Night Creatures

by Seabury Quinn

  She linked her arm in his and laced her fingers in his hands as they resumed their walk. ‘When did you—when did it happen to you?’ she asked suddenly.

  He studied the question a long moment. She had a quaint way of expressing herself, with her queer jumble of slow, stilted English and quick, ebullient French. ‘How do you mean?’ he countered.

  She seemed to ponder in her turn, then, softly, as if the question were embarrassing, ‘When did you become—like me—us?’

  ‘Oh!’ Understanding flickered through the fog of his perplexity. Even if her words were obscure, the apparent self-consciousness of her hesitant speech gave him his cue. ‘It must have happened when I first saw you by the old cemetery, my dear.’

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ Her laugh began as a soft, throaty chuckle and rose to a high silvery tinkle. ‘But it is you who say the sweet droll things, my Horace! Next you will be telling me that I shot Cupid’s dart at you and pierced your heart and laid you low!’

  ‘I think you did,’ he answered, and in the shadow just outside the disc of light cast by a street lamp they stopped and kissed each other again.

  Somehow, the streets seemed different, not changed, exactly, but not quite as he remembered them. The curbside lamp posts seemed farther apart and their lanterns shed less light. The houses, too, seemed smaller, newer, better kept; and here and there he could perceive dimly a sort of shadow hovering over them, as if the faint mirage of larger and more modern buildings poised above them.

  His sense of direction was blunted by these odd mutations, but as nearly as he could determine they had come to Orleans Street when his companion guided him around the corner and down the block. Midway between what he thought Bourbon and Royal Streets there stood a plain low building of whitewashed brick that made him think of a warehouse, but through the narrow windows piercing its walls brilliant lights shone.

  They crossed the street and mounted the low steps that led to the wide doorway. Inside the place was a kaleidoscope of gayety. Chandeliers that dripped with scintillating crystal prisms shed the soft, bright glow of candlelight on everything, the walls of paneled precious woods were hung with oil paintings, some depicting landscapes, some pastoral scenes, more showing classic gods and goddesses—or gentlemen and ladies dressed like them—engaged in rather naughty goings-on, while the bright faces of a hundred mirrors echoed and re-echoed the frolicsome scene. Somehow it made him think of the bright prints and paintings of Gros, Gérard, David, and Ingres which showed the life of Paris during the Directorate and the First Empire so delightfully.

  The dancers circling round the floor of quarter-sawed waxed oak wore almost every sort of costume imaginable. Here a gentleman in the white coat and powdered hair of a French officer of Bourbon days swung past with a frail, lovely lady in hoopskirts in his arms, a little farther off a man in the tight pantaloons and long coat of the Directoire period danced with a girl who wore the neo-classic costume of Napoleon’s court, while here and there was to be seen a suit of severe black broadcloth, but with the frilled shirt and stock collar of the early nineteenth century.

  ‘Shall we dance?’ asked his companion when he had found a place for his rifle, and placed her left hand in his right while she laid the other on his collar so lightly that it might have been a butterfly taking momentary rest there.

  The music was three-quarter time, but the dance not quite familiar. The step was quicker than the waltz he knew, and the couples whirled and turned and pirouetted so constantly that he was almost giddy by the time they had completed a circuit of the great ballroom.

  ‘You have money, yes?’ she asked as they paused out of breath before the door of a long, brightly-lighted room from which the clatter of roulette wheels and the click of dice sounded.

  ‘A little,’ he replied, shoved his way through a throng of people grouped about a roulette table, and tendered a five dollar bill to the impassive courier.

  ‘Combien?—how much?’ the man asked, and Holloway saw with surprise that he too wore a black half-mask across his face.

  ‘Tout,’ he replied, ‘I’ll shoot the works,’ and received a handful of gilded plaques about the size of checkers. Half of these he handed to Clothilde, who placed them on a red square marked 23 as the croupier announced in a flat, toneless voice, ‘Le jeu est fait, M’sieurs et ’dames. Rien ne va plus—the play has commenced, no more bets are to be placed’—and spun the wheel.

  The people crowding round the table became so still the clatter of the little ball in the wheel was like the rattle of hailstones on a tin roof. Motionless, with parted lips, raised eyebrows, and craned necks, they watched the spinning wheel and the little ivory sphere that danced in it.

  ‘Vingt-trois, rouge, M’sieurs, Mesdames,’ the croupier’s bored voice proclaimed as the wheel lost momentum and the ivory pellet spinning in it came to rest. A woman laughed, a high, thin titter of hysteria, and staggered drunkenly from the room. A man rose from his place, looked round him with a sickly smile, and lurched toward the doorway, and half a dozen eager players crowded forward for their places.

  ‘Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, but I have won!’ Clothilde cried ecstatically and clapped her hands like a delighted child. ‘I am rich, me!’ Her bet had been two dollars, and the croupier pushed a pile of coin and bills toward her with one hand while with a little wood rake held in the other he gathered in the wagers of the losers.

  ‘Come, let us celebrate, adoré,’ she cooed, and drew him toward a line of curtained alcoves at the far side of the room. ‘Champagne it shall be for us, and dozens of those small sweet cakes that I do adore almost as much as I adore you, mon amoureux. Hola,’ she called to a velvet-coated, black-masked waiter who went hurrying past, ‘a bottle of champagne, and many, many petits-fours, mon petit garçon noir,’ and the waiter, a gigantic Negro, grinned appreciation of her pleasantry in calling him ‘her small black boy’.

  The champagne frothed and bubbled in their goblets, but to Holloway it seemed to lack substance, as if it were but little more than chilled air he sipped, and the little sugared cakes, delectable to look at, were flat, tasteless, and unsubstantial as crumbs of Chinese rice cookies. Clothilde seemed to enjoy them hugely, however, and as she sipped champagne and nibbled small pink-and-white-iced cakes the color rose in her pale cheeks until they glowed a lovely pearly rose, and a new sparkle came into her eyes. ‘Now, I think we dance some more, hein?’ she suggested as she rose and stretched a hand to him. ‘And after that we play some more roulette until he has no more money left. Then we shall drink some more champagne—maybe aux pêchers—with peaches in him—and eat some more petits-fours, no?’

  ‘Yes!’ he assented as he followed her to the ballroom. It was crazy as a hasheesh-eater’s dream, a scene straight out of the Arabian Nights with overtones of the Left Bank. He knew it couldn’t possibly be happening; things like this just didn’t happen, and women like Clothilde did not exist—but that did not matter. For the first time since his return from the army he was happy, deliriously, feverishly happy. On with the dance—let there be madder music; stronger wine!

  The candles in the crystal chandeliers cast golden light on everything. Clothilde’s small, slim waist lay sweetly in the circle of his arm. Her laughing eyes looked into his, her lips were parted just a little to show the tips of small, white teeth. They whirled about the long room, reached the door of the gaming salon, and paused for breath, laughing with sheer happiness as only children and lovers know how to do. ‘Shall we assail the battlements of Fortune once more?’ she asked as he released her from his embrace. ‘We may win more this time, and—oh! Pardonnez-moi, M’sieu’! Mille pardons!’ As she wheeled she had collided with a young man carrying a silver tray on which were two goblets of champagne, and the spilled wine splashed across the rippling ruffles of his dress shirt.

  There was a moment’s silence while she waited contritely for his word of forgiveness, and Holloway could see the young man’s florid face behind his mask go slowly gray, as if the blood drained from it. D
eliberately he drew a lace-edged handkerchief from his cuff, blotted his soiled ruffles with it, then turning on Clothilde whispered in a cold voice: ‘Cochonette noire!—little black pig!’

  She cried out as if she had been struck, and the blood swept up her throat and cheeks and brow in a quick, outraged blush.

  Holloway hit from the hip and felt the man’s jaw collapse under the impact. His body curved back under the shock and he sprawled like an upset tailor’s dummy, inert and loose-limbed, on the waxed floor.

  ‘But you are marvelous!’ Clothilde told him as they entered the game room. ‘You strike like the ball of the cannon, my Horace.’ She gave a small ecstatic giggle. ‘He looked so stupid lying there all sprawled out like a spider, that sale chameau!’

  Holloway felt his knuckles which still smarted from the force of their collision with the man’s jaw. ‘I wish I hadn’t knocked him out with the first swing,’ he answered. ‘I’d like to have another go with him.’

  ‘Oh, but you will, bon ami. Assuredly.’

  ‘Think he’ll come back for more?’

  ‘He will demand the satisfaction, certainly. He cannot do less in honor.’

  ‘I’ll be ready to meet him whenever——’

  ‘Be sure to choose the firearms, chèri. Do not let them trick you into fighting with the colchemarde or épée. He is a famous duelist, that one—I know him, me!—and would surely run you through at the first pass——’

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ he burst in. ‘D’ye mean that I’m expected to fight a duel with that little stinker? I’ll be hanged if I do. If he wants more of the same I’ve got it right on ice for him, but a duel—good Lord! People just don’t do that sort of thing today.’

  ‘Ah, Horace, you would not put shame on me? You would not have them say I came to the bal masque with a poltron for my protector? They will surely brand you as a coward if you refuse to meet him—mon Dieu, I think I see them coming now!’

  ‘Be easy, sweetheart,’ he soothed, patting the tense fingers which had clasped on his arm. ‘If I’d get you in wrong by refusing to fight this guy I’ll meet him any time and place he wants to name, and shoot the pants off him.’

  Walking elbow to elbow, two young men were coming toward them. One wore the gold-lace white coat of a French officer of the days of Bourbon ascendancy, the other was in sober black, but scarcely less ornate than his military companion. His shirt of finely tucked linen cambric was trimmed with row on row of lace in which there gleamed studs of green jade set with black pearls, a diamond buckle held the wide black ribbon of his stock, the buttons of his low-cut waistcoat were bright silver.

  Both men came to a halt as if obeying a command, struck their heels together, and with right hands on their hearts and left behind them jack-knifed forward in a formal bow. ‘M’sieu’!’

  Holloway was not to be outdone. Drawing himself up as if to attention he inclined frigidly in what was little more than the suspicion of a bow. ‘At your services, Messieurs.’

  The young soldier, who seemed to recognize Holloway as a member of his craft, spoke first. ‘We have the honor to represent M’sieu’ Médard de la Tour, and on his behalf to demand satisfaction for the blow that you have given.’

  Holloway racked his memory for the proper response. Vaguely, he knew he should have a second. But how to go about securing one? At last: ‘I have no one to act as a second for me, Messieurs,’ he answered, ‘but if you will have the kindness to procure me one I shall be happy to put my interests in his hands.’

  ‘Très bien.’ It was the young officer again. ‘Me, I have nothing else to do; I shall be honored to act as your second, M’sieu’——’ he paused with raised brows.

  ‘Holloway,’ the other responded. ‘Horace Holloway, late of the United States Army.’ That sounded impressive, especially when he neglected to add he had been Corporal Holloway.

  All three exchanged curt, formal bows again, and the civilian left to inform Monsieur de la Tour how things progressed, while the young soldier remained. ‘I am the Chevalier de Broglie,’ he announced, ‘and as a gentleman of France’—he bowed low to Clothilde—‘I offer my profound apologies for the affront my ci-divant principal offered Mademoiselle.’

  Clothilde dropped him a deep curtsey, and the young officer turned to Holloway. ‘As for the blow you gave, M’sieu’,’ he grinned boyishly, ‘it was a lovely thing to see, and I can say only “à merveille—well done!” I trust that you will be successful on the field of honor as in the ballroom a moment since. Now to business: As the challenged party you have the right to name the time and place of meeting and the weapons to be used. What are your preferences?’

  Something about ‘pistols and coffee for two at daybreak’ popped into Holloway’s memory. ‘Why not tomorrow morning at sunrise in St Anthony’s Square?’ he hazarded. ‘I’ve heard that is a favorite place for——’

  ‘M’sieu’, I fear that you forget,’ de Broglie interrupted coldly. ‘You know as well as I that this affair must be concluded at once. Your jest is not in the best of taste.’

  Holloway was amazed at his sudden coolness, but let it pass without comment. ‘Very well, one time’s as good as another. Make it long rifles at forty paces, behind St Louis Cathedral.’

  His second bowed and hastened off, and Clothilde looked at him reproachfully. ‘O, Horace, adore, how could you?’ she asked almost tearfully.

  ‘How could I what, dear?’

  ‘Make such a reference to the morning. You know as well as I that with the breaking of the dawn we must—mon Dieu, here comes de Broglie now. Be careful, heart of my heart. He is a good shot that one, and may injure you. Be sure to fire first.’ Impulsively she held out both hands, and he bent above them, kissing each in turn.

  Gigantic oak trees, bearded with long garlands of gray Spanish moss, stood solemn, black, and silent at the edges of the park, their almost-bare limbs seemed uplifted as if to evoke malignant spirits from the winter sky. From the distance came the moaning of violins as the orchestra in the dance hall played on, but in the square an ominous quiet reigned. Like drifting shadows members of the company moved on their grim errands of setting the stage for the duel. A gentleman in a long cloak and broad black hat who looked like a conspirator in a melodrama paced off the course, two more set stakes in the short grass where the combatants were to stand, the seconds, conferring in whispers, watched while two others loaded Holloway’s long rifle and another like it for his antagonist.

  ‘Messieurs!’ The umpire stepped forward with upraised hand. He was a tall, commanding figure in a tight blue uniform piped with gold and scarlet braid and with gold epaulets on his shoulders. The upper portion of his face was obscured by his black mask and the lower half by a wide, curling mustache and a short black beard. He spoke French with the cautious precision of a slight accent. Holloway had the impression he was a Spaniard, but could distinguish little from his unfamiliar uniform. ‘Messieurs, this is a duel between Monsieur Médard de la Tour of Nouvelle Orléans and Monsieur Horace Holloway of the United States Army to avenge a blow given and received. The principals will stand at forty paces from each other, armed with rifles. I shall say, “Fire—one, two, three, four, five!” and the combatants will discharge their pieces between the words “Fire” and “Five”. One shot only will be exchanged. Are you ready, gentlemen?’

  Young Chevalier de Broglie handed Holloway his rifle with a smile. ‘Bon chance, mon ami,’ he whispered. ‘Aim for the eyeholes in his mask, and just a little low. These rifles have a tendency to elevate their bullets.’

  With the rifle ‘ready’ Holloway awaited the command. In the moonlight-softened darkness de la Tour loomed like a spot of darker shadow, uncertainly defined against the duskiness of the great oak boles. He had buttoned his coat tightly and tied a black silk handkerchief about his throat, so he was in unrelieved black from head to foot, with no highlight to sight on.

  ‘Clever little devil,’ Holloway muttered as he weighted the rifle in his hand, ‘but I don�
�t think it’ll get him much.’ He hadn’t earned his expert rifleman’s badge for nothing, and potting skillfully camouflaged Jap snipers had been an everyday chore for him in the jungle. The buttons on his adversary’s coat were silver and shone with a dull luster in the moonlight. The second one on the left side should be almost above his heart. He’d put a slug through it as sure as God made little apples. Killing in war had been impersonal. You shot and were shot at. If the other fellow’s bullet had your name on it you were done for, if you had his number on your slug he was. This was different. That grinning little monkey yonder had insulted Clothilde . . . only one shot would be exchanged, eh? All right, if that was how they wanted it . . . he’d killed better men with one shot. . . .

  The umpire’s voice broke through his reverie: ‘Attendez, Messieurs. Fire—one—two——’ Bright orange flashes stabbed the darkness and the reports of the rifles were so close that one seemed but the prolongation of the other. Holloway saw a slim arc of silver hurtle though the gloom like a small meteor where his bullet clipped de la Tour’s coat button, but de la Tour did not go down. He stood, rifle in hand, and looked at him as if he saw some fearful apparition. Then, slipping down his left arm from the shoulder, he felt the warm ooze of blood, and knew he had been hit, though if his wound were light or serious he did not know.

  A hum of talk, the sort of frightened whispering that precedes a panic, ran from man to man among the witnesses to the duel.

  They looked at the blood seeping through his buckskin shirt with bright, fear-burnished eyes, and one or two raised trembling, frightened hands to point to the stain. ‘Sacredieu,’ he heard de Broglie exclaim, ‘he is one of them!’

  Slowly, fearfully, they shrank back to the shadows of the oaks as men who see a frightful specter might give way before it, yet fear to turn and flee, lest it set on them from behind.