Prisoner of Desire (39 page)

Emile made a move toward the younger girl, as if he meant to comfort her, but checked as Anya put a hand on his arm. Anya, her tone brisk, said to Murray, “Oh, come now, this is not a day for wrangling. You need not go with us at all, if you prefer. But if you are going, make up your mind; shall it be with a costume, or without?”

Murray had fallen in with the custom of masking and costumes readily enough for the ball a week before, but now with attention focused upon his attire, he had discovered within himself the American reluctance to appear ridiculous or to suspend reality long enough to enjoy a masquerade. Either that, or he was jealous of Emile’s ability to appear natural and even rakish in his new identity.

Emile was doing nothing to mend the situation, perhaps out of pride or possibly from a simple inability to back down. Rather, he stood at attention with his hat under one arm and his hand still braced on his sword hilt, every inch the preening and haughty musketeer stoically awaiting the outcome of the discussion.

It struck Anya with sudden force that neither man was Jean. Despite the characteristics they shared with him, they were each their own man. She had foisted her expectations upon them, unrealistic expectations of resemblance to a paragon who in the past seven years had grown kinder, sweeter of nature, and more noble than any human could be. She had tried to re-create the romance she had shared with him in the attraction between the American Murray Nicholls and her half-sister, and had invested so much of herself in it that the thought of Murray being killed in a duel had been like the prospect of losing Jean again. It was possible that she had been a little mad. Certainly it seemed so now, now that she knew and accepted one central fact. Jean was dead.

Jean was dead and she felt the loss as a faint, sweet ache, one that she would never quite banish. And yet she was alive, passionately alive. Ravel may have been right; she may have been burying herself, trying to disguise from herself with constant work and the cultivation of an image both spinsterish and outrageous that she could not mourn Jean forever. If it had been true, it was so no longer. Ravel had shown her that she was a living, breathing woman, and for the fact, if not the method of it, she must be grateful to him.

Celestine, a hurt look on her face, began once more to remonstrate with Murray. Her fiancé appeared to be weakening though his expression was harassed. Emile, acquiring tact in the face of Celestine’s distress, began a minute inspection of his fingernails.

Abruptly, and with rueful exasperation, Murray agreed to go and find a costume, even if it was only a domino. With Celestine smiling and clinging to his arm, he moved toward the door to take his departure. The danger appeared to have been diverted, and with a sigh, Anya excused herself to the room at large and heartlessly abandoned Emile to the position of witness to the mending of the lovers’ quarrel while she went away to dress for the evening.

Her costume had been delivered from Madame Lussan’s shop, carefully packed in tissue paper. Anya’s mulatto maid had pressed the two large pieces of cloth, one of white linen and the other of soft, lightweight lavender wool woven with a silver stripe and embroidered in purple, then hung them away in the armoire. While the maid took the two pieces out and laid them reverently on the bed, Anya stepped into the bath that was waiting. She did not linger since she did not want to be tardy. Minutes later, the maid was placing the linen cloth that formed a long tunic known as a chiton around her. Anya turned this way and that in front of the mirror, frowning as she looked at it. The fit of the garment was less than satisfactory. The problem was her undergarments. The chiton required a soft, draped appearance, one that was incompatible with stays. The sleeves, open at the shoulders and along the arms except for a series of small brooches, also exposed the capped sleeves of her camisole. The only solution was to remove everything except her pantalettes.

At last she stood ready. The chiton clung to her arms and shoulders and the proud curves of her breasts in loose, natural folds that were caught at the waist by a girdle of silver mesh tied with silver cords ending in purple silk tassels that swayed below her knees. The wool toga known as a himation was draped around her for warmth, covering her left arm and leaving her right free. On her feet were sandals that left her toes bare. Her hair had been dressed in loose waves that hung down her back, held only by a filet around her forehead. To cover her face was a demi-mask of cloth of silver.

The long flowing lines of the garment gave her a look of grace, and she felt delightfully free of confinement. At the same time, she was doubtful about appearing in public in them. The nightgowns most women wore, herself included, were, if not more modest, at least more concealing. They also failed to impart this sense of wanton awareness of her own semi-nakedness underneath them. She held up her mask before her face and tried a smile. Her eyes seemed to glitter through the almond-shaped holes, and there was in the curve of her lips a peculiar enticement.

She turned sharply from the mirror. It was only a costume. There would be dozens, perhaps hundreds, of other women this evening who would be unencumbered by stays and hoops and petticoats. If the truth were known, her greatest fear was not for how others would view her, but for the effect the costume might have upon her own nature. She had discovered as much as she cared to about her sensual needs, as much as she could live with in anything near comfort.

The four of them, Celestine and Murray, Anya and Emile, left the townhouse a short time later. The streets were much more crowded now, though carriage traffic had slowed. Streetlamps had been lighted early, so that their glow reflected yellow in the flour that caked the banquettes and lay in well-tracked trails over the thresholds of every shop and house. Here and there were spots of pink and green where
dragées
had been crushed underfoot.

Everywhere there was color and sound and movement. Paste jewels glittered and spangles gleamed and the light played in bright hues over the costumes. Two black women dressed as small girls, with their hair in pigtails and their skirts nearly to their knees, went giggling past on this evening when all classes mingled. They were followed by a clown who walked with a rolling gait and a pair of capering harlequins. Salome danced past with the head of John the Baptist most realistically done in plaster upon a silver platter and her naked limbs gleaming through her drifting veils. There were dairy maids and shepherdesses and Spanish señoritas in plenty, as well as enough Roman senators to fill a forum and enough pirates to man a fleet of ships. Cleopatra was carried past on a litter with Nubian slaves at the four corners. Napoleon strutted past with Josephine on one arm and his other hand thrust into his shirtfront. Troubadours in doublets and hose, with ribbons on their arms and an upturned hat laid hopefully in front of them, sang on a street corner. Further along, a one-man band went through incredible contortions to render a brisk version of “Oh! Susanna!”, and on the next corner a sailor danced a hornpipe to the music of a concertina.

The air carried a rich medley of smells from the vendors of peanuts and pralines, of gumbo and fried shrimp and oysters on buttered bread, of oranges and bouquets of violets in filigreed papers and bunches of the herb vetiver that was used to scent linens and underclothing. Also, from the open doors of restaurants, came the delicious aromas of seafood bubbling in stews and sauces, beef being braised, roast pork turning on spits in its own crisp and crackling skin, and pastries and bread browning in brick ovens. The two women and their escorts had forgone dinner in order to partake of the bounty available, and so as they walked they bought bowls of thick, spicy gumbo and the brown rounds of pralines with their rich taste of milk and sugar and pecans.

The brief flare of anger between the two men was forgotten as if it had never been. They had laughed and talked and pointed out costumes that were beautiful or droll or grotesque to each other, succumbing to the infection of the general excitement. In a few hours the day would be over and Ash Wednesday with its repentance would be upon them. The cares that had been pushed aside for the moment would return in force. But for now there was the pleasure of the moment and the joy of being alive. There was the escape from the dreary routine of life, from the duties and obligations that beset mortal men and women. There was this short time when nothing mattered but fun and laughter, along with the possibilities that lay in taking on a new identity and the adventure that waited around the next corner. For now, for the hours that lay just ahead of them, it was Mardi Gras. It was enough.

15

A CLATTER OF HOOFBEATS CAME from behind them and they had to step aside for a troop of Bedouin Arabs who raced by with their robes flapping in the wind of their passage. They were met with cheers and greetings, partially because they had been a fixture of the day for some years and partially because they threw great handfuls of bonbons and
dragées
to the people along their route as they went. Behind them came a number of other vehicles from cabriolets to carriages to furniture wagons, all tearing along at great speed with maskers leaning out the windows and over the sides or perched precariously on top. Chasing after them with red faces and pumping arms were a gang of young boys who scrambled for any of the candies that had been missed, and after the boys came a pack of mongrel dogs with flapping ears and wagging tongues and tails.

Murray sidestepped the shower
of dragées
that came their way, but Emile reached to catch a few, which he handed with great ceremony to Anya and Celestine. It was a strange thing, but the candy-coated almonds never tasted so good as when eaten on Mardi Gras day, and as they walked on, Anya crunched them between her teeth with gusto.

Ahead of them came the sound of a polka. The music was being made by three minstrels playing banjos. A cluster of people had gathered around them and a few couples were circling and dipping to the perfect toe-tapping tune. Emile turned to Anya with a sweeping bow and offered his arm. She gave a delighted laugh and, with a light heart, curtsied and allowed herself to be swung into the street in the rollicking dance. Over Emile’s shoulder, Anya caught a glimpse of Celestine tugging a self-conscious Murray into the street also.

Emile’s hold was firm, his rhythm natural and sure, easy to follow. It was a pleasure to be in his arms, a part of the gaiety and the joy of the night, with the music propelling her, lifting her spirits like the sparkle of wine in her veins. It had been years since she had felt so light and free of care, and it seemed that never had she been quite so vital, so deliciously reckless.

The music came to a strumming finish. Anya and Emile halted with a final swing directly beside Celestine and Murray. As a slower waltz began at once, Emile turned to Celestine and, bowing, presented his arm. The girl glanced at her fiancé. Murray nodded his permission, though it seemed his smile was stiff. Celestine did not hesitate, but went into Emile’s arms, giving herself up to the night and the music as surely as Anya had done. Anya, seeing it, smiled a little at the effect of Mardi Gras.

“Shall we?” Murray asked, the words abrupt.

Anya turned to him in surprise since she had expected him to retreat with relief to the banquette. She curtsied in mock formality, however, and accepted his embrace. They moved in perfect three-quarter time. Regardless, Murray lacked the Creole ability to feel the music; his performance had a mechanical sense about it, as if he had once learned to waltz by counting in his head. It might possibly have been that he was concentrating on other matters, however, for after a moment he spoke.

“Do you think he likes her?”

She followed the direction of his gaze that was fastened on Emile and her half-sister. She was in no mood for emotional crosscurrents. Her answer was light. “How can you think so? For tonight he is my gallant.”

“He’s always around.”

“He is a family friend of long standing and a sociable man. Why should he not visit?”

“I think your stepmother encourages him. It wouldn’t surprise me if she is secretly hoping he will win Celestine’s affections.”

“Madame Rosa is not so conniving!”

He looked down at her, a skeptical light in his hazel eyes. “You think not?”

“In any case, it’s Celestine who is important. Do you imagine that her affections can be so easily won over?”

“I don’t know,” he said with unhappiness shading his voice. “She’s so young. I would give anything if our betrothal could be announced.”

A betrothal was not official until it was celebrated before the proper gathering of friends and relatives and with offerings of food and wine. After that it was as binding as the marriage contract. To break it at that stage was practically unheard of.