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

by Baron Ludwigvon Reizenstein

  “Finish, finish!” Emil interrupted the source of his torment in a despairing tone. “Tell me instead how this fireman’s belt got under the pillow—but I conjure you, tell me the truth and do not torture me with this flood of sarcasms. I conjure you, mysterious man, tell me, tell me, did you materialize this belt here? Tell me, tell me the truth!”

  “I would tell you the truth, poor Emil, if I didn’t fear that I would lose your understanding by so doing. That is the very reason I came here, to explain the situations in this house. It would not take much for you to lose your head if you were to find someone else’s belt in your wife’s bed—”

  “I conjure you, how did this belt get here? Not a word of complaint or accusation will pass my lips if you tell me the truth.” At these words, Emil rose from the bed and placed both his hands on the shoulders of the tall, emaciated figure. Hiram pushed him carefully away from himself and pointed to a chair beside the commode. Without wasting a word, Emil sat down on the chair. Hiram continued standing close to him.

  “Do you know the young Architect, Albert R*, Emil?”

  With a shaking voice, Emil affirmed this ominous question.

  “Have you heard of certain obsessions, elective affinities and the like?”

  “Yes—but my God, what does that have to do with it? What are you trying to say?” Emil asked, restlessly moving back and forth on his chair.

  “The architect left this belt here in absent-mindedness, though he didn’t leave it here on this bed but on the sofa in the next room.”

  “Stop! I can’t stand it—do not accuse my faithful wife—”

  “‘Of infidelity,’ do you want to say?” Hiram interjected.

  Emil did not answer. Large tears welled from his eyes and crossed his pale cheeks.

  “Don’t torment yourself with it, Emil,” Hiram continued, “your wife loves Albert and you love Lucy Wilson—now you are even, and no one has any accusations to make against the other. It would be silly for you to demand fidelity from your wife when you have committed infidelity yourself. From now on, you will no longer have to fear your competitor, nor will your wife have to fear hers. If you feel strong enough to return to your wife with love after this revelation, then come with me and I will lead you to her arms.”

  “I do not want to see her and cannot see her,” Emil responded, but as peacefully and rationally as one who has finally come to a conclusion after internal debate and struggle.

  “Then you will stay here and await her?” Hiram asked.

  “No, I want to leave these rooms at once and never return. It would be better that we never meet again, so that she never knows how much I loved her.”

  “But what are you going to do? You know that you are still compelled to stay in New Orleans until the plague that has just begun is entirely spent, and much is still destined for you to see and experience—”

  “The nights will see me back on the streets of this accursed city, and I will forget my sorrows with carousing.”

  “For once you are speaking reasonably, Emil—drink and kiss away, ‘tis better than your being a whimpering Adonis. Even if your heart wins nothing that way, still your heart at least will remain bright and clear. I wish you good enjoyment, and since you need not be concerned about the horror of the fever, you can live in this city in league with Bacchus and Venus. There is good drinking, kissing, and carousing to be done once your head is free from fear and sentimentality.”

  Emil had risen from his chair and now appeared to be inspecting his clothes.

  “I know,” the old man remarked, “what is going on in your inner being: you want to get this plunder off your body so you can be clothed again as an incroyable. Here, marvel at my foresight, I have taken care of everything.”

  With these words, Hiram drew an elegant gentleman’s suit from under his mantle, laying it on the bed under Emil’s amazed eyes. He did not even forget a precious gold watch, along with various other small accessories to a perfect wardrobe.

  “But what use is all of this if I have no money?” Emil said half aloud. “I am still stuck in the mud even with this fine wardrobe.”

  Hiram again reached carefully under his mantle, withdrawing a small portfolio in black satin, embroidered with obscure signs in silver, and delivered to Emil the sum of five thousand dollars with the remark that this would be enough for the moment.

  With the sight of the money, which was in good notes drawn on Citizens’ Bank, Emil was greatly relieved.

  Whoever thinks this is unlikely underestimates the influence of money.

  Jenny and her sister-in-law were forgotten, as were his dear parents across the lake, and an hour later, after he had replaced the page’s costume in the commode in the same order in which he had found it and left the lovable cottage, no one would have believed that this young, elegantly clad man had been so long at the side of the most marvelous of all magicians.*

  • • •

  Two hours after the encounter in the lovable cottage just described, Hiram stood together with a man directly before the front fencing of a grand garden, from whose evergreens and bushes the splendid mansion of Lady Evans-Stuart rose. With the departure of the sun, the rising moon had come into its own domain in the heavens with such a magnificent glow that, once the tint of sunset had departed, the transition from day to night could barely be perceived. Here and there across the uneven pavement on both sides of Annunciation Square rattled a few belated wagons, whose owners sit and sweat year in, year out, on the hard cushion of cotton bales. On the square’s green grass some horses and mules, freed from the burdens of the day, grazed quietly and contentedly, while a swarm of youths, drawn by the glow of the moonlight, sat in tight circles—some by themselves or wandering around—lounging and singing old plantation songs: “Old Folks at Home,” “Emma Snow,” and “Julius from Kentucky.” Young America almost screamed its throat out, but there were also a few who sang quite well:

  In New Orleans they shut me in

  With hundred more they say,

  Some black, some white, some large, some thin

  To sell ‘em all next day.

  I climb the barrel—jump the gate,

  And ‘scape the guard so lucky,

  I go from there to New York State,

  And master to Kentucky.

  And how prophetic it sounded when the choir intoned:

  Oh! Kentucky—it is the land for me,

  And surely I’ll go there again

  When colored folks are free.

  And how beautiful the following solo was:

  I’m sorry now for master’s loss,

  And none could feel it greater,

  For master he was half a horse,

  And half an alligator.

  And now I join the Christy band,

  The first and the most lucky

  Of all the darkies in the land,

  From Orleans or Kentucky.

  Thus sang young America, and the moon, believing they were tormenting themselves on his behalf, thankfully kissed the mouths of these wild howlers.

  As the youths killed time singing and howling on the cool grass of Annunciation Square, plans were being prepared nearby whose dreadful issue would lay the foundations for the complete ruin and destruction of the count’s family. Without the events that follow in the house of Lady Evans-Stuart, despite the diabolical sentiments of the Hungarian, the planned journey across Lake Pontchartrain would certainly have taken place, and then, instead of finding them dying in that tumbled-down tenement, we would have seen them greeted and received with universal celebration. But the mysterious old man holds the threads of destiny in his hands, and he is weaving them all into a gigantic shroud, in keeping with his unfathomable will. He had precisely followed the lives of all the persons known to us, unremarked, and now he compels them all onto the magically lit stage of his enchanted kingdom.

  Before we enter into the conversation the two men have been carrying on in front of the fence of the Evans-Stuart garden for the last
quarter-hour, a brief description of their appearance would not be out of place. The mysterious old man has already been portrayed; we have already described the long, emaciated figure in two distinct metamorphoses, and now we have a third. It is the very transformation of his image in which he was often seen in the summer of 1853, among the Druids, the same lodge that bore him to his grave at the end of that summer of terror. It seems he wished to be buried along with the Grand Master of the Freemasons’ Lodge of Louisiana, Mr. Hill. From now on, that is, from the moment he started talking with the other man soon to be described, standing in front of the garden fence, he displays the style of a monseigneur, from whom he had copied the requisite black civilian clothes. His eyes were no longer covered with green glasses, and he also no longer wears a high cap of racoon skin like a trapper or a Rocky Mountain hunter; nor is his body enclosed by a French colonist’s mantle with standing collars. White neckbands, black coat, black trousers, and white vest—that sums up the changes that had so quickly transfigured his exterior. The gray head—who would dare number the years that had already passed over his skull—was free, and he had pressed his folding hat under his arm. Just like Cagliostro and the modern pantheist Pierre Leroux,7 he bore all twenty-seven phrenological organs, equal to the twenty-seven gods of mythology, on the immense circumference of his skull—indicating one who was capable of anything.

  The other man is of medium or low stature, and he barely reaches to the breast of the other man. His hair is cut short, and on his face are large, red-brown patches, witnessing to old burns endured and survived. Likewise, his throat displays a scar from either a gunshot or a dull knife. A connoisseur of people could easily read the merchant in the odd movements of his arms and the guiding play of his hands. Though a Scot by birth, his facial type has not the slightest resemblance to that nationality. One would take this man to be an American.

  Other than a shirt of irreproachable whiteness and smoothness, he wears a rather improper wardrobe. Yet this is not the result of any lack of money (and the fact that he has money is proved not only by the heavy gold chain and watch but also by the diamond ring that shines from his little finger); rather, his disorder and dirtiness of attire arose from the peculiarity of people in his trade of dressing poorly even when they have a well-stuffed wallet in their pockets and respectable deposits elsewhere as well. A merchant of that ilk can stand anything but an elegant, modern wardrobe. So far as his age is concerned, he was already well into his forties. He had just hung his wide-brimmed Panama straw hat on a stave of the garden fence. He wiped his raw, brown forehead several times, and now he stands with crossed arms and his back to the fence, next to Hiram, who is now listening to his conversation with renewed attention after an interruption for a few minutes due to the howling of the young men. The French that Hiram speaks would be better used in the Tuileries, while the other man speaks with a bad accent similar to that of a Portuguese Jew in the money markets of Paris. The reader will have little interest in the company among which he adopted this accent, which is frequently encountered in New Orleans.

  “It should suffice you to know that I am the one who rescued you,” Hiram said.

  “You are certainly the most remarkable man I have ever met in my eventful life,” the other responded. “If we did not live in such an enlightened time, I could easily conceive that you were an omnipotent magician, such as many who are said once to have existed.”

  “It all took place quite naturally, sir. I found you lying in that place while I was riding through Looking-Glass Prairie, and I brought you to Shellville, where I quickly brought about your recovery with the aid of several of your acquaintances. Your mare, Lydia, whom you thought had been burned up, had already arrived there two days before. Your friends in Shellville recognized her at once, and since she arrived without you, with your money-belt in her mouth, they feared something had happened to you. So several of them set out at once for your settlement. What they learned there was that you had ridden toward Shellville together with a stranger, so they looked for you in the prairie—without finding you, of course. That it was given to me to rescue you rested on the same accident as the discovery of the murderer, to whom I shall lead you now.”

  “But how do you know that this Hungarian is my murderer? That is an insoluble riddle to me—”

  “Don’t concern yourself about this, but just come into the salon when I call for you. He will escape, but we will get him into our hands later. The police should have nothing to do with him—the end of the story would then be a mere hanging, and the rope is no penalty for this monster. He should experience something entirely different. No human head has even conceived the penalty that I have set for him, and this Hungarian count will be the first and the last to receive it.”

  “What sort of a penalty is that?” Cleveland the peddler asked, since we can call him by his name now.

  “Ask no further questions about that, since you will probably be present when he suffers it.”

  “Well, so I am pushing you concerning things that are to come—but tell me, sir, wouldn’t it be better not to let the monster escape this time? Who knows whether we shall ever have him in our hands again or whether, once he has escaped, he won’t find some way to put both of us out of the way? Shouldn’t we just wait here until the company breaks up, then we can discover where he lives—”

  “Cease your objections, sir, I have long known where he is living—do me the honor of following the directions we discussed on our way here.”

  “You could easily make me object—but I want to follow your wishes. Still, I do wonder—”

  “Quiet, sir—just look over there, right by the big Weymouth’s pine!”

  When the peddler looked at the place indicated, he almost expressed his surprise out loud. But Hiram placed a hand on his mouth at the last moment, warning him to keep silence. “The company will soon return to the grand salon,” he said very softly, “wait patiently until then.”

  The peddler saw the Hungarian, who stood under a splendid Weymouth’s pine with Miss Dudley Evans, maintaining a very lively conversation, utterly against his usual inclination. Farther off, at the other end of the garden, shadows fluttered over the garden path, covered by snow-white, fine mussel shells; some of them clung to one another, others parted in order to reunite moments later at another spot. These promenading shadows undoubtedly belonged to the participants in the party that had been given today, as we know, to celebrate the birthday of the angelic daughter of Lady Evans-Stuart.

  Here come Prince Paul of Württemberg and the old Scotswoman. They were discussing the Mantis religiosa and yellow fever.

  Over there, Captain Marcy was escorting the aged Baroness Alma de Saint Marie-Église. The captain was telling her about his Red River Expedition with great enthusiasm. Since the old baroness always wanted to know more and was not satisfied with the data he had given her, the captain was finally compelled to retail the greatest humbug to the lady.

  Elsewhere, through a lane of low banana-figs, often standing, then taking a few steps slowly forward, were Countess Jenny and Claudine de Lesuire. They were both widow to the same husband. Yet their conversation turned on flowers alone. The word man or my husband never emerged. Jenny spoke of honeysuckle, while Claudine grew passionate for pansies. Neither really grasped the other’s true passion.

  Up on the pinnacle of the high locust tree, the moon was taking a stroll.

  Constanze and Gertrude were sitting on the marble edge of a Windsor fountain. They talked about the trip across the lake that lay ahead of them, and in the most painful tones they were discussing their missing brother, whom they so much would have liked to have seen among his parents and siblings, so that the measure of joy would be full. The poor girls! They have no premonition that they have been selected to serve up the bitter cup of sorrow to their loved ones.

  Constanze and Gertrude have left a place empty between them. It is for the lovely blonde Frida, who has stepped away only for a moment. Where has she gone? God
only knows.

  So the shadows promenade, sitting and standing before they finally all return to the grand salon to take a little light refreshment and then say adieu for the evening, for a morning party never lasts past nine or ten in the evening.

  These have already pulled up in front of the house: The carriage of the Baroness Alma de Saint Marie-Église. The phaeton of Prince Paul of Württemberg. And the state coach of Lady Evans-Stuart, for the convenience of Count Lajos Est*** and the Countesses Jenny and Frida.

  The old Scotswoman’s garden, as anyone who walks by it can see, has the appearance of a park, owing to its wide expanse and its many bushes, acacias, cedars, and Chinese trees gathered in imaginative groupings. The grand labyrinth of narrow footpaths, which were crossed by broader ways, hid secretive bowers in its dark, dreamlike bosom, from which the aroma from the pitch of foreign pines mingled with the smell of the flora of Louisiana. Here, in such a setting fit for angels, only true love could thrive and be happy. No, such aromas go to the marrow of even the shabbiest devil, seducing him to extravagances and hallucinations such as he has never dreamed. And if this aromatic, dreamy, moonlit setting is able to sprinkle an irresistible magic on a shabby devil’s organs of love, wouldn’t this be all the more so with a noble devil? A hyena can become a lovesick, raving Adonis—under the right conditions. In the same way, a noble devil can become a noble angel—under the right conditions.