Mignon

  “It is what brings me today, petit.”

  “All right, but how?”

  “... You received some invitation to the bal?”

  “Bal? What ball?”

  “That the General gives next week?”

  “Oh—this Washington’s Birthday thing? To commemorate the election he’s holding that day? Yes—some kind of bid came in. Apparently I got put on the list by a friend before he decided my name was mud. It’s around here some place. Why?”

  “Alors. You ask me why?”

  “You’d like to go? Is that it?”

  “If you are ashamed of some demi-mondaine——” She got up, her face twisting, and started pulling on her gloves.

  “Will you stop talking like that?”

  I reached out, grabbed her arm and yanked it, pulling her back to her place on the sofa. I said: “How can you say such a thing?”

  “You hesitate, pourtant?”

  “I certainly do—in the first place, I don’t dance very well, and in the second place, I don’t get the connection—what it proves, that’s all.”

  “It is not that someone may turn me away?”

  “How, turn you away?”

  “From the door?”

  “If so, he won’t live until dawn.”

  Suddenly she folded me in her arms, pressed her mouth to mine, whispered: “One little kiss you may have! ... For this, one little kiss I must have!”

  “Is that how we go about proving it? With pistols for two? In—where’s the dueling ground here?”

  “No, petit, I forbid! You might hang, and this would be too much. But I love this spirit, that might kill someone for me.”

  “All right, but get to the point.”

  “She will be there, petit.”

  “... Who?”

  “Mignon. With Burke.”

  “I see. I see. I see.”

  “Already ice fills your heart, petit?”

  “No—I see what you mean, that’s all.”

  “You may renege, if you wish.”

  “Not at all. I think we’d better go.”

  “This confrontation shall tell me.”

  “To say nothing of me.”

  So we did go. It was held in the French Opera House, a big theater in the Quarter, and everyone was there, not only the Union officers and their ladies, but New Orleans society too, especially the ones cozening up to the North—of whom there were more than you’d think. I went in full evening regalia, which Marie rented for me at a costume place on Poydras, around the corner from Lavadeau’s: clawhammer suit, puff-bosom shirt, cape, and silk hat. But from the way she was got up, no question could arise that she would be turned away. She looked like the Duchess of El Dorado in a white ermine cloak, scarlet satin gown, cut so low she was bare halfway to her navel, gold shoes, gold purse, and gold fillet on her hair. In addition, she wore diamonds wherever you looked—at her neck in a pendant, on her wrists in bracelets, and on her fingers with various rings. She glittered like an igloo in the midnight sun; I was proud of her in a way, yet I wanted to laugh. She caught my look, and instead of being angry, started to laugh too. “Alors?” she said, as our cab pulled away from the gambling house. “Am I grande dame now?”

  “So grand I feel like a pigmy.”

  “I hope I am creditable.”

  What was causing my stomach to twitch wasn’t concern at her being thrown out, but who would be waiting for us once we were let in. For some time, though I searched the place with my eye, taking in flags, bunting, smilax, and the band up on the stage, I didn’t see her. We got into the receiving line and I had a bad moment when we came to Dan Dorsey, who was presenting the guests. He was in dress uniform, with epaulets, braid, sword, knots, and white gloves, and when he saw Marie his face turned to stone. But he didn’t hesitate, and sang out loud and clear: “Mr. William Cresap, Miss Marie Tremaine!” The General’s lady, I imagine, had never heard of Marie; she smiled graciously and offered her hand. Marie, after dropping a graceful, comic little continental curtsey, took it. I took it. We shook hands with the General, passed on, and that was that. “Voilà, I am in!” said Marie, pleased as a child.

  “The honor is theirs,” I assured her.

  We stood around and I kept on looking. The band struck up the Grand March, and after we had sashayed around there came a long intermission while programs were filled out. All kinds of people wanted to dance with Marie, but she kept saying: “Lancers and quadrilles only—I care not for polkas and galops.” That touched me, as it really meant she knew I couldn’t dance round dances, and was willing to pretend she preferred to sit them out. So I marked them all X on her card, but accepted quite a few couples to make up sets for the square dances. And then, in the middle of it, I saw by the change in her face, from little French dancing partner to cold, calculating gambler, that Mignon had entered the room. I turned, and she was just crossing to the receiving stand on Burke’s arm, Mr. Landry on the other side. She had on a black dress, whether left over from her palmier days or lent her by Lavadeau’s I didn’t know and don’t know now. Over her shoulders was a mantilla, with a pattern of small gold spangles, and I remember a twinge of relief that her big, beautiful bulges wouldn’t be seen by everyone. When the three of them had been received, Mr. Landry went skipping off and then reappeared in a box near the stage, where Mignon and Burke went to keep him company, though they stayed out on the floor. “Alors,” whispered Marie. “I must speak; it devolves, let us go.”

  Her grip on my arm meant business, and for my part I steeled myself, feeling I might just as well get it over with. “Mignon,” called Marie brightly as she rustled over the floor, “bon jour, bon chance, salut.”

  “Marie,” said Mignon, “comment ça va?”

  She said it very coldly, staring down at Marie’s bare shoulders, and then Burke took notice of us. “Why,” he said, “if it isn’t the sneak thieves themselves—the girl who enticed me gippo to her bed, the sly minx—and the boy—”

  “Burke,” I said, “retract.”

  His eyes moved around in their rheum as he took in my grip on the stick, and he said: “I may have spoken in haste.”

  “Apologize.”

  “I regret me impulsive words.”

  “Then fine. Hereafter speak when you’re spoken to.”

  Marie’s hand on my arms gave a quick, grateful squeeze, and then she went on: “Mignon, I have business with you, we have an affaire—but first may I present my fiancé, M’sieu Guillaume Cresap?”

  Mignon flinched as though hit with a whip, and started to answer in French. Then she remembered and said: “I congratulate you, truly. I didn’t know you were engaged.”

  “I didn’t either,” I said, sounding silly.

  Now if, on that, Mignon had burst out laughing and said: “Willie, let’s be going,” my story would be over. And if Marie had slapped me and left me, it would be over, too. But neither of them did, the two of them standing there, Mignon as though turned to marble, Marie as though turned to flame. It was Marie who said: “Alors? I excuse me, then. One may be mistaken, it seems.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” I told her.

  “What would you say? Jouez, if you please?”

  “... Count me in. My chip’s on the table.”

  “I congratulate me.”

  There was quite a long pause, with nobody saying anything, especially Burke. Then Mignon said: “And now may I present my fiancé, Mr. Frank Burke.”

  “Enchantée,” said Marie.

  Burke bowed. I tried to say something and couldn’t. Mignon went on: “Marie, what business have you with me? What affair can we possibly have?”

  “Ah bon, you shall see.”

  She dug in the little gold purse and came up with pieces of paper that had been folded, then rolled. She stretched them like shavings off a board, held them up to Mignon, and said: “See! Here I have some billets, signed by Raoul Fournet!”

  “Signed by—whom?” whispered Mignon.

  “Raoul, you
r husband, who died.”

  “Let me see those notes!”

  “Certainly—I have returned the money Raoul lost to me, but these billets I forgot. Here are two for four hundred, one for two hundred, one for six hundred—four in all, for total of sixteen hundred dollars. But, did you not know about them?”

  “No, I knew nothing at all.”

  “I am distressed if you are upset.”

  “... File your claim is all I can tell you, Marie. The estate’s not settled yet—there’s quite a lot owing, beside this.”

  “But a gambling debt claims not.”

  “Then what do you want of me?”

  “Nothing. I thought you might like to have.”

  “In return for what, Marie?”

  “Alors—you dance in my lancers, perhaps?”

  “What lancers?”

  “Here. Now. Tonight.”

  “Takes more than two for a lancers.”

  “Oui—you, I, your fiancé, my fiancé, friends.”

  After a long time Mignon said: “I accept.”

  Marie tore the notes in half and handed them over, and five minutes later we were all marching the lancers, Mignon like a ghost in the graceful way she moved, Marie more like a doll in that comic way she moved, as though spinning around on a music box. But there was no doubt in anyone’s mind as to who had bowed the head to whom.

  At supper, Mr. Dumont joined us, a mousy little man with gray hair—the first time I’d actually seen him, though we had talked through my door. He gave a report on the hypothèques, which I took to mean mortgages, that Marie was going to assume to raise my twenty-five thousand dollars. They involved considerable talk, not only with him but also with other men who dropped by, most of it in French, with Marie jabbering it pretty coldly. But in the middle of it, Mr. Dumont whispered to me: “You’re getting a wonderful partner, Mr. Cresap. This woman can see a dollar farther and grab it quicker than anyone I know. Count yourself lucky, sir.” When the music started again she decided she wanted to leave; going home in the cab she told me: “M’sieu Dumont accepts you, Guillaume. He thinks you homme de bien, and ingénieur versé.”

  “He said nice things about you.”

  “Were you pleased with our evening, petit?”

  “I was. Are you asking me in?”

  “... Are we fiancé?”

  “Of course! What makes you think we’re not?”

  “The mot you said, to her.”

  “That was a joke! You caught me by surprise!”

  “On this subject one makes no joke.”

  “Then—I take it back. Are you asking me in?”

  She hesitated, snuggled close, and kissed me once or twice. Then: “I am tempted, this I confess, ah oui, so much. And yet—I trust you not, petit. Perhaps you still love her.” And then, as I protested that this was ridiculous, that all that was finished, over, and done with, she kissed me again and thought it over again. But once more she said: “Non! Guillaume, we are partners in business—this I promise, the money shall be advanced. We shall also be married, I hope, and at last you can make a grande dame of me. If then there shall be more—bon! I shall give you children of me, jolis babies with hair of gold, as ours. But this must wait—until of you I am sure.”

  “I could make you sure tonight.”

  “Later, later, petit.”

  Chapter 14

  SO I HAD EVERYTHING IN MY grasp, the capital I needed, the construction firm I wanted, a woman I thought the world of, and the days began sliding by. Dumont forged ahead, though the hypothèques took time: appraisals had to be made, titles searched, and easements squared of the properties she was plastering. They were five houses on Rampart Street that she didn’t want to sell but was willing to borrow on. And what hung things up worst was the easements—old grants, to places up the street, of carriage-entrance rights, something the bank didn’t like. It was just a question of buying them up, but people are pretty grasping, and the haggle went on for some time. In between, she and I went around—to restaurants, to church, to the theater, and I met quite a few of her friends. What pleased her most, I think, was the way they treated her at Mrs. Beauregard’s funeral, which was held one day in the rain. It was a damned impressive thing, and pathetic too because Beauregard wasn’t there—hadn’t even heard of the death, being off in the field commanding Reb armies in Virginia. We rode in a cab, but most of the people marched, a slow, sad procession of thousands trudging along, their heads bowed in the downpour. But at the foot of Canal Street, we stood around with the rest, while the body was carried on board the steamer to be taken upriver for burial. Many people spoke, and she whispered to me: “So you see? Perhaps I have friends.”

  “Who ever thought you didn’t?”

  “Alors, SHE was grande dame.”

  Later the same day, we went to the inauguration of a man named Hahn as governor, the one elected on Washington’s Birthday. It was indeed quite a thing, with six thousand children singing the “Anvil Chorus” from Il Trovatore, one hundred anvils banging, and fifty cannon shooting, all in time to the music. But in the middle of it she said: “Shall we go, petit? I find it sottise, non?” So we drove to Christ Church to set the date of our wedding and make the various arrangements. She insisted on Dr. Bacon, the church’s regular rector, and would have none of the other one—the one the Union had named, nobody knew why. We discussed several dates, and decided on March 29, the Tuesday after Easter. She seemed pleased, and I took her home. By that time, though I wasn’t asked upstairs, she would bring me into the parlor, close the door, and forget herself a little. She brought me in there this day, but waiting for her was a man, an article named Murdock, with a blue chin, fat stomach, and New England way of talking. I was startled to learn he was bidding on the establishment, getting ready to buy her out. She quoted a hundred thousand dollars without batting an eye; he said seventy-five thousand with kind of a rasp on his voice. She said, very ugly: “Allez, allez, OUT—please do not waste of my time!”

  “All right,” he said, “eighty.”

  “Will you please go—now!”

  He went, growling, and she said, very sweetly: “He will be back, I think.” And then: “Does it please you, petit, that I shall be joueuse no more?”

  “I like you the way you are.”

  “Merci, but—you would prefer femme sérieuse?”

  “If you insist on asking, I would.”

  “Alors, you shall have.”

  So it all got better and better, the only trouble being I spent hours in cabs watching Lavadeau’s, and at night, going back to the hotel, always went by way of Royal so I could see Mignon’s windows. I saw her a number of times—occasionally by night coming home with Burke, more often by day going to work. Each time my heart would strangle me, the worst being when she’d have on that dress, the little black one I loved, which was getting so bedraggled now it made me want to cry. I would go back to the hotel then, walk around, beat on the wall with my fists, and curse. I’d tell myself cut it off, stop an insane game of self-torture, act as though I were bright. It would seem as though I would, that after a session like that I could return to my senses. And then the same night I’d be there, out in the dark again, staring as though demented, seeing what I could see.

  And then one night I saw nothing: her windows were dark. The next night and the night after it was the same, and by day I didn’t see her go to Lavadeau’s. By then, it was coming on for the middle of March and all traffic had disappeared from the river, the boats having been commandeered to haul the invasion. It was the main topic of talk in the bars all over town, and in fact had already started, rumor had it, the Teche units having moved. If the dark windows meant she had moved too with her father and Burke for Alexandria, to be there for the cotton seizure, it was a blow, of course, but a kind of relief too, because it brought things to a head, affording the break I needed to put her out of my mind and get on with my life. And that, I think, is how it might have turned out if I hadn’t run into Lavadeau. Until then, t
hough we’d nodded a few times, he’d paid no attention to me, and I had no reason to think he concerned himself about me. But one day on Gravier Street, as I was taking a walk, here he came carrying a box, and stopped as soon as he saw me. “Mr. Cresap,” he said, not even bothering to say hello, “I don’t know if I’m speaking to you or not. How could you let her do that?”

  “Let who do what?” I asked him.

  “Mignon—go to Alexandria with Burke?”

  “... Then she went, with him?”

  “Oh, Papa went too—and that ape Pierre. They all went, Thursday morning, by ferry to Algiers, with two wagons to load on the cars for Brashear, and then on the steamer for Franklin, and then to drive the rest of the way. But Burke’s head man, and she’s riding his wagon with him. Mr. Cresap, why did you let her?”

  “Who says I could have stopped her?”

  “I do! She told me so!”

  He caught my lapels then, and began to pour it out—about how she had come into the shop last week, and wept and wailed and made a show of herself; about how she hated Burke and didn’t want to go. She was doing it for her father, the stake he has in cotton, but even for him wouldn’t have gone if I had told her not to.

  “She said that? To you, Mr. Lavadeau?”

  “I swear she did, Mr. Cresap!”

  “Did she say how she spit on me?”

  “Oh, that—she knows now she did wrong, knows everything about why you did what you did; she made a mistake, she sees, and would be willing to start over, if only you’d come in to say you’d be willing too. If only she could be sure this other woman doesn’t mean anything to you. If——”

  “Why couldn’t she come to me?”

  “Sir, she did.”

  “I’m sorry. She didn’t.”

  But he smiled, and told how he’d brought her to me that very same afternoon, upstairs to my St. Charles suite: “She had her hand raised to knock, and then wouldn’t.”

  “Why not, for instance?”

  “For fear of who might be there.”

  Up until then he’d been bitter, but now, having blown off steam, calmed down and stood there mumbling in French to himself. Then, to me, very friendly: “Well, it’s too late now.”