Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (117 page)

“HURRY, ASHANTI!”

“I do the best I can, mam’selle.”

The maidservant settled the knee-length chemise with its deep, lace-edged décolletage about Félicité, smoothed the soft batiste material around the waist, and tightened the strings of the whaleboned stays, pulling them up snug. Gasping for breath, Félicité clung to the footboard of the great cypress bed as the other woman, a tall, magnificent Negress, of the Ashanti tribe, mercilessly closed the small gap that remained in the stays at her back. Dressing in such haste was a trial. Félicité had not dreamed that her father and Valcour would wish to attend the soirée being given tonight, on this third day of Spanish occupation, in honor of the new governor-general, O’Reilly. To give her the news that they would present themselves there within the hour while she was still supervising the removal of the dessert plates from dinner was just like Olivier Lafargue. He had no conception of the time necessary to have her hair put up and powdered in the formal style, to struggle into her largest panniers and heaviest, most elegant robe à la Française, to powder and rouge her face, or apply her patches.

“Your stockings, mam’selle.”

Félicité moved to sit down on the side of the bed, allowing Ashanti to slip the tubes of silk up over her legs, fastening the garters above her knees. Over these went her slippers of embroidered satin, the high heels covered in the same material. Next came the panniers, half-circle hoops of wood woven together with leather straps in a basket arrangement, and fastened around the waist with a belt. Over these went the petticoats, stiffened with starch and hemmed with ruffles of lace. The top one was of gold silk with deep lace flounces on the front panel that would show beneath the open panel of her overskirt.

The heat inside the bedchamber that served also as her dressing room was oppressive. The night coolness hovering beyond the second-floor windows with their shutters set ajar could not dispel the warmth caused by the candies burning on either side of the dressing table where Félicité had sat to have her hair done. As she returned now to the dressing table to attend to her face, Félicité picked up a fan of woven palmetto and plied it vigorously.

“Take care, mam’selle. You will disarrange your hair.”

“What do I care, Ashanti? I cannot imagine what possessed Papa to decide to attend this soirée.”

“To stay away from the party would be to call attention to yourselves,” the maid said, her voice soft.

“And we must not do that.” Félicité’s tone was weary.

“It would not be wise.”

It was a sentiment much repeated in these last few days, especially since the landing of the Spanish troops. It was as if the brief flurry of rebellion had been no more than a game, a childish threat to persuade Louis XV of France to take them back under his wing. Now the game was over and prudence dictated caution. The people were quiet, remaining in their houses for the most part. There had been disquieting rumors that O’Reilly had drawn up a list of names of the men who had actively conspired to set up a republican form of government, that he meant to deport all involved after stripping them of their belongings. Other reports had him preparing a stockade on Cat Island in the gulf off the coast near the settlement of Biloxi, where they would be left to the mercy of the sun, sand flies, and salt water. Most scoffed at such tales, preferring to believe in Commandant Aubry’s assurances of clemency, maintaining that a proper show of humility would convince the Spaniards of their resignation to the change of government. Still, everyone was uneasy. Even Félicité’s father had become subdued. There was about him a look of gray defeat she did not like. To see him take the prudent course, being forced to compromise his principles in the face of such overwhelming odds, was enough to make her long to do something reckless.

“You are pale, mam’selle. Perhaps a touch more rouge?”

Félicité dipped the hare’s foot into the pot of rose-red powder and stroked it once more across the high ridges of her cheekbones. “They say the Spanish don’t approve of women aiding nature in this way.”

“That may be, but it hasn’t kept them from wailing like love-starved cats under your window for two nights past.”

Félicité smiled as she met the eyes of the maid in the mirror where Ashanti stood just behind her at the dressing table. “It’s an old Spanish custom, the gentlemen serenading the ladies they admire. I suppose I should be complimented.”

“They think so, these soldiers with their twanging guitars.”

“There was one who sang rather nicely.” Félicité picked up a patch in the shape of a lyre, and after a moment’s consideration, placed it just below the corner of her mouth to emphasize its tender curves.

“Perfect, mam’selle,” Ashanti said of the patch, then went on, “It was wise of you not to appear in your window. M’sieu Valcour was livid enough without that.”

A shadow came and went in Félicité’s brown eyes. “Yes. My gown, now.”

The robe à la Française was of yellow silk embroidered with a pattern of green leaves and vines and edged with lace touched with gold thread. It fastened with hooks to a tightly fitting embroidered basque that ended in a point, falling open over the petticoats. The low neckline was edged also by the lace ruffle of her chemise, and the ruffles edging the sleeves of her chemise fluttered too under the tightly fitted falling sleeves of the gown for a fuller effect. The skirts that swept over the panniers were full and spreading, ending in a train in the back that fell from loose Watteau pleats at the shoulders of the gown.

Ashanti slipped the last of the hooks into their loops, adjusted the set of the pleats, and stepped back. “You look fit to appear at the court of the Sun King himself, mam’selle.”

Félicité glanced at herself in the mirror. The whiteness of her hair under its powder gave her a regal, sophisticated appearance, while making her eyes seem darker and more mysterious than usual. One had to endure such trivialities for the sake of fashion. “Does it seem to you, Ashanti, that my bosom is just a little bare?”

“This gown is a trifle lower in that area than you usually wear. You could wear a neck ruff of lace as a distraction, if you like, or insert a tâtez-y.”

The last-mentioned item was a pleated frill artfully called a “touch here.” Félicité shook her head, then stepped to the dressing table and took up a square of lace. She twisted it deftly in her hands, then, with a small smile, tucked it into her bodice.

“Mam’selle, no,” Ashanti breathed.

“I think yes.” The lace, pleated in the shape of a small fan, was a good imitation of a white cockade, the symbol of Bourbon France.

“Take it out, mam’selle,” the maid pleaded.

Félicité hesitated, knowing the foolhardiness of such a gesture full well. At that moment there came a call from beyond the door. “Félicité, we are waiting.”

“There is no time to find a substitute. More than likely the stupid Spanish will never notice. I must go. My pattens, Ashanti.”

With her face set in lines of severe disapproval, the maid moved to do her bidding.

Pattens were wooden clogs that slipped over her shoes to lift her above the ground. The extra height would keep her skirts from trailing in the filth and dirt of the street, during the walk to the house where the soirée was being held. Carriages were the exception rather than the rule in the town. It was no great distance inside the walls of the fortified settlement to any place a person might wish to go; moreover, the wet climate where the streets ran with water more often than not, combined with the soft alluvial soil that made paving stones sink out of sight the moment they were laid, made wheeled vehicles impractical. In truly inclement weather, entertainments were postponed, though Félicité had seen the time when the mud was so deep that pattens were useless and the ladies had taken off shoes and stockings and waded. On arrival they had dipped their feet in a pan of water, dried them, donned stockings and shoes again, and danced the night away.

The French regime had been a casual one, with great friendliness and camaraderie, with a distinct feeling of being kindred souls in the wilderness fighting to maintain the elegances of life. Many were the homes of rough, split lumber with crystal chandeliers hanging from the rafters and Persian carpets on the puncheons. What did it matter as long as the lusters sparkled, the wine flowed, and the conversation kept one’s wits nimble?

No doubt all that would be changed now that the Spanish had come. All would be form and formality. It was said that Navarro, one of the Spanish officials who had come with Ulloa and stayed behind when he was expelled, was building a house with a gallery across the entire upper floor; that he had ordered intricately wrought iron as fine as lace in the way of railings for it and rich fabrics to cover the walls. So sheeplike had the French inhabitants become, no doubt before long everyone would be pulling down the half-timbered houses and building galleried mansions for themselves.

There were flambeaux in metal holders burning on either side of the door of the house where the soirée was being held. Candlelight shone from the windows, and through the openings with their shutters thrown wide could be seen a press of people in their finest clothing. The smell of hot myrtle wax from the candles made of the native shrub vied in the air with the scent of perfume in which most of those gathered had bathed, the use of water for either drinking or cleansing of the person being deadly dangerous. Félicité’s father had always decried the superstition, at least as it touched on personal ablutions, enjoying daily submersion in warm water and vigorous scrubbing with soap. Félicité had naturally gained the same habit, plus a strong wish that more would do the same.

She glanced at her father with a slight wrinkling of her nose as she paused just inside the doorway to allow Ashanti, who had, of course, accompanied her, to divest her of her pattens.

Monsieur Lafargue only shook his head, his lips curving in a smile before he handed his chapeau bras to Valcour’s manservant and nodded a dismissal so that their attendants could go in search of the refreshment and music provided for them in the rear of the house. He had lost weight in the last weeks, Félicité thought. His powdered wig concealed his thinning hair with its gradually increasing gray streaks, but it brought the grayish cast of his skin into relief. He did not trouble himself overly much with his appearance. His satin coat, once sky-blue, had turned lavender in the creases and was longer than the current mode. In addition, his perpetual stoop, caused by his forever being crouched over a book, did not help the once fine fit. For no good reason, Félicité, watching him, felt the ache of tears in her throat. If anything should happen to him, she did not know what she would do.

With her father on one side and Valcour, resplendent in silver brocade and sparkling paste buttons, on the other, Félicité swept forward to join the throng. Immediately she was drawn into the chatter, the exchange of greetings, the inspecting of the toilettes of the other women, and having her own inspected. A few of the older men and women sat on chairs on one wall, but most moved freely about, doing their best to drown out the music being provided by a string quartet in one corner. There was no dancing as yet; that would not have been comme il faut, since the guest of honor had not yet put in an appearance. The canopied armchair at the end of the room provided for O’Reilly’s comfort was unoccupied.

The event was not long delayed. Abruptly the music stopped. A fanfare of trumpets sounded. A Spanish official stationed near the rear door of the room stepped forward, threw back his shoulders, and announced: “By the will of his most august and Catholic majesty King Carlos III of Spain, Governor-General Don Alejandro O’Reilly!”

Hard on the words appeared a pair of men in the scarlet uniform of Spain carrying heavy silver maces. Behind them came an armed honor guard in double file. They halted, and between them a man entered the room. As he strode forward the musicians struck up the national anthem of Spain.

Tall, with an erect military bearing, O’Reilly was dressed in white satin of severe cut decorated with wide, gold-embroidered braid, slashed by his red ribbon of office and covered with glittering orders. His features were strong, with a long nose and firm lips. Though many looked close, there was little warmth to be seen in his blue eyes. His progress was slowed by a decided limp.

The instant he had gained his chair, the mace bearers moved to position themselves one on either side of the governor-general, while the guards ranged themselves behind him. Immediately afterward, his officers began to file into the room in a river of scarlet uniforms, flowing down one side as the French guests recoiled to the other.

As the last strains of the anthem died away, silence descended. There was the rustle of clothing as people turned to stare at each other, but no one spoke. The hostess of the gathering stood twisting her hands together in indecision, trying to catch the eye of her husband.

It was then that O’Reilly spoke, a low-voiced order carried by one of the men near him to the musicians, in the corner. They nodded, then, with verve, struck up the anthem of France.

All over the room people relaxed, allowed themselves to smile, to sigh, to move their lips to the familiar words. It was a grand gesture, was it not? He must be a sympathetic man, this O’Reilly.

The moment the officers filed into the room, Félicité recognized Lieutenant-Colonel Morgan McCormack. How could one not, when he was so tall, topping even his cold-faced general? He lounged with his broad shoulders propped against the wall, at ease and yet alert, his green gaze moving over the crowd, observant, watchful. Félicité glanced away, noticing Valcour. He was watching O’Reilly, a curl to his thin lips. When she flicked a quick look at the colonel once more, he was staring at her, probing the mass of her powdered hair as if to find a hint of gold to be certain of recognition. Velvet brown and brilliant green, their eyes clashed. It was Félicité who looked away, the color rising beneath the traces of rouge on her cheeks.