They were, as he’d guessed, just as carefully chosen to be suitable for a girl of nine: a single pearl on a fine gold chain, coral beads, a gold cross to wear on Sundays... “And what’s this?” With great care he lifted the tiny, brittle bundle no bigger than the joint of his little finger, wrapped in pink paper, though quite properly he didn’t open it.
One didn’t, with such things. Not without permission.
“That’s my gris-gris.” Lucie took the bundle, unwrapped it to show the tiny dried foot of a bird, a sparrow or a wren by its size. “It brings me good luck. Zozo has one, too.”
“And does Zozo keep hers in her jewel box?”
Lucie nodded.
He refilled and closed the box, and replaced on the corner of the bureau the books Casmalia had tossed aside: Böckh on ancient Greece and Lamarck on animals, a Spanish edition of Don Quixote, and a text on the stars that had been much talked of in Paris when he was there a few years ago. Inside the cover of each was marked A. Vouziers, 12 Rue de la Petit Monaie — that address was crossed out, along with two others he recognized as being in the same maze of ancient streets behind the Louvre in Paris, and then — 53 Rue Marigny.
He said, “Then we can be sure it will bring Zozo good luck as well.”
“I consulted with my sister,” said January that evening to Hannibal Sefton, at a break during the dancing in the Théâtre d’Orleans while the guests made serious inroads on the buffet and the musicians sorted through their music and flexed the cramp from their hands. Needless to say, the sister January referred to was not the lovely Dominique but Olympe, his full-blood sister who’d run off with the voodoos at the age of sixteen. “She says she didn’t sell Zozo Rochier anything to make Marie-Therese Pellicot sick, but the symptoms sound like hellebore of some kind. My aunties back on the plantation would give the children something of the kind when we got worms. I hope Agnes didn’t force Marie-Therese out of bed to come to the ball.”
His eyes strayed across the dance floor that had been raised over the backs of the seats in the pit to the wide double doors that led through to the lobby. From the lobby a discreet passageway connected to the building next-door — the Salle d’Orleans — where a ball was going on for the ladies of the free colored demimonde, the plaçees and their daughters.
m’sieu Davis, who owned both buildings, was careful to stagger the intermissions so that the husbands and brothers of the respectable ladies attending the ball at the Théâtre could sneak back in good time to have a cup of punch with their wives, after dancing with their mistresses next-door.
“Surely she wouldn’t.” Hannibal set his violin on top of January’s piano, unobtrusively collected two champagne glasses from the tray of a passing waiter, and led the way to the lobby. It wouldn’t do for the musicians to be seen drinking the same champagne as the guests. “Even Agnes...”
“Agnes Pellicot is living on investments that have gone down in value and has three daughters besides Marie-Therese to bring out.”
They traversed the passageway to the upstairs lobby of the Salle, and emerging, January scanned the room for Dominique: cautiously, because a black musician who was perceived as “uppity” — that is, attending a ball designed for white men in some capacity other than that of a servant — was just as liable to be thrashed on this side of the passageway as on the other. Music still flowed like a sparkling river through the archways that led from the ballroom, and with it the swish of skirts, the brisk pat of slippers on the waxed floor, the laughter of the ladies, and the rumble of men’s talk. Impossible to tell whether his sister would be able to gracefully slip from her protector — or whether she’d remember to do so. In ten minutes he’d have to be back...
A moment later, however, Dominique appeared in the archway, a fantasia of green and bronze, calling back over her shoulder, “Darling, if I don’t get some air I’ll be obliged to faint in your arms and that would simply destroy the flowers you gave me—”
January took his untouched champagne glass, picked a waiter’s silver tray from a corner of the buffet in the lobby, and carried the glass to her with the respectful air of one who knows his place. “Would madame care for champagne?”
“How precious of you, p’tit! What I’d really like is about a quart of arsenic to give to Eulalia Figes — such a witch! She said my dress—”
“Were you able to find out about Nicholas Saverne?” January had learned years ago that if one truly needed specific information, ruthlessly interrupting Dominique’s digressions upon her friends and acquaintances was the only way to get it.
“Oh, a perfect chevalier, dearest. He speaks French like a Parisian, he sends to Paris for his boots — he really does, p’tit, Nathalie Grillot’s mother checked — Bourdet makes his coats, the best in town, but it’s all show. Maman Grillot and Agnes Pellicot both looked into his finances when he seemed to be showing an interest in Nathalie and in Marie-Therese, and learned that he’s always borrowing from somewhere or other to invest in lands that he turns around and mortgages to invest in steamboat shares, but at the bottom he’s not worth the horseshoes on a dead horse. And he owes money to God and all His saints — to every shirtmaker and tobacconist and hat maker in town. But men are impressed — bankers and investors, I mean, and tavern keepers, who’re the ones who control votes. Henri’s mama” — Henri was Dominique’s protector, son of the truly formidable Widow Viellard — “says Nicholas Saverne tries even harder to impress the Americans, and that he’s spoken of running for Congress.”
“He may well succeed,” remarked Hannibal, returning from a trip to the unguarded buffet, a bottle of champagne in hand. As a white man — albeit an outcast — he ran less of a risk for helping himself. “Americans seem to be impressed by the show of wealth and aren’t as careful about checking on a man as Mama Grillot and Agnes Pellicot.”
“Handsome?” January asked.
Dominique shrugged coquettishly. “If you like all your goods in the shop window.”
“Does Marie-Zulieka love him?”
The young woman’s eyes lost their surface brightness as her delicate brows tugged together; from playful bubbliness, her expression shifted, thoughtful and a little sad. “I don’t think Zozo really loves anyone... except Lucie, of course, and that frightful old tutor of hers, m’sieu Vouziers. One would think when a girl’s finished with her governess’s lessons she’d be glad to toss her books into the river — heaven knows I was. But when has any man stopped courting a pretty girl just because she tells him she isn’t interested? He always thinks he can make her interested. And if that girl’s about to be pushed into an arrangement with the likes of Jules Dutuille—”
“What’s wrong with Jules Dutuille?”
“He drinks,” responded Dominique promptly. “Oh, all men drink, of course — I think they’d go insane if they couldn’t...”
“I certainly would,” put in Hannibal.
“Well, all you do when you drink is recite poetry nobody understands, and then fall asleep, cher.” Dominique reached over to pat Hannibal’s thin cheek. “You’re very sweet about it. You don’t say cruel things, or destroy one’s letters from one’s family, or kill one’s pets... My maid’s sweetheart’s cousin is a maid in Dutuille’s household, you see, and anyway everyone knows about Dutuille.”
“I don’t.”
“That’s because you’re serious and hardworking and have no time for idle chatter in the cafés.” She flashed him a dazzling smile, which sobered again at the recollection of things she had heard. “He never lets his wife see her family — they live up in St. Francisville — nor his son’s wife; they go in terror of his rages. He’s tried three or four times to come to an arrangement with a mistress, but Babette Figes begged her mother not to conclude the contract with him, and so did Cresside Morisset. Only Zozo couldn’t refuse him, you see, because her father was in business with him. So yes, she could have run off with Nicholas, only I don’t think she did.”