Feast of All Saints (94 page)

That he would eat nothing, drink nothing, say nothing in their flat after that, that he would not touch them, or allow himself to be touched did not come to him as a decision at all. He had gone through
the motions of taking Louisa and his mother to the steamboat dock in silence, and now he wondered as he stood there on the deck that Louisa meant to provoke his tenuous control.

The whistle sounded above, mercifully, and he removed his hand from hers without a word. His mother was standing in the stateroom door. He watched her dully as she came toward him and put her hands on his lapels. He did not draw back though he wanted to draw back, and his eyes felt to him as if they were made of lead.

“Remember,” she said, “the cottage is yours now. But don’t sell the cottage unless you have to. And if you have to, go ahead.” She was not looking at him as she repeated this refrain. “And what you gain from it, you keep,” her head moved emphatically. “I will be quite all right where I am.”

He nodded. You will be quite all right, he thought coldly, and I will never see Tante Josette again. I will never set eyes upon her, or
Sans Souci
as long as you are there. And you will die there, the money you possess—the pittance left in Monsieur Philippe’s pockets—will be a fortune for you in the country and provide for all those little expenses, gifts for birthdays or weddings, store-bought fabric, pins for your hair, all you will ever need among that infinite procession of aunts and cousins and nieces and nephews until the end of your days. And of course you will grow old with your whatnots, your jewelry, all that fine jewelry, and all those lovely clothes. You’ll grow old with these things rapidly, hands forever busy with the sewing you have always so detested, making an endless round of First Communion lace, collars, scarves, doilies for the backs of chairs. And all around you, every time you turn your head, you will be confronted with men of color married to women of color, which you have always abhorred to the marrow of your bones. But no one will ask your view of these matters, no one will even care. You will simply be old Tante Cecile, proud old Tante Cecile, bent over her needle, with her graying hair.

She was old even now as she stood beneath the cabin door, the rain drenching the rim of her bonnet with its persistent thin torrent, and putting her hands to her ears to shield herself from the deafening whistle, she had a slowness about her, a vagueness that he had never before seen. “You will come to
Sans Souci?”
she whispered, blinking at the wet boards of the deck before her, her head listing slightly as if she felt some nagging pain.

“Marcel!” Louisa’s voice pleaded. “Marcel! Tell your mother you’ll come to see her, tell her farewell.”

“And what shall I tell my sister for both of you?” he gasped suddenly, his eyes wide. “Tell me. What am I to say to my sister for both of you?”

His mother lifted her head. The dark eyes were suddenly brilliant
in the deep brown face, and the lips drew back slowly from her white teeth. “You tell her for me,” came the guttural voice, “I wish to hell she was dead!”

“God help you,” he whispered. “God help you both.”

Tante Louisa’s shrill voice sang out over the deck, over the crowded stairway, over the mounting passengers and the rushing wind. But within seconds he could no longer hear her, he was rushing across the lower deck and down the gangplank to the shore.

Quickly, he had crossed the Rue Canal and one blast after another sounded from the great steamboats so that it was not possible to distinguish one from another, and he was in his own streets on the way home.

Home. It was Christophe’s house he entered, and it was Juliet who took his coat and his cravat. She offered her soft cheek to him, innocently, and left him quite alone as she had all week long. He had thought it self-sacrificing of her at first, for surely she had burned for him in his absence as he had burned for her. But in the last few days it was apparent that she was not so aware of him as, at some other time, he might have wished.

Then roses had come for her yesterday, and he had seen boxes of sweets about, fancily wrapped. But when Christophe told him Augustin Dumanoir
père
, the colored planter, was now visiting her, Marcel had merely smiled. So that, too, is over, he had thought dryly.

Well, perhaps it’s time. And he felt no guilt then for the violent and beautiful night with Anna Bella, when at last possessing that young and resilient flesh he had possessed
her
, Anna Bella, bittersweet in his grief. It had been as barbarous and tender as anything he might ever have dreamed. She smelt of flowers and springtime while death lay all around.

And what had happened afterwards? He had come back those long wet miles from the Metairie Oaks, having watched those tiny figures from the concealing dark, to find Dazincourt there! He pushed it down, unexamined, to the deepest dungeon of his conscious thoughts.

But now as he watched his former mistress mount the stairs, as he saw her smile, one eye closing in a languid wink, he had a strange sweet feeling that unlike so many things in this world she was not quite gone forever, not lost with all the other exquisite and pure things of childhood, beyond his reach. However, he had the distinct impression, tinged with foreboding actually, that he would not of his own will reach out for her again.

He waited until he could no longer see the hem of her dress or her tiny ankle, and then he walked back the hall.

A blast of comfortable warmth greeted him as he opened the reading-room door.

But in the shadows near the window beyond the illumination of the fire, there stood a tall figure that Marcel knew for certain was Richard, could be none other than Richard, though the figure had its back to the door. He was unprepared for the sudden anxiety Richard’s presence aroused in him, the bitter and destructive emotion not unlike that which had prompted him to break the Lermontant window in plain view of an uncomprehending crowd. He threw one desperate and weary glance at Christophe as he moved on into the room.

“He wants to see your sister,” Christophe said.

Richard turned slowly, the high collar of his cape half concealing his face.

“Why?” Marcel asked.

“I’ve explained to him that she won’t see anyone, that she will not even see you,” Christophe said. And then with a pointed glance at Marcel, he produced a letter from his breast pocket. And seeing the expression on Christophe’s face, Marcel’s lips pressed into an involuntary and bitter smile.

That morning Marcel had outlined a brief but detailed plan to Christophe of how he might take Marie away. He proposed to sell the cottage and its furnishings, taking her abroad were the funds sufficient, or at least to Boston or New York. Christophe had immediately added his small fortune to this, two hundred dollars remaining of the money left him by the Englishman, and a small amount received for the right to adapt
Nuits de Charlotte
for the Paris stage. It would be a difficult life, steerage, scant meals, rented rooms. And then subsistence on a clerk’s wages when Marcel secured a position in time. But it was the only hope Marcel had. And Christophe had gone to Dolly’s this afternoon with the proposal, and to assure Marie that her mother was on her way upriver, Marie need never see her mother again.

But now Christophe’s face gave Marcel the answer, and here it was written in Marie’s own hand:

Marcel reflected for a moment, absorbing what he had sensed to be inevitable and then he passed this note to the tall figure in the corner of the room. Richard merely stared at it, and then appeared to take it with reluctance, eyes averted slightly, as if afraid. In fact, his
face was rigid with fear. The paper quavered slightly, and then he returned the note to Marcel.

“I want to see her,” he said.

“Why!” Marcel demanded again.

“She won’t see you,
mon fils,”
Christophe said. “And if you were to see her, you would find her much changed.” He glanced at Marcel, his face mildly agitated with concern.

“Then you have seen her yourself,” Marcel whispered.

“She’s much recovered,” Christophe sighed. “Last night she appeared in the parlor of Dolly’s house for the first time. Only for a short while, however, and she returned alone to Dolly’s room. But she did appear there, causing a mild sensation as one might imagine, and she was very much admired.”

Marcel couldn’t conceal his reaction. He swallowed with effort and sitting at the round table, ran his hands back slowly through his hair.

“She means to stay with Dolly from now on,” Christophe said. “I’ve heard this from her myself.”

“I want to hear it from her!” Richard whispered.

“You do?” Marcel threw him a venomous glance. “And suppose she didn’t want to stay there, suppose you didn’t hear it from her yourself? What would you do? Take her out of there and announce the banns? Marry her at High Mass at the Cathedral and have all the Charleston cousins, and the Villier cousins and the Vacquerie cousins and all
the Famille Lermontant!”

“Marcel!” Christophe whispered with an emphatic shake of his head.

“I’m sorry,” Marcel sighed. “If there is anyone who is blameless in this affair, it’s you…But we cannot help each other now, you must spare me your presence, and I shall spare you mine.”

Richard’s only answer was silence. For a long moment he stood at the window, his eyes on the steamy panes. The rain had stopped, and the night and the room were perfectly still. And then slowly he crossed the room, his heavy boots making the faintest sound, and without a word he left.

Christophe was watching the fire.

“I was cruel to him, wasn’t I?” Marcel said.

Christophe made a small gesture, Let it be.

“But did she…did she go into the parlor of Dolly’s house?…” Marcel’s voice faltered. He was going to cry again like a child if he went on, and seeing Christophe’s nod, he turned away.

“Marcel, I don’t expect you to understand this,” Christophe murmured, “but this is not the worst fate that could have been visited on Marie. I think you remember the bitter and destructive human being
that Dolly was before she chose her path. And in some very real way, that path for Dolly was a choice of life over death. Now she is offering that to your sister, and she will care for your sister, and again it just may be a choice of life over death.”

It was more than Marcel could bear. He rose to go.

“But sooner or later, Marcel,” Christophe said gently, “you must begin to think of yourself.”

“Christophe, I cannot think of anything now, I cannot breathe.”

“I understand that,” Christophe answered, “but this situation with Marie is not likely to change. I don’t know what could save Marie at this point, I don’t know that anything will. But I do know that you must go on living, you cannot spend your life mourning her as if she were buried alive.”

He urged Marcel to be seated at the table again and he commenced to speak to him steadily, calmly, in a low voice.

“Now you planned to sell the cottage,” he said, “you planned to sell the furnishings, get what you could. And as you know, I have some two hundred dollars here of my own.…”

“If Marie would have gone with me!” Marcel said, “I would have accepted then for her.”

“I realize that. But I am asking you now to accept it for me! I am asking you to take this money and whatever you can get for your property and go on to Paris on your own. As soon as you arrive there I can send you money, each month I can send you money, I can send you enough that you could enter the university…”

“Christophe you are torturing me,” Marcel said. “I cannot accept this and I will not.”

However, Christophe was adamant. “But you do this for me, don’t you understand?” he pleaded. “I’ve had my chance, Marcel, I know what it’s like to live where I am not a man of color but simply a man. Now I want
you
to have that chance. Don’t look away, Marcel, you must let me do it—for my sake as much as yours.…I know this can be done if you only let me…”

Marcel rose abruptly as if again he meant to go.

“All my life,” he said, looking down at Christophe, “I was taught that someone was going to give me my future, that Monsieur Philippe would provide me with my inheritance, send me to Paris in style. I heard it so often I came to believe I was entitled to it, that I was born to be a gentleman of means. Well, it was an illusion, and my expectation, my conviction that I could never be happy anywhere but in Paris has caused too much misery to me, it has caused too much misery to those I love.

“If I hadn’t wandered off to
Bontemps
that day enraged because of Monsieur Philippe’s broken promises, I wouldn’t have been sent
away to
Sans Souci
. I would have been here when Marie needed me, when my mother tried to get that dream for me again by using her. I would have been here to look out for her, I should have been looking out for her all along.”

“If you blame yourself for this,” Christophe said, “you are making a dreadful mistake.”

“I don’t blame myself. I know the world isn’t that simple, that good and evil—as you once explained to me—are not that neat. What I’m saying is that I have pursued a certain path in vain. And it’s time for me to change. It is time for me to make something of myself on my own. And when I do make that voyage to France, and I will make it, I will have earned it myself as well as the means to sustain myself when I am there.

“So you see no matter what happens to Marie, I can’t accept your offer. And as long as Marie is with Dolly Rose, I must remain here.”

T
HERE WAS ALWAYS
an excitement in the house at this hour, an excitement that you could feel. Even in the quarters you could feel it, the rushing steps along the galleries, the piano music echoing down the long hall so that when the back door opened, you could hear it in the yard. And under a clearing sky, the yard had been strung with lanterns so that the gentlemen could wander there, for the fresh air, in spite of the cold.