Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (92 page)

The sound of voices was a constant flow, rising and falling in repartee, in quick quips and droll asides, in superficial gossip but also in learned discourse and passionate dispute. Those who wanted to make their opinions known had to be swift in order to find an opening, and to the point if they hoped to hold the attention of their audience; the laggard of wit or tongue was soon left behind.

Some dozen guests had gathered at one end of the long main room, grouped around a settee placed before the fireplace. Madame Vaudreuil held court on the settee, skillfully directing the current of conversation, drawing out those who were shy, curbing those who would monopolize the floor. Cyrene, with René standing behind her, sat to one side enjoying the swift ebb and flow of ideas. She was greatly taken with a young man named Armand Moulin. This gentleman, with softly curling wig, sensitive features, and diamonds among the lace at his throat, appeared to be a firm supporter of the fair sex. He had much to say that made excellent sense as he paced up and down before the fire, declaiming in impassioned tones and with extravagant gestures about the place of women in current society.

“We live in a glorious age, an age of beauty and refinement. And why is this so? It’s because in
la belle France
we have the felicity to worship women! Their grace, their charm, their love of the pure and delicate; their tender emotions pervade our art, our music, even the ordinary furnishings of our lives. Never before has there been such an attempt to make common objects things of beauty. To whom do we owe this influence? To women! They make us more sensitive and persuade us to greater tact so that manners and customs are closely observed. They teach us the rudiments of courtship and the tenderness of the boudoir. If we find triumph on the battlefield, are we satisfied? No, we must be rewarded by the appreciation of the women in the salons. Our greatest feats on the field of honor are carried out for the sake of a fair woman’s name. Our poetry and philosophy are as nothing if there is not some feminine soul to applaud, to discuss, to encourage. Lacking clear power, their influence reaches everywhere, even into the innermost councils of the king. How very dull it would be without them, how drab and how brutish.”

“Ah, but would you be ruled, in truth, by a woman?”

The question was asked by a richly dressed lady, with an arch smile and the fine lines of approaching middle age about her eyes, who had been introduced as Madame Pradel. Younger by some years than her husband, she was alone. The Chevalier de Pradel did not care for society, preferring to spend his time and energy on his plans for a grand residence to be built across the river from New Orleans. Like Madame Vaudreuil, Madame Pradel was known for having a well-developed appreciation for younger men, particularly if they were idealistic as well as handsome.

Armand Moulin said with a sweeping gesture, “Why not, if she is educated to her position?”

“So speaks enraptured youth. Older men are more chary of sharing their honors.”

Several men protested, and Armand ran a hand over his soft wig curls before saying in earnest perplexity, “But women are seldom educated toward high estate or position.”

“Why should they bother with such things,” a man said sotto voce, “when there are easier ways to achieve them, as with La Pompadour?”

Madame Pradel ignored the comment, smiling at Armand with a bright, warm look in her fine eyes. “What you say is true, but whose fault is it that we are so ill-prepared, I pray you? First we are put away with governesses or in convents for the early years of our lives, then blamed for our unworldliness. Then once we taste society, we are accused of being far too worldly for our own good.”

“It’s a mistake to think that because women are taught only a little reading and writing and embroidery that they are uneducated,” Cyrene said.

The words fell into a brief pause and so were plainly heard. She had not meant to make so definite a statement. She felt the slow rise of embarrassment as her voice overrode the distant hum of conversation.

“What do you mean?” Madame Pradel asked, diverted.

“Education is a matter of pursuing learning. Learning is to be had from books. A woman who can read, like a man who is apprenticed to read law or medicine, can grasp the important ideas of our time.”

“Very true,” Armand declared. “Only look at women such as Madame Tencin and Madame du Deffand. People flock to their salons in Paris because they are women of wit and intellect and immense understanding.”

The older woman stared at Cyrene, a shrewd look in her eyes. “What of you, chère? You were not educated in the colony, I think. Where did you come upon such a novel approach to learning?”

“I was sent to the convent of the Ursulines at Quimperle, but the idea of learning by reading came from a man I know.”

“A man,” the other woman said, as if that explained all.

“My — my guardian,” Cyrene said, for want of another word. She spoke of Pierre, who read with difficulty but had strong ideas on the subject, though it would not be wise to mention his name here.

“I see. I will keep this place you mention in mind for my daughters. My oldest must go to be educated soon or marry, and her father doesn’t wish to see her wed so young. And after her we have two others who will have to be placed.”

The whispers had come even to Cyrene’s ears that it was Madame Pradel who was encouraging the eldest Pradel girl toward a vocation as a nun because she could not face the thought of her marrying and almost certainly making a grandmother of her within a year. It might be true. Cyrene said only, “I’m sure your daughters will enjoy it.”

“It’s a great distance to send a young girl,” the marquise said to the other woman. “Of course, you have Pradel connections, I believe, who can look after her interests, make profitable introductions.”

“Indeed.”

Armand Moulin spoke again. “We must hope that the seas will be safe from the English privateers since the signing of the treaty.”

“We must hope we will all be safe,” Madame Pradel said with a shudder. “I have never been so relieved in my life. Since the attack last winter and the death of poor Babi, I must have leaped from my bed in terror at least twice per night for every week since.”

She spoke of the attack of the renegade Choctaw under the leadership of their chief Red Shoe. Rumors had run wild then of casualties in the hundreds, and the army had rallied to fight off a full-scale attack on the city before it was discovered that the band had numbered no more than thirteen or fourteen. Red Shoe had been executed by the Choctaw allies of the French the autumn before in a minor betrayal that had been expected to calm the general anxiety. The effect, so far, had been minimal. The death of the dancing master Babi, a dapper man of indeterminate age who was a general favorite of the ladies and a fixture at the governor’s house, was, in typical New Orleans fashion, thought to be a greater loss than most. It had been Babi as much as the marquise who had brought the Parisian touch to the town and encouraged the formation of what was becoming its
haute société.

“There are always these alarms,” Madame Vaudreuil said, “though the firing of the warehouse the other night was more terrifying than most. Of all things to be dreaded, fire to me is the worst.”

Armand clasped his hands together behind his back under the skirt of his coat, his gaze alight. “To think of these men breaking into the king’s warehouse and making off with the stores. It was an intrepid deed, or else a desperate one. I am all admiration.”

“You would be less so if your house had burned down around your ears because of the flames,” the governor’s wife said with asperity. “Fortunately, the building was isolated and the blaze discovered early.”

“There was a great loss of commodities?”

The question came from the back of the group. It was the governor, strolling up to join them, who answered.

“We will not starve,” he said, his smile genial, imparting easy confidence.

“The men responsible should be dealt with harshly when they are caught,” another man commented.

“Of a certainty,” the governor answered, and took out his snuffbox with languid grace.

Armand said, “Rumors say the men were smugglers after their confiscated goods. Most elusive characters, these smugglers.”

“Indeed.” The governor took a pinch of snuff, then sneezed delicately into the lace-edged handkerchief he pulled from his left sleeve. “The only person who seems able to — shall we say? — lay one by the heels is Lemonnier here. He has captured our only lady smuggler, Mademoiselle Cyrene, readily enough. We must be grateful to him, I suppose, though seeing her loveliness we are inclined to think that he has been rewarded enough.”

The observation was gentle, even humorous, but the glance that went with it was neither. Governor Vaudreuil might be married to a woman who dabbled at will in commerce and the affairs of the colony, but he was not a fool. It was apparent, also, that he always knew more than he revealed. Cyrene felt a shiver of fear for the Bretons. She should have known that her part in their activities had not passed unnoticed. It had simply not occurred to her that someone as insignificant as herself could be of interest to the governor, the Marquis de Vaudreuil.

René, behind her, reached to put his hand on her shoulder. It rested there, a warm and intimate weight. It may have been meant to be reassuring, but it seemed to be oppressive to Cyrene, obvious in its possessiveness. Above her, he answered the governor in rich tones, “Amply rewarded.”

The heat of angry chagrin that fear had held at bay swept in upon Cyrene now. She felt branded, and it seemed that every gaze turned upon René and herself with lascivious speculation. More, it was as if René had invited that intrusion upon their privacy.

She lifted her hand to cover his, clasping it lightly before turning her fingers to dig her nails into his palm. She felt his hand twitch slightly as he flinched, but he did not attempt to withdraw from her hold. She could continue to fondle his hand in a parody of affection or let it go and suffer being claimed by his touch. She released him.

At the first opportunity, however, she escaped, rising from her chair and moving away to watch the dancing before strolling into one of the refreshment rooms for a glass of wine. When she turned with it in her hand, Armand Moulin was at her side. He took wine also, then inclined his head in a bow as he introduced himself.

His smile was disarming and his rich brown eyes vivid with interest as they exchanged compliments and comments on the evening. He said then, “Is it true you were a lady smuggler?”

He was, Cyrene realized, some two or three years older than she was herself, but somehow she felt immeasurably more mature. He had a minor repute in the town. He was the only son of a family with three older sisters, the hope of a doting mother and proud father. He had been educated in Paris and was now expected to take up his position as the young seigneur of the Louisiane estates. No doubt there was a marriage being planned for him at that moment, an alliance with some girl barely beginning to blossom, one with a fine dowry of land and excellent family connections. In Paris, he had probably dallied with some pretty
grisette
or been taken under the wing of an older woman for an introduction to the delights of the flesh, but he had managed somehow to retain his look of idealistic and honorable youth. It sat well with his soft curls and guileless smile.

Cyrene was inclined to be gracious for a number of reasons: because she liked him, because he reminded her of Gaston, because he made her feel less conspicuous there in that gathering, and not least because René was watching their exchange with a faint frown between his brows. She made light of her experience with smuggling, pretending to Armand that it was in the distant past, leading him to talk of himself instead. Soon she forgot that René or anyone else was observing them.

Emboldened by Armand’s example, a pair of his friends joined him as he stood with Cyrene. That pair drew others until gradually she acquired a circle of jostling, bantering admirers. The glances they gave her were bold, assessing, yet respectful and even rather diffident. Cyrene could not decide if the cause was their youth, her status under René’s protection, or her connection with such a daring occupation as smuggling.

It was the governor who rescued her just as she was beginning to feel hemmed in, the center of too much close attention.

“I have been sent,” he said with great amiability as he looked around the group, “to represent to you gentlemen that you are monopolizing the lady, and to the lady that you are detaining too many gentlemen from the dance. It is one of my more enjoyable duties as appointed leader of this colony to correct such inequities. Will you, mademoiselle, favor me with your hand for this musical measure?”

One did not refuse the governor while in Louisiane any more than one would the king in France. Cyrene expressed her pleasure and was paraded ceremoniously out onto the floor and bowed into her place in the forefront of the line of dancers forming for a minuet.