by Frank Yerby
Part of the trouble, Andre knew, was due to the fact that Stephen had not been to confession or mass in six or eight years; but the overwhelming cause of his inattention was kneeling devoutly just across the aisle, her slim fingers busy with her rosary. Truly, Andre was forced to admit, that Odalie, as he always thought of her, was a beautiful creature. Now as he stole a glance from time to time, he was conscious that her color was deepening. Yet she seemed quite unconscious of Stephen’s increasingly long looks. I’ll watch her eyes, Andre decided.
It was time now for the sermon. Père Antoine was mounting into the pulpit. Glad to ease knees aching from so much kneeling, the worshippers sank gratefully into their seats. The old Spanish priest started his sermon in a powerful voice that captured Andre’s wandering attention. Strange, how time changed a man. Strange to think that the dreaded Padre Antonio de Sedella—who had very nearly succeeded in bringing the Inquisition, with rack and wheel and brand and whip, into Louisiana—and this kindly, mellow old priest were one and the same man.
He turned his head slightly to the left. Stephen was sitting tall and erect in his seat, his blue eyes caressing Odalie. Andre stared recklessly. Yes! This time he’d caught her! The black eyes bad shifted for the tiniest part of a second. The glances had crossed in midair like épées! Now again, thrust and parry. She couldn’t stop it now, Andre decided; she must look to see if Stephen was still watching, must be angered if he were, angered and pleased and strangely stirred, and more angered, disappointed and relieved, all at the same time, if he weren’t.
Beyond her, Aurore too was watching this visual fencing, and her young face, angelic almost in its sweetness, was shadowed by an indefinable expression.
Beside Aurore, Pierre Arceneaux was snoring gently, his jutting chin resting on his bosom. In the pulpit, Père Antoine was justly condemning the follies and vanities of mankind. Pierre Arceneaux snored on. Odalie’s and Stephen’s glances clashed almost audibly in the incense-laden air. And Aurore’s hazel eyes were clouded and troubled.
Then it was over. Père Antoine had descended the pulpit and knelt at the foot of the altar. The last Ave Maria had been said, and the parishioners blessed. They were filing out now, past the niches where the holy water was kept, having genuflected reverently toward the altar. Crossing themselves, they came out into the brilliant sunlight sweeping across the Place d’Armes into Chartres, where the Cathedral stood.
“I’m afraid that the blessings of Mother Church are not for me,” Stephen said. “Never could my knees stand the kneeling.”
I’ll wager that they’re supple enough for the dance floor,” Andre said.
“Ye’re right,” Stephen smiled. “The truth is there’s still a sight too much of the devil in me yet. Praying won’t get him out. I’ll have to wear him out with deviltry.”
“Then his case is hopeless. You even bring him into the church and set him up as one of your two patron saints.”
“And the other?”
“Aphrodite. You’re a thoroughgoing pagan, Stephen.”
Stephen laughed aloud.
“Ye were watching me, then?”
“And the Arceneaux. The glacier begins to melt. I’m afraid I’m going to lose that thousand.”
“Pay me in advance then; I could use the money to advantage.”
“I’m sorry, Stephen,” Andre said; “but I haven’t got it. Dear papa . . .”
“Is in one of his disapproving moods?”
“Constantly and chronically of late. But if there is any other way, I’d be glad to help.”
“Forget it. Look. Here come the two Graces now.”
The green-and-gold carriage came abreast slowly, moving in a swarming tangle of vehicles. Andre and Stephen both removed their hats and bowed. Pierre Arceneaux saluted them gravely in return.
“You know that man, father?” Odalie demanded.
“Who doesn’t? Monsieur Fox is one of the best known gentlemen of the city. I play écarté with him every Wednesday night.”
“You gamble with an American?”
“Don’t be old-fashioned, child. Stephen is quite a good fellow. Besides, I always win. Roget, stop the coach!”
“You’re going to introduce him, father?” Aurore asked, and her voice was curiously soft.
“Yes, certainly. Do you both good to meet someone different. Monsieur Fox!”
“Father!” Odalie said sharply. “I don’t wish . . .”
“Nonsense. Come here, gentlemen.”
“Holy Mother of God!” Stephen said under his breath. The two of them walked over to the coach.
“I want you to meet my daughters,” Pierre growled. “Odalie, Aurore—Monsieur Fox. You know Andre already.”
“Too well,” Andre murmured.
Stephen bowed.
“The hope of this honor,” he said in perfect French, “has been the one thing sustaining my drab existence.”
“Do you customarily go around staring at girls, sir?” Odalie asked boldly.
“Only when they’re as beautiful as Mademoiselle,” Stephen said. “Therefore I can truthfully say that I’ve never before stared at a woman.”
“Odalie!” Aurore gasped.
“My daughters have no manners,” Pierre chuckled. “They’re just like me!”
Andre laughed.
“Your second, monsieur?” Odalie nodded toward Andre.
“In all things. And my very good friend.”
“Oh, we know Andre very well—although of late we’ve wondered at his associations.”
“Odalie!” Aurore said sharply. “Now you’re being positively rude! Please forgive her, Monsieur Fox. She’s had her way for so long that she forgets to be ladylike. Everybody spoils her—even I.”
“Naturally,” Stephen murmured. “How could they help it? But you, mademoiselle, does no one spoil you?”
“No one,” Aurore said, and her voice was genuinely sad.
“An oversight which I shall attempt to remedy at my earliest opportunity,” Andre declared. “Your permission, sir?”
“Permission? For what?” Arceneaux grunted.
“To call upon Aurore.”
“Ask her. My girls have been reared very independently.”
“May I, Aurore?”
“Of course, Andre. You’ve always been like a brother to me.”
“I had imagined as much,” Andre said sadly.
“And I, mademoiselle,” Stephen asked Odalie. “Might I?”
“No. Later, perhaps. I shall have to know you much better. I should like to know what other accomplishment you have besides staring at women and speaking French like a gilded youth of Paris.” Odalie surveyed him calmly.
“Mademoiselle may have time for reconsideration,” Stephen said; “but not too long.” He bowed.
“You’re both welcome at my house any time you choose to call,” Arceneaux declared flatly.
“Thank you, sir,” Stephen said quietly. “But ye’ll forgive me if I don’t avail myself of your courtesy until such time as I feel my welcome is both unanimous—and warm. Goodday, monsieur. Goodday, ladies. Your servant!”
“Now you’ve hurt his feelings!” Aurore complained as the coach moved off. “He’ll never call now.”
“Aurore,” Odalie said. “I do believe you like the man!”
“I do. And so do you—so there!”
“Girls,” Arceneaux said wearily. “No quarreling—please!”
“You were right, Stephen,” Andre declared as the coach rolled away. “Never give in to that lovely witch or your life will be miserable. Well, what shall we do now?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. Have ye no suggestions?”
“Yes. Dinner at my house, then the animal fights at the Rotunda. Agreed?”
“I need diversion. Very well. But first I must have sleep. This early mass goes against the grain. ‘Til three then?”
“Right. Au’voir, Stephen.”
“Voir,” Stephen said, and strode away with his back very stiff and
proud.
As soon as he and Andre reached the auction block the next afternoon, Stephen knew the bidding was lagging. The auctioneer wore a harassed look. He kept mopping his forehead with a large cotton handkerchief and looking out with disgust at the tiny crowd.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!” he shouted. “I have here a prime field hand, sound of wind and limb, capable of the hardest kind of labor! I ask you, gentlemen, what am I bid?”
“One hundred dollars,” Tom Warren said calmly.
“Do I hear another bid? Gentlemen, do you realize what you’re doing? Why this Nigra would bring twelve hundred in the poorest market in the state! Look at the muscles of his arms! Look at these teeth. Sound and unmarked. Why this Nigra could do anything, gentlemen, anything!”
“Right,” a voice behind Stephen declared. “Even murder!” Stephen and Andre both turned. The man hadn’t taken any particular trouble to lower his voice, and several other bystanders laughed grimly.
“I say,” Stephen demanded. “What did ye mean by that?”
“Don’t you know, stranger? Everybody else does.”
“No. What is wrong with the black? He looks all right to me.”
“He is all right. There ain’t nothing wrong with him ‘ceptin’ his mind.”
“Is the black crazy?”
“Naw—not exactly. The truth is, stranger, the whole shootin’ match of them was brung in from Santo Domingo. They’ve seen other Nigras kill white men and maybe they’ve kilt some theyself.”
“I thought the importation of Saint Domingue blacks was forbidden,” Andre declared.
“It is. But they was smuggled in. That Waguespack were a smart one.”
The Kentuckian looked at Andre. “You parley frog, don’t you, mister? Well, say sumpin to one of them Nigras.”
“But all Louisiana blacks speak French.”
“Not like them Bumboes. They speak good French—I l’arned hit a little when I furst come here and I know.”
Andre strode boldly up to an old woman who was standing very quietly awaiting her turn on the block.
“Tante,” he asked, “are you from Saint Domingue?”
“But yes, young master, it is that you want to buy me?”
Without answering, Andre turned and strode back to Stephen.
“He’s right!” he snapped. “They are Saint Domingue Negroes! You’d better stop Tom from buying them!”
“No,” Stephen said quietly. “No.”
Tom Warren was walking forward now, approaching the auctioneer.
“Mister,” he said, “you can see that you aren’t going to make no sale here. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll buy the entire lot off of you for five thousand.”
“Five thousand! Are you crazy? Any three of them field hands there are worth that much!”
“Take it or leave it,” Tom Warren said.
The auctioneer was looking rapidly, imploringly, from face to face. Every face stared back at him coldly, tight-lipped and grim.
“All right,” he said weakly. “All right, I’ll take it, but it’s a shame, by the living Christ, it’s a shame!”
Tom took out his purse and began to count out the money. Suddenly, Andre gripped Stephen’s arm.
“Look who’s just arrived!” he whispered.
Stephen turned.
There, turning into the square, was the green-and-gold coach of the Arceneaux. Stephen turned and walked over to the hitching rail where Prince Michael was tethered. Releasing him, he swung into the saddle. Andre was a step behind him.
“You aren’t running away, are you, Stephen?” he demanded. “No,” Stephen said grimly. “But Miss Arceneaux has looked down on me for the last time. This time she is going to look up!”
He reined Prince Michael in sharply so that the palamino danced sidewise as he drew alongside the coach.
“Monsieur Fox,” Pierre Arceneaux said. “Don’t tell me you’re buying Negroes!”
Stephen saluted the two girls, then turned at once to the old man.
“I’m afraid so, sir,” he said. “I’ve just bought the whole lot.”
“The whole lot,” Odalie pouted. “What a shame!”
Pierre Arceneaux grinned wickedly.
“I had my eye on that mulatto wench of Waguespack’s. Odalie wanted her for a personal maid.”
“Then, mademoiselle, permit me to make you a present of her.”
“That’s quite out of the question, sir,” Odalie said primly. “You know quite well I couldn’t accept such a present from a man!”
“I’ll buy her from you, Stephen,” the old man said.
“She’s not for sale,” Stephen said. Then a little twinkle stole into his eyes. “But I just might wager her against a thousand in our next little game, sir.”
“Done!” Pierre Arceneaux declared. “Wednesday night at Maspero’s.”
“Right,” Stephen said.
“What,” Odalie asked, “does a gambler need with blacks?”
“Perhaps to gamble with, mademoiselle,” Stephen said. But Tom Warren was riding up.
“Pardon me, ladies,” he said. “Shall I take the Nigras out to your place, Mister Fox?”
“Yes,” Stephen said. “But don’t put them to work today. Let them rest. Let them kill a hog or two and eat their bellies full. Hugo didn’t treat them any too kindly. They’ll need time to recover.”
“As you say, sir. Goodnight, ladies; goodnight, sirs.” The long line of Negroes filed past to the carts waiting across the square. As they passed, an old woman suddenly broke from the line and ran up to Stephen. She caught at his stirrup and looked up at him breathlessly.
“Maître,” she cried. “Good maître! You good man, the good God bless you sho!”
“Thank you, Tante,” Stephen said. “What do you call yourself?”
“Caleen,” she said. “I will serve you well, master!”
“Very well, Tante Caleen; run along now with the others.”
“You have a way with Negroes,” Pierre Arceneaux declared. “That’s good. They’ll work well for you.”
Aurore had stretched out a slim hand and was gently stroking Prince Michael’s satiny coat.
“What a lovely horse,” she said smiling. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one quite that color.”
“They’re rare,” Stephen said. “I’m glad you like him, mademoiselle.”
“So,” a heavy voice said. “The grand Monsieur Fox on his elegant horse conversing with elegant ladies!”
Stephen only half turned.
“I’d thank ye to be more civil, Waguespack,” he said coldly.
“Oh, I’ll be civil, I’ll be most civil,” Hugo said. “I’ll observe all the niceties necessary in the presence of a gentleman rogue.”
“Ye’re drunk,” Stephen said. “I want no quarrel with you, Waguespack.”
“Yes, I’m drunk. I’m verree drunk; but I’m not a fool! Think you I don’t know it was your Tom Warren who spread that lying rumor about my slaves being from Santo Domingo!”
“I know nothing of that!” Stephen said. “And I must trouble ye to remember that there are ladies here.”
“Ladies?” Hugo mumbled. “Ladies? Oh, yes, there are ladies in Louisiana, are there not? All beautiful and spirited. A trait no doubt inherited from their famed ancestors, the correction girls!”
Old Arceneaux’s mouth came open with an explosive outrush of air. Andre, who was just at that moment riding up, took off one of his gloves and reined in toward Hugo. But Stephen stopped him with a lifted hand.
“One moment,” he said calmly. “Our friend is doubtless guilty of a slip of the tongue. Ye meant casket girls, did ye not, Hugo?”
“Did I? Perhaps so. I am confused. ‘Twas the manners and behavior of the belles of Louisiana that led to my error.”
“Very well, Hugo,” Stephen said wearily. “Ye win. I’ll meet ye at any time and place ye see fit. Ye’ll spare me the tiresome business of slapping your face, will ye not? My seconds will call on ye to a
rrange the details, Au ‘voir.”
“ ‘Voir!” Hugo grunted. “You’ll make a very pretty corpse.”
Stephen turned again to the carriage.
“Monsieur Fox,” Arceneaux roared. “I demand the honor of seconding you!”
“And I also,” Andre said quietly.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Stephen said, then to the girls who were sitting breathless and round-eyed on the edge of their seats, “Your forgiveness, ladies; this episode was not of my choosing.”
Aurore suddenly stretched out her hand and laid it on Stephen’s arm.
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t meet him!”
“Don’t be silly,” Odalie said sharply. “He has to meet him now!”
“But he might be killed!”
“Then,” Stephen murmured, looking at Odalie, “the world will have lost a gambler, a blackguard, and an ogler of women.” He swung Prince Michael in a circle and trotted off in the direction of home.
“I don’t like this,” Andre blurted. “I don’t like it at all.”
“Why not, Andre?” Odalie asked. “Monsieur Fox seems perfectly capable of taking care of himself.”
“With a rapier, or clochemarde, or even a saber, yes. But I’ll wager that Hugo will choose pistols and the fat swine is reputed to be a deadly shot, while Stephen . . .”
“Is a poor shot, Andre?” Aurore’s voice was taut with concern.
“That’s just it: I don’t know. I never had occasion to find out. He may be a poor shot, or he may be an excellent one; but it’s desperately late to be discovering it. Shall I meet you within the hour, sir? ‘Tis a long ride to Waguespack’s.”
“Yes.” Then lowering his voice to a whisper, he bent toward Andre’s ear: “Think you we can arrange for the small swords? I like that red-headed devil!”
When Andre returned to Stephen’s rooms, it was after midnight and Stephen was sleeping soundly. By the time he had awakened Georges, Stephen’s manservant, and the two of them had shaken Stephen awake, Andre was in a thoroughly bad humor.
