Mignon (13 page)

Mignon flinched as though hit with a whip, and started to answer in French. Then she remembered and said: “I congratulate you, truly. I didn’t know you were engaged.”

“I didn’t either,” I said, sounding silly.

Now if, on that, Mignon had burst out laughing and said: “Willie, let’s be going,” my story would be over. And if Marie had slapped me and left me, it would be over, too. But neither of them did, the two of them standing there, Mignon as though turned to marble, Marie as though turned to flame. It was Marie who said: “
Alors?
I excuse me, then. One may be mistaken, it seems.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” I told her.

“What would you say?
Jouez
, if you please?”

“... Count me in. My chip’s on the table.”

“I congratulate me.”

There was quite a long pause, with nobody saying anything, especially Burke. Then Mignon said: “And now may I present
my
fiancé, Mr. Frank Burke.”

“
Enchantée
,” said Marie.

Burke bowed. I tried to say something and couldn’t. Mignon went on: “Marie, what business have you with me? What affair can we possibly have?”

“
Ah bon
, you shall see.”

She dug in the little gold purse and came up with pieces of paper that had been folded, then rolled. She stretched them like shavings off a board, held them up to Mignon, and said: “See! Here I have some
billets
, signed by Raoul Fournet!”

“Signed by—
whom?
” whispered Mignon.

“Raoul, your husband, who died.”

“Let me see those notes!”

“Certainly—I have returned the money Raoul lost to me, but these
billets
I forgot. Here are two for four hundred, one for two hundred, one for six hundred—four in all, for total of sixteen hundred dollars. But, did you not know about them?”

“No, I knew nothing at all.”

“I am distressed if you are upset.”

“... File your claim is all I can tell you, Marie. The estate’s not settled yet—there’s quite a lot owing, beside this.”

“But a gambling debt claims not.”

“Then what do you want of me?”

“Nothing. I thought you might like to have.”

“In return for what, Marie?”

“
Alors
—you dance in my lancers, perhaps?”

“What lancers?”

“Here. Now. Tonight.”

“Takes more than two for a lancers.”

“
Oui
—you, I, your fiancé, my fiancé, friends.”

After a long time Mignon said: “I accept.”

Marie tore the notes in half and handed them over, and five minutes later we were all marching the lancers, Mignon like a ghost in the graceful way she moved, Marie more like a doll in that comic way
she
moved, as though spinning around on a music box. But there was no doubt in anyone’s mind as to who had bowed the head to whom.

At supper, Mr. Dumont joined us, a mousy little man with gray hair—the first time I’d actually seen him, though we had talked through my door. He gave a report on the
hypothèques
, which I took to mean mortgages, that Marie was going to assume to raise my twenty-five thousand dollars. They involved considerable talk, not only with him but also with other men who dropped by, most of it in French, with Marie jabbering it pretty coldly. But in the middle of it, Mr. Dumont whispered to me: “You’re getting a wonderful partner, Mr. Cresap. This woman can see a dollar farther and grab it quicker than anyone I know. Count yourself lucky, sir.” When the music started again she decided she wanted to leave; going home in the cab she told me: “M’sieu Dumont accepts you, Guillaume. He thinks you
homme de bien
, and
ingénieur versé
.”

“He said nice things about you.”

“Were you pleased with our evening,
petit?
”

“I was. Are you asking me in?”

“...
Are
we
fiancé?
”

“Of course! What makes you think we’re not?”

“The
mot
you said, to her.”

“That was a joke! You caught me by surprise!”

“On this subject one makes no joke.”

“Then—I take it back.
Are you asking me in?
”

She hesitated, snuggled close, and kissed me once or twice. Then: “I am tempted, this I confess,
ah oui
, so much. And yet—I trust you not,
petit
. Perhaps you still love her.” And then, as I protested that this was ridiculous, that all that was finished, over, and done with, she kissed me again and thought it over again. But once more she said: “
Non!
Guillaume, we are partners in business—this I promise, the money shall be advanced. We shall also be married, I hope, and at last you can make a
grande dame
of me. If
then
there shall be more—
bon!
I shall give you children of me,
jolis
babies with hair of gold, as ours. But this must wait—until of you I am sure.”

“I could make you sure tonight.”

“Later, later,
petit
.”

S
O I HAD EVERYTHING IN MY
grasp, the capital I needed, the construction firm I wanted, a woman I thought the world of, and the days began sliding by. Dumont forged ahead, though the
hypothèques
took time: appraisals had to be made, titles searched, and easements squared of the properties she was plastering. They were five houses on Rampart Street that she didn’t want to sell but was willing to borrow on. And what hung things up worst was the easements—old grants, to places up the street, of carriage-entrance rights, something the bank didn’t like. It was just a question of buying them up, but people are pretty grasping, and the haggle went on for some time. In between, she and I went around—to restaurants, to church, to the theater, and I met quite a few of her friends. What pleased her most, I think, was the way they treated her at Mrs. Beauregard’s funeral, which was held one day in the rain. It was a damned impressive thing, and pathetic too because Beauregard wasn’t there—hadn’t even heard of the death, being off in the field commanding Reb armies in Virginia. We rode in a cab, but most of the people marched, a slow, sad procession of thousands trudging along, their heads bowed in the downpour. But at the foot of Canal Street, we stood around with the rest, while the body was carried on board the steamer to be taken upriver for burial. Many people spoke, and she whispered to me: “So you see? Perhaps I have friends.”

“Who ever thought you didn’t?”

“
Alors
,
SHE
was
grande dame
.”

Later the same day, we went to the inauguration of a man named Hahn as governor, the one elected on Washington’s Birthday. It was indeed quite a thing, with six thousand children singing the “Anvil Chorus” from
Il Trovatore
, one hundred anvils banging, and fifty cannon shooting, all in time to the music. But in the middle of it she said: “Shall we go,
petit?
I find it
sottise
,
non?
” So we drove to Christ Church to set the date of our wedding and make the various arrangements. She insisted on Dr. Bacon, the church’s regular rector, and would have none of the other one—the one the Union had named, nobody knew why. We discussed several dates, and decided on March 29, the Tuesday after Easter. She seemed pleased, and I took her home. By that time, though I wasn’t asked upstairs, she would bring me into the parlor, close the door, and forget herself a little. She brought me in there this day, but waiting for her was a man, an article named Murdock, with a blue chin, fat stomach, and New England way of talking. I was startled to learn he was bidding on the establishment, getting ready to buy her out. She quoted a hundred thousand dollars without batting an eye; he said seventy-five thousand with kind of a rasp on his voice. She said, very ugly: “
Allez
,
allez
,
OUT
—please do not waste of my time!”

“All right,” he said, “eighty.”

“Will you please go—
now!
”

He went, growling, and she said, very sweetly: “He will be back, I think.” And then: “Does it please you,
petit
, that I shall be
joueuse
no more?”

“I like you the way you are.”

“
Merci
, but—you would prefer
femme sérieuse?
”

“If you insist on asking, I would.”

“
Alors
, you shall have.”

So it all got better and better, the only trouble being I spent hours in cabs watching Lavadeau’s, and at night, going back to the hotel, always went by way of Royal so I could see Mignon’s windows. I saw her a number of times—occasionally by night coming home with Burke, more often by day going to work. Each time my heart would strangle me, the worst being when she’d have on that dress, the little black one I loved, which was getting so bedraggled now it made me want to cry. I would go back to the hotel then, walk around, beat on the wall with my fists, and curse. I’d tell myself cut it off, stop an insane game of self-torture, act as though I were bright. It would seem as though I would, that after a session like that I could return to my senses. And then the same night I’d be there, out in the dark again, staring as though demented, seeing what I could see.

And then one night I saw nothing: her windows were dark. The next night and the night after it was the same, and by day I didn’t see her go to Lavadeau’s. By then, it was coming on for the middle of March and all traffic had disappeared from the river, the boats having been commandeered to haul the invasion. It was the main topic of talk in the bars all over town, and in fact had already started, rumor had it, the Teche units having moved. If the dark windows meant she had moved too with her father and Burke for Alexandria, to be there for the cotton seizure, it was a blow, of course, but a kind of relief too, because it brought things to a head, affording the break I needed to put her out of my mind and get on with my life. And that, I think, is how it might have turned out if I hadn’t run into Lavadeau. Until then, though we’d nodded a few times, he’d paid no attention to me, and I had no reason to think he concerned himself about me. But one day on Gravier Street, as I was taking a walk, here he came carrying a box, and stopped as soon as he saw me. “Mr. Cresap,” he said, not even bothering to say hello, “I don’t know if I’m speaking to you or not. How could you let her do that?”

“Let who do what?” I asked him.

“Mignon—go to Alexandria with Burke?”

“... Then she went, with
him?
”

“Oh, Papa went too—and that ape Pierre. They all went, Thursday morning, by ferry to Algiers, with two wagons to load on the cars for Brashear, and then on the steamer for Franklin, and then to drive the rest of the way. But Burke’s head man, and she’s riding
his
wagon with
him
.
Mr
.
Cresap
,
why did you let her?
”

“Who says I could have stopped her?”

“I do! She told me so!”

He caught my lapels then, and began to pour it out—about how she had come into the shop last week, and wept and wailed and made a show of herself; about how she hated Burke and didn’t want to go. She was doing it for her father, the stake he has in cotton, but even for him wouldn’t have gone if I had told her not to.

“She said that? To you, Mr. Lavadeau?”

“I swear she did, Mr. Cresap!”

“Did she say how she spit on me?”

“Oh, that—she knows now she did wrong, knows everything about why you did what you did; she made a mistake, she sees, and would be willing to start over, if only you’d come in to say you’d be willing too. If only she could be sure this other woman doesn’t mean anything to you. If——”

“Why couldn’t she come to
me?
”

“Sir, she did.”

“I’m sorry. She didn’t.”

But he smiled, and told how he’d brought her to me that very same afternoon, upstairs to my St. Charles suite: “She had her hand raised to knock, and then wouldn’t.”

“Why not, for instance?”

“For fear of who might be there.”

Up until then he’d been bitter, but now, having blown off steam, calmed down and stood there mumbling in French to himself. Then, to me, very friendly: “Well, it’s too late now.”

He left me, and kept on down Gravier to St. Charles and the shop. I kept on up Gravier to Carondelet, but not to resume my walk. I turned the corner, and stumped along as fast as I could, to headquarters.

“Dan, can I come in?”

“All right, but don’t abuse my welcome.”

“What welcome?”

I stood in front of his table, took off my hat, held it in my hand, and tried to think how to begin. He burst out: “Goddam it, quit bowing and scraping.”

“Just trying to show my respect.”

“I hate cringing. Sit down!”

He jumped up and grabbed a chair, shoving me down into it as though I were the ram in a bilge pump. I thanked him, then asked: “Dan, how have you been?”

“Rotten.”

“Why don’t you ask me how
I
’
ve
been?”

“I know how you’ve been. You’ve been fine.”

“Well—that would seem to cover that.”

“What do you want, Bill?”

“... Dan, has your headquarters boat left?”

“Left? For where?”

“The invasion. You said there’d be one.”

“It’s not even chartered yet.”

“Oh. I heard the movement had started, and——”

“It
has
started—but
we
haven’t, not this headquarters,
yet
. We’ve been electing a governor. And holding an inauguration. And a ball. Couple of balls. All kinds of various things, more important than taking the field. Why?”

“I want to be taken on board.”

“In what capacity?”

“As—trader. In cotton.”

“
You?
Are going to buy cotton, Bill?”

“That’s the idea, Dan. I haven’t told you all about what brought me to town.” I then sketched it out quick, the plan I’d made with Sandy and my need for twenty-five thousand dollars. I went on: “From all that I hear around, the quickest way to get money is to join this Red River thing—seems to be like picking the stuff off trees.
If
you can get on this boat.”