Authors: Andre Norton
She spoke quietly, slowly, as one would to a frightened child. It was as if new strength and courage flowed from her into the woman whose hands she held.
Mrs. Beall raised her head. That wild, hunted look was gone. She began to nod, agreeing with what she heard. Her comforter drew her to her feet, gently placed a mantle around her shoulders. Then Mrs. Pleasant led her visitor from the room, and I was left to try to understand.
There appeared to be no other way out of the passage which came to a dead end a few paces farther on. I returned to the upper room, thinking of what I had heard. Much of Mrs. Beall's confession I did not understand, but she had acknowledged Victorine as her daughter! It was difficult to believe that the older woman had so cut herself
off from the past that she now appeared fully American. She spoke English without the least accent.
Now the significance of the note I had found in Victorine's room was made plain. The daughter had been demanding money from the mother, and that note had accompanied what Mrs. Beall meant to be a final payment.
All I had learned of Victorine during the past few hours was enough to overturn my confidence in my ability to judge character. I could only assume that the girl was so deeply under the influence of D'Lys that he had corrupted her, young and innocent as she appeared.
If we could free her from D'Lys, take her away—perhaps she could in time become the lovely girl nature intended her to be. But only Alain could eliminate D'Lys.
He must come! So fiercely did I long to see him that I walked up and down the room praying. I had never prayed so for anything in my life—save for my father's safety, and then my prayers had failed.
My father had not been a churchgoer or outwardly, by the standards of the day, a religious man. He had early broken with the narrow faith in which he had been bred. And his wide reading and traveling had raised doubts concerning many of the rigorously upheld tenets of churchmen. But he had never denied a belief in God, or that there was an influence for good in this world, working to combat the evil that we need only to look about us to perceive at its deadly work.
Honesty, courage, and compassion were the virtues by which he judged his fellow men. By this standard he had raised me. I had gone to church during my years at Ashley Manor, and I had found much to admire in those who believed in the stated creed, as well as a narrowness of vision and a harshness of spirit in others, which, to me, was intolerable. I lived my own inner life, not by piety in the conventional form, but rather by my father's teachings. In every situation needing moral judgment I had tried to think what he might do.
Many times I failed. Doubtless through the rest of my life I shall continue to fail. For that is the burden we all
must bear. But that I keep on trying is the important thing.
Only with Victorine I sensed an evil I had never before faced. The nature of my wandering life when young had made me far more aware of certain phases of existence than was common for most young ladies. The degradation, open lust, and crime of the Barbary Coast existed, I knew, in most other cities. Just as I knew that in some beautiful homes, among supposedly cultivated and upright people, there was also cruelty and lust concealed under the covers convention decreed must not be lifted.
There are dreadful acts committed when moral barriers fall and people give freedom to their basest passions. I did not know what vile swamp Victorine had been drawn into, but it was not of the world I knew. And its influence lay now like a coating of black filth over her white skin.
Alain had strength of will, courage, determination, and, I hoped, also the deep compassion necessary to free his sister from this morass. If we could keep her from D'Lys until Alain returned—
Mrs. Beall's reliance on Mrs. Pleasant had been complete, she had spoken of aid in the past. I must hope that the mistress of this house would now be
our
good angel. Of one thing I was sure—she could control Victorine where I could not.
I redressed in the garments I had laid aside when I entered the passage. My watch was back in the hotel, there was no clock in the room. Though it was day outside I did not know the hour. To stay here, unknowing of what had happened to Victorine, whether Alain had returned—that I could not bear any longer.
As I started for the door determined to pound on it until released, it opened and Mrs. Pleasant faced me.
“Victorine?” I asked first.
“Asleep. Come and see—” She beckoned me across the hall to a room twin to the one I had occupied.
Victorine's head, the stain still darkening her skin, rested quietly on a pillow. She wore a nightrobe such as Submit had brought me. There was no wardrobe in the room, or sign of other clothing. As Mrs. Pleasant followed
me out she locked the door, slipped the key onto a ring swinging from her belt.
“She is safe. The part you played earlier was well done. D'Lys is gone. Not that he would have found her. But there were those in his employ who would have continued to watch outside had he not been deceived by you.”
“I thought he could not trace us here.”
The faintest crease of a frown appeared between her well-shaped brows.
“Yes. That matter interests me. But now I have good news for you. Mr. Sauvage has been reached, he is on his way back. He should be here in not too long a time if matters go well—”
“What matters could hinder Alain's—Mr. Sauvage's arrival?”
“There is nothing certain in this world, child. We do not know enough about D'Lys. I am most concerned that he was able to trace us here. And he is not alone; my people report he has others in his pay, how many we do not yet know.”
I shivered. It might not be wise for Alain to come to us here—not alone anyway. That he could handle D'Lys were the West Indian by himself, that I could believe. But suppose he was set upon by D'Lys backed by supporters?
“Alain—he must be warned! If they return to watch this house—D'Lys may know him by sight, but he knows D'Lys only by description.”
Mrs. Pleasant gave me an approving nod. “You have perceived one difficulty. But my people have been alerted, they know what to expect when they bring Mr. Sauvage here. However, there is another matter I wish to discuss with you before such a meeting.”
She led the way down the stairs to her own parlor, where she waved me into the same chair Mrs. Beall had occupied. Almost, I thought fleetingly, as if it were now my turn to confess and throw myself on her mercy.
However, she busied herself poking up the fire and did not break the silence. In spite of the aroused flames the room had the damp chill I had come to associate with the city. Spring here was not sunshine and warmth. Having
urged the fire to great efforts, my hostess turned to survey me from head to foot.
“You have none of the baby-faced beauty which is favored nowadays.”
That was a startling remark, and by it she gained my full attention.
“But you have learned how to make the best of yourself,” she continued judicially. For a moment I might have closed my eyes and thought myself back at Madam Ashley's.
“This is not an easy world for a girl who has neither wealth nor family at her back. One needs a husband and an establishment. I am speaking thus frankly, giving you the same advice I would a daughter of my own if she were in your place.
“Mr. Sauvage is not only unmarried, but he has shown no inclination toward that state. However, never before has he displayed more than polite courtesy toward any young lady. He has been the despair of most of the matchmaking females of his acquaintances, so that his singling you out at the first ball he has given in years has been a matter for conjecture among those who had cherished ambitions—you wonder how I know this? Gossip is borne by the wind here.
“Your name has been on many lips since that night, child. After such a marked gesture, it is easy to believe that you have intrigued his interest. Thus you have the best of chances to fix that interest enough to achieve a permanent relationship. Though you may need some unobtrusive and discreet help, for you have already attracted ill-will by all this.”
I stiffened. My shock at her bold words must have been easy to read, for she paused, though she did not cease to smile.
Also I was alarmed. Though I had once warned Alain that idle tongues would seize upon any departure on my part from the most correct conduct, I had not foreseen that we might be the subject of gossip because of the ball, probably malicious gossip, as Mrs. Pleasant had implied.
“I do not believe,” she now continued in the same
matter-of-fact way, “that you are altogether averse yourself to a closer and warmer relationship with the gentleman in question.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“It is not my place to entertain any such idea.” I took refuge in a hauteur I hoped would quench any further comment. And I was still trying to deny to myself that what she said was the truth. I dared not allow such thoughts to beguile me into humiliating self-betrayal.
Mrs. Pleasant's smile only deepened. I was no match for her and I knew it. My pretense of composure was a lie even as I spoke and I was so ashamed. How transparent I must be that she could so read me. It was true I thought about Alain far too much for my peace of mind. But I fought to repress such thoughts. To have an impossible dream discussed in this manner denuded me of all pride. Worst of all, had others noticed my preference, had I added to gossip by some fault of my own? I felt a burning flush creep up my cheeks, and that shame aroused my will to conceal, to battle for my pride.
Was she also hinting that I listen to her advice on how to entrap Alain? To think of such a sordid scheme revolted me so much I felt ill. What true woman would rejoice at gaining a victory by such ends? Nor did I believe Alain's interest in me was fixed as she averred. Not that that made any difference in my resolve to refuse to listen if she continued in this strain.
“There are ways, child.” She might have been reading my confused thoughts aloud, disregarding my revulsion. “As I have aided others to obtain their desires in such matters, I can do so for you, and with greater reason. No, do not give me the answer which is now on your tongue. Take time to think before you speak. Mr. Sauvage will
be grateful for your efforts on behalf of his sister. You can easily make yourself indispensable to him.”
I shook my head vehemently. “I do not want it so!”
She was not in the least moved by that quick, hot denial. Instead, smiling gently as she would at some fretful child, she arose.
“Stay and think, think well, dear. Submit shall bring you tea. And perhaps later I shall have some more news for you.”
Thus she left me, with indeed much to think about. And few of those thoughts could I face calmly.
Submit brought me food, but with that something else, a note she slipped from the pocket of her apron as she set the tray down. When she was gone, remembering the peephole in the wall, I removed the envelope cautiously.
Going to the hearth, making sure my body was between the paper and the wall, I knelt down as if to warm my hands. The missive was without salutation.
I warned you not to trust M. If you do so, you have not only assured your own bondage, but perhaps that of others. It is her desire to control us all. There are many men in this city whose indiscretions have already given her a hold over them. There are others who believe that they had reason to show her gratitude, until, after accepting her aid, they too have become enmeshed in her intrigues. She has long wanted some hold over A.S. If you allow him to be drawn into some plan of hers, or have dealings with her, you have condemned him to become one of her puppets. In the end she always demands her pay, and that can be a slavery such as she delights upon setting on the white race—whom she has long considered her enemies. If you have any gratitude in you or any feeling for A.S., do not allow him to bargain with her. Stop him from this fatal folly.
As there had been no salutation, so there was no signature. Mrs. Deaves had taken what precautions she could to protect herself. But I recalled her agitation at the meeting in the shop. She herself must be one of those entrapped in such a net as she described in her warning.
Perhaps I would have dismissed all this as the outburst of a woman who wanted me out of her life, had it not been for the interview just past. I, too, had been offered aid. That Alain Sauvage was a man of the first consequence in San Francisco there was no denying. I had only vague ideas of his financial holdings, but believed them to be impressive.
Thus, if Mrs. Pleasant had the motives this note accused her of, to add him to the list of those owing her favors would be a major coup. And if he came here, protected by her people, to claim Victorine, she might then well dictate terms.
However—suppose he was warned before he came? My faith in Alain's ability to handle any situation was great. He might well be able to counter any scheme of Mrs. Pleasant's then. I had only Mrs. Deaves’ note and Mrs. Pleasant's offer to me, but these were warning enough in my present disturbed state to seem formidable.
Wadding the note into a ball I dropped it into the fire. I already knew the back way out of this house. Though where I might be in relation to the hotel I could not guess. My money was still in my pocket and that could buy me transportation. If I could reach Alain before he came to get Victorine—
My guilt in the whole sorry matter gnawed at me. What my inattention had begun I must do all I could to bring to an end. Then I would admit that Victorine was beyond my control or aid. The sooner Alain had her in firmer charge, the better.
My confidence in Mrs. Pleasant was shaken. That she had done much I would be the first to admit. But what was going to be the final price of her services? If any must be paid, I alone and not Alain would do that.
For so long I had had no advice I could trust, being forced to rely only upon myself. Dimly I realized the danger of that, but when there was no other way—I must do as I thought best and hope it was not arrant folly.
At the moment I must play a passive role, since I could not rid myself of the idea that I might be under secret observation. I seated myself, uncovered the dishes on the
tray, and made a good meal. Having finished, I went to one of the windows, lifted a little the three layers of drapes and curtains, to obtain a very limited view of the street.
It had begun to rain again and was dusky out. What better cover dared I hope for? Now was the time to move, or perhaps I could not sustain my courage long enough to try. Was I still locked in? I did not remember hearing a click of key.
Under my fingers the knob turned. I went quickly to the back stair, hearing a stir of life below. But the upper hall was empty as I entered my late bedroom. Swiftly I donned the cape I had worn the night before and the face-concealing bonnet, pausing only to rip out the curls sewed within its brim. I wished I had my own cape and hat but did not know where they were.
Thus clad I eased open the corridor door and halted to listen. Here the murmur from below was only a thread of sound. Crossing to Victorine's room, I found that door still locked. I was certain Mrs. Pleasant would make sure the girl would not vanish again; she was too valuable, if a bargain was what my hostess really wanted.
Step by step I descended the back stairs, pausing many times to listen, half expecting at any moment to see Submit or Mrs. Pleasant. What I would do when I reached the foot, I was not yet sure, for I would not find the kitchen quarters empty.
So—I must go through the front door. The sounds grew louder. I froze, holding to the stair rail with both hands as a white-coated waiter with a loaded tray passed below. He did not glance up—I was still safe.
If dinner was in progress, perhaps the front stairs were better. I returned to the second-story hallway and sped, as lightly as I could, in the opposite direction. Once more I began a cautious descent. The voices were muffled, perhaps by a closed door. Now I was in the lower hall. Lamplight beamed from the large parlor. I heard a woman's light laugh, the lower rumble of a man's voice, as I ran for the front door. No one called after me. The door was unlatched and I whipped through it into the open.
Rain beat at me and the force of the wind made me
gasp. I gazed up and down the street in despair. No sign, of course, of any hack to hail. There was nothing to do but to walk, to try and find an open shop where I might discover a man or boy to summon such transportation for me. As I trudged along my helplessness began to frighten me. I did not know these streets, where I could find aid.
Through the rain the street lamps, set so far apart, gave out only a very limited and misty radiance. I reached the small circle of light around the nearest when out from the shadows behind me I was seized by my upper arms and held fast in spite of my frantic struggles. In that moment the shock was so great I could not find voice to scream.
A man appeared before me as if he had arisen by some dark magic out of the streaming pavement. My unseen captor behind had me so totally a prisoner I could no longer move as the shadowy form before me caught at my bonnet, pushed that roughly back to bare my face to the light.
“This is the one!” I did not see his face as he made that hissed identification. He wore one of the wide-brimmed hats favored by ranchers, and he had on a waterproof, the shoulder cape of which was enfolded about his throat and the lower part of his face. But his voice I knew. D'Lys! I was weak and sick with fear.
There sounded the clop-clop of hooves along the deserted street. A hack pulled up and I was tossed into it roughly, more prisoning hands waiting within to seize me. With measures so expert as to suggest this was not the first time this action had been followed, I found my cape looped about me and fastened so I could not move my arms. And, though at last I tried to cry out, a thick bag was pulled down over my head and shoulders. It was so vile-smelling and stifling I feared I would smother.
D'Lys had been waiting. But what did he want with me? I could not think coherently as we rattled along, only endure and hope that soon I might be able to breathe more freely.
Perhaps I did faint, for when I was again aware of what was happening I was no longer in the hack but being
carried. I heard a blare of music, too loud laughter. Shortly afterward I was dropped on the soft surface of what could only be a bed.
“Vat you do?” A woman's voice, one I had heard before, though in my present near unconscious condition I was too dazed to remember where or when.
Then that vile-smelling bag was torn away from my head. Thankfully I drew in a deep breath of air. The woman had leaned over to view me—
Célie!
“Vy you bring ziss von here? Vat you do?” Her accent thickened with each word.
I did not know whether or not she recognized me. She had turned her head to address someone else. D'Lys stood there. He had not removed his hat, but he had shrugged the cape away from his face.
“I do what I came to do.” He added a term in a language I did not understand but I took it to be a foul one, for Célie's face, under its thick coat of paint, went rigid.
D'Lys laughed as if he were thoroughly enjoying himself.
“You would like to use your little knife on me, Célie? Is that in your mind,
chérie?
But no, you would not really want to do that, it can never be, can it, my pigeon?”
With light-footed grace he came to her, caught her wrist in one of his slender brown-fingered hands. If anger had been her emotion it was now wiped out by pain. She tried to pull away, but she did not cry out.
“You did wrong, Célie, did you not?” Still he smiled, watching her with those yellow eyes which had not the slightest trace of human feeling in them. “Did you not?”
He made her cry out at last as she fell to her knees, her arm, at an awkward angle, still in his torturing grip.
“Oui, oui!”
She made that word a plea.
“But you will not do so again, will you, Célie?”
He released her so suddenly she fell against the bed. I saw deep in her flesh the print of his fingers. Now she was moaning, but he allowed her no time to nurse her bruises. Instead he reached down and caught her shoulders, pulling her to her feet again against him.
“You shall listen to me carefully, Célie, and you shall
do just as I bid. If you do not—” His smile was an evil promise.
She whimpered in his hold. “
Oui, oui
—”
Letting her go, D'Lys stepped back a pace. “Now you see,
chérie,
it is really very easy. I am never unreasonable, but a most accommodating man. I like all things done in friendship and peace. We shall now be friends again, Célie, and you shall do what you can to aid me—exactly as a friend should.
“It is most needful that Victorine be returned to me. She is, of course, my so-dear wife. But she is of importance to me for other reasons. This Sauvage—he is a great man here, they tell me, so great a man he cannot be injured. But those who tell me so, they do not know Christophe nor what he can do, eh, Célie?” His voice was the soft purr of a ruthless jungle hunter, never did he raise it.
At that moment I shared the terror that soft, almost caressing voice evoked. Célie's eyes were held by his, her mouth hung a little open. She had the vacant look worn by Victorine when she had been under the influence of the powder Mrs. Pleasant had supplied.
“
Bon,
they know not Christophe, but they shall learn. By the power of Damballa, I, who am the Voice of Baron Samedi—the Prince of Death—ah, these whites shall learn!” There was a deadly force in him.
“Bon.
To the business at hand. For one can dream of the future, but action now must bring that dream to life. You shall go and find me such a messenger as can be trusted, one that yellow bitch Pleasant cannot control. Go!”
Célie left us in a sleepwalking fashion. I cowered, for now he turned those yellow eyes upon me as his smile deepened.
“Miss Penfold—” He noted my start. “But of course I know you—the companion, the wardress of my dear Victorine—set to guard so that she does not come to me, her rightful lord. I have much to thank you for, Miss Penfold, in that you walked straight into our hands this night. Now you have given me that with which I can bargain. You shall rise.” He leaned over me, jerked to loosen the cloak binding me. “You shall go to that table—”
He pointed to a small gilt-legged one on which stood a vase, two glasses, and a bottle. With a sweep of his hand he sent all those crashing to the floor, the wine dribbling from the bottle to the carpet. From his pocket he took a folded sheet of paper, smoothed it out, and produced a black crayon.
“You shall sit—so—” He moved a chair to the table on which he had laid the paper and crayon.