The Mysteries of New Orleans (The Longfellow Series of American Languages and Literatures)

by Baron Ludwigvon Reizenstein

  Merlina drew the key from its hole and went out the door, which she then locked from outside by turning it twice and withdrawing it.

  When Sulla saw that he was alone, he looked around and carefully inspected his locale for the first time.

  As he looked at the door through which Merlina had departed, it seemed to him that someone was looking through the keyhole and then withdrawing, since a bright ray of light would shine in and then it would be entirely dark.

  He paid closer attention, and he continued to see the alternation of light and darkness.

  “Merlina is in front of the keyhole and is observing me,” he thought to himself. He approached the door from the side and hung his handkerchief over the lock so that the keyhole was completely covered. Then he remained still for a few moments and looked around the room.

  When he approached the bed, always with his face turned to the door, he noticed that the handkerchief had fallen from the lock. He went back, picked it up, and replaced it. He put his ear to the lock and thought he heard a soft breathing.

  He listened with tense attention. Then his handkerchief fell a second time, this time onto his face, covering it completely rather than settling on the floor.

  He took it off with irritation and looked through the keyhole.

  An eye was looking in, but it vanished quickly.

  He did not move. His eye remained glued to the keyhole. He saw nothing more, and when he turned back the light through the opening remained.

  One will recall that the clubmen were still in their chamber at this hour and that they did not leave it until at least an hour after midnight.

  Sulla went to the stand where the pincushion holding Merlina’s golden claw lay, and he took it. Then he rushed to the door, hung his handkerchief over the lock for the third time, and secured it this time with the claw so that it could not fall.

  Now he crept around the room and approached the bed. His curiosity drove him to lift the pillow. Under this, jammed against the bolster, he saw the pistol Merlina had pointed at him. Next to the pistol was a black dagger sheath with silver fittings. The dagger itself lay beside its sheath, the blade turned outward. When he tried to cover this with the pillow again, the movement of air caused a narrow strip of paper to drift through the air. He hastily grabbed at it. It had a few lines, which had been illegibly scrawled with cheap, pale blue ink:

  I have not been pleased with the abbé’s conduct for a long time. In the same way I find the presence of Lombardi to be irritating. The priest may very well get the Scotswoman’s money through his trickery—but it is another question whether the mill shall have any of it. If Gabor does any more wrong, then the mill owes him its boot, for, since he is no better than a dog, he must be treated as one. I think it would be best to stop him right away, once he has the two thousand dollars from Washington. He will not be happy with his portion, and so it would be easy for him to leave us and do us harm in some manner. I will decide later what I will do with him once I get back from Mobile. Is Lombardi even needed any more? How long will he be? Above everything else, try to get ahold of Sulla’s papers, for if he has no proof in hand that he is free, he will have no time to get new proof. It is not a matter of the five hundred dollars I can sell him for but simply in order to get him out of the mill. He will not revenge himself on us, since he will not know who stole his papers or who sold him. He will be sure to fall into the trap if we send him across the lake next week. Bartlett thinks he would easily be able to get $2500 for him.

  Lajos

  One can see that these lines had been written at a time before the Hungarian had dared to stage a coup d’état against the Pontifex Maximus. Likewise, Gabor had still been an active member of the gang.

  The Negro stared in amazement at these lines, which told him just in time of a conspiracy against his freedom.* He put the bed in order with the greatest care and stuck his lucky find in his vest pocket.

  When he had turned around and faced the door, he saw a flame at the lock; in an instant his handkerchief turned to ashes on the floor.

  It appeared to him that someone was again looking through the keyhole.

  Clothing is one of the characteristic signs of a person. One can accept with certainty that men who leave the lower portion of their vests unbuttoned are endowed with stormy sensuality, a quality promising women the greatest happiness. Men who routinely button the entire vest, not omitting a single button, are either too straightlaced or harbor fears about their belly or abdomen, an anxiety that women never forgive, even with the best substantial evidence. Congenital elegance leads many to wear nothing but black frock coats, which cannot be dispensed with even in dubious professions. A man who courts the lady of his heart with a white cravat and a white piqué vest can be certain of victory, while a colored tie will repel and discourage even the most willing woman. Whoever wears a coat buttoned up is either a clergyman or a wholesale grocer, an organ player or a piano teacher of young ladies. Whoever wears a dark vest in the summer either has none of a lighter color or is a journalist or drama critic. Because of the absence of white piqué vests among these latter persons, the life of the salon is closed to them. No lady will consider permitting even the slightest liberty to such a dark-vested journalist or drama critic. In the same manner, any lady maintaining good tone will, with just dudgeon, show the door to any courting man wearing underpants in the summer.

  This is particularly the case in New Orleans. In no town does the cream of chivalry count for more.

  The Negro Sulla wore a black frock coat both summer and winter, with white cravat and a white piqué vest, displaying an elegance that he did not put aside at the bar. Why he still had no success would be hard to determine.

  Sulla was feverishly agitated, and in his heart he cursed the hardness of his fate. Besides the distress that the letter was causing him, he understood that the strange episode with his handkerchief was not calculated to cool him down and slow the rush of his blood. He saw only too well that Merlina was leading him about on a fool’s leash and making fun of him. He passed an hour in the greatest upset, without the zambo negresse making an appearance.

  He sat down on the bed and stared at the door. After some consideration, he dropped his original decision to ask Merlina for an explanation of the note. He thought it was better to be silent on the matter for a while, in order to avoid too much premature conflict. Yes, even his dismay over such a shameful conspiracy could fade into the background of his overheated imagination.

  Another hour passed, and Sulla still sat on the bed in most anxious expectation.

  Finally his patience broke. He left the bed with a desperate glance and was about to rush to the door—then, with the footsteps upon the floorboards, he became aware of a person, and immediately Merlina opened the door and hurriedly asked him to hide himself because the Hungarian would be right there.

  The request was so pressing and appeared so well meant that Sulla turned at once to find a suitable place to hide.

  “Here, Sulla,” Merlina pressed, pointing under the bed, “lie down quickly there, and I will pull down the blanket so he cannot see you—quick, quick, Sulla—I hear him coming now.”

  Sulla lay under the bed, and Merlina pulled the covers back and to the floor.

  So Sulla seemed to be completely hidden.

  After Lajos had escorted Lombardi, clubman of the 99th and 100th degree, to the opening in the floor of the salon, he had rushed to the two dormitories, recalling the words he had whispered to Merlina. He found the outer doors closed. The pale chino zambo chola, who let him knock at least six times, finally opened the door, saying she had been in a deep sleep.

  “Is Lady Merlina in her room?” he quietly asked the guardian as he entered.

  She answered affirmatively.

  In fact, Merlina was rushing to her room even as the pale chino zambo chola was neglecting the Hungarian’s command to open the outer door.

  When Merlina had left the Negro, she had lingered a long time at the door,
often looking through the keyhole, as he had been correct in observing. When Sulla had hung his handkerchief over the lock, she had taken a curved hair needle and pushed the handkerchief off. She repeated this a second time, and, when Sulla affixed it with her golden claw, she lit it with a match and burned it in an instant.

  Was it mere curiosity that drove her to such conduct, or was there another reason?

  Merlina’s strange extravagances and baroque ideas about feeding on the anxieties and embarrassment of her victims were so innumerable, even when she was in a good mood, that one has to pause for a moment to pay attention to her every action and attitude.

  During the two hours she left Sulla alone, she roused the girls of the mill for a night conference, awakening several of them for that purpose. There she specified the places some of them would take for the remainder of the night.

  The dark mulatta Hyderilla was assigned to a clubman of the 98th degree, as were Pharis and Elma, who had already drifted off to sleep. They were ordered to comply with any of the clubman’s desires.

  The two girls did this very reluctantly, since they knew the clubman of the 98th degree to be a raw fellow who would subject them to the most brutal treatment without regard for their sex. Yet they had to obey.

  As Hyderilla was leaving the dormitory together with Pharis and Elma, Merlina rushed to the beds of the pale mestizas.

  These unhappy creatures were permitted to sleep the night away untouched.

  As it was said in the mill, they were having “after night.”

  Some of them lay uncovered on their mattresses, tightly hugging their pillows in their arms—a pose that the world of dreams often bestows on these fallen angels.

  The pale mestiza Semiramis, Merlina’s favorite and (unbeknownst to her) that of the Hungarian as well, had taken a particularly touching position. She had fallen asleep in a crouching posture, with her face pressed against the pillow and the arched portion of her anatomy held high.

  In this way she displayed the “double curve,” a form so highly valued by the ancient Greeks and which played such a great role with Thorwaldsen and won so much patronage for that sculptor.22

  Alongside this double curve, revealed in bright light, the warm shadows fell at an angle of forty-five degrees along the inside of her thighs, making a bright red belt that reached halfway along her body.

  At each of the sleeper’s breaths, this red belt loosened a bit.

  Merlina raised the mosquito netting and stroked Semiramis’s body three times in rapid succession.

  At this touch, the pale mestiza sank down on her knees and turned on her back.

  Merlina repeated her manipulation with a sureness of touch only possessed by one of the colored race.

  A white would have to resort to animal magnetism in such a situation.

  Semiramis rubbed her eyes and looked about, still drunk with sleep.

  When the girl had come to, the zambo negresse sat next to her on the bed and made a swift examination, whose whole process we cannot repeat here. It is not that we fear that excessive frankness would injure the tender feelings of our esteemed lady readers but rather because we are wont to keep such things secret, by their very nature.

  Merlina asked, among other things:

  “Semiramis, who stole your red belt yesterday?”

  “The clubman of the 97th degree, the Dutchman from Galveston.”

  “How are the clubmen of the 99th and 100th degree doing?”

  “I had to obey.”

  “Did you see Gabor yesterday?”

  “Unfortunately. My pretty diamond brooch was gone when he left me.”

  “The cad! He will have to disgorge it when Lajos speaks to him.”

  “Lajos is angry with me. He will be happy when he hears of this theft.”

  “Did you see Lajos? That is not the clubman’s way.”

  “Yes. He warned me against Sulla. He even threatened to tear my heart out if I paid the slightest attention to Sulla.”

  “Watch out for yourself if you’re lying.”

  “I am not lying, but I beg that you tell Lajos nothing about it.”

  “Lajos is not indifferent to you, Semiramis.”

  “What good would it do me if Lajos weren’t indifferent to me—Lajos warms another bosom.”

  “Semiramis, you’re a spirited little cat, but don’t pull in your claws when Lajos licks your paws.”

  “I do everything to please the queen of the night—but no, we must obey, and we love to obey.”

  Merlina now moved closer to the mestiza and allowed Semiramis to scratch her back with her long fingernails.

  That was one of the zambo negresse’s weaknesses. Only Semiramis was capable of satisfying her totally.

  The others either scratched her back too hard, or they were so soft with their fingers that Merlina was not satisfied.

  When the scratching was at an end, the Hungarian began his repeated knocking on the outer door, as we have mentioned, without it being opened to him.

  We have already described his arrival in Merlina’s room.

  He sat on the soft upholstery of the chaise longue that stood directly across from the bed, under which Sulla lay hidden. Merlina had settled on the floor with her head in his lap. She cast a glance at the bed, perhaps to see how secure the hiding place was. Merlina’s unforgivable nonchalance had actually put the Negro in a very perilous position. Only the best of luck could prevent his being discovered and exposed to dangerous conflict.

  The Hungarian sat in shirtsleeves, with his black cravat tied like a sash across his chest.

  Merlina stroked her long, full hair behind her ears, displacing her small white cap.

  Her eyes sparkled like those of a cat in the darkness, and on her broad tiger’s brow burned the repressed glow of the most majestic sensual intoxication. That was always how it was when they were together.

  At first he did not say a word, and neither did she, until Cupid finally spoke. The zambo negresse now stood up and threw herself back on the bed, holding her arms up and seeming to count on her fingers. On this occasion the blanket hiding Sulla moved a bit. Merlina did not note this. She seemed to have forgotten that she had to be concerned with anyone else.

  “Merlina, my panther,” the Hungarian declared tenderly, moving his right hand across his breast.

  “One, two, three, four …” Merlina counted on her fingers.

  “What are you figuring?” the Hungarian asked in a detached tone.

  “I just wanted to count up the number of times you left this room disappointed,” the zambo negresse responded, and she continued: “Four, five, six, seven—seven times!”

  “What the devil, Merlina, leave off this childishness—people decide whether to make love or not, and that is enough!” the Hungarian said, pressing his lips together, since he had made his own decision and was determined to carry it out at any price.

  “People decide whether to make love, Lajos, and I have decided today not to make love—to each his own will!”

  “Do you still have a couple of rats-tails, Merlina?”

  Rats-tails was the malicious name the Hungarian had given to the cigars from the Italian Lombardi’s fruit store.

  “You don’t need to smoke now, my Lajos—your panther has something better for you than cigars.”

  “I demand no more than rats-tails. If Sulla is not yet asleep, he could get me a cherry cobbler.”

  “There are no straws and no seasonings left in the mill, my Lajos.”

  “I don’t need a straw to drink a cherry cobbler—I will sip it.”

  “But no seasonings?”

  “Not necessary,” with these words he raised Merlina’s head from his lap with both his hands, getting ready to go.

  Merlina pressed herself to him and asked him not to leave her, saying that Sulla was probably already asleep.

  “I shall drive that lazy black dog out of bed … Do you have his papers?” he interrupted himself.

  “It will be taken care of
at the right time, my Lajos,” Merlina responded, not very happy at the question since Sulla was lying right under the bed.

  “It will be taken care of at the right time, my Lajos,” she repeated to calm him, and, in order to mislead Sulla, she added, “Sulla will put the papers concerning the bar in order tomorrow morning.”

  Even if Sulla had not read the narrow slip of paper, he would still have found this extenuated answer a matter of concern.

  Despite his compromising position beneath the bed, a light smile appeared on his lips when he heard these words.

  Lajos probably accepted this incomplete response to his question because he believed Merlina just wanted to irritate him. So he curtly responded: “Make sure you settle the matter at the latest the day after tomorrow.”

  “That will be done, my Lajos,” Merlina responded, just happy that the Hungarian made no more of it.

  It is an indubitable mathematical truth, established according to the reasoning of a human erotic, that wherever the highest moral decadence has marked the character, there the spirit also has its greatest triumph; if an infamous coven of amoretti and maenads cavort in the seat of sensuality, the emperor spirit still can take its throne in the brain and send down thunder and lightning in a truly Caesarean manner.

  Whoever is not capable of quaffing a whole Vesuvius of sensual scandal at one gulp without injuring his moral consciousness or his heart’s peace has little to fear from the imperial splendor of the spirit. Whoever ties his spirit in the boots of morality, driving Priapus and Venus from the temple of love, overturning in blind fanaticism the tables of the money-changers in the foyer, might be called a solid man—but for this fame he must accept the fact that Cupid will show him his back at every opportunity.

  For that reason, Voltaire and Rousseau are more powerful spirits than Montesquieu or Diderot. For that reason, Shakespeare and Lord Byron are greater than Milton, More, and Shaftesbury. For that reason, Goethe and Heinrich Heine are greater than Schiller and Ludwig Borne. For that reason, Boccaccio and Casanova are greater than Dante and Torquato Tasso. For that reason Calderon de la Barca is greater than the entire Spanish cycle of the aesthetes. In short, it bespeaks great poverty of the spirit when the moral man begins to weep before he has yet finished laughing.*