Chapter

The Prince in the Attic

This is a story of most extraordinaire. If you are from New Orleans perhaps you have heard. The story of the week. Read from clippings in the latest articles and passed along the streets like the chirpings of chinchillas; the story of The Prince whom was kept in an attic. The story of a babe kept from daylight. The heir to a fortune. The pitiful creature, whose life unknown to the world, to emerge like a moth from a cocoon, only to be scorched by hells fire. Whose story falls off the tongues of shopkeepers and socialites, Negroes and commoners; like a limerick to be told one minute and forgotten the next. Words lost just as quickly in the growing sea of disparity. Where right and wrong, rich and poor, dance in deadly entanglement. One to grow stronger and victorious while the other falls away.

Much are the stories of this cruel world. In the bright city of New Orleans happiness and vitality thrive, among them the sad and despairing lives intertwine. The city of cultural diversity. The Indigenous tribes of this land mixed with French and European settlers. The Negroes free and enslaved arriving and leaving in great masses in the cargo holds of ships. The Cuban and Mexican exiles who found their home in the open arms of the Creole nation. Each of these cultures carries a story and multifariously so too does each person within carry their own story and in one bundle brought together to create what we know of New Orleans.

I have been in the company of some great men. Among the best is a man whom New Orleans had just been crudely introduced. It serves a great honor for me to tell his story.

~.~ . ~.~

Born on the other side of the bayou, the babe, just hours old, new to the world and so entrusting, like all babes, dependent upon the welfare of others for his survival, cradled in the arms of the woman he would come to know as grandmother. It was a damp night. Rains soft but intrusive. One of those nights, not too cold but the air was thick and heavy with moisture.

The street lamps would have illuminated the way. I imagine few men would have found the inkling to roam on a night like this and even fewer women. For whom was out there must have been nuzzled into their coats.

But for one meddling lady whom scurried through the streets in nothing but a black mourning dress and shawl which draped from her head and over the small bundle she held in her arms, shielding him from the rain and likewise from the invading eyes of passerby's.

~.~

Inside the mansion located in the Garden District which overlooks the most southern end of the grand Mississippi River the occupants awaited for word. The woman had left that morning upon announcement of the babe's arrival. Her husband and family friend waiting like expectant fathers in the great room of the mansion. The two Negro servants doing their best to keep the stay of the two gentlemen in the best conditions. There was an unspoken agitated energy that filled the floor of the house and took up space in their breasts'. No word had come from the madam since that morning. It was thereabouts 10 in the evening when a bustling at the door drew their attention. Though Monsieur DeMarigny hopped up, Charles, the male servant was quick to answer.

The old woman brushed past him swaddling the infant in her arms. She passed him straight off to the servant girl whom had stepped off the stairs to take a look.

"Take this." She commanded. "I'm exhausted." The servant girl didn't know what to do with the babe. The old lady, annoyed at the ignorance of the young girl commanded, "Take the baby upstairs and out of my sight."

The family friend whom was there was astounded at the grandmother's callousness and pleaded on behalf of the babe.

"He is but a child." Her cold heart was unmoved. She went off to her own chambers and collapsed down onto her comforters and slept.

~.~

Delphe (that was the name of the servant girl) had only been employed with the DeMarigny's for a few weeks now. Her name was Delphine but everybody she knew called her Delphe. She rocked the baby and as she gleamed down upon his cherub face thought to herself, what a prince to be an heir to a fortune such as this. It didn't take long for the baby to stir and fuss hungry for milk. Delphe could provide this having recently lost a child of her own.

"Hush little Prince." She cooed. "You'll be well cared for."

Delphe was born in the Faubourg district of New Orleans. The same district that Bernard Marigny had sanctioned years ago. (Bernard being the babes great Uncle, whom he would never have the fortune of meeting.)

Most of the people of New Orleans know the story and need not be told but for the readers outside this great city I will say it here. There was a French born citizen who found his way to New Orleans where he owned a great expanse of land, earning moderate fortune by using this land as a plantation. Looking around at the fastly growing city and giving in to the need for housing he cut his land into parcels and thus the Faubourg District was born. It is also important to mention, though a poorly kept secret in which the socialites do not like to get out, is that the main occupants of this section were creole people of color. French and European creole would hide their Negro mistresses and their progenies of shame within this neighborhood.

This was where Delphe had grown up until the day that she was hired to work for the DeMarigny's. She was fifteen and having not much interaction with the socialites as she lived an isolated life not seeing much outside of her small community, she was naive to their ways. From what she would come to learn is, the richer you are, the less you cared for your scions. The DeMarigny's were insanely rich.

She hadn't known then, why she had been brought on to work for the DeMarigny's. She would come to understand in time that her entire purpose was to care for the little one. DeMarigny sought her out. They needed someone with mother's milk but no baby of her own to feed. She, having recently lost her child, was the perfect candidate for the job. Delphe even with as young as she was, naturally moved into the roll.

Days went by and the grandmother refused to even lay eyes on her prized possession. From the time of his birth he was an abomination, a sham. Oh of course it wasn't the babes fault who he was, who his mother was, who his father was. The boy had lived a complicated life and he was only days old.

~.~

They had the baby for about 3 weeks when a woman came to the house. It were Charles the old man servant who answered the door.

"I have come for my son. I have come to take him home." The young woman exclaimed.

"Wait here." Charles came from the entryway and into Madam DeMarigny's room. Delphe could hear the agitated whispers. DeMarigny went in to the woman. Normally guest would be admitted into the great room. This woman however was kept in the receiving room. Delphe crept down to get a better look.

"Marie, my child. Please sit." She quells. "I've got some unfortunate news. You're son came down with the fever."

"Is he well?" Delphe heard the woman ask. "I must see him."

"My dear." Madame insisted. "We hadn't wanted to upset you as you have been quite ill yourself. He's been dead for a week." Delphe was shocked the old madam would say this. The woman was so distraught it moved Delphe in a way only a woman who has lost a child could understand. The new servant wanted to go down right then and tell the woman it wasn't true. For she was sure it was the sleeping baby upstairs that was being spoken of. But she stayed herself. It was not her place. She must be missing some important detail, she reasoned.

"I'm sorry. We did everything we could for him." She was overwrought with the way the old lady put her hand over the grieving mother. After several moments of crying her grief into the old woman's bosom, the grieving mother departed.

Delphe asked when the grandmother came back in. "Why did you tell her that? The baby is upstairs right now sleeping."

Delphe knew better than to question the grandmother like that, but she couldn't help herself. She expected the old lady to respond in anger. Instead she asked.

"Didn't you see?" See what? What was she supposed to see? "The mother is sick." The grandmother said. "She has the fever. If I were to give her the child now she could end up killing him. She is not in her right mind. She does not know what she wants. She does not know that she could kill him. Do not fret child. When she is well again, she shall have him." Delphe accepted this. "Shouldn't you be up there with the boy?" She nodded obediently and left the room.

Delphe went into the boy's room and loomed over him, watching as he slept. The babe, who had been sleeping soundly to this point at once began to stir and fuss, as if knowing somewhere deep in his soul what he was forever losing.

"Shhh. My child. My Little Prince." She went right to him and rocked the cradle. A tear rolled down her own cheek. Sorrowful for his loss.

When his mother left the house that day, she had never returned. Delphe couldn't help but ask after her. She would eventually be told that the mother had died. The fever had taken her.

~.~

Prince lived a life of solitude. From the moment when he was taken up those stairs that was where he was to remain. All of his days were spent on that second floor. He slept there, he played there, learned there, ate and bathed there. The lower floor was off limits to him and of course he was absolutely forbidden to step outside. Play in the sun like normal children.

His interaction with others was kept to just a handful of people who knew of his existence and most of them couldn't give him the time of day. Mainly Madame DeMarigny herself, and the older man servant named Charles.

Charlie tended to everything downstairs including all of the meal preparations for the entire house. Every meal was brought to him through a back staircase. When he would finish his meal, the empty dishes would be taken away again just as stealthily.

The family friend who was there on the night that the baby had come was told (as the mother had been told) that the baby had died. We believe there may have been one other family friend who might have known the truth but cannot confirm this.

DeMarigny provided for the baby. Ensured that all his substantial needs were met. She assured that he had proper clothes. A cradle. A bed, when he was old enough. He was given toys to play with and books to read. A soft bed with a fluffy white comforter.

It was Delphine who took care of all his personal needs. She fed him and burped him. Changed him and bathed him. Washed out his diapers and hung them to dry. She rocked him and sang to him and laid him to sleep. She played with him and helped him in every developmental stage along the way. She helped him to crawl, to walk and talk. She was in charge of his education. A woman of very little education herself, she did the best she could for him. He was taught the bible and what little Delphe knew of the world she would pass on to him.

She was his only real tie to the outside world. His only real friend and she was a good one at that. Everything he knew of the world he learned through her. Through the stories she would tell. That is if you don't count what he could make out from his bedroom window which was only ever opened to him at night. You see Charles (the man servant) was responsible for the key. He held it during the day and at night when he would go up to receive the evening's dishes, he would bring it up with him and hand over responsibility to Delphe. He would not retrieve the dishes until the madam had approved which was only after dark. He would bring up the breakfast dishes the next morning and collect the key then. It was his job to check the shutters to ensure they were secure and in good working order.

~.~

Prince was a good kid, for the most part, but he would get restless as boys do. At times he would challenge Delphine. Fight to take baths. Make messes with his food. Argue with her. Shout out. "I can do what I want!"

"I think it was bad on my part to nickname you 'Prince' boy." She'd say back. "I think you might be getting too big for your britches. Now hush down boy."

Prince can't remember the first time it had happened, for he was sure it had happened before, but his first clear memory of his grandmother coming into the room (for it happened none too often so her appearance was ominous and portentous). He remembers her looming in the doorway, her face cold and stern.

"I told you to keep that boy quiet." She scolded.

"I'm sorry. I tried."

"How hard is it to keep a boy?"

"Mrs. DeMarigny boys aren't meant to be kept up like this. It's just plain unnatural." The servant girl gainsaid.

"I will teach you to defy me. Lift your shirt." It was only then as she flicked the switch against her skirt that both servant and child saw what the old woman was holding. Delphe knew better than to disobey. She drew the shirt off her back and over her shoulders concealing her breast.

"Turn around."

Prince watched as the old woman whipped her. Burning scars into her back and scars into his mind. He was too frightened to protect her. She had fallen to her knees at the sixth strike. Satisfied with the outcome the old woman left. Delphe stayed on the floor and wept.

"I'm sorry." The boy bemoaned and scurried to her. He went to hug her, wanting to make it go away but she shied from him burning the guilt forever in his soul. He understood how it might pain her to be touched right now. As if realizing the affect she had on the boy, she lifted a wing for him to crawl in. He was careful not to hurt her (any more than he had already).

It was this moment that really defined his childhood. This moment that made it clear to him what would happen if he disobeyed his grandmother. He was 4 years old at the time. Delphe was 20.

This wouldn't be the last time this would happen, though it didn't happen too often. Prince wouldn't let it, but Prince being a healthy young boy with an ever growing awareness of the world he was missing out on got restless and longed to be a part of it. He would get restless and disobedient and she would be punished. He didn't mean for it to happen. He loved Delphe. He cried every time he hurt her and did his best to behave. But he was a boy cooped up unnaturally. Sometimes he just couldn't help himself.

A tidbit of history:

The largest outbreak of yellow fever struck New Orleans in 1853. It claimed the lives of 7,849 residents of New Orleans. Clay Stafford would have been born at least 15 years prior to this date. With that being said yellow fever has been a menace of New Orleans for generations before this 1853 outbreak. Much like the flu, it would sweep through the city every year. The warmest months were the deadliest. The life of its most prominent member claimed in 1877.

Authors Notes: Thank you bloodedwolf for your kind review.