Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 10

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Audubon, who had taken off the edge of his hunger, relaxed gratefully with his glass, and began to tell of himself—his childhood in France, with some horrendous accounts of the Terror; of the old sea captain who had adopted him, an orphan; of how he came to America as a youth, and was domiciled with a Quaker family, where he got his English speech with its queer thees and thous, his obsession over nature; and a wife, Lucy, a sweet and loyal, and also, Bowie gathered, a long-suffering woman, employed at the present as a governess in a household somewhere upriver, to support herself and her children, so her husband might find his destiny.

All at once he glanced down apologetically at his empty plate. “Forgive my garrulity. I was a-hungered, and drink at such times always makes my tongue overactive.” He looked up. “It will do no harm to tell thee that this morning I returned from a field trip of a week’s time ... and my provisions ran out.” He paused. “But I sketched in colors a painted bunting—a magical flash of blue-violet, scarlet, and green—beauty to clutch the heart.” His face grew rapt, almost mystical, as it always did when he spoke of nature.

“ ’Twas in that absence,” he went on, “that my poor heron reached the state in which thee saw her. I had forgot her for days. Always in the forest I forget all else.” He smiled wryly. “One small matter I forgot was an appointment to paint the portrait of a young lady—a most beautiful young lady, or so she is accounted.”

The fawn-colored pantaloons in the settle-alcove had remained in full view, now stretching forth, now crossing their knees, now dawdling negligently. Audubon’s back was toward them, but Bowie was gazing at them as the artist uttered the last words. Perhaps he imagined it, but the fawn pantaloons seemed to tense slightly.

“From her father I accepted an advance of ten dollars,” Audubon went on, “against a fee of a hundred for the finished portrait. On that prospect I made promises to the good Madame Guchin—promises I could not keep. For since I forgot the initial appointment, the entire agreement is canceled. It was the father with whom thee saw me pleading at the cathedral—old Armand de Bornay, rich as Croesus with sugar plantations and black slaves. To him, ten dollars—or a hundred—is less than a picayune to me. Thee would hardly think him a pinchfist: yet from the furore over the trifling sum involved, thee might suppose it was the price of the Louisiana Territory.”

The fawn legs in the alcove drew up rigidly as if their owner suddenly sat erect.

Unconscious of this, Audubon shrugged. “But what would thee? The painted bunting—or the painted beauty? Peste, I prefer the bird!”

The owner of the fawn legs was on his feet: all the Creoles in the alcove had risen as if pulled up by invisible strings. The fawn legs stepped around the corner and their owner was revealed as a furiously angry young man in a long, swaggering, scarlet-lined cape. He was slight in figure, with an aquiline face quite handsome, though marred by recklessness and dissipation, and marked by black side whiskers trimmed very close and running to a curved point at the angle of his jaw. For a moment he stood scowling, then strode fiercely over.

“So I find you here!” he said to Audubon.

The artist bore a look of painful embarrassment, with an almost furtive side glance, as if he would have escaped to the outside—anywhere—had it been possible. “Narcisse——” he began weakly.

“You find time, it appears,” the other interrupted, “to drink in taverns, if not to carry out your engagements!”

“I beg of thee—my intentions were of the best. But—the day was perfect—I found myself in the pirogue—pouf!—a week was gone before I knew it! Ah, my friend——”

“Your friend? Have you the insolence to address me in such manner? Perhaps you consider that your patent to make scurrilous reference to Monsieur, my father—to ridicule Mademoiselle, my sister—and in a public place?”

“In God’s name, Narcisse!” Audubon was aghast. “I had no thought—an awkward phrasing, perhaps—but that only. My respect for Monsieur de Bornay and my admiration for Mademoiselle Judalon are beyond words. I apologize—most abjectly—for this misunderstanding. If thee wish, I will make my apologies to Mademoiselle—to Monsieur, thy father——”

The Creole’s lip curled. “You imagine you will have opportunity for that? The de Bornays open not their doors—for ‘apologies’—or any other bootlicking—to liars and dogs—fit only to be whipped like dogs——”

He raised a riding whip which he had in his hand, as if to lash the shrinking artist, but Bowie came to his feet, knocking over the chair behind him.

As one, the Creoles turned toward him, dark and angry, their visages hardening with dislike. Bowie towered over them.

“Messieurs,” he said evenly, “you were not invited to this table. I do not know the reason for the dispute, but I do know Monsieur Audubon desires no trouble with you. Be so good as to return to your own place.”

The young man with the scarlet-lined cape lowered his whip and looked Bowie up and down arrogantly. “Who may this be?” he inquired.

“My name is James Bowie.”

“So his name is James Bowie,” repeated the Creole, mimicking most offensively his way of saying it. “An Américain—since it is abundantly clear he is no gentleman——”

“As good a gentleman as you!”

“Vraiment? In that case you should know that a gentleman does not interfere in what is no affair of his.” The Creole’s voice was biting.

“What affects my friend is my affair——”

“And if not, you make it so? Is that it? Monsieur—what is it—Bowie? Monsieur Bowie! Mon Dieu, what a name! I suppose it would be impossible for any Américain to comprehend the difference between being a gentleman—and being a clown—a boor—a barbarian——”

On Bowie’s clenched fist the knuckles went white. But then he bowed, and the bow was an exaggeration. As he did so, he sought for a name, found it, and when he spoke his sneer matched the Creole’s.

“It seems I owe you some sort of an apology—Monsieur Lily Fingers. I had forgot that the conception of a gentleman in this place differs from that of the rest of the world. And that here such a creature should be treated for what he is—as obviously in your own case—a delicate and pap-nerved softling, as pale, as pretty, and almost as masculine as his sister!”

He had devised a brilliantly deadly insult. The Creole’s face went white.

“Monsieur!” His hand reached into an inner pocket of his coat.

Audubon and Nez Coupé were up, the latter dragging a short-bladed dirk from his hip.

“No, Nez Coupé——” ordered Bowie.

The Cajun hung poised, snarling like a catamount. In that electric moment Bowie remembered he was unarmed, and balanced on the balls of his feet, waiting for the other to draw.

“Narcisse! I beg of thee!” Audubon’s imploring voice.

The Creole gave a chill smile. “I said—I still say—the Américain is a born boor. But such as he is, perhaps he should be taught a lesson.”

From the inner pocket he brought—not a pistol—but a card case. Deliberately he drew out a small white oblong of cardboard and flung it on the table. Bowie took it up, experiencing a pang of chagrin that he had no card of his own to exchange for it. He read the name.