Marie leads us into the front room. Dozens of candles are lit and incense burns; the room is small and close with the sweet, heady scent of it. There is an altar with fresh flowers and statues of three saints: Saint Anthony, patron saint of lost things; Saint Peter, who is said to open the door to the spirit world and remove barriers to success; and Saint Marron, the patron saint of runaway slaves. Marie turns the big statue of Saint Anthony on its head, and I stifle a gasp at the irreverence.
“I need something of yours for the gris-gris, chère,” she says. “Hair, or a fingernail, or . . .”
The girls at school talked about this part, but a tremor of fear still runs up my spine. What if she uses this talisman to curse me or for some other dark purpose?
Eugenie doesn’t give me time to think. She leans close, plucks a hair right out of my head, and hands it to Marie. I glare at her and adjust my tignon.
“This will do,” Marie says. She opens a small wooden cabinet next to her altar. It’s lined with jars full of all manner of strange things: bundles of roots, herbs, hot peppers, sugar or salt, dirt, pins and needles, nails, and Lord knows what else. Some of them look to be animal parts. She mixes items from different jars into a little cloth bag, then chants some unfamiliar words, her hands reaching out toward her altar, supplicating the saints. The candles flicker. Eugenie is watching with wide-eyed fascination, but I bow my head because whether I believe in this or not — and truth be told, I’m not certain — it is clearly sacred to Marie.
When she finishes chanting, I raise my eyes. Marie sprinkles holy water over the little bag and then hands it to me. “Keep the gris-gris on your person,” she instructs. “It will ward off those who do not have your best interests at heart. Without their false counsel, you will find your own way.”
“Thank you.” I fumble in my reticule for coins. “I — I don’t know how much —”
“Fifteen cents,” Marie says, and I hand her the appropriate amount. Between this and bribing Nanette, today has made quite a dent in my egg money. Marie studies my face. “Good luck to you, Madeleine.”
The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and gooseflesh rises across my skin. I nod, unsettled, and flee with Eugenie back out into the hot May sun.
A week passes, but I am no closer to understanding my own heart. I spend my days helping Maman and Nanette with a spring cleaning, beating the quilts and rugs, hanging linens on the drying line in the courtyard. I am quiet, withdrawn. Maman eyes me and scoops extra helpings of gumbo into my bowl. I feign a headache to avoid attending a ball with my family; I cannot bear to face Etienne. He asked me to think more on his offer of marriage, and I do. I can’t stop thinking of it.
I watch Maman and Papa.
He works late sometimes, and he does come home smelling of sweat and dung and horse. But she doesn’t seem to mind. She smiles at him across the dinner table while she relates the little details of our days. They beam at each other when Marie Therese takes her first wobbly steps. Maman cooks liver for him even though she hates the smell. Papa pours her a steaming cup of coffee every morning before he goes to work, and she always thanks him for it, even as she’s wrestling the boys into their clothes or nursing Marie Therese.
Am I wrong about love? Is it founded on mutual respect, on like meeting like, not on heart-pounding, stomach-churning nervousness and pretty compliments?
On the seventh day, Maman looks at the plummy circles beneath my eyes and sighs. “Why don’t you go visit Eugenie?”
“Truly?” I ask, and she gives me a pained smile. I jump up and leave a smacking kiss on her cheek. “Thank you!”
I change into a high-waisted petal-pink visiting gown, slip the gris-gris into the pocket of my skirts, and leave immediately, though gray clouds are threatening an afternoon storm. I’ve missed Eugenie’s gossip, her bossiness, her big, booming laugh — so unexpected in such a small girl. And last night was the quadroon ball. Did Madame Dalcour tell Antoine that my parents refused his offer? Was he terribly heartbroken? I’ve imagined all sorts of scenarios; now I’m desperate to know the truth of it.
I’m striding down the Rue des Remparts when I notice the fine horse tied to the hitching post. I hesitate. Monsieur Reynard, perhaps? But he usually rides a black gelding. I notice horses, thanks to Papa. This one has white fetlocks and a gleaming chestnut coat, and it twitches its blond tail drowsily to ward off flies.
I’m still standing there when the front door of Eugenie’s cottage opens and a man steps out.
I blink, disbelieving.
It’s Antoine Guerin.
My Antoine.
Calling on Eugenie and Madame Dalcour.
My first, foolish thought is that he’s come to beg Madame to intercede on his behalf, to plead his suit to my parents.
Then I remember that spark of envy in Eugenie’s eyes when Antoine first asked me to dance. Her words play over in my mind. I want a fine gentleman like Antoine, a man who will provide for me and give me a beautiful life. . . . I know what I want. And I chase after it.