Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 44

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That evening Audubon accompanied Bowie and Narcisse to St. Sylvain’s. After entering the lobby where they were relieved of their hats and canes, they passed into the large dining hall, with wide portals opening to a lounge on either side and an entrance to the gambling casino in the rear. In spite of his unhappy mood, Bowie was impressed by the richness of the place. Paintings, chiefly nudes, decorated the walls, and the wood carver’s art was everywhere exemplified in tables, chairs, and sideboards which served the various purposes of the place.

Several gentlemen rather made a point of bowing to Bowie. It was an acknowledgment of a certain standing he had achieved, rather than any indication of friendship. He had been a guest at the de Bornay ball. His friendship with Narcisse was notorious. The qualities that induced one of the great families to accept this Américain were not perhaps readily discernible, but it was well to let matters unfold themselves. Meantime, since the de Bornays appeared to be sponsoring Monsieur Bowie—how strange that name!—a formal bow was policy. After all, a bow is noncommittal. One can bow, and still reserve his judgment.

Men were dining at the tables. Bowie saw a graceful figure rise, and acknowledge Narcisse and himself. Malot, the maître d’armes. A little beyond him, half a dozen men were seated, among them Cabanal and Lebain, and the duelist Contrecourt. Narcisse’s coterie. These did not rise or seem to see them.

“Let’s visit the sideboard,” Narcisse said. “Everything here is on the house—except the gambling tokens, for which you must pay hard cash. You’ll find supper excellent and the wines delightful.”

White-capped carvers heaped their plates from a bewildering array: roast turkey, venison, mutton, beef, partridge, quail, fish of every kind, salads, and desserts, all most savory.

The manner in which the coterie had ignored them created a reckless feeling in Bowie. It was he, of course, they had cut. He began almost to hope that somebody—Cabanal especially—would try to make trouble before this evening was over. But all was propriety. Gentlemen about them drank, smoked, and gossiped. Black servants glided about with little silver trays, bearing cigars, liquors and wines, very obliging and deferential.

Audubon said, “There’s your friend, Parisot.”

The merchant sat alone at a table, gnawing a turkey leg.

“He never gambles,” Narcisse said. “Janos Parisot believes only in the sure thing.”

“Why is he here, then?” asked Bowie.

“To be seen,” Narcisse said. “Observe the burgundy coat at the table beyond? That’s Colonel Grymes. The fox-haired fellow with him is Sallou, the moneylender. He’s in the same business as Parisot—but without Parisot’s tinge of respectability. Parisot lends at usury on commercial enterprises, while Sallou merely lends at usury to those who lose heavily at the gaming table. I see little difference in them—in which I differ from Monsieur, my father, who honors Parisot’s card at our house, where Sallou would never dare present himself.”

“Who is Colonel Grymes?”

“A gentleman who got his fame defending in court the pirates, Jean and Pierre Lafitte.”

That name Lafitte again. Bowie glanced over. The man in the burgundy coat was robust and droll, with a high white forehead and deep lines about his mouth.

“Grymes was public prosecutor,” said Narcisse. “Through his undeniably able efforts, Pierre Lafitte, the older brother, was put in the Cabildo, and was on a good way toward the gibbet. But one day Grymes resigned his high office and announced he would defend the freebooter he had previously indicted. Interestingly, Grymes, as public prosecutor, had prepared against Lafitte a case so airtight that Grymes, as defendant’s counsel, couldn’t free him. So Grymes, as tamperer, took over. One night Pierre disappeared from prison—his jailer had been bribed.”

“A jack of many trades, Colonel Grymes,” Bowie said.

Narcisse nodded. “He got rich out of the Lafittes, and he’s been more or less associated with them or their friends ever since. Usually he’s with Dominique You. Wonder where that old buccaneer is tonight?”

As if he divined their discussion, Grymes rose and came in a leisurely, roundabout way, until he stopped at their table. Narcisse and Audubon he greeted. When he was introduced to Bowie, he said, “A buckskin, I’ll take oath. Men like you don’t grow, sir, on the city streets.”

“I’ve worn more buckskin than broadcloth,” Bowie said shortly.

Grymes chuckled and took a chair.

“More buckskin than broadcloth,” he repeated. “Begad, sir, the phrase is worthy of the ancients, though nothing ever equaled the Romans for the laconic. Think of Caesar’s ‘Veni, vidi, vici,’ and Pilate’s ‘Ecce homo.’ Where will you find utterances like that in this raw country?”

That smooth assumption of superiority again. Bowie was becoming well weary of New Orleans superiority. He said, “I don’t know about your Romans, but you can hear sayings as neat as any right in this ‘raw country.’ I mind last fall, when I saw a country girl fording a creek, carrying a piggin of butter on her head. As she came out of the water, I said, ‘Little lady, how deep’s the water, and what’s the price of butter?’ She gave me a merry look, and said, ‘To your navel, and ninepence.’ Can your Romans beat that, sir?”

It was prompted by resentment, but Grymes gave a great guffaw. “Capital!” he said. “A toast to James Bowie, whose tongue is as agile as his shoulders are broad!”