Tarnished Gold

'Not really too far,' he replied, his smile spreading from his eyes to his lips. 'I've never seen a wild bird land on someone and strut around as if it were on a tree. Does that happen often?'

'Oui, monsieur.'

'Why aren't they afraid of you?'

'They know I mean them no harm, monsieur.'

'Astounding.' He shook his head and then he smiled. 'My name's Pierre Dumas. Your father told me your name's Gabrielle.'

'Oui. I'm just bringing some flowers to our tables,' I said, continuing on my way.

'Let me help,' he said, following.

'Oh no, I . . . I . . .'

'Please,' he insisted, taking a bunch of the violets from my arms.

The sun had already begun to burn through the morning mist, and the grass around the shack glistened with the dew. There was a gentle breeze up from the Gulf and soft puffs of milk white clouds moved lazily across the brightening blue sky. Pierre accompanied me to the tables.

'People stop by for lunch?' he asked. 'Is that what these tables are for?'

'Oui, monsieur. We sell bowls of gumbo and we sell cakes and coffee.'

'I had some of your beignets already. Delicious.'

'Merci, monsieur,' I said, moving from one table to the other. He trailed along and I wondered when he would return to the loading of the canoes. Suddenly he just sat himself on a bench to watch me, that small smile on his lips, those green eyes radiant.

'Pardon, monsieur,' I said, feeling very self-conscious, 'but surely you should get back to the dock.'

'I'll tell you a big secret,' he said, gazing toward the dock and then at me. 'I'm not really much of a hunter. I come along only to please my father.'

'Oh?'

'I'm a terrible shot. I always close my eyes before pulling the trigger. I just hate the thought that I might hit something and kill it,' he admitted. I smiled.

Mama came out the front door and paused on the galerie when she saw me speaking with Pierre. She was carrying some of our woven blankets in her arms to bring to the stand.

'I must help my mother,' I said. 'I hope you have a very poor day of hunting,' I added, and he laughed.

'Those are very pretty flowers, Gabrielle,' Mama said, keeping her gaze fixed on Pierre Dumas. He rose, nodded to her, and walked toward the dock.

'I'll bring out the towels, Mama,' I said, and hurried inside, my heart feeling light. It fluttered when I thought about Pierre Dumas's soft green eyes, and it felt as if the tiny rice bird had gotten into my chest.

'So,' Mama said when I brought a pile of our goods to the stand, 'you were speaking to that nice young man, I see.'

'Yes, Mama. He says he doesn't really like to hunt but goes along for his father's sake.'

Mama nodded. 'I think we have a lot to learn from your animals and birds, Gabrielle. After the babies are nurtured, their parents let them go off and be their own selves.'

'Oui, Mama,' I said. When I looked up at her, her eyes were wider and bright with curiosity, but she wasn't looking at me. She was gazing over my shoulder toward the dock. I turned and saw Pierre strolling back while Papa and the other men were casting off in the canoes.

'I'll go check on my roux,' Mama said, and headed for the house.

'Monsieur,' I said, 'aren't you going on your swamp hunt?'

'Don't know why,' he said, 'but I have a little headache and decided to rest instead. I hope you don't mind.'

'Oh no, monsieur. I'll speak to my mother about your headache. She's a traiteur, you know.'

'Traiteur?'

I explained what she was and what she did.

'Remarkable,' he said. 'Perhaps I should bring her back to New Orleans with me and set her up in business. I know a great many wealthy people who would seek her assistance.'

'My mother would never leave the bayou, monsieur,' I said with a deadly serious expression. He laughed. 'Nor would I,' I added, and his smile faded.

'I don't mean to make fun of you. I'm just amused by your self-assurance. Most young women I know are quite insecure about their beliefs. First they want to check to see what's in style or what their husbands believe before they offer an opinion, if they ever do. So,' he said, 'you've been to New Orleans?'

'No, monsieur.'

'Then how do you know you wouldn't want to live there?'

'I know I could never leave the swamp, monsieur. I could never trade cypress and Spanish moss, the willow trees and my canals, for streets of concrete and buildings of brick and stone.'

'You think the swamp is beautiful?' he asked with a smile of incredulity.