Prisoner of Desire Read Free Page A

addition to several tricks of self-preservation.
    While in New Orleans during those years, she had fallen in with a crowd consisting mainly of young married couples, many of them Americans. They were a fast lot who thought it splendid fun to go for moonlight sails on Lake Pontchartrain, visit the cemeteries at midnight where the ghostly mausoleums in plastered brick and white marble shone like cities of the dead, or else drive at a gallop down Gallatin Street on a Saturday night, watching for the ladies of the evening who adorned the balconies and open windows, or who plied their wares on the street. They dared not drive slow on such pilgrimages because of the danger; there was on average a murder every night of the year on that short thoroughfare, and that was counting only the corpses that were discovered. It was an accepted fact that there were many other men who wound up in the river, the only rule of the street being that a man must dispose of his own victims.
    With this group of friends Anya had spent a great many nights eating in the finest restaurants of the city, partaking liberally of wine with each of the many courses. Sometimes they would go on to some soiree or ball, or if some other amusement did not appeal, entertain themselves by thinking up ludicrous dares and wagers. Once Anya was persuaded to steal an operatic tenor’s nightcap.
    It was the custom for opera companies to arrive in the city for runs lasting three to four weeks. The tenor of the company then in town was flamboyant and vain, with a high opinion of himself as a ladies’ man. He was also known to be more than a little balding. The dare had begun as a joke about the kind of nightgear such a Lothario might wear to hide a tonsorial deficiency always covered while on stage by a wig.
    The man was staying at the Pontalba apartments that were then newly finished, the first of their kind in the United States. They were constructed with ornate wrought-iron balconies overlooking Jackson Square, the old Place d’Armes of the French and Spanish regimes. To do the deed, Anya persuaded her coachman to drive under the tenor’s balcony late one night. Dressed in boy’s clothes, she swung to the top of the carriage, then pulled herself up onto the balcony that led to the man’s rooms. It was a warm night, and she depended on his windows to be open. What she had not made allowance for was the possibility that he might not be asleep, or alone in his bed.
    Nonplussed, but dauntless, Anya stole into the bedchamber and snatched the nightcap, a splendid affair of velvet and gold lace, from the tenors head while he labored in the throes of passion. Whirling with her prize, she ran for her life.
    The tenor bellowed and gave chase. So magnificent was the capacity of the opera stars lungs that his shouts awakened the building. As Anya was driven away at breakneck speed, lying flat on the roof of her carriage, the Pontalba balcony was lined with spectators. She had not, by the grace of God, been recognized, but the story had spread so quickly of the stolen nightcap that at the next performance the poor tenor was laughed from the stage. Anya had felt such guilt for the man’s public embarrassment that she had sharply curtailed such escapades, and finally dropped the company of the married crowd altogether.
    Anya glanced back toward the dancers in the theater ballroom. They were growing noisier, the effect of the iced champagne punch being served up along with the lemonade in the refreshment room. This was a public ball for the benefit of one of the city’s many orphanages, with entrance by subscription. As a result, the guest list was less than exclusive, including anyone who might have the price of a ticket. The air of license seemed to be growing as the night advanced. It was not surprising.
    The contredanse came to an end, and after a moment or two, another waltz began. It appeared that Celestine and Murray were going to remain on the floor for it. Anya pushed away