In an anteroom set aside for that purpose, René and Cyrene were relieved of their cloaks. Cyrene shook out the layered gauze in varying shades of green and gold that made up her costume of a wood nymph. At the same time, the mud was quickly brushed from René’s boots by a servant stationed for that purpose. Their appearance attended to, they adjusted the ribbons that held in place their demi-masks of cloth in the loose and fluttering fashion of the Venetian court, then allowed themselves to be led to the ballroom.
The assemblage of richly clad and jeweled people, chandeliers holding hundreds of candles like starbursts, elegant appointments in wall hangings and furniture, excellent music, food, and drink, and convivial company would have been outstanding in Paris itself. In this backwater post of New Orleans, it was brilliant. What was more, the guests were well aware that there had never been such a gathering in the short history of the town and suspected there might never be again. It gave an added zest to the excitement occasioned by the masquerade, a vivid, almost feverish pleasure that was the stuff of which legends are made. Never had the guests of the marquis smiled so much or laughed so shrilly, never had wine tasted so delicious or food been so ambrosial. The music caught their mood, enhancing it, singing in their blood. They danced as if their feet would not be still, until they were breathless and laughing with exhaustion, until the windows were thrown open to the coolness of the night to dissipate the heat and smell of so many warm, ripe, and liberally perfumed bodies.
Outside the rain began to fall again, the noise and cool wetness of it drifting into the room. No one paid any attention. What did the weather matter when there was pleasure to be had?
Cyrene danced a half-dozen times, once each with René and Armand, once with a harlequin, once with a grenadier, and twice with a saintly King Louis IX complete with a halo for a crown whom she was sure was the governor. Time ceased to have meaning. Secure behind her mask, there was, for the moment, nothing that could touch her, not even the sight of René in attendance to a lady dressed as an abbess who must be Madame Vaudreuil. She was supremely happy in the round of gaiety, with the beat of the music and the physical exertion of the dance throbbing in her veins and her mind. There was within her, she discovered, a capacity for pure enjoyment, an ability to forget problems and unpleasant situations and live only for the moment.
And then she saw Gaston.
It was him; she did not doubt it for an instant in spite of his mask. No one else had his combination of square build and hard-muscled shoulders or his cap of wild curls like the goat god Pan. No one else would dare to appear at the governor’s masquerade dressed in the beaded leather and moccasins of a voyageur, a river rat who was only one step from being a convicted smuggler.
The music of a fast-paced contredanse was just ending. Cyrene sent her partner for a glass of wine, then made her way toward Gaston. She came up behind him where he stood near an open window.
“What do you think you are doing here?”
So annoyed was she, and so frightened for him and angry also over that fright, that her voice shook. He turned to face her, and through the slits of his mask his eyes were warm with understanding. “I had a visit from a gentleman of your acquaintance, chère. It was he who brought me.”
“René,” she said bitterly.
“Not at all. It was Moulin.”
“Armand?”
“A fine friend, and a good man to have at your back.”
“I’m glad you like each other,” she said with deadly sarcasm, “but have you taken leave of your senses? What do you mean showing up here, dressed for all the world like an advertisement for your crimes?”
“No one has recognized me,” he protested.
“A piece of luck you don’t deserve. You must leave at once.”
Irritation tightened his lips. “If you will stop making a fuss, there will be no need. You’re the one likely to get me arrested.”
“Don’t be so unreasonable, Gaston. What can be the purpose of running into danger like this?”
“What danger, Cyrene? I understand that Lemonnier has arranged an alibi for us, Papa and Uncle Pierre and me. So far as anyone knows, we were never here on the night of the warehouse fire. I could ask what reward he had for his good work on our behalf, but that would be an unnecessary insult. It seems to me that you have paid for my safety; why should I not enjoy it?”
It was, of course, as he said. There had been time enough for the excuses made for the whereabouts of the Bretons to be accepted. Why, then, should Gaston not reappear? She abandoned that ground with mingled relief and chagrin, shifting for another attack.
“But to come here dressed as you are — it’s like a slap in the face.”
“A calculated gamble, it may be. Would a guilty man dare? No, therefore I must be innocent.”
“Why gamble when you can be safe?”
He gave a slow smile. “Why should I be safe when with just a little courage I can be one of the favored ones, a guest of the governor instead of only a trader’s son condemned to stand outside, like all those others out there, watching the high and mighty at their play?”
“It doesn’t matter, not any of it, compared to being free,” she said, her eyes dark as she glanced around her.
“So you say, but you are here and the others are still outside.”
It was true, what she had said. None of it mattered, not the fancy gowns and fine surroundings, not her parade of admirers, not playing opposite the governor in the amateur theatricals or even being among the elect at the masquerade. She had wanted freedom and had traded the degree of it that she had for a prison of a different type, one made tenable by paint and gilding and the appeal of desire-drugged senses. It was no less a prison for all that. She had gone into it with her eyes open, however. There was no one who could rescue her from it except herself. The main thing that was required for that rescue was the will to effect it. All she had to do was find that will.
Beside her, Gaston interrupted her painful reverie with a harsh whisper. “Who is this coming?”
She looked up. Advancing toward them was a man in the costume that might have been that of a Roman general, consisting of a toga and breastplate worn, most incongruously, with a pair of breeches and a curled and powdered wig. He was burly and quick-moving. He scorned a mask so that the unpleasant expression on his face was pronounced in contrast with the blankness of those around him. Recognition was slow, but when it came, it rushed in upon her with sickening force.
“Dear God,” she said under her breath.
“What is it?”
“The officer at the warehouse.”
“Who?”
Gaston had not been there when the officer had caught and thrown her to the ground, mauling her as he made his capture, which had been rescinded only by René. Gaston did not know, nor was there time to explain. The lieutenant stopped before them and placed his hands on his hips.
“I’d know that hair anywhere,” the man said, a sneer on his wet mouth as he surveyed the shining curtain that hung down Cyrene’s back. “I had me a handful of it and of a soft tit. And I’ll wager I have the same again, or else a nice conversation with the governor about you and about your friend here who looks mighty like a thief and a smuggler to me. What say you, my pretty? Will you play or pay?”
16
THE LIEUTENANT WAS so sure of himself. In his crude conceit, Cyrene saw, he thought he held the upper hand, thought he could frighten her into submission. Fear was a part of the emotion that leaped in her blood, but a greater portion was sheer rage at being threatened once more. She was grateful for her mask, which concealed both, however, as she faced the officer in his ridiculous costume with her head high and her shoulders squared.
“I don’t believe, m’sieur,” she said with deadly coldness, “that I have your acquaintance.”
She would have turned away then, back to Gaston who stood frowning at the other man, but the lieutenant grabbed her arm. “You know me, all right, and you’re going to know me a
lot better. Don’t go all high-and-mighty on me or I’ll have to take you down a peg or two right here.”
Cyrene wrenched her arm from his damp and clumsy grasp. “You forget yourself! I suggest that you have made a mistake, m’sieur, one that can prove dangerous if you persist.”
He caught her elbow in a rough hold, dragging her off balance so that she fell against him. “Oh, I’m going to persist, all right. We’ll see what kind of mistake there is and who made it when I get through with you.”
Gaston stepped forward, shoving the other man. “Let her go, you nameless dog!”
“Keep out of this.” The lieutenant threw the words at Gaston in growling menace. “Stay clear or I’ll have you trussed up to the flogging post before you can spit.”
“You’re big on threats,” Gaston snapped. “Let’s step outside and see what else you can do.”
“No, Gaston,” Cyrene cried.
“I warned you, cockerel!”
“Have you,” came a quiet drawl from behind them, “a warning for me also?”
Cyrene felt the officer stiffen. His hold on her elbow tightened. There was a movement too swift to follow, a sudden sharp blow, and the lieutenant’s grasp was broken. Cyrene was drawn to stand in the curve of Governor Vaudreuil’s arm.
She was unspeakably glad for the intervention, but at the same time she was embarrassed by it and thrown into a paralyzing dread that the reason for the necessity would be discovered.
The lieutenant seemed equally paralyzed. He gulped and began to stammer. “I-I beg pardon, Your Excellency. I didn’t know — that is, I had no idea.”
“You didn’t know what?” the governor said, his voice cold.
“Nothing! Nothing at all.” The lieutenant was pasty-white, his voice a croak. “Pray forgive — forgive me. I must have mistaken the lady for someone else.”
“I feel sure of it. It is not a mistake you will make again, I trust.”
“No, certainly not. No.”
The marquis made a brief gesture. “We will forget the matter. You may leave us.”
The lieutenant obeyed the command with all haste. Cyrene made an attempt to step away from the governor but found herself firmly held. She moistened her lips as she lifted her gaze to meet his. “You came most fortunately, sir. It was kind of you to rescue me; I am more grateful than I can say.”
There was a soft footfall behind them and René spoke at her shoulder. “You may add my gratitude to Cyrene’s. I saw the disturbance from across the room but was not able to arrive so timely.”
An expression of faint displeasure crossed the governor’s face and he sighed. “I might have known you would be close, Lemonnier. I suppose I must now relinquish Mademoiselle Cyrene to you for soothing.”
René inclined his dark head in a bow. “That would be my preference, Your Excellency.”
“I somehow thought it might.”
A woman, obviously following in René’s wake, joined them in a whispering rustle of taffeta petticoats. It was Madame Pradel, Cyrene thought, as her gaze rested on the expanse of bosom exposed by her Etruscan costume, which featured a full skirt, a copper corset constricting the lady’s waist to amazingly tiny proportions, and a practically nonexistent bodice.
“Lèse-majesté, no less, René,” the lady said. “You should have proper respect for the rights of our reigning overlord to succor damsels in distress and offer consolation.”
“Our overlord, madame,” the governor said austerely, “is Louis of France.”
“So he is,” she said in a pretense of surprise. “I was forgetting, but then I’m sure Mademoiselle Cyrene was in danger of the same.”
“Not at all,” Cyrene said, aware of the prick of the woman’s sarcasm if not of the cause. Though, on consideration, the cause was not difficult to discover. Madame Pradel, having secured René’s attention from the marquise, had not been pleased, perhaps, to have it diverted from her. There was time, however, for only the most fleeting recognition of this insight, for their group was enlarged by an abbess in a wimple and with a rosary banging her knees from the quickness of her stride.
The governor’s wife, her tone stringent, said, “What is the meaning of this public display? You will unhand Mademoiselle Nolté, Vaudreuil, before the clatter of tongues becomes deafening.”
The look Cyrene received from the governor’s wife was chilling. More disturbing than that, however, was the intent look on the face of the man who sauntered after her to hover at the edge of their circle. Dressed in the gray-brown habit of a monk, with the hood standing like a collar around his scrawny neck and no mask to hide the cynical malignancy of his gaze, was Madame Vaudreuil’s lackey, Touchet.
The Marquis de Vaudreuil gazed down his nose at his wife. “Mademoiselle Cyrene has had a shock. Scandalmongering being the natural pastime of the human animal, there is no need to abandon concern for a lady merely because of it.”
“Please,” Cyrene said, “I’m perfectly all right.”
The governor removed his support of her, though without haste. René stepped to take the other man’s place. He said in quiet tones, “The music is beginning. If you are truly without ill effects, shall we take the floor?”
“If you please,” she answered, her voice low.
“An excellent idea,” Madame Vaudreuil said sharply, her gimlet gaze moving from Cyrene to her husband. “Your arm for this minuet, Vaudreuil?”
“As you wish, chère.”
The governor, his back stiff, bowed his lady from their circle. René followed with Cyrene’s fingers upon his wrist. The dancers shifted to accommodate them. They joined the stately march of couples, bowing, bending, swinging in a sweep of petticoats and costume skirts, their feet lightly shuffling on the polished floor. The candlelight gleamed on silk and velvet, taffeta and satin, caught the lustrous sheen of pearls and glittered in the depths of multicolored jewels. It traced the edges of masks and flickered over the anonymous and lasciviously smiling mouths beneath the disguises. This was the Government House, and there was no license permitted, and yet a vague air of dissoluteness hung over the gathering, a reminder of the ancient bacchanalian festivals from which the tradition of Mardi Gras was derived.
Cyrene, circling behind René in the movements of the dance, saw Gaston at the far end of the room serving as partner for Madame Pradel. The woman was gazing up at him as if he were some particularly appetizing sweet, while the younger Breton looked intrigued but also apprehensive.
René caught sight of her smile with its tinge of irony as she returned to his side and they began to promenade down the room, pointing their toes at each step. “Was it necessary,” he said in goaded tones, “to make a public disturbance just now?”
There had been no opportunity for Cyrene to rid herself of her rage and chagrin, not only at being accosted by the lieutenant but also at the unwarranted censure of Madame Vaudreuil. It came boiling back now at his scathing comment.
“Why not?” she demanded. “There’s nothing I like more than being pawed and fought over like some quai d’Orsay tart. Unless, of course, it’s being condemned for a slut by a jealous wife!”
“You might have sat quietly somewhere without stirring up trouble.”
“Indeed? Am I to understand that you think I enticed the lieutenant to remember me? Perhaps you are of the opinion that I flaunted myself before him?”
What René thought was that she was too beautiful, too memorable, for her own good or for his peace of mind. It was the irritation caused by his uncomfortable concern for her that had made him lash out at her. It would have suited him much better if she had been quiet and biddable and retiring. But then she would not have been Cyrene.
“Well?” she demanded.
“I am perfectly well aware that you did nothing to provoke the lieutenant except be yourself.”
“Meaning what? That I should not have worn my hair unbound? That I should not have been grateful to the governor for his rescue? Perhaps you think that the best thing I could have done
would have been to go with the lieutenant wherever he wished and allowed him to do with me what he would? That would have settled everything nicely, and without the least noise!”
He glanced around them, his expression harassed. “Will you lower your voice?”
“Oh, yes, tell me to mind my tongue, why don’t you? It’s the last refuge of a man who has started a quarrel he cannot finish.”
“Very well,” he said, his grip on her hand tight as he swung her about, ready to return down the length of the room, “what would you have me say? That I should have kept a better watch over you? That I should have been quicker to come to your aid? That I resent Vaudreuil for getting there first, and harbor murderous intentions toward the man who dared to touch you? That I am, in short, wildly jealous?”
She lifted her chin, her eyes blazing as she met his steely gaze. “Yes, why not?”
“Why not, indeed? It’s perfectly true, all of it.”
She stumbled, nearly tripping on the hem of her gown. When she looked back at him, he was staring straight ahead. For long moments her heart beat high in her throat, then as she watched the taut angles of his face, it subsided. So he had felt responsible for her, concerned for her, even jealous of her — what of it? To him she was no more than a possession, something to be guarded, protected against interlopers. It had nothing to do with her as a person, this jealousy, but rather with his disinclination to share her or to lose her so long as his interest held. His sense of responsibility, his concern, and most of all his jealousy would be gone the instant he grew tired of her.
“How very flattering,” she said with brittle irony. “What can I have done to deserve it?”
René heard the disbelief in her voice and did not know whether to be enraged or relieved. To be both did not suit his idea of his own emotional stability; even less did it suit his cause.
The ball was over at midnight with a grand unmasking on the stroke of twelve. Lent began with the dying away of that final stroke, a stretch of forty endless days of fasting and austerity. The last bite of food was swallowed, the last drink hastily downed. The musicians put away their instruments. There was nothing to be done except to go home.
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