The Exiles (24 page)
“But if he has talent—”
“Ah, my dear Miss Fontaine, talent is very common. It is determination and tenacity that matter.”
Chantel suddenly remembered that Yves himself had said something like this to her. But now she was on the defensive. “But if he had a chance, don’t you think he could succeed?”
“Perhaps with enough hard work he could, but who is to support him while he’s learning to apply himself?”
Chantel did not answer, and suddenly the woman smiled and said almost gently, “You don’t know about us? About Yves and me.”
Chantel did not want to hear what Dominique Sagan was about to say.
“We were very much in love once. He was younger, and I helped him. I had very little money, but I worked so that he could paint.” Dominique saw the question that formed itself on Chantel’s lips but refused to be spoken. She answered it almost off-handedly. “Yes, we were lovers.”
Chantel had never met a woman who would confess such a thing so lightly. She tried to think of some response but nothing would come.
“Why didn’t you marry?” she finally asked.
“Because we had nothing. And besides that, his family didn’t approve. They wanted him to marry a woman from a wealthy family.”
Chantel could not think clearly. She looked across the room to where Yves was talking to his prospective buyer and thought how happy she had been in his presence. She had suspected he had known other women, but now the proof of it was right before her.
“Why are you telling me this?” she said, giving Dominique a direct look.
“Because I think it is always best to know the truth. I knew the truth about Yves. I know it now, but I think you do not.”
“I don’t want to hear any more of this!”
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. I meant well.”
“Do you want to marry him now? You’re obviously very prosperous.”
“After we separated,” Dominique said, “I married a much older man. For his money, of course.”
Once again Chantel was shocked. She knew that such matches were made, but she had never heard anyone confess to it.
“My dear, you’re young and very romantic. Be careful.”
Dominique turned and left, leaving Chantel in shock and dismay. She stood there, wondering if she should leave, but as she struggled, Yves suddenly returned.
“Well, he bought the painting. We’ll have to go out and celebrate.” He broke off suddenly, saying, “What’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing.”
But Yves knew at once what had happened. “I suppose Dominique told you about us.”
“Yes, she did.”
“I wanted to marry her, but I had no money.”
“Was it you who broke off the affair?”
“I think both of us knew that we could never marry.” He hesitated, then shook his head. “I cared very much for her once, but, as I say, it was a long time ago.”
For Chantel the charm of the day was gone. “I must go home now,” she said.
“What about our celebration?”
“I’m not feeling much like celebrating, Yves.”
He reached out and took her hands and held them for a moment. “I know this is hard for you, Chantel,” he said gently. “You’ve led a sheltered life, and I’ve had a hard one. Part of it I could not help. A man cannot help being born poor. Some of it I’m not proud of, but men can change. And you have become very precious to me.”
Chantel would have welcomed those words an hour earlier, but now she could not help but think of Dominique Sagan. A jealousy that she had not known before lay in her, and now it began to manifest itself. “Do you still love her, Yves?”
“When two people really love each other, I don’t think you ever lose all of it,” he said carefully. “But she is married now, and that’s the end of it.” He watched her face and saw that the light had gone out of it. “I’m sorry that you’re hurt.”
Chantel met his eyes. “I would rather not go out tonight. Some other time.”
Yves had been losing steadily for the past hour. He had lost all the money he had gained from the sale of his painting and had signed a note for two hundred dollars.
A voice said, “Could I speak to you privately, Monsieur Gaspard?”
He looked up and found Neville Harcourt standing beside the card table. Ordinarily Yves would have complied with Harcourt’s request, but now he had a good hand and was anxious to try to recoup his losses. He knew Neville did not like him, and he felt little affection for the lawyer.
“This is good enough. Say what you have to say.”
“It’s a private matter.”
Yves studied his hand and tried to concentrate, but Neville pressed him. “It’s rather important.”
“I know what it is. You’re jealous of Chantel.”
Neville suddenly straightened up. “If you were a gentleman, you wouldn’t mention her name in a place like this.”
“Go away, little man! You have lost. Chantel cares for me, not you.”
“You’re a scoundrel, Gaspard, and a liar!”
Yves Gaspard had a temper that was a fiery, deadly thing—though he had been careful to keep it hidden from Chantel. He threw the cards down and turned with his face flaming. “No man calls me a liar!” He suddenly reached out and slapped Neville’s face. It was not a hard slap, but it left the print of his fingers there. “There. That gives you the right to choose the weapons for our meeting.”
The room had grown quiet, every man at the table staring at Neville, awaiting his reply. No self-respecting man would take a slap from another man, not in Creole society. The dueling code was strict, and according to every man’s thinking Neville had but one choice.
Neville shook his head. “I don’t believe in this stupid dueling business. I’ve delegated all fighting to my dogs. Stay away from the lady! You hear me?”
He turned and walked out, and Yves suddenly laughed. “He’s a coward. I wouldn’t dirty my hands on him.” He sat down at the cards and won the hand, and within an hour had gained back his losses and won some extra besides. He thought,
When Chantel hears of this, she won’t think so much of him.
The next day Yves found out exactly how tough Chantel could be. He went to her and told her of his encounter with Neville, embellishing the affair and ridiculing Neville for being a coward.
Chantel listened without saying a word. Her first feeling was that she was embarrassed for Neville, for she was well aware that among men duels were the common way of settling matters, but she said nothing of that. Instead she looked at Yves and asked quietly, “Did you use my name in that place?”
“Why—only after he gave me provocation.”
“What provocation could cause you to bring up my name among men like that?”
Yves saw that he had made a tactical error and at once came to take her hand. “You are right. I should not have done that. I am very sorry, Chantel.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Yves. I thought better of you.”
Yves began to elaborate on his apology, but she said firmly, “I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
Yves wanted to press his case, but he suddenly found that this soft, gentle woman had some steel in her. He saw in her eyes that further apologies were useless, and he bowed slightly. “I’ll come back. You will forgive me. You’re too generous to do otherwise.”
Chantel said, “Good day, Yves.“ She waited until he was gone, and then the shock of it hit her. She was disappointed in Neville but more so in Yves. She had no desire to see either of them, yet staying at home seemed intolerable. She needed to get out where she could think.
She put on her cloak and hat and walked toward the plaza. As usual it was filled with merrymakers and visitors from outside the city. She stopped and watched a juggler and put a coin in his hat. Another man had a trained dog that could do marvelous things. It took her mind off of Yves and Neville’s encounter for a moment, and she gave another coin and patted the dog, which licked her hand gratefully.
For over an hour she wandered, occupying herself with watching those who strolled by. New Orleans was the most cosmopolitan city in the United States. One could see almost any nationality if he sat long enough, and she forced herself to take note.
She turned to go home when suddenly a huge crowd seemed to appear out of nowhere. It was a wedding party, and the parade gave evidence of a wealthy family. Chantel stood well back from the curb, peering around people who lined the street. As the procession passed, the crowd of onlookers shifted, and through an opening in the crowd she saw something that caused her to freeze. Across the way stood a Cajun family, obviously from the country, judging by their rough dress. Although the father and mother were dark and stocky, the girl with them had strawberry blonde hair and violet eyes!
She appeared to be no more than nine or ten. She wore no hat and just a simple dress, but when she turned to face the street, Chantel had a clear look at her. And the sight ran through her like a jolt of electricity. The girl was the image of her dead mother.
Chantel had imagined her sister as a growing child thousands of times, refusing deep in her heart to believe that Veronique was dead. Now here was a child with the impossible violet eyes and the exact strawberry blonde hair and the same bone structure as her own mother!
It must be Veronique, by some miracle of God!
At once Chantel tried to cross the street, but at that moment the crowd surged to make way for another parade. The people cheered as the street filled with a marching band.
Chantel struggled, saying, “Please let me through!” A woman pushed her back, saying, “You can’t have my place. Stay where you are.”
Chantel moved to her right, but the crowd was dense, and she could not make her way through. Finally she reached the street and tried to get through the parade, but she was nearly run down by a horse. A tall man grasped her and yanked her out of the way. “Are you crazy, woman?” he demanded. “You’re going to get killed!”
“Let me go!”
“You’ll have to wait until the parade’s over.”
“Let go of my arm!” Chantel cried. When he released her with a look of disgust, she ran back down the street until she found a gap. She walked rapidly in front of the crowd, searching for the trio.
But there was no sight of them. In desperation she walked back and forth, pushing her way, but it was hopeless.
The parade passed and the crowd dissolved, more or less. Chantel continued to search for the small figure that had imprinted itself upon her mind.
Veronique. It has to be you! It has to be!
Finally, however, she saw that it was hopeless. She turned slowly homeward, but a new resolve had birthed itself in her.
I know that was Veronique. She didn’t die in the flood. She was found by these people, and now I must find her.
She was filled with hope and at the same time despair, for she had no idea where to look. She uttered a prayer, without realizing she was speaking aloud, and people turned to stare at her.
“Oh, God,” she cried, “let me find my sister!”
Chantel slept very little the night after she saw the young girl on the streets of New Orleans. She tossed and turned and finally got up. She put on her robe and went to the balcony, where she stood looking out over the now-empty streets. The sounds of the city were still there, but she could only think of the child with the violet eyes.
It has to be Veronique! No one else could have violet eyes and hair like that and look so much like Mama!
For a long time she stood on the balcony, and finally she knew that, whatever else she did with her life, she would have to find her sister. For many years she had felt a sense of loneliness, and since her father had died this had grown even worse. Her heart cried out for a family, and there was none but Perrin, whom she felt quite sure would never be close. But now there was hope.
From somewhere far away came the sound of music—the faint, thin, reedy sound of a piano. She did not know the tune, but it was a haunting melody that she could barely hear. Finally it faded away, and still Chantel stood there. She found herself tensing her muscles, yearning to do something. What she wanted was action, but what action could she take?
In the silence Chantel bowed her head and began to pray. “Oh, God, I can’t pray as I should. I don’t know You as I want to, but I ask You to help me find this girl. If it is my sister, we need each other. Help me, for I am desperate, O God!”
The Mass brought Chantel little sense of peace. She had been praying with all of her heart, but it seemed that the heavens were made of steel and that her prayers could not go through.
Now as the Mass droned on, Chantel was aware of it in a very mechanical way. But her heart was still crying out. Finally the priest stood up and gave the homily.
Usually this was a very dry, brief sermonette of sorts, in which the congregation were enjoined to do good deeds. But Chantel turned her attention to the priest, Father Mohr. He was a tall, thin man with ascetic features and a dry voice that seemed to rustle as he spoke. He emphasized nothing really, and his homilies usually had a soporific effect on his hearers. But Chantel was desperate for wisdom or guidance of some kind, and she listened as the priest read a Scripture from the book of Genesis. It was rather confusing to Chantel, for she was not familiar with this story.
“This Scripture speaks of Abraham, the man of God, who had grown old. He wanted a bride for his son, but the land in which he lived was filled with idolatry. So he called his servant and sent him back to his own home country to find his son a bride among his own people.
“The servant went back, but when he reached his destination, he was in a quandary. How could he find exactly the right girl to be a bride for the son of his master, Abraham? He did a very peculiar thing, and one that I would not ordinarily recommend. He devised a circumstance and asked God to work in the middle of it. First, he took his camels to a well one evening where the women came to draw water. Then he began to pray. Let me read it for you from the book of Genesis:
And let it come to pass, that the damsel to whom I shall say, Let down thy pitcher, I pray thee, that I may drink; and she shall say, Drink, and I will give thy camels drink also: let the same be she that thou hast appointed for thy servant Isaac; and thereby shall I know that thou hast shewed kindness unto my master.
