She still had it in her hand. Flushing, laughing a little, she handed it over then clambered down. Standing in the street, she thanked him once more then turned away.
“Take care,” he called, saluting her with the whip.
She waved, and where there had been cold fear inside her before there was a small core of warmth. Despite the danger and treachery of the world, there were still kindly people in it.
They were few on this night, or so it seemed. She had not gone fifty feet before she saw a man in a burnous. He stood leaning against a wall, watching her. He made no move toward her, still her breath caught in her throat and she turned from him, threading in haste through the crowd, her head up as she searched for Celestine and the two men.
They were not to be seen. It crossed her mind that they might have been surrounded, spirited away somewhere as she undoubtedly would have been. No, she must not be foolish. There would have been too great a commotion caused by any attempt to take men like Emile and Murray. But where could they be? Where?
She stopped. There was no point in running hither and yon looking for them and wringing her hands. Surely there was little that could happen to her here in such a large gathering of people, the thickest part of the spectators. There was even a Charley standing on the nearest corner, swinging his spontoon by its thong behind his back. His very purpose was to keep order and prevent undue disturbance.
“It’s coming! Comus is coming! Here it comes!”
The cry ran through the crowd. Hard upon it came the thin sound of music. It grew, becoming the ring and thump of a brass band, while as a counterpoint could be heard the melodious whistling of a calliope. There came the first glimpse of the bright glow of torchlight. In its beams, far up the street, there was a shifting motion that could be seen above the throng.
People moved toward the light like the drawing of a tidal surge by the power of the moon. Children squealed with excitement and women exclaimed. Young boys crawled through the legs of their elders to reach the front of the line, though some few were hauled back by their suspenders in the fists of indulgent fathers who then hoisted them to their shoulders.
Closer and closer came the parade. The music grew louder, blaring out above the ring of iron wheels and the clatter of horse and mule hooves on pavement. The crowd shouted and applauded.
There was wonder and amazement in the faces around Anya. Sighs of awe and pleasure sounded on all sides. The restless masqueraders had expected something grand after the parade the year before that had featured “The Demon Actors in Milton’s Paradise Lost.” On that night over a hundred terrible and grotesque characters, led by the winsome young god of revel and mirth, Comus, and by the prince of darkness, Lucifer himself, and including dreadful Pluto and pathetic Proserpine, the three Furies, the three Harpies, and scores more infernals on down to Charon and Chimera, had seemed to rise up in floods of light from the ground itself. The spectacle before them was less alarming, but much more satisfying.
This year instead of only Comus and Satan riding on a single cart, seated among outlandish scenery built on a platform while the other demons pranced on foot behind, there were dozens of carts decorated to look like chariots forming a long series of tableaux roulants. Never in the history of Mardi Gras marching had such a thing been seen before.
In the lead came a large transparency, or panel of tightly stretched and brightly colored translucent silk that was lighted from behind by a lantern with an enormous reflector. Illuminated were the words in beautiful flowing script:
… Marry, but you travelers
May journey far and not look on this like again.
Here you do behold the gods and goddesses;
Presently you shall see them
Unfold themselves.
Directly behind this came another transparency that heralded the theme of the parade, The Classic Pantheon.
First in line, as was only fitting, rode handsome Comus crowned with flowers, magnificent king of the day in white and gold. Behind him came mighty Momus, son of the night in sable and silver, followed by two-faced Janus in his temple that was inset with the Four Seasons. Another great illuminating lantern, as well as long and stretched-out double lines of torchbearers dressed in white suits, showed Neptune in a chariot shaped like a seashell and drawn by dolphins, then Flora in a bank of flowers pulled by butterflies; Ceres drawn by her oxen; Bacchus pulled by leopards, and Silenus precariously jogging on an ass. Next came Diana the Huntress in a chariot drawn by stags, and with the nine Muses behind her, then Vesta with her altar of fire; Destiny on his winged dragon, and Cybele, mother goddess of Asia, drawn by lions. Still they came on. There was Jupiter pulled by eagles and behind him Juno led by peacocks, with Iris the rainbow on one side and Argus the hundred-eyed on the other; Venus, goddess of love, was drawn by swans; Aurora stood with her winged horse; Apollo of the Sun, engulfed in swaths of gold, was drawn by the golden Sun, followed by Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders. Hercules was next, then Mars in his war chariot, and Minerva drawn by owls.
Cart after cart, they rolled into view, shining with gold and silver and paste jewels, awing the crowd with the marvelous effect created from papier-mâché, jigsawed wood, cascades of feathers and drapings of satin and silk, with sheets of gold leaf and barrels of paint. The hours of work expended were beyond counting, and it was easy to believe that a sum in excess of the rumored twenty thousand dollars had been spent by the Krewe of Comus.
Capering around the burdened carts were figures in the costumes of satyrs and nymphs, fauns and cupids. They were clustered particularly close around the next chariot in line, that of Great Pan, god of Arcadia, deity of amorous love, patron of pastoral poets.
Pan wore on his lower body a partial costume that had haunches covered with long white hair and the cloven feet of an Asian goat. From his shoulders swung a cloak of forest green wool held by a gold cord looped around great jeweled brooches, though his chest, broad and burned by the sun, was bare. Small gold horns sprang from the dark, tumbled curls that fell over his forehead, and twined in his hair were gold and green leaves of the vine. His face was covered by a gold demi-mask through which his. eyes gleamed with lascivious joy. Unlike some of the other gods, who showed a tendency toward corpulence, Pan was lean and fit, his chest padded with muscle. Most of the others were also content to allow the mule hidden under the trappings of their mythological animals to be led, but Pan, his strong arms outstretched and corded with strength, was driving his own chariot pulled by real milk-white goats. That he was a general favorite was plain from the cheers that rose along the route as he passed.
Anya applauded with the rest, her gaze upon Pan. She looked away to see what would come next, then looked back again, her attention irresistibly drawn. Pan was watching her, his gaze on her streaming hair, his smile devilish. She drew in her breath. It was Ravel. The god Pan was Ravel. She laughed aloud in sheer surprise.
It was at that moment of complete distraction that she felt the stir near her, heard a woman give a cry of stifled outrage. A man shouldered his way through the crowd and lunged at Anya. His hand closed on her arm, dragging her toward him. Caught off guard, she stumbled and his other arm clamped around her, holding her to the scratchy wool of his Arab burnous.
She cried out, bringing her free hand up to claw at his face. He snatched his head back and grabbed her other wrist in a bone-grinding hold; Anya stamped on his instep with her heel and had the satisfaction of hearing him curse. Before she could do it again there was a second Arab at her side and a third. They grasped her arms, drawing them back.
Twisting, struggling, she called out, “Help me!”
The Charley on the corner turned and looked, but it was as if he were blind or she were invisible. A small space began to form around her as people drew their children back out of harm’s way. An elderly gentleman stepped forward with his cane upraised, as if ready to do battle for her. He was joined by another, younger man.
The first Arab winked at her would
-be rescuers. “Don’t be hasty, friends. She’s only a whore ‘at got outta line.”
“No! I’m not! I’m not!”
Behind them there was a sudden clamor and commotion, but there was no time to heed it. The Arab shrugged. “Who you gonna believe?”
Hard and clear and ringing with vicious irony, there came a new voice. It belonged to Ravel, who answered, “The lady, friend!”
Anya felt a sob of relief welling up inside her, though she could not see Ravel for the man who held her. His presence was plain, however.
A man in a burnous was sent sprawling backward into the crowd. There came the sharp crack of a blow to the chin and another reeled into the road. The Arab who had first grabbed her pulled a knife from under his robe. In a single fluid movement, Ravel caught his arm, twisted, and brought it down on the hairy white knee of his goat-god costume. There was a muted crunching sound and the man howled. The knife fell to the banquette. Ravel kicked it away so that it skittered between the feet of the spectators.
Swinging around then in a blur of dark green wool, he reached for Anya, clasping one arm across her back and the other under her knees as he lifted her high. He sprang with her from the banquette to where his chariot waited with the reins held by a patient faun. He handed Anya up, steadying her until she could stand in the bower of geenery that was his tableau, then swung up beside her. He took back his reins and braced his feet, then turned to circle Anya with his arm, drawing her against him.
He stared down at her, his mouth grim though there was a bright, bold light in his eyes. “Are you all right?”
She was not all right, nor would she ever be again. Her heart was a solid and enormous ache in her chest, and the hurtful press of tears was behind her eyes. She trembled inside with a strange glad terror. She was a fool, for she had fallen in love with an amorous god and the fates were not kind to mortal women who dared such a thing.
She smiled, her lips tremulous, and reached up to straighten the vine leaves that had been tipped most beguilingly over his left eye by his exertions. “Your crown is crooked,” she said.
The touch of her hand, that small gesture and expression of concern, made the blood that flowed through Ravel’s veins feel effervescent, as if it were hot and foaming champagne. He could no more resist the impulse to bend his head and press his mouth to the tender curves of her lips than he could stop the beating of his heart.
Around them the applauding crowd erupted into wild cheers, into hurrahs and cries of “Bravo.”
Ravel lifted his head, and his eyes were dark with promise as he held Anya’s soft blue gaze. He turned, and with one hand slapped the reins upon the haunches of his white goats. The parade of Comus rolled onward once more.
16
TO RIDE UP AND DOWN THE STREETS and around the squares of New Orleans until the very end, playing nymph to Ravel’s Pan while smiling and accepting the accolades of the interested watchers along the parade route, was a great temptation. It was also impractical. The men who portrayed the gods and also, in the old Greek theater tradition, the goddesses of The Classic Pantheon must eventually make their way to the Gaiety Theater, there to take their places for the grand tableaux that would be a feature of the Comus Ball. Anya had no part in that arrangement, nor was it right or fair to expect Ravel to make one for her. It was necessary for her to return home, take off her mask, and don her ball gown. The masquerade was over; to attempt to prolong it was useless.
Accordingly, Anya requested that when the slow-moving line of chariots passed Madame Rosa’s townhouse, Ravel pause long enough to allow her to alight. He looked down at her, his arm tightening around her. It was strange, she thought, how much a demi-mask could hide, even when the eyes themselves were visible.
“You need not worry,” she said. “I’ll be safe there.”
“Are you certain?”
“What do you mean?”
It was odd that he had not asked who the men were who had been menacing her, or why. It could be assumed they were the same men, for the same reason as before, because she could identify their leader, but he had no way of knowing unless he had some understanding she did not possess. Or unless he had sent them.
No, she would not think of that; to do so would be too swift a descent from the magic pinnacle of loving and perfect accord she had so recently reached. If it seemed a coincidence that the men attacked her on Mardi Gras day, on Royal Street as the parade was passing, it was simply because it was the first opportunity that had occurred since the incident at Beau Refuge to separate her from her escort.
“I mean,” he said slowly, “that perhaps you should consider who might gain if something should happen to you.”
“That’s ridiculous. The only reason I’m in any danger is because—”
“Yes?” he said softly.
“Because of you,” she finished, but with much less certainty in her tone. There seemed no connection whatever between Ravel and her pursuit by the Arabs. And yet there had to be. She had no enemies. None at all.
“There is no reason that I know of why any activities of mine should constitute a peril to you,” Ravel said.
“But those men, they were the ones who tried to kill you. I’m almost sure of it!”
Was that their purpose?”
“Of course it was! Why are you trying to suggest otherwise?”
“For your protection,” he said with quiet incision.
“Then again,” she said, her voice stifled, “if they weren’t the same, your presence was very convenient.”
When he answered, his tone was deliberate. “As much as I might be tempted to have you mauled and terrorized for the pleasure of rescuing you, it seems a rather drastic means of courtship.”
They were nearing the townhouse, the vehicle slowing as with corded arms he pulled on the reins. “Why? Gratitude must surely be as acceptable to you as a reason to be wed as any other. You were willing enough to marry me for mere duty.”
“Would you have preferred it if I had declared undying love and passion?”
The irony in his tone was like the flick of a whip in her vulnerable state. “Oh, infinitely,” she said, summoning scorn to help disguise her pain, “so long as some pretense had to be made.”
“Interesting. If you are sure the sense of duty was a pretense, what reason do you think I had for proposing a marriage between us?”
“The same as most, money and position.”
“I have enough of both to suit my needs.”
“Respectability?”
“Ah, that’s a prospect, isn’t it? I thought respectability was what I was offering you.”
“Did you indeed!” she said wrathfully. The chariot had stopped. She gathered up her skirt, preparing to alight.
He put his hand, warm and strong, on her arm. “I have lived without respectability most of my life. Why should I feel the lack of it now?”
“Most of us want the things we can’t have.” Her gaze was dark blue and steady.
“True,” he said, soft amusement in his tone as he released her, “but there is a basic fault in your reasoning, if you will look for it.”
She descended with what grace she could muster from the chariot. On the banquette, she turned, ignoring the curious stares of those around her as she answered him in scathing tones. “If I discover it, I will let you know.”
“Do,” he said with the greatest affability, and, slapping the reins he held over the backs of his goats, rolled away.
There was no time to think about his meaning, however, or to regret the discord that always seemed to arise between them. Nor was there time to bend her mind in earnest to the reasons for the attack upon her. Servants, hanging out the attic windows of the house to watch the parade, had pulled in their heads and run screaming into the house with the news that she was found. She was met on the courtyard staircase by Celestine, her face red and blotched with tears. The other girl flew to throw her arms around Anya, while Emile and Murray came down more slowly behind her.
Anya explained as best she could between exclamations of horror, sympathy, and concern. By the time she was finished, Celestine was wringing her hands.
“But you might have been killed, or worse! I can’t think how we came to be separated so completely, except that we turned aside to look at a cunning bonnet in a shopwindow, then saw ahead of us another woman in a costume similar to yours so that we thought you had passed us by. I told Emile and Murray that it wasn’t you, that you wouldn’t wear that cloth thing over your head like a washerwoman, but they insisted.”
“A thousand regrets, Mademoiselle Anya,” Emile said, his gaze earnest as he possessed himself of her hand. “I will never forgive myself for leaving you, for exposing you to such fear and anguish. But how intrepid of you to defeat them. I am all admiration! Never, but never, have I heard the like.”
“If you two are going to make such a fuss,” Murray said in practical tones, “you might at least let her come into the salon where she can sit down.”
“Indeed, yes,” Madame Rosa said from the landing. “I’m sure she is exhausted after such excitement. And I believe we could all do with a restorative.”
The tale had to be told again, with embellishments, for her stepmother. Celestine, a distraught court lady, sat on the settee beside Anya, holding her hand as if she meant never to let go of her again. Madame Rosa occupied a sturdy chair nearby, with Gaspard, his face creased with worry, behind her chair. Murray had removed the black domino that he had worn over his normal clothing. He sat on Celestine’s other side, while Emile took a side chair, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, his embroidered gauntlets and his cavaliers hat thrown aside, and with his soft brown curls in disarray.
“How fortunate Duralde was able to come to your aid,” Gaspard said.
“Yes, he was quite the hero,” Murray agreed.
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