Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 26

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Judalon de Bornay was conscious of the glances the visitor was stealing at her, and they did not entirely displease her. She was only seventeen—five years younger than Bowie—but in the wisdom of the affairs of women and men she was a generation ahead of him, with knowledge inborn and then sharpened by experience.

Girls of the Creole race were notably precocious: she had matured early and been in society since her fifteenth year, accustomed to being courted, admired and attended by men, so that their applause had become to her a necessity of life. As for this blond young barbarian, by no means was she yet sure how she would treat him. But his eagerness to please was so evident that she was certain she need merely await her whim to be sure of its accomplishment with him.

Madame de Bornay asked a polite question. “Do you care for music, Monsieur Bowie?”

“Yes, madame,” he replied diffidently.

“You are familiar with the pianoforte?”

“No, madame. This is the first I’ve ever seen.”

“Judalon, chérie, play something for us, will you?”

“But of course, Mother.”

The girl turned to the instrument and played a short selection. Bowie found himself more entranced by the movements of her slender fingers than by the somewhat vapid and trivial music she rendered.

“Do you like it, monsieur?” she asked, as she finished.

“It’s choicely pretty,” he said, then surprised himself by venturing a compliment. “I admire the graceful way of your hands on the keys, mademoiselle——”

He stopped, but she rewarded him with her brilliant smile. “I didn’t know Américains cultivated the frivolous art of pretty speeches.”

“I meant it sincerely——”

“All the prettier.”

“Shall we dispense with the rest of the bavardage?” asked Narcisse, who saw his friend being played with, and had a brother’s good-natured cynicism toward his sister’s little methods.

“Oh, you!” said Judalon, with a tiny pout. Then, “What do you do for music in your own country, Monsieur Bowie?”

“Not much,” he confessed. “Of course the Cajuns are great fiddlers, and some play the flute and banjo well enough for dances and broom jumpings——”

“Broom jumpings?”

“A kind of custom. The Cajuns—well—pair off young. It’s not often a priest gets into the back bayous, a condition that’s mighty tantalizing to couples who’ve taken fire for each other. So their folks give a big dance and feast. About midnight all the guests make a circle, laughing and joking. A broom is held level, about a foot above the floor, with a man at one end and a woman at the other. Hand in hand, the lovers advance and jump together. It’s unlucky to stumble, so they jump high. Commonly, they clear the barrier with plenty to spare, and everyone cheers and laughs. That does it. They’re married, as far as the Cajuns are concerned. Of course,” Bowie added, at the startled look on Madame de Bornay’s face, “the first traveling priest who comes along always gives them the blessing of the Church.”

Judalon laughed. “You have, perhaps, jumped the broom yourself?”

“No, mademoiselle. My folks wouldn’t consider it fitting. They’re Scotch Presbyterians——”

“Scotch?”

“Yes, mademoiselle. The Bowies were originally Highland Scotch.”

“But you?” Again the amused glimmer.

“I reckon you could call me half Georgian. My mother was raised in Savannah.”

“And—all Américain?” A hint of a gibe.

He nodded gravely. “All American.”

Her glance was fathomless, and turning to the piano she played rapidly another selection. Narcisse gave her a sharp look of annoyance, and turned his eyes quickly toward Bowie. This delighted her, for it was a piece of gay impertinence. The music, which her brother recognized, was from the overture of a new opera, La Cambiale di Matrimonio, by a young Italian composer named Rossini, whose music was just becoming popular in Europe, and hence in New Orleans. The feature of this opera, at which the Creoles enjoyed laughing, was an innovation, the first of its kind in any theater: a preposterous stage American, whose name was Mr. Slook, who put his feet on the table, kept his hat on in the house, spat on the floor, and gave away money by handfuls. It was the composer’s travesty on what was the common European conception of the gaucherie attributed to all Americans. And this was the peculiarity of Judalon’s little dig: it was not directed so much at Bowie, who had never heard of the opera and therefore could not comprehend her intention, but at Narcisse, in revenge for his interruption, and as a piece of raillery at his choice of companions.

“Are you familiar with Rossini?” she asked, when she concluded.

“No, mademoiselle,” said Bowie.

“That’s from an opera of his.” She named it. “When it is presented at the French Opera House here, you must attend. You may find it amusing and edifying.”

“And those attending it even more amusing, though less edifying,” said Narcisse.

Bowie felt here an undercurrent which he did not understand, but he answered soberly, “If you recommend it, mademoiselle, I will attend it at my first opportunity.”

The steadiness of his voice and eyes seemed to create an abrupt change in the girl. On her lips hovered another piece of gay mockery, doubly zestful because its butt was uncomprehending while Narcisse writhed, helpless to stop her, wondering when she would become openly cruel. But suddenly she decided not to utter the badinage after all. This young man was so comely, with shoulders so wonderful, above all so obviously worshipful of her ... a woman must, after all, concede some dignity to adoration of herself, otherwise she diminishes her own value.

She studied the guest. He was huge: and handsome in the way all splendid animals are handsome. She saw how he looked at her, and she sat back with a tiny smile. Judalon knew that light in the eyes of men. Her confidence was enhanced. She contrasted her own small perfection with his greatness. Small women often find a peculiarly intriguing challenge in the stealthy game with big men.

Seeing the change in his sister’s eyes, Narcisse relaxed. He too had a game to play, and he believed his first gambit had been successfully offered. This was confirmed when they said their adieus a few minutes later.

Judalon said to Bowie, “Monsieur, we hold a ball at this house next Thursday night. Will you not come as our guest?” At his look of hesitation, she gave him her most dazzling smile and exclaimed, “But of course you will! The card will be at your inn in the morning.”