Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 24

Table of Contents

“Contrecourt—what kind of a man is he?” Bowie asked when he and Narcisse left the café.

“A superb swordsman. A wastrel. A libertine. Why?”

“I wondered.”

“You dislike him?”

“I have nothing against him. But he dislikes me.”

“Why do you think so?”

“I can always tell it in a man.”

Narcisse shrugged. “Perhaps it’s not dislike so much as resentment.”

“I can think of nothing he could resent in me.”

“He can.” Narcisse gave Bowie a half-smile. “We now perform an experiment. I think I should tell you something of what is on my mind and what confronts you.”

“Go ahead.”

“I now take you to my father’s house, to meet my family.”

“Now?” Bowie was alarmed. “I’m—not prepared——”

“Now is the time, for the best of reasons. They will be—to put it bluntly—astonished that I bring you to them. My parents, you must understand, are Creoles of the older stamp. In my case, I recognize the trend of the times, and that whether we like it or not, the Américains will soon outnumber us and control everything in New Orleans.” He laid a hand on Bowie’s shoulder. “Between you and me it would make no difference in any case, for you have won my heart.”

“But your family think different—they may not receive us—me, that is.”

“We will be received,” Narcisse said calmly. “But how my people treat you will depend somewhat on yourself, and somewhat on luck. That’s why I asked if you could keep your temper.”

Bowie nodded uneasily.

“If we do not make the proper impression,” Narcisse said, “I warn you that nobody knows the depths of rudeness so well as the very polite.”

“Then we’re lost. I’m a fool in a drawing room.”

“Perhaps not. In any case we must go on. I count on a certain factor with my sister Judalon. Like most of her adorable sex, she is capricious. Perhaps even more so than most, since she is better able to indulge her caprices. That’s perhaps a brother’s skepticism,” he added hastily, seeing the alarm in Bowie’s face. “Don’t look so very downcast, my friend. You will be something entirely new to her: she may find you interesting because so different.” He paused. “It is on this that I’m counting for the success of our little plot in behalf of Audubon. As a stranger who amuses her, you may be able to accomplish for him what nobody else can.”

This, with the utmost airy frankness. But Bowie’s misgivings grew. Assuredly this young lady seemed most formidable to a man from the back bayous.

“This is at the bottom of what you say is Contrecourt’s feeling against you,” Narcisse went on. “He is a little jealous.”

“In God’s name, why?”

“It’s a situation. Some of our maîtres d’armes—like my own teacher, Malot—are gentlemen. Others, like Contrecourt, live in a sort of whirl of wine, blood and profligacy, dividing their time between their favorite cafés and their salles d’armes, flaunting their quadroon mistresses, attired in the last gasp of fashion. They associate, even are courted by, the most prominent men of the city. But—alas for their secret pride—they are never received into female society.”

“For what reason?”

“It’s perhaps difficult to explain. A fencing master, however skilled and polished, is after all in somewhat the same category as—shall we say—a dancing master—or an instructor in equestrianism. A sort of upper servant. The social ban here is explicit.”

“So that’s it.”

“I suppose it’s a source of bitterness to Contrecourt. Perhaps he’d even cause you trouble, if he dared. But he would not dare. You are my friend—and after all, he is a professional swordsman.”

Another social ban implied here. The fencing master must not cross blades with an amateur in a serious encounter.

Narcisse said, “Ah, here we are. The Maison de Bornay.”

It was a three-story house of brick, standing flush with the banquette and heavily shuttered, commodious, but not particularly impressive from the street. When they entered it, however, they stepped into richness, even magnificence. A black butler bowed before them.

“Madame is at home, Pierre?” asked Narcisse.

“Oui, Monsieur Narcisse.”

“And Mademoiselle?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Be so good as to present our compliments, and inform them that I am here with a friend, begging them graciously to receive us.”

“A l’instant, monsieur.”

The servant vanished, reappeared in a moment to murmur that Madame and Mademoiselle would be charmed to see the visitors in the music room, and led the way down a wide hall. Bowie felt his body tense as if he were about to take a plunge into icy water, as he stepped through the door held open for him.