Rhett groaned and went over to the window, looking down on the street below.

The scene was anything but peaceful. At this time of the day, when the sun began its slow descent into the flat, gray waters of the Mississippi, Bourbon street, placid and peaceful in the hot hours of the day, came alive as townsfolk and tourists ventured out to taste the nightlife. Men, black and white, wandered in and out of saloons and called to one another. There was the tinkling music of an organ grinder rising up from the corner of Canal, and a line of patrons waiting patiently outside of Antoine's, hoping to be let in for supper.

The sun slipped further down the sky, and a Negro boy came along to light the gas street-lamps, singing to himself. The song rose up and was enveloped in the general liveliness of the scene. Rhett watched for a moment longer, groaned again, and collapsed on the big white bed. As a small boy he would have been whipped for lying in bed with his boots on but Rhett did not care that he was ruining the linens with mud and straw. He ground his heels into the blanket with a furious pleasure and cursed the Hotel Bourbon and its staff. Damn them, damn New Orleans, damn them all!

He had been in New Orleans for two days now, hunting for Ella. Shortly after his arrival he had contacted one of his old associates, a large mulatto man who knew all the comings and goings of the town. He paid the man a large amount of money and told him to find the girl. But it had been two days, and for the first time in their business relationship, DuPre had come to Rhett empty-handed.

"Don't anybody know a thing about your girl," he said, shrugging his massive shoulders. "I asked around in all the ho-tels—discreet-like, just how you told me. But thorough—yes, sir, real thorough. Ain't nobody seen no girl nor heard of her. And no woman, like you said, neither."

He returned the small miniature of Scarlett that Rhett had given DuPre to use to make his inquiries.

"Shore is pretty, though, Mist' Butler. Pretty enough that I expect folks would remember a face like that. But no one does—or if they do, they ain't sayin'."

"Thank you, DuPre," Rhett growled, in the same voice in which he would have damned the man to hell for all eternity. He dismissed the Negro and pocketed the miniature, but not before looking at it for a long moment.

Scarlett! Scarlett O'Hara! Rhett had made his own inquiries after Ella, and still more discreetly, had inquired about Scarlett. But no one knew her or of her. It wasn't possible for a woman to disappear into thin air! She had to be here—hadn't she?

He had not realized how much he had wanted to see her—or if not see her, hear of her. Life had been flat and boring with Scarlett gone out of it. Maybe that accounted for the distinct lack of flavor in it these days. No one could stir a pot like Scarlett O'Hara. Rhett looked down at the miniature again.

It had been painted while she was carrying Bonnie. The face was placid and serene and the eyes large, but even the painter had not been able to suppress the glow in them, or the taste of sharp words on her pretty lips. Her upper lip was faintly curled, and she seemed to be laughing scornfully. Fiddle-dee-dee, Rhett Butler! I guess you haven't forgotten about me. I guess you haven't beat me, after all!

"Scarlett," he said, heavily, to her painted face, "I always knew you would win in the end."

With no outward show of emotion, Rhett placed the miniature on the floor and brought his heel upon it, hard. How good it was to feel the horrid thing smash under his foot! If only he could obliterate Scarlett from his life in the same way!

But he could not excise her—he had tried for ten years. Oh, he wouldn't lie—sometimes days or even weeks would go by without the slightest thought of her. That was worse, somehow, for when she came back he was reminded all over again that he was not able to shake her—would never be able to completely forget her. And Scarlett always came back to him.

Wasn't it natural that he should think of her? He had loved her. They had been married for nearly six years, had shared a bed, and borne a child, the prettiest, most spirited little child that the world had ever seen.

Rhett reached into his pocket now and brought out another miniature, of a little girl with black hair and blue ribbons in that black, black hair. Other than that black hair he might have had no part in making her—for other than that, she was completely Scarlett. Bonnie had had the square face that Scarlett shared with her Irish father, and his blue eyes.

He knew every feature of that face and had translated them into adulthood, but still he ran his eyes over the picture hungrily. The portraitist had captured the little girl in a rare moment of peace; she was looking down, her blue eyes hidden. Rhett considered his options. He could smash this miniature under his heel, too, but it would no more remove Bonnie from his mind than it would Scarlett. And there was a difference. Rhett wanted to forget Scarlett. He did not want to forget Bonnie. But in remembering Bonnie, he could never forget Scarlett, and if he could not forget Scarlett, he would never have any peace.

He remembered another visit to New Orleans, with Bonnie, in those terrible dark days after Ashley Wilkes's party—a visit that preceded those terrible dark days when Scarlett had fallen and lost their baby. Oh, if only he could find some place that would not remind him of her! Rhett remembered how the child had lisped, over and over again, "Where is mama? Daddy, where is she?"

Where was she, indeed? And where, for that matter, was Ella, who had come to find her?

Rhett suddenly rose, and reached for his coat. He needed a drink very badly—so badly that his hands shook. And for once, he did not feel like drinking alone.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Tujague's had not changed in all the years since Rhett had seen it last. The same red and white awning covered the same fly-specked window, and the same fleur de lis on the same sign above the door. And, walking in, the same bell gave its merry tinkle—and the same buxom, red-faced, be-turbaned woman was wiping the same glasses behind the old, familiar bar.

It was not fashionable enough to be a popular place, though it looked prosperous enough, and Rhett was glad to see that the room was deserted except for the red woman, and the young boy serving drinks. He grinned, a flash of his old roguishness coming back. She certainly wouldn't be expecting him! He'd lay a wager on it.

"Hello, Vivy."

She nearly dropped the glass she was holding, at the sound of his voice.

"Saints alive!" she cried, upon seeing him. "Has somebody deceased?"

"No—it's not that, Viv. Nothing like that."

"Lord be praised! Her eyes narrowed. "Well, you might have said so when you came in, instead of scaring me half to death."

Rhett sat and accepted a glass of bourbon from the bar-boy, who slid the glass to him down the long polished bar. He caught it neatly, lifted it to his lips, and drank. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Mama Tujague regained her old composure, and began to wipe her glass again, slowly and deliberately this time, avoiding his glance.

She was a stubborn woman, and her stubbornness only seemed to have grown in the years since he'd last seen her, along with her girth. She was determined not to speak first, and Rhett would be damned if he would, even though it was he who had come to get news from her. Still, he waited, a cat's smile on his lips, knowing that, after all, she was a woman, and not impervious to a woman's curiosity.

Finally, she said,

"You might as well tell me why you come here. If nobody's 'ceased, what is it?"

"I was looking for someone."

"The boy?"

No—Rhett had not been looking for him, had not intended to seek him out, but he knew that the one reason his feet had carried him here to this old familiar place was to find out news of him. Rhett was an old man—fifty-five. What had he done with his life besides earn a lot of money and then waste it? Well, he had had two children. One was dead. The other—he hadn't had any news of the other in many years. The last time he had been in town was with Bonnie, and he had not wanted to seek out the boy with Bonnie in tow. Perhaps he should have. Perhaps he should have introduced them, the sister and brother. They would never meet, now, and Rhett's heart constricted to think of all of the missed chances, opportunities. All of the things Bonnie would never have the chance to do.

Mama Tujague narrowed her eyes again and Rhett knew that she had discerned his thoughts. She studiously wiped her glass, but could not keep a small, smug smile from showing on her face.

"No, I haven't come looking for him. Perhaps I should have come before. But look here, Vivy, seeing as I am here, you might as well tell me about him."

At least, this way, he could return to Belle and tell her that the boy was well, and doing fine for himself. Perhaps that would take away a little of her wistfulness. And—and, though he hated to admit it to himself, he was curious. How far could a boy rise in the world with no family, no money, no connections? But then, the boy was his son, so he must have found a way around it somehow. It took much to keep a Butler man down in the dust.

Her eyes softened.

"Well, he's a good boy," she said slowly. "He was in here not last week, before starting up the trail. We had a party for him."

"Up the trail? Is he a cowboy?"

"Oui, m'sieur—and a might' good one at that."

Rhett turned the corner of his mouth up in a wry smile. What a dashing figure he must be, sitting atop his saddle, browned by the wind and sun. He had always been a handsome child, and there was no reason to think he'd not be a handsome man. Rhett was reminded of his own wayward youth, the time spent in the California gold fields. Perhaps he had been wrong to write the boy off so completely. He sipped his bourbon, and felt something within him unlock and give way. He wanted to know more, and as long as he was here, he might as well ask.

"Well, what else, Vivy? There is something else, because you look like a cat that swallowed a chicken. Tell me. What else about the boy?"

"Married," she said proudly. "He's married. A real cute little thing, is 'Zavy's wife. Sorter shy and quiet but a lady, through and through. 'Zavy's crazy about her. Of course, he acted real cool but you could see it. They sot off together. Why, I suppose you'll be a granddaddy real soon."

Rhett pushed his glass away in disgust. He suddenly felt very old, at hearing this news. He had lived the lives of a dozen men, but he still felt as though his own real life had not begun. He couldn't be a grandfather, not when his old life had not yet begun. And, he supposed, he would never see these grandchildren, even when and if they were born. What was the point? What was the point of getting worked up over things that would have no bearing on his life? A grandchild—perhaps a pretty little girl, a girl like Bonnie had been. With Butler blood in her. Another Bonnie. He felt old and weary and very, very tired.

"That's good," he said, his eagerness evaporated, his old remote ways coming back. "That's real good, Vivy. Can I give you some money to give to him when he's next here?"

"No m'sieur! You know as well as I that 'Zavy won't take money from a stranger. He don't like charity."

"It's not money from a stranger. It's money from me."

"Like I said, he don't want money from no stranger."

"Just give it to him. He'd never have to know where it came from."

Her eyes were doubtful, she pulled her mouth up and pursed it.

"Well, I reckon I'd know," she said. "And I ain't goin' to pass off no guilt money to him. 'Sides, I got a thriving business. I can support my own."

What she did not say hung in the air between them: I can support my own, and he is mine. He is not yours. He is no part of your life. You did not want him and now you cannot have him. Rhett drained his glass and balled his hands into fists.

"I left it too long," he said, with a burst of uncharacteristic passion. "I left it too long—God damn it. There's no going back at this late date. I left it too long."

"Yes, you did," she said, but there was no chafe of blame or anger in her voice. "But mean you can't start trying."

"Umquam porro, Vivy! There's a motto for you. Ever forward—no looking back."

"Qui cherche trouve," she said bitingly. "'He who seeks, finds.' I know a heap of mottoes, too."

He smiled, despite himself. "I know you do."

She smiled, grudgingly, in the face of his good humor, and ventured a question.

"How's Belle?" she wanted to know. "Still liking Atlanta?"

"Liking it well enough. As well as anyone can."

"Old Belle's a Louisianan. I 'spect she misses home." Her face softened. "You tell her Vivy Tujague wants to be remembered to her. Belle's a good girl. Every now and then we still get some old pardner askin' bout her. Yes, we still miss her round these parts."

"I'll let her know. Goodbye, Vivy."

"So long, m'sieur. And Rhett?"

"Yes?"

"He's a real nice boy. Good-looking. Hot-tempered. Gambles clean and quick, with a cool head. Don't cry none over spilt milk. He makes the best he can. You'd like him."

Rhett pulled his lip down and balled his fists in his pockets.

"Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, you're right. I probably would."

He turned and went out, the bell on the door tinkling merrily as it closed behind him.