The New Orleans slave-holding pens

New Imports from Africa

Le Nouveau Monde

Part 2

 A Story of Longing and Rejection

 This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the legal age. If you are underage, please leave now. 

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): Updated December, 2013. 

Originally written in 2009 but never posted. 

“The characters and ideas in this story belong in the writer’s imagination and bear no resemblance to actual persons or events. Please, respect the integrity of this story and don’t do any rewrites, make alterations or add other artists’ pictures.” 

Part 2: Reading the Will: 

The law offices of Bellamont & Arceneau maintain a discreet presence in the Algiers Quarter of New Orleans. The firm’s reputation is such that it has no need to advertise for clients or to tout for business. Indeed, to do so would be anathema to its two principals, Barthélemy Bellamont and Franҫois Arceneau; both of these elderly gentlemen are of the “old school” and the virtues of honesty, propriety and discretion are paramount to all others.  

When you consider that they work exclusively with Louisiana’s richest and most powerful businessmen, plantation owners and the most reputable of slave dealers you can perhaps understand their position. 

Algiers is the primary landing place for the newly arrived slaves from Africa and consequently many of the slave-importing firms have their holding pens in this location. Here the slaves are allowed to settle after the traumas of their trans-Atlantic voyages and are conditioned before being taken over the river for sale in the auction-houses of New Orleans. 

As a boy, I had sometimes accompanied my father on his visits to Bellamont & Arceneau and so I know the area reasonably well. I am aware of the squalid slave-pens and I’m familiar with the sad, one-line songs of “call and response” that the homesick African slaves use to communicate with one another or to comfort wives, husbands and children from whom they’ve been cruelly separated and who are held in separate pens. 

Even as a child, I’d been deeply affected by the sadness of those lilting melodies brought over from faraway Africa by the unhappy slaves in the fetid, vermin ridden holds of the slave ships. 

Much of the legal work done by Bellamont & Arceneau has to do with these newly arrived slaves and their subsequent sale; hence the proximity of their law practice to the slave-holding pens of Algiers makes sound business sense. 

They’d always handled the legal affairs for Belvoir Plantation and my late father had trusted them implicitly. He’d appointed them as the trustees of his vast estate and I am on my way to meet my half-brother, Yves at their offices. I suppose, with my father’s death, there is much that Yves and I must attend to. 

Hiram Pettigrew, the slave Brutus and I had caught the ferry at the bottom of Canal Street in the French Quarter and crossed the wide river to Algiers Point. It is a short stroll from the ferry pier to the attorneys’ office and this takes us through the very pleasant residential area of stately, white painted mansions for which the Point is justifiably famous. 

I’d tried to engage Hiram in conversation and I plied him with numerous questions about Belvoir, Yves, his wife, Odile and their eight-year-old son, Mathieu all to no avail. Each question was either ignored or answered with a perfunctory grunt. It has to be said that Hiram Pettigrew’s attitude towards me is diffident. But I attributed this to the fact that I have been away at school for a number of years and he hardly knows me.  And so, I gave up the effort at polite conversation and lapsed into silence 

We leave Brutus to wait for us in the street; as a slave he’d not be welcomed inside the offices of Bellamont & Arceneau.  Hiram Pettigrew retrieves a valise that Brutus had been carrying and accompanies me into the attorneys’ chambers. I’m surprised at this; surely, as an employee, he is taking too much upon himself but I reason that perhaps he’s obeying Yves’s instructions in ensuring that I arrive safely for our meeting. 

I take the initiative and I introduce myself to a nondescript looking clerk seated at a desk in the outer, reception office and tell him that I have business with Messieurs Bellamont and Arceneau. He watery eyes peer disdainfully at me other the top of the rimless spectacles perched precariously on the very end of his thin, pointed nose. He ignores me but nods to Hiram Pettigrew; obviously the two are acquainted. I am annoyed by the clerk’s rudeness and bad manners and I am on the point of delivering a stinging rebuke to him when Hiram asks. 

“Has Monsieur Yves arrived?” 

“Yes, indeed he has and he is with M Bellamont and M Arceneau at this very moment awaiting your arrival. If you just wait for a minute or two, I’ll check to see if they are ready for you.” 

There is an awkward silence as Hiram and I wait for the clerk to return. It’s quite obvious that the chief overseer doesn’t want to engage with me in conversation and so I pretend to study several paintings hanging on the wall. I’m not an art connoisseur and so the paintings’ merits or otherwise are lost on me. Nevertheless, I pretend to show a keen interest in them if only to avoid the embarrassing silence. 

I haven’t had a lot to do with Hiram Pettigrew over the years and so I don’t know him all that well. I know my late father thought very highly of his abilities as his chief overseer and stud-master. As always, I respect my father’s sound judgement and I resolve to do my best to get to know this man with whom - no doubt - I’ll now have daily contact as one of the heirs to Belvoir Plantation.

How strange it sounds to describe myself as a Belvoir heir. Of course, as the younger heir, I will need to defer to Yves who after all has been assuming more responsibility for the plantation’s management while I was away at school. 

But what is taking so long for me to be admitted into the two attorneys’ inner sanctum? What can be delaying them? 

After my lengthy trip South, I am naturally anxious to be re-united with my half-brother so that we can together grieve the death of our father and console one another. 

My silent question is answered when the clerk sniffily announces that. 

“Messieurs Bellamont and Arceneau are ready to receive you!” 

He holds the door open and I am followed by Hiram Pettigrew into the inner office. Once more, I am surprised by this but don’t give it too much thought. After all I am here to meet Yves and to hear the reading of my father’s last will and testament. 

The inner sanctum is very much as I remember it from my boyhood visits with my father. It still has the same musty smell of books and legal tomes ageing and mouldering in the floor to ceiling bookshelves. I was never sure which of the two attorneys occupied this office – whether it was M Bellamont or M Arceneau? It had never overly concerned me. Usually, as both attorneys engaged with my father on the business in hand, I occupied myself with a book or drew childish pictures on sheets of paper.  

And today, the question still remains unanswered. Both elderly men sit sagely in ancient chairs, upholstered in burgundy, creaky-cracked leather, behind an enormous, hand-carved mahogany desk; they are just barely visible behind the piles of legal records and documents which clutter up the desktop. Yves sits in on this side of the desk facing them. 

No one acknowledges my entry. Neither of the two attorneys or Yves rise to welcome me and my heartfelt efforts to speak to Yves are silently rebuffed. I am hurt by my older half-brother’s cold indifference.  Surely at such a time as this he could overlook any past animosities between us and embrace one another as grieving brothers. 

Nonplussed, I look around for somewhere to sit and I see no chair has been made available for my use. It would appear that I am meant to stand. With a backwards glance over my shoulder, I note that Hiram Pettigrew has taken up a position with his back against the door to the outer office. He stands with his legs akimbo and hands on his hips and for some inexplicable reason I see his stance as quite menacing.  

This isn’t the homecoming I’d envisaged and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of unease. I nervously await developments. 

For several moments - and it seems like an eternity to me - an awkward silence prevails in the room. Eventually, it is M Bellamont who breaks the silence. Loudly, he clears his throat and pointedly ignoring me, he speaks directly to Yves. 

“It would appear that all the parties mentioned in M Charles Broussard’s last will and testament are now present and we can proceed. Are you in agreement with that, Yves?” 

Once more, I have been ignored. I accept that I am the younger son – younger by twelve years than Yves and that does make me very much his junior. But surely civility and good manners demand that I am not ignored and should be addressed by my father’s lawyers and included in any discussions concerning his will? I might be the younger son but as a beneficiary in Belvoir, I am entitled to be treated with respect. Since arriving here, I have experienced nothing but rudeness. Really it is too much and I am on the point of protest; but Yves’ reply cuts my retort short. 

“By all means, M Bellamont, let’s get this over and done with, shall we? I am anxious to return to Belvoir as soon as possible. Already this vexed question has taken up too much of my time. I just want it resolved expeditiously.” 

“I understand your situation, Yves. And I’ll make this as brief as possible. But as you are aware there is a matter of some delicacy that we must address before your father’s estate is finalised.” 

“Of course, M Bellamont, I’m well aware of the matter of which you speak. But can we keep the proceedings brief?” There is a hint of impatience in Yves’s voice. “Can we proceed, please?” 

“Well as you know your father bequeathed Belvoir in equal shares to you and your half-brother, Thierry which now presents us with a problem. But before we discuss that, I’m obligated to tell you that your father had instructed us to prepare another will which corrected an anomaly in his previous one.  Essentially, this correction manumitted of one of your father’s slaves setting him free. We, of course, did as M Broussard had instructed and drew up this new will. But unfortunately, your father passed away before he had the opportunity to sign his new will into being.” 

“So, what’s the current state of affairs, M Bellamont?  What is the legal standing of my father’s proposed new will?” 

“Because your father hadn’t signed and affixed his seal to the new will it has no legal standing and the previous will dated 21 July, 1833 is the one that we must now work with. I mention the new will because it is at variance with the 1833 will. However, it is a true expression of your father’s last wishes and I thought you might want to consider those in light of the problem we must now address.” 

M Bellamont’s references to “a matter of some delicacy” and “the problem we must now address” worry me. What specifically do these refer to? I’m not privy to them and I wonder what - if any impact - they will have on me. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong. But there is no legal obligation on my part to accept what my father intended in his new, unsigned will, is there?” 

“There’s no legal obligation on your part whatsoever, Yves.” For the first time M Arceneau speaks. “However, you might like to see it as a moral obligation on your part to honour your father’s wishes.”  

“Regrettably, my father never confided those wishes to me and I only became aware of them after his death. However, his death places me in the position of having to decide what is in the best interests of Belvoir Plantation and more importantly those of the Broussard family. I don’t have the luxury of indulging his last minute pangs of conscience. If he’d really been serious about correcting the situation referred to in the newer version of his will, then he should have done so many years ago. He didn’t do so and now I’m left to make that decision on his behalf.”

“What you say is absolutely correct, Yves.” M Arceneau continues. “But we would be remiss in our legal obligations if we didn’t bring your father’s change of heart to your attention. But we do appreciate that it is a contentious issue and you must now deal with it. 

“Whilst he never discussed his plans to change his will with me, my father and I did on many occasions discuss this other matter pertaining to those changes.  I have to say that I never accepted that situation and my views were well known to my father. He knew I strongly disapproved and we agreed to disagree. Having voiced my opposition, I don’t feel that I now have any moral obligation to correct my father’s indiscretion. If he’d been serious about that then he had many years to do so for himself and not leave it to me to rectify the problem.

This discussion is moving beyond my comprehension. All this talk of “pangs of conscience” and “change of heart” is new to me and I wonder what these allude to. Despite my curiosity - and the need to know - I hesitate to ask. I’ve not been spoken to since entering the office and I’ve not been included in any of the discussions. 

“Well then, Yves, it would seem that you have made up your mind to ignore your father’s intentions as set out in his latest, unsigned will. Is that correct?”

“Yes, M Arceneau. I don’t feel under any moral or legal obligations to carry out his wishes. As I said earlier, my only responsibilities are to Belvoir and to my family. I have thought this matter through - at some length I should add - and I have come to my decision which is final and not open to further discussion. So can we please move on and get this resolved.” 

“As you wish, Yves.” It’s M Bellamont’s turn to speak. “That being so then we must now only refer to M Broussard’s will signed by him on the 21 July, 1833. In that he leaves Belvoir Plantation and all other of his possessions, goods and chattels - and this latter includes his slaves - to his nominated heir, Yves Benoît Broussard.” 

M Bellamont pauses in his deliverance and looks first to me and then to Yves. 

“And herein now lies the problem.” M Bellamont continues. “Yves, both your family and Government records show that you are the legitimate son of Charles Christophe Broussard and his wife Alphonsine Marie Peltier, both deceased. Am I correct in stating that?” 

“Indeed, you are, M Bellamont and I have the family Bible with me that records the date of my parents’ marriage, together with the dates of my birth and baptism. And of course, my mother’s untimely demise. Do you wish to see them?”

“That won’t be necessary, Yves. I know these things to be factual. The question was rhetorical but one I had to put to you to comply with the laws of inheritance.”

“I understand perfectly, M Bellamont.”

“Ah humph!” M Bellamont cleared his throat more from awkwardness rather than of necessity.  “Now comes the most distasteful part. It’s one which I am loath to raise but which must be addressed. I refer to Thierry Guillaume Broussard and the circumstances of his birth."

I’m perplexed! What does M Bellamont’s reference to the “circumstances of my birth” imply and why is he loath to raise this matter? Is there some dark family secret about the nature of my birth that has been kept from me? Was I conceived out of wedlock and was my father forced to marry my mother? Or worse still - am I my father’s bastard son? And if so, does this bar me from my inheritance. Suddenly, the world takes on a menacing face and I grow apprehensive. 

“There is absolutely no doubt that Charles Christophe Broussard is the father of Thierry Guillaume Broussard.” M Bellamont continues solemnly. “There is no question that this is so. M Charles Broussard has always acknowledged Thierry as his son and it is a matter of public record that he has done so. So that is not in dispute. The problem arises … ahem … in the rather vexed question of Thierry Broussard’s maternity. We know that Thierry’s mother was known as Adélie Aimee Broussard, the supposed wife of Charles Christophe Broussard.”

“Well, that’s always been a matter of conjecture,” Yves replies tartly, “whether or not my father actually married for a second time. Certainly, it was never recorded in the family Bible nor have I ever seen a marriage certificate verifying such an event. Anyway, given the status of the woman, Adélie - I refuse to use the name Broussard when referring to her - such a marriage would be socially impossible. My understanding is that she was an octoroon slave owned by my father. And to my knowledge, he never manumitted her and she died as his slave.”

“Yves, all of what you say is correct! Under the circumstances such a marriage wouldn’t have taken place. Certainly, we have checked all the records and can find no evidence that your father ever married for a second time or that he gave Adélie her freedom. Quite evidently, the woman he presented as his second wife was in fact his plaҫee or mistress.”

I’m rendered speechless. Which is possibly just as well? Up to this point, I have been ignored as though I’m not even present in the room and I don’t know how any comments from me would be received. Some inner voice warns me to remain silent. But for how much longer can I still my tongue? The revelation that my parents were possibly unmarried worries me. Am I tarnished with the stigma of illegitimacy? If so, then I am “persona non gratia” in the stifling, pious, self-righteous world of plantation society.

The plantation owners have a moral code which they strictly adhere to. Well, that is the impression they strive to present to polite society. Secretly, many lead double lives residing on their plantations with their white wives and children and projecting an illusory image of domesticity and marital bliss. 

Yet, it is no secret that many white plantation owners hypocritically engage in the practice of plaҫage and have installed Quadroon and Octoroon mistresses in secret households on Rampart Street, in Faubourg Marigny or in Faubourg Tremé. Here they maintain the pretense of propriety by lodging in their secret households as “boarders” or, if they are wealthy enough, by occupying a separate household next door to their coloured plaҫee and their “Creole of Colour” offspring.

“Well, if it’s true that my father never married the slave, Adélie then that raises questions about the legitimacy of their offspring. Am I right in thinking that, M Bellamont?” 

“If no marriage took place between your father and the – ahem – slave Adélie then any issue is not recognised by law.”

“Which would prevent such issue from making any claims on my father’s estate?”

“Normally, that would be the case, Yves. But in this situation, your father specifically left instructions with us that his estate is to be shared equally between you and your half-brother…….”

 “Just one moment, M Bellamont! Let me correct you.” Yves cuts short the attorney’s words. “I don’t acknowledge that I have a half-brother. I have never accepted Thierry Broussard as my half-brother. AND I NEVER WILL!”

Yves hurtful response in repudiating me as his kin cuts deep. I’m aware that we’d never been close; Yves had always kept me at arm’s length and now I know why. In his own words he has never regarded me as his brother. I need to know why and so I ask.

“Yves, why are you doing this? What have I ever done to you that…………”

“Shut your mouth, boy! And only speak when you’re spoken to. Or I’ll have Mr Pettigrew gag you.”

The vehemence of Yves words shocks me and hits home with as much force as a blow to the stomach. He has revealed the intensity of his hatred for me and his manner of speaking to me re-enforces this view. More than anything else he insults me with the use of the derogatory word “boy”. This is a term used when addressing a male slave irrespective of his age. But Yves command to “shut my mouth” does shock me into silence and fills me with a sense of foreboding.

“Are you saying it was my father’s wish to gives Thierry Broussard an equal share to my own in his estate?”

“Yves, in a nutshell, yes that is correct. Your father was very definite in regard to Thierry sharing his estate with you.”

“Well, M Bellamont as you are well aware there is another issue for us to consider.”

“Ahh, yes, indeed, there is, Yves. You refer to the … ahem… true status of Thierry’s birth. That is an entirely different matter altogether and one however that we must address no matter how distasteful!”

“Indeed, we must, M Bellamont! Can we move onto that?”

“Mais certainement! Yves, as you are aware the law prohibits slaves from owning property and there is now the question of Thierry’s eligibility to inherit from your father’s estate.”

M Bellamont’s words are puzzling! What do his comments about slaves being prohibited from owning property and my eligibility to inherit have to do with me? And what are the “circumstances surrounding my birth”? 

“Well, M Bellamont, can we cut to the chase? I suspect we’re just skirting around the issue. Let me call a spade a spade. The individual we know as Thierry Broussard is excluded from owning and inheriting property because of his slave status. Am I correct in stating that?”

Suddenly, I’m gripped by panic. What does Yves mean by my slave status? In my confusion, I blurt out the question.

“Yves, what’s goin………”

“I told you to keep quiet boy.” Once more Yves insults me by the use of the word boy. “I told you what would happen if you continued to interrupt me. M Bellamont, M Arceneau do I have your permission to bring my slave Brutus into the office? I know it isn’t etiquette for a slave to be present as free men discuss business matters but these are exceptional circumstances that demand a quick resolution. This won’t happen as long as the slave, Thierry constantly interrupts proceedings. I have warned him once to remain silent yet he persists in interrupting. Now I need to gag him.”

“Then so be it, Yves! You have our permission for your slave Brutus to be present to help restrain Thierry”

For a second time, Yves has referred to me as a slave. I want to shout out my protest but instinctively, I know I should remain silent.

“Hiram,” Yves asks his overseer, “would you be good enough to fetch Brutus, please?”

We maintain an awkward silence as we wait for Hiram Pettigrew to return with the slave Brutus. And as we wait, I try to make sense of what is happening. 

If what Yves is saying is correct, then it would appear that I am the bastard child of Charles Christophe Broussard and an octoroon slave woman I’d known as Adélie Aimee and whom I’d always thought of as my father’s second wife. If this is so, then I am officially a “Creole of Colour” – making me neither white nor black - and suspending me in a limbo of uncertainty.

The stifling rules governing our segregated Southern society are rigidly enforced. Hypocritically, a wealthy plantation owner can have two families - one white and one coloured - and many do. While this is common knowledge - even to the long-suffering, white wife virtually confined to her husband’s plantation - such situations are never spoken of. The white family is, of course, “legitimate” and the rightful heirs to the plantation owner’s fortunes. The coloured family isn’t recognised and the “Creole of Colour” offspring seldom have claim on their sire’s estates.

Most plantation owners do provide for their Creole offspring by sending them to special academies to be educated. There they are taught the social graces. Beyond that, the plantation owner seldom feels he has any ongoing responsibilities and on reaching adulthood, his “children of colour” are left to fend for themselves.  

In such a cloistered society where whites fear their black slaves, “creoles of colour” are resented and ostracised. The doors of polite, white society are permanently shut to them and so they must live as best as they can.  However, their options are limited by their colour and young, Creole women often survive as high-class courtesans while their brothers become gamblers or confidence-men who live by their wits.

If what I am hearing is true, then I am the illegitimate son of white plantation owner and a Creole slave woman. And, as such, I’m not to share in my father’s estate. Am I then to be turned away from Belvoir Plantation and left to fend for myself? 

Suddenly, my world has been turned upside down. The joy I’d felt as I’d disembarked from the river-boat less than two hours ago has dissipated The thrill of my homecoming has been replaced with a sense of unease and foreboding.

Hiram Pettigrew returns to the office with Brutus and suddenly I feel very threatened by their presence. Something warns me that I should be very afraid. The silence within the room is ominous and it is left to Yves to break it.

“Hiram, please gag the slave if you will?”

Hiram Pettigrew opens the bag that he’d been carrying and removes a leather gag used on the slaves at Belvoir. It consists of a leather ball of about one and three quarter inches diameter attached to leather straps which fasten behind the head. My father had commonly used the ball gag whenever a Belvoir slave was whipped as he’d always been distressed by the agonised screams of the victim. Now such a gag is to be used on me.

I watch in fascinated horror as Hiram prepares the gag. Obviously, it is an old one that has been well-used. The ball itself is misshapen and well-chewed; no doubt by the teeth of the many hapless slaves who’d worn it as they were flogged for some misdemeanour.

As Hiram approaches me I back away and don’t see him nod at Brutus. Suddenly, I am seized in a vice like grip of two, muscular, black arms and held fast. Hiram orders me to open my mouth and I obstinately refuse to do so. Once more, he orders me to.

“Open your mouth, damn you boy! Or you’ll get a taste of my strap.”

Tears of outrage - and shame - flood my eyes and trickle down my cheeks. I look around the room for support. Embarrassed by the spectacle being played out before them; both attorneys avert their eyes from me and stare blankly out the window into the street. Yves however is watching me intently and I am shocked by the malevolence I see reflected in his face.

Despite my defiance, I am no match for Hiram Pettigrew and the slave, Brutus. Hiram pinches my nostrils closed and forces me to breathe through my mouth. With his other hand he pops the leather ball into my mouth, behind my teeth, and tightens the straps behind my head.

My mouth is held open in an obscene grin and my teeth are on prominent display. I try to give voice to my objections but my words are reduced to unintelligible, guttural sounds that sound more animal-like than human and as I begin to drool, my spittle trickles down my chin onto the floor. I simply give in and remain silent.

“That’s better! That should keep the brat quiet.’ Yves exclaims triumphantly. “Now can we return to the business in hand and bring matters to a close? I am most anxious to return to Belvoir before nightfall.”

“If that is your wish, Yves then so be it!”

“M Bellamont let me be quite clear on my position. As matters currently stand, I am the sole, legitimate heir to my late father’s estate. Is that not so?”

“Yes, that’s correct, Yves!’

“And the person known to us as Thierry Broussard is a person of colour whose true status is that of a slave?”

“That is correct!”

“And as such he is prohibited from inheriting a share in my father’s deceased estate? Is that also, correct?”

“It is, Yves,” M Bellamont replies, “but once more, I have to point out this goes against your late father’s stated intentions. Clearly, it was his earnest desire to see you and your brother share equally in his estate.”

“Once more, M Bellamont! I re-iterate, I don’t feel under any obligation to accede to my father’s wishes. Had he genuinely wanted them, then he’d have ensured his bastard slave offspring was manumitted. He didn’t and I repeat again - Thierry Broussard isn’t my brother - he is my father’s bastard by a slave woman and as there are no manumission papers setting him free, he is himself a slave. He is a Belvoir plantation slave; therefore, he is my slave and my property!  That is my position!”

Are you sure this is what you want Yves? We can’t convince you otherwise?”

“My position is inflexible! I have no intention of accepting Thierry Broussard for anything other than what he is. He is a slave and he will remain so.”

“Then regretfully, we must accept that as your final position. All that remains is to name you the sole heir to your late father’s estate and Belvoir Plantation. And to declare the person known as Thierry Broussard as the bastard slave offspring of your father and a female slave known as Adélie. Are you happy with that decision, Yves?”

“Indeed, I am, M Bellamont! I am most happy!”

“And you are comfortable with that? You don’t wish to reconsider the position?”

“Not at all, M Bellamont! Can we please move on?”

“Then all remains is the matter of Thierry Broussard. What are your wishes regarding him? What will you do with him?”

“Why, I will keep him as my slave and take him back to Belvoir. He’s a most presentable young buck and I understand he’s quite intelligent. Possibly, I can use him as a house boy. Do I need to sign papers to that effect?”

“Well yes! We’ll need to register him as a slave and the property of Belvoir Plantation. But that is a mere formality and just requires certification from us that we have looked at all the circumstances and satisfied ourselves to the validity of his slave birth. I can have our clerk draw up the necessary documentation as we finalise our business.”

“Thank you, M Bellamont! I’d appreciate that very much.”

“I have a question for you, Yves.” M Arceneau interjects. “What name will you give your new slave? I take it you will change it from Thierry?”

“Indeed, I will, M Arceneau, indeed I will. I have given this some thought and I will continue with my father’s habit of naming our house slaves after historical Greek and Roman figures. The slave is to be known as Ptolemy.”

“That’s a most noble name for a slave, Yves! And yet quite fitting, I believe. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll speak to our clerk and set the wheels in motion to have your slave registered as ‘Ptolemy’ Broussard. You’re aware that slaves usually take the surname of their masters are you not?”

“Indeed, I am, M Arceneau!”

I can only listen in stupefied silence as I am stripped of my freedom and even my birth name. I am no longer Thierry Broussard and I have been renamed “Ptolemy” - a name my father could well have chosen for a slave. And Yves has hinted that eventually I am to serve in Belvoir’s stately mansion as a house boy. The prospect of this chills me to the bone. It is some years since I’d last stayed at Belvoir and I recall the house servants were worked very hard under the close scrutiny of my vinegary sister-in-law, Odile who ruled her domain with a rod of iron. Now I am to work for her and undoubtedly, I must address her as my “Mistress” and my young nephew, Mathieu as the “young Master”.

 

To be continued in part 3