Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 21

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The fat maître d’hôtel at the Café des Réfugiés bent almost double at the door and triumphantly conducted them to a good table near a window, where he personally served them with a light chop, salad, madeira, and frappé. As they were finishing luncheon a group of men, mostly young, entered and crossed to the fireplace alcove, nodding to Narcisse.

“My coterie,” he said. “We meet here almost every day to decide upon the evening’s diversion.”

“I see Cabanal and Lebain.”

“Observe the man next to Philippe?”

Bowie saw a short, broad-shouldered man, with a dark, heavy face, eyes cunningly intelligent, and an exceptional muscular structure.

“That is Contrecourt, the maître d’armes,” Narcisse said. “One of the best, though his salle is less popular than some. He it was who killed Orsini, the Italian fencing master, in the Jewish cemetery last year.”

“A duel in a cemetery?”

“One place of many. Usually it is St. Anthony’s Square, directly behind the cathedral, which is screened from the street by shrubbery and convenient for impromptu swordplay. If pistols are used, it is customary to ride out to the Oaks of Allard, where a stray bullet is less likely to carry off a citizen wandering unsuspectingly by.” Narcisse smiled. “Observe the gentleman to the left of Contrecourt? He with the penciled brows and the gold-embroidered waistcoat?”

“Who is he?”

“The artist Vanderlyn. He’s the rage just now in New Orleans, because he understands what our friend Audubon does not—that to succeed as a portraitist, the artist must flatter.” He lifted a wineglass delicately between thumb and finger. “Audubon must tell people what he thinks—by word or brush—and the devil take the consequences. He is a genius. Apart from his painting of birds, with which he is so obsessed, he is a landscape and portrait artist of the first quality. Yet he will allow himself no chance for his artistry. He might have more commissions than he could handle, for men like this Vanderlyn are not fit to mix his pigments. But he will not behave himself—show ordinary tact, even.”

Bowie nodded. Narcisse sipped, and said, “Perhaps it is the lot of genius to suffer. Originality is seldom welcome in the world. But why go out of the way to suffer?” He paused. “John is too touchy to accept a loan—though it seems not to occur to him that living as your guest is hardly different from borrowing money of you. He must paint portraits to live. And he persists in treating the finest commissions as without importance.”

“Such as—the portrait of Mademoiselle de Bornay?”

Narcisse smiled a trifle wearily. “You don’t know the whole story. It was through my efforts that my father compacted with Audubon to paint her. My sweet sister Judalon thereupon invited some friends of her own age and sex to form an audience at the sitting—it’s frequently done, giving the portrait thus added importance as a conversation piece.”

“Good God!” said Bowie. “And Audubon failed to appear?”

Narcisse shook his head ruefully. “The denouement, of course, was most unhappy. Poor Judalon invited these young ladies to witness her triumph. They beheld instead her ignominy.” He considered the wineglass thoughtfully. “A woman is, after all, only human: and I sometimes think a pretty woman is something less than human—toward her own sex at least. These all chanced to be quite charming. It follows that their amusement was quite cruel.”

“I can imagine.”

“My unhappy sister took to her bed for two days. She is, I suppose, spoiled, and I fear she is well versed in creating a family impasse when she desires. Before she was through with them, my parents were quite beside themselves. Monsieur, my father, is sometimes stormy when angered—but remember, he had some little excuse for it.”

Bowie smiled. He was coming to like very much this young man of the gay cynicisms.

“And so,” he said, “with the de Bornay interdict upon Audubon, no other New Orleans family will have anything to do with him?”

“Oversimplified, perhaps. But—well, yes.”

“And he’s lost not only his livelihood, but his life’s work?”

Narcisse nodded sadly. “I am attached to him. If there were only some way——”

Bowie thought. “There’s one——”

“What is it?”

“If the de Bornays accepted him again, others would also.”

Narcisse’s laugh was brittle. “You don’t know my people. Especially Judalon.”

“That is my misfortune.”

Narcisse stared at him as if he had been struck by a thought which required considerable digesting.

“Jim,” he said, “shall we conspire in behalf of Audubon?”

“In what manner?”

“First, I shall present you to my family.”

“You have some sort of a plan?”

“Not exactly. But even a precarious foothold on the wall is a beginning toward carrying the castle——” Narcisse broke off. “You can keep your temper?” he asked anxiously.

“I think so.”

“Bien. You may have to do so.” Narcisse seemed to experience a slight inward amusement at something. “Well, let’s join the coterie.”