Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (103 page)

His regret was genuine, not the false lament of a mere social friend. There were others, perhaps, who had their dreams. She reached out to touch his hand. “Don’t upset yourself. Your sympathy means much to me, more than your protection.”

“Does it, really? How kind you are,” he said, catching her fingers and raising them to his lips. “How very kind.”

His grasp was a little tight, his gaze carried an intentness that indicated he might well say more unless prevented. She went on quickly. “I am also in grave need of your amusement just now to take my mind from things. Pray, have you no tidbits of scandal for me, no stories of clandestine escapades to divert me?”

He accepted the ploy with grace, settling back with his wine and regaling her with a tale of how, at the masquerade, a gentleman known for his habit of spilling snuff down his cravat was seen coming from an empty card room with a lady who was brushing snuff from her bosom. From there, he went on to the antics of a pair of elderly roués who were trying to solicit the interest of a plump young widow who had inherited not only a plantation on Bayou St. John but also an indigo factory, a brick yard, and an operation for the making of candles from the wax berries of the local myrtle shrubs.

“And, of course,” he went on, “Rouvilliere is still agitating about the activities of Madame Vaudreuil. He claims she dispenses drugs to the soldiers from her own house, with her own hands, when her steward is not available.”

“What is Rouvilliere’s purpose in all this? Does he hope to gain Vaudreuil’s recall?”

Armand lifted a shoulder. “It may be simple revenge for all the clashes that he has not been able to win and especially the charges of malfeasance filed against him by Vaudreuil. It may also be an excess of duty. On the other hand, he may have his own candidate for the office of governor. But if his intention is merely to have the governor replaced, he may save himself the trouble. Vaudreuil is bound for New France and only awaits the appointment of his successor.”

“It has been announced?”

“Not yet. My aunt in Paris—”

“Writes to say so, I suppose?” she finished for him, smiling. “The governor will be happy.”

“As you say. It will be like going home for him — though I expect he prays nightly that his replacement reaches him before the Indians attack in force or the smuggling becomes a public outrage.”

Cyrene ignored the last, seizing on the word that brought the race of alarm to her veins. “Indians?”

“I was forgetting you might not have heard. News came this morning of another trading party attacked. One man was killed, another injured.”

“Their names?” Cyrene’s stomach felt like a knotted fist as she thought of Pierre and Jean, out in the wilderness somewhere, searching out the English traders from the Carolinas and visiting the Indian villages with their goods.

“No one seems to know. I’m sorry.” Armand knew enough of her story to realize the impact of his news. “The attack was only thirty or forty leagues upriver. Vaudreuil is said to be in a rage at the effrontery. He is preparing to send to our Choctaw allies a request for a meeting at Mobile for talks, a most precarious gamble as matters now stand.”

“Precarious, for the governor?”

“Oh, he will be well protected by the king’s soldiers, never fear. But in order for the Choctaw to take him at all seriously, he will be required to do more than exercise his charm and diplomacy. He will be required to hand out gifts on a sumptuous scale.”

“Gifts he doesn’t have,” she said. She had seen the main warehouse. There had been nothing there to impress the poorest Indian, even before the fire.

“The governor gave out presents with a lavish hand this past November in Mobile, but more will be expected, of course, with the request for warriors to aid us.”

“If he appeals to Maurepas, makes him see the seriousness of the situation, surely goods will be sent?”

“Possibly. We can only hope the merchandise will not be too shoddy. If France doesn’t have a care, she will lose Louisiane for lack of a few beads and blankets.”

“It does seem so,” Cyrene said, lifting her hand to her head where a small ache was beginning to gather, an ache caused by the upsets of the morning.

“I am an imbecile to trouble you with all this when you don’t feel well,” Armand said, his dark eyes stricken. “Does your face hurt you? Would you not like a cool cloth to hold to it?”

“No, no,” she assured him, lowering her hand and summoning a smile. “It’s kind of you to worry, but I’m all right.”

“Are you certain? To see you injured in that way cuts me to the heart. It is none of my affair, but… it has been reported to the governor?”

“I assume René will tell him.”

“Good, good. Investigations will be made, then.”

“I suppose something may be discovered of the injured men, though odds are that we will learn they are scum who have now fled. As for the other, there is no way to identify him.”

“Perhaps not, and then again something may be done. I think I must make a few investigations of my own.”

“Not if it will be dangerous, as well it may.”

“You are not to worry. This is something I must do, something I wish to do for my own sake.”

She had no means of forcing him to desist. In any case, it seemed possible he might be able to discover something; he was such an excellent source of information. She permitted herself to be reassured.

They spoke of other things, with Armand stopping now and then to interject some exclamation of sympathy and self-blame as his gaze went to her face. At last, when Cyrene was beginning to think he would be with her still when dinnertime came, he took his leave, still lamenting that he had not been able to serve her.

Martha emerged from the kitchen almost immediately, where she must have been listening for Armand’s departure, and began to clear away the clutter of wineglasses and chocolate cups and the remains of the tarts and cheese that had been provided. The woman had the chocolate pot in her hand when a knock sounded on the door once more, announcing another caller. With an expressive lift of her eyes in Cyrene’s direction, Martha set down the pot, wiped her hands on her apron, and went to answer the door.

The man who stepped into the salon was Touchet. It had begun to rain outside once more, for the fresh, moist coolness of it came with him into the room, and his cape, which he stripped off, shone with wet. He removed his tricorne also and handed it with his cape and cane to Martha. Madame Vaudreuil’s man then sauntered toward Cyrene where she sat on the settee. He bowed over her hand in formal greeting, though without touching it to his lips, for which she was thankful. His gaze rested a moment on her bruised cheek, but he either saw nothing there to excite his interest or else thought it the better part of courtesy to pretend he did not.

It occurred to Cyrene as he came toward her with jaunty self-satisfaction in his step that he must have waited deliberately until Armand was gone. It made her feel uncomfortable to think of him loitering somewhere, watching the house, noting who arrived and left. She could not be surprised at it, however.

She depended on cool politeness to carry her over the first few moments of the visit, inviting Touchet to be seated, requesting that Martha bring wine once more, commenting on the wet weather and also on the magnificence of the entertainment that had been offered to them the evening before. At the same time, her mind was busy choosing and rejecting reasons why Madam Vaudreuil’s lackey might have decided to pay her a call. It was a great relief when Touchet, after a glance around to be sure Martha was gone, came to the point.

“As much as I appreciate your charms, mademoiselle, this is not for me a visit of gallantry. I come as an emissary from one lady to another.”

“From Madame Vaudreuil?”

“Just so, from the Marquise de Vaudreuil.”

The insistence on the title was telling, meant undoubtedly to make her aware of the power and high standing of the woman of whom he spoke. It served merely to put Cyrene on her mettle. She felt the normal social need to come to his aid in some way when he paused, apparently at a loss. She ignored it. Let him flounder.

Touchet pursed his lips and a hard gleam came into his eyes. “The marquise is… concerned, concerned about you. She feels that Lemonnier may have taken advantage of you. She worries that you may not realize the hazardous path you are treading as his mistress.”

“I am touched by her regard for my welfare,” Cyrene said with a shading of irony.

“Yes. She does not have a great deal of time for such concerns, but as a great lady she takes her duty toward the people under her husband’s jurisdiction seriously.”

“I’m sure.” Was there a veiled threat in that phrase, some hint that Cyrene was in the power of the marquis and therefore of his wife? It did not seem likely, but it was possible to read anything into Touchet’s too-smooth tone.

“On the other hand, Madame la Marquise perceives in you a female above the ordinary, one of intelligence who cares for more than fine feathers and the pleasures of the moment. Because of this, she is prepared to invest in your future.”

“My future?” Cyrene repeated. “I don’t believe I understand.”

He gave her a snide smile. “Let me make it clearer. She will pay you handsomely, enough to live on while you apprentice yourself to a milliner or dressmaker, or even set yourself up in a small pastry shop or some such, if you will agree to leave Louisiane for Paris to take advantage of this opportunity. The monies will be paid to you on the day you sail, when you are aboard the ship.
Le Parham
sails within the week.”

“This — this is incredible!”

“I find it so myself, but that is the offer of the marquise.”

It was, of course, a bribe; the fine phrases of concern were so much rhetoric. Madame Vaudreuil, it seemed, was afraid of her husband’s attraction to Cyrene. It might also be that the woman expected the Bretons might follow her to Paris, thereby eliminating another of her problems. How very foolish. Madame greatly exaggerated her influence.

“You cannot be serious,” she said.

“I assure you Madame la Marquise is very serious, indeed.”

“I am not her responsibility. You must tell her for me that I am honored to think she has taken so much time and thought over my situation, but I must refuse. Louisiane is my home.

I have no wish to leave it.”

Touchet frowned. “She won’t be pleased.”

“I regret that, but my answer remains the same.”

“Is it, perhaps, affection that holds you? Or is it your prospects with Lemonnier? Or even young Moulin?” She gave him a cold look. “That is none of your concern or Madame Vaudreuil’s.”

“You are making a mistake.”

“Perhaps.”

He leaned forward in his seat, his voice low. “Your position here could be made extremely unpleasant if you stay.”

She got to her feet in a quick, smooth movement. “How kind of you to warn me. Now if you will forgive me for sending you away without refreshment, I believe I must ask you to leave me. I have a touch of the headache.”

“Not yet,” he said, rising slowly from his chair to face her. “We haven’t come to an agreement.”

“I fear we are as near as we can be.” She refused to look away from his yellow-brown stare as she stood with lifted chin and clasped hands.

“I think not.” His voice was soft with menace. “I feel sure there is something I can do that will persuade you to change your mind.”

There came the sounds of a noisy approach from the rear of the house. For a moment, Cyrene thought it was Martha trying to make certain that she did not interrupt anything of importance as she brought the wine that was ordered. Then she heard Gaston’s voice and turned with relief toward the dining room, from which it came.

It was both Gaston and Armand. One carried a tray with a bottle of sherry and a collection of tinkling glasses, the other a crystal compote piled high with small cakes and bonbons and also a stack of small plates. They jostled each other back and forth, laughing and protesting and uttering dire warnings. They made it safely to the table beside Cyrene with their burdens where they began to serve what they had brought with every show of skill in the art.

Gaston filled a glass, then turned with it to Touchet. “Wine, m’sieur?”

The presence of the two young men was not without purpose. It was plain from the look of frustrated rage on Touchet’s face that he understood that fact as well as Cyrene. He made a curt bow in Gaston’s direction, though his gaze did not leave her face. “Thank you, no, I cannot stay. I will convey your answer, mademoiselle, to the person concerned. It may be that we will have to discuss it further.”