The Exiles (21 page)
“Do you know him, Neville?”
“No, I don’t. I’ve heard of the Gaspard family, but I’ve never met any of them.”
“He is a wonderful artist.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I bought two of his paintings that he did right on the plantation.” Neville listened as she spoke with animation, her eyes glowing. Cautiously he tried to find out more about the man that had so stirred her, but soon they were at the Royale Restaurant, and she said, “We’re supposed to meet Yves here.”
When they entered they were greeted by a waiter, and when Chantel asked if anyone had reserved a table, he nodded. “Yes, Monsieur Gaspard, I believe. He said you would be coming. Would you step this way, please.”
Neville followed Chantel, and when the two got to a table along the wall, a tall man stood up, and Chantel introduced them. “Yves, this is my best friend and my attorney, Neville Harcourt. Neville, I’d like for you to meet Yves Gaspard.”
The two men made a half bow and then shook hands. Yves said, “I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Harcourt. You’ve been a good friend, indeed, to Chantel.”
“We’ve known each other a long time.”
The three of them sat down, and Yves looked around saying, “I’ve eaten at this place several times. The food is exquisite.”
The three of them ordered, and after the waiter left Neville said, “I understand you’re a painter.”
“Well, the jury is still out on that.
I
think I am, but the world has not beaten a path to my door.”
“I’d like to see your work sometime.”
“Naturally I would be proud to show it to you. I have a studio at our family home.”
Chantel wanted the two men to like each other, but she soon discovered that Neville was up to something. Without appearing to do so, he was eliciting information about Yves.
He’s acting like Yves is a criminal under suspicion. I wanted them to meet as friends.
Finally she said, “Really, I think both of us owe Neville a debt. The pistol that I shot that man with was a gift from him.”
Yves grinned, his teeth very white against his olive complexion. “Very fortunate for both of us that you did. Yet a rather strange gift to give a lady.”
“Oh, I’d always wanted one,” Chantel said quickly. “And Neville got it for my graduation.”
“Are you still carrying it?” Neville asked.
“Yes, I have it right here, but I don’t think I’ll need it in the restaurant.”
The meal was pleasant enough, but when they were through, Yves rose and said, “I have an appointment. It’s been good to meet you, sir.”
“And you, too, monsieur.”
Yves turned to Chantel and said, “I’ll pick you up early. Perhaps we can have something to eat after the opera.”
“That will be wonderful, Yves.”
Chantel watched the tall form of Yves as he left—and noticed that an attractive woman seated near the door also turned her gaze on him. “Do you like him, Neville?”
“He seems a very nice fellow, and he did you a great service. I have to like him for that.” Neville toyed with his spoon and then said, “I take it he hasn’t been very successful in his profession?”
“Not yet, but there’s time.”
Neville put the spoon down, then folded his arms and stared at Chantel. “You like him, don’t you?”
“Very much! And not just because he saved my life.”
Neville shook his head slightly. “I’ve got to warn you about men, Chantel. You’re attractive, and you have money.”
“Oh, so men would want to marry me only because I have money?”
“Not only because of that, but—”
“Well, you don’t have to worry. Yves warned me about the same thing.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. He said to bring any suitors I have to him, and he will tell me if they’re fortune hunters.” She laughed and shook her head. “He told me to be careful of him because he is a starving artist, and if he got hungry enough, he might even stoop to fortune hunting himself.”
What a clever fellow!
Neville thought. He saw that Chantel was infatuated with the man, and it did not surprise him. She had led a sheltered life, and Gaspard was a romantic man if nothing else. He had good looks, charm, and wit, and the very idea of his being an artist must appeal to any impressionable young girl.
“Well, I will make you the same offer. I’d like to look over any prospective suitors you have.”
“Why, certainly,” she said and gave him a teasing look. “Don’t worry, Neville. I’ll have any man who wants to marry me ask your permission, just as if you were my father.”
Somehow this did not sit well with Neville, but he nodded. “I think that would be very wise.” He managed a smile and said, “You’re engaged tonight. What about tomorrow night?”
“I’ll see if I’m free and send you a note.”
Neville knew this meant she would see if Gaspard had anything planned. He covered his disappointment and said, “That will be fine.”
A month had passed since Chantel had come to New Orleans. She had at first intended to go right back to the plantation, but somehow this plan failed to materialize. Almost every night she was at the theater, at the opera, at an exhibition—and almost always with Yves Gaspard.
Neville was troubled, although he never let it show to Chantel. Three times that month she had gone out with him, but one of those times Gaspard had been with them, so it had not been what Neville had wished. He was more worried than he liked to express.
One afternoon in the early days of September he came to the Fontaine home and was greeted by Collette. She seated him and offered him tea, and then said, “Chantel has gone back to the plantation.”
At Neville’s look of surprise, she continued, “You didn’t know? I thought she must have told you.”
“No, she didn’t say a word.”
Neville felt a deep disappointment, but he wanted to know more. “What made her decide to go back?”
“I think it was more Yves’s decision. He wants to paint scenes around the plantation, particularly in the bayou. And Chantel, of course, loves the place.”
“You thought it appropriate for her to go on a trip with a man?”
Collette shook her head. “I’m afraid she’s falling in love with him, Neville. They’ve been inseparable for the past month.”
“Yes, I know. I’m worried about it.”
Collette shrugged. “His family is respectable. His mother came from the Defoe family, quite prominent. They were into shipping.”
“But I understand they don’t have any money now.”
“That’s true enough.” She cocked her head to one side and said, “This bothers you, doesn’t it, Neville?”
“Yes, it does. I feel responsible for Chantel.”
“She could do worse. Yves seems like a good enough man, from what I understand.”
“I don’t think it’s a good thing for Chantel,” Neville replied. “She’s young and impressionable, and she hasn’t gotten over the death of her father yet.”
“No, I don’t think she has. Perhaps she never will. She’s that kind of girl. But I can’t forbid her to see him. She’s independent.” She smiled archly and said, “You saw to that when you talked Cretien into giving her a trust fund.”
“Yes, I suppose I did.” Neville rose and said, “Well, I must be going. Thank you for the tea.”
“I’ll be writing to Chantel. Shall I give her any word from you?”
“Just my good wishes. Good day, madame.”
For two days Neville was unusually sharp at the office. His clerks learned to avoid him, and one of them said, “I don’t know what’s eating on him, but he’s not himself. He’s gotten to be as mean as a cottonmouth!”
Indeed, Neville was troubled, and he knew that it centered on Chantel Fontaine. His own feelings for her were confused. At times he thought of her as a child, but he remembered the kiss he had taken and how, when he had held her briefly in his arms, it had not been a child but a mature woman who kissed him back. He knew many sad cases of women who had rushed into marriage precipitously with men who were selfish, and although he could not make this charge with any certainty against Gaspard, he could not get the matter out of his mind.
The next Thursday he was having a conference with a man by the prosaic name of Smith whose family was prominent in society. When the business was done, Neville gathered the papers together and said, “I met a man recently named Yves Gaspard. Do you know the family?”
“Oh, certainly. As a matter of fact, I’ve met the young man. He’s some kind of an artist fellow, isn’t he?”
“I believe so. How do you know him?”
“I had some business once with the family. His father, Giles, married Jeanne Defoe when she was what was called a ‘maiden lady.’” He smiled and shook his head. “She was in her late thirties, and her parents thought she would never marry.”
“Was it a good marriage?”
“In some ways, I suppose, but Giles Gaspard was a very poor businessman. He made terrible investments and ran through the money that she brought to their marriage. They live now in an old mansion in the Garden District. They keep up the front somehow. You see them at balls now and then.”
“What about the son?”
“Well, he has promise, I suppose. He couldn’t make up his mind about a profession. He tried law, I think, and that didn’t suit him. Now he’s painting pictures.”
“And he never married. That seems odd.”
“Well, he’s tried to marry into money, more than once, I think. Of course the parents are behind that. He almost made a match with the Littleton girl, but her parents shipped her off to Europe to get her away from him.”
“I have a personal reason for asking, Mr. Smith. Is there anything you can tell me about Yves Gaspard, I’d like to know?”
Mr. Smith shrugged his shoulders mildly. “I understand the man has led a pretty wild life—but you know artists.” He smiled in condescension. “No morals whatsoever.”
After Smith left the office, Neville sat for a long time staring out his window. An idea began to take shape in his mind, and finally he called to his clerk. “Charles!” When the clerk came in, Neville said, “I’m going to take some time off. Arrange my schedule so that I can be gone for a week at least.”
“Yes, sir. It will be a little difficult. You need a partner.”
Neville shrugged. “Maybe you’ll grow up one day, and I can take you into the firm. Work on this right away, will you. I’m anxious to get away for a while.”
“If you don’t stop turning about, Miss Chantel, I’ll never get you dressed!”
Chantel, who had been twisting around with excitement, forced herself to stand still as Elise held a dress in front of her. She was wearing ankle-length pantalets and a white muslin petticoat over steel hoops fitted with tapes. She held her arms out, saying, “All right, I’m ready!” As Elise worked the dress on, Chantel held her breath until it slipped into place. Then as Elise fastened the back, she stood looking at it.
The dress was made of blue-green silk overlaid with blue lace flounces. On the chair beside her lay a sheer blue stole, a pair of white kid gloves, and an ivory and silk fan. She stood for a moment staring at herself and then tugged at the dress. “Elise,” she whispered, “it’s too—it’s too low!”
“It’s not too low! You’ve got a good form and beautiful skin. Now stop pulling at it!”
Elise fastened a corsage of green leaves and blue-green blossoms at her bosom and fitted a smaller one in her hair, which was fixed in long rolls that framed her face.
“Turn around now and let me see you.”
Chantel obeyed, and the dress swirled outward. “I used to hate these hoop skirts, but I must admit the style is graceful, isn’t it?”
“It is, and it shows off your small waist, too. Now, sit down and let me finish you off.”
Ten minutes later Elise pronounced her mistress ready for the ball, just as the door opened and Bertha, one of the maids, put her head in. “Your mister is here, Miss Chantel.”
“Oh, I’ve got to go!” Chantel murmured. She went to the door and sailed down the stairs, where she found Yves waiting for her. He was wearing a yellow silk vest, high-button coat, and a pair of tan trousers from under which peeked shiny brown boots. Most men wore high collars and bows, but he had a bright green scarf knotted around his neck. It brought out the color of his eyes.
He stepped forward and said, “You look beautiful, Chantel!”
“You do, too—I mean, you look very nice.”
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.” Chantel turned to Marie, who was watching with disapproval in her eyes. “We’ll be in late tonight.”
“Very well.” Marie sniffed and turned away.
“It would appear Marie doesn’t like me,” Yves said as he handed her into the carriage.
“Oh, she’s that way about anybody I like.”
When they were inside, Yves mounted the seat, took the lines from Brutus, and spoke to the horses. They moved forward briskly, and he turned to look at her more closely. “You’ll be the prettiest girl at the ball.”
Chantel wanted to say,
And you’ll be the most handsome man,
but that did not seem proper. “I doubt that,” she said. “Just the tallest.”
The ball was a complete success. All of Chantel’s friends were green with envy, she could tell, for Yves was, indeed, the best looking man there. He towered over most of the others, and it gave her the greatest of pleasure to look up at him as they waltzed.
She protested however. “You really should dance with some of the other ladies.”
“Why should I do that when I have you?”
“Because I really must dance with some of the other gentlemen.”
“But why would you want to do that when we’re the best company for each other in the room?”
Nevertheless, Chantel did make sure that she danced with several other young men, and when she did, Yves had no trouble finding partners. But no matter whom she was dancing with, she found herself watching him.
Once, toward the end of the ball, he brought her refreshments and leaned close to her. She could smell his shaving lotion—a deliciously masculine odor.
“You’d better be careful of that fellow, Beecham,” he said.
“Leon Beecham? Why, he’s an old friend.”
“No, he’s not. You know I’m commissioned to steer you away from unsuitable matches. Beecham has a look in his eye that I don’t like. I refuse to let you dance with him anymore.”
