Chausson family's affairs. He rather enjoyed the sharp contrast of
the provincial life he was leading these days with the more
sophisticated one he had always led in the courts of Spain and Europe.
One of the things he especially liked was the feeling of freedom that
the open spaces of the plantation gave him; but when darkness fell, he
resented it when the shutters had to be closed tightly against the
"evils of the night," foremost of which were the droves of mosquitoes
that came out en masse from the nearby swamplands to lay siege to those
who had dared invade what the insects evidently still considered to be
their private domains.
The stuffiness of his room was intolerable, since he not
only had to barricade himself behind closed doors but retreat even
further behind yards of netting, as well, in order to keep the
bloodthirsty little pests from feeding off him while he slept and
leaving only stinging welts in return for favors received.
At least Grandmother Chausson and the girls seemed to take
such inconveniences in their stride, accepting them as a natural part
of life there in the Louisiana colony. Not that Monique was content.
Vidal, who had come to recognize the signs of impending disaster where
his ward was concerned, had noted lately how she was beginning to chafe
at the bit and look for something to break the monotony of her daily
routine.
He decided, therefore, that it was time for him to begin
introducing her to the more technical aspects of plantation life.
"Perhaps you've been wondering what I've been doing these
past few months," he ventured one morning right after breakfast.
Monique had always been curious about her guardian's
comings and goings. "I've never really given the matter much thought,"
she replied airily, trying to keep her eyes from focusing too
noticeably on the patch of dark hairs glimpsed through the opening of
his shirt collar. Until now she had mostly seen him with his
fashionable chin-high cravat, impeccably draped down to the number of
its folds.
The soft fabric of his shirt clung to the sinewy cords of
the muscles beneath it—long, lean muscles hardened by years
of fencing, horseback riding, and constant travel.
"Well, I think you should know I've been meeting and
talking with the authorities in New Orleans and some of the experienced
planters in these parts," he said, ignoring her tone of indifference,
"and I've come to the conclusion that indigo is not the best crop for a
region like this."
"But my father always planted indigo."
"And most of the others around here, but these past two
years have surely demonstrated that the caterpillar makes more profit
from it than the planters do."
"Then what do you plan to grow?"
"Sugarcane. You see, I think the future lies with sugar,
or perhaps cotton. Most certainly not indigo."
"Is that what the other plantation owners are going to
plant, too, now?"
Vidal paused a second before replying. "No," he finally
said cautiously. "Most of them are staying with indigo, but I'm afraid
they're going to lose their crops to the worms again this year. Only a
few of us, like Etienne de Bore and me, along with one or two émigrés
from Santo Domingo, have gone over to sugar. Perhaps because we who are
newer to this
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