Saratoga Trunk

by Edna Ferber

  “You did not come here to discuss railroads with me, Monsieur Haussy.”

  He laughed a little laugh, like a chirp, and sat back in his chair as though he had been given a cue to relax. “I was only going to add that in another two years Canal Street will be lighted by electricity. I was talking, Mademoiselle, in order to give myself a chance to study you.”

  “And now your lesson is learned, Monsieur.”

  “By heart,” he replied, gallantly, with a little bob forward that gave an absurd effect of bowing while seated. “I am here—”

  “I know,” she interrupted, almost rudely. “One of my unpleasant habits is to be impatient of long discussions. I know why you are here.”

  He began to untie the portfolio that rested on his knees, “I have here—”

  “Please, no papers. I am bored by papers. May I offer you some refreshment? A glass of sherry? A coquetier?” She raised her voice. “Cupide!”

  “Nothing. You are brusque, Mademoiselle, for so young and so lovely a woman.”

  “It was you who asked for this interview, and you who proposed honesty and straightforwardness. . . . Cupide, go to the kitchen and stay there until I ring.”

  “You are right. Well, then I shall come straight to the point. You are causing a great deal of pain to my client, Madame Nicolas Dulaine, and her daughter, Charlotte Thérèse.”

  “I should be interested to meet my half-sister, Charlotte Thérèse Dulaine.”

  “I should scarcely call her that.”

  “I should. And do. Her father was Nicolas Dulaine. My father was Nicolas Dulaine.”

  “But there was a difference.”

  “Yes. My father loved my mother dearly. He did not love the mother of this little Charlotte Thérèse. It is curious, isn’t it—the child of real love is usually beautiful, like me, and the child of a marriage de convenance is dull and sallow, like this Charlotte Thérèse. Poor child!”

  Now he knew this was an adversary to be respected. He said again, “Your conduct is causing a great deal of pain to my client.”

  “Your client,” Clio retorted, evenly, “for many years caused my mother and me much greater pain.”

  “The conditions are different.”

  “How?”

  He waived this as being too obvious to require an answer. “We object to your calling yourself Dulaine.”

  “My mother and my father traveled everywhere, in this country and in Europe, as Mr. and Mrs. Nicolas Dulaine.”

  The litde man smiled at her confidingly. “Mrs. Dulaine is very far from wealthy, you know.”

  “Not so far as I, Monsieur.”

  “Is this blackmail?”

  Clio’s dramatic instinct told her that this was the time to rise. She rose. Augustin Mathieu Haussy jumped to his feet, dropped the portfolio, picked it up. By this time her effect was somewhat spoiled. “I did not come to you. I was living here quietiy, in New Orleans, in my mother’s house—”

  “Quietiy!”

  “Quietly. Disturbing no one. After all, I am young; I like to go about to the shops and the theaters and the races and the restaurants. I am not a nun. Still, if, as you suggest, your actions can be construed as blackmail—”

  “Me!” squeaked Haussy. “It is you who are attempting something very like that ugly word.”

  She made a gesture toward the bell. “I shall live my life as I please. You cannot frighten me as you did my mother. Good day, Monsieur Haussy.”

  But he seated himself and opened his portfolio. “I have here five thousand dollars. It is that or nothing. It is all that my client can afford, I assure you. New Orleans is a pauper today. Well, Mademoiselle?”

  “Five thousand dollars for—what?”

  He extracted a paper from the portfolio, adjusted his glasses, looked at her over them as though to make sure that he had her attention, and read in his quiet, rather pleasing voice.

  “I, who call myself Clio Dulaine, sometimes known as the Comtesse de Trenaunay de Chanfret, daughter of the woman Rita who called herself Dulaine, hereby agree and promise that I shall leave New Orleans within the period of the next thirty days, never to return . . .

  “I shall cease to call myself Dulaine . . .

  “While remaining in New Orleans I shall conduct myself quietly, taking care to attract no undue notice or attention . . .

  “After leaving New Orleans never to return I shall do and say nothing that could in any way associate me with the family of Dulaine or the history or background of the family of Dulaine . . .

  “I hereby promise . . .”

  She listened quietiy, her hands resting easily in her lap, her fine eyes thoughtful and untroubled, as though considering an impersonal legal problem.

  When he had finished she sat silent a moment. The tinkle of the fountain in the courtyard came faintly to them, and the sound of Cupide’s high boyish voice chattering in eager French to Kaka in the kitchen.

  “And if I do not sign this very inhospitable paper?”

  “I have political influence. I can make things very uncomfortable for you indeed.”

  “Not as uncomfortable as I can make them for you and your client. I have the hope of security and even respectability in my life. It is just as important to me as to the little Charlotte Thérèse. But if you try to make it impossible, I have little to lose, you know. I shall make the most frightful noise, I shall do something to make such a scandal that the old affair will seem nothing in comparison.”

  “Yes,” the little man agreed, soothingly. “I am sure you could. But you won’t. You are too intelligent.”

  “Ten thousand.”

  Now the bargaining began to earnest. Five! Ten! Six! Ten! Seven! Ten! She actually achieved the ten.

  “Now then, I, too, have certain demands.”

  “Impossible!” said Augustin Haussy, exhausted.

  “Oh, don’t be alarmed. They are mosdy sentimental. Nothing, really. The money is to be paid me as if for the sale of this house, and I should like the house to be torn down. Now, now, wait a moment. Don’t you see that your client probably would like that too? I am sure of it. Then, in my absence, there is to be placed a bunch of chrysanthemums on the grave of my Aunt Belle Piquery once each year, on All Saints’ Day. And her tomb is to be kept whitewashed. The furniture in this house will be destroyed—”

  “But my dear child!”

  “Burned. I myself shall see to it. Except for such bits and bibelots as I shall see fit to save. I want no dirty eyes gloating over these chairs and tables—the armoire—the dressing table—the bed—”

  Augustin Haussy looked around the charming room. “But this— all this—is in the best tradition of the furniture of the period. That couch you are sitting on—it must be the work of Prudent Mallard.”

  “It is.”

  “This chandelier—the Aubusson carpet—”

  Clio Dulaine rose as though to close the interview. “My mother and father both possessed great good taste, Monsieur Haussy. ... I signed so many, many papers in France after Mama’s death, and then Aunt Belle’s. I know this one must be properly witnessed and notarized. Will you come again tomorrow, so that no time may be lost? And do you think you could bring Charlotte Thérèse to see me?”

  He stared at her in horror. “But that is impossible!”

  “I suppose it is. But I think she might have liked to learn something of her father’s real life. She never knew him, you see. Oh, well, she must always live a very conventional and dull existence, the poor little one. Always chacalata. How I pity the child!”

  “A strange thing for you to say.”

  “No. My father would have felt the same, I am sure.”

  She rang for Cupide. You heard his little feet pattering across the courtyard. The lawyer tucked his portfolio under his arm, he paused to regard the girl with an eye no less keen but now definitely unprofessional.

  “I am interested to know what you are going to do. As a—a— man—an acquaintance, not a lawyer, I mean. Ten thousa
nd dollars— that can’t last long—at least, with you. Those pearls you are wearing are easily worth more than that.”

  Clio stared a moment, rigid. Then she melted into her slow, indulgent laugh. “You were right to say that you were not of old New Orleans, Monsieur Haussy. I was little more than a baby when we left here. But I am sure your manners are of a more recent and unfortunate day.”

  “I thought you were too worldly to take offense. I meant none.”

  “Dear Monsieur Haussy, I am not offended. I am amused. I don’t in the least mind telling you. I am going to marry a very rich and powerful man.”

  He stared, his face almost ludicrous in its astonishment. “You mean this fellow—this—pardon me—this Texan is—”

  “Oh, no. Not a penny except what he wins, gambling. A charming boy. No, I am going to Saratoga, where I shall become the fashion. Mrs. De Chanfret. It may be that I shall have to call upon you for verification. I shall do nothing objectionable. Daring, perhaps, but not too indiscreet.”

  “But marry—who?” so mystified as to be ungrammatical.

  “How should I know? What does it matter?”

  He turned toward the door. Cupide of the big ears stood in the hallway. The man came back a step or two. “I shall see you tomorrow, then.”

  “Yes.”

  He stammered, “You are—very—beautiful—that is—beautiful.”

  “Yes,” Clio Dulaine agreed, placidly. “Isn’t it lucky!”

  The legal mind must reach its conclusion. “Even so, you seem very sure of achieving this—this rich and—uh—powerful, wasn’t it?— uh—husband.”

  She shrugged her shoulders; her tone was more wistful than blithe. “I have been in America such a short time. And I have seen nothing of it, really. But even here in New Orleans I can see that this country is a little ridiculous, it is so simple and so good. Its people. Clint—the one you call the Texan—he has told me such stories! Some day those Europeans they will find out how simple and how good and how rich this country is and they will come and try to take it, I’m afraid.”

  “You know a great deal—for one so young.”

  “Oh, I know things without learning them, like a witch. And I am adventurous, like my great-grandmother, who traveled here to New Orleans so long ago from the French West Indies. I am going to have a fine time. And I am going to fool the world.”

  He bowed in farewell. “I hope the ten thousand dollars will be of help.”

  “A little, Monsieur Haussy. A litde.”

  VIII

  She was giving the Texan last-minute counsellor it was June, moist and sweltering, and he was off for the North.

  “Go to the best hotel in Saratoga. As soon as you’ve had a good look around, write me—write me everything.”

  “I feel like a skunk leaving you here in this heat, and everything to do. Why’n’t you get shut of it all and come on along with me? We’ll light out tomorrow, a couple of days in St. Louis, then up to Saratoga.”

  “I’ve told you, Clint, we must not come to Saratoga together. We do not even know one another. Remember that. Don’t seem eager to make friends. Swagger with the coat-tails. But do nothing until I come. Always be Texas. The white hat, the boots, the new blue satin tie, the diamond collar button and the diamond stud—everything is perfect. You have only to be yourself as you are. Only—écoute, chéri— you are very rich but you do not want this known—and you are a Western railroad and mining man—but you do not want this known, either. I should tell no one if I were you except, perhaps, the hotel manager and a croupier in the largest casino. There is a casino, you are sure? For gambling?”

  “What’s that? Croup—uh—what—?”

  “A—a dealer, I suppose you’d call him.”

  “Oh. Faro dealer. He sure is a good one to tell your secrets to. Look, Clio, you’ll be there in two weeks? Sure?”

  “But sure. Where else! But write me—names—everything. It’s going to be wonderful! I feel it. In my witch’s bones. New places! New faces! A whole new life!”

  “Don’t talk that way.” He was genuinely horrified.

  “Why, what have I said?”

  “You can’t trifle like that with luck! Bragging about what’s going to be wonderful. Luck’s just naturally ornery and goes the other way if you try to drive her like that. You got to just ease her along.”

  “Luck—fate—you’ve got to make your own. Bad luck—bad judgment. Good luck—good judgment. Well, my judgment is good, so my luck will be the same. You wait. You’ll see.”

  The bays and the clarence had been shipped to Saratoga. “Sure you’ll be all right, honey?” Clint Maroon said over and over again. “What’re you studying to do that keeps you here two weeks and more?” A sudden fear smote him. “Look here! You’re not playing any tricks with me, are you? Fixing to light out somewheres?” Actually his hand crept to the gun that always hung beneath the flowing skirt of his coat. He carried it as other men wear a wallet, quite naturally.

  Clio Dulaine watched this byplay with almost childlike delight. “You are perfect, Clint! But perfect! All my life in France I read about you, and here you are, melodrama come to life.” She grew serious. “Not another shoodng in this house, Clint. Think how uncomfortable you would be in prison in New Orleans during August.”

  He passed his hand over his eyes with that rueful and bewildered gesture made so touching because of his size and the swashbuckling clothes and the gun which was his symbol of defiance against the world.

  “Play-acting again, the both of us. I thought we’d be shut of that when we got to Saratoga.”

  “No, foolish boy! We’re really only beginning there.”

  “Shucks, all I aim to do is play me a little faro and clean up on those suckers they say are hanging around Saratoga with the money choking their wallets. Maybe enter Alamo in a race if she looks likely. Aid buy you something pretty in New York.”

  “New York! Oh, Clint! Really!”

  “Why not? Maybe, by September, if we’re lucky.”

  So they parted, and their panic at parting was real enough. They had come together so casually, the ruthless powerful girl, the swaggering resentful man. A month or two had served to bind them, the one to the other. Each had been alone against a hostile world; now each sustained the other.

  “I’ve a good mind to stay and wait for you, no matter what you say.”

  “No. No! that would spoil everything.”

  “I sure would like to. I get to thinking somebody might do you harm here in New Orleans. That’s what’s eating on me.”

  “Kaka would scratch their eyes out, and enjoy it. Cupide is better than a gun—you ought to know that. I have a thousand things to do. I shall never see New Orleans again. We are Southerners, you and I. Those Northerners are sharp.”

  “Any sharper than you, they’re walking razors.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Anything goes wrong you’ll send me a telegram, won’t you, honey? I’ll mosey back here in two shakes.”

  “Remember to talk like that in Saratoga. . . . Send me a telegram just as soon as you are sure of your hotel.”

  Suddenly she began to cry with her eyes wide open—great pearly drops that made her eyes seem larger and more liquid, her face dew-drenched.

  “How in tarnation can I go when you do that! Crying!”

  “Pay no attention. I often do that when I’m excited. You know that. It doesn’t mean anything. Just tears.”

  “Well, you sure cry pretty.”

  The tears were running down her cheeks and she was smiling as he left. It was he whose face was distorted with pain at parting. Cupide had begged to go with him. The big Texan had shown one of his rare flashes of anger. “Why, you little varmint, you! Go along with me and leave her alone with only Kaka! You’ll stay. And remember, if I find you haven’t done just like she wants, everything she says, when you get to Saratoga I’ll kill you, sure. No regular killing. I’ll tromp you to death like a crazy horse.”

  “
Sure,” Cupide agreed, blithely. “Mais certainement.’’’’

  In the little musty shops whose shelves were laden with the oddments and elegancies of a decayed French aristocracy of a past century Clio and Kaka had litde trouble finding the things they sought. Leather goods, jewel cases, handkerchiefs, bonbon boxes, lacy pillows, purses, jeweled bibelots, all monogrammed with the letter C. On these forays she dressed in the plainest black and offener than not did not take Kaka with her. Cupide, instead, trailed far behind and lolled innocendy outside the shop door until she emerged.

  Kaka’s needle flew. But Clio’s wardrobe needed little replenishing. Her silks, satins, muslins, jewels were of the finest. Some of them were of a fashion that had not yet even penetrated to America.

  Having made a gesture of melodramatic magnificence in speaking to Augustin Haussy about the furnishings of the Rampart Street house, she now thriftily changed her mind and her tactics, in part at least. The fine Aubusson carpets, the massive crystal chandelier, the unmarked silver and glass and such other impersonal pieces had an intrinsic market value almost as permanent as that of precious stones. She sold deliberately and shrewdly, driving as hard a bargain as she could. Certain exquisite pieces of procelain and glass she had packed in stout packing cases, and these she sent to be stored at a warehouse. Luxury-loving, and possessed of a sure dramatic sense, she set aside for her own use such odds and ends as would lend authority and richness to a hotel suite—heavy wrought-silver photograph frames, antique brocade pillows, vases; the bonbon boxes from which the plump Belle Piquery had nibbled until her plumpness grew to obesity; a Corot landscape, misty and cool, that Nicolas Dulaine had long ago purchased for his Rita because she had said that just to look at it revived her on the hottest day; a paper-knife with a jeweled handle; a cloisonné desk set from the Rue de la Paix; a fabulous little gold clock.