united states senator beauregard courtney of tennessee crossed canal street cautiously and plunged into the french quarter of new orleans with a swift, military stride.
he had always urged lucy that they take a trip to new orleans, but she always had demurred; she said the city reminded her of war and trouble, somehow. now he had been invited to be the principal speaker at the annual banquet of the louisiana bar association tonight. he had welcomed the opportunity to make the trip, without lucy.
it had been ten years since his voice at the memphis conference had swung the south away from war and onto the path of peace. his statesmanship on that occasion had brought him great honour. he had served a four-year term as governor of his state and, on leaving that office, had been advanced to the u. s. senate. his light-coloured hair and mustache were beginning to grey slightly.
lucy had been a good wife to him, even though there had been that near-estrangement when he was so busy as governor. perhaps she still did not agree with him entirely on his acceptance of the fact of racial integration without bitter resistance, but she was more tolerant now of his sincerity than she had been once. he was sorry she was not here: she would have enjoyed the old world atmosphere through which he walked.
beauregard moved up fabled bourbon street, past galatoire's and the absinthe house. he stared with interest at the intricate ironwork of the balconies that overhung the narrow sidewalk, at the bright flowers that peered over the stone walls of gardens, at the blank wooden doors flush with the sidewalk.
how far, he wondered, was he from rampart street, where the creoles had kept their beautiful quadroon mistresses in one-story white houses in days long gone? he knew nothing of the vieux carre, and had no map.
as he penetrated more deeply into the french quarter, he began to pass the barred gates that stopped the dim corridors leading back to ancient courtyards. these fascinated him, and he tried several of the gates, only to find them locked.
he never knew later, studying the map, whether the street he had just crossed was toulouse, st. peter or orleans, when he came upon one of those gates that stood ajar.
beauregard did not hesitate. he pushed it open and paced eagerly down the shadowed corridor until he emerged into the sunlit courtyard.
there was a stone statue, grey and cracked with age, in the midst of a circular pool in the center of the courtyard. flower-lined walks surrounded it. the doors that opened into the courtyard were shadowed by balconies, on which there were other doors, and to which steep flights of stairs climbed.
on a bench beside the pool sat a woman in a simple print dress. her skin was tawny gold and her hair was black and tumbled about her shoulders. her eyes were black and deep, too, when she raised them in surprise to the intruder. she was beautiful, with a poignant, wistful beauty.
"i'm sorry," said beauregard. "the gate was open, and i was curious."
"mrs. mills forgot to lock the gate," she said, smiling at him. "all of us who live here have our keys and are supposed to lock the gate when we go out. but mrs. mills forgets."
"i'll leave," he said, not moving.
"no, stay," she said. "you're a visitor to town, aren't you? there's no reason why you can't see a french quarter courtyard, if you wish."
beauregard moved closer to her.
"i'm beauregard courtney," he said. for some reason, he omitted the "senator."
"gard," she said in a low voice, her big eyes fixed on his face. "gard courtney."
somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, faint memory stirred. was it the memory of a dream?
"have i dreamed that we met before?" he asked slowly. "piquette?"
"you know!" she exclaimed, her face lighting gloriously. "i didn't dream alone!"
"no," he said. "no. you didn't dream alone. your name is piquette, isn't it? i don't know why i said that. it seemed right."
"it is right."
"and you live here?"
"up there," she said, and pointed to one of the doors that looked out on the balcony.
beauregard looked up at the balcony and the door, and he knew, as though he had prevision, that before he left the courtyard he would go through that door with piquette.
he took her hands in his.
"i'll never let you leave me," he murmured.
