Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 33

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Cocquelon’s pantaloons had been difficult to get on because of their tightness, and now they seemed to constrict Bowie’s legs. He supposed he would grow used to them. The tall beaver hat also felt top-heavy, and he had not quite mastered the combination of dignity and grace with which a silver-knobbed walking stick should be carried. All in all, however, he was not dissatisfied with himself.

Cocquelon, indeed, had given him a good deal of confidence. The little quadroon wailed over the unreasonable demands of gentlemen, and how they expected the utterly impossible from a poor devil of a tailor, but when he saw his creations so well set off by the American’s tall figure, he spread his yellow hands with an artist’s joy that was hardly dimmed by his knowledge that he must wait for his money.

So on Thursday evening Bowie walked through the darkness to the Maison de Bornay, half eager to arrive, and at the same time half a mind to turn around and flee back to his tavern. An equipage discharged guests before the house as he approached it, and light streamed out upon them from the open door. He heard French greetings and some laughter. Then he himself was at the entrance.

A black servant in livery took his card of invitation. Another received his hat and cane. A third announced his name. He bowed before Monsieur and Madame de Bornay, receiving from her a formal smile.

“Armand,” she said in French, “this is the gentleman who is the friend of Narcisse.”

Monsieur, who like many of the older Creoles clung to the old-fashioned formal garb, consisting of pumps with gold buckles, silk stockings, velvet coat and knee breeches, mumbled something vague. Then his narrow, spike-bearded face glanced keenly beyond.

“Ah, Janos, mon ami!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been looking for you!”

Bowie stepped aside. It was his acquaintance, Monsieur Parisot, in a most expensive surtout with a high rolling collar which almost concealed his head. He made quite a parade of saluting Madame de Bornay’s hand.

With a degree of confusion, Bowie turned toward the ballroom, and blinked. It was quite dazzling. He had never imagined anything like it. Under the blazing crystal chandeliers the guests laughed and conversed, awaiting the opening of the dance. The women filled the eye to the exclusion of the men. Bare arms, shoulders, and white bosoms gleamed. Eyes and lips were very bright. Light gowns of countless delicate shades made an ever-changing pattern. For these the soberer costumes of the men were only a background.

Narcisse came to him across the polished floor. “I’d almost given you up! I’m maître de cérémonie tonight and wanted to see you properly introduced before I began my duties.” He looked Bowie up and down. “Cocquelon did well by you, my friend.”

“Thanks.”

“You dance, of course?”

“Well—country dances.”

“Excellent. The opening number is a Sir Roger de Coverley.”

“I’m too late to get a partner.”

“I think not. I’ll arrange——”

“I’d rather watch, for the present.”

“Very well. But you’re to participate in at least one dance, do you understand? The Virginia reel comes just before intermission. I obtained Judalon’s promise to let you take her out.”

“Mademoiselle Judalon—I’d be scared——”

“You needn’t be. The reel is easy, and she’s a very good partner. Furthermore, she’s looking forward to it.”

“Are you serious?”

Narcisse smiled airily. “Judalon loves novelty. Moreover, she adores drawing attention to herself. I’ve convinced her that with you she’ll be the center of every eye, the subject of every tongue. Very clever of me, I thought.”

To Bowie, who saw himself in the light of a sort of public exhibit to provide amusement, the thought was less pleasant.

“Do you see what an opportunity this affords us?” Narcisse said.

“No.”

“If only out of perversity, my charming sister is going to be quite kind to you. When the opportunity arises, bring up the subject of Audubon, tactfully. I’m almost sure she will agree to forgive him—if only as a gesture to you.”

“Why should she make a gesture to me?”

“My sister is often unpredictable, but she loves to play a game of her own. Perhaps I ought to warn you to be on your guard against her—she has wiles, quite heartless, I fear, and sometimes can make herself a perilous creature for a susceptible man to be around. Are you especially susceptible to female charms, Jim?”

“Why—I—not unusually so, I don’t reckon——”

“Well—in this case, you’re forewarned. Let her smile at you, and flirt with you, and be very charming to you. Your chance will come——” Narcisse broke off. “I must begin my work.”

In one corner of the ballroom a blue-uniformed Negro orchestra was tightening strings on violins and guitars, or running little scales on flutes and clarinets.

“Remember—the reel.” Narcisse departed, leaving Bowie by the wall, wondering over the cynicism of a brother concerning his sister.

Gentlemen very high as to coat collar and tight as to breeches conducted ladies who seemed garbed almost in nothing. Sophisticated ballroom dresses were something new to Bowie. He had never seen so much bare female flesh in his life. The gowns were abbreviated both above and below in the French fashion, and clung to supple bodies in a way to make a man look, and swallow, and look again.

On the mantel, the French clock under its bell glass chimed eight silvery strokes, Narcisse lifted his voice to ask couples to take their places, the music struck up, and the rollicking dance began.

Bowie watched only Judalon de Bornay. To his mind nobody compared with her. She came laughing down the middle, and her grace and beauty enchanted him. The top of her head, even with its gleaming dark curls piled high, came hardly to the shoulder of her partner, Philippe Cabanal. Both round captivating shoulders were exposed, and her gown of sheer white crepe was cut audaciously low in front. Her full flounced skirt, fringed at the bottom with little artificial rosebuds, reached hardly lower than midway between her knee and ankle, revealing her childlike feet in high French heels, which made her appear tiptoe, as if she might at any moment spread iridescent wings and float away. To the young man watching from the wall, she seemed at once innocent and daring, an intoxicating combination of opposites.

A quadrille followed and was succeeded by a stately menuet de la coeur. Still Bowie remained rooted, missing not one movement of the girl, one single expression, as she turned and curtsied and coquetted with her partners, using every pretty trick of eyes and smiles and fan. A deadly little display to watch, even for a young man forewarned and not supposed to be susceptible ...