come for me, and its coachman.”
Madame allowed herself to be shocked. “My servant? Oh, Monsieur Le Brun. This mixing is impossible. It isn’t done. In the big cities, New Orleans, yes. But in these small circles? Impossible.”
Le Brun sighed. “Then I will see your son for my payment and be on my way.”
“Not so hasty, Monsieur Le Brun. Thisbe will attend.” She even smiled in defeat. To herself, she thought, Of course Thisbe will attend the party, as a servant. Not as a guest.
She said to Thisbe, “I try to save you and you drop your scent like a deer in the woods.”
Thisbe followed Madame to Lucien’s office.
Even with his mother conveying her impatience and urgency, Lucien looked at Thisbe, winked, and said, “Your master leaves for two years. How will you bear it?”
Thisbe, already chastised by her mistress for possessing a modicum of womanliness, dared not speak, even if to respect the Master or to deny his claim.
Madame didn’t have time for this foolishness. She would let her son think the boy had meddled with her servant for his sake, but this was not the matter at hand. “My son, we have trouble with the painter.”
“How so?”
“He won’t show the painting without payment. He wants to leave as soon as possible.”
“Let him and his painting go. The end of our immediate troubles.”
“No,” Madame said. “No. I sat for my portrait. It is mine.”
Lucien put down his pen. “Mother, what can we do?”
“We must pay. Can you imagine? Suppose word reaches the countess that we have treated her painter poorly? Think, son. She will end the engagement between Eugénie and Byron. The scandal! How will I face Lucille Pierpont? We will be ruined.”
“Mother. Dear Mother. You have controlled our living all these years. Look at us. We are in ruin because you hold on to the reins. We are in this ruin because we must have a sitting in St. James, when no one sits for portraits. But rest assured, Mother. We will be famous throughout St. James Parish. Maybe throughout this Louisiana.”
“If you went to France so many years ago—”
“We are beyond France and so many years ago, Mother.”
Thisbe remained in her servant’s pose. Head and eyes downcast. Ears open.
“Now, more than ever, we need everything to orchestrate in our favor. We need Laurent Tournier to fall so much in love with Rosalie that there’s nothing he and his father will deny us. Yes, Mother. It has come to this. As humiliating as it will be, I will ask Tournier for a loan. I would much rather use the liaison with the Tourniers to better the farm, but here we are. The carriages will soon arrive. I will escort my daughter into the waltz. Into our home.”
He waited for her to object to Rosalie or the Tourniers.
Madame turned, and Thisbe followed.
XIII
MARIE AND LOUISE ROLLED UP THE CARPET AND MOVED the tables and large chairs out onto the gallery on the side of the house. The floors were swept. The vases put away. Ladder-back chairs were placed in a row in the main salon for parents to sit and watch their children navigate on the small dance floor. Smaller tables were moved into the east parlor and quickly set up with the punch bowl, cups, small plates, dessert forks, pickle forks, and linen napkins.
Next, the sisters carried buckets of water from the well to fill large clay jars for punch. Then they carried buckets of water from the cistern into the room where the barrels were housed for washing clothes. The room was cool. Ideal to mix the punch, but most important, this water would keep a steady stream of silverware, dishes, and cups washed and rinsed before they were dried and brought back out to the sideboard and tables for reuse.
The fiddlers, a father and young son, had been inspected by Marie and Louise. They were told to wear shoes, their best jackets and pants. They were told, No straw hats in Madame’s house. No talking to the white people. Then Louise remembered that there would be two colored people in attendance. And Thisbe. The sisters then said, “No talking to guests.” They scolded the musicians that there would be no American reels. No hopping music. No Irish jig music. No German music. No Cajun music. No Black music. “Make the rhythm for white Creoles.” The waltz, the cotillon, and the quadrille. This would be no hard task for the fiddlers. Both father and son earned themselves and Lucien