The war had definitely established the importance of Atlanta in the affairs of the South and the hitherto obscure town was now known far and wide. The railroads for which Sherman had fought an entire summer and killed thousands of men were again stimulating the life of the city they had brought into being. Atlanta was again the center of activities for a wide region， as it had been before its destruction， and the town was receiving a great influx of new citizens， both welcome and unwelcome.
Invading Carpetbaggers made Atlanta their headquarters and on the streets they jostled against representatives of the oldest families in the South who were likewise newcomers in the town. Families from the country districts who had been burned out during Sherman’s march and who could no longer make a living without the slaves to till the cotton had come to Atlanta to live. New settlers were coming in every day from Tennessee and the Carolinas where the hand of Reconstruction lay even heavier than in Georgia. Many Irish and Germans who had been bounty men in the Union Army had settled in Atlanta after their discharge. The wives and families of the Yankee garrison， filled with curiosity about the South after four years of war， came to swell the population. Adventurers of every kind swarmed in， hoping to make their fortunes， and the negroes from the country continued to come by the hundreds.
The town was roaring—wide open like a frontier village， making no effort to cover its vices and sins. Saloons blossomed overnight， two and sometimes three in a block， and after nightfall the streets were full of drunken men， black and white， reeling from wall to curb and back again. Thugs， pickpockets and prostitutes lurked in the unlit alleys and shadowy streets. Gambling houses ran full blast and hardly a night passed without its shooting or cutting affray. Respectable citizens were scandalized to find that Atlanta had a large and thriving red-light district， larger and more thriving than during the war. All night long pianos jangled from behind drawn shades and rowdy songs and laughter floated out， punctuated by occasional screams and pistol shots. The inmates of these houses were bolder than the prostitutes of the war days and brazenly hung out of their windows and called to passers-by. And on Sunday afternoons， the handsome closed carriages of the madams of the district rolled down the main streets， filled with girls in their best finery， taking the air from behind lowered silk shades.
Belle Watling was the most notorious of the madams. She had opened a new house of her own， a large two-story building that made neighboring houses in the district look like shabby rabbit warrens. There was a long barroom downstairs， elegantly hung with oil paintings， and a negro orchestra played every night. The upstairs， so rumor said， was fitted out with the finest of plush upholstered furniture， heavy lace curtains and imported mirrors in gilt frames. The dozen young ladies with whom the house was furnished were comely， if brightly painted， and comported themselves more quietly than those of other houses. At least， the police were seldom summoned to Belle’s.
This house was something that the matrons of Atlanta whispered about furtively and ministers preached against in guarded terms as a cesspool of iniquity， a hissing and a reproach. Everyone knew that a woman of Belle’s type couldn’t have made enough money by herself to set up such a luxurious establishment. She had to have a backer and a rich one at that. And Rhett Butler had never had the decency to conceal his relations with her， so it was obvious that he and no other must be that backer. Belle herself presented a prosperous appearance when glimpsed occasionally in her closed carriage driven by an impudent yellow negro. When she drove by， behind a fine pair of bays， all the little boys along the street who could evade their mothers ran to peer at her and whisper excitedly： “That’s her！ That’s ole Belle！ I seen her red hair！”
Shouldering the shell-pitted houses patched with bits of old lumber and smoke-blackened bricks， the fine homes of the Carpetbaggers and war profiteers were rising， with mansard roofs， gables and turrets， stained-glass windows and wide lawns. Night after night， in these newly built homes， the windows were ablaze with gas light and the sound of music and dancing feet drifted out upon the air. Women in stiff bright-colored silks strolled about long verandas， squired by men in evening clothes. Champagne corks popped， and on lace tablecloths seven-course dinners were laid. Hams in wine， pressed duck， p？té de foie gras， rare fruits in and out of season， were spread in profusion.
Behind the shabby doors of the old houses， poverty and hunger lived—all the more bitter for the brave gentility with which they were borne， all the more pinching for the outward show of proud indifference to material wants. Dr. Meade could tell unlovely stories of those families who had been driven from mansions to boarding houses and from boarding houses to dingy rooms on back streets. He had too many lady patients who were suffering from “weak hearts” and “declines.” He knew， and they knew he knew， that slow starvation was the trouble. He could tell of consumption making inroads on entire families and of pellagra， once found only among poor whites， which was now appearing in Atlanta’s best families. And there were babies with thin rickety legs and mothers who could not nurse them. Once the old doctor had been wont to thank God reverently for each child he brought into the world. Now he did not think life was such a boon. It was a hard world for little babies and so many died in their first few months of life.
Bright lights and wine， fiddles and dancing， brocade and broadcloth in the showy big houses and， just around the corners， slow starvation and cold. Arrogance and callousness for the conquerors， bitter endurance and hatred for the conquered.
CHAPTER XXXVIII