Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (95 page)

Armand, on the other hand, simply liked people and was interested in their quirks and foibles as well as their clandestine activities. He stored them up and brought them out to amuse Cyrene during his visits. Not even the governor and his lady were held sacrosanct from his impish humor. He had a tale to tell of them also.

It seemed that Madame la Marquise had brought before her husband one of their own servants as the marquis sat at the dining table. The man had been discovered stealing wine. The lady of the house accused the servant in no uncertain terms while the poor man stood with bowed head and trembling hands, moaning in fear of being sent to the flogging post or some other horrendous punishment for his crime. The marquis stared at the man with a measuring gaze during Madame Vaudreuil’s diatribe. When it was over, he waved a negligent hand. “You have put the poor man in such a quake, my dear,” he said, “that he deserves a bottle of wine to quiet his fears. Give it to him.”

“And Madame Vaudreuil, what did she think of that?” Cyrene asked.

“No one knows. She makes no comments and no one dares ask if the story is even true. To me, it has the right ring, as a rebuke for the lady for making such a to-do over a bottle of wine like some merchant’s wife. However, the governor is a man of great good humor who might also have seen it as a joke on the marquise.”

“Do you think so?”

“One never knows; he is most adept at hiding his feelings. Only look at the way he received Rouvilliere at the musicale.”

“The intendant commissary?”

“The same. I don’t know why Rouvilliere puts in an appearance at the governor’s house, except perhaps out of defiance and because he considers such affairs public gatherings. Nor do I understand why Madame Vaudreuil invites him, unless it is to pretend that she knows nothing of his complaints.”

“That’s much too unlikely, isn’t it? Everyone knows the governor and the intendant commissary are always at odds, whoever they may be.”

It was a weakness of the administration of the colony that the areas of authority of the governor and the intendant commissary, the man responsible for supplying the colony and its soldiers, overlapped. It had caused friction in the past and would do so as long as the situation lasted.

“Ah, but this is different. Rouvilliere attacks Vaudreuil through his wife, writing to the king’s minister to accuse her of every crime imaginable, with the possible exception of prostitution. Vaudreuil, not to be outdone, files official dispatches charging Rouvilliere with selling the goods destined for Louisiane for his own profit and substituting inferior merchandise and then raising the price of the little that is delivered to astronomical heights.”

“It’s a feud, in fact.”

“You might say so, one arising in no small part from the fact that both Madame Vaudreuil and Rouvilliere claim the right to sell the trading concessions and licenses for drinking establishments for the benefit of their own purses.”

It was the cost in bribes of such trading concessions, as much as for the excitement of smuggling, that had prevented the Bretons from applying for legal trading status in the past.

“That is the way business is done, I suppose.”

“Unfortunately.”

“And how does the thought of a lady being involved in such transactions strike you after your praise the other night of the effect my sex has had on the shaping of our society?”

He smiled, his soft brown eyes sparkling. “You think you have me, don’t you? But I will admit that though I find the lady’s arrangements less than delicate, I admire her acumen and her hardihood.”

“You admire strength in a woman?”

“To a degree only!” he said in haste.

Cyrene’s lips curved in a smile. She made no reply, however, allowing a small silence to fall as she stared at Armand, trying to decide whether to ask the question that hovered in her mind.

“What is it, mademoiselle? Do I have snuff on my cravat? The remains of my breakfast on my lapel? Tell me quickly!”

“No, no, I was only wondering if you know anything about Madame Vaudreuil’s other activities in — in the realm of commerce.”

“How discreet you are,
chère.
If you mean her smuggling, it was an open secret in the past, though I believe she has not been so active since the war with the English. If you refer to her traffic in hashish among the soldiery, that isn’t so well known but is still a rumor with great currency.”

Cyrene was not so sure the marquise’s smuggling had declined, but she said nothing. “You think the governor is aware of these things?”

“So I should imagine. How could it be otherwise? To be a royal governor is a most expensive undertaking. Vaudreuil may dispense lavish hospitality and make a grand gesture now and then with a bottle of wine, but he has a fine concern for his coffers.”

“He is concerned still about the traffic with the English.”

“Indeed. It’s said that
Le Parham
brought a strong demand from the king for Vaudreuil to put an end to it. No excuses for failure to be accepted. Rumors also say, however, that the governor had advance warning of the strict new edict some months ago, brought by Lemonnier.”

“By René? How odd.” Did it, perhaps, explain his part in the attempt to capture the Bretons?

“Just so, a friendly hint from the king’s minister, Maurepas, from one politician to another.”

“Then the governor must surely stop the smuggling.”

“So he must, or see his chances at the governorship of New France fade to nothing. And no doubt he will be successful. That will make it all the more lucrative for Madame la Marquise later when the competition is driven away and she is able to resume her activities.”

Cyrene shook her head. “What a cynic you are.”

“Am I?” He looked immensely pleased with himself. “Now there’s a pose I must develop.”

“I beg you will do no such thing!”

“You like me the way I am?”

“Very much so.”

“Ah, a declaration at last. I was beginning to think you were immune to my charm.”

“I would have complimented you earlier,” she said with gentle irony, “had I known your ego was in such need of it.”

“Cruel, cruel,” he mourned. “Perhaps I should go straight from here to the marquise. She may be an avaricious lady who has forgotten how to count her years, but at least she knows how to appreciate fine form in a man, whether mental or physical.”

Cyrene could not help laughing at his histrionics, though, an instant later, she sobered. “It’s true, then, that the lady has young lovers?”

“As to lovers, I couldn’t say, but she has a good eye for a manly leg and is not above testing with her own fingers to see if the shape is natural or has been helped with padding.”

The loose breeches worn by most laborers, including the Bretons, were decent enough, but the tightly fitted garments made of silk and satin worn by gentlemen, designed to show that they could not possibly stoop, in the most literal meaning of the word, to manual labor made a fine display of manly attributes. “You mean she—”

“Frequently. If one is so unwise as to pay a visit to her alone or venture into a dark corner when she is near.”

“There were rumors, but I can hardly credit such behavior. She has so much dignity.”

“A useful thing, dignity, also honors and position,” he said, his tone suggestive.

“Yes, I see what you mean.” Cyrene paused a moment, then went on. “Had you heard — that is, do you know anything of her and René?”

“When Lemonnier first came he was as catnip to the cat; she practically purred when she saw him. Not only was he a fresh face but also wildly attractive, and with just that air of danger about him that some women enjoy. The pursuit was quite diverting, since he was more wily than most or perhaps more used to being hunted. His reputation had preceded him, naturally.”

“Naturally,” she echoed. Poor René, chased by Madame la Marquise, attacked, injured and half drowned in the river. Then what had happened when he was safe and dry and on the mend again? She had thrown herself at him.

Cyrene allowed her gaze to be caught and held by the flickering flames in the fireplace as she went on. “One might say he had brought it on himself with his past conduct.”

“They might, of course,” Armand said, tipping his head to one side with a judicious air.

“But you don’t think so?”

“These things are always difficult. Who is to say why people do what they do, what drives them to their vices?”

“Must there be something?”

“Not always, but in the case of Lemonnier it would seem likely.”

“What makes you say so?” she challenged him.

“I have the story from a great-aunt in Paris who knows the family and sometimes writes my mother, you understand, so you may judge how accurate it may be. It seems Lemonnier was not always as he is now, but was rather a dutiful youth, the second-born son. He was put to reading law and studying the management of large estates so that he might serve as custodian to his older brother, who would inherit the family lands and titles. Then the brother became embroiled in an unsavory scandal having to do with counterfeit bank notes. There was a great deal of money lost. The older Lemonnier son returned from Paris where the misfortune had taken place. One day he rode out to a lonely wooded spot where he shot himself in the head with his dueling pistol.”

Cyrene uttered a sound of shocked horror. Armand gave a nod. “Even so. The valued first son was no more. Overnight, Lemonnier fell heir to the responsibilities and duties of his brother, and also the debts and the scandal. He set off for Paris to discover what had brought his brother to ruin. He was made so welcome there that he soon forgot his purpose. He had been a provincial moldering on his father’s lands too long; the pleasures of the city and the glories of Versailles went to his head, as it has to many others. He offended someone of importance, and
voilà
!
Here he is in Louisiane, an exile—”

Armand broke off as footsteps sounded on the stairs and René appeared in the doorway. Smiling, making ready to greet his host, he went on smoothly. “But then we are all exiles, in one way or another.”

“Armand, so pleasant to see you again,” René said, the irony of his tone a comment on the frequency of the younger man’s visits.

Armand, not to be outdone in civility, sketched a slight bow. “I realize I trespass, but Mademoiselle Cyrene is that rare creature, a women of both physical charms and brain. One must have inspiration for one’s literary efforts, after all, and how refreshing it is to find here also a true appreciation.”

“Ah,” René said with an air of great affability, “you have brought her another poem. May I see it?”

He picked up the sheet of foolscap that lay on the settee beside Cyrene and began to peruse it as he moved to stand with his back to the fire.

Armand looked decidedly ill at ease, though he tried to be nonchalant about it. “It’s another of my poor efforts, I fear, one that comes nowhere near to doing Mademoiselle Cyrene justice. I’m sure that in your career you have written many that were much better.”

“I’ve penned one or two. One can hardly escape, so mad has the world become over scribbling,” René said without looking up. “However, I don’t recall ever comparing a lady’s eye to a swamp.”

“Oh, but I only meant dark and deep and mysterious!”

“So I apprehend. And what of muddy and shifting and stagnant?”

“I never said that!”

“Didn’t you? How odd? I thought you did.” René turned to Cyrene, extending the poem to her between two fingers with an air that was indescribably negligent. “Would you ring for a pot of chocolate,
chérie
?
I’m sure we all need it.”

“To remove the taste of my poem?” Armand said, his sigh glum.

“Did I suggest such a thing?” René looked surprised.

“There was no need. I know it well. Spare me the chocolate, mademoiselle, if you please. I must go and commune with my muse.”

“I thought,” René said in polite puzzlement, “that she was here.” He indicated Cyrene.

Armand was not to be drawn. With a look of great melancholy and many excuses, he took himself away.

When he had gone, Cyrene said to René, “Did you have to be so disagreeable?”

“Did you expect me to encourage him? You do enough of that.”