Chapter 3
My father and I sat in the lawyer's stuffy office. The two windows, one on each side of the room, were open, but the air was heavy - humid, is the term. There were pots of ferns and palms about the room, and they gave the office an exotic flair. It seemed that no matter where we went in New Orleans, there were lush and leafy plants everywhere.
No one said anything, we just sat listening to the burlwood clock tick off the seconds as we waited for Mr. and Mrs. Prejean. I studied the lawyer, a Mr. Bergeron, Attorney at Law, as the shingle stated outside. He was a heavy man with a belly that threatened to burst free of the weskit as it strained the buttons. I considered how funny it would be if buttons popped off, one after the other, and smiled at the thought. My father looked at me oddly and I went back to looking serious. After all, the situation was serious, at least in my father's mind.
The lawyer kept wiping his brow and cheeks with a linen handkerchief he pulled from his pocket and then would put it back only to have to pull it out again a minute later. But he seemed innocuous enough, not that I've had much truck with lawyers. The only one I knew was Hiram Wood back home who had a daughter about my age, Betty Mae. Every time he'd see me, he'd make sure to mention her and I'd have to side-step the topic like I would a pile of cow shit. But apparently, this lawyer was of a different ilk. When we'd been ushered in by his law clerk, a small, nervous man of about 30 years, Mr. Bergeron reached out for my father, shaking his hand and offering his condolences on the loss of "Madam Cartwright". He thanked us for coming such a great distance to settle this "bothersome inheritance issue. Such a shame there has to be any trouble but things can become messy when there are contestants of the will. Hopefully we can settle it all today."
"Yes," my father said, "I hope so as well. My son and I would like to return to Nevada as soon as possible."
Mr. Bergeron smiled indulgently and then put out his hand for me. His palm was soft, hot and moist. "You are not Joseph Cartwright then?"
"No," my father answered for me. "Joseph is just a child, only five years old. Adam is my eldest boy."
The lawyer still held my hand, smiling, and clasped his other hand over it. "I see. I have only recently, well, within the last few months, been retained so I am unsure as to who is who—ages, other status of the people involved. It is my pleasure to meet you, young man."
He released my hand and as I sat down, I couldn't help it – I wiped my hand off on my trousers.
"Let's hope we are successful and that all involved will be reasonable; that is all one can ask." Mr. Bergeron smiled again and then sat back in his leather chair; the leather groaned.
Those were the last words anyone spoke for a good ten minutes.
I studied the lawyer's suit. It was well-made of a lightweight worsted. It seemed to have been tailored to fit him about twenty pounds ago. But his shirt was crisp and the cuffs bragged a set of silver cuff-links that held square-cut blue sapphires. He obviously did well.
A slight breeze lifted the light, airy curtains on one window. Street sounds floated up but this was the business district of New Orleans so there were no carefree sounds, just carriages, other street sounds, and a few voices raised in delight or displeasure. But I recognized the sound of a buggy pulling up out front and that of a horse - it's snuffling and displeasure of stopping anywhere other than the stable. A male voice ordered, "Wait for me." It was a stern voice, demanding and severe. I assume the recipient of the order nodded because soon after, the sound of voices outside the door let us know someone was about to enter. I could hear the timid clerk importuning the person but the strong voice dismissed him and the door opened.
A tall, elegantly-dressed man stood in the doorway. His clothing was dazzling. He wore what we called a "John Bull" hat; a type of shorter top hat. His suit jacket, a frock coat. was perfectly tailored for his tall and lean build. He held himself as I imagined an aristocrat at King Louis the 16th's court did. Mr. Bergeron rose out of obeisance, or so it seemed to me. There was a slight tilt of the head and shoulders toward the man.
My father stood, but not out of respect. I could tell he was angry, perhaps offended, but before he could speak, the other man did.
"So, you and your dreams have finally killed Marie and you dare to show your face in New Orleans!"
"How dare you show your face, D'Arcy! You, who wanted nothing more than to ruin her! Well, now she's dead, my love, my wife…."
My father's voice cracked with emotion and he put his hand to his mouth and turned away, walking to the window. He placed one hand on the window frame and looked down onto what must have been an alley.
"Mr. D'Arcy," Mr. Bergeron said, still slightly bowed, pleading. "I had no idea you would be here. There is no settlement in the will applying to you. You are a cousin, true, but as far as the laws of succession here in Louisiana, there are others with greater sanguinary ties such as the late Marie Marigny and Mr. Cartwright's son, Joseph Cartwright, and both Mr. and Mrs. Prejean are each her first cousins.
"Nevertheless," Mr. D'Arcy said, "I am here to see that her inheritance does not go to this…." He gestured indifferently at my father and me, "this barbare grossiers or his whelp!"
My father turned and although neither of us quite knew what D'Arcy had said, we both knew we had been insulted, if from nothing else, from the sneer on his elegant face.
"How dare you…" My father rushed toward D'Arcy and I jumped up to grab his arm, to stop him from striking D'Arcy as I was sure he would do.
"Pa, you need to think before you do something you'll regret. You don't want to be arrested here in New Orleans." My father smiled weakly and clapped a hand on my shoulder. I looked at D'Arcy who had a small smile as if he had accomplished just what he wanted, to upset my father, to knock him off-kilter.
We took out seats but D'Arcy, although offered a chair by Mr. Bergeron, declined, and moved over to the window facing the street; he was overwhelmingly pleased with himself. He pulled a silver cigarette case out of the inside pocket of his jacket, removed one, and lit it; they were obviously not the crudely rolled cigarettes that I had seen many a ranch hand make for a quick smoke. D'Arcy leaned against the wall, placed one hand in a trouser pocket and glanced sideways out the window with an air of insouciance while he smoked. He exhaled twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. He stood up straight at the same time I heard another carriage stop out front and the light voice of a woman floated up to us.
"At last," D'Arcy said mainly to himself, "they have arrived." He glanced at the clock. "Later than I—most unusual. But then, that is a woman for you."
I knew he was talking about the Prejeans. It is with them that there was an issue over the property in the will; they were contesting. Little Joe was the nearest relative to the testator other than the Prejeans and this meeting in New Orleans was to decide who was to inherit the grand house that had been owned by Antoinette D'Vaille, a widow with no children. She had moved back to her beloved France the last few years of her life and allowed her nephew and his wife, who was also a niece, to live in the house. They now claimed it. I considered that back in Nevada Territory, the Prejeans might very well be considered squatters and run off the property by my father, claiming the house for Joe. But we weren't in Nevada and we had to tread lightly.
While still on the Ponderosa, I had read the papers the lawyer sent to my father and even ridden into Silver City to send the telegram informing the lawyer, Paul Bergeron, Esq, that Mr. Ben Cartwright had received the letter informing him of Marie's inheritance and enquiring of any progeny. I followed up the telegram with a letter informing Mr. Bergeron that Marie had a son, one Joseph Francis Cartwright. Then I stopped by Hiram Wood's office, asked him to read the letter and give his opinion. Hiram was the lawyer for my father and the Ponderosa's business interests and had a small office outside Silver Hill which was becoming populated by miners hoping for a stake. His main work was to file claims and settle disputes-legally. Hiram seemed to resent having to deal with me instead of my father. After all, I was just a snot-nosed kid as far as he was concerned. The only reason I think he was as nice to me as he was, was because of his daughter, Betty Mae, like I said earlier, but unfortunately, she was bland and uninteresting—at least to me. She usually had a vacant smile and once I danced with her at a social and found that afterwards, I couldn't get away; she assumed I was her companion for the whole evening.
Hiram turned to searching his book shelves. He found a thick book for me to read. It was titled The Napoleonic Code.
"The laws in Louisiana are based on the laws in France, Adam. They're like nowhere else in this country. This book explains the laws that were enacted after the French Revolution; they're supposedly based on common sense. You and your father would do well to learn as much as you can before you get there. I wouldn't put this matter into the hands of an unknown commodity such as a Louisiana lawyer; they don't take much to outsiders."
"Thanks, Mr. Wood. I'll read the section on inheritance," I said. "And I promise I'll return the book in good condition." I knew that my father would depend on me to read the laws; he was still too despondent to concentrate on such dry writing.
"I'm sure you will, son." Hiram patted my shoulder and walked with me to the office door. "Give your father my regards. By the way, how is he?"
I stood in the open doorway. "He's doing well, thank you." Hiram smiled but continued to stand unmoving. I knew it was my turn. "And how is Betty Mae?"
"She's fine, thank you. I'll tell her you asked about her. I know, why don't you drop by for dinner tonight? Betty Mae's a pretty good cook!"
"I think it's best I keep close to home but thank you for the invitation. Besides, I have a great deal of reading to do." I held up the book for emphasis and Hiram chuckled. And with that, he let me leave.
And on the ride home I relived that afternoon as I had so many times.
Basically, after Marie died, Hoss and Little Joe were inconsolable. Joe didn't understand what had happened, only wept for his Momma as did Hoss. But Hoss knew because he had run out of the house with Hop Sing after I called for him as I kneeled by Marie's lifeless body.
I had seen dead people before at funerals and once found a partially decomposed Indian corpse on the property. But at funerals, they look different, the corpses cleaned up by the undertaker and posed as if sleeping peacefully. The Indian had been dead for at least a week and vultures and other carrion had torn limbs off his body, gorged themselves on his liver and such, while ants and other insects slowly and diligently took away minuscule pieces of flesh.
Marie was freshly dead, her skirts awry, her arms flung about and her head at an odd angle and her cheeks were flushed; she was still beautiful and looked as if she would turn her head and look at me—embarrassed that I had seen her in such a state of disarray. The white mare was trying to walk but one front lower legbone was protruding from the flesh, the end roughly broken; the animal would have to be shot. For some odd reason, my first impulse was to put the horse out of its suffering before I even bothered with Marie. After all, she was dead and the horse was limping in obvious pain, making sounds of distress.
I had seen the whole thing happen. I was outside replacing the porch boards. My father wanted it done immediately. "Someone might be hurt," he had told me as he left the house, buckling on his holster. "Your mother complained about it just yesterday when she caught her heel. So, I want you to measure, cut and replace them and when Hoss comes home from school, have him muck out the stalls and milk the cows. And have him put the old sawdust in the wheelbarrow and dump it instead of just leaving it in a pile in the barn. As for you, I want you to replace all the boards on the porch, not just a few, understand?"
"But, Pa, only two boards sre split. Why do I have to replace them all?"
He sighed and looked at me. "Why do you argue with everything I say lately. If two boards split, the others will probably do so soon; they were already here when we bought the place and been here years before that. Old Mister Flannery, according to Tom Edwards, used whatever scraps of pine he could get-or steal from the other homesteaders. So, don't argue and replace them all as I said. I'm trying to bring this place up now that we have the money to do so. Besides, we need more room. There may be more Cartwrights soon." And my father smiled.
I was disgusted and disappointed. I was deep into French history mainly so I could dispute what Marie said about France and its royalty. Apparently, many good citizens of New Orleans, including Marie, claimed to be related to the aristocrats who escaped the tyranny of the French Revolution. I was sure she was lying and couldn't understand why she would. My father loved her and both he and Hop Sing treated her like a queen. What did it matter who her relatives were?
Hoss was almost finished with his chores and was in the house, more than likely hanging around the kitchen, waiting for Hop Sing to use him to taste the various dishes. And as long as his hands were clean, Hoss would be sticking it in the cookie jar as no matter how many he ate, they never spoiled his prodigious appetite. I knew I'd have to remind Hoss to empty the wheelbarrow as Pa had said.
I was measuring boards carefully and then double-checking before I cut them. If the board was slightly longer, far better than shorter; I would use the planer to make the boards even. It was my quirk; everything had to be to exact specifications for I wouldn't accept less from myself. So, I was engrossed with the porch boards when Marie came racing into the front yard. I stood up when I heard the hooves and then watched as Marie came into view around the corner of the barn but she was looking back over her shoulder while viciously kicking the mare. The mare, following Marie's urging, collided with the wheelbarrow full of the soiled sawdust that Hoss had left in front of the barn. The animal went over the wheelbarrow, attempted to jump over the obstacle but failed, landing heavily on its buckled front legs.
Marie's eyes went wide and she tumbled head-first over the horse's lowered neck, her body sounding hollow as it smacked the ground. Her left foot was still in the stirrup of the sidesaddle, causing her to be twisted as the white mare struggled to rise from its knees, it's hindquarters still partially over the wheelbarrow. Marie never made a sound but I can close my eyes and still see her face; she was so surprised by it all.
I froze for a split second and then saw a man ride up around the barn, having followed Marie. He stopped his horse, pulling hard on the reins, causing the horse to turn its head and lift its front hooves off the ground to relieve the pressure on its mouth. The rider was the tall blond man. His face revealed his horror as he looked at Marie and her broken body. And then he looked right at me. Our eyes locked for a split second. Then he turned his horse and rode away.
The man who entered Mr. Bergeron's office with his wife on his arm was the same man. Our eyes locked again and he blanched. I couldn't breathe. And then he looked away.
