Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 35

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To Judalon de Bornay every man was worthy of appraisal. She was very young, but already she had a well-formed and hard little theory of life: a woman’s happiness rested on her power over others, and that meant her power over men, since it was through men that women accomplished all things.

She was quite vain, and only male flattery was worth anything to her. Coquetry was born in her, and she practiced continuously the art of making men do things, taking in it the same elemental joy that a bird might experience in brilliant evolutions of flight. Since first she put on long dresses, she had never been without suitors.

It was no secret to her that men lived in a strange world of their own when they were away from women, being given to dreadful dissipations and violences. Heavy drinking and heavy gambling were taken for granted, and even the keeping of saffron quadroon girls as placées in the little colony of establishments on the Rue des Palissades. A woman of good Creole blood ignored the matter. It was safer not to pry too much into the affairs of men even in one’s own family, and since the law forbade any thought of marriage with women of colored blood, the position of women with no racial cross was unassailably secure.

And there were the duels. Women usually did not know about them until they were over. Word came next day, usually by roundabout channels. So-and-so was wearing his arm in a sling, or was in bed under a doctor’s care. Or most terrible, was dead. One knew a face: perhaps had seen it imploring, or hurt, or happy. And then one did not see the face again, ever. One perhaps attended the Mass: and perhaps even wept a little.

Ladies’ names were not brought into these affairs. Nevertheless, Judalon secretly believed she had been the cause—innocent, of course—of at least two. In playing rivals against each other, she had not really dreamed of such eventualities. But six months before young Henri Leconte of Pontchartrain had called out Paul Tourzel, and been pinked on the arm by him with a rapier. Later Antoine Lombardi and Jules Corbaux exchanged shots. Without effect, as it happened, since both seemed to have shut their eyes when they pulled their triggers. Still, it stood as an affair of honor, and increased their good opinions of themselves.

Since they had been rivals for her favor, the result gave her a secret feeling of power. A girl must mean much to a man when he will face death because of her. And it followed that if men were willing to die because of her, they might be made to do other things also—things perhaps more important to her than merely dying.

So now she sat with Bowie and asked him playful little questions. It would have surprised him to know that the questions really were most shrewd and that she was studying him secretly and quite coolly.

He was, she decided, a savage undoubtedly. Very seldom had she encountered a man so unsophisticated. His simple wonder at her, an homage not to be restrained, was too easy, almost laughable. Still, he was different. He would provide amusement, perhaps.

Other couples began going back into the ballroom. They were alone. A new swirl of music came through the French doors.

“An écossaise,” she said.

“I must not keep you,” he replied humbly.

“I care nothing for the dance,” she said. “I’m tired—and old Monsieur Parisot will be in there, waiting to pounce on me. The man’s everywhere—at every levee, ball, and assembly. An old bachelor, you know. He prefers young girls. If he only could see how they laugh at him behind his back! I’m surprised at the way Monsieur, my father, has taken him up. You’d think they’d been intimates all their lives.”

“Mademoiselle——”

“Judalon,” she said. “You must call me Judalon. And I shall call you James—no, Jim—because you’re Narcisse’s friend and therefore mine!”

He was too overwhelmed by this beautiful feminine fiat to reply.

The music came softly, magically. A large brown moth fluttered about them and she clutched his arm, shrinking against him. His body quivered at the touch, and she smiled secretly.

She drew away from her innocent-seeming nearness: it gave him a pang of deprivation. He wanted her nearer, but instead she rose. He stood with her. Their shadows were very close.

“Mademoiselle—Judalon——” His voice shook.

Judalon knew this moment. It was coming now, some blurted avowal, perhaps worth repeating later amid gales of laughter to her friends.

When he spoke, she could hardly believe her ears, and asked him to repeat.

He complied: she had heard him rightly enough. He asked something of her but it had nothing to do with love. She was so kind and understanding ... wouldn’t she forgive Audubon, the painter? ... he was sure, if she understood the circumstances, she would not hold them against the artist ... might he not make bold to beg her to reconsider and permit the painting of her portrait after all ... ?

She was furious. She knew she could never forgive him, and was about to cut him to pieces with mockery and contempt. But another thought came. He deserved a revenge more condign.

She said, “Of course—have Monsieur Audubon come tomorrow. I am sure it can be arranged.”

Then she left him so quickly that he could not overtake her before she was indoors. He wondered if he had said something wrong, but in the ballroom she was all beautiful charm again, with a special smile for him, a special tone of voice. He was relieved and happy, and if young men scowled at him, he made nothing of it.

He was watching Judalon with Armand Lebain in the schottische. Beside him the cool voice of Narcisse said, “You’re doing well, my friend.”

“Am I?”

“Monopolizing Judalon throughout the intermission and keeping her in the patio so that she missed one whole dance.”

“You exaggerate.”

“I think not. And if I know my sister, she’s delighted. This sort of thing enchants her. All her admirers are fuming with rage. She’s using you to whip her hounds, and the hounds don’t enjoy the lash. Well, you’ve made enemies: or perhaps my sweet sister has made them for you. But this is without question the time to press your advantage.”

“I’ve done so.”

Narcisse was amazed. “How did you succeed?”

“She agreed without hesitation.”

Narcisse stared and whistled. “Well, to that extent, it’s good.”

He turned away.

It sounded like a riddle to Bowie. But when he said good night to Judalon he forgot about it. He hoped she did not give the hand of every young man a squeeze like the one she gave to him.