Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 31
3
Оглавление“You spoiled Malot’s morning,” Narcisse said later. “He confided to me that you are a very dangerous man. Since he is a dangerous man himself, that is praise of a sort. But I do not think he approves of your notions.”
“I seem to blunder everywhere.”
“Not so, Jim. You’re different—that’s all. Everyone in my coterie is now talking about you, which means that all New Orleans will soon be doing the same. When you come to the ball Thursday night you will meet many people who will know of you and be curious to know more.”
“That reminds me—the card of invitation came this morning. I’ll send a note of thanks, but I can’t attend, Narcisse.”
“But, nom de Dieu, why not?”
“Many reasons. I ought to get back home. And—well—my wardrobe——” Bowie hesitated. “I’ve just begun to realize how far behind the mode we are in the bayou country.”
Narcisse laughed. “Now that you’ve opened the subject, I’m willing to admit something of what you say. Fortunately, however, we can remedy that very quickly. We’ll stop in at Cocquelon’s. It’s in the next block. Cocquelon is the best tailor in town: the most expensive, also, but worth it. Always behind with his orders, because he’s in such demand. But he cuts the best shoulders in town—your shoulders will exalt him.”
“I—I’m afraid I can’t afford Cocquelon——” began Bowie dubiously.
“Pouf, pouf! If you’re short on ready cash, Cocquelon will be delighted to give you credit. I won’t hear of your missing the ball. Consider poor Judalon! After all, she invited you personally. And you must think of Audubon. Do you wish to destroy the auspicious beginning we’ve made—our conspiracy, remember?”
Narcisse took everything for granted in his elegant manner. And Bowie, thinking of the ominous remark about the expensiveness of Cocquelon, and hoping it would not take too much of his small supply of cash, allowed himself to be guided into the tailor shop.
A little yellow man came forward, kneading his hands and bowing. A quadroon, obviously. Quadroon men monopolized most of the tailoring in New Orleans, as their sisters monopolized a certain other profession.
“Cocquelon,” said Narcisse, “my friend, Monsieur Bowie, has been—ahem—on a long journey in a remote part of the country. Through a misadventure, the nature of which it is unnecessary to discuss here, he lost his wardrobe. You are to remedy the condition.”
Cocquelon surveyed Bowie as if he could easily believe Narcisse’s story of misadventure, and gave a little sympathetic clucking sound.
“I suppose you’ve nothing in stock to fit him?” asked Narcisse.
Cocquelon considered the American’s shoulders and shook his head. He had some coats, he said in a high thin voice, but they were designed for the ordinary figure, nothing so magnificent as this.
“Then measure him at once.”
With a patter of French the little yellow man darted about, summoning his assistants. They swarmed around Bowie with tapelines, calling off measurements which the master tailor noted on paper.
“How many tail coats, monsieur?” he asked.
“Two at least,” said Narcisse.
“One of the new Empire capes?”
“But assuredly.”
“A spencer coat?”
“Without question.”
“And the long pantaloons?”
“Certainly.”
Cocquelon smiled at Bowie, who stood with mouth open, unable to intervene. “Monsieur de Bornay is a boon to us tailors. For you, monsieur, I shall provide the very latest—in cut, adornment, material. You will appear a different person——”
“How soon?” interrupted Narcisse.
“We are overwhelmed with work. A month at least behind orders. But for your friend, Monsieur de Bornay, I make special arrangements—though it will require explanations to my other customers, and sacrifices to myself. So—shall we say a fortnight?”
He smiled, but Narcisse looked as if he did not believe his ears. “Are you speaking seriously?”
Cocquelon recoiled, his smile fading. Monsieur de Bornay was a very important customer.
“By putting everything else aside—at the very earliest—a week, monsieur——”
“Day after tomorrow!” said Narcisse.
Cocquelon was aghast. “Impossible!”
“Day after tomorrow!”
“Mortal man could not accomplish it!”
“Day after tomorrow!”
“Customers all over New Orleans are clamoring for their clothes, abusing me——”
“Day after tomorrow!”
Cocquelon threw up his hands in despair. “Very well, day after tomorrow! I shall have to work my shop day and night—wear out my staff and myself—have fine gentlemen threatening me with personal injuries—but as you say, Monsieur de Bornay—the day after tomorrow!”
They left him pawing at his bolts of goods and whimpering to himself.
“Cocquelon seems eager to please you,” Bowie ventured.
Narcisse smiled. “He should. I owe him three thousand dollars.”
“Three thous——”
“Cocquelon has many customers who pay him on the nail. He can afford to offend them all—but not the one to whom he is creditor for three thousand dollars. That is well to think about, Jim.”
Narcisse laughed and twirled his cane and ogled a pretty girl who came down the street.
