Property(51)

“It’s I who will help you, madame,” she said, “if you wish your husband murdered.”

“Please excuse me,” our hostess said to us, advancing upon her visitor. “Will you come with me?” she said, going out into the hall.

The woman cast us an angry glance, then followed her quarry, denouncing her. She lapsed into French, threatening more dire consequences at every step; the burning down of Mr. Perot’s place of business, the murder of her own children, the death of Mrs. Perot’s young sons, whom she knew by name. Our hostess called for her butler, who appeared at once, throwing open the front door and forcefully escorting the enraged woman out into the street.

Mother turned to me and said softly, “Mr. Perot has at last acceded to his wife’s wishes.” In a moment our hostess returned and we continued our conversation.

What struck me most about the horrible creature was her excellent French. That perfect accent coming out of that yellow face, those dark eyes flashing with rage, made her seem like a grotesque doll, created as some sort of poor joke, which I suppose is exactly what she was, what they all are.

I lay in my aunt’s bed, sick with the recollection of this vengeful madwoman and the thought that Joel enjoyed the company of others like her, that he might one evening leave my little house and rush to another even smaller, where he was the master, yet no guest ever came. From the hall the voices of the cardplayers drifted in. If I listened closely I could pick out from the general ripple of gaiety the deep tremor of Joel’s laughter. With a shudder of misery I understood that I would never again feel aught but bitterness to hear it.



AFTER I HAD slept a little and the guests were gone, my uncle walked with me to my cottage. The night had grown cooler, and though it was late the streets were by no means deserted. Some of our neighbors sat out on their balconies, gentlemen mostly, smoking cigars and discussing cotton futures in groups of three or four. I took my uncle’s arm as I had so often when I was a girl. “We have had a new report from Mr. Leggett,” he said.

“Has he found her?”

“Not yet,” he said. “But it does appear that your suspicion that she has disguised herself may be correct. He has attempted to trace the gentleman traveling for his health and there is no evidence that such a person exists.”

“Where was she last seen?”

“If it is she,” my uncle cautioned. “He can’t be certain, of course. This gentleman was traveling under the name of Mr. Claude Maître and he is known to have disembarked from the United States at Savannah. He hardly spoke to anyone on the trip, he kept to his berth, and the steward says he didn’t sleep but sat up in his chair fully dressed. He never removed his hat.”

“That’s because his long hair would fall down.”

My uncle smiled. “It’s remarkable, don’t you think? How did you guess it?”

“I thought it odd that a sick man would travel with a woman and a baby. Why wouldn’t he take a boy, who would be more useful?”

“It’s so bold,” my uncle said. “Here I have been imagining her hiding out in the swamps, perhaps meeting up with one of Murrel’s men, who would pretend to be her guide, and then sell her to Indians, and instead she has been traveling north in a private cabin.”

“She wouldn’t be so bold if someone weren’t helping her.”

“No. That’s certainly true,” my uncle agreed. We did not say the name that sprang to both our lips because my uncle can hardly speak of Mr. Roget without becoming agitated. “Well, we shall see,” he concluded. “Mr. Leggett believes the Philadelphia destination is a ploy, and that she will more likely try to reach New York. Here we are,” he said, as we had arrived at my door. I bid him good-night and let myself into the parlor, where I sat in the dark for some time, entertaining the idea of Sarah passing as a sick white gentleman in the freezing metropolis of New York. Even if she were apprehended at once, it might be weeks before she was returned. I pulled a straying lock of hair back from my face; it might be best to send Rose out to study with a decent hairdresser. She was much improved as a housekeeper, and she managed Walter as well as Delphine did. She was presentable, willing, and she liked living in town. I had thought to sell her when Sarah returned, but it might be more practical to sell Sarah.

As I so mused, my eyes fell upon the side table, where I noticed a white card left on the salver. Joel, I thought. He must have stopped by on his way to his next party and written a line of courteous concern about my indisposition at my aunt’s card table. Party? I asked myself, as I lit the lamp and reached for the card, or a room full of fancy yellow harlots?