That same evening, Charles and Willa left Gus with the Billy Hazards. Virgilia and Scipio came to the hotel at half past six — no one was: quite sure where they were staying, but no one pressed them — and the two couples took a cab to Maison de Paris, a well-recommended restaurant where Charles had reserved a table. He was the evening's host. Ever since 1869, he'd explained to his wife, he had felt a special indebtedness to Virgilia.
At the restaurant, the suave maitre d' drew Charles aside and spoke to him. Charles explained that Scipio Brown was Virgilia's husband.
"I do not care if he is the emperor of Ethiopia," the maitre d' whispered in poor English. "We do not seat persons of his color."
Charles smiled and stared at him. "Would you like to review that policy with me out on the curb?"
"Out —"
"You heard me."
"Charles, there's no need —" Virgilia began.
"Yes, there is. Well?"
Red with fury, the maitre d' said, "This way."
He gave them a bad table and a surly waiter. It took them forty minutes to get their bottle of wine, an hour and a half to get their dinner, all the plates were served cold. Their laughter soon grew forced, and Virgilia looked sad and miserable under the hostile eyes of other diners in the restaurant.
BETWEEN THE CENTURIES.
Farewells to the Old. Greetings to the New.
Monster Celebration In Philadelphia.
Stirring ceremonies in independence square.
Reading the original declaration.
Eloquent Oration by W. M. Evarts.
The Pyrotechnic Display in the Park was ...
White and red star bursts exploded over the exhibition grounds, each display producing louder cheers than the one before. The dazzling colors played over Bartholdi's huge copper forearm and hand upholding a torch. Appearing to rise from the ground, the section of the Statue of Independence, as it was called, seemed to suggest that a buried giantess was about to break through the earth's crust. A few lucky spectators watched the fireworks display from the observation platform at the base of the upraised torch.
Standing near the statue with Jane, tired from a second day of touring the halls and foreign cottages, Madeline suddenly felt someone's eyes on her. She looked up and saw it was George.
Little Alfred Hazard from California had fallen asleep in George's arm. With disarming friendliness, George gazed at Madeline over his nephew's head. There was nothing improper in his glance, and in a moment he shifted his attention to the sky. A great silvery flower of light bloomed there.
Madeline's throat was curiously dry, however. George had been looking at her differently. She was guilty, pleased, flustered, and a little frightened.
The Carolina Club occupied a large lot in undeveloped land beyond the northern limits of the city. The Chicago fire had not reached that far, but neither had the suburbs as yet. Still, there was always a lot of horse and vehicle traffic on the otherwise deserted road that ran the past the rambling four-story house. The Carolina Club was the city's largest and most fashionable brothel.
The owner called herself Mrs. Brett. On the Fourth of July she awoke at her usual hour, 4:00 p.m. Her black maid was just emptying the last spouted pitcher of gently heated goat's milk into a zinc tub in the next room. She stretched, bathed in the milk for five minutes, then rubbed herself until she was pink. She had no proof that the milk baths promoted youth. Dr. Cosmopoulos, her very prosperous customer who was a phrenologist, professor of electromagnetism, and merchant of healthful tonics, insisted they did, so the baths had become a habit.
She put on a Chinese silk robe and breakfasted on a pint of fresh oysters and coffee. To finish, she lit a small cheroot from the lacquered Oriental box. Her button collection no longer fit in the box. She kept the buttons visible in a large clear-glass apothecary's jar with a heavy stopper. She had over three hundred buttons now.
She dabbed expensive Algerian perfume on her breasts, her throat, and under her arms. Next, with the maid's help, she put on a dress of apple-red silk with a huge bustle. She slipped on ornate finger rings with red, green, and white stones, put on a heavy necklace and bracelets of paste diamonds and a huge tiara as well. At half past six she went down from her third-floor suite to relieve the energetic young Scandinavian who came on duty at 10:00 a.m. to regulate the day trade.
There was already a large crowd of gentlemen mingling with the smartly gowned girls in the four parlors. In addition to the white girls employed in the brothel, there were also a Chinese, three black wenches, and a full-blooded Cherokee Indian who was an accomplished piano player. Princess Lou was at this moment playing "The Yellow Rose of Texas" on the upright in the main parlor. It was a Fenway; she still felt a certain illogical loyalty.
She relieved Knudson, the day man, and was in her office studying his tally of receipts when a customer staggered past the half-opened door. The man lurched back and goggled at her.
"Ashton?"
"Good evening, LeGrand," she said, hiding her surprise. "Come in, won't you? Close the door."
He did; the noise level in the office dropped considerably. Villers gazed at the paintings and marbles decorating the opulent room. With an amazed shake of his head, he lurched to Ashton's private bar and sloppily poured himself a drink. "Don't spill on my carpet, it's imported from Belgium," she said. "And for your information, my name is Mrs. Brett."
"I can't believe this," Villers said, sagging into a chair beside the great teak desk. "I've never been here before. Two of the Fenway peddlers are in town, so I thought we'd go on a spree. How long have you run this place?"
Ashton's face, smoothly and carefully powdered, still showed a slight puffiness. She was forty, and had trouble controlling her weight.
"Since it opened. That was shortly after I left Will. I wasn't exactly prepared to support myself. If you're a proper Southern girl, your education consists of learning to simper and curtsy. At least that was so in my day. Consequently, when you grow up, all you know how to do is be a wife or a whore. In the case of my first husband, who was a spineless no-good, I was the former and felt like the latter. You know, LeGrand, the ladies of Charleston would lynch me for saying this, but lately I've begun to think the suffragists aren't entirely crazy. I've given a local group a very large donation two years in a row." She feigned a demure expression. "Anonymously, of course. I wouldn't want to compromise my reputation."
He laughed. "How'd you get started here?"
"With the help of a patron."
"Yes, you'd have no trouble finding a platoon of patrons. You're as handsome as ever."
"Thank you, LeGrand. How's Will?"
"Making millions, the old son of a bitch. The judges in Philadelphia gave our Ashton model one of their bronze medals. Isn't that something? Now tell me, what happened when you left? One day you're back from Carolina, and the next — whiz. Gone."
"Will and I had a major disagreement." No sense telling him more. No sense in revealing that she'd had the bad luck to be away from Chateau Villard the day the mail brought Favor Herrington's last bill. Will was at home, recovering from summer influenza. He opened the letter from the unfamiliar law firm and then wanted to know why she had hired an attorney when, according to what she'd told him, all she'd done in South Carolina was visit. She evaded, lied, resisted as long as she could, but he was a stubborn old devil, and success had only strengthened him. When she screamed that she'd roast in hell before she told him anything, he shrugged and said he'd telegraph Favor Herrington and demand an explanation. He would exercise his marital rights and insist that Herrington could not claim confidentiality because Ashton was spending his money. Terrified, Ashton confessed to pledging an enormous sum for Mont Royal by means of a letter of credit on their bank.