Bal Masque

by Fleeta Cunningham

  “And so she has, my child.” Mother Superior tucked her hands into her sleeves and leaned forward. “I’ve heard very good things about you, but I need to hear more from you.” Lucienne felt the power of the older woman’s eyes holding her. “Now tell me again, everything, about how you came to us. When did you leave home, and why, and how did you get here?”

  Drawing a breath to the depths of her lungs, Lucienne started her story again. “Papa and M’sieu Dupre arranged a marriage between Armand Dupre and me. But I couldn’t marry him, I just couldn’t. And Phil…the other man, I thought he loved me and we planned to run away together, but he didn’t love me and there was a duel, and I thought he’d be killed. So I came after him.”

  “That’s a very muddled story, Lucienne. Start at the beginning. You ran away from your wedding? Your papa and M’sieu Armand must be frantic about you.”

  “No, I didn’t run away from the wedding. I ran away after the ball. That was part of the wedding.”

  “Your Papa held a ball? Before the wedding?”

  “Well, no, there was the ceremony before the ball, but Armand wasn’t supposed to be there. It was supposed to be Phil...the other man.”

  “But the wedding took place?”

  “It wasn’t a real wedding, Mother. He wasn’t the man I thought I was marrying.”

  “The priest read the vows, you answered, and witnesses observed the event?”

  “They weren’t seeing a real wedding. I mean, I was saying those words to someone else, not Armand. I didn’t make those vows to him.”

  “You made them to God, Lucienne.”

  “But I thought I was saying them to…to someone else. It’s not a real marriage if you make the vows to one person thinking that it’s someone else. It can’t be.” No matter how she reasoned and argued, the thin woman in the black habit took her back to the point that she and Armand had taken vows before God, a priest, and a company of witnesses.

  “But I talked Papa into letting me have the wedding as part of the masked ball so Philippe could take Armand’s place.” Lucienne was too tired, and her brain too addled from all the retelling, to bother with subterfuge. “Then I’d be marrying him instead of Armand. I thought I would die, right there in front of all those people, when we took off our masks and there was Armand instead of Philippe. I was so sure it was Philippe. When I saw Armand, well, I couldn’t think for the longest time. The rest of the evening was just one long blur of people saying the same thing over and over, and a lot of noise. Then when I got to my room, my cousin Pierrette came up and told me that Philippe had challenged that Blanchard person to a duel; that was why he hadn’t come. So she helped me get out of the house; I got on the riverboat and came to town. My things were stolen, clothes and everything, but I thought Philippe would take care of me. And there he was, going off to Texas! And not a word to say to me.” The tears flowed freely at last. She sobbed into her apron, face hidden in the flowered folds. “So I thought I’d rather be a nun. It wouldn’t matter here if Philippe made a fool of me.”

  “And you very willingly allowed him to do so.” Mother Superior sat very still in her high-backed chair. “Let me see if I have this straight in my head. You signed the marriage contracts, you and Armand and your fathers?”

  Lucienne nodded. She was weary of going over this. How long before Mother Superior said she could be a nun? Surely she’d told the story enough by now to convince Mother she was sincere.

  “And there was a wedding at your home, with Père Jean-Baptiste performing the ceremony, and a host of witnesses hearing you say your vows?”

  “Oh, yes, half the parish was there. It was very nice, I suppose, but it was the wrong man.” She waved a dismissing hand. “Of course, I’m very glad now it was the wrong man, because otherwise I’d be married to Philippe, and that’s probably as bad as it would be if I were married to Armand.”

  Strong hands caught Lucienne’s arms and gave her a slight shake. “Little one, you’re not thinking. Married, that’s what you are. You’re married to Armand. You’re a married woman and no candidate for this convent. Don’t you see that?”

  Lucienne stared at the woman opposite. “No!” she cried in defiance. “I won’t be married to Armand. I won’t! I intended to marry Philippe, but he didn’t come. I never, ever, ever intended to marry Armand. I can’t be married to him.”

  “You signed the marriage contracts?”

  “Yes, but only because Papa insisted.”

  “You stood before a priest, in front of witnesses, and repeated vows?”

  “But I thought I was saying them to Philippe, don’t you see?”

  “You said your vows before a priest. You can’t unsay them.”

  Lucienne shook her head stubbornly. “No, no, I thought I was marrying Philippe. It was Armand, so it can’t count.”

  “Lucienne, listen to me. You should have paid attention in history class when I told you about all the kings and queens of the Old World who were married by proxy. Proxy means someone else stands in at the wedding for the bride or groom. It’s another person, but the marriage is just as real. Even if Philippe had taken Armand’s place, it would be as if he’d acted as Armand’s proxy and answered in his name, so you’d still be married to Armand. Marriage by proxy is a binding marriage. How can it not be equally binding when the people making the vows are the ones named in the ceremony? You must understand. I don’t care if you planned to marry the archbishop’s cat. You’re very married, married to Armand, and all the wishes in the well won’t change it, Madame Dupre.”

  Chapter Thirteen:

  Information Welcome and Not

  Married, married, married to Armand. The words rolled around in her mind like a marble in a pan. Lucienne stumbled back to her tiny, windowless room and shut the door, closing out the faint sounds in the hall beyond. Her eyes didn’t take in the small cot, the washstand, the prie-dieu against the wall. She stood in the room, blindly turning, hemmed in by the word “married.” Her knees wouldn’t support her. They gave way, leaving her sitting in a pool of blue, crumpled like a discarded rag on the stone floor.

  Married to Armand. She’d known it, in some unheeded way. But like any other unpleasant reality life offered, she’d denied it, ignored it, rejected it in favor of what she preferred. So she preferred to marry Philippe, and she’d arranged and re-arranged every aspect of the wedding to make that happen. When Armand revealed himself, she’d dismissed the marriage. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have happened. It didn’t count.

  Married to Armand. The words wouldn’t go away. The reality became oppressive, suffocating. Deny the truth though she would, bald facts remained. Père Jean-Baptiste murmuring words that couldn’t be disclaimed, she and Armand responding, taking vows that united them forever. The memory grew strong for all she fought to dismiss it. All those people nattering about what a lovely bride, such a fine match—the images flooded her mind. It couldn’t be otherwise. Her own head refused to let it remain a dream, a nightmare, or something she’d heard in passing, something in no way related to her, Lucienne Toussaint.

  Married to Armand, now and forever, as long as they both lived. The words wouldn’t go away. Mother Superior had held her to it, made her face it, not relinquishing her attention until Lucienne, drained of her ability to deny it any longer, looked into the old nun’s eyes and said the words. “Yes, I’m married to Armand Dupre.”

  Lucienne reached inside the neck of her blue gown until her fingers touched the handkerchief pinned inside her chemise. It had become a part of her daily dress. She’d actually forgotten what the little package held. The pin pricked her finger as she pulled it loose. The knots stubbornly refused to give way to her prying fingers. Too often wet, too tightly tied, the little packet refused to open. Her efforts tore a small rip in the fabric. She worked a finger through and drew out the contents. The circlet of gold sat warm and glowing in the palm of her hand. Armand’s wedding ring. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the look in his eyes when he’d
slipped it on her finger. Nothing. She recalled nothing, except the jubilation swelling up at the thought that she’d succeeded in thwarting the Dupres’ plans. She’d danced through the evening on a cloud. Bubbling with the success of her plan, she’d let her happy secret carry her along. Certain she’d managed things to her own satisfaction, she’d let her mask fall and expected Philippe to do the same. The shock of seeing Armand, the wavering candlelight behind him and the overwhelming crowd beyond, was the last clear memory she had until her mother and Marie took her to her room. She had no idea how she’d managed to get through the wedding feast and its festivities. It was a long, grey blur, not clearing until the instant she decided she must stop Philippe before he faced Blanchard.

  Lucienne slipped the gold ring onto her finger. It felt strangely heavy, foreign to her hand. Holding it up so the faint light glanced off the metal, she sat still, waiting. No, she didn’t feel any different. Nothing about that slight weight on her finger suggested that either the word “married” or the gold ring made her a different person.

  Pushing up from the floor, Lucienne smoothed her skirts and straightened her apron. She dipped a scrap of towel into the water pitcher and folded it into a pad. The cot was hard, not at all like the deep featherbed she’d always known, but she stretched out on it, tucking the thin pillow under her head. The cool pad eased her burning eyes. She had to think, look rationally at the situation, shut out the jeering words and think what to do.

  Remaining at the convent wasn’t possible. Mother Superior had made it clear that as a married woman Lucienne couldn’t even think of becoming a nun, never mind that she obviously didn’t have a vocation. Yes, the nun admitted, she’d seen instances where a lay person was permitted to live within the convent walls, usually in cases where a woman had no family, or suffered some serious illness, perhaps a deformity, that made living in the outside world impossible. Lucienne wasn’t in such a situation, she reminded the girl.

  Her life was impossible, Lucienne’s heart insisted. How could she go back and face her parents after what had happened? Even if they didn’t disown her, and Lucienne didn’t think for a moment Papa would disown his p’tite Chou-Chou no matter what she did, she’d never be able to face anyone again. The scandal, the gossip, the notoriety she’d brought down on the family would live on for years. And marriage to Armand after all this, even if he'd have her… No, she couldn’t even consider life under those circumstances. Being Armand, he’d be stoic about the whole incident, she supposed, perhaps letting her continue to live with her parents, but he’d never want to see her again. No more did she want to see him, much less share a house with the dreary man. Still—she winced at the thought—if they did live together, she’d get to wear those wonderful pearls from time to time. And when he kissed her, something seemed to melt inside her. He’d not dismissed her loathing of duels. He’d heard her out and even agreed with her. Live with Armand? No, she reminded herself, she’d thrown away the right to consider it, not that she actually would, just as she’d thrown away any hope for a pleasant life by chasing after Philippe. She’d attend no more balls or masquerades, or evenings at the opera. Probably the only people who’d come to call on her were the members of her own family. Grandmère wouldn’t reject her, but Uncle Gaston might think her a bad companion for Pierrette. Strangely pained by the idea of losing Pierrette’s lifelong adulation, Lucienne packed her compress more tightly over her eyes.

  No, she couldn’t face a life like that, she admitted. Lucienne Toussaint, the delight of New Orleans in the year of her coming out, would not become the object of pitying gossip. She’d not go back to become the ostracized, outcast daughter and wife, just an embarrassment no one wanted to remember. She’d find another way. Lucienne put her cool compress aside and sat on the edge of her bed. Mother Superior had said she couldn’t be a nun; there was no place for her here at the convent. She hadn’t said Lucienne had to go away immediately. She’d admitted it would take some time for a message to get from the convent to Mille Fleur and for someone to come here for her. A matter of two days, at least, perhaps even three, depending on transport. A riverboat might not be leaving till tomorrow, and with all the rain, the River Road would be a sea of mud holding a rider to minimal progress. Count on two days, she figured, and that gives me time to think things through. I can be well gone before anyone can get here from Mille Fleur. In two days I can work something out, make some kind of plan. It isn’t as if I’m not perfectly capable of making a reasonable plan and carrying it out. After all, I’ve come this far on my own. Conveniently forgetting the number of plans she’d made that went far wrong, Lucienne sat on her bed, her legs crossed tailor fashion, her back against the cool wall for support, and closed her eyes.

  ****

  Marie looked down at the small black boy standing on the steps. “You have a message for M’sieu Dupre?” she asked again.

  “Yes’um, fo’ Mist’ Dupre hisself,” the boy insisted.

  “Is that for M’sieu Raoul Dupre or M’sieu Armand Dupre?”

  “Fo’ Mist’ Armand Dupre, just him, nobody else.” The boy in his white cotton pantaloons and worn shirt looked sincere. He stood with his bare feet spread and braced, staunch and immovable on the iron steps.

  “You can leave the message with me, garçon, and I’ll see that M’sieu Dupre gets it when he comes home. It may be some time before he returns.”

  “No, ma’am, I cain’t give it to nobody but him. It’s privut.” The little messenger parked himself against the railing with the look of a man on a mission he dared not fail.

  “You could tell me from whom the message comes, then. It might help me to get M’sieu’s attention when he arrives.”

  The youngster shook his head. “No, ma’am, I couldn’t do that. I was told it’s privut bizniz and not to give one word to nobody but Mist’ Dupre in person.” He hunched his knees up under his chin. “I waits.”

  “I could get you a cool drink,” she suggested, “if you come around to the kitchen door.”

  “I waits here.” It was the last word the boy had for her. From that moment he sat silently in the shade, his eyes half shut, as resolute and uninformative as the gatepost at the corner.

  Marie checked on the small figure off and on during the next few hours. The boy hadn’t moved an inch. He might have some word of Lucienne, she hoped, but more likely it was some business matter. If anyone had seen the missing girl, that person wouldn’t have sent the boy with a message, not with a handsome reward in the offing. He would have come himself.

  M’sieu Armand was wearing himself out searching for the girl. No one could do more, Marie was certain, nor could any man have been more discreet. It was difficult to carry on as if he were enjoying blissful days as a newly married man and still make quiet inquiries. Yet Armand spent as much time away from the house as circumstances required, venturing out to check with agents he’d placed about the city to watch for any sign of “a young girl gone missing.” He responded to invitations with kind regrets, saying he and his bride were not yet ready to re-enter the social whirl of the town. The strain was telling on him, Marie noticed. Always fashionably dressed and perfectly groomed, Armand nevertheless had the hint of worried shadows under his eyes. He didn’t seem aware of the excellent dishes his cook set before him, eating with little appetite and no interest. Marie’s concern for him was almost as great as her fears for Lucienne. It was a week and a day now that the silly girl had been gone. How had she managed to stay hidden for such a time? It seemed impossible that she had gone away with Philippe, yet who other than that irresponsible rogue would take her in? No, she did M’sieu Pardue a disservice, Marie reminded herself. If the man had wanted to take Lucienne with him, nothing could have been easier. He would only have had to appear at the wedding and she would have been his in an instant. He’d shown more good sense, if not much regard for Lucienne’s feelings, by quietly removing himself from the girl’s life. Marie could not bring herself to believe Pardue had gone back on his deci
sion and taken Lucienne with him to Texas. Still, if her suppositions were correct, then where had the little vixen gone, Marie asked herself for the tenth time that day. She glanced out to check, and yes, the figure next to the jacaranda tree remained, still as a rock, unmoving as the statue on the courtyard fountain.

  Not until mid-afternoon did Armand make his way from the café, where he drank coffee and collected gossip, to return to the shady courtyard inside the walls of his home. Intent on the confusion that seethed in his mind, he took no notice of the small figure half hidden in the foliage. He opened the door silently, hoping to put off the questions Marie would have for him the instant she knew he was home. It was cool in the entryway, no sound from the rest of the house carrying to this small alcove. Armand heard nothing from the rooms above. He crossed the tiled floor as softly as he could manage and took sanctuary in his book-lined study. The winged chair in the back corner invited him to hold off his meeting with Marie for a few moments more. Loosening his cravat and shedding his coat, he filled a crystal glass with sherry and let the slightly shabby chair cushion him in comfort. No more news of Lucienne today than he’d had the day before. And no sign of Dorcas Price. He dreaded sharing that information with Marie. Her sharp features were thinner than ever, and he was certain he detected threads of silver in her jet hair. The woman was worrying herself ragged. If he and Lucienne’s devoted watchdog were frantic trying to trace her movements, how was the girl herself managing without funds or even a change of clothing? He shook his head, all but defeated by the stress of keeping up appearances while maintaining the search.

  Armand savored his sherry. It eased his anxiety a little. In a moment he must let Marie know he’d returned, tell her there was nothing else of note. Perhaps she’d go to her own dinner and retire early, thus saving him from continuing his pretense of hope and confidence. He couldn’t afford for her to see how truly discouraged he was. If she gave way to her fears, Armand didn’t know how he could go on.