Across the Endless River

by Thad Carhart

  The three of them stood for a long moment in the stillness of the evening, the sound of the orchestra filtering across the courtyard and overlying darkness while occasional laughter and exclamations, close by and immediate, rose from below.

  “Shall we go back in?” Hennesy turned slowly, then threw his unfinished cigar in the direction of the ballroom. Its glowing tip described a lazy arc, then disappeared when it landed on the gravel. “I’ve got to find that duke of yours before the evening wears thin.”

  Hennesy arranged to meet Maura in the ballroom in a quarter of an hour, then hurried ahead. As Baptiste and Maura made their way down the long hallway, he turned to her, unsure of what he wanted to say. “Maura . . . That is, Miss Hennesy . . .”

  She shook her head. “No, Maura, please. I like the way you say my name.”

  He said it again, then struggled through a question. “I’ll be going to Stuttgart in a few days. I’m wondering if we’ll see each other another time.”

  “Not before the two of you leave, that is certain. And I won’t be going to Württemberg.” She considered her words. “But you may well return to Paris. Isn’t that so? I am here more often than not.”

  What she said was so vague that it confused him. He did not know if she wanted to see him again or not. But he pictured her descending the stairs with her father, stepping out of his life, and he was unwilling to accept it. She saw this in his eyes. He was about to speak again when she said, “You can write to me if you would like to.”

  “Yes, I would.” Baptiste trembled inwardly with relief.

  “You’ll have to commit the address to memory. Are you ready?”

  He tried to pay attention to what she was saying but was unable to focus on anything but her face, so close to him, full of animation and urgency: dark lashes against the palest skin, the finely turned edge of her nostrils, the delicate curve of her lips where the shiny red paint gave way to the pink flesh within as she whispered. Then she had finished, and he had heard nothing.

  When he was unable to repeat it to her, she looked at him, exasperated. “Did you not hear me?”

  “No, I . . . I . . .”

  “Collège des Irlandais, rue du Cheval Vert, Paris. Just think of an Irishman riding a green horse in Paris, and you won’t forget it.”

  As they continued toward the ballroom, she said, “One thing more: you’re my cousin,” as if they were any couple trading pleasantries at a ball.

  Baptiste looked at her questioningly. Other guests were nearby now, so she whispered. “Your letters will be read,” she told him. “You are my American cousin on my father’s side. One of his brothers moved to America years ago. Don’t write anything you’re not prepared to have a stranger read.”

  Just then her father appeared with Paul outside the ballroom and called them over. “The duke and I have concluded our business, my dear.” He turned to Baptiste. “Thank you, young man, for keeping my daughter company. I trust her curiosity did not wear you out.”

  “On the contrary, sir. I think I asked more questions than she.” He turned to Maura. “It was a pleasure I hope to have again.”

  “We’ll have to convince them to visit us in Württemberg,” Paul said jovially. “Knowing how much my cousin favors your wine, Mr. Hennesy, you would be foolish not to make an appearance at court.”

  “So I would, my good duke. Let us hope our paths will cross there before long. But now we must say our goodbyes.”

  The four of them shook hands, and in the next moment Maura and her father were descending the staircase while Baptiste watched from above. His pulse quickened as he repeated Maura’s strange formula for her address.

  FOURTEEN

  The next afternoon, Paul and Baptiste took Prince Franz’s barouche to Professor Picard’s. Paul was unhappy to be in such a showy vehicle. It was lacquered and highly polished, the Württemberg coat of arms on the doors, a liveried coachman up on the box. But none of his uncle’s closed carriages could accommodate the bulky mahogany case packed with the curiosities from North America that Paul was eager to discuss with Picard. He had spent the morning carefully packing the crate with relics from his voyage up the Missouri: rocks and crystal formations, dried plants, several whole animals in sealed bottles of preserving alcohol, and many of the objects that he had bartered for or bought from the Indians. The box sat opposite them on the rearward-facing seat, firmly braced with wooden struts against the tufted leather. Its sheer bulk and fancy silver fittings made it seem as if the two men were in the company of a third passenger.

  They drove for half an hour across the city, threading through neighborhoods Baptiste had not yet seen. At first most of the streets were narrow and lined with high stone walls, behind which, Paul told him, lay gardens, courtyards, and fine houses. The sharp-edged clatter of the horses and carriage echoed from the walls and the elegant wooden doors set into them at irregular intervals. Baptiste noted again that many of the streets were paved in stone, unlike the roads in St. Louis. It must have taken armies of laborers, kneeling in the dirt and mud, countless years to place, replace, and repair each chiseled block of granite so that they formed the fanlike patterns over which they now rode. It amazed him: solid, extensive, and perfectly measured, the stone streets of Paris seemed as if they had always been there and would long outlast all those who trod on them.

  Paul told the driver that he wanted to pass in front of the cathedral when they crossed the river. The coachman said “Oui, Monsieur!” over his shoulder. They had already seen several impressive churches whose domes and bell towers rose high above the surrounding structures. “Saint-Paul,” “Saint-Gervais,” Paul announced in turn as each came into view, enjoying his role as guide to someone so impressed with what he was seeing. Then, as the carriage turned onto a bridge, the ponderous profile of a mammoth twin-towered church rose on an island directly in front of them: “Notre-Dame.” They drew up before it and Baptiste strained to take in every detail of the facade, which vibrated with statues of countless figures.

  “Who built this?” he asked at last, his question a mixture of awe and curiosity.

  “Thousands of people, thousands of the faithful. It took them over two hundred years. It’s one of the masterpieces of the Gothic style,” Paul told him. “There are cathedrals more or less like this all across Europe. You must return to see the interior before we leave Paris. But now I’m afraid we mustn’t keep Professor Picard waiting.” He told the coachman to drive on.

  In a quarter of an hour they pulled in to the forecourt of a small palace that was even grander than Prince Franz’s stately house. As the gates closed behind them, they surveyed the sober expanse of stone, which extended forward on both sides in curved wings of a single story. In answer to Baptiste’s wide-eyed stare, Paul said, “Picard is from minor nobility in Burgundy. But his wife”—he inclined his head to take in the entire hôtel particulier—“is part of the de La Rochefoucauld family, one of France’s noblest and richest.”

  A small door opened in one of the flanking wings and a short, grizzled man made his way briskly across the gravel. He cried out, “Here you are at last, back from across the sea to show me your wonders!” as he wiped his hands on a coarse brown tunic that covered his clothes.

  They descended and the man greeted Paul warmly, then turned to Baptiste.

  “I am Marc-Antoine Picard, and you are most certainly the young man Duke Paul told me about. Welcome!” The professor turned back to the house, talking excitedly as he led them across the forecourt. “If you don’t mind, we’ll go directly to my studio.” He told a servant, “Have Monsieur le Duc’s trunk brought to us in the atelier at once.”

  They followed him down a long, light-filled gallery whose floor was worked in large squares of black and white marble set diagonally. On both sides, busts and vases stood on classical pedestals between window bays that gave on to a side garden. “My wife’s family collected antiquities in Italy under Napoleon,” he told Baptiste, who looked with curiosity at the statues, “b
ut despite my given name, Mark Antony, I do not share their passion for long-dead emperors.” He turned to Paul and added, “Nor, now that I come to think of it, for recently dead emperors, either.” The rounded ceiling was covered with paintings, and Baptiste caught glimpses of what looked like processions and battle scenes, richly tinted against a sky that varied from the palest blue to the ominous gray clouds of a thunderstorm, as if damnation were arriving from on high.

  They stepped out into a garden bathed in sunlight. It was warmer there, as the high walls protected it from the March wind. In the center lay a formal array of flower beds around a large fountain of carved dolphins. Beyond the round basin, the paths led into a tree-filled park. The fountain was dry, the flower beds unturned, but Baptiste could envision the luxuriance of spring in this hidden place south of the Seine, so near the heart of the city. Picard led them through an iron gate recessed in a tall evergreen hedge to a long, low stone pavilion that looked out onto the park. Picard pushed wide the oak door and beckoned them in with a flourish.

  “Gentlemen, my sanctum sanctorum!”

  Baptiste’s eyes adjusted slowly to the dark interior, and out of the gloom materialized a very large room filled with long oak tables covered with objects. He saw rocks and mineral specimens; two tables along a wall held bones and partial skeletons; at the far end of the room, he noticed, were several stuffed birds. Along the bank of windows that looked out on the park, several tables supported numerous tall jars containing specimens in fluid. Baptiste approached and saw that the smaller bottles contained large scorpions and spiders suspended in blue liquid, and the larger ones held small mammals—mice, squirrels, a pair of raccoons—in a yellowish solution, their legs extended and feet splayed as if they had been frozen while swimming. On an adjacent table, the partially dissected body of an animal lay in a pool of blood at the center of a marble slab, next to several scalpels and probes and a flickering gas lamp. The professor had no doubt been summoned from this operation; the air was heavy with the odor of preserving alcohol.

  “Felis pardalis,” Picard said with evident pride, “a nocturnal wildcat recently collected by a colleague in Mexico. It much resembles a miniature leopard.” He opened a small cupboard and produced the skin. “Have you ever felt more luxuriant fur? Of course Monsieur Villandry skinned it in situ so the viscera could be preserved, but one can imagine the heavenly grace of this”—he brandished the pelt—“in motion.”

  Paul and Baptiste ran their hands through the fur, whose mottled bands and black-ringed spots of orange made a vivid pattern against its tawny background. Paul peered at the cat’s organs. “A mature male, is it?”

  “That’s right. Quite a bit smaller than his cousin Panthera onca, what the Spanish call ‘jaguar.’ This species we call ‘ocelot,’ from the Nahuatl word ocelotl. I’m sure we’re far from done with the cat family in Central and South America.” He replaced the fur in the cupboard carefully. “How I would love to observe this fellow in the wild! But an old man must content himself with pleasures closer to hand.” He motioned them to the back of the long atelier.

  They eased between the laden tables and shelves. Baptiste corrected his first impression of impenetrable clutter; as they threaded their way through the room, he saw that although every surface was crowded, each object was carefully arranged. Octagonal paperboard labels bearing the scientific details of its subject in a precise hand were attached to every specimen. The atelier was meticulously clean.

  At the back of the room, the professor’s broad desk sat diagonally across a corner, facing his collection. It was covered by an intricately patterned Turkish carpet whose deep reds and blues overhung the sides of the desk. A blotter pad was flanked by a crystal inkstand and penholder. The only other object was a large round wooden platter; its dark center was incised with asymmetric carvings, and its rim decorated with eight white triangles evenly spaced around the circumference. On the blotter lay a sheet of paper with what looked like a tracing of the platter’s central design. When Picard saw Baptiste’s inquisitive look, he picked up the platter and said, “Haida, from the northwest coast of your continent. A colleague in Saint Petersburg collected it from a fur trader.” He set it down carefully and motioned them to several chairs drawn up nearby in front of a small tile-covered stove; its faint heat made the corner of the cool room comfortable.

  “I allow just one of my servants in here, and that infrequently,” Picard said, “so I can only offer you the Armagnac I pour myself.” As he sat down, Baptiste looked at Picard closely. His sparse hair was black on top and gray at the temples, cut short and brushed forward without much care. The deep lines on his face amplified an impression of age and authority. Picard poured three glasses and sat back. “Here’s to the unknown, gentlemen.”

  As they drank, two men arrived with Paul’s trunk. Picard carefully guided them to the back of the atelier with their unwieldy burden, and they deposited their load in the open space before the stove. He rubbed his hands with anticipation.

  For the rest of the afternoon they sat together, enthralling Picard as Paul showed him woven blankets, embroidered buckskin shirts and leggings, weapons, tools, jewelry, handicrafts, and what he called “fetish pieces,” which Baptiste knew as sacred objects that bound their owner to a specific clan or ceremonial society. Paul savored the role of benefactor and collector, removing each piece in turn and, as he unwrapped the folds of cloth, telling the story of its provenance and how he had bought or traded for it. His surprise and delight were as evident as Picard’s at the appearance of certain pieces, as if he, too, were seeing them for the first time. Baptiste thought he had quite likely forgotten about many of the things he had brought home.

  “This is from the Sioux,” Paul said as he lifted a painted round shield of stretched buffalo hide two feet in diameter. “Every Indian brave has his own.”

  Picard rose up from his chair, not waiting for it to be handed over for examination. “Oh, what an extraordinary piece!” he exclaimed, running his fingers across its surface. “I wonder how effective it would be in battle.”

  Picard’s spontaneous eagerness to know about each object intrigued Baptiste, and made him feel knowledgeable. He explained that it was an essential part of a warrior’s weapons. “The designs aren’t just decoration; they are sacred. Once the rawhide has been stiffened with lye, it can withstand the impact of an arrow.”

  “I would never have known,” Picard murmured.

  Paul next produced a pair of elk-hide moccasins richly embroidered with porcupine quills worked in a circular pattern. “I collected these from a Pawnee when we stopped at Cabanné’s Post,” he said.

  Again, Picard was taken with the beauty and strangeness of the objects. “Have you ever seen such beadwork on a moccasin?” His eyes, his voice, his whole body expressed joy at seeing wonderful things whose existence he had not imagined.

  Baptiste had never seen anyone take such pleasure in holding ordinary things used by all the tribes, and Picard’s curiosity puzzled him. Why did he trace the designs of the Haida platter, or turn quivers and shields and knives this way and that against the light? Even Paul seldom examined so closely the things he bought and traded for.

  When Paul held up a bow that he identified as Arikara, Baptiste gently corrected him. “That’s a Cheyenne design on the handle,” he said. “They can look very similar.” Paul shrugged and handed the piece to Picard, who turned its arc slowly in his hands and felt the bone and hide inlays. “Gervais brought me one not unlike it from the Crow tribe three years ago,” Picard told them.

  As he expounded on the origin or function of a piece, Paul often turned to Baptiste for confirmation, and Baptiste supplied the askedfor information as plainly as possible. “No, that is a warrior’s necklace. A squaw would never wear grizzly claws,” or “Those are not Blackfoot leggings; they are Lakota Sioux. The quill work shows the warrior was a member of the Bear Clan.” His lucid elaborations brought a courteous assent from Paul.

  Paul gently lifte
d a bundle from deep within the box. “These are toys from the Mandan tribe,” he said as he unfolded a brown cloth wrapper. He picked up a sphere and held it in the palm of his hand. It was six inches in diameter and minutely embroidered with colored porcupine quills in geometric patterns of green, red, and yellow. Its bright colors caught the light and glistened as Paul turned it in his fingers. “It is used in the women’s ball games,” he said, placing it on the table. Next he picked up an eight-inch hoop of light-colored wood, across which rawhide strips had been fastened to divide it into quadrants, with several large openings spaced along the inner circumference. He held it high as he reached in the box with his other hand for a three-foot length of slender blond wood, one of its ends sharpened to a point. He jabbed at the crisscross circle with this improvised spear and said, “Many such hoops and poles are used by the boys of the tribe in a fast-moving game in which they run about the entire village.”

  Paul smiled as he reached for the next piece. He lifted out two footlong cylinders bound together, put them to his lips, and produced a raucous discord as he blew into their slender chambers. They were whistles made of goose bone, each one wrapped in bright beadwork bands of green, black, and red, hanging together from a long loop of rawhide. They looked like tiny snakes, exotic and mysterious, in the atelier’s dim light. “A child’s toy, I suppose,” Picard volunteered, and Paul nodded.

  Baptiste was unable to contain his uneasiness. The ball, the hoop, and the pole were, in fact, used in Mandan games; many times he had raced about the village with his friends as they battled for control of the fast-rolling hoop. But the double whistle was sacred. Only a member of the Ravens, the men’s secret society, would be allowed to blow in it, and then only during their ceremonies. He wondered how Paul had convinced its owner to part with it.