Thank you, wonderful people, for the reviews. I enjoyed each and every one. M-rating for this chapter. Nothing actually happens in it – two guys sit in a bar and talk – but the content is definitely M. Hope you enjoy.

They had come to him glittering with beauty —

Taṇhā, Arati, and Rāga —

But the Teacher swept them away right there

As the wind, a fallen cotton tuft.

At the depot, he learned that the next train wouldn't leave the station for another day, and Thad, now faced with the need to take a hotel room for the night, was once more given the chance to roll his eyes about the infrequent and unreliable railway service in Charleston. This was a different part of town from the highly desirable, tree-edged neighborhoods along Rutledge Avenue, where the Rhett Butlers lived, and not an area where one wanted to spend too much time alone without cover. He walked up Market Street with purposeful strides and without asking for directions, somewhat atypical for a visitor who had supposedly only spent a few days in town, and never without supervision. He did not once turn his head to the side, but his entire body retained an awareness of his surroundings that never lapsed for an instant. He had grown up in streets like these.

His face was unusually pensive, and there was an ache in his chest he was too hurt to identify, or even acknowledge. His dark hair had curled into thick ringlets in the clamminess of the December evening. There were still a few hours of daylight left, but most of the storeowners and customers had already turned in for the night. Left on the streets remained those without home or purpose, or those with very specific purposes indeed, and their hard, appraising eyes ran quickly over his frame as he passed. His body felt them.

Bill the Pickpocket assessed the likelihood that the stranger kept his purse in an accessible place, and whether to call his companion Bart to stage one of their "emergencies" that involved one person breaking down in front of the target, and the other quietly emptying his pockets from behind. Sarah Gillis, the baker's widow, caressed him with an appreciative gaze, even stopping surreptitiously to stare after him. Ken, who dealt in Opium and other cordials, wondered if the visitor might be interested in any of his line of products. And Crazy Lil, who was rumored to have escaped Roper's Insane Asylum during the 1886 earthquake, called out prayerful incantations as he walked by.

Thad turned into the Golden Ale saloon, situated right on the edge of the seedier neighborhoods, just before the city emptied itself irrevocably into the ghettos. Numerous vagrants populated the area – old men with paper-thin skin, children with bloated bellies and famished eyes. Thad tossed coins at them, and watched them scamper, the stronger ruthlessly pushing aside the weak.

The barkeeper recognized him, although he clearly couldn't remember his name. He hadn't come here often.

"Scotch with ice", Thad said, not in the mood for anything complicated. The man nodded, pouring his drink with slow, inefficient gestures. Thad ran the tip of his index finger over the smooth surface in front of him, and then glanced around the room. The counter-top needed cleaning badly, as evidenced by the track his finger had left behind, and there were dirty glasses left on tables where the customers had long gone. Garbage sat unswept under several chairs, and the unwashed windows acted as an eerie prism for the low afternoon light.

Others were more on their game. Thad had barely touched the Scotch to his lips before a handsome young woman slid into the bar stool next to him, looking at him with obvious invitation in her eyes.

"You seem new here," she said flirtatiously. "Do you need company?"

Thad shook his head. "No, thank you." It was just firm enough, and friendly enough, that she took both the hint, and no offense.

"Too bad. Maybe another time," she winked, and slid off the chair. The night was still young, and she was not here to waste her time on those who didn't appreciate her efforts.

The sandy-haired man in the chair next to him, who Thad had heretofore ignored, turned his head. He was unusually well dressed for this neighborhood, with a slim, patrician countenance and soft, hazel eyes. "You must pardon Jasmine. It's not every day that such an …attractive man walks through the door of this particular establishment." His cultured voice briefly lingered on the adjective, and his gaze quickly swept over Thad appraisingly, before fixing once more on his glass.

Thad laughed in spite of himself. He was used to handling those propositions, as well. "Thanks, but no thanks to that offer, too."

"Pity," the other man murmured.

Thad drank from his glass, and set it down again. There was a spark of curiosity in his face. "That was daring of you, asking me so blatantly. Most of your kind are a bit more ...shall I say....subtle about it. How did you know I wouldn't slug you for your presumption?"

The other man raised his head. "Not only your kind learns how to sum up people quickly."

"My kind?"

"Street kids," the man smiled, amiably. "It's in your eyes, for all you wear shirts of French linen and a vest and trousers that cost more than the average man's yearly wages around these parts. You never lose the look."

Thad did not dispute him. "And what about me did you sum up, that you felt safe to ask?"

"Men who prefer girls don't tend to turn away Jasmine," the other man offered gently. "She's the prettiest whore in the neighborhood, and has her choice of clients. But you did turn her away, and you were ….kind. You're also quite … pretty, in the way some of my sort are. So I figured it was a fair risk."

"Thad Watling", Thad said, offering his hand.

"Frank Huger." The other man took it, and shook it firmly, and impersonally.

"A big name," Thad said, softly.

"Some feel that way, including most of those who bear it," said the other man, with a depreciating laugh.

"It makes me wonder how you'd know anything at all about … street kids, or why you'd have to seek your pleasures in places like these, amongst strangers."

"I am ….shall we say ….not all that much admired in polite society around these parts."

Thad laughed. "That makes two of us."

"Yes," Mr. Huger nodded. "I believe I have….heard of you. Even we outcasts are not entirely cut off from the information network of the city. I've heard of the honorable Mr. Charles Butler, who fathered a son with a poor white girl – who later ran a fairly well-known bordello in Atlanta. The indomitable Belle Watling. You do not look much like her, except perhaps that your skin is fairer than your sire's."

"Why do you stay here, if they do not appreciate you?"

"I don't", the other man said. "I only come to stare at the wrought-iron gates of my past, before moving on to Atlanta or New York, where I am amongst more open-minded people. "

"Then we are even more alike than I thought."

"And you …what do you do here, Thad Watling? One hears you have done well for yourself out West."

The sardonic eyebrows of the Butlers rose in self-deprecation. "If you figure it out, let me know."

"A girl, perhaps? That is why most men do foolish things", Mr. Huger offered, amiably. "A beautiful girl."

Thad smiled, wryly. "True enough. I don't claim to be an exception."

"Who is she?" There was genuine, friendly interest in the hazel eyes.

Thad hesitated, and then shrugged. "My cousin. Rose Butler."

Mr. Huger whistled. "You don't aim too high, do you?"

"I was ... a fool."

Mr. Huger laughed. "We are all fools, about someone, at some point. At least, we should be, if we want to lay any claim to having lived life to its fullest."

There was a brief, wistful look in Thad's eye, immediately replaced by determination. "For just a moment, I thought …but unfortunately, in the end, her sense of self-worth outweighed the brief feeling of affection she may have had for me. And the odd thing is ….I have no belief in the system I failed at. This city is dying beneath us as we speak. It has no pulse …..no economic growth, no new blood. The big names - like yours, are the same ones that were prominent in the antebellum city. They still feel like... aristocrats, not businessmen. They have no demonstrable business ethics. The Chamber of Commerce is a Gentlemen's Drinking Club. The so-called chairmen hold long luncheons, where they consume wine and liquors, and when they return, they barely work for an hour before they go home again. Look around you ….it's barely six o'clock, and most of the stores have already shut down for the night. The city will never get anywhere with an attitude like this."

"There are the phosphate mines."

"The only major industry, and it is excruciatingly vulnerable to the weather, what with the mines, and equipment, being situated so close to the water. Charleston already suffered one major hurricane -and an earthquake- just in the last decade. One more determined storm will finish off the phosphate mines, and they'll be left with nothing. Don't count on rice or cotton prices ever making a recovery, because they won't. Not with the cheap imports coming in from South East Asia."

"Hard words," said Mr. Huger. "Is it better elsewhere?"

"It's much easier to do business in Atlanta, or Augusta or Charlotte, I've found," said Thad, shrugging his shoulders. "And I'm sure other people are finding the same thing. This place …..it lives in the past, with its balls and its hallowed St. Cecilia Society. And what's worse, it feels no incentive to change. Even its harbor is losing volume with each passing year., and the Norther Textile industry is moving towards the railways to move their wares. Charleston will turn into a quaint, historical town by the wayside. A tourist attraction for the nostalgic, but little more than that. I doubt it will recover before the turn of the next century, if then."

"It has a renowned theatre, and silks from China, and artists to paint family portraits of the upper classes. To them, that is enough. And you yourself have been making quite a splash in Charleston society, my sources tell me. Your uncle, it is said, donated quite a large sum to the Jennings in return for their patronage."

Thad stiffened briefly, and then smirked. "Did he? I should have known. For what it's worth, it was done without my knowledge or consent."

"And Texas? How is business there? You're in ranching?"

Thad nodded. "In a way. I do own a ranch in Texas- which I keep profitable- but my money comes from investments. At this point, my assets are sufficiently diversified that I'm no longer vulnerable to short-term market fluctuations."

Mr. Huger nodded. "But you did not grow up in Texas."

"No. I grew up in New Orleans."

"I can hear it in your voice, just a trace – although you speak Charlestonian like a Native. Were your street kid days spent in New Orleans?"

"I wasn't really a street kid", Thad said, wondering at himself. He was not in the habit of sharing such intimate details of his life with a stranger - or indeed, anyone. "Or rather, I was a street kid with money. My uncle provided generously for me, financially. I didn't see too much of him, though, or of my mother. With regards to human companionship - for all intents and purposes, I was on my own."

"That is hard."

Thad shrugged. "I didn't think so at the time. Looking back, it must have been. I was vulnerable, and, in the beginning, somewhat naïve." He looked at the other man. "I even had a questionable friendship with one of your sort for a while."

Mr. Huger winced. "Is this where I will hear the story of child predation that we're supposedly famous for?"

"Oh, no," Thad said, with his dark laugh. "If anything, I was the predator. He wasn't much older than me. A boy from my school. I used him for his friendship and devotion, without ever giving him what he wanted, because my tastes truly didn't run in that direction. But it felt good to be admired, loved even. I didn't much care who got hurt in the process. A boy cut loose in the world can be ….dangerous driftwood." He shrugged. "Eventually, I was old enough to attract the attention of the local mulatto girls, and found support there while I was working in saloons." He drank another sip from his glass. "As for the real predators, they come in all flavors and preferences, and target both genders indiscriminately. My guardian's money shielded me from the worst of them, and for that I will always be grateful. I saw too many of my friends, both boys and girls, have to go that route just to eat."

"It's a hard world," his companion agreed.

"Yes. It is. Even at my worst, I had a roof over my head, a good education, and my music. I ran the streets with the others, but with a full belly on most days. And even those who had to sell themselves into prostitution were in some ways better off than the children who died in droves from malaria and yellow fever. Or diarrhea and malnutrition."

"Indeed." The other man also drank from his glass. "But tell me something, Thad Watling, - with a background like yours, what would you have done, had the lovely Rose Butler heeded you? What would you have done with a woman raised far and above the dark things in life, and that you will never be able to share?"

"Don't think I haven't asked myself that," Thad murmured softly. "Whether I want her because she's a symbol of the life I should have had, the name I was denied. In many ways, it would be easier, were it so. I could simply acknowledge it to myself, and move on. But there's much more to Rose than just another spoiled débutante."

"We all think that," Mr. Huger laughed, "about the person we fall in love with. That they are somehow, intrinsically, different."

Thad twisted the corner of his mouth. "Rose is different. At least for me. I've known she was the one since she was about ten or eleven. She seemed like the other half of myself. I could talk to her about anything, and she would understand. Not having a taste for children either, I was quite content to wait for her to grow up. I had it all planned out, how I would propose when she turned sixteen, and marry her a year later. In Texas, it was much easier to overlook the class difference between us. Then her mother moved her to Charleston, into the antiquated family hierarchies that was bound to remind her she was a Butler and a Robilliard, and I was ….nothing. And she wrote me letters, full of parties and families with last names like yours …augmented by her mother, who wrote to mine in detail about every compliment and proposal Rose had received that week. It nearly drove me insane. "

"I can see how it would have." Mr. Huger said, with some sympathy. "And what will you do now?"

"Go home ….regroup. There's not much I can do. She's made her choice."

"Did you give her one?" the other man asked, with his gentle smile. "Did you ….talk to her? I've found it helps."

Thad threw him a look. Mr. Huger laughed. "You don't think I know what I am talking about, do you. But I do. I've been in my current relationship for over a decade. Quite happily, if I say so myself."

Thad conceded the point, but only to a degree. "You are not wrong. But it is somewhat more difficult to ...talk to someone of the opposite gender- who, as you quite correctly point out, was not raised like me."

"So you say." Mr. Huger smiled, and finished his drink. "I enjoyed our meeting, and even more, perhaps, listening to your voice. Dark like rich chocolate. Very unusual, and …. quite ...sensual."

For the first time since the beginning of their conversation, Thad showed annoyance. "That was ...unnecessary."

Mr. Huger laughed. "Now you see how women must feel. Perhaps all those men paying compliments to your Rose irritate her as well, much more than they please her. In any case, you won't know unless you ask." He offered his hand. Thad took it.

~~oo~~

The afternoon had given way to twilight as he stepped out of the saloon. For a brief moment, the dreary city faded away before his eyes, and he was in New Orleans again in the springtime, inhaling the intoxicating scents of the flower markets, his eyes burning with the sting of the wood fires. His straining ears heard the omnipresent sounds of gay music from the street corners, and the rich, warm voices beckoning to him, guiding him home.

And then he blinked, and when he opened his eyes he saw nothing but the haggard, dark face of the Opium dealer, drawing closer circles, attracted by desperation as hounds to blood.

Māra the Tempter, he thought, wryly. And as he shook his head one last time in negation, he wished, unlike the Buddha, that one of the temptations that that old fiend had bellowed up had been enticing to him – or, put more concretely, that his mind could be permitted to lose itself in warm flesh or cold poison. With the fading of his vision, all that remained behind was Rose's face, as it had looked at the dance, and later the hallway – pale, luminous, shaken to the core.

As he turned into the familiar archway of the crumbling hotel, he knew he would carry it up with him into the monk-like austerity of the small, white room, and that he would get no rest tonight.

Once in possession of a key, he walked through the breakfast nook to the stair in the back, which would take him up to the guest rooms. He noticed a run-down parlor piano, and briefly lowered his right hand to the keys, picking out an old, French tune.

Au clair de la lune

Mon ami Pierrot

Prête-moi ta plume

Pour écrire un mot.

Ma chandelle est morte

Je n'ai plus de feu

Ouvre-moi ta porte

Pour l'amour de Dieu.

Lifting his hand again, and ascending the stairs, he thought that Māra had been, in the end, an awkward and inefficient tempter. It wasn't lust, or even somnolence, that men really craved. How much more enticing was the offer Mephisto had made in Goethe's Faust. That craftier devil had bartered nothing more than one moment of perfect happiness in return for Faust's soul.

Had he, like Faust, found a black poodle waiting for him in the small room, he might have been tempted to seal the bargain.

There. I was itching to write about the downside of all that opulence, and about slightly more diverse characters. The Hugers were real, unlike all the other "fine family names" in previous chapters that I'd made up. However, if they had a sprig named Frank, it is entirely coincidental, because that character is made up as well. Thad's wise words about the business practices of Charleston, as well as the historical snippets, were written based on information in the book "Charleston! Charleston! The History of a Southern City" by Walter Fraser.