The Exiles (7 page)
Aimee Fontaine was a calm and generous and loving woman, but now someone had hurt her child. An anger began to grow in her, and soon it was white hot. She stood there trembling, so angry that she wanted to strike out and beat her fists against something. Instead she took a deep breath, walked stiffly to the rosewood secretary, and sat down. Getting a sheet of paper, she dipped her pen in ink and wrote in large letters without any heading:
Come home at once and bring a horse for your daughter—the one you promised her!
She formed an exclamation point, then blotted the letter, folded it, put it into an envelope, and sealed it with wax. She strode into the kitchen, where she found Robert polishing the silver. “Robert,” she said, holding out the envelope, “take this at once to your master.”
“Why, yes, madame. Shall I wait for an answer?”
“I expect he will be coming back with you.” Polar ice was never colder than Aimee’s tone, and as she turned and left the room, Robert stared after her.
“Never seen her like that before! I can imagine what’s in here,” he said to Elise.
“I hope she told him what a sorry excuse for a father he is,” Elise said. Tears came to her eyes. “I hope she did.”
“Well, I’ll find him. I know all of his spots,” Robert said grimly. He put the envelope into his pocket, put on his coat, and left the house. A few moments later Elise heard the sound of hoofbeats and looked out the window to see Robert driving a large bay gelding at full speed down the road.
Cretien was winning and, as always, this made him feel good. The stakes had gotten high, and as he pulled in the pot, he shook his head. “You gentlemen are not lucky tonight.”
“No, I believe you have all the luck, Cretien.” The speaker was a tall, swarthy man with a sharp-pointed mustache. He looked up suddenly and said, “Isn’t that your man Robert?”
Cretien turned and saw Robert striding across the room. “Why, so it is!” he said.
“Madame Fontaine asked me to give you this, sir,” Robert said to him.
Cretien took the envelope, but his eyes were on Robert’s face. Robert had been with him for a long time, and the two got along well. Now, however, there was a fixed hardness on the face of his manservant.
“Is someone sick?” he asked quickly. “One of the children?”
“No, sir.”
The answer gave no information, and Cretien opened the envelope. He pulled out the single sheet of paper and read the stark message. Licking his lips, he put the letter back into the envelope and carefully put it into his pocket. “I’m cashing in,” he said. “I have to go.”
“Is there some sort of problem, Cretien?”
“I’m afraid so. I’ll give you a chance to get even next time I’m in town.” Robert stood, silently waiting until his employer had collected his winnings, then followed him outside the gambling room.
As soon as they were outside, Cretien turned and said, “Go to the house and pack my things, then meet me in front of the hotel. We’ll be leaving in an hour.”
Robert nodded and left, saying not a word. Cretien watched him go, then turned and broke into a half run. He did not stop until he got to a stable and called out, “I need some help.”
Chantel cried herself to sleep, then slept fitfully. She awoke to the sound of a voice calling her name, and at first she thought it was just another dream. The voice called her name again.
“Chantel, wake up. It’s Papa.”
She came out of sleep and found her father kneeling beside her bed, holding a candle with his right hand.
“Papa, what is it?” she said, groggily struggling to sit up.
“Are you awake?”
“Yes, I’m awake.” Chantel saw her father’s tense face, and fear came to her. “Is something wrong with Mama?”
“No, not at all.”
“Is Veronique all right?”
“She’s fine. Come with me. I have something to show you.”
Chantel stood up barefooted, but suddenly her father blew the candle out and set it down. He picked her up in his arms and went out the door. Chantel blinked against the lights that were burning and saw her mother standing at the foot of the stairs. Again she felt a wash of fear, but her father’s arms held her tight. She reached up and put her arms around his neck and her face against his chest. When they went outside it was dark, but a lantern threw some light on the scene. She saw Robert standing there holding the lantern high.
“Happy birthday, daughter.”
The events of the day rushed back to Chantel, but when Cretien turned around she saw a small horse standing next to Robert.
“Happy birthday,” her father whispered. “She’s all yours. A fine mare.”
In all her life Chantel had never felt as she did at that moment. Gone were the tears and the heartache that had crushed her. She stared at the horse and whispered, “For me, Papa?”
“All yours, little one. Why don’t you go get acquainted with her?”
Chantel felt herself being lowered, and she ran barefooted toward Robert, who was holding the mare with his other hand. She stopped, reached up, and the mare whickered at her and lowered her head carefully. Chantel felt the velvet nose, and tears came into her eyes. She began to cry and could not stop.
“I love you, Lady,” she whispered, and then she turned and ran back up the steps to her father. “I knew you wouldn’t forget, Papa. I knew you wouldn’t!”
Cretien Fontaine felt shame such as he had rarely known. Turning slightly, he saw Aimee standing in the open door. Their eyes met, and as Chantel said again, “I knew you wouldn’t forget!” he looked down. He held the child close, then he kissed her cheek and said hoarsely, “I’ll never be late for your birthday party again, daughter.
I swear it!”
Grasping the reins of her mare firmly, Chantel sat straight in the saddle, filled with joy. She glanced at her father, who was riding Caesar, and thought,
He is the handsomest man in the world.
Cretien turned and smiled at her. “A good morning for a ride, eh?” He saw that her eyes were dancing bright, but now there was the air of a little girl’s eagerness about her that he had learned to recognize. “I wish everyone in the world could get out and ride like this with a fine rider like you.”
Chantel’s face revealed the pleasure that welled up inside. She turned away so that he could not see how happy he had made her. Ahead she saw a tree across the path and said, “Let’s jump it, Papa.”
“Do you think you can do it?”
“You just watch. Come on, Lady.” Chantel leaned forward and spoke encouragingly to the mare, who broke into a swift gallop. When she came to the log, Chantel cried out, and the mare jumped it easily.
Chantel looked back, crying, “I did it, Papa!” She watched as her father took the jump and pulled up beside her.
“That was fine! You’ve become a good rider.” He studied her for a moment and then shook his head. “But you’re going to have to learn to ride sidesaddle sometime.”
“Oh, Papa, that’s no fun! Riding with your leg crooked around an old saddle horn!”
“That may be, but it’s the way ladies ride.”
“I think it’s silly!” Chantel turned to face her father, her brow kneaded. “I want to ride just like you do.”
“Well, we’ll worry about that when you get all grown up. In the meanwhile you’ve gotten to be a fine rider.”
Chantel flashed a smile. “You know, Papa, the last six months have been the best time of my whole life.”
“Is that right? Well, I’m glad to hear it. I hope the rest of your life will be just as good.”
“Papa, do you think I’ll ever be pretty like Mama?”
Cretien hesitated. In truth he was disappointed that his daughter had not inherited Aimee’s beauty. She was entirely different, and he sought words carefully so that he would not hurt her feelings.
“Let me tell you something about beauty, daughter. You have one thing that I admire very much.” He saw her eyes brighten and he smiled. “You have a fine carriage. You’re a tall young lady, and you’re going to be even taller when you grow up. A fine carriage and good bone structure, which you have—nothing can take the place of those.” He turned to look at a small bird pouring out a symphony of song.
He gazed at the bird for a moment and then turned back and said, “I knew a lady once in France. She had the same sort of bone structure that you have, Chantel. And when you studied her face alone she didn’t seem exceptionally attractive. But she carried herself well, and somehow other people began to think she
was
attractive.”
He thought for a moment about the days that he had spent in Paris, and there was a queer twist in him—a stray current of something out of his far past, half regret and half a pale sentimentality. Shaking himself, he said, “Now, you’re going to be just like that woman. You’re going to think yourself beautiful.”
“But how can I do that?”
“That’s what you must find out for yourself. We, all of us, have to find out things about ourselves, Chantel.”
Chantel thought about his words and then said, “You know, I want to do so many things. Last night when I saw Veronique looking out the window she saw the moon, and she reached out for it. But she didn’t know she could never get it.”
“Reach for the moon, Chantel,” Cretien said strongly. “You may not get it, but you must never give up trying. Some poet or other, I forget who it was, said, ‘Always reach for the stars. Some day you might get one.’ Something like that.”
The two talked as their horses walked side by side, until Cretien said, “I think we’d better get back now. It’s getting a little bit late.”
“Just a little ways further, Papa.”
“No, I have things to do.”
Reluctantly Chantel reined Lady around, and when they started back, she said, “When will you have to leave, Papa?”
“Next week, I think.” He turned and smiled. “I’ll bring you back something from the city. What would you like?”
Instantly Chantel said, “I would like a pistol.”
Her answer brought a burst of laughter from Cretien. He was fascinated by the mind of this daughter of his. “A pistol! What in the world would you do with a pistol?”
“I would protect myself. And if a burglar came in the house, I would shoot him.”
“I think eleven is a little young to be shooting burglars. Wherever do you get such ideas?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I just think of them.”
“I believe you’ve been reading too many romances.”
“But I love the stories, Papa. Don’t you?”
“They’re all right. But you have to remember, Chantel, they’re just stories. Not real life.” He did not speak for a time, and then he said, “I’ll bring you back something from town, but it will be much nicer than a pistol. Maybe a new dress or some shoes.”
“I’ll like whatever you bring, Papa—but someday when I grow up I’ll get myself a pistol and carry it in my reticule. Then I won’t have to be afraid of anyone.”
Cretien turned to study his daughter. He did not understand her in the least, but he shrugged and thought,
Maybe a man never understands a child. Especially a female one.
A cold breeze from the north bit at Chantel’s face, but she ignored it. She was wrapped up in heavy clothes and wore gloves that were really intended for more sedate pastimes than trot lining in the river. She sat in the back of the flat-bottom boat, watching as Brutus propelled them along by tugging at a heavy line. Every ten feet or so he would stop and examine a shorter line that was tied to the long one that stretched along the banks. One end was tied at the bank and another to a cypress tree that pushed its way upward out of the murky waters of the river.
“Let me put some bait on, Brutus.”
“No, missy, you’d better let me do dat,” he replied. He turned to smile at her, and the late afternoon sun caught his ebony features. His weight pushed the front of the johnboat down into the water. He reached into the bucket at his feet, pulled out a crawdad, and skillfully hooked the wiggling creature just beneath the top of its shell. He examined it critically, then lowered it into the water, still holding onto the main line.
“You cotch us a good catfish, Mr. Crawdad,” he said.
He was humming a tune, and as he moved along to the next set line, Chantel said, “What’s that song, Brutus?”
“Just a song I know.”
Chantel asked him to sing it again, and the second time she sang it with him.
“You sho is got a good singin’ voice, missy,” Brutus said. He started to speak, then suddenly he halted and turned quickly. “We got somethin’ on the line up ahead there! Feels like a big ’un!”
“Can I help pull it in?”
“No, indeed! These catfish can be mean critters. They got horns on ’em with pizen in ’em. But you kin watch. And then later on you kin have some good, fresh, fried catfish. Hold still now!”
Chantel watched with excitement as Brutus propelled the boat. She saw the line dipping and straining, and, as always, wished she could help.
Brutus kept a tight hold, and once he turned and said, “He shore is a big ’un. Must be big as Jonah’s whale.” He turned back and soon he said, “Gonna have to pull hard to get dis ’un in. You watch now. Don’t let him git close to you when he get in de boat.”
After what seemed like a long struggle, Brutus gave a tug, and a huge catfish came dripping and flopping into the bottom of the boat. He was the biggest catfish Chantel had ever seen, and she saw him swing his head around.
“Watch out for dem horns now! Lemme get ’em off.” Brutus approached the fish carefully, for the dorsal fin and the two side fins both had spikes that could hurt fiercely. He waited his chance, ran his huge hand in the fish’s lip, and gripped down. Chantel saw the mighty mouth close, but Brutus was not paying attention. With a pair of pliers he reached down and snapped off the dorsal fin, the horn, and then the two side fins. “There, dat’ll hold you, I reckon.”
“He’s so big!”
“Biggest one I ever cotched,” he said. “Now, I reckon as how we might as well go home. We got enough fish for one night, and mo’ than I expect. Everybody will have fish at Fontaine Maison tonight.” The fish flopped and thrashed around the bottom of the boat as Brutus dropped the line down. It sank immediately because of the weights he had tied to it. Picking up a paddle, he sent the small craft over the water with powerful strokes.