Feast of All Saints (20 page)

And Marie, a quiet person who said little ever to anyone, despised herself at such times for this natural inclination. It was cowardice not to say, “Why, that’s Anna Bella Monroe, she’s our friend.” Anna Bella, who brought preserves in flowered porcelain crocks and tureens of this special soup, that special brew to cure a fever, leaning on the door-jamb, ever so gracefully, one shoulder higher than the other, her neck so very long, said in a lilting voice, “Well, you just get better now Ma’ame Cecile, and if there’s the slightest thing…I don’t go to school anymore, you just send for me…”

But no such gathering of angel wings sheltered Marcel who, on the sly, slipped away with Monsieur Philippe’s newspaper and left it open under the lamp to an article on the special feeding for African slaves, Marcel, who took command when Lisette ran away insisting that no one say a word to her, after all, she’s come back, hasn’t she? But then he had a way with Lisette as he had a way with everyone, and when she would not work it was Marcel who brought her round, and later gently hinted to Cecile, “Monsieur Philippe will be so tired from the long trip when he comes, he won’t want to hear complaints, isn’t it better he not know?” The man of the house, her brother!

He could have anything, do anything, even now when he acted the madman and frightened everyone, he still had that power…

No, it wasn’t jealousy of him for a moment that could explain this awesome dark thing that lay between herself and Cecile, this throbbing violence of emotion that seemed to threaten the very coordination of Marie’s limbs.

She was nearing the notary’s office without thinking of where she was going, and through the tears that stood in her eyes the Rue Royale had become some avenue of the grotesque where men and women worried each other with ludicrous errands.

She could not stop seeing her mother, could not stop hearing her voice at that moment when she had turned, her head lowered, the
veins in her neck standing out, and her lips taut with hissing, “Take that to his office, go!” And the vision of Cecile had been the very same the evening before, all semblance of the lady lost in one blazing instant in Richard’s presence when she had said those unmistakable words, “Get out!” Not one syllable had passed between them all the long night afterwards, not once had Cecile so much as given Marie a glance. She had learned of Marcel’s expulsion from Cecile’s cries outside his door. And withering after into a corner of the bedroom, had listened for an hour to her mother pacing the floor.

Her mother disliked her,
disliked
her! The word formed instantaneously from the chaos of her conscious with stunning cold. Disliked her, it was manifest at last in those flashing eyes, the lips drawn back from the teeth, the quick turning of the head with that overpowering aversion, dissolving utterly all myths of family love, and all that which had been mere pretense crumbled at once like something splendid, painted on ancient paper, come apart at the touch. But ah, to reveal this in the presence of another, with blind impatience to display it, this which should have been the deepest of family secrets! It was unforgivable! Marie, shaken, throbbing, in fact, from the sting of it, felt for her mother suddenly the most profound contempt. And this contempt, like all else between them, was as cold as a barren hearth.

She stopped in the street, astonished to discover that she was at the notary’s door.

She did not for an instant know why or what she was doing, and then the necessities of the moment flooded back to her, and she felt, if anything, more helpless and confused than before. This note, this foolish, if not disastrous, note! Her fingers, moist from the heat, had disfigured it but not enough. She was mildly amazed to feel her hand shaking as she grasped for the latch.

It was here that her rage should have focused all along, she felt it in a flash, and there came a vague relief as this passion was deflected from her own behalf. After all, what was being done here to Marcel with this note? What a rash and utterly foolish action this was. Who was Monsieur Philippe really, this gentle man she called
mon Père
when he bent to kiss her cheek? He was a white man, a protector, a benefactor upon whose whim Marcel’s fortune utterly depended, and for the moment the child in her who had loved this man gave way to the woman who felt that the other woman was committing a stupid and absurdly destructive act. She felt superior to Cecile in that moment, worldly and peculiarly strong.

But what could she do about it? How could she stop it? Go back now, not to the cottage, but to Anna Bella’s right by, where she might borrow pen and paper and write another letter, something milder, that
would give her brother time? Cecile who could neither read nor write might never actually know. But this was inconceivable really. She had never done such a thing, and she was powerless to do it now.

And seeing her father in these moments as some remote and powerful personage from another world, she loathed the sheer reality of these thoughts, her own calculations, and their sordid resonance and resented all at once the whole circumstance that had made her think of lies and tricks, such words as indiscretion and the very practical phrase, common sense. It was repulsive, as repulsive as that moment when Richard had hurried from the cottage door, an unwilling witness to hostile words.

She bowed her head. She did not know it but she appeared ill as if the steaming street with its ripening smells had made her weak, and the clerk having seen her through the shadowy glass came to open the door.

“Mademoiselle?” he whispered. He extended his arm. She didn’t see him. She took the chair he offered and sank down in cooler air, breathing the clean fragrance of leather and ink, and watching dumbly as he neatly closed the silk folds of her parasol.

When he brought her water, she did not drink it, but merely looked at the glass in her hand. He thought she was white, naturally, and there was another aspect to his gentle attentions which made her drop her eyes.

“Monsieur Jacquemine, I have to see him please,” she explained at once.

There was nothing to be done.

“Ah, Mademoiselle, forgive me, I don’t believe I have had the pleasure,” the notary came blustering from an inner office, and imprisoning her hand needlessly touched the palm of it with rough fingers that set her teeth on end. She rose.

“Marie Ste. Marie, Monsieur, I believe you know my brother.”

His thick mossy brows lifted, and his reddened cheeks plumped with his smile. “Aah, I would not have guessed.” he whispered.

She was furious. She could feel the smarting of her own face. That he should think this a compliment. And thrusting the note quickly into his hand, she turned to go.

“But wait,
ma petite,”
he insisted. She had moved to the door. “Expelled from school?” he held the note at arm’s length, feeling for his spectacles, no doubt, in a breast pocket. “But what school is this, ah, this is serious…what school does your brother attend?”

“Monsieur, if you can reach Monsieur Ferronaire.” She had never said her father’s surname before. Even this hurt her, shocked her. She reached for the latch.

He came close to her, a hand pressing the door shut. His sleeve brushed her arm, and turning slowly toward him she looked up into his
eyes. She could see him shying backward, see the effect of her chilly expression and felt not the slightest regret.

“Ah, Mademoiselle, I’m sure I don’t know if Monsieur is in the city, if he is not in the city, it might be some time…” he smiled confidentially, “these matters…” he murmured.

“Merci
, Monsieur,” she whispered and found herself in the crowded street.

He was insisting upon something, calling her. She did not hear. Glancing back suddenly, she saw that smile again, confidential, seemingly tender, and his gaze passed furtively over her yellow muslin dress.

Tears formed in her eyes as she moved quickly away, but they did not come.

The crowd was blurred, indistinct. Someone brushed her shoulder and mumbling apologies gave her a wide berth so that she felt unsteady and reached out for the bricks of the wall. But she did not like to touch such things. Her fingers dropped, closing instead on the folds of her dress. She had forgotten about her hair, and saw it suddenly in flat tresses against her bosom and whispered to the raucous rumbling about her,
“Mon Dieu, mon Dieu.”

Through the open doors of the St. Louis Hotel came a press of white women, clambering into open carriages, one behind the other at the curb, so that she was obliged to stand with others for a moment as they passed, and turning her head she became aware of a strange noise.

It was as if an orchestra were playing already at this early hour, and all but the thick vibrations of the bass were drowned by the murmur of the lobby crowds. Above this came the faint high-pitched nasal cries of the auctioneers at war with one another under the high rotunda. Lifting her hand to her cheek, she was astonished to see on her fingertips the bright wetness of tears.

The crowd moved. And she was forced to move with it. She had never fainted in her life, but felt for the first time a rising darkness and a weakness in her limbs. Her mouth was curiously moist, and loose. She was afraid. But then a hand reached for her, steadied her, and meant to guide her closer to the wall. This was dreadful. She was going to pull away, most certainly had to pull away when with stinging eyes she saw that this was Richard Lermontant.

Had it been anyone else, anyone at all, it would not have mattered. Strangers did not frighten her, not in the Rue Royale. She could have gotten away and gone home. But when she saw him leaning forward, saw the passionate concern in his large brown eyes, and felt again the mild press of his fingers on her arm, she commenced to shake. Humiliated, she turned her back on him and on the crowd, stared mutely at the red bricks before her, and gave way to silent sobs.

“But Marie, what is it?” he whispered. He held a clean linen handkerchief out to her.

She did not know it but she had pulled her hair close around her, as if it might cover her up, and then she thought distinctly in bright flashes, I am not here, I cannot be here, not with Richard in this street, crying. I must somehow get away.

“Tell me Marie, what is it, what can I do?” he whispered.

She shook her head. Turning, she was peculiarly affected by this closeness to him. She stared at the sudden whiteness of his starched front, the glossy buttons of his black broadcloth coat. With some immense effort she raised her eyes to his, wanted to let him know that she was all right. But she experienced a weightless feeling, and a throbbing in her ears. It was as if she were hearing the rush of a waterfall, the great gush of rain through flooded passages, a sweet and stunning cessation of all matters in time. His face above the dark silk of his tie was not young, it was immaculate with youth certainly, but it was older in its tenderness, its obvious solicitude and something that must surely be wise.

But there was an intrusion, a voice, a man’s hand. Stepping back impulsively she saw Monsieur Rudolphe, Richard’s father, beside him, dressed in that same proper wintry black. Even against the extraordinary height of his son, the man seemed massive, his great chest and belly smooth beneath his curved waistcoat, his large somewhat long face with its slightly protuberant eyes looming over her. The clear Caucasian voice was immediately commanding.

“Ahh Marie, come across to the shop, out of this heat, at once,” he took her arm.

She drew back in spite of herself. “No, Monsieur, thank you,” she murmured. She swallowed quickly, and took Richard’s handkerchief. “I’m expected home right now.” She wiped the tears quickly from her eyes. “It’s only the heat, yes, I was walking too fast…”

Monsieur Rudolphe accepted this more easily than she had expected, and Richard merely nodding stepped aside from her, gesturing at once that she must keep the handkerchief.

“You should have a sunshade, Mademoiselle,” Monsieur Rudolphe said. And she realized with a sudden sense of defeat that she had left her parasol with the notary. Well, Marcel would have to get it, she was not going back. “Walk slowly and keep under the galleries.”

Richard’s face when she last glimpsed it was the picture of distress. She felt faint, sick, as she walked on, and actually dreaded some stupid accident. She took in her breaths deeply, and by the time she had reached the corner she was all right.

But in a moment she was thinking of nothing but Richard, and her mind, exhausted, gave in gradually to a melancholy that was almost
sadness. They were wealthy, the Lermontants, with their shop, their stables, their stone yards. Their new Spanish style house in the Rue St. Louis had large lacquered double doors and at night through floating lace curtains one could glimpse a spectacle of gaslight. And he their only son could pick and choose.

There would be talk of dowries at their supper table, of how many weddings between this and that name, entered in the ledgers of the St. Louis Cathedral for this many generations back. At thirteen she would soon be old enough to be courted, and at sixteen Richard was not old enough to give it a thought.

How tired her mind was! Giselle, his sister, had gone off to marry into a fine colored family in Charleston taking with her a dowry of rosewood furniture and ten household slaves. And Madame Suzette Lermontant had come from those wealthy colored planters of Saint-Domingue who had all but dominated the province of Jeremie.

At any other time, how this would have made her heart beat, how miserable it might have made her feel. But now it merely made her head droop. Turning the corner into the Rue Ste. Anne, she moved on steadily to the Rue Dauphine, where she saw a light-skinned colored man dragging with angry grunts a heavy trunk toward the Mercier gate. He stopped when he saw her, as though struck by something about her. This must be the man, she thought, as she hurried past, eyes down, this famous Christophe. She could feel his eyes on her back as she moved down the narrow street and crossed to her own gate. One quick glance told her he was still watching her, had stopped dead still to watch her and she turned her eyes away from him angrily with a haughty lift to her head.