papers. Pearls slid into January's hand.
In front of them, the Place d'Armes was a swaying sea of colors and flambeaux. Masked men and costumed women rioted among the cafes set up along the edges of the square. The music of a half-dozen bands cacophonized in the lamp-sprinkled lapis dark. Every steamboat on the levee was an illuminated palace, and somewhere a couple of clarionets and a bugle hooted out what was apparently supposed to be "Greenland's Icy Mountains."
"Well, them slaves he bought with the money are bringin' in a passel, rented out to Tom Jenkins's new sawmill," Shaw went on mildly. "And by all I can see Dunk ain't gettin' rich. And then there's Mrs. R out to Nyades Street in a nice new house with spang new mournin' dresses and no visible means of support.
You be careful when you go out to Milneburgh, now, Maestro."
"His eyelids flutter. His breath gags in his throat. Sweat, the sweat of death, stands out on his face and brow. Oh, have you ever smelt the sweat of death, the stink of fear as a man approaches the horrible gate from which only one has ever returned? He gasps, fighting for air, for just one more mouthful of the blessed air of mortal life!"
On the bench at the front of the hall-the ballroom of the Washington Hotel, rented for the purpose by ladies of the Church Committee-a woman cried out, and buried her face in her hands. Two girls clung to one another, desperately fighting sobs; another turned her face aside, her breath in staggering hiccups of terror, tears and mucus running down her face. Throughout the room, closepacked, rustling, thick with the scents of verbena and lamp oil and pomade, the undercurrent of sobs and groans floated, a soft soprano humming like mosquitoes above swamp waters.
Reverend Dunk flung up his hands. "I see them!" he cried, and his brown eyes stretched, gazing into distance, the riveted horror in them the rival of a Kean or a Kemble. His finger stabbed out, trembling, his voice fell to a hoarse whisper that could be heard into the back of the room. "I see them even now. They writhe in the flames, flesh shriveling from their bones. They beg, they plead, they stretch out their hands for the touch, just the tiniest touch, of water." His fingers curled into a despairing fist. "But there is no water there. Only fire, and more fire..."
A woman in the middle of the room screamed, jerked to her feet as if electrified; stood panting, gasping, head lolling back. One of the several soberly clothed young men who had been moving up and down the two aisles between the chairs went to her, spoke soothing words, led her down the aisle to the front bench.
The better to hear Dunk 's excrutiatingly detailed catalog of the pains of hell? wondered January, from the back of the room.
His mind went back to the Cathedral that morning, the deep still peace-even on the threshold of Mardi Gras. Sunlight touching the priest's violet vestments, the sweet mustiness of incense, the gentle murmur of voices. Esto mihi in Deum protectorem, et in locum refugii... Be thou unto me a God, a protector, and a place of refuge to save me...
"I see worms, and rats, and ants, and all the vermin of the Devil's creation, gnawing on the flesh of those who lie in chains. Oh my brothers and sisters, do you imagine that your flesh will cease to feel when the last breath chokes from your heaving lungs? In the fires of hell, there your flesh will be as sensible, as tender, as shrinking as ever it was upon the earth..."
One of the young ushers came soft-footed up to January and gestured invitingly toward the last four ranks of the room, where slaves and free colored occupied benches rather than the chairs set for their so-called betters. In the Cathedral, and St. Anthony's on Rue des Ramparts, no such distinction was made.
January shook his head, smiled polite thanks ("I've already had some salvation today, thank you"), and handed the usher another card from Hannibal's collection. "If Reverend Dunk might spare me a few minutes of his time..."
"I'll tell him," murmured the young man. "You realize, though, sir, that the exertions of the Spirit take a terrible toll upon our brother, and he will need rest."
"I'll wait."
Milneburgh was quiet in the winter season. From the gallery at the hotel's rear, January looked out over the lake, beaten