Saratoga Trunk (16 page)

“Play-acting again, the both of us. I thought we’d be shut of that when we got to Saratoga.”

“No, foolish boy! We’re really only beginning there.”

“Shucks, all I aim to do is play me a little faro and clean up on those suckers they say are hanging around Saratoga with the money choking their wallets. Maybe enter Alamo in a race if she looks likely. Aid buy you something pretty in New York.”

“New York! Oh, Clint! Really!”

“Why not? Maybe, by September, if we’re lucky.”

So they parted, and their panic at parting was real enough. They had come together so casually, the ruthless powerful girl, the swaggering resentful man. A month or two had served to bind them, the one to the other. Each had been alone against a hostile world; now each sustained the other.

“I’ve a good mind to stay and wait for you, no matter what you say.”

“No. No! that would spoil everything.”

“I sure would like to. I get to thinking somebody might do you harm here in New Orleans. That’s what’s eating on me.”

“Kaka would scratch their eyes out, and enjoy it. Cupide is better than a gun—you ought to know that. I have a thousand things to do. I shall never see New Orleans again. We are Southerners, you and I. Those Northerners are sharp.”

“Any sharper than you, they’re walking razors.”

“We’ll see.”

“Anything goes wrong you’ll send me a telegram, won’t you, honey? I’ll mosey back here in two shakes.”

“Remember to talk like that in Saratoga. . . . Send me a telegram just as soon as you are sure of your hotel.”

Suddenly she began to cry with her eyes wide open—great pearly drops that made her eyes seem larger and more liquid, her face dew-drenched.

“How in tarnation can I go when you do that! Crying!”

“Pay no attention. I often do that when I’m excited. You know that. It doesn’t mean anything. Just tears.”

“Well, you sure cry pretty.”

The tears were running down her cheeks and she was smiling as he left. It was he whose face was distorted with pain at parting. Cupide had begged to go with him. The big Texan had shown one of his rare flashes of anger. “Why, you little varmint, you! Go along with me and leave her alone with only Kaka! You’ll stay. And remember, if I find you haven’t done just like she wants, everything she says, when you get to Saratoga I’ll kill you, sure. No regular killing. I’ll tromp you to death like a crazy horse.”

“Sure,” Cupide agreed, blithely. “
Mais certainement.’’’’

In the little musty shops whose shelves were laden with the oddments and elegancies of a decayed French aristocracy of a past century Clio and Kaka had litde trouble finding the things they sought. Leather goods, jewel cases, handkerchiefs, bonbon boxes, lacy pillows, purses, jeweled
bibelots,
all monogrammed with the letter C. On these forays she dressed in the plainest black and offener than not did not take Kaka with her. Cupide, instead, trailed far behind and lolled innocendy outside the shop door until she emerged.

Kaka’s needle flew. But Clio’s wardrobe needed little replenishing. Her silks, satins, muslins, jewels were of the finest. Some of them were of a fashion that had not yet even penetrated to America.

Having made a gesture of melodramatic magnificence in speaking to Augustin Haussy about the furnishings of the Rampart Street house, she now thriftily changed her mind and her tactics, in part at least. The fine Aubusson carpets, the massive crystal chandelier, the unmarked silver and glass and such other impersonal pieces had an intrinsic market value almost as permanent as that of precious stones. She sold deliberately and shrewdly, driving as hard a bargain as she could. Certain exquisite pieces of procelain and glass she had packed in stout packing cases, and these she sent to be stored at a warehouse. Luxury-loving, and possessed of a sure dramatic sense, she set aside for her own use such odds and ends as would lend authority and richness to a hotel suite—heavy wrought-silver photograph frames, antique brocade pillows, vases; the bonbon boxes from which the plump Belle Piquery had nibbled until her plumpness grew to obesity; a Corot landscape, misty and cool, that Nicolas Dulaine had long ago purchased for his Rita because she had said that just to look at it revived her on the hottest day; a paper-knife with a jeweled handle; a cloisonné desk set from the Rue de la Paix; a fabulous little gold clock.

A kind of frenzy of exhilaration filled the three—Clio, Kakaracou and Cupidon. They had an unconscious sense of release, of impending adventure. None of them had felt really secure or at peace in the New Orleans to which they had been so eager to return.

“Now then, my children,” Clio announced to Kaka and Cupide, “we are going to have a bonfire and to the tune of music. Not one thing will be left that people can finger and gloat over and point at and say, ‘See! That belonged to Rita Dulaine. There is the mark.’ Cupide, you will take the hammer and you will pull apart the big bed and the couch and the dressing table and the armoire, and you will roll up the carpet in the bedroom. You will burn all these, a litde at a time, in the courtyard.”

“No,” screamed Kaka, in real pain. “No!”

“I say yes. The marked glass you will throw against the brick wall of the
garçonnière
so that it breaks into bits, and then you will gather it into the dust bin to be thrown away. The center of the courtyard, Cupide. Smash up the fountain first.”

There was something dreadful in the sight of the glee with which the little man went about his task of destruction. Ghoulish, powerful, grinning, he rent and pounded, hammered and smashed. Now the massive hand-carved posts and headboard, the superb mirror frames, the delicate chair legs went to feed the fire that rose, a pillar of orange and scarlet destruction, at the rear of the Rampart Street house. The heat was dreadful, though the fire had to be fed slowly, for safety’s sake. The mahogany burned reluctantiy. Cupide’s face became soot-streaked; he pranced between house and courtyard, between fire and wall. Crash, tinkle. Crash, tinkle, as the glass was hurled against the brick wall by his strong simian arm. Then another load of wood on the flames. Begrimed, sweating, filled with the lust for destruction, he was like an imp from hell as he worked, trotted, smashed, poked, hammered. The day was New Orleans at its worst—saturated with heat and moisture, windless, dead. Fortunate, this, or the Rampart Street house itself might have taken part in the holocaust. Perhaps Clio had hoped it would.

“More,” she urged Cupide. “More. Everything. I will sleep on the mattress on the floor these next few days. Nothing must be left.”

The telegram came from the Texan, and then, as speedily as might be, his letter, written in his schoolboy hand, round and simple and somehow touching.

D
EAR
C
LIO
(it began, formally enough)

Honey I miss you something terrible. I thought I was used to being alone but it seems right queer now and lonesome as the range. This place beats anything I ever saw. Hotels pack jammed and you talk about style and some ways rough too all mixed up the old days in Texas couldn’t hold a candle to it. The United States Hotel is the place to stay which is where I am as you see. The biggest gambling place is called the Club House it was built by Morrissey he is dead. You ought to see it, the carpet alone cost $25,000 they say, there is a colored woman housekeeper runs the kitchen and so on her name is Mrs. Lewis I found this out and thought that Kaka could get friendly there. Honey you ought to see who all is here. This is a bigger lay-out than we figured on. William Vanderbilt, Jay Gould, Whitney, Crocker, Keene, Bart Van Steed, why they are all millionaires fifty times over besides a thousand who are just plain rich with only a million or so in their pants pocket. Jay Gould sits on the front porch he is here at the United States and rocks a soft-spoken quiet-stepping fellow I wouldn’t trust him with a plugged dime. I nodce he’s got a bodyguard since they tried to shoot him a while back. They call it the Millionaires’ Piazza. The turnouts would take your breath away. A four-in-hand is nothing out of the ordinary. Vanderbilt drives a pair I would give anything just to get my hands on they are Maude S. and Adelina, the horses I mean, the prettiest team I ever saw and the fastest pair in the world. Bart Van Steed drives a pair of big sorrels to a dogcart with a footman sitting up behind like a monkey. We got acquainted through my bays racing him on Broadway. They are as fine a pair as there is in town except of course Vanderbilt’s if I do say so.

Well, honey they call me White Hat Maroon. I am playing up Texas like you said. Peabody of Philadelphia has a pretty team of dapple grays he drives to a landau. The races are just beginning. Better get you one of those new trunks they call Saratoga trunks big as a house and it will hold those fancy dresses of yours I haven’t seen anybody can come within a mile of you for looks and style though they dress up day and night like a fancy dress ball. It beats anything I bet even Paris France. The girls are all out after Bart Van Steed and even yours truly they say their mamas bring them here to catch a husband. And a lot of the other kind here too, bold as brass. The race when it comes to looks and clothes and bows is between a Mrs Porcelain from the East somewhere and Miss Giulia Forosini her pa is the banker from California she drives three white mares down Broadway with snow-white reins, it’s as good as a circus. Well honey sweetheart that gives you some idea. Van Steed is a mama boy they say afraid of his ma, she isn’t here yet but coming and he is trying to make hay while the sun shines they say if he looks at a girl his ma snatches him away pronto. Bring all your pretty dresses. My room number is 239 at the front of the house there are rooms at the back on the balconies facing the garden very expensive they call them cottages which they are not but too quiet for my taste. Try to get 237 and 238 bedroom and sitting room they are vacant I paid for them for a week I said I wanted plenty of room and talked big. You make up a good reason for wanting them specially and I’ll be a little gentleman and give them up when the manager asks me to. There is something big here if we play our cards right. Hurry up and come on but let me know everything about it as soon as you can. You drive to the lake for fish dinners and catch the fish yourself if you want to as good as New Orleans or better—black bass, canvasbacks, brook trout, woodcock, reed birds, soft shell crabs, red raspberries. You won’t even remember Begue’s with their kidney stew they make such a fuss about. They give you something called Saratoga chips it is potatoes as thin as tissue paper and crackly like popcorn. Everything free and easy, plenty of money, not too hot and big shady trees and you can smell the pines. This is bigger than I thought. I wish there was some way I could get at the big money boys I am studying how I can do it. I hate them worse than a cow man hates a sheep man. Well, if the cards run right and the horses run right and the little ball falls right we ought to clean up here. And if I do honey I’m going to buy you the biggest whitest diamond on Fifth Avenue New York. Only hurry away from that stew-kettle down there and come up here to,

Your friend,

W
HITE
H
AT
M
AROON
.

P.S. Crazier than ever about you I don’t like you being down there alone old Kaka and Cupide don’t count.

Clio Dulaine’s reply to this rambling letter was characteristically direct and astute.

C
LINT
C
HERI
:—

It has been very queer here. All things. But I am well and I am safe and I shall arrive in Saratoga on July 14th at half-past two. Do not meet me. Be at the hotel desk when I enter. The hotel will expect me on the 15th. Find out immediately, as soon as you have read this letter, if Van Steed’s mother is arriving in Saratoga before that time. Telegraph me at once. This is important. If she is not there he will receive a telegram sent by me en route at the last minute to say that she is on the train and that he is to meet her. It may not work but I shall try. Remember, you do not know me. I think this will not be a little holiday with perhaps some luck at cards and horses. This is the chance of a lifetime. I am bringing Kaka and Cupide of course and eight trunks besides boxes.
A bientôt chéri,
Big Texas. Remember we are business partners. I have written the hotel.

C
LIO
D
E
C
HANFRET
.

Her letter to the United States Hotel was as brief and more to the point.

M
Y DEAR
S
IR
:—

My physician Dr. Fossat has advised me to go to Saratoga for the waters following my recent illness due to my bereavement of which you doubtless have heard. I shall require a bedroom and sitting room for myself and accommodations elsewhere in the hotel for my maid and my groom. Many years ago my dear husband occupied apartment 237 and 238 in the United States Hotel. It will make me very happy if you can arrange to give me this same apartment. If it is difficult I shall be happy to recompense the hotel for its trouble.

One thing more I must ask of you. Though I am the Comtesse de Trenaunay de Chanfret I wish to be known only as plain Mrs. De Chanfret. I want to remain quiet while at Saratoga. I wish no formal ceremonies. I must rely completely on you to comply with my request to remain incognito.

I shall arrive on July 15th at half-past two o’clock.

I remain,

Sincerely yours,

C
OMTESSE DE
T
RENAUNAY DE
C
HANFRET

(M
RS
. D
E
C
HANFRET
please!)

Twenty-four hours after the arrival of this letter everyone in Saratoga knew that nobility was coming incognito. Saratoga made much of its train arrivals in this, the height of the season. The natives themselves flocked down to see the notables and fashionables as they stepped off the train. The bell in the old station cupola added its clamor to the pandemonium of train bell, whistle, screech; the cries of greeting or farewell; the shouts of hotel porters and omnibus and hack drivers; the thud of heavy trunks; the stamp of nervous horses’ hoofs. Landaus and dogcarts and phaetons and even a barouche or two were drawn up at the platform’s edge. There was a swishing of silks and bouncing of bustles and trailing of draperies. Bewhiskered and mustached beaux in midsummer suits of striped seersucker or checked linen, horsey men in driving coats of fawn color or buckskin made a great show of gallantry as they bowed and postured and twirled their mustaches and took charge of the light hand-luggage and gave authoritative masculine orders regarding the disposal of trunks and boxes.