The occasion was to be an afternoon’s get-together of friends and family. There were similar events being held all over the city, both private and public, to mark the centenary of the Louisiana Purchase, the land deal of the century—this past one, or any other. The French had given up most of a continent for a pittance. Planned celebrations included a naval review on the Mississippi, a historical ball in the French Opera House, and what they were calling a “grand pontifical mass” at St. Louis Cathedral.
This would be a more modest affair. Cordials, conversation, and old-fashioned songs for old-fashioned people. Louise would sing in the drawing room and a quartet would play in the courtyard amid the jasmine and crepe myrtle.
Euday proved to be an expert sight reader and an accurate player. The only disappointment was the piano, a good instrument whose tone was beginning to go. Its sound was like everything else in the city: exuberant, warped, and slightly off-key. Tropical decay was in its timbers, as it was in everything else in this corner of the world where gilt always peeled, panels invariably split, and bright colors ran into one another.
They gave each of the pieces a going-over, adjusting tempo and clarifying the dynamics wherever necessary. Euday asked pertinent questions and anticipated many of the answers. His playing style was unique in her experience; where some pounded along, he seemed to float without effort.
It took them barely more than an hour. When they were done, Louise turned to Mrs. Blanchard, who, as good as her word, had said nothing throughout.
Louise said, “I hope you approve of the selection.”
“The selection is fine,” Mrs. Blanchard said. “What was that last one? I never heard it before.”
“It’s Italian. Something I used to sing when I first went on the stage. That was back in England.”
Having gathered the printed music pages together, Euday now handed them back to her.
“Yours,” he said.
“Don’t you need to keep them?” she said.
“Just bring them along on the day,” he said. “I think I’ve got them now.”
He bade her a good evening. Mrs. Blanchard thanked him, and asked him to send Sophie up on his way out.
After he’d gone, Louise said to Mrs. Blanchard, “I’ve something to ask.”
“And that would be?”
“I’ve been offered the use of a property. It’s a house and some land outside town. I’ve never seen it, and I’ve no idea whether it’s even livable. I could use the advice of someone who can look it over with me and say whether it’s worth taking on.”
Mrs. Blanchard considered for a moment. “I’ve a nephew who’s a banker,” she said. “Would he do?”
“I’m sure he would, if you’re recommending him.”
Mrs. Blanchard didn’t seem entirely happy with her own choice.
“I’ll think some more,” she said. “Where are you staying? The St. Charles?”
“For now.”
“Send the details over. I’ll have someone look at them and then call on you.”
When Louise emerged into the street, the Silent Man was at her shoulder within a few seconds of the door closing behind her.
Back at the St. Charles Hotel, she was handed an envelope along with her key.
“Who left this?” she said.
“I wasn’t here when it came, ma’am,” the desk clerk said.
She didn’t open it there and then, but took it upstairs to open in her room. Louise disliked surprises.
The envelope contained a sheet of heavy cream paper that bore a fancy crest and read,
It was a printed page in flowing script, with a space where her name had been added by a less-than-flowing hand. It would admit her to Sunday night’s historical ball at the French Opera House. The evening included a gala performance with a series of allegorical tableaux at its conclusion.
She fanned herself with the paper, thinking. A kindness from one of her new acquaintances. She had no fine dress that was suitable. But influential people might be there. Rich people. Bored people. People of all stripes, and of all inclinations. She had dealt out no pain to any living soul since the last earthly moments of Jules Patenotre.
The thought sickened her, but not as much as it once might have. Nowhere near as much. Her first time had caused her weeks of nightmares. But repetition had blunted the impact of the deed, until it held almost no spiritual horror for her. She brought these people what they wanted, and so did her best to satisfy the terms of the Wanderer’s unwritten contract. If she must do harm, she would do it only to those who sought it. When none offered themselves, she would wait.
And if the wait grew too long, what then?
She would accept the invitation, and she would go to the ball. There she would circulate, alone and anonymous. From among those who went out seeking pleasure in this strange, corrupt, and free-living city, she would find one whose needs matched her own. It would not be difficult. Like always seemed to know like. And in the event of an unlooked-for consequence, like the death of Jules Patenotre…well, on such nights there were always casualties, to be discovered and swept up in the morning with the fallen bunting and the beads.
Someone had laid out good money for this ticket. Her understanding was that they sold at a high price, to keep out the vulgar. Someone wished to see her there.
Like, perhaps, had spotted like.
On Saturday, she would sing. And on Sunday evening, join the dance.
FORTY-THREE
On Friday morning, there was a knock at her hotel room door and the bell-hopper called out, “There’s a carriage awaitin’ for you, ma’am.”
She opened the door. She disliked it when the staff yelled her business for everyone to hear.
“I’ll be right down,” she said.
It was the Mute Woman’s turn to shadow her. The street in front of the hotel was wide and paved, with rails for streetcars and a place for horses to stand. A victoria waited, just a few yards along. At the front, alongside the driver, sat her piano accompanist from earlier in the week. When he saw Louise, he climbed down and opened the carriage door for her. Louise stopped on the sidewalk, uncertain.
“Please, Miz D’Alroy,” Euday said. “Climb on in.”
Louise turned to the Mute Woman.
“It’s a two-seater,” she said. “And we’ve to pick up Mrs. Blanchard’s nephew.”
The Mute Woman did not move.
“It appears that you have the morning off,” Louise said. “Let us both make the most of it.”
She climbed into the victoria and settled on the buttoned leather, feeling self-conscious. The carriage had seen better days, but it was still transport that declared the importance of its passenger. Euday swung back up into his seat beside the driver. The whip cracked, and off they went.
Louise risked a glance back and saw the Mute Woman standing on the sidewalk, watching them go.
After a while, she began to relax. No one was paying any particular attention as they went by. They went through the Vieux Carre and within a few city squares they were passing along streets that she didn’t recognize. At first she’d expected that they’d be stopping to pick up her adviser along the way. But after shops and office buildings gave way to warehouses, and the warehouses gave way to row after row of ugly wooden shacks with sagging windows and rotten verandas, she realized that they’d soon be outside the city altogether.
“Euday,” she called forward. “Where’s the nephew?”
The young man half turned in his seat. “Miz Blanchard reckoned I could advise you better. Only it won’t do to announce that to the whole town. You understand what I’m saying.” He suddenly remembered something, and reached inside his coat. “Here,” he said, producing documents that she recognized. “You want to keep these safe. I’ve been looking them over for you.”
He held them out for her to take. They were the deeds to Jules Patenotre’s property. She’d had the Silent
