Louisiana History Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  The breath stopped in Elene’s throat. She wished with abrupt raw longing that she had never heard of perfume. She had not believed in its power at first, had not wanted to believe. But every day she sensed the growing force of Ryan’s need for her, and it seemed that something so virulent could not be brought about otherwise than by Devota’s aid. It would not be fair to him to accept his proposal that might well be made under most peculiar duress. The question of her own will in the matter was of no concern. She did not want a husband who had been compelled to make his offer.

  “Why?”

  Her voice was so quiet he had to lean close to hear. There was in it, inexplicably, the sound of a warning. “Call it an impulse.”

  “What is wrong with the way we are?”

  His grasp slackened. “You may be satisfied, but I want more.”

  “What more is there, for us?”

  “A shared future. Children.” His voice was low, with a warm note of urgency. The blue of his eyes was dark but clear.

  There was a constriction around Elene’s heart, slowly squeezing until it hurt to breathe. How easy it would be to say yes, to take what he offered and never look back. But what if he should discover what she had done to him so unwittingly? Marriage was a bond that lasted forever, and forever was a long time to be tied to a man who despised her.

  That his words could affect her to such a degree was a betrayal, one that brought a saving resentment. “I can’t give you that. Please don’t ask it.”

  He saw the angry desolation in her face and it made no sense — unless the thing she mourned was the loss of her future with Gambier. He cursed the day that Jean had taken the planter aboard the Sea Spirit. Why could the man not have been left behind to take his chances? Still, there was something here he did not understand. He could have sworn she was not indifferent to him or the things he had said.

  “It’s my turn now to ask why.”

  She gave a slight shake of her head. “You don’t mean it. It’s only a whim that will pass, one brought on by being thrown together with me, and by my perfume.”

  “To hell with your perfume!” he said in exasperation. “I know what I—”

  “It’s important you understand that it’s special,” she interrupted him, driven by a compelling impulse to unburden her mind, to tell him everything. “It affects men in strange and powerful ways. You don’t know—”

  “I know as much about it as I care to,” he said, in grating impatience. “What interests me at this moment is why you won’t give me the answer I want.”

  She had tried to tell him. Perhaps it was as well he would not listen. She looked away from his intent gaze, searching her mind for something to say to appease him. “It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, our being together, nothing more.”

  “And that’s the way you like it.”

  “I have to make my own way, control my own coming and going, instead of letting someone else do it for me.”

  “I don’t want to control you, Elene. I only want to keep you safe beside me.”

  “Yes, that’s what you say, but you will leave me when you can, if you can.”

  She had not meant to say the last. It had come from inside her, the result, she knew with sudden clarity, of her father’s sending her away to France, then leaving her there among the dangers of the revolution, and even, perhaps, because he had deserted her once more, like her mother, in death. She could not risk being left again.

  Maybe that was why she had found it so hard to stop using the perfume, even to test it. It was necessary to her to keep the security she had gained with Ryan, to prevent him from leaving her before she was ready.

  A crooked smile curved Ryan’s mouth. “I will leave you only if you force me. Don’t let it distress you, any of it. As you say, to marry was a passing suggestion. Forget it, forget leaving, and I will give you another. We are invited to attend the vauxhall performance of Morven’s troupe in three days’ time with the Mazents. M’sieur Mazent has hired a box and a boat and wants to form a party of those who escaped Saint-Domingue together. What do you think?”

  His words were light, but Elene could sense the coolness, the withdrawal, and the waiting behind them. He had even removed his arms to stand braced with one hand upon the table beside her. To accept what he offered, she understood, would be to return their relationship to its former footing. It was best this way, without promises or deep emotions, retaining their secrets. Surely it was best. She swallowed on the drain of tears in the back of her throat. Her voice too bright, she said, “Why not?”

  “Why not indeed,” Ryan said, and wondered if somehow she knew already that Gambier would be one of the party.

  The vauxhall was located among an assemblage of taverns, gaming houses, inns, and dance halls that had been built where the canal constructed by Spanish Governor Carondelet joined Bayou St. John. This canal began at the outer ramparts of the city and flowed into Lake Pontchartrain to drain the city during flooding. The party organized by Mazent was able to step into the barge-like boat arranged for them very nearly at the back gate of the palisade.

  They left just after the sun had set, joining a line of other barges wending their way toward the bayou. A breeze had sprung up from the lake, cooling the air and fanning their faces. The man who poled their barge sang as he bent to his work. The flat-bottomed boat was necessary, for the canal, once a well-kept waterway, had not been cleaned out for several years so that it had filled in with silt to a depth of almost three feet in places. Willows and cypresses crowded the edges, hanging over the water, pale green and cool. The seeds of the cypresses, like carved green stones, hung heavy among the fragile, lacy leaves. When the willows were brushed, mosquitoes rose in clouds. Gnats and other flying insects danced ahead of them over the water, while waterborne bugs skated away as if racing against their clumsy craft. The pink and lavender afterglow in the western sky was reflected in the water, turning it to liquid opaline.

  It should have been peaceful, but was not. Ryan was in a strange mood. He was polite but distant, with little to say to Elene though he spoke often enough to the others. He had not been the same since she had failed to agree to marry him. It was not that he was surly or inclined to sulk, but rather as if he had something on his mind.

  He had not approached her for the past three nights, however. It was also true that in that time she had not used the original perfume, from the bottle brought from Saint-Domingue by Devota, for it was gone. In fact, she had used none at all. If proof of its effectiveness was needed, she seemed to have it, no matter how painful it was to realize how much Ryan’s attraction to her depended on it. To try the matter further, she had anointed herself liberally with the new scent while she dressed this evening. So far, it had made no impression whatever on Ryan, or none she could see. She should have been glad of it. She did try to be.

  Flaring torches lit the box area and the garden paths of the vauxhall, not merely to provide light, but to discourage the mosquitoes from preying on the patrons. The smoke from the flambeaux drifted through the orange trees that lined the white, shell-strewn paths, its acrid tang blending with the sweet fragrance of the orange blossoms. The night was balmy after the heat of the day, and made even more pleasant by the breeze from the lake that lifted the tendrils of the ladies’ hair and fluttered the hems of their gowns, and also did its part to hold the mosquitoes at bay. It brought the aroma of food cooking somewhere, and also the milky richness of the pralines and the tout chard calas, or hot rice cakes, of the marchandes, or sellers of wares, the free women of color in their white aprons who carried their wares in flat baskets perched on their wide hips. The citrus tartness of the oranges and the rich fragrance of the pink-purple roses and the creamy white of wild gardenias being hawked by pert young girls could be caught now and again, as well as a whiff of the honeysuckle that twined among the shrubbery.

  The Mazent party strolled through the grounds, taking the air, enjoying the breeze while they waited for dinner to be served
and the performances to begin. Elene’s gown of blue mousseline was made with long streamers of grosgrain ribbon falling from a love knot set at the high waist under her breasts. The ribbons flew about so in the evening breeze that at last she caught them in her hands, threading them through her fingers as she walked.

  She was not the only one in new finery. Madame Tusard wore a gown of lavender silk overlaid with black sarcenet, and carried a sarcenet reticule to match. Flora Mazent was much more elegant in pale yellow silk. The color did nothing for her sallow complexion, however, and the layers of ruffles and flounces placed about the shoulders and around the level of her knees to compensate for her thinness made her look like nothing so much as an animated corn shock.

  The young Mazent girl walked beside Durant. There were spots of color in her cheeks brought on by the excitement of her position, and her grasp on Durant’s arm made the ends of her fingers white. An orange seller strolled by, and the girl eyed the round fruits hungrily.

  “May I have one, M’sieur Durant?” she asked, a hint of a demand in her tone as she stared up at him.

  It was Madame Tusard who answered at her most patronizing. “It would be most unwise, my dear. You will get the juice on your lovely new gown.”

  “I don’t care for that.”

  “But silk is so very dear here in New Orleans.”

  “I don’t care,” Flora said again with a look of fright for her own boldness. “Papa, please may I have an orange?”

  “What my puss wants, she must have,” M’sieur Mazent said to the older woman, his voice apologetic and yet tinged with pride. He drew out his purse and motioned the orange seller, a grinning young black girl of no more than thirteen, forward. Being a man of expansive habits, he offered to buy everyone else an orange also. They refused. Because Flora looked a little uncomfortable at being the only one indulging in the wares being offered around them, Elene asked for a praline. So spontaneous was her praise of the creamy confection made of milk and sugar and pecans that Madame Tusard suddenly developed a craving to taste one, and sent her Claude puffing after the seller.

  Durant, his expression somewhat testy but resigned, produced his penknife to peel Flora’s orange, then his handkerchief to wipe the juice from his hands as well as hers. M’sieur Mazent watched the two of them with a fond eye, though he declined a portion of the orange, and also the candy everyone was nibbling. The acid and sugar would upset him, he said, one hand going unconsciously to his abdomen; what he needed was his dinner.

  The evening meal was announced shortly. They all settled around the table in their box, a very good one located directly opposite the center of the raised, open stage. The fare was surprisingly palatable if uninspired, a coq au vin served with an array of vegetables seasoned with honey, and hot loaves of bread. The butter was separating from the heat and the wine only mediocre, but the dessert that followed, a crème caramel topped with fresh blackberries, was delicious.

  The entertainment was of equal quality, being a mixture of the good and the only passable. The pair of comics who began the show were hilarious and the tumblers who followed them excellent, even amazing. The skit, a farce of some daring which involved a bedroom equipped with four doors through which three men, two ladies, and a maidservant went in and out in rapid succession, lacked taste, but that only caused the appearance of Morven’s troupe to be greeted with that much more enthusiasm.

  No one applauded louder than the woman in the box to the left of Mazent’s. A lady of perhaps forty years of age, with masses of silken black curls untainted by silver, she wore a gown of Parma violet silk with an astonishingly low-cut bodice that was filled in by a magnificent diamond necklace. Matching earrings and bracelets added their sparkle, but the ultimate glitter was achieved by a huge amethyst encircled with diamonds that hung from a fillet at the center of her forehead. Watching her enthusiasm, and also the rapacious look she turned on Morven as he inclined toward the woman in a special bow, Elene was forced to wonder if this was not the patroness of whom Hermine had spoken. Such thoughts were banished as Morven moved down stage and began his first soliloquy.

  In contrast to the light vein of the other acts, Morven had chosen a tragedy for his troupe’s first appearance in New Orleans. It was a tale he had written himself about a nobleman in love with two women, one young and voluptuous who caters to his bodily desires, the other more mature and intelligent who supplies his mental needs. Unable to choose between them, he forces them to choose for him. The effect on the women is to increase their essential traits. The result is tragedy as the woman of superior mental powers, finding him unworthy due to his lack of mental strength, removes herself from the competition with a dagger to her heart, because she can’t stop loving a man she can no longer respect. The nobleman, realizing that he has caused the death of the woman he truly loves, stabs himself with the same dagger.

  Morven was spectacular as the nobleman tormented by love and remorse, while Hermine played the intelligent woman to perfection, giving her a fine, slicing wit and yet an agonizing empathy with the moods and passions and ultimate requirements of the man she loves. Josie, though hers was the lesser part of the overtly promiscuous female, was more than adequate, seeming to radiate careless, sensual energy.

  The applause rolled toward the stage in waves when the final curtain fell. Flowers were thrown at all three, but particularly at Morven and the suggestively dressed Josie. The trio took four bows, then ran from the stage, giving it up to a return of the comedians.

  Still in costume, Morven and the two women made their way first to the box of the woman decked in diamonds. There was a brief exchange of compliments, then the troupe, with their patroness among them, moved toward the Mazent box.

  The woman was introduced as Madame Rachel Pitot. On closer inspection, she looked as if she too might have had some familiarity with the stage at one time in her life; she moved with control and a certain arch self-consciousness, and her face paint was excessive. She welcomed them to the vauxhall as befitted her financial interest in the place, though it was perfectly obvious that she cared not at all what they thought of it or of her, so long as Morven was at her side.

  M’sieur Mazent, in a hospitable gesture, insisted that Madame Pitot and the others must join his party. Agreement was immediate, as if the troupe had expected nothing less. Madame Pitot lifted a hand and a waiter came at once to take the order of the actors for their dinner, since they had not eaten before the performance. Chairs were shifted to make room and others added. At the same time, several men and women from the audience left their boxes to come crowding around to shake hands and offer congratulations, preventing the troupe from sitting down. There was a period of mass confusion as people reached across those who were seated in their attempt to touch the actors. Finally, the well-wishers trailed away back to their own seats and order was restored.

  Elene, able to speak to Hermine and the others at last, leaned across the table. “A most impressive play! You were all wonderful. I was thrilled.”

  A chorus of agreement followed her words. Morven, flushed with triumph and the euphoria following a performance, bowed. “I flatter myself it wasn’t a bad debut for us here.”

  “You certainly do flatter yourself,” Hermine said. “You stepped on my toe during the last scene.”

  “You weren’t showing enough anguish,” Morven replied, his smile smug.

  “You did it on purpose!”

  In the face of her wrath, Morven threw up his hands, “No, no, my sweet. I’m a clumsy oaf.”

  Madame Pitot disagreed in husky, caressing accents. “You are the most deft of men, cher Morven. You could not be clumsy if you tried.”

  Hermine stared at them, then looked away, her face grim.

  Flora, who had been silent until then, said in breathless tones, “You really were very good. I cried when you killed yourself, Hermine. But you are as pale as death, all of you.”

  “It’s the paint we use,” Hermine said, and wiped a hand along her face befor
e displaying the whitened tips of her fingers. “Or more accurately, it’s the flour. A great many actors and actresses use white lead powder, but it’s most unhealthy, besides making your skin erupt into sores.”

  “I use white lead and I have no sores,” Josie said, a bit vehement in her protest, perhaps because she felt left out of Flora’s compliments.

  “You will, in time,” Hermine told her, then gave a rueful shake of her head as the other actress merely shrugged.

  Flora knitted her brow. “You have such pale skin already, Hermine, that I don’t see why you need flour or anything else.”

  “It’s the lanterns with their reflectors at stage front. They are so bright one looks like a gray ghost with nothing on the face. As for my skin, I confess I am not so wise there. I come from Breton fishermen stock, and tend to look like a sailor who has been out in the north wind if I don’t take care, entirely too red-faced. I sometimes drink a cordial laced with a grain of arsenic to take away the high color.”

  “A fool thing to do, too,” Morven said, “as I’ve told you often.”

  “So you have.” Hermine did not look at the actor as she spoke, but went on with a warm smile for the younger girl. “I’m sure we ladies all have our little beauty secrets like this.”

  “I have none,” Flora said.

  Since this was perfectly clear from her plain and featureless face, there was a small silence. Elene broke it. “My mother used to paint quite openly, but it’s becoming less and less the thing to do. Beauty must be natural now.”

  “Or seem so,” Hermine agreed with a twist of her lips.

  “I, for one, am glad of it,” Madame Tusard said, her gaze upon the actress just a little malicious in its condemnation. “If men may go about with naked faces, why should we women not do the same?”

  “My dear,” Claude Tusard said, touching his mustache in a conscious gesture, “hardly naked. Shaven in part, yes, and without artifice, but hardly naked.”

  “Naked, Claude. Please don’t dispute with me.”

  “Yes, chère.”