Chapter Four

Twelfth Night came and the revels of Mardi Gras began somewhat marred by rainy weather. The year 1926 seemed determined to be as wet and dreary as 1925, but the festivities in the City that Care Forgot went unhindered. The parades marched on even if the flambeaux that lit the night events were difficult to ignite, and the mules that pulled the floats occasionally slipped in flooded streets. Even the death of Mayor Behrman did not stop the revels, and the mayor would have wanted it so, Roz observed.

Rosamond collected enough silver charms from the King Cakes served at the numerous teas she attended to fill a bracelet. They promised her wealth and a husband, children and luck, but none guaranteed happiness. There were luncheons, of course, and balls. Many young men followed in her wake, though as the season progressed, these dwindled to Buster Boylan, Artie Delamare, and a few of their fraternity brothers who always seemed to cut out the others.

As for Pierre Landry, Rosamond had seen him only once as she rode the streetcar to her college. Pierre had been riding a car passing the other way. She waved frantically, and he lifted a hand and smiled. They watched each other out of sight, but the whole incident possessed more the feel of a farewell than a greeting as they moved farther and farther apart.

Roz continued to take a light schedule of classes at Newcomb. These resulted in the creation of one ugly pot and a knotted weaving. She knew more about Renaissance and Baroque artists than she ever wanted to know. The mystery, Rosamond felt, was how she could be so busy and so bored at the same time.

Of course, she had no objections to the new dresses filling her room, and though the fittings bordered on tedium, Leda Hincks Plauché, the renowned costume designer, was creating her queen’s gown. Mama insisted the dress be white. When her daughter objected, saying rumor had it that the Queen of Rex would appear in gold lamé, Madame Plauché winked at Roz and promised that her cape would be covered in silver leaf and edged with ermine, every bit as fine and much more tasteful than anything Rex could offer. The crown would fit low over her head like a cloche hat and pearls dotted her dress. Her father intended to provide a diamond choker and two matching bracelets. Her outfit would be beyond compare.

The never-ending argument cropped up again. “My crown would fit better if my hair were bobbed. Wouldn’t it look stunning if I could lighten the color just a little, Madame Plauché?”

This time the grande dame of costume shook her head. “If the arrangement of your hair is a problem, you could always wear it down, Rosamond. That would be charming.”

Win some, lose some. Roz conceded the battle.

With the passing days, Rosamond felt herself becoming more and more the daughter her parents wanted and less and less Roz, the woman she wanted to be. The devil-may-care, caution-to-the-wind flapper sat on the sofa holding hands with Burke Boylan while he and her father talked about the latest boxing matches at the Holland House.

In rare moments unchaperoned, she submitted to Buster’s crushing, unpracticed kisses and roving hands while wondering if she would feel less indifferent to Dr. Landry’s caresses. Her Aunt Harriet had considered some sexual experience essential to Rosamond’s education, providing the girl did not go all the way, and so Roz knew that the men of France, Spain and Italy could bring a woman to climax with their hands and tongues alone. Buster wanted to wring a response from her with bear hugs and rough squeezes.

When she questioned her uncle about where Pierre Landry was and what he did, the answers were always “at the hospital” or “very busy.” Finally exasperated, Gilbert said, “You must know, Rosie, your parents do not want me to bring him here. Pierre knows his place in society, and you should assume yours.” Judging by her vanishing entourage, society assumed Rosamond St. Rochelle had become Boylan’s girl.

As the frenzy of Mardi Gras day approached, the parades rolled day and night, and the elite danced at their bal masques late into the evening. On Saturday so as not to conflict with the balls of Comus and Rex, the Krewe of Hercules held its grand event at the Orpheum. Rosamond and her court sat in a box adjacent to the stage to view the carefully constructed tableaux of Great Masterpieces of Art.

Slim young men in marbled tights, their faces and hair a stark grayish white, stood on columns and struck the poses of famous classical statues. Each was wheeled forward by attendant Greek slaves to be viewed by the audience. They were followed by the entire company of the Rembrandt’s Night Watch, who could walk off under their own power after striking the scene.

A picture by Hieronymus Bosch full of grotesques and tiny devils drew the most laughter and applause until the pièce de résistance, Leda and the Swan. Full-feathered and wide of wing, the magnificent swan glided onto the stage to settle himself between the legs of a very voluptuous and Rubenesque Leda on her ornate couch. The rolls of white flesh, the prominent breasts in their gold halter, wild, tangled hair and twisted draperies must be disguising only one person—Willard Morrison—and the swan—who else but Artie Delamare? Rosamond applauded wildly as the swan, exhausted from impregnating Leda, rested his long neck on her alabaster thigh.

The lights dimmed. A large golden egg rolled onto the stage. It cracked and expelled a dainty Helen and a gorgeous Pollux. Each carried away their half of the egg, and King Hercule, as the French called him, was revealed in all his glory: the paunchy middle-aged businessman well concealed beneath padded tights and a real lion skin, the head of which formed a mask over his eyes. A gilded beard hung down on the king’s chest concealing any lack of muscles. Behind him, small pages held up a purple cloak embroidered in gold with the Twelve Labors of Hercules. In one hand, the king held a scepter and in the other, a jeweled cup. He approached Rosamond, his Queen Hebe, on golden sandals and offered a toast. King Hercule beckoned his consort from her box.

Rosamond, her attendants carrying her cape of silver leaf, crystal, and pearl edged in ermine, joined the king on the stage for the final procession. The magnificence of the cape far eclipsed her white dress with its handkerchief hem of lace and droplets of pearl and crystal, but the diamonds her daddy provided caught the light and threw it back at the audience. Burke Boylan and Rosamond’s proud family rose and applauded with the rest as the court left the theater for a midnight dinner at one of the finest restaurants in the city. Rosamond had done as she was asked, and the rest of Mardi Gras belonged to her alone.