The Grandissimes Read online

  CHAPTER I

  MASKED BATTERIES

  It was in the Theatre St. Philippe (they had laid a temporary floor overthe parquette seats) in the city we now call New Orleans, in the monthof September, and in the year 1803. Under the twinkle of numberlesscandles, and in a perfumed air thrilled with the wailing ecstasy ofviolins, the little Creole capital's proudest and best were offering upthe first cool night of the languidly departing summer to the divineTerpsichore. For summer there, bear in mind, is a loitering gossip, thatonly begins to talk of leaving when September rises to go. It was likehustling her out, it is true, to give a select _bal masque_ at such avery early--such an amusingly early date; but it was fitting thatsomething should be done for the sick and the destitute; and why notthis? Everybody knows the Lord loveth a cheerful giver.

  And so, to repeat, it was in the Theatre St. Philippe (the oldest, thefirst one), and, as may have been noticed, in the year in which theFirst Consul of France gave away Louisiana. Some might call it "sold."Old Agricola Fusilier in the rumbling pomp of his natural voice--for hehad an hour ago forgotten that he was in mask and domino--called it"gave away." Not that he believed it had been done; for, look you, howcould it be? The pretended treaty contained, for instance, no provisionrelative to the great family of Brahmin Mandarin Fusilier deGrandissime. It was evidently spurious.

  Being bumped against, he moved a step or two aside, and was going on todenounce further the detestable rumor, when a masker--one of four whohad just finished the contra-dance and were moving away in the column ofpromenaders--brought him smartly around with the salutation:

  "_Comment to ye, Citoyen Agricola!_"

  "H-you young kitten!" said the old man in a growling voice, and with theteased, half laugh of aged vanity as he bent a baffled scrutiny at theback-turned face of an ideal Indian Queen. It was not merely the_tutoiement_ that struck him as saucy, but the further familiarity ofusing the slave dialect. His French was unprovincial.

  "H-the cool rascal!" he added laughingly, and, only half to himself;"get into the garb of your true sex, sir, h-and I will guess whoyou are!"

  But the Queen, in the same feigned voice as before, retorted:

  "_Ah! mo piti fils, to pas connais to zancestres?_ Don't you know yourancestors, my little son!"

  "H-the g-hods preserve us!" said Agricola, with a pompous laugh muffledunder his mask, "the queen of the Tchoupitoulas I proudly acknowledge,and my great-grandfather, Epaminondas Fusilier, lieutenant of dragoonsunder Bienville; but,"--he laid his hand upon his heart, and bowed tothe other two figures, whose smaller stature betrayed the gentlersex--"pardon me, ladies, neither Monks nor _Filles a la Cassette_ growon our family tree."

  The four maskers at once turned their glance upon the old man in thedomino; but if any retort was intended it gave way as the violins burstinto an agony of laughter. The floor was immediately filled withwaltzers and the four figures disappeared.

  "I wonder," murmured Agricola to himself, "if that Dragoon can possiblybe Honore Grandissime."

  Wherever those four maskers went there were cries of delight: "Ho, ho,ho! see there! here! there! a group of first colonists! One ofIberville's Dragoons! don't you remember great-great grandfatherFusilier's portrait--the gilded casque and heron plumes? And that onebehind in the fawn-skin leggings and shirt of birds' skins is an IndianQueen. As sure as sure can be, they are intended for Epaminondas and hiswife, Lufki-Humma!" All, of course, in Louisiana French.

  "But why, then, does he not walk with her?"

  "Why, because, Simplicity, both of them are men, while the little Monkon his arm is a lady, as you can see, and so is the masque that has thearm of the Indian Queen; look at their little hands."

  In another part of the room the four were greeted with, "Ha, ha, ha!well, that is magnificent! But see that Huguenotte Girl on the IndianQueen's arm! Isn't that fine! Ha, ha! she carries a little trunk. She isa _Fille a la Cassette!_"

  Two partners in a cotillion were speaking in an undertone, behind a fan.

  "And you think you know who it is?" asked one.

  "Know?" replied the other. "Do I know I have a head on my shoulders? Ifthat Dragoon is not our cousin Honore Grandissime--well--"

  "Honore in mask? he is too sober-sided to do such a thing."

  "I tell you it is he! Listen. Yesterday I heard Doctor Charlie Keenebegging him to go, and telling him there were two ladies, strangers,newly arrived in the city, who would be there, and whom he wished him tomeet. Depend upon it the Dragoon is Honore, Lufki-Humma is CharlieKeene, and the Monk and the Huguenotte are those two ladies."

  But all this is an outside view; let us draw nearer and see what chancemay discover to us behind those four masks.

  An hour has passed by. The dance goes on; hearts are beating, wit isflashing, eyes encounter eyes with the leveled lances of their beams,merriment and joy and sudden bright surprises thrill the breast, voicesare throwing off disguise, and beauty's coy ear is bending with aventuresome docility; here love is baffled, there deceived, yonder takesprisoners and here surrenders. The very air seems to breathe, to sigh,to laugh, while the musicians, with disheveled locks, streaming browsand furious bows, strike, draw, drive, scatter from the anguishedviolins a never-ending rout of screaming harmonies. But the Monk and theHuguenotte are not on the floor. They are sitting where they have beenleft by their two companions, in one of the boxes of the theater,looking out upon the unwearied whirl and flash of gauze and lightand color.

  "Oh, _cherie, cherie!_" murmured the little lady in the Monk's disguiseto her quieter companion, and speaking in the soft dialect of oldLouisiana, "now you get a good idea of heaven!"

  The _Fille a la Cassette_ replied with a sudden turn of her masked faceand a murmur of surprise and protest against this impiety. A low, merrylaugh came out of the Monk's cowl, and the Huguenotte let her form sinka little in her chair with a gentle sigh.

  "Ah, for shame, tired!" softly laughed the other; then suddenly, withher eyes fixed across the room, she seized her companion's hand andpressed it tightly. "Do you not see it?" she whispered eagerly, "just bythe door--the casque with the heron feathers. Ah, Clotilde, I _cannot_believe he is one of those Grandissimes!"

  "Well," replied the Huguenotte, "Doctor Keene says he is not."

  Doctor Charlie Keene, speaking from under the disguise of the IndianQueen, had indeed so said; but the Recording Angel, whom we understandto be particular about those things, had immediately made a memorandumof it to the debit of Doctor Keene's account.

  "If I had believed that it was he," continued the whisperer, "I wouldhave turned about and left him in the midst of the contra-dance!"

  Behind them sat unmasked a well-aged pair, "_bredouille_," as they usedto say of the wall-flowers, with that look of blissful repose whichmarks the married and established Creole. The lady in monk's attireturned about in her chair and leaned back to laugh with these. Thepassing maskers looked that way, with a certain instinct that there wasbeauty under those two costumes. As they did so, they saw the _Fille ala Cassette_ join in this over-shoulder conversation. A moment later,they saw the old gentleman protector and the _Fille a la Cassette_rising to the dance. And when presently the distant passers took a finalbackward glance, that same Lieutenant of Dragoons had returned and heand the little Monk were once more upon the floor, waiting forthe music.

  "But your late companion?" said the voice in the cowl.

  "My Indian Queen?" asked the Creole Epaminondas.

  "Say, rather, your Medicine-Man," archly replied the Monk.

  "In these times," responded the Cavalier, "a medicine-man cannot dancelong without professional interruption, even when he dances for acharitable object. He has been called to two relapsed patients." Themusic struck up; the speaker addressed himself to the dance; but thelady did not respond.

  "Do dragoons ever moralize?" she asked.

  "They do more," replied her partner; "sometimes, when beauty's enjoymentof the ball is drawing toward its twilight, they catch its pleasantmelancholy,
and confess; will the good father sit in the confessional?"

  The pair turned slowly about and moved toward the box from which theyhad come, the lady remaining silent; but just as they were entering shehalf withdrew her arm from his, and, confronting him with a rich sparkleof the eyes within the immobile mask of the monk, said:

  "Why should the conscience of one poor little monk carry all thefrivolity of this ball? I have a right to dance, if I wish. I give youmy word, Monsieur Dragoon, I dance only for the benefit of the sick andthe destitute. It is you men--you dragoons and others--who will not helpthem without a compensation in this sort of nonsense. Why should weshrive you when you ought to burn?"

  "Then lead us to the altar," said the Dragoon.

  "Pardon, sir," she retorted, her words entangled with a musical,open-hearted laugh, "I am not going in that direction." She cast herglance around the ball-room. "As you say, it is the twilight of theball; I am looking for the evening star,--that is, my littleHuguenotte."

  "Then you are well mated."

  "How?"

  "For you are Aurora."

  The lady gave a displeased start.

  "Sir!"

  "Pardon," said the Cavalier, "if by accident I have hit upon your realname--"

  She laughed again--a laugh which was as exultantly joyous as it washigh-bred.

  "Ah, my name? Oh no, indeed!" (More work for the Recording Angel.)

  She turned to her protectress.

  "Madame, I know you think we should be going home."

  The senior lady replied in amiable speech, but with sleepy eyes, and theMonk began to lift and unfold a wrapping. As the Cavalier' drew it intohis own possession, and, agreeably to his gesture, the Monk and he satdown side by side, he said, in a low tone:

  "One more laugh before we part."

  "A monk cannot laugh for nothing."

  "I will pay for it."

  "But with nothing to laugh at?" The thought of laughing at nothing madeher laugh a little on the spot.

  "We will make something to laugh at," said the Cavalier; "we will unmaskto each other, and when we find each other first cousins, the laugh willcome of itself."

  "Ah! we will unmask?--no! I have no cousins. I am certain we arestrangers."

  "Then we will laugh to think that I paid for the disappointment."

  Much more of this childlike badinage followed, and by and by they camearound again to the same last statement. Another little laugh escapedfrom the cowl.

  "You will pay? Let us see; how much will you give to the sick anddestitute?"

  "To see who it is I am laughing with, I will give whatever you ask."

  "Two hundred and fifty dollars, cash, into the hands of the managers!"

  "A bargain!"

  The Monk laughed, and her chaperon opened her eyes and smiledapologetically. The Cavalier laughed, too, and said:

  "Good! That was the laugh; now the unmasking."

  "And you positively will give the money to the managers not later thanto-morrow evening?"

  "Not later. It shall be done without fail."

  "Well, wait till I put on my wrappings; I must be ready to run."

  This delightful nonsense was interrupted by the return of the _Fille ala Cassette_ and her aged, but sprightly, escort, from a circuit of thefloor. Madame again opened her eyes, and the four prepared to depart.The Dragoon helped the Monk to fortify herself against the outer air.She was ready before the others. There was a pause, a low laugh, awhispered "Now!" She looked upon an unmasked, noble countenance, liftedher own mask a little, and then a little more; and then shut it quicklydown again upon a face whose beauty was more than even those fascinatinggraces had promised which Honore Grandissime had fitly named theMorning; but it was a face he had never seen before.

  "Hush!" she said, "the enemies of religion are watching us; theHuguenotte saw me. Adieu"--and they were gone.

  M. Honore Grandissime turned on his heel and very soon left the ball.

  "Now, sir," thought he to himself, "we'll return to our senses."

  "Now I'll put my feathers on again," says the plucked bird.