An Embarrassment of Riches (21 page)

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Well then?”

“Just say that you will come out to the boat with me tomorrow.”

“Very well,” he whispered back with some exasperation. “I will go out to the boat with thee. Goodnight, nephew.”

“Sleep well, Uncle,” said I and watched him retire to his bedchamber.

I poured myself a glass of sweet brandy and picked up
Troilus and Cressida
, but had not read three lines before I laid it down. The more I thought of Lou-Lou's crude ejection from the theater, the more it discomfited me. I resolved to visit him again—if only to instruct him how a man ought to behave at a play, poor booby.

The corridor was deserted. I stole down it on tiptoe, past the door where I witnessed the importuning of Yago the night before. Shortly, I arrived at Lou-Lou's door, tried the knob, and found it unlocked. It was dark inside. I took a candle from the hall. He was not in his room.

I would have left at once, but was overcome by an irresistible urge to investigate the premises. The bedcovers had not been turned down, and so I deduced that Lou-Lou had not returned here after his ignominious exit from the theater box.

I opened the door to his wardrobe closet and peered inside. It contained a few suits of clothing, frock coats, waistcoats, and shoes, in the rear an old stuffed toy lion, a tattered thing that a lonely boy might secretly cherish as a silent friend. I moved across the spacious room to his chest of drawers. On top stood a regiment of tin soldiers. In the drawer where he kept his stockings I discovered a handkerchief wrapped around a small, hard object. Within was a gold-framed painted miniature of a middle-aged gentleman with features oddly familiar: the same puffy eyes, weak chin, and rather pointed head of Lou-Lou. The figure was draped in a powder-blue robe emblazoned with tiny gold fleurs-de-lis, the armorial bearing of the Bourbon family. My heart flew into my throat.

My instinct was to replace the object where I had found it, but I simply could not part with it until I could show it to Uncle, for what it portended about Lou-Lou—or should I say Louis?—had the most profound ramifications. I slipped the miniature into my pocket and replaced the empty handkerchief in the drawer. Daring not to remain a moment longer, I stole out of the room and back to our apartment. Once safely there, I took out the miniature and examined it in closer light. The resemblance to Lou-Lou was really striking. Should I wake up Uncle and show him the portrait? Suddenly I heard footfalls in the hall and three light raps upon the door.

“Lou-Lou!” I said, throwing open the door. Imagine my surprise to find myself face to face with the dazzling Madame LeBoeuf.

“May I come in?” she asked, touching the tip of her tongue to her upper lip in an inquisitive manner and raising her eyebrows. She was attired in a red silk dressing gown with a collar and cuffs of downy white feathers. It was intricately embroidered with a scene depicting riparian wildlife. A heron stalked across her right breast looking for little fishes, while on the left lurked a smiling crocodile. “Are you a statue, monsieur? It is drafty out here in the hall.”

“Of c-c-course,” I finally managed to respond. “Please come—”

She stepped right past me across the threshold. Once inside, she pressed the door closed with her back. I heard the complex metallic click of the latch.

“It is much warmer in here,” she said.

“Do you think so?” I replied stupidly.

“Without question,” she asserted. “Well, aren't you going to offer me a brandy?”

“Will you have a brandy, madame?” I inquired, but she had already crossed the parlor to the lowboy and was pouring the amber liquor into two snifters. These she brought with her to the sofa, where she sat down, patting the cushion next to her.

“Come here, young man, where I can see you better.”

I crossed the room and joined her on the sofa. She gave me a snifter. It was awkward holding it in my swaddled hands.

“How are your palms feeling, Sammy?”

“Much improved, madame. Your treatments were just the thing.”

“A toast,” she proposed. “To medicine.”

She quaffed the entire contents of her glass in a few swallows, then fastened a smiling, self-satisfied gaze upon me.

“You drink like a Breton milkmaid,” she observed with a mischievous laugh. “I thought you Americans consumed strong spirits the way the Indians drink rainwater.”

It was hard not to take this remark as a challenge to both my country and my manhood, and I downed what remained in my snifter in a trice.

“Ah, you live up to your reputation after all, monsieur,” she rejoined. “Bravo.”

I smiled, though my throat felt full of flames and my eyes watered.

“Your poor little eyebrows,” she next commiserated, wetting her index finger, leaning toward me, and dabbing the tender areas where the hair had been scorched in the gun explosion. As she did, the front of her robe parted slightly. One breast was entirely open to view in the flickering candlelight, the wide, womanly nipple tipped with a brown berry, and a blue vein visible just beneath the creamy skin. My head swam. I left the sofa and retreated to the lowboy for another brandy.

“My glass is empty too, Sammy,” Madame said, holding it up to show. “Bring the decanter to me.”

I returned to the sofa warily and refilled her glass.

“I love this room,” she declared. “So many memories.”

No doubt I had a smutty mind, but since this was the apartment reserved for guests, I could not help but reflect on the propriety of Madame's fondness for it.

“A toast to beautiful memories,” she proposed and clinked her glass to mine. This time, I consumed my brandy in a single draft. She, on the other hand, barely sipped hers.

“Why did you say ‘Lou-Lou' when you answered the door, Sammy?” she suddenly inquired. My stomach turned a cartwheel. I sat there dumbly. “Tell me, did you expect him this evening?”

“Well …” I racked my brain, “in a manner of speaking, yes. That is to say, he knocked on my door last night.”

“Monsieur LeBoeuf mentioned something to that effect. Lou-Lou took you to his room?”

“He begged me. I felt sorry for the poor boy.”

“You felt sorry for him?”

“Well, not for him so much as myself. I mean, he was somewhat tiresome. I was, er, glad to be rid of him.”

“You think we should get rid of him? We are not monsters, monsieur. He is our ward.”

“Of course—”

“Perhaps a little slow-witted, but a person all the same.”

“I couldn't agree more, madame.”

“And yet you suggest we cast him to the wolves! How cruel you are, monsieur.” She moved closer to me on the sofa. “Why, a Choctaw would have more heart.”

“I think you misunderstand me, madame. I didn't mean—”

“Please, if we talk about him any more, I promise you I shall weep. Look, your glass is empty.”

“So it is,” I agreed, though my head was already light and growing more so by the minute. She poured another double dram in my snifter.

“A toast,” she proposed anew, “to the human heart.”

I drank only half the measure.

“And to its capacity for love,” she added, and I was obliged to finish the rest. She moved yet closer to me on the sofa. One warm, soft breast rested in the crook of my elbow. “Tell me, Sammy: do you find me attractive?”

“I hadn't really thought of you that way, madame,” I attempted to dodge the question.

“What is there to think about?” she retorted. “Do I have a pretty face?”

“Yes—”

“Pretty hair?”

“Yes—”

“Pretty neck?”

“O yes.”

“Would you like to see my shoulders?”

Without waiting for me to assent, she drew the robe down from her shoulders and wriggled them seductively.

“There, you see?”

“Beautiful, indeed.”

“Oof …” she said as the silk robe slipped out of her fingers and fell to her waist, exposing her milk-white bosom. Rather than reach for the robe, she covered herself by crossing her arms. “How clumsy of me,” she said.

I sat there stupefied.

“Have you ever seen a naked woman, Sammy?”

I nodded. The image of Bessie Bilbo came to mind and I had to blink it away.

“You are a great seducer of women, then?”

“No,” I shook my head vigorously.

“You are an artist, though, with a knowledge of beauty, yes? I wonder if you would do me a favor and give me your opinion of my breasts.”

Again, without waiting for me to assent, she revealed her flesh to me, gracefully uncrossing her slender arms so that her entire bosom was exposed. Though she was perhaps twice my age, had given birth to and nursed a child, she looked like a vision of Aphrodite. The room began to slowly spin around the sofa.

“Well, what do you think? Are they in proportion?”

“Y-y-yes.”

“Are you certain?”

“F-f-fairly.”

“You look pale, Sammy. Here, hold out your glass.”

I obeyed, yet an inner voice prompted me to say, “Madame, are you trying to make me drunk?”

“I am trying to calm your nerves, monsieur, so they do not impair your critical faculties. There you are.”

The room spun faster and faster.

“A toast,” she said, “to art!”

“To art.”

“To beauty!”

“To booty.”

“To proportion!”

“T'porshin (hic!).”

“To you, my little
voyageur!
”

I fell off the sofa and landed on the carpet with a thud. Madame stood up and readjusted her robe.

“Perhaps tomorrow night you will come to my studio and see those watercolors, yes? For now, I must say
adieu
.”

She flew to the door and threw open the latch.

“
Bonsoir
, Sammy,” she said and blew me a kiss.

“'swuh …” I maundered as the door shut behind her. The room reeled around my head. I did not have the strength to crawl into my bedchamber. No matter, for moments later I passed out.

In the morning, my head felt as though it were filled with passenger pigeons, and I spent the hour of dawn heaving my guts into a chamber pot. By the time Uncle awoke, I had washed and changed clothes, rediscovering the miniature portrait in the pocket of my breeches. But before I could show it to him, the servants came skulking about, so I decided to wait until our interview aboard the keelboat. We were conducted down to the courtyard garden, where breakfast and Fernand LeBoeuf awaited us. A Negro harp player strummed his instrument beside a whortleberry bush. The gentle music failed to soothe my raw nerves, while the mere shadows of winging warblers made me flinch.

“Ready for another day of the hunt, Sammy?” our host inquired as the Indians filed in with our breakfast.

“My eagerness knows no bounds,” I replied wanly.

“
Bon!
Today, I shall accompany you. What do you say, William,
mon ami
?” Shall we all sally forth together in search of Gargantua?”

“Delighted,” Uncle exclaimed.

“On the way back, perhaps we can stop and inspect the slave quarters. You would like that, no?”

“It should be instructive,” I agreed.

“You are very curious how we keep our slaves, no?”

“I am curious about the world in general.”

“I admire your adventurous spirit, Sammy. At 19, I had barely ventured beyond the unknown corners of the world. My heroes were La Salle! Cartier! Champlain! Life is mysterious.
Alors!
Here I am. Had I an uncle like yours to take me around this wide world back then…. O, well. How do you like your breakfast?”

It was a whitish flesh, bathed in a cream sauce redolent of tarragon, served over a split biscuit.

“Very nice,” I avouched. “What is it? Turtle?”

“Rattlesnake,” LeBoeuf said brightly.

“Excellent,” Uncle declared, missing not a bite. “But 'tis like Chesapeake terrapin. More toothsome, perhaps.”

“The Choctaw cook it in its own venom,” LeBoeuf informed us. I put my fork down gingerly. “It gives the flesh a piquancy like no other seasoning.”

“Has it no ill effect?” I asked.

“Evidently not. The poison must be injected into the bloodstream. Upon the digestion it has no effect but as a carminative.”

“Was this cooked in its own venom?” I asked.

“Of course not, Sammy,” LeBoeuf laughed, a little shrilly. “We are not savages. Not yet, anyway, ha ha…!”

After breakfast, Uncle and I retired to the quay outside the stockade, whilst LeBoeuf changed into his hunting garb. How good it felt to be back aboard our old vessel again, and how I wished we might simply sail away, just Uncle and I back upon our mission. But for a handful of days out of the hundred-odd since we'd left Pittsburgh, almost all had been spent either in the captivity or company of others—Bilbo, the Shannoah, Judge Ravenel, and now LeBoeuf—and it was beginning to dawn on me that what I took to be the normal state of affairs was, in fact, the exceptional, and vice versa.

To be on the safe side, I searched the cabin to make sure no spies were lurking and was rather surprised to find all of our supplies in order. Not so much as a bottle of Judge Ravenel's Madeira had been filched. If this was reassuring, it also seemed—like everything else about Chateau Félicité—to be highly unnatural. LeBoeuf's control over his realm and subjects was total, almost godlike. I returned to the deck where Uncle waited impatiently.

“Well, nephew?”

I took out the miniature portrait and handed it to him.

“Do you know who this is?” I said.

Uncle squinted and made a face. “Some gentleman of thy acquaintance?” he ventured with a fillip of sarcasm.

“'Tis the late King of France.”

Uncle examined it again, more closely this time.

“Piffle. It might be anyone. I see no inscription.”

“The robe, Uncle. It is emblazoned with the Bourbon signet, the fleurs-de-lis.”

“All right. What of it.”

“Do you see any resemblance to a person on board this floating palace?”

Uncle squinted at the portrait again.

“Art proposing, Sammy, that LeBoeuf is the King of France escaped somehow to America?”

“No! Look again.”

Bristling with irritation, Uncle applied himself once more without results.

“It is the very spit and image of Lou-Lou,” I finally said. “Observe the weak chin, the hooded eyes, the pointed head.”

“These are common traits of the French race, nephew. Why Lafayette himself had an head like a very acorn.”

“Does LeBoeuf have a pointed head?” I dared to refute him. “I think not. Does Madame? No. But Uncle, I implore you, look. The resemblance is unmistakable!”

He handed it back to me.

“Where did thee get this?”

“What does it matter? I discovered it. That is enough.”

“Thee pilfered it.”

“Very well. I pilfered it. That does not alter the case one whit, sir.”

“It alters the case very much, nephew. We are guests here. And thee hath the impudence to fob off with valuable objects of art! I am scandalized.”

“Uncle,” I replied at once, “you are overlooking the point in question: what if Lou-Lou is really Louis-Charles, the lost Dauphin of France?”

“What if he is?” Uncle retorted.

“Oughtn't we to rescue him?”

“Rescue him? From what? If this boy is the Dauphin—and I do not for a moment believe it—then I doubt he could be in better hands, nor in a safer place. His parents are dead. Half his own countrymen would wish him dead.”

“But you saw the way LeBoeuf abused him last night.”

“Abuse? I think thee exaggerates. The French are excitable. And thee must admit, the boy behaved like a donkey. Is he not otherwise well cared for, well housed, well fed? I think so. Frankly, nephew, 'twould be impolite to meddle in his domestic arrangements.”

“And what if he is the Dauphin?”

“Then 'tis none of our business, but a matter of French politics.”

“On American soil—”

“And I'm sure he is here on good account, if he is what thee claims, which I wholeheartedly doubt, and let that be an end to it.”

“Very well,” said I, resolved to drop the matter for the time being. “But what about something that is our business, namely, megatherium?”

“What about it?”

“Yesterday, upon the hunting barge, I asked Yago if he had killed many of these beasts and he said he had. Seeking to draw him out, I asked what use his people made of the antlers, and he said they made tools from them.”

“So…?”

“Don't you see, Uncle? Megatherium has no antlers. Yago lied. He has never seen one.”

“Hast seen one thyself? Perhaps it does have antlers.”

“None were found with the bones, Uncle.”

“Perhaps that specimen of the President's was of a female.”

“All right! All right!” I cried in exasperation. “It so happens that I asked Madame LeBoeuf if she had seen Gargantua in her riding forays on the mainland. Do you know what she said?”

“Enlighten me.”

“She said she had never heard of such a thing.”

“Perhaps she has no interest in science.”

“Science! She and her husband have dwelt in this part of the world for ten years. Surely in all that time something so large and unusual would have caught her attention.”

Uncle shrugged his shoulders. Evidently the French mannerism was contagious.

“In conclusion, Uncle, I do not think that our quarry is to be found here.”

“Ah!” Uncle interjected, his forefinger held aloft, “Thee saw the pelt with thine own eyes.”

“That pelt was a fraud,” I riposted. “Did you look at it closely?”

“I looked at it,” he said.

“Well, I say it was a counterfeit through and through—an assemblage of dyed buffalo robes. The stitching was in plain sight. Your friend Monsieur LeBoeuf is trying to cozen us.”

“Why? To what end? What have we that he might envy?”

“I don't know. But I will tell you something else: our first night here I saw Yago leave Madame LeBoeuf's boudoir.”

“Perhaps he was on some legitimate errand.”

“At half past two in the morning?”

“Obviously, this fellow Yago enjoys the couple's closest confidence.”

“Enjoys it too much, I'd say.”

“Sammy, they are French, without our scruples in connubial matters. 'Tis none of our business.”

“'Tis my business when a gun is charged so as to blow up in my face. I feel that I am in danger here. I suggest we leave.”

Uncle heaved a sigh and gazed up at the formidable timber stockade that surrounded the chateau.

“We will leave when the
Puya
sets its seed. No later, and no sooner.”

“But—”

“Tut tut tut, nephew. Now I will tell thee what I think: I confess the pelt did not impress me as authentic. Why did he contrive it? For no more dark and sinister purpose but that he is lonely for intellectual companionship and wished us to tarry here as long as possible. Is that so terrible? I think not. Ah look, here comes Fernand now.”

Indeed, I turned to see LeBoeuf, Yago, and a retinue of Choctaws marching through the stockade gate and out onto the wharf.

“There you are,
mes amis
,” he called cheerfully. “Are you ready for sport?”

“I think I will fetch my own rifle,” said I, heading below.

The day, which had started fair and warm, grew progressively gloomier as our barge plied upstream. A cool, dank breeze descended out of the north along with a cloud cover that obscured the sun like a leaden curtain. The temperature plunged and I was chilly even in my waistcoat.

As the previous day, we sat in luxurious armchairs upon the platform: LeBoeuf and Uncle in front, myself and Yago behind, whilst a savage trumpeted from the prow.

“'Tis a most novel hunting method,” Uncle commented when we had been under way a while.

“We find that it works superbly,” LeBoeuf said. “The brutes are really remarkably stupid. I tell you what: if by some stroke of ill fortune we do not turn up Gargantua, I shall have Lou-Lou stuffed and you may bring him back to Monsieur Jefferson instead, ha ha.”

LeBoeuf's joke fell decidedly flat, though Uncle feigned a laugh. I did not so much as crack a smile, and I think our host regretted the insensitive gaffe. He hastily changed the subject to botanicals, pointing to a
Magnolia grandiflora
on the riverbank.

A mile or so past the limit of the cultivated fields, we came upon another herd of bison. LeBoeuf offered Uncle the first shot, and he rose to the occasion, dropping a bull with one ball through the heart. The other bison thundered off toward the distant woods, and LeBoeuf insisted we let them go.

“I kill only enough for the table,” he declared humanely. “These barbarians who decimate the herds just to watch the beasts die—they turn my stomach. I tell you, if we are not careful, it is possible that we may exterminate this valuable species down to the last individual.
Quelle catastrophe!
”

Uncle turned back to me, his face aglow, to indicate how LeBoeuf's sentiments warranted admiration.

“A noble proposition, sir,” Uncle lauded him. “Why, before the war, Owl's Crossing was infested with game. Now one must ride halfway to Bryn Mawr to shoot a common deer. How right thou art, Fernand. We Americans have been reckless with our God-given bounty.”

Uncle's infatuation was apparently still in full force.

By midafternoon, we had encountered no giant sloths, despite the exertions of our trumpeter.

“What bad luck we are having,” LeBoeuf said after a long, speechless interval.

We plied upstream another hour, to no avail. Uncle and LeBoeuf chattered endlessly about botanicals. I put down my rifle and began sketching on a tablet. For subject matter I chose none other than the stern-visaged Indian in the armchair beside me, and I quite enjoyed the discomfort that Yago evinced at having his portrait taken. I bent no effort at flattery—in fact, just the opposite—and took the liberty of rendering his gaze slightly cross-eyed and turning up the corners of his lips as if he were smiling idiotically in the manner of Lou-Lou.

“Here,” I said, finishing it up, tearing the sheet from the tablet and presenting it to him. “You may keep it. Hang it on the wall of your wigwam, or somesuch.”

“Merci,”
he replied with a reptilian smile, and put it under his chair without a second glance.

Eventually, heaving a sigh and lamenting,
“C'est la vie,”
LeBoeuf called off the day's hunt and we reversed course.