Джеймс Кейн - Mignon

“I was wondering about it myself.”

The orderlies had stabled Dan’s horse, so we stepped out on foot in the rain and walked on down to St. Charles. There a funny thing happened. St. Charles, the heart of the theatrical district, was where the doings were lively and we fought our way along, through a wet mob of revelers, dancing and whooping and singing, to the light of red fire in the street. And pretty soon here came a witch, riding a broomstick she flogged with a whip. “Your Red River hex,” I said, turning to him.

He wasn’t there.

Later on, he swore he’d told me good night when he came to his rooming house and gone in to put on his costume. But I hadn’t heard anything, and after what had been said, it gave me a peculiar feeling.

Lavadeau’s had two windows in front, one with a wax admiral in it, the other a wax general, both very dignified, but inside it was a madhouse, with pirates, kings, queens, Indians, Turks, jugglers, and harem girls pushing each other around, fighting for space at the mirrors and screaming to be fitted. I got bumped, but managed to hold my feet while I looked around for the girl I’d last seen in a draggled dress with a ruffle. When a vision came skipping at me, a Columbine in black, with gauze skirt, silk tights, and laced velvet bodice, a red rose in her hair, red shoes on her feet, and red mask in one hand, I didn’t even know her. It wasn’t until she grabbed me and asked what I’d found out that I realized who she was, and even then she looked strange, her cheeks rouged and her eyes touched up with some kind of blue. But when I told her I’d found her father and could take her to him, they opened wide and were suddenly the eyes I knew. She darted to Lavadeau, jabbering at him in French, and though he was entirely surrounded, his mouth full of pins, he nodded and she ducked to the rear. Then she was back again, a red domino on, her umbrella in one hand, her cape in the other. Outside, Captain John Smith and Pocahontas were just climbing out of a cab. I grabbed it, loading her in. She snuggled close, saying “I knew you’d find him.” She was so excited I reserved my detailed report, contenting myself with kisses.

At headquarters, the driver of course wanted his money, and while I was paying him off the sentry called the corporal, who took us inside at once and on back, up the little stairs to the Annex, where he knocked on a door. When it opened, he left us, saying: “Call to quarters is at nine forty-five.” We went into a whitewashed room, a cold little cubicle with cot, chair, table, candle, and one barred window. Holding the door was Mr. Landry, who seemed surprised to see us, but took Mignon in his arms and began whispering to her in French. He was a stocky, heavy-set man of medium height, fifty or so, with pouter-pigeon chest, robin-redbreast throat, and round, thick neck, all signifying tremendous physical strength. He had black eyes like hers, a gray tuft on his chin and curled gray mustaches, with a handsome cut to his jib that showed where her looks came from. He wore gray pants, skirted coat, and plaid vest, all very dignified, as well as an overcoat and a scarf over his head. He shook hands when she introduced me and gave me his only chair, sitting with her in the cot. They resumed whispering in French, he looking drawn, she lovely in the candlelight as she patted his cheek and the domino kept falling open to show her beautiful legs. Once or twice I caught the name Burke, or Boorke as they called it in French.

Then suddenly he turned to me, saying: “Mr. Cresap, I truly express my thanks for the help you’ve given my daughter, but feel I owe you an explanation. I’m held without charge in this place, as martial law permits, and assume I’m the victim of some kind of mix-up. I’m engaged in the cotton trade, which is legal and therefore open to me, but at the same time is disapproved in certain respects by the occupation authorities, which causes them to encourage with one hand and persecute with the other — a not unfamiliar inconsistency in official conduct. I assumed, therefore, that I’d be shortly released. That’s why I asked my partner, Mr. Frank Burke — of whom you may have heard — not to alarm my daughter or spoil her Mardi Gras by informing her what happened. That’s why she felt she must go to you.”

“My pleasure in any event,” I told him.

“And I was wrong, thank God,” she said, staring at me, “suspicioning people for stabbing him in the back.”

“Must be a relief to know that.”

He went on some more about cotton, but time was going on, and I felt I had to make sure he had things straight. “Mr. Landry,” I interrupted, “this has nothing to do with cotton. You’re held for shipping shoes to Taylor.”

“... For what did you say, Mr. Cresap?”

“Shipping shoes — some informer has sent in a note, an unsigned note by mail, saying you sent them by boat, to Morganza I believe was the place, for the use of Taylor’s Army.”

“But that’s ridiculous!”

“I’m telling you what’s in the note.” His face, which had been handsomely solemn, went slack with consternation, and he said: “I did ship shoes upriver — I made a little in cotton, and felt I had to share, with men less fortunate than I was, Confederate boys, the ones paroled from Port Hudson, who reached home with not even rags on their feet. I sent them as Christmas presents, care of a friend, a Morganza storekeeper, and asked him to distribute for me. I’ve had no dealings with Taylor.”

“He may have captured them, though.”

“In that case, I couldn’t have stopped it.”

I felt he was telling the truth, but I also felt there was something about these shoes, not mentioned as yet, that completely took his nerve. And when Mignon started whispering again and I heard “Who else could have known all that?” I had a hunch what it was. He nudged her, and she switched at once to French, but I heard Boorke once more, this time pretty bitter, and deduced there had been a stab in the back, which of course could be pretty serious. Because shipping shoes was the kind of thing which might be (as he said) wholly innocent, but which, painted up by someone on the inside, could be made to look like a crime as black as the worst ever seen. However, he obviously wasn’t discussing it, so I told myself shut up, as it was strictly none of my business. But that reminded me of myself, the peculiar status I had, which I hadn’t even brought up, and I thought best to get it out in the open. I said: “Mr. Landry, there’s something I ought to tell you. I’ve been acting so far as your counsel.” I then told of the argument with Dan, and wound up: “Strictly speaking, I was telling the truth, as Mrs. Fournet had engaged me, which as next of kin she could do. And of course, I’m willing to continue doing whatever I can. But if I’m to act in an official capacity, I must have your direct authorization.”

“Mr. Cresap, on that give me a moment.”

“ But Captain Dorsey’s my only reference.”

“Except one,” Mignon chirped, very bright. “ Me! ” And then, to her father: “You don’t need any moment! He’s wonderful — look what he’s done already! And he’s not any carpetbag spellbinder!”

“I’ve now taken my moment.”

He held out his hand and ground my knuckles to ball bearings. “Mr. Cresap,” he said, “I’m a man of a hundred friends, right here in New Orleans — not one of whom could I trust. So it is when cotton is made semi-legal, and it begins coming between. And now you, whom I never saw till a half-hour ago, with my daughter, are my only reliance. I may say I count myself fortunate.”

It was very moving, so much so that I thought I owed him to say: “There’s just one thing: You’d better know this is partly a matter of principle, of seeing justice done, of clearing a man falsely accused — I hope I’m not indifferent to that. But it’s also a matter of pleasing your daughter.”