Feast of All Saints (92 page)

“Now, be still, just wait…” Anna Bella took hold of Marcel. “You give her a chance to tell, you just don’t know…” she whispered. But the door yawned back on utter darkness, and pulling loose from her and brushing aside Christophe, Marcel rushed inside.

“Lisette!” he said. “Lisette!” And then they both heard him gasp. He staggered backwards with his hand over his mouth.

Christophe could see nothing in the dark and then coming forward, step after step, he too felt the sudden heavy shape which had hit
Marcel softly in the face. His hand groped before him. And he felt the coarse wool stocking of Lisette’s leg. She was hanging from the rafters, her feet already curling up.

D
OLLY
R
OSE RAISED
the back of her hand to her eyes as she entered the room. Lamps blazed on the dresser, reflected brilliantly in the polished mirror; they blazed on the tables, atop the armoire, beside the bed. “You can go,” she said to her maid, Sanitte, as she looked down at Marie crouched in the far corner against the wall. Marie wore a soft silk dressing gown which Dolly had given her, threaded with lavender ribbon at the neck. She would not look at her own clothes. Dolly’s maids had found dresses in the cottage, where there was no one to stop them, but Marie had screamed when she saw them, screamed as she had at the mention of her brother’s name. Marcel had cried like a baby on the gallery, begging Dolly, let me see her, let me in.

“I can’t,
cher,”
Dolly had gently turned him away.

And as she stood looking down at this beautiful girl who had crept into the far corner of the room, bringing her feet up under the beige silk of the gown, Dolly’s eyes were softened with tears.

“Come, Marie,” she said as she padded softly forward. She held a tray of food in her hand, the white meat of the chicken, slices of tomato, fruit. She set this down beside the bed, and dropping to a crouch, took Marie’s hands.

Marie stared dully at the wall, at the skirts of the bed. Her eyes would not meet Dolly’s and with one hand she drew her long flat black hair down over her face as if to hide herself from Dolly’s gaze.

She was thinking that she had never known anyone in her life like Dolly, that all the world misunderstood Dolly, did not know Dolly’s goodness, that Dolly was all the perfumed kisses of women at weddings and christenings and funerals, Dolly was verbena and lace and soft hands, the tickle of Gabriella’s lashes when she whispered a secret, the touch of Celestina’s hands on her hair. All things affectionate, yielding, ineffably sweet, that was Dolly, this woman whom everyone branded outcast, Dolly to whom she had wandered thinking well if I am ruined then I will go to Dolly, I will go the
cordon bleu
of ruined women, I will go to the illustrious DOLLY Dolly DOLLY Dolly DOLLY DOLLY ROOOOOSE!

But there was more to Dolly, something infinitely more vigorous about this affection which had never been a component of the affection
Marie had known. Something self-appointed and self-sustained, unfettered by the estimation of others, yet without defiance, and Marie believed it, believed it, believed it when Dolly said, “You may stay here forever, safe in this room.”

And the truth was Marie was terrified of the very reason that she had come here. That men could touch her again, that she should endure this as one of Dolly’s girls was beyond comprehension, and yet this was why she had come. This was where she belonged. And Dolly didn’t know how much she belonged here, no one knew, but Marie knew and stared dully past Dolly at the skirts of the bed.

But Dolly would not be refused.

“Come up here with me,” she said. She lifted Marie’s hand, tugging her gently to her feet. And leading Marie to the bed, she positioned her against the pillows, bringing the coverlet up over her lap. Then sitting next to her, Dolly showed her the plate.

Marie’s eyes moved sluggishly over the white meat of the chicken, she was reasoning that insects couldn’t be hidden there, but the sight of the tomato with those writhing seeds forced her eyes away. Since she had come she had eaten nothing, drunk nothing but clear water, opaque liquids terrifying her because she was overcome with the horror that insects lurked beneath the surface, big brown roaches with floppy wings that would rise to crawl into her mouth as soon as her lips touched the glass. Or one of these might appear wobbling, flapping on the spoon. She could not bear the sight of milk or soup, nor meats drowned in gravy, and sitting now against the cream-colored pillows of Dolly’s bed, the room ablaze with light, she was suddenly jarred by the sensation, no, the memory, that a man was trying to force her mouth open as he straddled her, his knee crushing her arm. She shuddered, sitting forward, turning away from Dolly Rose.

“Marie, tell me,” Dolly insisted, “don’t shut me out.”

Could men do that? Had they done that? Her mouth was sealed shut as she covered it with her hand, her shoulders hunched, her mouth sealed shut again as it happened every time that sensation or memory came back to her. Her nostrils were filled with a personal stench, she was in that dim smoky light, a man’s voice talking casually, almost tenderly to her, her teeth clenched, she began to shake.

“Marie, Marie,” Dolly said softly. She felt Dolly’s hand on her arm. “There is nothing so dreadful that you cannot tell me, that you cannot put this burden in my hands.”

Oh, but that’s where Dolly was so wrong! There was something she could never tell anyone, not even Dolly, something worse than that man straddling her, that pain as his knee bore down on her arm, much worse, something that rendered it all perfectly just, perfectly just and disenfranchised all rage, she was about to scream again.

But she had sunk down into the pillows. She curled up, her forehead pressed against Dolly’s wool dressing gown, her eyes shut.

“I belong in this house,” she whispered. “I belong in this house.”

A heavy listless sigh escaped Dolly. The hand that brushed Marie’s hair from her forehead was warm, light.

Don’t feel sorry for me, don’t feel pity for me, Marie thought dully, her eyes half-mast as she stared forward, the green of Dolly’s gown a pulsing blur. But I can’t go across the yard, can’t let those men, I…I…And without realizing it, she had rolled on her face and away from Dolly, burrowing her head into the pillow, forehead moving back and forth as if she meant to bore through the bed.

“Marie, stop this!” Dolly grabbed her suddenly, lifting her.

Marie gasped.

“Listen to me,” Dolly turned her roughly, shaking her back and forth, her head bobbing on her neck. “You must talk to me, you must let it out!”

Marie’s head fell to the side. She whispered, “I want to die.”

“No,” Dolly’s eyes were glassy, her lips trembling. “You don’t want to,
ma chère
, you don’t want to die. They haven’t killed you, they haven’t touched you, not you!” And that hand, always so gentle, touched the well between Marie’s breasts. “Now, listen to me, the day you came here, you talked to me, you told me what they’d done…”

Marie drew herself up, a shriek rising behind her clenched teeth.

“…you’ve got to let it out like that now, again. It’s a wound that must be lanced, the poison must be let to drain away…”

“I didn’t know then, I didn’t know,” Marie whispered, the words barely escaping her lips, her eyes rolling listlessly to the side.

“What, Marie!” Dolly pleaded. “What didn’t you know?” Her hand enfolded the back of Marie’s head and brought her close. “Don’t you see,
ma chère
, they can’t make you into something by what they did, they can’t make you into what they say.” Her voice was low, the words carefully emphasized. “They take the pen in hand, they write the play for us, they tell us to take the parts,
placée
, white protector, virgin girl. But we can turn our backs on it, we can take the pen from their hand. We are free really, free to live as we want to live.” Her lips pressed against Marie’s hair. “We are alive, look at us, listen to the beat of our hearts, Marie…” she lifted Marie’s chin in her hand. The girl was shuddering, the eyes struggling as if to peer through the heavy lids, and suddenly seeing Dolly, Marie drew up gasping, “No, no,” backing away as if she might fall from the bed.

“Stop it, Marie.” Dolly lifted her hand as if to slap her, but then her lips pressed together, the tears glimmering in Dolly’s eyes. She took Marie by the shoulders and again she shook her hard.

“No, no!” Marie’s mouth fell open, the cry coming louder and
louder, “They knew, they knew, they knew when they saw me, stop it, Dolly, they knew, that’s why they did it to me!” she was screaming, the voice rising, dying, rising again. “Don’t you see, I deserved it!” she roared, “I deserved what happened to me!”

Dolly stared at her uncomprehending, holding her still. The girl was sobbing in her tight grasp, the head thrown back, the body heaving as she repeated those words again and again. “Why,
chère
, why, how could you say such a thing! Talk to me, Marie, tell me!” And desperate, she clutched Marie to her so that Marie’s head fell against her own.

The lips were moving there, the words so low, rapid, feverish that Dolly couldn’t hear, “I can’t stand it any longer, I can’t stand it any longer,” came the rough panting breaths, and then Marie, exhausted, hysterical, turned her lips to Dolly’s ear.

Dolly was staring forward, listening. At first her brows puckered and then gradually her eyes opened wide. “O God,
chère,”
she whispered. “Oh,
bébé,”
she whispered, the tears slowly welling from her eyes. “Poor innocent baby,” she cried.

“But Dolly,” Marie lifted her head, looked at Dolly, the whisper thin, shuddering, “don’t you see, I felt those things every time Richard…I felt them even in my dreams, and they knew when they saw me, they
knew!
They knew they could do that to me!”

She didn’t see Dolly shake her head, she didn’t see the tears slipping down Dolly’s cheeks. She only felt the hands that stroked her hair back from her forehead, the warm body next to her and she knew that at last, at last she had confessed it, she had told someone why she deserved no pity, no love, why it had happened, and limp she lay finally in Dolly’s arms. Dolly rocked her back and forth, she felt the rise and fall of Dolly’s breath. And then as if from some vast distance came Dolly’s voice, simple, devoid of guile or solicitude, saying only, “Now I understand,
ma chère
, now we have a place to begin.”

S
IX O’CLOCK AND
M
ARCEL
was gone. The windows graying, the sound of a rooster over the back fence. An hour ago, he had risen from the bed, silently, slipping into his clothes. “Don’t go out there,” Anna Bella had whispered.
“Must
go!” he had said. For a long moment they had embraced, her arm encircling his slender chest, her head against his warm neck. And when their lips met, all the night’s desperate intimacy overwhelmed her again. But he had taken his leave, kissing the tips of her fingers as gently, he let them go. It seemed only minutes ago the sound of his horse at a gallop had left the yard.

But here it was six o’clock, a cart lumbering through the Rue St. Louis, bumping over the deepening ruts, and the clock on the mantel tinking the hour when Michie Vince just might, just might die. Little Martin stirred beneath the airy lace of his broad wicker bassinet, so that Anna Bella moved it subtly, the wheels not even making the slightest creak.

She rose, pulling her silk peignoir over her flannel gown and taking her rosary with her, tiptoed to the chair.

How long did it take to do these things, fire one shot, two shots? For somebody deliberately to die. And what would Marcel do, what would he do if Vincent were the one to fall? Anna Bella moaned, eyes shut, bent almost double in the chair.

Far off, a heavy bell echoed the tiny clock, and from all the kitchen gardens round came the same monotonous clarion of the rooster, faint, repetitive, dull. Little Martin cried beneath his lace, and the wicker basket began to rock. With the rosary still in hand, Anna Bella gathered him up before he could begin to howl. Moving the silk back from her breast, she felt his firm little sucking mouth close on it, hard and big though it was with all the night’s milk that he had not drunk while she was gone. It was soothing that soft sucking, soothing to the ache in the breast, and a sympathetic trickle now flowed from the other side which she had to press firmly with her hand.

When the clock tinked the half hour, the baby was dozing, and Anna Bella had reached the fifth of the Sorrowful Mysteries of the rosary, “The Crucifixion,” her hand moving silently over the beads as the words of the Hail Mary went through her mind. How long would it be before there came that knock to tell her, would it be her neighbors, Madame Lucy or pretty Marie Anais, or would it be Marcel! The windows were a cold blue by the time the clock struck seven and the rain came in splinters of glass in the gleam beyond the clouds.

Knock, knock, for the love of God, somebody knock! But what she had never expected was the sound of the key in the door. She shut her eyes, teeth biting into her lip at the sound of those boots. It was unmistakable. “Michie Vince!” she whispered. “Michie Vince!” she cried out. Closing the peignoir under a slumbering Martin she carried the baby with her into the front room.

Vincent was a shadowy figure at the mantel, his hair sleek and shining from the rain. She saw the glimmer of light in his eye first and then his face fully illuminated by the flowing window as he came toward her, his deepset black eyes fixing on the configuration of the infant in the blanket in her arms. The child’s ivory face shone against the snow-white of the wrappings, eyelashes beautifully long, the features in their sixth month exquisitely formed.

Anna Bella’s lip would not stop quivering, and she saw the tears
veritably dropping on the child’s head. She let out a little moan as Vincent kissed her forehead and quite suddenly he crushed her against him, the child against his chest. He was cold all over, cold hands, cold cheek, the clothes smelling of winter and wind, and rain.

For a long time she just let him be.