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Though Evelyn had spoken of the dinner as a grand affair, it was, in truth, a small and select gathering. She had planned for twelve guests to sit at her round mahogany table, but Madame Rogers was too ill to attend, and Madame Williams sent her regrets at the last moment. So, there were only ten, which made for a cozy, comfortable number.
The guests included Mr. and Mrs. Merriman. Mrs. Merriman was a pretty, vivacious woman in her thirties, and her husband, a jovial fellow, was known for laughing heartily at others’ jokes, which made him popular. Mrs. Highcamp accompanied them. Ace Hamilton, of course, was present, as was Mademoiselle Reisz, who had agreed to come after Evelyn sent her a fresh bunch of violets with black lace trimmings for her hair. Monsieur Rogers attended alone, bringing his wife’s excuses. Victor Williams, visiting the city for some relaxation, accepted the invitation eagerly. Miss Mayblunt, no longer in her teens and known for her keen interest in the world through her lorgnettes, attended. It was rumored that she wrote under a nom de guerre. She arrived with Mr. Gouvernail, a quiet and observant journalist.
Evelyn herself made the tenth guest, and at half-past eight, they sat down to dinner. Hamilton and Monsieur Rogers flanked Evelyn at the table. Mrs. Highcamp sat between Hamilton and Victor Williams, followed by Mrs. Merriman, Mr. Gouvernail, Miss Mayblunt, Mr. Merriman, and Mademoiselle Reisz next to Monsieur Rogers.
The table was a vision of splendor with a cover of pale yellow satin under strips of lace. Wax candles in massive brass candelabra burned softly under yellow silk shades. Full, fragrant roses, both yellow and red, abounded. Silver and gold accents and crystal that glittered like jewels adorned the table.
The ordinary stiff dining chairs had been replaced by the most luxurious ones available in the house. Mademoiselle Reisz, being very small, was elevated on cushions, much like a child at the table.
“Something new, Evelyn?” exclaimed Miss Mayblunt, her lorgnette directed at the magnificent cluster of diamonds sparkling in Evelyn’s hair.
“Quite new; ‘brand’ new, in fact. A present from my husband. It arrived this morning from New York. I may as well admit that today is my birthday, and I am twenty-nine. I expect you to drink to my health. Meanwhile, let’s start with this cocktail, created by my father for Sister Janet’s wedding.”
Each guest had a tiny glass that sparkled like a garnet.
“Then, all things considered,” Hamilton said, “let’s begin by drinking to the Colonel’s health in the cocktail he created, on the birthday of his charming daughter—the woman he invented.”
Mr. Merriman’s genuine, contagious laugh set an agreeable tone for the dinner.
Miss Mayblunt begged to keep her cocktail untouched before her, just to admire its marvelous color. She compared it to nothing she had ever seen and declared the Colonel an artist.
Monsieur Rogers, taking things seriously, looked up from his pompano and asked Hamilton if he was related to the Hamilton of Laitner and Hamilton, lawyers. Hamilton admitted that Laitner was a friend who allowed his name to appear on the firm’s letterhead and shingle on Perdido Street.
“There are so many inquisitive people and institutions these days,” said Hamilton, “that one is forced to assume the virtue of an occupation, even if one doesn’t have it.”
Monsieur Rogers stared a little, then turned to Mademoiselle Reisz, asking if she thought the symphony concerts met last winter’s standards. Mademoiselle Reisz replied in French, which Evelyn found rude but characteristic. She had only negative things to say about the symphony concerts and made insulting remarks about all the musicians in New Orleans. Her interest seemed to lie solely in the delicacies before her.
Mr. Merriman’s comment about inquisitive people reminded him of a man from Waco he had encountered at the St. Charles Hotel. However, his wife, knowing his stories often lacked punch, swiftly cut him off.
“Do you remember the name of that author whose book I bought last week? I need to send it to a friend in Geneva,” she asked, steering the conversation back to her ongoing discussion about books with Mr. Gouvernail.
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Meanwhile, Mr. Merriman leaned in to share the Waco man story privately with Miss Mayblunt, who pretended to be greatly amused, her laughter ringing with an exaggerated delight.
Mrs. Highcamp, sitting beside Victor Williams, listened with languid but genuine interest to his enthusiastic conversation. Her attention never wavered from him until he turned to the more vivacious Mrs. Merriman. With easy indifference, she waited for an opportunity to reclaim his focus.
The gentle strumming of mandolins floated in from a distance, an agreeable accompaniment rather than a disruption to their conversation. The soft, monotonous splash of a fountain outside mingled with the heavy scent of jessamine wafting through the open windows, creating an enchanting atmosphere.
Evelyn’s golden satin gown shimmered in the candlelight, its rich folds spreading elegantly on either side. A delicate lace fell softly around her shoulders, matching her skin tone, though lacking its vibrant hues. Her posture, reclining against the high-backed chair with her arms spread, exuded a regal presence, a woman who ruled and observed from a solitary height.
Yet, as she sat among her guests, a familiar ennui crept over her, a hopelessness that descended like an obsession. It felt like a chill breath from a vast cavern of discord, bringing with it an acute longing for the unattainable beloved, overwhelming her with a sense of loss.
Despite Evelyn’s inner turmoil, a feeling of camaraderie enveloped the group, binding them together with jest and laughter. It was Monsieur Rogers who first broke the pleasant charm, excusing himself at ten o’clock. His wife was waiting for him at home, filled with a vague dread that only his presence could soothe.
Mademoiselle Reisz rose with Monsieur Rogers, accepting his offer to escort her to the car. She had indulged in the rich wines and seemed a bit tipsy, bowing pleasantly to all as she left. She kissed Evelyn on the shoulder and whispered, “Bonne nuit, ma reine; soyez sage,” before Monsieur Rogers gallantly took her arm and led her away.
Mrs. Highcamp, meanwhile, was weaving a garland of yellow and red roses. When she finished, she placed it lightly on Victor’s black curls. Reclining in a luxurious chair, he held a glass of champagne to the light. The garland transformed him into a vision of Oriental beauty, his cheeks the color of crushed grapes, and his dusky eyes glowing with a languishing fire.
“Sapristi!” exclaimed Hamilton.
Mrs. Highcamp added a final touch, draping a white silken scarf across Victor, concealing his black evening dress. He smiled faintly, his eyes narrowing at the light through his champagne glass, unbothered by the attention.
“Oh, to be able to paint in color rather than in words!” Miss Mayblunt exclaimed, lost in a rhapsodic dream as she gazed at him.
“There was a graven image of Desire Painted with red blood on a ground of gold,” murmured Gouvernail under his breath.
The wine’s effect on Victor shifted his usual talkativeness to silence, and he seemed lost in a pleasant reverie.
“Sing,” Mrs. Highcamp entreated. “Won’t you sing to us?”
“Let him alone,” Hamilton said.
“He’s posing,” offered Mr. Merriman. “Let him have it out.”
“I believe he’s paralyzed,” laughed Mrs. Merriman. Leaning over Victor’s chair, she took the glass from his hand and held it to his lips. He sipped the wine slowly, and when he had drained the glass, she laid it on the table and wiped his lips with her delicate handkerchief.
“Yes, I’ll sing for you,” Victor said, turning toward Mrs. Highcamp. He clasped his hands behind his head and began to hum softly, testing his voice like a musician tuning an instrument. Then, looking at Evelyn, he started to sing:
“Ah! si tu savais!”
“Stop!” she cried, her voice cutting through the room. “Don’t sing that. I don’t want you to sing it.” She placed her glass on the table with such force that it shattered against a carafe. Wine spilled over Hamilton’s legs and trickled down Mrs. Highcamp’s black gauze gown. Victor, oblivious or dismissive of her earnest plea, laughed and continued:
“Ah! si tu savais Ce que tes yeux me disent—”
“You mustn’t! You mustn’t,” exclaimed Evelyn. She pushed back her chair and, moving behind him, placed her hand over his mouth. He kissed the soft palm that pressed against his lips.
“No, no, I won’t, Mrs. McPherson. I didn’t know you meant it,” he said, looking up at her with tender eyes. The touch of his lips was like a pleasing sting on her hand. She lifted the garland of roses from his head and flung it across the room.
“Come, Victor; you’ve posed long enough. Give Mrs. Highcamp her scarf.”
Mrs. Highcamp undraped the scarf from around him with her own hands. Miss Mayblunt and Mr. Gouvernail, sensing the change in atmosphere, decided it was time to say goodnight. Mr. and Mrs. Merriman also wondered how it could be so late.
Before parting from Victor, Mrs. Highcamp invited him to call upon her daughter, knowing she would be charmed to meet him, converse in French, and sing French songs. Victor expressed his eagerness to visit Miss Highcamp at the first opportunity. He asked if Hamilton were going his way, but Hamilton was not.
The mandolin players had long since stolen away, leaving a profound stillness that had settled over the broad, beautiful street. The voices of Evelyn’s disbanding guests jarred like a discordant note upon the quiet harmony of the night.