It felt wonderful to be outside in the
twilight. Yes, the air still smelled of
the river, and Stewart knew that the thin breeze blowing up St. Peter Street
wasn't really going to cool him much, if at all. He didn't care. He was free of be-medaled mob in the Cabildo,
and at the moment that was all that mattered.
A poster across the street caught his eye; it
looked like a playbill. He crossed over,
enjoying the feel of stone under his feet.
In Richmond, he'd have been in mud up to his ankles. The poster was indeed a playbill; what's
more, the small, tasteful sign above it proclaimed this building to be a
theatre. Now that he saw it, though,
there was something odd about the playbill.
In the second that it took him to realize what that oddness was, a
feminine voice confirmed it for him:
"I'm afraid you won't find much to enjoy here, sir. The St. Peter Street Theatre performs only in
French."
"So I see," Stewart said. He turned to face the speaker. She was small, the top of her head perhaps
reaching to just above his shoulder.
Slender, too; he thought he might be able to span her waist with his
hands. In the fading light he couldn't
make out many details of her face, but he thought he saw an aquiline nose—could
she be French?—and dark hair, the ringlets framing an oval face. "And how could you tell that I wouldn't
understand French?"
"You're in uniform, sir. I have yet to meet a soldier who's interested
in anything French, well though some of the officers may speak the
language." She came closer,
examining him with a frankness that was a bit unsettling—as was the realization
of just how young she looked.
"That's an interesting uniform.
You're one of the Confederates, aren't you? The ones negotiating a treaty or
something?"
"Guilty as charged. Captain Charles Stewart, Virginia State
Militia and Confederate States Army, at your service."
"I'm Pauline Martin," the woman
said. "Normally, I don't accost
gentlemen in the street, but I thought you might be in search of theatrical
entertainment. I'm an actress, you
see. I'm appearing in the new show at
Placide's Varieties on Gravier Street.
It’s a pretty good show, if you like to laugh. I could probably get you a reduced admission
tonight."
Stewart stared at her. She seemed to be in earnest, and he had no
idea of what to do about that. Women didn't
accost men in the street—ladies didn't, at any rate. Women might, if they were what his aunt had
once referred to (in a tone that had made the capital letters audible) as That
Sort of Woman. He hoped that wasn’t the
case here. Well, most of him hoped it
wasn't. The problem was those parts of
him that didn't care, or, worse, were threatening full-fledged rebellion against
propriety.
A sudden memory burst in his mind: as a boy,
seeing Mrs. Poe on the stage. Edgar Poe
might be praised as one of the world’s great writers and actors, but it was his
mother Stewart remembered. To his
nine-year-old self she had seemed the most beautiful person in the world. She’d been in her late forties then, but some
kind of magic had erased the years from her.
Eventually propriety won, but just. "I'm sorry, Miss Martin," he
said. "Much as the theatre
interests me"—I hope that wasn't too obvious—"I
am expected back inside the Cabildo.
Perhaps I shall see you perform later."
"I’d like that," she said. "A pleasure meeting you, Captain
Stewart."
Stewart watched Miss Martin continue down the
street and turn left into Nelson Square.
He walked back to the front of the Cabildo; from here he could see
figures clustered in the gloom of the square, and he tried to spot the tiny
form of Miss Martin among them. Wishing
now that he'd had the kind of courage Patton ascribed to him, Stewart took a last
deep breath of river-soaked air, and went back to the reception.
* * * *
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