Armand cried out with joy, “My son—my son! How happy you have made me! Now, give Him your life, my dear boy. Serve God with all your heart!”
The marquis lay quietly for five minutes, and then suddenly he stiffened, and his eyes opened. Colin saw that his life was fading. Armand smiled and put his hand up to touch Colin’s cheek. “Good-bye, my beloved son.”
The arm grew limp, and Armand lay very still. For fifteen minutes he lingered, and then he simply stopped breathing. Colin stood over the bed, holding the frail hand in his own. Tears filled his eyes. He leaned over, kissed the thin cheek, and whispered, “Good-bye, best of men.”
“I don’t understand what you’re doing,” Philippe said. “You are now the marquis, Lord Beaufort. Why are you leaving France for that awful country of yours?”
Colin was packing one of his trunks. He was taking most of his clothes with him. Three months had passed since the death of the marquis. The legal work had been done, many papers had been signed, and now Colin Seymour was the Marquis Lord Beaufort. He himself preferred the simple American name, but everyone on the staff and the lawyers insisted on calling him Lord Beaufort. “Why must you go to America? The last time you went, it was nothing but a tragedy,” Philippe protested.
Colin dropped the shirt into the trunk and turned to face Philippe. He smiled. “I promised Armand that I would follow Christ, but first, before I begin that life—” He hesitated and then said, “I have business.”
Suddenly Philippe, who, though uneducated, was a clever man, watched Colin carefully. His eyes narrowed, and he said, “It has some-thing to do with the man who shot the master, doesn’t it?”
Colin shook his head. “I refuse to talk about it. Let us just say that I have a chore to do before I can really begin living.”
Philippe gripped the young man’s shoulder. “You are now Lord Beaufort, but I think of you as the young man who came years ago. I never thought you would become anything, but now you are a man. And I say to you: avenge Armand de Cuvier!”
“That is exactly what I plan to do, Philippe. Then I will come back here.”
“It will be lonely until you return.” Philippe suddenly reached out, put his massive arms around the younger man and squeezed him, then turned and left the room abruptly. Colin stared after him, and his lips tightened. “Yes, just one more chore to do, and then I can think about life itself.”
PART TWO
• 1838 •
Simone
Chapter seven
The d’Or family usually gathered in the parlor after dinner if they were not going out. The parlor was one of the most comfortable rooms in the house. The large room was decorated very warmly with dark-green paint on the walls and brown rugs scattered on the highly polished wooden floor. The furniture—a large sofa, two side chairs, and three easy chairs—was upholstered in green damask and had hand-carved arms and legs of dark mahogany. The walls were deco-rated with colorful landscape paintings framed in gold and dark wood, and the fireplace was made of white marble with flecks of gold running through it. A small table, flanked by two of the easy chairs, had a brass and wooden chess set on it, and a desk took its place beside one of the two large windows along one wall.
Ordinarily Simone played either the harp or the pianoforte, both instruments she had mastered, but on this particular night she was engrossed in a new novel and had begged off. Her mother was work-ing on one of her interminable bits of sewing, while her father read the newspaper thoroughly. He was not a man who loved literature but studied the paper as if it were Holy Scripture.
Noticing his daughter’s intense concentration, Louis asked, “What are you reading now, Simone?”
Looking up, Simone smiled. “A new novel by the Englishman Charles Dickens. It’s called Oliver Twist.”
“What’s it about, my dear?” Renee asked. She was not a reader herself but was proud that her daughter was.
“It’s about a young boy, an orphan, who has a terrible life. He goes to London and is made into a thief by an awful Jew named Fagin. Before that, he had spent a terrible time in a poorhouse. It’s very moving.”
Louis d’Or shook his head with disbelief. “I don’t see why you want to read such sordid books. Surely there must be more pleasant novels.”
“I suppose there are, Papa, but Dickens has the ability to make things so real.”
“Those novels! They’re all nothing but lies. Just stuff made up out of some man’s head. If you want reality, listen to this.” He began to read from the paper.
More than fourteen thousand members of the Cherokee Nation from tribal lands in Georgia, Alabama, and Tennessee have been pulled up from their homes and transported eight hundred miles to the Indian Territory west of the Red River. General Winfield Scott oversaw the move in which it was estimated four thousand people, mostly infants, children and old people, died—most of them of whooping cough, pneu-monia and tuberculosis.
He lowered the paper and said, “There’s real tragedy for you. Not something made up out of a book.”
Simone looked at her father in disbelief. “Why did they move the Indians out of their homes?”
“Because they stand in the way of progress, my dear. It’s the old story. The weak must give way to the strong.”
“Well, I think it’s terrible,” Renee said indignantly, putting down her sewing. “After all, the Indians were here before we were.”
Louis laughed. He was a jovial man who could find humor in most situations. “If we followed that line of thinking, the Indians would be sitting on this very spot, naked and killing each other off with tribal wars. You wouldn’t have this beautiful home if somebody hadn’t moved them out.”
“Well, I don’t like to hear about such things as that. Please don’t read any more, Louis,” Renee said and went back to her sewing.
“None of us likes to hear about terrible things, but they exist. As a matter of fact, I think a real tragedy is shaping up for this country.”
“What do you mean, Papa?” Simone asked. She knew her father kept up with current events, and she herself was interested.
“This slavery thing, daughter. It’s going to blow up like a bomb one day.”
“I suppose you’re right. I read the other day in the paper that the abolitionists in the North have organized some sort of method of stealing slaves and taking them to nothern cities and Canada.”
“That’s right,” Louis said, “and it’s going to cause trouble. It’s called the Underground Railroad.”
“What in the world is that—a train?”
“No, not a real train, my dear. It’s just a manner of speaking. The abolitionists steal slaves from those of us who own them in the South and spirit them away. They take them to where slavery is illegal.”
“Not everyone in the North is sympathetic to that, Papa. A mob in Philadelphia burned down a hall there where people were having antislavery meetings.”
“People in the North don’t understand our problems. How in the world would we raise rice or cotton without slaves to do it? It takes a lot of people. We couldn’t afford to pay hired hands.”
The three sat talking about political problems, primarily about slavery, until Louis drew out his watch and opened the case. “Why, it’s getting late,” he said. “Where in the world is Bayard?”
“He went out with some friends,” Renee said.
Louis snapped the case shut, rubbed the back of the golden surface with his thumb, and shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going to become of that boy if he doesn’t settle down.”
“Well, he’s young, dear.”
“He’s twenty-five years old!” Louis snapped. He tugged at his whiskers and stared moodily at the picture on the wall across the room from him for a moment before answering. “I don’t like this notion of his of being an artist anyway.”
“But Papa, he’s so talented,” Simone said. “Monsieur Dupree at the art institute said he could be a great painter.” Simone had softened in recent years after wat
ching the struggles of her younger brother.
“He’d be better off painting houses or doing something practical.”
“But suppose there were no painters,” she said, quick to defend her brother. “Look at how these pictures brighten up our room.”
“That’s all very well, but Bayard doesn’t work at it. I don’t think he’s serious. It’s not too late for him to find a real profession. He could become a lawyer.”
“Bayard would hate that,” Simone countered. “He’s a young man of imagination, and staying in a stuffy old office all day and studying dull documents would kill his spirit.”
“Well, he’s headed the wrong way.”
“Don’t be so hard on him, dear. He’ll find his way,” Renee said. “After all, he’s—”
A sudden loud knocking at the door brought Renee d’Or’s words to a halt. She said, “Who in the world can that be at this time of the night? It can’t be Bayard. He wouldn’t knock.”
“The servants must have gone to bed. I’ll see,” Simone said. She got up and walked quickly from the room, then turned down the wide hallway and passed through the foyer. She opened the door and saw her brother, Bayard, and Claude Vernay. She caught a quick breath, for Vernay was practically supporting Bayard, who was obviously inebriated.
“I brought the wandering prodigal home, Simone,” Claude said. He shook his head and said, “I’m afraid he’s a bit the worse for drink.”
“Come in, Claude.” Simone drew the door back and moved to help support Bayard, who was slumping in Claude’s grip. He opened his eyes and stared at her. “Who’s this? Oh, Simone, it’s you.”
“You’re drunk!” Simone said with disgust.
“Not drunk. Just had enough.”
“Will you help me get him to his room, Claude?”
“Certainly.”
The two steered Bayard down the hall, but when they got to the parlor door, Louis and Renee stepped out. Louis glared at his son and shook his head with disgust. “He’s drunk again.”
“No, not drunk, Father,” Bayard grinned foolishly.
Louis said, “Claude, I’ve spoken to you about this before. You’re ruining Bayard.”
“Not me, sir,” Claude protested. “I was home in bed. Leon Manville came and got me up. Bayard was in trouble, he said, so I got dressed, and the two of us went down. We pulled him out of a rough place. He was trying to fight everybody, but I had nothing to do with it.”
“Well, I apologize, Claude. Here, let me take him upstairs. Come on, Bayard.”
“I’ll go with you,” Renee said. The two held onto Bayard, who began singing a drinking song at the top of his lungs. His words were slurred as they led him down the hall.
“Come into the parlor, Claude, and tell me what happened,” Simon said after they had settled Bayard in his bed. Simone led him into the parlor and turned to face him. “I’m sorry you had to be dragged into all this.”
“It’s all right. I was glad I was there. It could have been rather nasty.”
Simone could not think of anything proper to say. She knew that Claude had been a bad influence in many ways on Bayard, although he professed to care for her brother. He was the sort of man who had influence—of a certain type—over others. She sat down in one of the easy chairs, saying, “Here, come and tell me all about it.”
Claude sat in another of the easy chairs and told her the details. “I know you think I’m a bad influence on Bayard, but honestly, I’m going to try to help him slow down on the drinking.”
“I hope you can. He’s throwing his life away,” Simone said. “I wish he’d stop drinking and start working more on his painting.”
“I’ll talk to him about that. I have already, but he’s young.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“No, I suppose it isn’t. I’m no priest to preach at a fellow, but I’ll do the best I can with Bayard.”
“I’d appreciate that, Claude.”
“I haven’t been able to see much of you lately. Have you been avoiding me?”
“Of course not.”
Claude studied her. He had pursued the woman for years, for the last year in the most fervent way he knew how. He reached over, took her hand, and said, “Have you thought about us, Simone?”
Simone let her hand remain in Claude’s. He was a strong man, virile, and he had a streak of romanticism in him. He was easily bored, she knew that, and had enough money that he did not need to work. He had a taste for the arts, and she had thought about his proposal long and hard. She could not explain to herself why she did not accept him—only a short while ago, she would have, but she had seen a rash and fiery temper in him. It seemed he was ungovernable, and of course, she knew his record of dueling. It was something that she was coming to find less and less appealing. At first such things had been romantic to her, but a good friend, Charles Daschelle, with a bright future, a young bride, and a young son, had died in a duel. It was a foolish, useless duel over a hand of cards.
“I just don’t think I’m ready for marriage, Claude.”
“Why, you’re twenty-four years old. Many of your schoolmates have already married.”
“That’s true, but I’m just not ready.” She stood up and said, “I’m really upset tonight, Claude. I can’t talk about this.”
“Well, come for a ride with me tomorrow.”
“All right, Claude.”
He reached out to embrace her, but she put her hand on his chest. “Not now. I’m just too worried about Bayard.”
“All right. I’ll be by tomorrow about one o’clock.”
“That will be fine. And thank you for bringing Bayard home.”
After showing Claude out, she went upstairs to find her mother coming out of Bayard’s room. “How is he, mother?”
“He’s drunk. How else can I put it?” It was unusual for Renee d’Or to be bitter. She was a sweet woman, agreeable almost to a fault, but now she was depressed. “Our only son, and he’s a drunkard.”
Simone put her arm around her mother. Squeezing her, she said, “You mustn’t worry about it. It will come out all right.”
“I don’t see how. I don’t see anything but trouble ahead for him.”
“Go to bed, mother, and try to rest.”
She watched as her mother walked down the hall and then looked at Bayard’s door. She herself had become doubtful about her brother’s life. They had been very close as youngsters, but Bayard had pulled away after getting caught up with the young bucks of New Orleans. Now Simone shook her head and went to her room, falling into bed soon after.
Sleep would not come, and she recalled Claude’s words, “Many of your schoomates have already married.” The words evoked memories of when she and her three friends who had been called the Four Musketeers during their schooldays at the convent. Simone had a vivid memory, and she relived the last time the four of them had been together . . .
The party was noisy, but none of the guests was more lively than Assumpta Damita de Salvedo y Madariaga! She floated around the room, followed by young men, but she refused them all. She drew her three friends Chantel Fontaine, Leonie Dousett, and Simone to her, saying, “Come, let’s hide ourselves and gossip!” Her dark eyes flashed, and she ran through the large room, leading the others outside. When they were alone, she said, “I’m going to tell your fortunes.”
“Why, fortune-telling is wicked!” Leonie Dousett was the least impressive of the three girls. She did not have the dark beauty of Damita, the blonde attractiveness of Simone, or the prettiness of Chantel—indeed, many considered her flatly unattractive. But there was a steadiness in her gray eyes, and her modest air set her off well in most company.
“Then we’ll be wicked,” Damita said, grinning. “Give me your hand, Leonie.” Ignoring the girl’s protests, she took her hand and studied it. “Ah, you will have a sea voyage—and you will meet a very handsome and dar-ing and rich man! He will fall madly in love with you. He is of noble blood! You will be Lady Leonie!”
> Leonie pulled her hand away, laughing. “That is your fortune, not mine, Damita.”
“Here, tell my fortune,” Chantel said, extending her hand. She was a quiet girl who had grown even more reserved after the death of her father.She had an unfortunate history, losing her father, mother, and for a time, her only sister. But tragedy had not defeated her, and she smiled as Damita began to make wild predictions of her future. They all involved rich young men who were ready to die for her.
“I wish one of them were here now,” Chantel laughed. “I don’t need half a dozen—one would be plenty.”
“Now you, Simone,” Damita said, taking her hand. “Ah, I see a troubled future! You will have grief and loss.”
Simone laughed and said, “No, tell me good things, as you’ve done to the others.”
Damita grew serious. “You probably will have trouble, Simone—but then, we all will. Life is like that.”
Simone started as the memory came sharp and clear. She had kept up with the other girls after a fashion and knew that they were well—but none of the three had found a rich husband. She could not help thinking of how close the four of them had been, and now they were almost like strangers! A pang ran though her, sharp and keen, at the thought that something precious had been lost. She whispered, “I’ll have to get in touch with them.” But she knew that she probably would not. Life was like that—you touched a life and felt its power, and then it drifted away and became only a memory.
Rising early the next morning, Simone had breakfast with her father, and then accompanied him to his office—at least as far as the shops. She kissed him and stepped out of the carriage, saying, “I’ll need some money, Papa.”
“You always do,” Louis said. He sighed with resignation and handed her some bills from his pocket. “Simone, I’m upset about Bayard.”
“So am I, but we’ll both talk to him.”
“We’ve talked and talked, but nothing’s come of it. Come by and have lunch with me.”
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