An Embarrassment of Riches (17 page)

“You will come again tomorrow?” asked a woman's voice in French, and I could have sworn it belonged to the beautiful Madame LeBoeuf, but her form remained concealed behind the jamb.

“Maybe,” the Indian replied flintily.

“It is an eternity till then,” said the woman.

Yago glanced over his shoulder and grunted.

“Go now,” she said, and the white arm withdrew into the doorway. I could barely believe the report of my senses.

Yago turned and commenced striding down the corridor toward me. I thought my heart would burst, so fast was it racing. The Indian marched past my hiding place as though I were but another stick of furniture. I did not draw another breath until he rounded the corner at the end of the hallway and vanished. And then I lost not an instant stealing back to our rooms.

Hours later, after staring into the pleats of my canopied bed and listening to the palace creak on its moorings, I slipped into a febrile dream of blood, monsters, and Indians, while the room swelled with yellow light.

I was wrenched from my dreams not by our accustomed song of the woodland morn, but by the screech of fiddles and cellos. The door to my bedchamber was thrown open. In marched a pair of savages. One drew the curtains, and sunshine sliced across the room like a golden blade. The other laid out a new suit of clothes—these less elegant than the embroidered silks of the night before, but spanking new: a white linen shirt, cream-colored breeches, and a summer-weight green cotton waistcoat. My head ached from a paucity of sleep, and a few monstrous lizards from my wild dreams yet lurched through my brain.

“Ugh,” I groaned. Just then, Uncle bounded into the room, fully dressed in an outfit similar to that laid out for me. He was smiling and as buoyant in spirits as ever I had seen him since our reunion at Owl's Crossing.

“What a delightful day!” he declared. “Up, nephew! Up!”

“What is that awful racket?” I asked crabbily.

“Haydn?” he ventured. Actually, it was Mozart, but to me, under the circumstances, it was just an obnoxious din. “Come now, Sammy, up, I say! 'Tis a beautiful morning!”

“What time is it?”

“Hast thee an appointment? Up, clod! Our host awaits us at table.”

And so I hauled myself out of that sumptuous bed, my ears ringing and joints aching with fatigue. Hot water had been brought up for my ablutions. In our parlor, a quartet of turbaned Negroes sawed away expertly upon their stringed instruments. The Indians guided us through the corridors and down a wide stairway to a sunny courtyard within the very heart of the floating palace. Like the little rose garden we had passed inside the stockade walls, this too was formally planted in the old style. Altogether it was perhaps an hundred feet square. To one side, seated at a round table in the sunlight, was our host. Madame was conspicuously absent.

“Ah, messieurs, William and Sammy!” he called to us.

“Good morning, Fernand,” Uncle cried. “'Tis like waking in paradise, sir.”

“I am flattered that you think so,” he replied. The air did resound with the melody of birds. The garden too was impressive, though nothing at all like Uncle's at Owl's Crossing, nor on such a scale.

“A new hibiscus!” Uncle exclaimed, spotting the first of innumerable species previously unknown to him. His excitement grew with every step. “A spiderwort! A bear's ear! A spotted purple columbine…!”

“Look what I have for you, young man,” LeBoeuf addressed me, pointing to the ground. Lying beside the table were two enormous curved tusks and an huge pelt of thick, matted, reddish fur. The tusks must have been over ten feet long. Etched into the yellowed ivory were the minute reticulations of age.

“These are ancient,” I remarked bluntly.

“A pachyderm lives a long life,” LeBoeuf countered deftly. “This one was—how you say?—long in the tooth. Ha ha!”

I laughed politely at his joke. Uncle, meanwhile, had wandered across the garden and was rummaging amid the plantings like a man who had spotted some valuable bauble in the weeds.

“A new lupin!” he cried with delight.

LeBoeuf waved at him fondly.

“Why didn't you keep the pelt of this pachyderm as well as the tusks?” I inquired.

“It was enormous,” he replied, “and we were out on a small vessel.”

“I see that you managed to bring back the pelt of megatherium,” I rejoined.

“We shot it closer to the chateau,” LeBoeuf informed me. “And we were in a larger boat that day.”

“Why didn't you return for the mastodon skin in a larger boat, monsieur?” I pressed LeBoeuf.

“We did, Sammy. The next day. It had been savaged by wolves and scavengers. What a loss to science,” he sighed. “Only the bones were left, and of these, only the tusks were of any value.
Quel dommage
.”

“Yes, what a pity, indeed,” I granted.

“What ho!” Uncle cried again. “A bastard lychnis! Thy garden is a treasure trove, Fernand!”

“I am so happy you are here to see it,” LeBoeuf called in return. “It is a dream come true, believe me, dear friend.”

I stooped now to examine the pelt. It had the feel of a buffalo robe but was quite a bit larger. The extremities were incomplete, the characteristic scimitar claws not in evidence. The skull had been removed and the beast's face lacked form. The ears and nose were missing. What is more, the reddish, matted, wooly hair was suspiciously similar to that of
Bison bison
.

I thought I detected artful stitching on the underside, which was tinted a queer orange hue. Indeed, some of this color rubbed off on the pads of my thumb and forefinger, leading me to suspect that it had been dyed. I pored over the specimen pretending to admire it, keeping my suspicions to myself.

“Did you have a nice visit with Lou-Lou last night?” LeBoeuf suddenly asked out of the blue, curdling my spinal fluxes.

“I beg your pardon?” I said, pretending to be absorbed in the pelt.

“Did you enjoy your visit with Lou-Lou last night?” LeBoeuf reiterated, that enigmatic demismile on his face.

“May I be frank?” I stood up.

“Please.”

“He is rather tedious,” I said.

“Let me be equally frank,” LeBoeuf rejoined.

“By all means.”

“Lou-Lou is not the brightest light you will ever meet.”

“He is a trifle slow,” I agreed.

“Somewhat shallow.”

“Dull.”

“Subnormal.”

“Do you think so?” I asked.

“Without question,” LeBoeuf fluttered his eyelids and nodded his head.

“It was not a stimulating session,” I avouched.

“You found him absolutely uninteresting?”

“Quite.”

“Without any redeeming qualities?”

“Well, no,” I hedged. “He is polite to a fault.”

“By heaven!” Uncle cried from the farthest corner of the garden, “silver hollyhocks! Caper bush! Chinese pinks, double, single, and treble! Unceasing marvels!”

“I'm sorry that he disturbed you,” LeBoeuf resumed.

“It was nothing, I assure you.”

“You know, sometimes Lou-Lou imagines things.”

“Really?” I said. “In that little walnut brain?” I worried for a moment that I had carried my sarcasm a bit too far, but LeBoeuf merely smiled again. Throw a shawl 'round his shoulders and you would have had a very Mona Lisa.

“Louis is not right in the head, you see,” he said, tapping his own temple. “How you say? Crazy?”

“He seemed merely stupid to me.”

“Good,” LeBoeuf said, patting me on the shoulder, and I gathered that the subject was closed. “How do you like the pelt of Gargantua?”

“Impressive,” I said, still wondering how LeBoeuf had found out about my visit with Lou-Lou, and why he was so determined to keep the poor dullard in isolation. Just then, a procession of Indians filed into the courtyard bearing covered silver trays.

“Ah!” LeBoeuf exclaimed,
“l'heure du déjeuner. A table, mon ami!
” he called across the courtyard to Uncle, who grasped that he was being called to breakfast.

“It will take me days to catalogue thy trove of specimens, Fernand,” he said, taking his seat. A platter was held aside his elbow for inspection. Upon it was a circlet of little squablike fowls, roasted to a golden turn. Uncle closed his eyes and inhaled the fragrant steam.

“Ortolans,” LeBoeuf explained. “In France we favored the yellow-throated bunting. These are bobolink.”

“Dolichonyx oryzivorus,”
Uncle said, while a sort of headwaiter placed two of the little birds on his plate with tongs. There was a silver wire basket of buttery rolls and a selection of fresh fruits as well: oranges, cherries, and raspberries the size of lark eggs.

“I prefer a light breakfast,” our host explained.

“Fernand,” Uncle said, “Thee lives like a very king.”

Uncle did not see LeBoeuf's eyebrows shoot up, so absorbed was he with the food.

“After last night's feast, I barely have an appetite,” said I.

“Eat, young man,” LeBoeuf commanded me with mock severity, as though playing the stern papa. “This New World air saps the energies,” he added, and Uncle hooted with laughter. Thus our breakfast commenced with all the intimate jocosity of three old cronies at a club table. The Indians withdrew like wraiths.

I wished Uncle had shown half the interest in the object of our mission as he exhibited for LeBoeuf's botanicals, for he gave the pelt no more than a cursory examination, stating only that it would be nice to obtain a more complete specimen.

“By the way, what happened to the claws?” I now made bold to ask.

“The Indians desired them,” our host deftly explained. “Such objects play a large role in their spiritual life. What do you think of my humble garden, William,
mon ami
?”

“Humble!” Uncle snorted. “Pish! 'Tis one of the finest collections in America. And to have made it upon this floating palace! Thee underplays thy achievement, my friend.”

“My head swims to hear you say that. This morning I woke with a start. Did I dream that the great William Walker was here? There is so much to show you, to talk about. Chateau Félicité is at your complete disposal.”

I could see that Uncle longed to remain here awhile, but his Quaker reserve prevented him from saying as much.

“In a week, or less, the century plant will set its seed,” LeBoeuf went on. “Stay till then,
mon ami
, and you can return to Philadelphia with enough
Puya
in embryo to supply all the gardens of this fine new nation.”

“But what might I offer in return, Fernand?” Uncle replied with typical modesty.

“Offer? Why, simply the pleasure of your company,” LeBoeuf told him.

Uncle glanced around the beautiful, fragrant courtyard and heaved a sigh, the aristocratic luxury of the place obviously at odds with his democratic scruples.

“There is our mission to consider,” he still managed to demur.

“I have a suggestion,” LeBoeuf proposed, appealing also to me with a look. “Why not use Chateau Félicité as a base of operations? Our boats, our, uh, soldiers, our equipments are at your service. I tell you we see these beasts all the time along the river. They are as thick as lice.
Les vermines!
You shall have your specimen in a matter of days, I assure you. My minions shall prepare the hide, with all the parts intact, and pack it in niter. You can float back down the river to the Ohio without a care in the world, thence to New Orleans, find a ship, and be back in your beloved Philadelphia before the first snowflake flies, no?”

“We accept thy hospitality most humbly,” Uncle finally relented, adding, “And the republic gratefully thanks thee too.”

“To democracy, messieurs!” LeBoeuf raised a toast with his teacup. “To America!” The smile on his lips was like that of the cat who had swallowed the canary.

Thus it was decided that we should tarry indefinitely at this strange and enchanting palace on the Tennessee River in the unincorporated territories of Mississippi.

I did not see Lou-Lou during that day, and hoped that his “uncle” had not rebuked him for seeking my company. Madame LeBoeuf I saw later that morning after breakfast, in a corridor of the chateau. She was attired in riding clothes—a long red skirt, leather boots, silk blouse, a black silk waistcoat that nicely emphasized her curvaceous figure, and a small red tricorn hat pinned at a rakish angle to her coiffure. The sight of her instantly revived my recollection of that mysterious incident in the hallway the night before.

“Good morning, Monsieur Sammy,” she greeted me buoyantly, and at once I knew that the husky voice was the same as that which had importuned Yago. “You look so pale, monsieur. Is something wrong?”

“Nothing, madame. Thank you.”

“I understand you are an artist,” she said, wielding her riding crop in the air as though it were a paintbrush against an imaginary canvas.

“A dabbler,” said I.

“I adore art,” she continued. “It is one of the things I miss most about France. Watteau, Fragonard, Poussin! These were my gods! I confess to being a dabbler myself. Watercolors. Perhaps you would come to my studio before you leave and give me your professional opinion.”

“Madame, I hardly dare call myself a critic.”

“Foo! Call yourself what you like,” she touched the tip of my nose with her forefinger and giggled in a girlish manner. “I insist.”

“A-a-all right. Perhaps later,” I reluctantly agreed. Her beauty was absolutely mesmerizing.

“How long do you expect to sojourn with us here at Chateau Félicité?”

“It's not certain. Till the
Puya
goes to seed, or thereabouts.”