Louisiana History Collection - Part 1

by Jennifer Blake

  “Is that what you intend to do? Forget?”

  She turned to look at him, her eyes dark but unflinching. “As soon as I can.”

  He wanted to take her in his arms and shake her, or kiss her until she was weak and breathless, from lack of air if nothing else. The proud tilt of her head prevented it, that and his own guilt. He had done enough to injure the bright self-respect that was so much a part of her. Even if he could force her to capitulate, he would not do so. At least he would not use physical coercion unless it was absolutely imperative.

  “Then,” he said, inclining his head in a bow, “I will leave you to it.”

  Cyrene did not watch him walk away. She could not, for the blur of tears in her eyes.

  The Bretons and Cyrene were at the dinner table when the message came from the governor. The marquis requested the opportunity to speak to Mademoiselle Cyrene on a matter of importance. Would she do him the honor of a visit as soon as possible, preferably within the hour?

  It was the equivalent of a command. She was not sure the governor would not send an armed escort for her if she did not arrive in a reasonable time. There was no question of not going, of course. She had been the instrument of considerable embarrassment for the marquis and his wife, and if she could make up for it in some way, she would, if only by swift compliance with his request.

  The Marquis de Vaudreuil was in his study when Cyrene arrived. His wife was entertaining friends in the salon but came out to greet Cyrene with the utmost cordiality before showing her to the room the governor used for his paperwork.

  “My husband wishes to speak to you alone, mademoiselle. I trust you will consider carefully what he asks.” There was speculation in the face of the governor’s wife.

  “Willingly, but may I know what it will be?”

  “He will tell you himself, but believe me when I say he does not take the matter lightly.”

  “Yes,” Cyrene said, more mystified than ever and not completely trustful of the smile the other woman gave her. There was no time for more, however. Madame Vaudreuil had reached the study door and turned the knob. She put her head into the room, announced Cyrene, and, with a quick, conspiratorial wink, went away back toward the salon.

  Cyrene pushed open the door and stepped into the study. The marquis put down a paper he was studying and came forward to bow over her hand. A pair of fauteuil chairs sat before a small fire, and he led her to one before spreading the skirt of his coat and dropping gracefully into the other. He took out a snuffbox, took a pinch, then snapped it shut and had recourse to his handkerchief. He put the snuffbox away in his waistcoat pocket.

  “It was kind of you to come so promptly. I would not have requested it on such short notice, but the matter is one of some urgency.”

  “Please don’t consider it. How may I be of service?

  “Many ways, mademoiselle,” he said, smiling, “many ways. You will remember our play?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “None can play the part of the lovelorn mistress so well as you; you were preserved from prison and other harm for this, I have no doubt. But rehearsals must recommence at once if we are not to lose what we have gained.”

  This was the matter of such urgency? Cyrene hid her surprise as best she could, though there was still a touch of asperity in her voice as she said, “Tonight?”

  “Unfortunately not,” the governor said, lowering his lashes in a pensive expression. “You see, one of our principal players is packing to leave us.”

  She suspected the governor of levity at her expense. She was certain she had seen a flash of laughter, instantly suppressed, in his eyes. “Who might that be?”

  “Lemonnier. For some reason he has taken a sudden dislike to our fair land of Louisiane. Word has come that Le Parham has been delayed at Belize for a few days for the replacement of a faulty mast that was only discovered on the way downriver. Fortunate, was it not, that they did not put out into the gulf before the defect was found? The outcome of it, however, is that Lemonnier intends to have himself conveyed to Belize to join the ship for the voyage to France. He must not be allowed to do this.”

  “For the sake of a play?”

  “It’s a most entertaining piece, you will agree? But no. We are in need of all the colonists we can acquire here. Until this afternoon, Lemonnier had great plans to become a landholder, to be an exporter of indigo and myrtle wax candles, to establish himself as a man of substance and responsibility who might be depended upon to contribute much to the good of the community. Now he goes. I ask myself why. I ask myself how he can be persuaded to stay. You, mademoiselle, are the answer.”

  “I? That’s absurd.”

  “Is it? Can you deny that if you had agreed to marry him he would have remained here to do all that I said?”

  “How did you—”

  “Never concern yourself with how. Can you deny it?”

  The marquis was, in his way, a formidable man. He hid it well behind his air of graceful assurance, but it was no less true. “No,” she said shortly, “but he has no real wish either to make me his wife or to settle here.”

  “He asked you, did he not?”

  “Well… yes.”

  “Why could you not agree?”

  “Because he did not want—”

  “Nonsense! It was because you did not feel worthy or rather was afraid he did not think you worthy but had asked in spite of it. In other words, it was pride.”

  “I did not care to be married out of duty or pity!”

  “Few men feel it a duty to marry their mistresses. You should have fallen into his arms with glad cries and sweet kisses.”

  “Because he is a man of — of substance who does me the honor to correct the position in which he placed me by force? You have a very odd idea of what will make a happy marriage!”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Ah, happiness, that is another matter. Marriage is an alliance, hopefully one that will do the most good for the greatest number, which may only incidentally be the husband and wife.”

  “I am to marry him, in your view, for the good of your play and the colony?”

  He inclined his head graciously. “In a word, yes.”

  “You are wasting your time,” she said with just an edge of triumph. “He won’t ask me again.”

  “I fear you may be right. But I believe he might listen if you were to ask him.”

  Heat sprang into her face. She ignored it. “When he is even now packing to return to France? Why should he do that?”

  “Because he loves you.”

  “Oh, please, that isn’t a fair argument.”

  “It happens to be true. I have never seen a man so torn between the dictates of his heart and his duty to his king. It drove him to desperate means to find a quick solution to the problem of proving the loyalty of my wife and myself.”

  “You knew what he was doing?”

  “I did not know. I suspected only.”

  “And you let him go on?”

  He waved a hand. “I could not stop him. In any case, Lemonnier and I both know that these things are decided not on merit or lack of it, but on influence. It is a lamentable system, even a decadent one, but it works in its way. As a representative of France, I take pride in governing in the name of my king and using my abilities to their utmost. It’s better than being a sycophant at court, fighting for the honor of holding the king’s basin when he is ill.”

  She returned abruptly to what he had said, able now to deal with it. “It isn’t love René feels for me. If anything, it’s lust.”

  “As strong an emotion as any.”

  “But not one on which to base a marriage.”

  “It can be a poor thing without it. But if you will not be married, I fear you must be ready to accept the consequences.”

  “Consequences?” Her voice was sharp, for she had the feeling they had come finally to the meat of what the governor meant to impart to her.

  “Lemonnier, I fear, is a bit unscrupulous.”
/>   “What do you mean?”

  “When he left France, he had with him one or two blank lettres de cachet signed by the king in case of need. Very convenient instruments, these. They allow the bearer to remove the person whose name he places in the blank and to hold him, or her, in close confinement indefinitely.”

  She stared at him, unable to believe what he seemed to be saying. “You mean that René—”

  “So I understand.”

  “He can’t!”

  “He can. The king’s signature makes it imperative for those in authority, myself included, to render him any aid necessary to secure the person he indicates.”

  She looked at him for long seconds. “Why are you telling me this? If it’s true, why not just arrest me?”

  The governor pursed his lips. “Because you are a beautiful woman and I like you, but also because Lemonnier will use the lettre de cachet to take you away, and you are needed in Louisiane fully as much as he. It occurred to me that if you were to decide on marriage after all, if you were to go to him and say so, you both might stay.”

  She got to her feet. “I’ll go to him, all right, and it’s very likely he will stay in Louisiane, though not in the way you wish. When I am through, he may need a land concession in Louisiane, as a place to be buried!”

  Cyrene’s fuming thoughts kept pace with her quick footsteps as she made her way from the governor’s house to René’s lodgings. The perfidy of the man, to plan her removal from Louisiane in such a way! It was beyond belief, unforgivable. When did he mean to send the soldiers for her? In the middle of the night? More than likely, she would have been given no time to say good-bye, no time to pack; it would be just like him. And where would he take her? To his father’s chateau? What then? Would she be a prisoner the rest of her life, kept under lock and key except for such times when it pleased him to permit her freedom? And would he visit her to take his pleasure or allow her to languish, forgotten and alone? She would die before she submitted to such a life.

  No, she would kill him.

  Martha let Cyrene in, then, with one look at her set and flushed face, the serving woman retreated to the kitchen regions. Cyrene advanced into the salon toward René, who stood before the fireplace with his hands behind him. A wary look hovered in his eyes as he watched her.

  “I have just come from the governor,” she said without preamble.

  “I trust you found him well.”

  “Oh, please, have done with the courtesies,” she said in scathing tones. “I have had an incredible tale from him and I want it explained.”

  “A tale?”

  “About a lettre de cachet.”

  “Ah. What of it?”

  Her eyes blazed as she came closer to him. “Is it true?”

  “If it is?”

  “It will be,” she said deliberately, “the most base and despicable trick I have ever heard of in my life.”

  “Because I want you with me?”

  “You admit it!” she cried. “I couldn’t believe it. I thought it must be a lie, some story to make me come here. I should have known it was just your style, just the sort of high-handed tactics you would take to get what you want! Dear God, is there nothing you won’t do?”

  “I asked you to marry me and you refused,” he said, his face grim.

  “That doesn’t give you the right to take me against my will!”

  “I don’t need anything to give me the right. I have the power of the king.”

  “Which you have used for your own revenge!”

  The flush of temper lay under the bronze of his skin. “Not yet, but press me and I well may!”

  “Not yet, indeed! Why else would you make me your mistress?”

  “Because I needed you more than I needed honor. Because I was afraid to let you out of my sight lest you do some wild thing that would force me to let you go to the flogging post though I would feel every lash on my own heart. Because I love you beyond thinking or telling; beyond duty or justice or pride of class; more than the service of my king, the towers of my father’s house, or the cool and shining glories of France itself.” His voice softened. “I am bound to you and you to me. Why else were we born? Why else did the fates send you here and deliver me to you? Why else did you save my life unless it was to let me love you?”

  When he fell silent, she drew in her breath with a gasp, not knowing until then that she held it. She swallowed and licked her lips. Her voice low, she said, “I will not be taken to France by force.”

  Anger swept over him and with it despair. He could do no more, say no more. He had let her see his soul and to her it was as if he had not spoken. He swung away from her, striding to the writing table. He picked up a foolscap sheet that lay there and tore it across once, twice. Turning, he moved to her, took her hand, and slapped the pieces of torn paper into her palm.

  He moved away from her as if he could not bear to be near, saying over his shoulder, “There is your lettre de cachet. You are free, free of me, free to remain here in this benighted wilderness if that is what you want. Go. Get out, now! Before I change my mind.”

  Free. She supposed she was, and yet she had never felt less so. There were ties of the heart stronger than any prohibition, any prison wall. Love and concern, that of Pierre and Jean and Gaston for her, kept her close to them now for fear of causing them worry. The days and the nights, the joys and the pain she had shared with René Lemonnier held her to him just as strongly, perhaps more surely.

  It was odd. She had thought she could not depend on him, could not trust him, and yet she had depended on him to hold her, trusted him to use the lettre de cachet to keep her with him. It was only because she had been so certain he would that she had dared to goad him, dared to demand to know why he wanted her.

  She had gone too far. She had become so used to pretending to doubt him that she had failed to accept his love when it was offered. She had wanted to hear more, to have some sort of proof so that she could find the words, and the right time, to tell him that she loved him, too.

  The proof was in her hand. The time was now. Before it was too late.

  She lifted her head. Her voice low, she said, “Stay with me.”

  He turned slowly. “What?”

  “Stay with me,” she repeated with tears shining like liquid gold in her eyes. “I love you. I will die if you go back to France without me. Don’t go. Stay with me.”

  “Always. Before God, always, my Cyrene.”

  He was upon her in a single stride. He caught her in the hard circle of his arms and swung her around so that her cloak whirled about her, sweeping over the writing table and sending papers fluttering, sliding from its surface. She clasped her arms around him, dropping the pieces of the letter she held. They showered to the floor like the petals of flowers, lying with the other sheets in a windblown drift.

  On the pieces of the lettre de cachet Cyrene had dropped the line for the name was blank. There was another lettre, however, half hidden among the scattered sheets. On it in slashing black script was her name.

  As he spun with Cyrene in his arms, René’s booted foot caught the sheet, sending it flying toward the fire. In an instant it turned brown, burst into flames with a tiny, soft explosion, and was gone.

  1

  THE BOOMING OF CANNONS in salute shook the still, sultry air. The thudding concussion reverberated among the half-timbered houses of New Orleans and rolled over the Mississippi River, bouncing about the hulls of the ships lying at anchor before echoing back from the green tree line of the distant shore. Pigeons startled from their perches flung themselves into wheeling flight with the glaring orange glow of the westerly sun beneath their wings. A mange-ridden mongrel, sniffing in the noisome open gutter that centered the street below the balcony where Félicité Lafargue stood, flinched and cowered, then fled from the sound. Félicité gripped the balcony railing with white-tipped fingers, leaning to stare in the direction of the Place d’Armes. There was distress and scorn in her velvet-brown eyes as she w
atched the boiling cloud of blue-gray powder smoke that rose to join the heat haze above the rooftops of the town.

  Hard on the heels of the salute came an answering roar from O’Reilly’s fleet straining at its anchor chains on the river, followed by a fusillade of musket fire. The bells of the Church of St. Louis began to peal with a hard, unmelodious clanging. Plainly there came through it all the deep-voiced cheers of the soldiers, more than two thousand strong, as they shouted in the despised Spanish, “Viva el rey!” — ”Long live the king!”

  The bells stopped. The cheers died away. The pigeons flapped back toward the square. All was quiet.

  Félicité drew a deep breath, lifting her chin, squaring her shoulders. The deed was done. The fleur-de-lis of France, the golden lilies on a blue ground, had been lowered, and the lions and castles on a field of scarlet that marked the banner of imperial Spain had taken its place. There was nothing she could do now, nothing anyone could do.

  She was glad she had not joined the throng of morbidly curious at the Place d’Armes. Her father, fearing there might be trouble, some demonstration of the townspeople’s displeasure, had suggested she stay away, but it had in truth been her own preference. Why should she wish to view the might of Spain brought across the seas to quell their pride, crush their brief independence, and force them to obedience? So long as she did not see the transport ships, the stacked arms and heavy guns, the assemblage of fighting men in numbers to equal, if not surpass, the entire French population, she need not acknowledge their existence. For a few minutes more she could delude herself that this was a nightmare from which she must surely wake.

  When had it begun? It must be two, no, three years ago, when the rumors of the secret Treaty of Fontainebleau had begun to stir. Louis XV of France, most glorious of monarchs, had ceded the colony of Louisiana to his Bourbon cousin; Carlos III of Spain, by secret arrangement. The reasons, the machinations behind it, were many, but also meaningless. The people of New Orleans would henceforth, no matter how they protested, be forced to regard themselves as Spaniards.