One morning inNew Orleans, in that part of the Rue Ste. Anne before it crosses Conde and becomes the lower boundary of the Place d’Armes, a young boy who had been running full tilt down the middle of the street stopped suddenly, his chest heaving, and began to deliherately and obviously follow a tall woman. This was the street in which he lived, though he was blocks from home, and the woman lived in it also. So a numher of people on the way to market-or lounging in the doors of their shops to garner a little breeze knew the pair of them and thought as they glanced at the boy, that is Marcel Ste. Marie, Cecile’s son, and what is he doing now? These were the riverfront streets of the 1840s, packed with immigrants, where the worlds met over the back fence, and gallery to gallery; yet despite the throng, and the wilderness of masts above the levee markets, the French Quarter was then as forever a small town. And the woman was famous in it. [download]
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