“Don’t be so negative, Miss Devois,” Colin smiled. “You are my Juliet.”
Marie let out a glad cry. She grabbed Colin’s hand and kissed it enthusiastically. “Oh, sir, how I thank you! How I thank you!”
Simone saw that Colin was embarrassed, but he laughed and said, “You won’t be kissing my hand next week. You’ll probably be calling me vile names.”
“Never!”
“You say that now, but I intend to make this opera the finest in the country—even if I have to kill all of us to do it.”
“Nothing will be too demanding. Oh, Simone, did you hear?”
“Yes. I’m so happy for you, Marie.”
Colin said, “Rehearsal begins in the morning. Have a good break-fast. You’ll need it.” He gave a slight bow to Simone and said, “Good to see you again, Miss d’Or.”
“I think you’re making a wise choice, Mr. Seymour. Marie has a wonderful voice, and I know she’ll be a great success.”
“That’s why I chose her.” He turned and said, “Tomorrow at nine, Marie.”
“I’ll be there.”
Marie closed the door and flew to Simone. She picked up the smaller woman off the floor and practically crushed her. “Isn’t he wonderful?”
“Don’t break my ribs, Marie,” Simone said, laughing. But then she kissed Marie and said, “Congratulations. But as he said, you may hate him before it’s over.”
“Have you lost your mind? How can I hate a man who’s giving me this chance? Besides,” she said, and a smile spread across her face, “he’s rich and has a title and is good-looking and can sing like an angel. Do you think I’m going to disappoint a man like that? There will be some romantic love scenes in this opera, and I’m going to do what any diva would do.”
“What’s that?” Simone asked.
Marie’s eyes danced. “I’m going to be sure that not all the roman-tic love scenes take place on stage.”
Simone laughed, but she knew that Marie Devois was a passion-ate woman. “I don’t think he’s that kind of man,” she said.
“They are all that kind of a man when the right woman finds them.”
Chapter ten
“Bring another bottle—and be sure it’s not any of your rotgut. I want the best you have.” Claude Vernay, who was stooped over the table, lifted his head and glared at the waiter. “And bring some clean glasses. Don’t you ever wash dishes in this place?”
Byron Mayhew leaned back in his chair and studied Claude care-fully. He had joined Vernay at the Blue Rose, one of the less-attractive saloons in New Orleans, earlier in the evening. The two of them had played cards, and Vernay had drunk steadily from a full bottle that was now empty.
“You’re hitting that bottle pretty heavy, Claude.”
“So what? What are you, a preacher of some kind?”
Mayhew shrugged and glanced out at the dance floor, where Bayard d’Or was dancing with one of the hostesses of the Blue Rose. She was an overblown woman of some indeterminate age. Her face was painted, and her laughter was shrill. She was pressing herself as close to Bayard as she could, and her skimpy, low-cut dress left little to the imagination.
The cheap woman fit well in the Blue Rose, Mayhew thought. The room was hazy with smoke, and the smell of raw liquor, cheap per-fume, and cigar smoke made an unpleasant mixture that seemed to choke him. The piano against the wall made a cacophonous racket, and the dancers seemed to have no connection whatsoever with the music. Most of them staggered around the floor, clinging to each other. The sounds of quarrels and cursing and the high-pitched laugh-ter of the women was enough to deafen anyone.
“Let’s get out of here, Claude. This place is no good.”
“It’s good enough for you.”
“You’re quarrelsome tonight.”
“Why not? Do I have to be smiling all the time to make you happy?”
Mayhew did not answer. When Vernay was in one of these moods, there was no reasoning with him. He wondered why he wasted his time with Claude Vernay. They had been friends for years, but it seemed to Byron that the man was getting coarser. When he was younger, he had had flashing good looks and charm, but some-thing seemed to have gone wrong in Vernay’s life. He’s really going downhill fast, and I suspect it has something to do with his failure with Simone d’Or. Mayhew’s thoughts were interrupted as Leon Manville approached the table, dragging a tall woman with rouged cheeks and bad teeth. She had eyes harder than agates, and her smile was cold. “Come on, let’s have a drink, Roseanne.”
“Fine with me.” The woman fell into a seat, and as the waiter brought the bottle, Manville picked it up and stared at it. He was a tall man with dark brown hair and light hazel eyes. There was a coarseness in his face, and he had allowed himself to get out of condition so that his belly hung over his belt. “Everybody have a drink. Come on, Claude. You look like a funeral.”
Vernay glared at him and said, “Shut up, Leon, and keep your remarks to yourself.”
“What’s the matter with you? A fellow can’t say anything to you.” He poured the drinks for himself and the woman, they drank up, and then he dragged her out on the floor again.
“I’m about ready to get out of here, Claude. This place is depressing.”
“What’s your hurry? It’s only ten o’clock.”
Looking out on the floor, Byron kept his eyes fixed for a moment on Bayard, whose partner was practically pushing him around the floor. “Bayard’s drunk. He can barely stand up.”
“He can’t hold his liquor.”
“You’re not going to please Simone by getting her brother drunk.”
Claude tilted his glass up, drank the liquor, and then refilled it. “I can’t stop him from drinking. He’s a full-grown man.”
“But you could stay away from him. You told me how Simone felt about it. What’s the matter with you, Claude? You used to be brighter than that. You want to marry the woman, don’t you?”
“I will, too.”
“Not if you keep getting her brother drunk. Simone is a proud woman. The whole family is ashamed of Bayard, and you’ve become the villain in their eyes.”
Vernay shook his head and put both arms on the table. He stared at his hands, clasped them into fists, and looked up. His eyes were cloudy with drink, and he said harshly, “I can’t forget Seymour.”
“You’d better forget him, Claude.”
“He struck me and knocked me flat. You saw it.”
“He was younger then, and he was upset about his teacher. They were more than teacher and pupil, I think. The fact that the marquis made Seymour his heir proves that.”
“He thinks he’s something special with his singing and his title, but I haven’t forgotten. I’ll never forget.”
“There’s nothing you can do about it.”
“I can slice him to ribbons or put a bullet in his brain.”
“A duel? Don’t be a fool,” Byron said shortly. “He’s an important man. You got in trouble enough by shooting the old marquis.”
That was true enough, and it left a bitter picture in Vernay’s memory. After the duel, Vernay had lost his popularity. Shooting the older man in the back had not sat well even with the dueling element of New Orleans. Vernay protested that the man had whirled at the instant he shot, but few listened to him. He had also had a visit from the sheriff of the parish, who warned that he could bring charges against him. Somehow Vernay had escaped that, but the memory of it was still raw in his mind.
“Maybe I can’t fight a duel with him, but someone else could.” Vernay’s eyes lit up then, and he studied, as steadily as he could, the young man in front of him. Mayhew was a smaller man, slightly over five foot six. He had fair hair and steady gray eyes, and he was study-ing the law under an uncle. For some time Vernay and Mayhew had not been as close as in days gone by, and Vernay was aware of it. Still, he had to try. He leaned forward, his eyes taking in the younger man. “You could do it, Byron.”
“I could do what?”
“Y
ou could fight Seymour.”
Byron shook his head. “You’ve had a great deal too much to drink. In the first place, I could get killed, which would interfere with some things I’ve got planned. In the second place, I don’t have anything against the man. He hasn’t done anything to me. And in the third place, he’s a prominent man. Get that in your head, Claude. Anyone who kills him or even hurts him would be up for some pretty stiff charges. You almost went to jail for shooting the old man.”
“You’re making too much of it. He’s not that important.”
Byron shook his head. “I’m going. You’re not making any sense.”
“You’re not much of a friend, are you, Byron?”
“Not enough to kill another man for you. Take my advice, Claude: forget about this.”
Byron Mayhew got up and left. Leon Manville stumbled back and threw himself down in the chair that Mayhew had vacated. “Where’s Byron going?”
“Home, I guess. Who cares?” Vernay studied the other man, noting the brutality of the features. Leon Manville had come from a fairly good family, but when his family died, he had taken over the business and run it into the ground. He endured bankruptcy, and now he lived on a small annuity plus what he could pick up gambling.
Vernay studied Manville and made up his mind quickly. “You’ve been having a hard time. Short of money, aren’t you, Leon?”
Cursing, Manville poured another glass of whiskey, downed it, and slammed the glass on the table. “Yes, I’m short of money! I haven’t had the breaks.”
“You really haven’t. Things have been tough. Well, I’ve got a little job that needs doing that I’ll pay five hundred dollars for.”
Manville leaned forward. “Five hundred dollars? What’s the job?”
“You know the trouble I had with the marquis.”
“I heard about it. Shot the old buzzard in the back, didn’t you?”
“Wasn’t my fault. He turned just as I fired. But anyway, he’s dead now. He adopted a man named Seymour, and he’s the one you probably heard about that struck me after the duel.”
Manville laughed roughly. “I heard he put you right on your back.”
“He did, and I haven’t forgotten it. I can’t fight him because I’ve been warned off by the sheriff. But you could, Leon.”
Manville leaned forward. “You want me to put a bullet in him?”
“Yes, and I wouldn’t care if you put it right between his eyes.”
Manville was quiet for a moment, then he grinned. “I’ll do it for a thousand. Not a penny less.”
“We’ll talk about it.”
“Is he a good shot? Has he ever been called out?”
“I doubt it. Remember, Leon, this is strictly between us, and if it happens, you’ll have to make him challenge you. I know how you could do it: insult him in public. If he’s any kind of a man, he won’t stand for it.”
Manville rolled the glass around in his thick fingers while staring at his friend. “You carry a grudge pretty good.”
“It’s what I do best.”
Manville looked over at the dance floor and remarked, “Bayard’s really drunk. Maybe we’d better take him home.”
“Let the fool take care of himself.”
“That’s fine with me. About this job—are you in a hurry?”
“No. It’s got to look right. I’ll teach him that nobody can hit me and get by with it.”
“All right, d’Or, get up.”
Bayard had been lying on a cot that stank abominably. The light through the window of the jail struck him in the face, and he sat up slowly, holding his head. “What is it?” he groaned.
“You’re gettin’ out of here. Get your coat and your hat.”
Bayard slowly put on his coat, jammed his hat down on his head, and stumbled out of the cell. He followed the jailer down a long cor-ridor flanked by cells on both sides and passed through two doors, finally stepping into the main office of the city jail of New Orleans. He stopped abruptly, for his father was standing beside a long counter. Behind the counter an officer was filling out a paper. He said, “Sign right here, Mr. d’Or.”
Dreading what was to come, Bayard shuffled over to stand beside his father, who said nothing but signed the paper and handed over the cash that the officer demanded. Then Louis d’Or turned without a word and left the office. As Bayard followed him, one of the offi-cers laughed loudly, saying, “I’ll see you soon, Bayard. You like our accommodations. I reckon you’ll come back.”
The sunlight was bright in Bayard’s face. He waited for his father to speak, but the older man didn’t say a word. Bayard braced him-self for the lecture as the two walked down the boarded street. When they reached the carriage, Bayard started to get in, but his father stopped him.
“We’ve got to have an understanding.”
“All right, Father. Let’s have the sermon.”
“No sermon. Not this time.” Louis d’Or was flinty as a rock, and his eyes were hard and glittering. Something in them sobered up Bayard. He straightened his back and said, “I don’t want to hear any admonitions, Father.”
“You’re not going to hear any, but you’re going to hear an ulti-matum. I’ve put up with you as long as I intend to. You have embar-rassed your father and especially your mother. Both of us are ashamed to call you our son.” Louis d’Or had spoken this firmly before, but the disgrace that Bayard was bringing upon him made his face dark and drawn. His words were sharp, and they struck Bayard almost like bullets.
“I should have taken steps long before this. I was too lenient when you were younger, but I thought you had more stuff in you than to become a drunk and even worse. You’ve caroused with the worst kind of lowlife women in New Orleans. You come home stinking drunk, and your mother has to see you. Well, Bayard, I’m telling you right now:
I’ll have your word this moment that you will not drink anymore.”
“I’m old enough to make those decisions myself, Father.”
“Decisions for what? Decisions to stay a drunk? Is that what you want out of your life?”
Bayard felt the sting of his father’s words down to the very center of his spirit. It was not that he did not know what sort of life he was living, for he did. He had purposed many times to leave his lifestyle and change it for something better. Actually, he loved and revered his parents, but something in him kept him from embracing the life they desired for him. The memories of past scenes like this one flashed before him. Always before his father had relented, and as Bayard faced him, he expected the same thing now.
“I can’t promise you I won’t drink anymore. I’m not a boy, Father.”
“No, you’re not a boy. You’re a miserable excuse for a man.”
“I won’t hear that kind of talk!”
“You’ll hear it from me right now. You don’t understand, Bayard. I’m telling you, unless I have your word right now that you’ll change your life and stop this useless drunkenness and chasing after women, I’ll not have you in my home.”
“That suits me fine.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Bayard regretted them. He said, “All I can promise is I’ll try to do better.”
“I’ve heard that before, Bayard. It won’t work this time. Give me your word right now. No more drinking at all, and no more of the company you’ve been keeping.”
“I can’t give that word to you. I’m a grown man.”
“All right. I’ll have your things sent to you. I don’t want you com-ing back to my house.”
“You’re throwing me out?”
“You’re throwing yourself out, Bayard! I was so proud when you were born, and when you were growing up, I saw a goodness in you—a lot of your mother. But when you grew into manhood, you began to take the wrong paths. I wasn’t stern enough with you then. Maybe it’s too late, but I’m starting now. Send word where you want your things sent. And don’t come to me for money, for you won’t get any.” Louis climbed into the carriage, shut the door, and then l
eaned out of the window. “Your mother and I will pray for you, but until you change your ways, you are no longer my son. Go on, Robert.”
The carriage driver spoke to the horses, and they started out at a brisk trot.
As soon as Louis got home, he went to his wife. She was in the parlor, sewing, and when she looked up and saw his face, she asked, “What’s wrong?”
Louis sat down beside her on the sofa and took her hand. “I got Bayard out of jail.”
“Well, that’s good. Where is he?”
“He’s not coming home. Not until he changes his ways, Renee.”
“What do you mean, ‘not coming home’?” Renee dropped her sewing and turned to face him. “What happened?”
“I gave him an ultimatum. We can’t go on as we have been, and I told him so. In a way it’s my fault, I suppose. I did a poor job of rais-ing him.”
“You were always a good father.”
“No, I wasn’t. I was too indulgent. Both of us were, I think.”
Renee began to cry. She pulled out a handkerchief and buried her face in it, sobbing softly. Louis put his arm around her and said, “I know this is hard on you, but we’re going to have to let him find out for himself what life is really like.”
At that moment Simone entered the room and was startled by her mother’s weeping. “What’s wrong?” She sat in the chair across from them as her father explained what had happened. Her face grew still, and she said, “I’m not sure that’s the right thing to do, Father.”
“There’s nothing else left to do.”
“But if we cut ourselves off from him completely, we won’t have any influence on him.”
“Influence! What kind of influence do we have now?” Louis said in an agonized voice. He got up and began to pace the floor. “I know you two are opposed to this, but he’s going to ruin himself completely if something isn’t done.”
Both Simone and Renee knew that when Louis d’Or was in a mood like this, there was no arguing with him. He had made up his mind. Still, Renee said, “He’ll starve on his own.”
“Let him go hungry. He’ll come back one day when he finds out what it’s like out there in the real world.”
The Creole Historical Romance 4-In-1 Bundle Page 63
