“You are not aware?” cried Duralde, aghast. “Why, Mardi Gras is the birthday of this town and territory. It was on Mardi Gras in 1699 that the brothers Le Moyne entered the Mississippi and determined to found a great city. We Creoles have remembered the day ever since.”
Ben and Casimir received their share of invitations, and danced several times a week.
One event of that February was hailed as a date to be remembered in history—the presentation of a play at the Theatre Saint Philip on February 12. Amateurs of fashionable families played the various roles, and the profits were to go to the Charitable Society of the City of New Orleans, for the benefit of orphans. What intrigued all who read the announcements in the papers was that this would be a play in English, first of its kind ever to be seen in public in this town of Creoles —Robert Coleman’s The Poor Gentleman, a comedy recently successful in London.
Almost everyone Ben knew bought tickets, and on the night of the performance the Theatre Saint Philip was filled, pit and boxes and gallery. To Ben and Casimir, sitting in the dress circle, the audience seemed almost exactly divided between Creoles and Americans. The curtain rose on a swiftly unfolding series of amusing adventures that befell the family of Lieutenant Worthington, a poverty-stricken retired officer of the British army. His pretty daughter’s heart was besieged by the dissolute Sir Charles Cropland and by the gay, personable nephew of Sir Charles’s neighbor, Bramble. More broadly funny were the exchanges between old Corporal Foss and a stupid farm boy who yearned for military life, and the sallies of a comic doctor eager for rank in the country militia. And the climax was a challenge to a duel, the peculiar terms of which intrigued the many young gentlemen in the audience who themselves had figured in duels as principals or seconds.
Between acts, Ben and Casimir paid their respects at the box where the O’Rourkes sat. Half a dozen visitors were already gathered there, including Bernard de Marigny and Horner Banton.
uDites done, Ben,” said De Marigny, “how many challenges will you offer to the players and the managers because of this comedy?”
“Why should I offer any?” asked Ben.
“I could name half a dozen good reasons,” De Marigny pretended to count on his fingers. “Corporal Foss derides the militia, and you are with the Voltigeurs. There are irregularities in the arrangements for the duel, which you should surely take as a personal affront. And Lieutenant Worthington’s red coat, as a British uniform, is resented by all patriotic Americans these days, no? Come, shall I write your various demands for satisfaction?”
“Write no such demands to folk who will return the most emphatic of refusals,” Horner Banton answered for Ben. “Our young friend here is nobody to dispute with, even in joke. Hark ye, I saw what he did this last week in the courtyard behind the Cafe des Exiles. After enough of us persuaded him, he took a pistol in each hand, and a waiter tossed up two oranges at once. Ben drilled both the oranges before they struck the ground—one high in air, the other as it dropped low. That sort of marksmanship isn’t attractive when it’s practiced on you.”
“And he improves himself daily with the sword, or so I am told by Joseph Gamier,” elaborated De Marigny.
“In any case, there’s a reception on stage after the final curtain,” said Banton, “and I’m invited. I hope, Ben, that you and Casimir will come with me and meet some of those who are playing so well.”
“Pray take me, Monsieur Banton,” said Casimir, “and be sure to present me to the young lady who takes the role of Lieutenant Worthington’s daughter.”
“Please excuse me,” said Ben. “Tomorrow must see me early at my office.”
“Then another time, perhaps,” said Banton. “Casimir, Pll rely on your company.”
But during the final act Casimir so stubbornly urged Ben to stay with him for the reception that, almost at the last minute, Ben agreed to do so. They sat through the short farce, The Weathercocky that followed The Poor Gentleman, and then sought out Banton in the lobby. He seemed glad to hear that Ben had changed his mind, and so did De Marigny when he joined them. After the rest of the audience had departed, these four mounted the stage and paid their compliments to those who had acted in the two plays. When they were ready to leave, Casimir insisted that both Banton and De Marigny come to the Beaumont house for refreshment, and so energetically did he plead that at last all four rode away together in De Marigny’s carriage.
Monsieur Beaumont was sitting in the drawing room, and made them welcome.
“Ben,” he said, “you have some sort of admirer, as I think. Not many minutes ago a messenger came to the door and left with Archimede a package to be given to you.”
The package lay on the writing desk. It was square, the size of a thick book, and securely wrapped in watered white silk, with red ribbon tied around it in a bow. Ben picked it up and examined it.
“From a lady, Pll engage,” said De Marigny. “But who?”
“There’s no name on it,” reported Ben. “I wonder what it is.”
“Open it and see,” suggested Casimir.
“They are sharp-witted, these Creoles,” said Ben to Banton. “Maybe they catch it from us Americans. They always have brilliant suggestions.”
He tried the knot, but it was drawn too tight for his fingers. Taking a penknife from the writing desk, he thrust the blade under the ribbon.
“Wait! ” cried Banton, so suddenly and commandingly that Ben looked up at him in surprise.
“Sir?”
“You don’t know who sent that package,” Banton reminded him. “Have you expected a package of any sort?”
“Why, no, not I. But—”
“Then think twice before opening it. Have you forgotten an attempt lately made against your life?”
Ben stared at the worried expression on Banton’s strong- featured face. The big man actually looked pale.
“There can hardly be an assassin inside this,” laughed Ben, and again he inserted the knife blade under the ribbon.
With a quick stride, Banton was close to him and snatched knife and package away. “Take care!” he almost barked.
Startled and angry, Ben reached for the package again, but Banton held it out of his reach.
“Ben,” he said earnestly, “I remind you that—someone we both know has told you to guard against danger at all times. This may be an innocent giftj again, it may be dangerous.”
“How, dangerous?” challenged De Marigny, staring at the parcel. “Suffer me to look.”
“Be careful,” warned Banton, passing it over.
De Marigny took it in his hands, weighed it carefully, then bent his ear to detect any possible sound. “Now that you speak thus,” he said, “I do think it is notably heavy. Perhaps you are right, Monsieur, it may not be as innocent as it seems. What do you suggest?”
“Well,” said Banton impressively, “a careful examination before opening. Ben, my apologies for being abrupt just now. But I was thinking of your safety.”
“Pm not offended.” Ben looked at the package in De Marigny’s hands, and suddenly it seemed to be full of a baleful mystery.
“Do you think that it can be some machine that will explode if I open it?” he demanded of the whole staring company.
“The thought certainly entered my mind,” said Banton grimly. “The Emperor Napoleon narrowly escaped death from such a trick.”
“I’m no Emperor Napoleon—” Ben started to say, then paused. He remembered Governor Claiborne’s reminder that stealthy enemies attached a strange importance to Ben’s person and behavior.
“Let us put it into the hands of the authorities to examine,” suggested Monsieur Beaumont.
“No need for that,” said Banton, taking the package again. “Come.”
He walked purposefully out of the drawing room and toward the rear of the house. Ben and the others followed without speaking. In the courtyard, Banton motioned for all to stand clear.
“Are you well back?” he asked. “All of you? Good.”
&n
bsp; He threw the package. It flew the length of the courtyard and smote against the foot of the far wall.
There was a flash of fire, a sudden deafening roar like the firing of a cannon. Monsieur Beaumont called for Archimede, who hurried out with a lighted lamp. All walked forward, while Archimede held the lamp high so that they could see.
The explosion had torn a shrub to rags, and the bricks of the rear wall showed sooty and shaken, with flakes of plaster gone from between them. Earth and sod and shrubs were tossed and stirred, as though by a mighty pitchfork.
“What was that?” called a voice. Colonel O’Rourke leaned from an upper window at the rear of his house.
“Only target practice, Colonel,” called back Horner Ban- ton, and then he knelt. He picked up a splinter of glass, held it to his handsome nose, and sniffed thoughtfully.
“Phosphorus,” he decided. “It must have been sealed in a glass phial, next to gunpowder. Had Ben opened the package, it would have exploded the powder.” He rose and faced Ben solemnly. “Your great good luck has been with you again.”
“Indeed it has,” said Ben, fighting to keep the shaking from his voice and limbs. “My luck was in bringing you home with me.”
“That is true,” seconded Casimir. “It was Monsieur Ban- ton who stopped Ben from cutting the ribbon and opening the bomb.”
“And all of us might have been killed, but for Monsieur Banton’s wisdom,” added De Marigny gratefully. “My friends, what are we to think of this? What shall we tell the people of New Orleans?”
“Tell them nothing,” said Ben promptly, and his voice rang with a note of command. All of them looked at him.
“How, tell them nothing?” cried De Marigny in amazement. “But everyone must know of this cowardly attempt—” “No, Ben’s right,” interrupted Banton. “There are excellent reasons that concern our territory—our state now— to make us keep quiet. De Marigny, you do not know what the rest of us happen to know, but accept the word of us all that it is a matter of necessity to refrain from mentioning this bomb.”
De Marigny stared, then shrugged. “As you wish. I trust your reasons, and you may trust my discretion. But it seems—” “Please,” broke in Banton again, “don’t question us, only believe us. Give us your word of honor to say nothing.”
De Marigny crinkled his brow. “I have already said that I would seal my lips. I only ask to know why.”
“And in good time you shall know,” promised Banton, “and you will applaud our decision. In any case, no harm has come to anything but one corner of Monsieur Beaumont’s garden. Shall we return to the house?”
As they went back, Banton put his hand on Ben’s shoulder.
“I’d be obliged for a few words apart with you,” he whispered.
“If you’ll come upstairs, sir.”
Ben took Archimede’s lamp and led the way up. When he and Banton were in his room, Banton clasped his hands behind his back, sank his square chin on his cravat, and gazed at Ben.
“That was a close call, my young friend,” he said. “As close, indeed, as I care to witness, and I don’t account myself timid. You seem to be taking it mighty sturdily.”
“Maybe I’m slow to realize what almost happened.”
Banton smiled, without mirth. “Zounds, danger begins to be your daily companion. Don’t become so used to it as to feel contempt. Make sure in your mind that your escape this night was so narrow as to be almost no escape at all. You were closer to death than you were when Roy Kirwin faced you with a pistol in his hand and murder in his heart.”
“I’ll open no more strange packages,” promised Ben. “As Casimir said, you happened to stop me before I cut that ribbon.”
“Be thankful for your safety,” said Banton, “and tell nobody. I myself will carry the news to the Governor.”
They went downstairs again. De Marigny and Banton departed. Ben returned to his room and lay awake for hours, wondering who had sent him the package.
And now the days were few until Mardi Gras. This year, the holiday would fall early, on February 17, but the weather was as balmy as the middle of spring. Tailors and shopkeepers of the town were besieged with orders for costumes.
Casimir purchased two masks and brought them home.
They were large and elaborate, made to fit over the entire head. One, which he had chosen for himself, was dark red and grotesque, with a great hooked nose and a grinning mouth set full of fangs. The other he presented to Ben. It had ridiculously wide ears and a mighty tussock of black beard and mustache.
“For years there was a rule against wearing masks,” Casimir told his friend. “In the Spanish days, too many maskers went out to rob instead of to revel. Again, the ban was invoked in 1806, when the authorities were afraid that Aaron Burr might start a rebellion here on Mardi Gras. But it has never been a happy rule. There will be no processions, of course, but this year it may be difficult to see anyone’s real face in New Orleans. What will you wear for your costume?” “My uncle’s lending me the robes of a Turkish pirate,” said Ben. “A sea captain brought them to him all the way from Barbary, and he says he used to wear them on Mardi Gras. But he’s grown too plump, and they fit me exactly.”
“You will make a splendid infidel. As for me, I have provided the clothes of a Choctaw chief—mantle, leggings, and feathers. When we are dressed and masked, we will be the most savage pair in all the territory.”
“Tell nobody what we wear,” counseled Ben. “We still may find some clue to that Spanish plot we’re worried about.” “I won’t,” Casimir promised him. “We’ll dress in our rooms and slip out a back way when the crowd grows thick. You haven’t seen New Orleans, my Ben, until you have seen a Mardi Gras!”
XII. Mardi Gras
By noon of that Tuesday, when ben left his work at Hatch and Parker, merrymakers had already shown themselves on the streets of the Creole part of the town. They made small knots on the street corners, or strolled along the banquettes, or frisked in and out of shops and cafes. Their costumes were gay, rich, fantastic, or grotesque. Some wore domino half masks, others hid their entire heads in elaborate disguises, still others had coated their faces with flour and painted great blotches of color on cheeks, lips, and brows.
Most of these early holidaying folk were boys and men, but a number of women had dressed amusingly and were tripping along on the arms of their brightly clad escorts.
At home, Casimir dragged Ben to his room to look at the Choctaw costume laid out ready on the bed. Then he went with Ben to unpack the borrowed gear of the Barbary pirate. This was an elaborate and glittering affair. The shirt was of striped silk, with buttonholes and pocket edges embroidered in bright red. There was a snugly fitting tunic, falling to the knees, of figured fabric with a quilted lining, and also two long strips of green silk, one for a turban, the other for a sash. Red leather slippers with upcurling toes completed the costume. To one side lay a finely made little dagger in a wrought- iron sheath.
Ben started to doff his coat, preparatory to dressing, but Casimir put out a quick hand to stop him.
“But no, no!” he cautioned. “Take thought, we will mix with the crowd only when it has become too large for any newcomers to be noticed as they join. Make yourself easy for a while. Come, we will go out on the gallery and see those already at their revels.”
They stepped out and leaned on the ironwork of the gallery. Next to them they could see Felise O’Rourke. She was gowned, becomingly as usual, in blue, with a mantle of a lighter shade around her shoulders. Blue also was the ribbon that held back her auburn hair and supported a white camellia blossom. Behind her, a chocolate-faced maid servant was arranging various sorts of flowers in tall baskets.
Fully half of those who passed beneath were in costume, more or less elaborate. Some of these looked up, called out and waved to Ben, Casimir, and Felise. In a few moments, a group of maskers pranced up together and stopped almost directly under the O’Rourke gallery.
These were dressed in costumes to repr
esent various grotesque animals. One who seemed to be the leader was in skintight green, with a masking headgear that looked like the head of an enormous frog. Another was a plump pig, stuffed out with pillows. Yet another represented a donkey, with jointed, bobbing ears and elaborately rolling eye pieces. Two were dressed exactly alike, in fuzzy brown monkey costumes, and one of these twanged a Spanish guitar, the other scraped a fiddle.
Glancing upward, this little mob of fantastics saw Felise on her gallery and burst into excited whoops and cheers. The frogman waved both his green-gloved hands at the monkey musicians, who stepped close together and struck up nimble, cheerful music. The others began to sing in chorus:
“Dalai de, ma finite Reine,
Chemin—Vest trop long quypeut aller,
Chemin—Vest monte dans les hauts. . .
The frog leader made a burlesque of trying to scramble up the wall to the gallery where Felise stood.
Ben leaned far over, fists clenching. “Those impudent yowlers,” he snorted. “That’s an insult to—”
“But be calm!” begged Casimir at his side. “Do you not hear the song—Daldidey Ma Pytite Reine? That is Bernard de Marigny’s own personal carol of Mardi Gras. He compliments every pretty young lady with it.”
“He does?”
“Yes, and the frog garments are Bernard’s, too. I have seen him wear them on another Mardi Gras. He acts out his song, you see—the road is too long, too steep, for him to mount. And Felise laughs, she drops flowers to him.”
Felise had caught a handful of blooms from one of the ready baskets, and she let them fall through the air upon the serenades. Big-gloved hands spread to catch her tokens. The frogman flourished a flower above his masked head and pranced away, his followers at his heels, the guitar and fiddle still playing the music of Dalaidey Ma Pytite Reine.
“Cease to frown, Ben,” said Casimir, “and comprehend that no offense was intended, and none taken. Young ladies of the best families are forbidden, alas! to put on masks and mingle with the crowd. A few, a very few, dare to ride out in carriages, but that is all. The others will keep to their galleries and throw flowers to the maskers on the banquettes beneath them. It is Mardi Gras, you will remember.”
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1955 Page 12
