Novel 1978 - The Proving Trail (v5.0) (16 page)

Yet she might have come simply from hearing of the place, for the Hotel de Paris was famous, already a legend, and our friend, whom the miners knew as French Louie, was one of the most renowned chefs of his time. Many noted travelers had gone far out of their way to reach this little mining town in the Rockies simply to enjoy one of his fantastic meals or the hospitality of his hotel.

Lighted with gaslights purchased from Tiffany’s, with black walnut woodwork, books bound in leather in a library of three thousand volumes, and marble sinks in each room, the Hotel de Paris had an elegance peculiar to itself.

The dining room had a yellow and white striped floor—alternating strips of maple and walnut—and the meals served had a Continental distinction. General Grenville Dodge, President Ulysses S. Grant, Jay Gould, Russell Sage, Baron Rothschild, the Prince de Joinville, and many another wealthy and famous man had dined at his table.

There were but ten rooms, each with private bath, a thing scarcely heard of in that time and place. Georgetown was a booming mining camp, but not even Denver had food to compare with that produced by Louis Dupuy, for he was his own chef, with reason to be proud of his skill.

“Louis, do you have a room for me?” I asked.

“For you? I would put somebody out! Yes, I have a room.” He led the way upstairs and showed me to a pleasant, sunlit room. “Rest,” he suggested, “and then we must talk, you and I.”

At the door he paused. “As you may know, I am a man of few friends. Your father was one, a man of true taste and of philosophical leanings. Did you know that he once taught philosophy? Not that that is any criterion. Many of the teachers know nothing. They are parrots of poorly comprehended ideas, but your father…he knew. Since leaving France I have met no one whose ideas were so challenging. We talked often…and he told me of his plans for you.”

“He never told me,” I said sadly.

“Ah, I know! You see, Kearney, he had nothing. Much was due him, but he dare not return to claim it. He was a man alone and only with such skills as lacked importance in the West. He was a thinker, and the West was a place where people must
do.
He did what he could with what he had.”

“He left me well off at the end,” I said.

“So? Then we must talk. You must hear his plans, even if he is gone and though you may not be interested. We will see. In the meantime, stay away from windows, rest, and I will come up later.”

He left, closing the door softly behind him. Pulling off my boots, I draped my coat over the back of a chair, and taking off my gun belt, placed it on a chair beside the bed with the gun butt close to my hand.

Occasionally a rig went by in the street, or a rider. Once I heard a subdued murmur of voices. Then I slept, and when I awakened it was night. A reflection of light from the outside kept the room dimly lighted. The walls were dark, but I could see the table and a chair in the corner.

The chair in the corner? I looked again. I stared. A woman sat there, rocking just a little.

For a moment I lay absolutely still, the hair lifting on the back of my neck. What I felt then may have been fear, it may have been sheer disbelief, I do not know.

“I see you are awake, Kearney.” The voice was low, a lady’s cultured voice, a kindly voice as well. “I hope my being here is not distasteful. I simply had to come. Oh, I know! You do not know me. Your father did, however. He knew me quite well. And you must come to know me, too. After all, we are cousins.”

“Are we?” Somehow in that moment when she was speaking, I had controlled my fear. My father had once said, “Fear is a weapon to be used by you if you control it, by your enemies if you do not.” I added, “I am afraid you have the advantage of me.”

“I am Delphine, Kearney. You have not heard of me?”

“I have not.”

“A pity. We could have been such good friends. You see, we heard you had died…we even thought your father had passed on…some years ago. We were sure…well, it was quite a surprise to us to learn that he still lived.”

“A shock, I imagine.” How had she gotten in here? I knew Louis would not have permitted it, and Sophie would do nothing of which Louis did not approve. Yet she was here, sitting in the corner of my room.

Old tales returned to mind, tales from the swamps and back country of the Deep South, tales of witches and witchcraft, of people who came and went mysteriously. I shook my head irritably to clear it of such nonsense, yet I wished I could make her out.

From below came the subdued mutter of voices, people at supper, no doubt.

“Yes,” she admitted, “quite a shock. But now that we have found you, we must become friends. We must see much of each other. We are cousins,” she added, “of a sort. Several times removed, that is.”

“Louis told me he refused you a room.”

“Oh? He spoke of that, did he? Yes, he was tiresome. Very tiresome. A most disagreeable man. The people about town say a girl refused him and he could not abide it, so now he hates all women. What a foolish man!”

“But a wise one,” I replied quietly, “a man learned in philosophy and history, a man worth talking to.”

“Oh, I suppose he could be interesting in a way, but I do not like him. He is cold and abrupt.”

“And suspicious?” I suggested.

“But of what? I am but a woman who has traveled far simply to meet her cousin!”

Fortunately, I had not undressed, planning to go down for supper later. My boots were beside the bed, and my gun. I glanced at the chair. It was there, half-covered by my hat. Had she seen it? I made a mental reservation not to try to use it until I had checked the loads.

“Felix will be so relieved, you know.” I could not see her smile but knew it was there. “Somehow he quite lost you. I must speak to him about that. It is not good to lose track of one’s relatives after having been separated so long.”

Slowly I sat up and swung my feet to the floor. Once when I was very small, this woman—I believed it was she—had visited us, and after that my father had been ill for months. Was there a connection? Or was that only my imagination?

Picking up a boot, I shook it out, a habit one acquires when sleeping out where there are snakes, tarantulas, and scorpions. I shook it, and something fell to the floor, something with a metallic sound. Ignoring it, I tugged on a boot, then felt for the other one. It had fallen out of reach, so I stood up and took a step. My foot came down on something on the floor. I gave a sharp outcry, as one will, and Delphine said quickly, “What is it, Kearney? Did you stub your toe?”

“Stepped on something,” I commented, tugging on the boot. “Nail or something.” I swung my gun belt around my waist and buckled the belt. “Come. We will have supper.”

We went down the steps together, and Sophie saw us first. Her lips tightened and her eyes flashed angrily, but she said nothing. “Supper, Sophie? Are we too late?”

“You are in good time, m’sieu. There is roast ptarmigan, hearts of artichokes, and for fish there is trout.” She bustled ahead of us, seating us at a table in the warmly lit, pleasant room. Several other tables were occupied. The men, I noticed, all looked at my companion, and so, for the first time, did I.

She was beautiful. As to her age, a factor my father always assured me I should never notice in women, she might have been nearly thirty. I was sure she was older, how much I did not know. She was beautifully gowned, her black hair done in the latest fashion, her black eyes very large and ringed with long lashes.

Beautiful, as I have said, but there was something about her mouth and eyes I did not like, a sense of cruelty and of something else…something grossly evil.

Or was it my imagination, coupled with some ancient memories of things heard or seen and long forgotten because I had been too young to give them significance?

“You are handsome, Kearney.” She looked at me critically. “And quite the young man. I wonder just how old you are?”

“Age is a relative thing,” I said. “It is character, as my father always said, that matters. In horses, dogs, men, and women.”

“He seems to have been a wise man, your father,” she said, a touch of irritation in her tone. “Why then did he not come home?”

“Perhaps because he was a wise man,” I said.

“You should come home, Kearney.” She leaned toward me. “You should know your own country, your own people. You must come back to Carolina with us. You would love it.” She put her hand over mine. “Please, Kearney? You will think of it? We need you there.”

She said “we” but she meant me to think “I.” The fashions of the time were suited to her, and she used them well. The gown she wore suggested what it concealed, and although all the men in the place were giving her their attention, she ignored them, devoting herself completely to me.

“We have been searching for you, you know,” she said.

“We traveled a lot,” I said, thinking of nothing better.

“This man, this Frenchman…he was a good friend of your father?”

She suspected, or perhaps from some means she knew, that whatever my father had might have been left here. I shrugged and waved a careless hand. “Father always liked good cooking, and Louis is the best, the very best. They talked of books, too, but friends? I think no more than acquaintances. If my father had a friend,” I said thoughtfully, “it was that man in Denver…the one on Larimer Street. I was too young,” I added, “when we were there, but the man was from somewhere in the South. New Orleans, I think. I know they had much in common.”

Whether she was believing me I had no idea, yet she listened attentively as she ate.

Why had she come west when Felix was already here? Did she not trust him? Or was there some deadline, some date that made speed imperative? Somehow I must be rid of her and talk to Louis again, and I must see those papers, whatever they were.

“This man in Denver,” she said, “you knew him?”

“I only saw him. I was a child. My father was back this way alone, later. I was working at the time and he traveled east by stage. I only know that he spent some time in Denver, doing what I am not sure.”

That was true, and remembering it, I wondered. What
had
my father been doing? He left me but rarely, as if knowing there was a danger that threatened us both, but on that occasion he had gone to Denver and had been gone more than two weeks. Had he come to Georgetown then? It would not have been out of his way…at least not much.

“The food
is
good!” Delphine was saying. She looked at me oddly as she spoke, almost as though she were examining me, expecting some effect or reaction from me. “You must talk to him. He will listen to you. I do want a room here, Kearney, a room just like yours.” She looked at me. “Close to yours.”

“He listens to no one,” I said. “Louis makes up his own mind, and if he dislikes someone, he tells them to leave. No matter who they are.”

“But surely—”

“I would not even try,” I said. “I know the man.”

“Not even for me?” She put her hand on mine again, her fingers caressing my wrist.

I was embarrassed, yet short of breath too. She was a beautiful woman, and I had been long in the mountains and never in all my life had met such a woman, so seductive, so beautifully gowned. “I…I’ll try,” I said. “I’ll see.”

And at the moment, I meant it. After all, what harm could it do? This was the most comfortable place to stay, and she was very much the lady…or appeared to be.

I started to rise and in my haste put my foot down wrong and fell back rather awkwardly into my chair. It was nothing but clumsiness, but as my hands dropped to the chair arms to push myself up again, my eyes met hers.

In them I surprised an expression such as I had never seen in the eyes of any human, and only once in the eyes of any living thing. Rising once from a stream where I had been drinking, I had looked right into the eyes of a mountain lion, all poised to leap.

Suddenly I knew I had to get away, to be alone, to recover what was left of my good sense. “I am afraid I…I think I had better go lie down,” I said. “I am feeling unwell.”

“Do that, Kearney. Go lie down. I will see you another time.”

Excusing myself, I got up hastily and went to my room.

Chapter 13

S
CARCELY WAS I back in my room with the gaslight lit than Louis appeared. I sat down on the bed.

“Are you all right?” he asked sharply. “How did she come to be with you?”

When I explained, he shook his head irritably. “She must have come in while I was in the garden. Damn the luck! Kearney, you must avoid her! She is the one, I am sure, whom your father warned me against.”

Moving my boot, something rattled on the floor and I looked down. A carpet tack. It must have been that which I shook from my boot…but how would such a thing get into my boot in the first place?

“What’s the matter?” Louis demanded.

Reaching down, I picked up the tack. It was an ordinary carpet tack except that the point was covered with a hard, shiny substance of a yellowish brown color. “This,” I said. “It fell out of my boot.”

He took it from me, very carefully, and studied the point under the light. Briefly, I explained how I shook out my boots as I always did and the tack fell to the floor, and that it must have been that I had stepped on when I stood up.