The Casquette Girls (26 page)

“
Non, no
n
,
you both have it wrong. He is shipping her off to a Catholic nunnery in
La Nouvelle-Orléans
because she is so unwieldy.”

“Oh, what I wouldn’t pay to know who her mother is…”

“Either way, the count should have married. What else could he possibly have expected to happen? Raising a daughter on his own, letting her run completely wild?”

“I’ve heard that the count doesn’t like women—”

“Well, I’ve heard that he just doesn’t like sex—”

“I heard that he just didn’t like you…”

As they laughed, I smiled and pretended to be so smitten by Monsieur Cartier’s words that I couldn’t possibly hear anything they were saying, as you taught me, so many years ago, to do in such situations.

When we made it through the parlor room of leeches, the lady of the house whisked me away from Jean-Antoine’s arm and whispered in my ear, “Child, I am so glad you made it.”

I greeted her with affection and apologized for not sending.

“Leave it to Mademoiselle Saint-Germain to show up with the most beautiful man in Paris when she couldn’t show up with the craziest man in France.”

Blood invaded my cheeks. “My holiday to New France was supposed to be a secret, but it appears all of Paris knows…”

“Well, my dear, you know secrets travel fast in Paris. It is not gossip that you must worry about, only the days when you are not worth gossiping about.”

Her words made me smile, as did the boisterous call from one of your favorite, and rather drunk, budding playwrights.

“Adeline Saint-Germain! If I send a manuscript with you, can you make sure it is the first comedy performed in
La Nouvelle-Orléans
?”

To which I replied, “Of course, and perhaps I can convince François-Marie, I mean, Voltaire, to leave England and continue his exile in
La Nouvelle-Orléans
?”

Everyone laughed. I smiled, and before I could finish scanning the room, Monsieur Cartier was gently guiding me by the elbow through the crowd to a settee in a far corner.

“
Mademoiselle
,” he said and offered me a glass of bubbling wine (it’s becoming all the rage), which I gladly accepted after successfully navigating that female blockade of Parisian aristocracy.

He began telling me about his adventures, and not long after, I found myself clinging to his every word. This surprised me, since I have been witnessing men telling their tales, shouting their dramas, or drunkenly sobbing their poems since the day of my birth, thanks to your constant need to entertain, Father. I tried not to fiddle with the medallion strung around my neck, but I couldn’t keep my hands still and didn’t want to have an unfortunate accident with an airborne utensil.

Time flew by, and the sparkling wine never stopped. He confirmed all the other stories I had heard: “The air is always wet, as if the clouds are about to burst.” He spoke of the beautiful homes that the planters are building, and how
La Louisiann
e
is not like any of the puritan British regions of the New Colonies.

There was no arrogance to his tone, typical of Parisian intelligentsia, nor the abhorrent self-loathing of the artists they surround themselves with. He clearly knew I had been raised in the parlor rooms of some of the greatest salons in Paris, yet he was not intimidated in the slightest
, and he seemed to take no notice of the other women in the room, who were all plotting their next moves to speak with him. He paid such close attention to my face that at times I couldn’t help but feel like a caged canary and he a cat.

I had been utterly bored and lonely from the moment you left, and he was so charming – I soaked up his company. It all just felt too romantic, too perfect. His descriptions of the foreign land made it sound beautiful and exotic, and he confirmed that there
are endless opportunities in New France for the right kind of people – people who are resourceful.

“And you,
Mademoiselle
,” he said, “strike me as an extremely resourceful woman. You will love it there.”

As the night went on, the more we drank and the more I prodded him for information, until the stories moved in a darker direction. He told me of serpents, and of rats the size of my arm, and of flying bugs that pinch all over your skin in the night. He warned that the streets were dangerous, and told me strange tales about the native people, and cannibals, and young virgins being kidnapped! He spoke of enslaved Africans casting curses on their owners. I was enthralled by his experiences, and jealous of his ability to live life as he so desired. His stories drew me closer and closer to him. At times I had to refrain from curling up into his lap.

He never once made me fight for his attention, nor did he stare at my bosom like most men, which made me question his intentions. Usually, the intentions of men are quite clear. I began to wonder if my corset was tight enough! I spent the entire night trying to figure out what he wanted. The more elusive one of us became, the deeper the other dug.

In a way that I found quite coy, he said, “You will find me to be a very patient man, Mademoiselle Saint-Germain.”

“A quality not usually found in a man so young, Monsieur Cartier.”

“I must confess that, despite my age, I feel I have lived many lives. I have had so many trips, so many adventures – and fortunately, because of my age, have so many yet to come.” His eyes moved directly to mine, and I thought I might actually faint. This is the most peculiar part of the story, Papa, and I know I already confessed to drinking perhaps too deeply of the wine, but I can assure you I tell this next account exactly as it happened.

We left the salon in his carriage, and I asked him to tell me the darkest encounter he had ever witnessed i
n
La Nouvelle-Orléan
s
.
Suddenly, he grabbed both of my arms with great excitement and begged me not to go. His reaction left me completely confounded.

“You don’t understand,” he insisted. “It is dangerous. It is not safe for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Someone… so beautiful. Someone so pure.”

“Dear Monsieur Cartier, I believe you have me mixed up with some other ingénue. I am certainly not as innocent as I look.” I laughed.

“You mock me…”

“Of course I mock you. You are speaking nonsense!”

“I could travel with you – there will be pirates on the water, looking to plunder and pillage. You might not even make it across the ocean! It might sound like nonsense, but I am absolutely serious, I assure you.”

“Serious? The ship sets sail tomorrow! How would you even get a ticket?”

“I don’t need a ticket. You could sneak me onboard in your luggage.” I stopped laughing when he grabbed my hands and held them tight. “I won’t let anything happen to you; I give you my word.”

His persona had seemed so demur all night – this behavior rendered me speechless. Now, I could feel his strength through his grip. His power surprised me, and his cool touch excited me. I thought he might attempt to break the silence by kissing me; instead, he looked intently into my eyes and said, “You will invite me to come with you, and you will allow me to stay inside your trunk, and you will tell no one we are traveling together.”

Flabbergasted, I stared blankly at him with bated breath.

He didn’t stir, nor did I.

I held still until I could no longer contain myself. Then I began to giggle uncontrollably, and again he huffed and puffed in frustration, as if he had thought he could will me into doing whatever he wanted. I laughed until I was gasping for air, and then leaned into his chest and took a deep breath.

His back stiffened, and he asked, “What are you doing, pray tell?”

I took another deep inhale of his coat. “Monsieur Cartier, I am trying to figure out if you smoked an opium pipe when I wasn’t looking.”

“Adeline, you know I didn’t leave your sight all night.”

“That is true, but I cannot think of anything else that would make you say something so absurd.”

He gazed upon my smile, bewildered and a bit sullen, as the carriage approache
d
la maiso
n
.

“Well, Monsieur Jean-Antoine Cartier, I do thank you for escorting me to the salon, and I do regret having only met you on my last night in Paris.”

He helped me out of the carriage and bid me farewell before stepping back in. “It is not possible that we will not see each other again, Mademoiselle Saint-Germain, that I can promise you. I bid yo
u
au revoi
r
, ’til we meet again i
n
La Nouvelle-Orléans
.”

“I cannot believe this is my last night. I believe my heart will always be here.
Je t’aime, Pari
s
.
”

He leaned out of the window curtain
and kissed both of my cheeks. “And Paris loves you.”

Absorbed by his words, I smiled and waved as his coachmen prepared to leave, but then he called for my attention one last time
:

“And, Adeline, do tell your father I called,
si’l vous plaît
.”

His smile turned devilish as the carriage took off with a jolt, leaving behind only the echoes of hooves against the cobblestones.

October 24
th

Our city had drowned two months and three weeks ago. Now, the world was moving on without us.

As fresher headlines
popped up elsewhere, the media began to leave New Orleans, and slowly the world stopped paying attention. We were left to fend for ourselves on the eroding banks of the gulf, of the river, of time.

Time had always passed slowly in the South, but
now it was like the Storm had hit the pause button, and Louisianians were frozen between frames. The pace of life went from slow to barely existent.

Progress stalled as local, state, and federal government agencies fought over control of funds and power. The longer things stalled, the more people blamed each other, and the more people blamed each other, the less rebuilding happened. We were quickly moving out of the we’re-all-in-this-together phase into bitterness and resentment. Most people were still at the whim of the defunct electric grid. We were still living under the mandatory curfew
. And we were still eating scrounged canned goods. Of course, my father and I were far better off than the hundreds of thousands who were still displaced and/or were now homeless. Not to mention those who hadn’t survived. The dead. Smashed. Drowned.

Murdered.

Thoughts of death forced everything else to escape to the back of my mind, except the supernatural questions that had plagued me ever since the night of the tour. The longer the truth eluded me, the more torturous every hour of every day became, until eventually I was drifting along in an incessant dream state where nothing felt real. In this dream state I believed that vampires
coul
d
exist.

Believing this fundamentally changed the way I looked at everything. It must be the way people felt when they found God – processing everything after that moment in a brand new way.

I had no proof of their existence, just this feeling, like the puzzle pieces of my brain had suddenly snapped into place. The only point of reference I had to compare it to was when I had made the Santa Claus discovery. I was only seven years old, but I can still remember that exact moment when it all suddenly made sense – the cookies, the presents, the reindeer – it was this very distinct moment of clarity. Upon this moment, I rushed to my father and demanded evidence as to how a fat man could come through our chimney! That, of course, sent him into crisis mode, stuck between the adult thing to do and the parental thing to do. When I threatened to drag the eleven-year-old future-scientists into the discussion, he caved and told me the truth.

We hadn’t had any secrets since.

In retrospect, I think he was relieved not to have to keep up the fantasy any longer.

Even as a kid, I’d felt so silly knowing I’d believed the hoax when the truth had been so obvious.

I had needed proof then. And that’s what I needed now: evidence that would weave this dream state in which vampires
coul
d
exist with reality where I was taught that the idea was fiction. This time, I couldn’t rely on my father or the twins to confirm my hypothesis. They’d think I was crazy. When I thought about it, I felt crazy.

Am I craz
y
?

When I asked myself too many questions, everything began to unravel. A little voice inside my head warned me to let it go, but that was no longer an option – it felt powerful to know something no one else knew. But with no idea of where to start, I felt like Alice chasing the white rabbit’s shadow, fumbling around in the dark for the hole, for the fall, for the proof of its existence.