Gastien: The Cost of the Dream: The Gastien Series, #1

Gastien: The Cost of the Dream

By Caddy Rowland

Book Description

When young Gastien Beauchamp flees the farm for Paris, the late nineteenth century bohemian era is in full swing. Color has always called to him, beseeching him to capture it on canvas and show people a new way of seeing things. His father belittled his dream of being an artist and tried to beat him into giving it up. The dream wouldn’t die, but Gastien would have had he not left.

He also yearns to become a great lover. After the years of anguish he has endured at the hand of his father, it would be heaven to feel pleasure instead of pain.

However, the city of Paris has a ruthless agenda. Unless a man has money and connections, Paris unfeelingly crushes dreams and destroys souls. With neither of the required assets, Gastien faces living in alleys, digging in trash bins for food, and sleeping where a man is often killed for his threadbare blanket.

Left with only his dreams, Gastien stubbornly pushes on. He vows that absolutely nothing will stop him, not yet realizing what keeping that vow might mean. Sometimes the impossible is possible – but the cost can be extremely high.

This historical fiction novel is book 1 of a 5 book drama/family saga for adults (The Gastien Series). Each book can stand on its own, but is most compelling read in order.

This book is dedicated to my husband, Dave, who has always been there and has always believed, and to Eric C. who helped me find Gastien. I thank both of you with all of my heart.

Author’s Note

Although this book is historical fiction, I have taken some liberty in regard to the dialog. My reason for doing this is to show the characters, many of whom are peasants and/or forward thinkers and artists, as different as possible from the rest of society during the 1800’s. Since Gastien and his friends were avant garde bohemians, it stands to reason that they used words that most of society didn’t, were earthier, and had a way of talking that made them seem somewhat shocking. Their painting and clothing choices certainly shocked others, so it seemed to make sense to me that they would also be progressive in their word choices. They had very little use for conformity.

I do know for example, the word gig had been used by that time in America. Since Paris was a melting pot of artists of all types from all over the globe, it stands to reason that different slang and words were brought together within these creative groups of people.

By the same token, you will note that I didn’t use contractions in this book (or for that matter in the next book) because I also wanted to show that, although they may have had more modern terms that they used, it was still very much a time of formal speaking. That doesn’t go away overnight simply because one decides to become an artist!

By the third book in the series this changes and contractions are used. By then the story has moved into the twentieth century, and people began using more relaxed speech patterns.

Thank you for allowing me this artistic freedom so that I can present Gastien and his story in a way that can more completely give you the feel for the uniqueness of these cutting edge artists.

Without further ado, please sit back and immerse yourself in Gastien’s story.

-Caddy Rowland

NOTE: Glossary for all italicized words

Prologue

April, 1899

Gastien slouched at his table by the window, appearing to stare at the painting in front of him. He wasn’t really seeing it. Mon Dieu, his hip hurt! Everything hurt. The muscles in his arms and legs ached something fierce, and his hands trembled. It was getting extremely difficult now to recover in the mornings after a night of hard drinking. His stomach felt like molten hell, and his head! Oh, sweet Jesus, the pounding in his head! It was almost enough to make him consider giving up his beloved absinthe, but not quite.

After a full day of trying to get lost in the color while painting, the loneliness invariably won out. It seemed the emptiness of his studio (and his life, come to think of it) would deafen him. How could silence be so loud and so painful? Once again, he would inevitably head out to the various cabarets, bars, and opium dens of Montmartre. He fervently hoped to forget how very alone and depressed he was for at least a few hours.

Several drinks later, many times high on various drugs, he would stumble home. He was usually accompanied by one female or another for a bout of meaningless sex, which would grant him a few seconds of total peace; the peace that came during that wonderful moment of orgasm, releasing him from mundane existence. No one understood better than he why the French called that moment the little death.

If only he could prolong those few seconds of bliss and forgetfulness! Forget how alone he was, who he had lost, and what he had given up all those years ago – all to become a painter and have his own studio. If I had to do it all over again, Gastien mused, would I do anything different? Non, probably not. My art is everything to me. I caused pain to myself and others to get the chance to paint, but to have done any less would have killed me even sooner than the damned fée verte is determined to do. For the most part, I dealt myself the hand I wanted to play.

There would be no regrets now. He knew time was not on his side, even though he was only 43. His muscles ached from God knew what: booze, sex, opium, or some kind of poisoning from handling paints. His hip had also hurt him quite badly off and on ever since that night – but the chance to own a warm place to sleep, food that was not from garbage bins, and a studio in which to paint were not so much to ask, were they?

He remembered back to a time when going out to carouse was a lark. He was so damn handsome then! So irresistible to women! He had his pick, never having to resort to the whores and the lower class women of the area. By the time evening came, he was usually sexually sated. He could then happily concentrate on partying, arguing art and teasing women he would never be taking home.

The bourgeois wives, and wives of the gentry, came to his studio to be painted during the day. Most often they ended up opening their thighs to him. If they offered, who was he to resist? He loved women. He loved the sex they provided even more. He was not about to turn down an offer from someone who actually smelled good and had an excellent chance at being disease free. Oui, he had enjoyed many years of the best when it came to chatte.

Now, of course, those women were no longer interested in him. Not for the last year or two. The past two years were hard drinking years, and the tale was told on his features and physique. But, before, women had been drawn to his bohemian looks. They had adored his out of fashion, long, thick, dark hair. Those big, dark brown eyes with flecks of gold that glittered dangerously one minute and looked soulful the next, had held every female heart captive.

Add to that his flair for wearing odd jewelry, a colorful scarf, and other eccentric clothing just because he could, without detracting from his masculinity. In fact, what it did was accentuate his maleness. The blatant contrast gave him an oddly virile, kinky, and slightly dangerous appearance.

Women seemed to be drawn to a man that would take them somewhere they had never dared to go. It did not even matter that he maintained that he was completely incapable of loving them. It seemed most women could not resist a man who, by his actions, screamed not emotionally available. Every woman bet they would be the one to tame him. They always lost.

There was only one who managed to get to his heart and he almost...almost...gave it all up for her. But, at the last minute he realized that the price he had paid to get the life he had strived for was too high to turn his back on. Oh, Sophie, Sophie, Gastien thought, I hope – he shook his head to stop those thoughts. She knew he loved her. There was no reason to make himself feel even worse the first thing in the morning.

Gastien glanced out the window. It was still dark, but within minutes dawn would be coming. Soon people would start wandering down the street, on their way to work, or maybe bakeries or shops. Some would stop to watch him paint through the window. He really needed to go shave and brush through his hair, perhaps pump water for a bath to wash away the stink of last night’s booze and woman.

But I am wasting time meandering around in my past, he told himself. I never used to be so slow to get ready! Perhaps a little drink and a hit of hashish will straighten me out for the day. And still he lingered. It was so easy to just sit there and remember, remember back to how it all began. He was a month away from turning eighteen, still living on the farm...

Coming of Age (October 1873)

I

Today was going to be the day. In less than a month, Gastien would turn eighteen. He knew that if he did not take his stand now it would gnaw away at him for the rest of his life. He hated this farm, and he hated the fact that his father expected – non, demanded – that Gastien would one day take over the farm and run it. The stink of vegetables and animal dung stuck in his nostrils. If he had to smell them one more day he was convinced that he would start heaving up all of his insides and die.

His father had worked hard to maintain this land. It had been in the family for several generations, having been grown into a nicely successful fruit and vegetable farm. Their farm serviced many fine restaurants and grocers in France. Gastien knew they were lucky. Most farmers were dirt poor after hiring enough hands to work their land. His father somehow had a knack for hiring hard workers for little pay. He also screwed his wife close to death to get plenty of unpaid help in his offspring. Gastien was the oldest of eight boys and three girls. There would have been three more boys, but they had died as babies. He could barely remember a time when his father did not have him working at something.

At least his father did value education. He had married a school teacher. Poor fool was she! His father could be quite charming when he wanted something. Jean Beauchamp had enticed the young teacher Marguerite to become his wife by promising a life of peace on beautiful farmland. The reality was quite different, however. Baby after baby came. Marguerite was anything but peaceful washing clothes, cleaning house and making three meals a day.

At night, his father used her thoughtlessly. Gastien learned at a young age what it meant when his parent’s bed squeaked, and his mother cried out in pain. Another brat would soon be coming. When he got older he wanted to shout For Christ sake, can’t you use your damn hand once in a while and let the rest of us sleep? But he knew better and kept quiet. He had been beaten often enough for other things; he did not need to add another beating to his body.

His mother was also expected to teach all of the children how to read, write, and do basic math. Jean Beauchamp was not going to have any children that could not fully function in the world. It was paramount that everyone in his family could handle business transactions. He worked too hard to let any Parisian take advantage of him or his offspring. Jean was convinced that every person in Paris was out to take advantage of him or his business. Oh, oui, home schooling was mandatory in the Beauchamp household.

Studies were longer in the off season and on Saturdays. During the active farming seasons the children were expected to pitch in with the growing and harvesting of fruit, vegetables, milking the cows, gathering eggs and shoveling the animal dung from the barn and coop. That was the worst job of all.

Because Gastien so often angered his father, he usually was rewarded with that duty. He meant to do well, but farm work held no fascination for him. He would take off into the woods any chance he got to lie on the ground and just observe the colors in the woods. The colors beckoned to him. If he stared hard enough, the colors would come alive and speak to him. He knew before ever having picked up a paintbrush exactly how to paint any tree, any animal, and any object that he stared at. He not only saw the variations of color in the object, but the energy attached to those variations. The color danced for him. His fingers ached to put that dance down on record somehow, to say to people Look! See this? That is color! That is energy! That is life! Wisely, he kept that to himself. He secretly drew in the dirt of the woods, crushing berries and other things to get color.

When he was seven, his father found him on the ground drawing a tree in the dirt when he should have been picking cauliflower. With an angry roar, his father raised his foot and kicked Gastien forward into the ground. Jean kicked him repeatedly as he lay face down in the dirt, screaming at him that he was a lazy, no good bastard, and he should be ashamed to be such a sissy. Only girls sat and drew trees, men worked!

Be a man, Gastien, for God’s sake! Don’t embarrass the Beauchamp name by being like a girl! Do you want to be used like a woman? That is what happens to lazy bastards that paint and draw. Now get up! Stop your crying and stand up like a man! Go clean the barn! Don’t come in until dark. Maybe going without supper will make you appreciate the vegetables you try so hard to avoid!

Gastien knew better than to say a word. This was not the first time he had been hit or kicked. Far from it. Sometimes at night Gastien had nightmares of when he was very young. He would be running on chubby baby legs to his father who was coming in the door from the fields.

"Papa! Papa! Bizou!"

But his father pushed him roughly away, yelling, MARGUERITE! GET THIS SNOTTY NOSED BRAT AWAY FROM ME! I AM HOT AND TIRED AND HAVE NO TIME FOR FOOLISHNESS! CAN’T YOU MAKE YOUR SON ACT LIKE A MAN?

Marguerite rushed in, apologizing. Something was not right! Gastien started howling. Before he knew it, his beloved Papa had grabbed him hard by an arm and swung him into the air. Then, holding Gastien by both shoulders Jean shook him. STOP THAT BLUBBERING RIGHT NOW, DO YOU HEAR? his Papa roared.

Marguerite yelled, "NON! NON, JEAN! YOU WILL HURT HIM!" She grabbed Gastien, pulling him away. With an angry roar, his father slapped Marguerite. She fell to the floor, and his father stood over her.

"DON’T YOU EVER CHALLENGE ME AGAIN, YOU CONNE! NOT UNLESS YOU WANT ME TO NOT ONLY BEAT YOU, BUT EVERY ONE OF THE BRATS YOU BRING INTO THIS WORLD, BABIES OR NOT! I WILL NOT HAVE MY PEACE DISTURBED AFTER WORKING ALL DAY! He turned to the howling Gastien. SHUT UP! IF YOU DONT SHUT UP, I WILL HURT YOUR OTHER ARM!

Gastien was too small to fully understand his father, but he knew he had to stop crying or his father would stay angry. His mother might get hurt again! He gulped hard several times, trying to stop crying. Finally, he was able to do so, wetting his pants. His father stalked out, and Gastien stood over his mother, afraid to make any noise. She finally got up. Marguerite reached for him, holding him close. Gastien’s arm was at a funny angle.

The next day, she finally convinced Jean to get the doctor. Jean became afraid that Gastien would not be a good farm worker if the shoulder was not fixed. Saying nothing, the doctor pulled the shoulder back into place. Gastien’s shoulder hurt for weeks. Jean complained about the cost of the doctor for months, maintaining that the boy was nothing but a pain in the ass.

II

Flash forward to about three and a half years old. His father was no longer beloved Papa, but a man to be feared. Stomping into the house one day in July, Jean declared that Gastien was old enough to start earning his keep. Marguerite knew enough not to argue. She needed to protect Gastien and baby Paul. Plus, she thought she might be expecting another one. Jean turned to Gastien. Gastien, come with me. You are going to learn how to collect eggs from the chicken coop.

Gastien was excited! He must be a big boy now because his father was going to allow him to do something important! He liked watching the chickens running around the yard. Gastien could not wait to show his father how good he would be at this new job. Entering the henhouse, his father told him to just reach under the hen and gently grab an egg, then put it the basket. As Gastien reached out, the hen angrily pecked his tender young hand, drawing blood. Gastien screamed. Jean laughed. Try again, Gastien.

Gastien did not want to try again. Getting pecked hurt! Yet, he was even more afraid of his father’s wrath. Once again he plunged his hand in. Once again he was pecked. He cried out. As tears flowed down Gastien’s face, Jean laughed again.

You are a sissy, Gastien. You have to show the hens you are not scared of them!

Finally Gastien got the hen to move out of the way by scaring her. He grabbed the egg quickly, but too hard. He broke it. His father slapped him.

You clumsy little bastard! You just wasted a meal for yourself! Don’t break another one, if you know what’s good for you. Do you understand?

Gastien was no longer excited about his new job. He felt only fear. The little boy stood there, staring down at the ground, heart pounding.

COLLECT THE EGGS! his father roared. Gastien jumped, drew in a shaky breath, and began collecting the eggs. Soon the basket was full. Take them to your mother – and be careful! his father said roughly.

Gastien turned quickly to leave the henhouse. As he hurried, his little foot caught on the entrance stoop and he tripped. As Jean’s son fell, the basket went flying. All of the eggs were broken. Gastien expected his father to scream at him, but there was only silence. After a few moments, Jean spoke. His voice was quiet and steely.

Stand up.

Gastien stood up.

Turn around and walk back in here.

Gastien walked up to his father. Jean took Gastien’s little hand and stuck it under a roosting hen, holding it in place as the hen pecked him over and over. Gastien was shrieking and his hand was covered in blood. Finally, Jean let go of his hand. He raised his foot and kicked Gastien to the ground. The floor was covered in chicken shit.

I believe you are the clumsiest boy I have ever seen, Gastien. You are proving to be as worthless as I feared! God knows why I have to put up with a son like you. Do you understand what a wasteful, worthless boy you really are?

Gastien said nothing. He was scared to say anything. This enraged Jean further.

DO YOU?

Finally Gastien whispered, "Oui, father."

I don’t think you do. I am going to keep you out here with the hens since you are worthless, like a girl! You can just sit in here and think about what a burden you are to me. Jean walked to the door. Gastien scrambled to get up. He looked at the hens.

"NON! PLEASE! DON’T LEAVE ME IN HERE! I WILL BE CAREFUL! I – "

But his father locked the door and walked away. He left Gastien in the coop for six hours. There was nothing for him to drink and nowhere to sit, except on the shit covered floor. As the July day wore on, it became hotter. There was air circulation, as the henhouse was screened so that the hens would not overheat, but it was still very uncomfortable. The air was hard to breathe and smelled of dried droppings.

As time passed, Gastien needed to go to the toilet. He called out for his father, but either Jean could not hear him or chose not to respond. He eventually had no choice but to piss his pants, and finally to shit them. When his father let him out he was forced to keep the dirtied clothes on until bedtime.

The next day, Gastien did not break a single egg. Gastien was very careful to never break anything else around his father. Jean, however, would break his son’s heart many times over the years.

Whenever Gastien had those nightmares he woke up bathed in sweat. He never mentioned them to anyone. He learned at an early age to never show any emotion. To do so opened a person up to being hurt. As the years went by, not only did he become skilled at not showing emotion, he learned to harden his heart around his father.

He also promised himself that he would never let anyone get close to him if he could help it. To do so was a sign of weakness, and an opportunity for someone to hurt you. He had felt enough hurt to last him a lifetime before he was even five years old.

III

As the years passed and the cruelty continued, Gastien made it a game of wills. He was determined not to cry out or show pain to his father. He also became determined not to give up his forays into the woods to draw. What was another beating anyway? They were as routine as getting a drink of water.

It went on and on like that, him sneaking away, sometimes not getting caught, but always disappointing his father. Because, of course, he did not get the amount of work done that he should have, had he not disappeared for as long as he dared. Gastien could not remember ever pleasing his father. He was never once complimented for doing a job well. After all, only sissies needed reassurance. If he managed to stay and work the whole time, his father would say that he should have also pushed his siblings to do more. It never stopped. Sometimes he wanted to take the shovel he was holding and slam it over his father’s head just to shut him up.

Day after day he heard about how grateful he should be, how he didn’t measure up, how the city would take advantage of him once Gastien ran the farm unless he manned up and pushed his siblings and himself harder. Gastien despised his father and held no respect for him. Jean Beauchamp was a deceiver. Always the charmer in town, at home he beat his wife and children into submission.

Marguerite loved Gastien, but obviously did not dare to stand up for any of them. She could not chance all of the children being hurt. She did, however, find a way to buy him paper and charcoal when they went into town. It infuriated his father, but at this she held her ground, saying that art was part of a well rounded education. She insisted that all of the children were to be given a small amount of time to draw each day. For some reason, his father believed her when she said it was part of a good education. Gastien cherished the time given each school day to draw.

In addition, unknown to his father, she bought him quite a bit more paper and charcoal. He hid it in a special place only he knew about in the attic. Gastien would sneak up there after dark and draw by candlelight whenever he could. He knew if he got caught he would be beaten until he could barely crawl, because a fire could be started easily in the attic. In spite of that, he could not stop. It was in his bones, to deny that would be like denying his next breath.

Marguerite also made sure to instill in Gastien a sense of worth whenever she could. Whenever Jean was not in earshot she praised her son, but not gratuitously, and told him how intelligent he really was. She explained that his father felt threatened by Gastien’s strong sense of self. She urged him to keep that and never be untrue to it. She repeatedly told him that the seeds of greatness were in him, and that he would accomplish whatever he set out to do, because he was destined for success. She told him often that she loved him. She also taught him how to read his father’s moods. Around her, he allowed himself to be open. He drank up her love, inwardly growing stronger and more resolved.

IV

When Gastien turned sixteen, his mother gave him some painting materials for making some watercolour paints along with a new kind of paper. He could not imagine how she managed to hide away the money for them. When he had opened the gift, it was the happiest moment of his life so far.

That moment was cut short by his father’s roar. I will NOT, WILL NOT, have my son painting flowers like some girl! Give me that garbage right now, Gastien! You will NOT become a homosexual in this household! You are, and always will be, a farmer. Beauchamp men are never sissies!

Gastien grabbed the supplies and ran fast, deep into the woods. His father could not even attempt to catch up with him. He had secret places in the woods, places all boys have to keep special treasures that they don’t want others to know about. He put his new supplies in one of those places. They would stay clean and dry. Most importantly, they would stay safe from his father.

God, how he hated him! He was so tired of being called a woman. He would like to tell his father that he had started dreaming about women a few years ago, and that sometimes he wanted to see a girl naked so badly that his penis got hard and then erupted. He supposed that would be another reason for a beating, though, so he kept silent and let his father berate him as feminine.

One thing he did know. Whenever he did get lucky enough to get between a girl’s legs, she would not scream in agony! He would make sure that having Gastien Beauchamp was a pleasure females sought after. He did not know yet how to go about pleasing one, but he was determined to eventually learn. He had enough of hearing his pig of a father rut like an animal while his mother cried out in pain. He would never be like his father!

The one concern was that women always seemed to decide to have babies and those he did not want. That was not really his concern, he told himself. If women wanted babies that was their business. They just were not going to tie him down with that decision. He would give them what they wanted in bed. What they did with it afterwards was up to them. He wanted to paint, not listen to babies cry.

Between fantasizing about the great lover Gastien Beauchamp, relieving himself (a habit that was becoming more frequent the last several months), and trying out his paints it was soon evening. When he came back, after dark, he knew he was walking into yet another beating. Gastien had no way of knowing, however, that this time would end up being much worse than any previous beating.

His father was waiting for him inside the door with a wet, leather strap in his hand. Jean Beauchamp looked insane. He told Gastien to remove his shirt. Then Jean beat his son over and over again, raging that he would beat the foolishness out of him or kill him in the process. Gastien heard his father’s heavy breathing as he wound up and lashed him over and over again. He steeled himself against the blows, trying to ignore the cruel words about how worthless he was and his father’s threats to kill him.

Gastien refused to cry out. He would not give his father the satisfaction of begging him to stop or hearing his pain. Instead, he bit down on the insides of his mouth until he bit through, swallowing blood. Still he kept silent. He could not stop the tears, but he would be damned if he would make a single noise. Gastien could see all of the blood on the floor. Dazed, he wondered if he really was going to die, after all. Mercifully, he finally passed out.

The next morning, he woke up where he had fallen. There was blood all over the floor and his back was a sticky, raw mess that burned like fire. It was barely dawn. Gastien tried to stand up but found he could not. He had lost too much blood. He collapsed back down to the floor. That woke up his father who came out with his mother in tow.

"See your son, Marguerite? See what a weak little conne your oldest son is? YOU have made him a girl. He can’t even take a man’s beating and get on with his life. I shudder to think of how he will end up! He will probably end up in Paris, getting it up the ass like he deserves! That is all he is good for."

His mother did not dare say a word. The tears slid down her cheeks, and she rushed forward to help Gastien up off of the floor.

That’s right! his father spat. Run to him and baby him! All you are good for is spoiling our children. Get him out of my sight until he can work like a man! The sight of him has always made me sick! With that his father went back into their bedroom.

Gastien’s mother helped him to bed. He shared a bed with his brother Paul, who was pretending to be asleep. Gastien, I am sorry, so sorry, his mother whispered. Don’t listen to him. Don’t let him get to you. He is not a man, he is an animal! You be the man, and someday you will stand up to him. Just try to stay out of trouble until then. There is greatness in you, Gastien! I know that without a doubt.

Gastien was too weak to even answer. She left, returning with water and soap, cleaning his back carefully. She then wrapped him in bandages. I am sorry I can’t protect you. I am afraid he will kill all of us if I try! She then went downstairs, returning with a broth that made him sleep for quite some time. He stayed in bed for a few days, finally getting up for longer and longer periods, regaining his strength. He returned to the vegetable fields and was back to shoveling dung within the week.

He vowed he would do his best to please his father and try to work this farm until he was eighteen. Maybe if his father saw how hard he worked for the next two years, and how unhappy he still was, he would give him his blessing to go to Paris and attend Académie Julian. Académie Julian was a private art school, and Gastien knew it was expensive. If his father would give him a start he would work his way through. Surely if he worked hard enough and explained that he did not want the farm, his father would give him enough for a room while he worked to pay for school and food. He began to dream about when he would be eighteen and on his way to Paris.

The days turned into weeks, then months, and finally a year. At last two years had passed. Gastien would turn eighteen in a month. He had swallowed his pride and his desires, only drawing by candlelight late at night, and always up at dawn to begin work on the farm. He shoveled more dung than his father, pulled more weeds, picked more vegetables. He managed his siblings, and found that many of them actually enjoyed the farm work. That made them easy to be managed. Although his father never said it, many times young Gastien would glance up and see admiration in his father’s eyes. He knew his father thought he was finally doing a good job.

V

He knew he could not wait any longer. It was unfair to his siblings to do so, because the next oldest should start to be groomed for running the farm. He did not care that he would lose that right. Mon Dieu, he wanted out of there, and would never look back! He hoped the fils de pute that called himself their father died while shoveling shit. Gastien did his best to not let those feelings show.

Today he came in at mid-day for a break, deciding that this was the day. Instead of going back to work, he went to the river and washed himself up, putting on a clean set of clothes. He wanted to talk with his father, who had gone to Paris to sell vegetables and had left Gastien in charge. He should arrive home by late afternoon. Gastien wanted to catch him as soon as he arrived.

Gastien knew the farm looked good. His father should be able to see that he had done a great job of managing and be more open to hearing what Gastien’s dreams were. Surely it would not matter if his brother Paul took over, as long as a Beauchamp kept the farm. He should also see that Gastien was not asking for a free ride. Once he explained his plans for getting a job at a restaurant to pay for food and tuition to the art school in Paris, his father should be willing to help him with a small room. Nothing much, but enough so that he would not have to live in the streets. Gastien had worked the last two years for no wages. He could have left at sixteen and been employed somewhere else. If his father was any man at all he would be fair to his eldest son. Gastien could hear the approaching wagon. He went to stand inside the door, ready to make his stand as a man.

His father pulled up, yelling at Paul. PAUL! GET OVER HERE, TAKE THE HORSES, AND BRUSH THEM DOWN! MUST YOU STAND THERE LOOKING LIKE AN IMBECILE? As Paul approached the wagon, his father cuffed him in the head. Where is that lazy Gastien? Out playing with himself in the woods again? Jean laughed crudely.

Suddenly Gastien knew this would not go the way he had dreamed about for two years. He once again saw his father for what he was, not what he wanted him to be. Regardless, he knew he still had to try to explain. If he did not get out now he would forever lose his dream. Without that dream, his life might as well end. He could not be a farmer with a washed out wife and a dozen wailing brats to feed. Non, he was going to take this chance if it killed him! Nothing, not even his father’s wrath, was going to stop him now.

Gastien suddenly realized that he was finally bigger than his father, and Jean no longer scared him. His father only sickened him. As Jean approached, Gastien steeled himself to be civil. He concentrated on making his smile sincere as he asked:

How was your trip, Father? Did those Parisians once again try to take advantage of you?

Never! They know better than to try to trick Jean Beauchamp, his father bragged. That will be your next lesson, before you can even think of taking over. I want you to start acting as the price negotiator next year. We will go into the city together, and I will stand back to see how you do. It is important to learn not to back down to their demands, but to appear charming. Quite honestly, I doubt if you have it in you, Gastien. It will surprise me if you are a quick enough thinker.

His father entered the front room and sat down to pull off his boots. MARGUERITE! SOMETHING TO DRINK, FOR GOD’S SAKE! DON’T YOU HAVE A BRAIN IN YOUR HEAD? WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT ALL DAY WHILE I AM OUT BUSTING MY BALLS FOR THIS FAMILY?

I am getting some lemonade poured, Jean. I will be out there with it in just a minute, she called.

"LEMONADE? LEMONADE??? IS THIS A LADIES ÉCARTE PARTY? GIVE ME SOMETHING A MAN DRINKS! BRING ME A WHISKEY, AND DON’T DILLY DALLY! His father sighed and looked at Gastien. Gastien, I hope you also learn to never let a woman have the upper hand. Honestly, I don’t think they have it in them to make a decision based on common sense. What man drinks lemonade after driving a wagon all day?"

Marguerite hurried in with his drink and, hesitating, asked Gastien if he would like anything. Gastien would have loved some lemonade; it had been warm out in the fields. Still, he did not want to risk upsetting his father. He needed his father as calm as possible right now.

"Non, Mother, merci. Father, I want to talk to you about something important." Gastien concentrated on keeping his voice steady and calm.

Jean rolled his eyes and sighed. What went wrong while I was gone, or who didn’t pull their weight, and how much is it going to cost me to fix it? Can’t a man be gone a day or two without the whole farm coming down on his head?

Father, nothing happened to your farm. There is no problem with it. The only problem is that your farm is not the life that I want for myself. It was blurted out before Gastien could change his mind.

For once, there was total silence with his father present. His father stared at him. Gastien could see the disbelief slowly turn, first to puzzlement, and then to scorn.

Boy, what in hell is wrong with you? Do you know how hard I have worked to keep this farm a profitable business for our family? And you, as my first born son who inherits the right to run it, you have the gall to tell me it is not good enough for you? Exactly who do you think you are??? You are too good for your old man now?

I didn’t say that, Father. I know how hard you work. I know this is a successful farm, and one of the few this large to actually turn a decent profit. It is a business to be proud of. It is just not in my blood! Paul would be great at it, or several of the others, but not me. I simply don’t want to work it anymore. Gastien tried to calm his heart rate down. He did not want to appear anxious or weak.

His father had been standing open mouthed and now he snapped his mouth shut. Jean then downed his whiskey and moved closer to Gastien. You don’t WANT it anymore? You just kick it to the side and me along with it? Do you think you have so many choices with what you will do in life? You are lucky, LUCKY to have a business to take over. Do you want to starve in the streets, or what crazy notion do you have now?

I want to paint, Father. I want to go to art school. It is all I have ever wanted to do with my life! Gastien met his father’s eyes, refusing to be the first to look away. "I would work at a restaurant for the tuition and food. I was hoping that since I have been a good son working this farm the past two years that you would help me by paying for a small room, so that I could attend Académie Julian."

His father advanced on him quickly, raising his hand to slap him. Gastien stood his ground and grabbed his father’s hand before he could be hit.

"Non! Not this time, father. You won’t touch me anymore! I am bigger than you now, and I will not be hit or beaten again. Never again!" Gastien held his father’s arm firmly and stared him in the face.

His father’s face turned purple with rage. You little bastard! Who do you think you are talking to? Are you out of your mind? I would never, NEVER give you money for a room so that you could lounge around painting at some la-di-da art school! That is no living! There is no pride in that. You would make the name Beauchamp a joke! Beauchamp’s are farmers. Damn good ones! Jean then sneered, Artists are libertines who play with paints like little girls.

Then I will find a way on my own! I am giving you notice that I will leave at the end of November. That will get all winter vegetables in.

Gastien, if you walk out this door to go paint I don’t want you to return. I will disown you. That is final! Do you understand?

Gastien blinked back his tears. "Oui, Father. I understand completely. And I am giving you notice."

His father leaped at him and screamed, "WOMAN! ENCULÉ! YOU ARE DESTINED TO BE A BUGGERING FOP, BEGGING PEOPLE FOR MONEY IN THE GUTTERS!"

Gastien turned white, but managed to push Jean back. DON’T EVER CALL ME A WOMAN OR A GIRL AGAIN! I AM NOT A HOMOSEXUAL! I AM WARNING YOU!

YOU ARE NOT A SON! YOU ARE A WOMAN! his father yelled.

Gastien reacted without thinking. As his fist flew to his father’s face, he heard his mother screaming, "GASTIEN, NON!", but he could not have stopped the forward motion if he had wanted to. The anger that had built up over the years from all of the ridicule, condemnation, and assaults to his manhood finally surged up to his conscious mind. Before he knew it, his fist landed with a hard smack right to his father’s mouth. He felt the crunch of jaw or teeth breaking as his father staggered and then hit the floor.

Everyone in the household came running and stopped motionless at the spectacle of their father laid out, mouth bleeding profusely, groaning. As one, they gaped from Jean to Gastien and back again. No one dared to speak. They did not know if they were more afraid of father now or of the eldest son! One thing they all knew was they would not want to be Gastien when Father got his wits back.

His mother stood