Prisoner of Desire (17 page)

Far from being satisfied with these wholesale purchases, she made a stop at Menard’s on Old Levee Street, where she placed an order for garden seeds, from tomatoes and cucumbers and okra and several varieties of beans, to pineapple melons, muskmelons, and yellow-orange watermelons. While there she also ordered sent to the plantation enough privets and pittosporums to form a double lane a hundred feet long.

As they were leaving, Celestine made the mistake of mentioning Mardi Gras, and how much she would like to join the maskers in the street on the evening of the great day as the magnificent parade being spoken of in whispers rolled along the Canal Street and through the French Quarter. Anya at once directed the coachman to take them to the Royal Street shop of Madame Lussan.

The small brass bell attached to the door jingled musically as they entered. The ground-floor shop was long and narrow, heated by a small fireplace with a grate in which coal burned with a pulsing red glow. The interior was dim, lighted only by the front windows. In the firelit gloom the masks of devils, apes, bears, cyclopes, satyrs, and other creatures that lined the walls took on a grotesque and menacing realism. The satin of dominoes in black and gray and red hung here and there, gleaming as they moved in the faint draft that drifted down the shop. Spangles and paste jewels glittered from the other costumes that lined the walls. There were heaped trays of jet and brass buttons. Strings of shimmering fake pearls and glass beads in rainbow colors dripped from racks. Around the counter were loops of the fashionable gilt and silver ribbon-tape, and also waterfalls of gilt and silver tassels on cards. The whole place glimmered and shone like a pirate’s treasure house.

Madame Lussan sat behind her counter sewing spangles on the bodice of a dress. She rose as they moved toward her, a plump woman with dark hair twisted into a tight knot on top of her head, bright eyes that missed nothing, and an eager manner.

“Bon jour mademoiselles,
and how may I serve you this afternoon?”

“We wish costumes for Mardi Gras Day, but want something out of the ordinary,” Celestine said.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Madame Lussan said with sympathy. “How distressing it is to see yourself everywhere you look. My stock is most unique, I do assure. Even in the popular characters, the colors of the costumes or the details are different. They were carefully chosen in Paris, and are of the finest quality materials and workmanship; you need have no fear of them being destroyed by rain or a careless movement.”

Celestine, looking around with sparkling eyes, said, “You have a large supply, the largest I’ve seen.”

“Indeed. Since the fine parade of the Krewe of Comus last year, there has been great excitement about the day. So many more people are inquiring about costumes for Mardi Gras Day itself, instead of only for the balls, that I fear there will be a great crush in the streets.”

It had been only a year before that a group of men calling themselves the Mistick Krewe of Comus had formed a club for the sole purpose of celebrating Mardi Gras in what they considered to be the proper style. Mardi Gras had, for the past fifty years or more, been marked by street masking and impromptu lines of decorated carriages filled with young men in costume and groups of knights of Bedouins on horseback winding through the streets. There had been no organization, however, and due to the rowdy conduct of the lower elements of the town, the day had fallen into disfavor — until the Krewe of Comus had come upon the scene. The Krewe was made up mostly of Americans, some of whom had belonged to a similar club in Mobile called the Cowbellions that paraded on New Year’s Day. The group in New Orleans had selected Mardi Gras as the holiday for their parade, and had introduced a novelty called a
tableau roulant,
or rolling tableau. Brightly illuminated and highly colored, it featured a fantastic scene set up in tableau form on a platform built on wheels. This tableau was pulled through the streets with hundreds of other costumed figures following. The spectacle the year before had been fantastic, but was supposed to be even more stupendous this year, with many more of the rolling tableaux.

“Have there been many ladies inquiring for costumes?” Celestine asked.

Madame Lussan gave a quick nod. “A great number. The men are going to have to give way to the fairer sex, instead of expecting them to view the proceedings from a balcony as if it were a theatrical production. But I digress. Come, tell me, what is your dearest desire? Who would you choose to be above all else? That is what Mardi Gras, is about, after all!”

Anya tore her eyes away from the mask of a goat with a long white beard, horns as red and as spiked as those usually reserved for the devil, and a distinct leer in its glass eyes. “I have no idea what I want, or who I would like to be,” she said with a smile. “My secret desires are hidden even from myself.”

“It is usually so,” Madame Lussan said with a shrug. “Permit me to show you a few items.”

She turned and led the way toward the rear of the shop, saying over her shoulder as she went, “Will you be attending the ball at the Theatre d’Orleans tomorrow night? I have some truly elegant
grandees toilettes
.”

Before they could answer, a gentleman emerged from one of the small rooms at the back of the shop, the retiring, or toilet, rooms where one went to try the costumes for fit. He carried his hat and cane in his hand and was smoothing his hair with his other hand. To Madame Lussan, he said, “The Cossack officer uniform will do excellently. You may send it at your convenience.”

“Certainly, M’sieur Girod,” the proprietress answered.

“Emile!” Anya exclaimed in pleased recognition. “When did you return from Paris?”

The young man came toward them with a warm smile lighting his face. Of medium height, he had tightly curling hair of a light brown cut close to his head, liquid brown eyes in a mobile face, and a clipped mustache in the cavalry style on his upper lip. His complexion was typically Creole, with an olive undertone to the skin and a faint flush of color over the cheekbones. He was Jean’s brother. Born four or five years after Jean, he had been studying at the university in Paris for the past two years, the typical arrangement for the sons of the wealthier Creole planters.

He did not immediately answer Anya’s questions, but took the hand she gave him, bowing over it with a Gallic flourish. “Anya, how happy I am to see you! I called at your townhouse yesterday, but was told you were away from home. How magnificent you look, the same goddess I used to worship from afar.” He turned to Celestine, saluting her hand also. “And Celestine, we meet again; fortune is indeed with me. It was gracious of you to entertain me yesterday in your sister’s absence. What fun it was remembering old times.”

Emile, along with perfecting the Creole gentleman’s habit of extravagant compliments, had achieved a certain polish in the years of his absence. Because the exchange of visits between Beau Refuge and the Girod plantation had slowed upon Jean’s death, and because Emile had not been of an age to indulge in the social round of the winter season, Anya had not seen a great deal of him in the past few years. She remembered him primarily as the younger brother who had loved to tease her, and who had kept a pet crawfish, leading it around on a string or caging it in a glass case half-filled with mud in his room.

Now he went on. “I arrived back in New Orleans aboard the
H. B. Metcalf
by way of Havana a few days ago, and immediately went down on my knees to kiss the smelly mud of the levee. Ah, New Orleans, it’s like no other place on earth! Paris is beautiful and cosmopolitan, with some ancient stone pile of historical significance on every corner, but dear old damp and warm and comfortable New Orleans is home.”

“It isn’t so warm today,” Celestine said, drawing her shawl around her with a theatrical shiver.

“I am devastated to be forced to contradict a lady, but, believe me, compared to Paris in February, it’s balmy! But do I understand you are choosing costumes? I will go away if I disturb you, or if you prefer to remain anonymous in whatever you decide upon, but it would give me great pleasure to stay. Who knows, I might even be of service?”

He was, indeed. He unhesitatingly vetoed a daring and yet rather childish pierrette costume for Celestine, suggesting instead a court gown of richly embroidered russet panne velvet from the period of Louis XIII that gave her delicately rounded face and figure a somber majesty. He argued with Anya over the various merits of a softly draped and wide-sleeved medieval gown from the Court of Love of Eleanor of Aquitaine, of a graceful long tunic and toga in fine cream wool edged with gilt tape and wide bands of regal purple ribbon that might have been worn by a Roman goddess, and of a Japanese kimono of heavy, finely embroidered scarlet silk complete with hair ornaments and a sandlewood fan. Emile seemed to prefer the romance of the medieval costume, while Anya leaned toward the exotic look of the Chinese silk. In the end, she compromised and chose the simplicity of the Roman costume, and caught Emile winking at Celestine as if to say that had been his choice all along.

Anya enjoyed Emile’s company, his quick, laughing comments, his obvious pleasure in intimate female society, as well as the bittersweet memories he evoked of his brother, but she had another motive for encouraging him to stay with them. When they had reserved their costumes and left the shop, she invited him to return with them to the townhouse for refreshments. He accepted with all the amiability of a man with limitless time on his hands, declaring with disarming charm that he was unable to tear himself away from two such lovely ladies. On the short carriage drive they continued to exchange a rapid-fire banter, and were still laughing when they walked into the salon of the townhouse.

Madame Rosa looked up to greet them, laying aside a French copy of Trollope’s
Barchester Towers
without haste. She did not rise to greet Emile, but remained as she was with her small feet in high-buttoned black shoes resting on a silk-covered stool. He came forward to kiss her hand instead of merely bowing, as she was a married lady, and, with his innate good manners, stayed beside her talking while Anya moved to ring for a servant and order tea and coffee,
eau sucre
and orange-flower water, along with a selection of cakes.

They talked of commonplaces until the servant had brought the tray of refreshments. At an indolent gesture from Madame Rosa, the tray was placed before Anya. Anya poured the orange-flower water for her stepmother, a concoction she could not stand herself, since the laudanum with which it was liberally laced made her sleepy, but one that was a great favorite among older women. Celestine took tea and Emile coffee. When Emile passed the other two ladies their cups or glasses and placed his own cup on a table beside his chair, Anya poured black coffee for herself and leaned back.

“Tell me, Emile,” she said in a tone as lightly conversational as she could summon, “as a man-about-town you must have heard of the fiasco this morning of the failed meeting between Ravel Duralde and Celestine’s finance. What are they saying in the cafés?”

Emile shifted in his chair, his face sobering. He was so long in answering that Anya spoke again.

“Oh, come, I know this is a subject that women usually avoid, but there is no point in pretending that we don’t know about it.”

He stirred pale golden sugar into his coffee with a small silver spoon, then gave a small shrug. “There are some who are saying Ravel Duralde wished to avoid the meeting because of the unhappiness he has already brought to the women of this family. Others claim his action was an intentional affront. Then there is a third group, including many of the men who served under him in Nicaragua, that has been searching high and low for him along Gallatin Street and in the Irish area called the Swamp, afraid of foul play. They claim that it is the only reason he would fail.”

“And what do you think?”

“I have no reason to love the man,” he said, his voice cool in contrast to its earlier warmth, “and it’s true I don’t know him well since he is several years older. However, nothing I have ever heard of him leads me to believe that he would run away from a fight or treat a matter of the duello so lightly as to stay away without good reason.”

There was a stir at the doorway. Murray, his face flushed, stepped into the room. His manner was a shade belligerent as he faced the Creole. “Ah, but there you have the reason. Duralde is getting old and tired of fighting. He heard that I had some prowess with weapons, and did not care for the odds. He thinks that I will forget the matter, that it will blow over if he stays away for a time. He will discover precisely how wrong he is when he returns.”

Anya sat staring at Murray with a frown gathering between her brows. His manner was unbecoming in her opinion, possibly out of a relief that he could not afford to express, and perhaps out of the fear that someone would sense it. It could not be that he did not realize his lucky escape. Ravel’s reputation as a duelist was based primarily on his skill as a swordsman, but he was also a soldier, and considered deadly with firearms as well.

She leaned forward in her concern. “Surely there is no need to go to such lengths as to force another meeting. As reasonable men, there must be some other way to settle this ridiculous business.”

“Ridiculous?” Murray asked, placing his hands on his hips. “It was a question of an insult to you, a lady, if you will recall, Anya.”

“I recall the incident very well, and I have no memory of an insult. If you are at all concerned for my good name, or for Celestine’s fears, you will let this matter rest.”