“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.”
Chapter 14
So 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.