Both men took off their coats and shoes at the door. Someone had laid a fire in the fireplace, and Lucien went to stand in front of it. Antoine crossed to the table, where a decanter waited, and poured himself a drink. He didn't offer one to Lucien.

"Rather a poor afternoon for a sail, wouldn't you say?" Antoine asked, when his drink was half finished.

"It wasn't bad when I left. Then the time got away from me. When I realized the weather was worsening, it was too late to do more than bare my head to the rain."

"Did you consider stopping on the cheniere cheniere to take shelter? I'm told the people there are quite hospitable." to take shelter? I'm told the people there are quite hospitable."

"I didn't consider it. I knew Claire would be concerned if I didn't come back tonight."

"Quite the conscientious husband." Antoine toasted him with the remainder of his drink.

"What's this about, Antoine? I made the trip to Grand Isle at Claire's request. I saw nothing wrong in going sailing this afternoon as a small compensation."

"Small compensation?" Antoine laughed. "Oh, I think it was more than small, wasn't it? From what I've been told, when you visit Grand Isle, your compensation is abundant."

Lucien didn't like the direction of the conversation. There were certain things all men did, but rarely discussed. That Antoine would come so dangerously close to mentioning his son-in-law's mistress was unthinkable, the violation of a gentlemen's code. Lucien didn't know how Antoine had found out about Marcelite, but he didn't see how Antoine could fault him for taking pleasure where he found it, not unless Claire was mistreated.

"All lives are made up of duty and occasional reward," Lucien said, when the silence had stretched too thin. "Mine is no different."

"No? And what happens when the reward becomes a duty, too?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"It's very simple, really." Antoine poured himself another drink. "Suppose something from which you take great pleasure becomes a burden. What do you do?"

"That would depend on what it was."

"Let's make it simpler, then. Suppose a man has a woman whom he loves. The woman is not his wife, but he has a wife and a duty to her. Now, let's say that he must leave this woman because, if he doesn't, he will lose everything he has worked his entire life to achieve."

Despite the fire, Lucien shuddered with a sudden chill.

"I see you begin to understand," Antoine said. "Let me proceed, then. So the woman, who was once a pleasure, is now a burden. Sadly, the woman is not the only burden. There are children, too. They, of course, are the reason he must leave the woman. The sanct.i.ty of his legitimate family cannot be breached. No chance can be taken that his b.a.s.t.a.r.ds will inherit anything that belongs to the man, or his wife's family."

Lucien moved closer to the flames. There was no longer a point in denying anything, or in pretending that he didn't understand. He could save himself only with a promise, but as he made it, his voice sounded shaken, even to himself. "Marcelite Cantrelle's children will never inherit anything that belongs to the Friloux. You have my word on it."

"Your word? Of what worth is the word of a man who consorts with the wh.o.r.e of a slave?"

Lucien could feel color draining from his cheeks. He faced Antoine. "What?"

"You profess not to understand?"

"I don't know what you mean!"

"You've seen the wh.o.r.e's child, yet you've never seen the obvious?"

"Raphael?"

"Close your eyes and search his face in your mind. What do you find there?"

"Marcelite would have told me!"

"Not unless she's a fool." Antoine's lip curled in disgust. "Would she tell you that the boy's father was born into slavery, the son of a plantation owner and his house servant?"

He raised his hand to keep Lucien from interrupting. "Or would she tell you that when she became his lover, her own family drove her away to live alone and bear his child? And if you asked about her n.i.g.g.e.r, would she admit that he disappeared one night, never to be seen on the cheniere cheniere again? Or that some say he was murdered by her brother?" again? Or that some say he was murdered by her brother?"

"No!"

"Yes," Antoine answered. He swished what was left of his second drink, but he didn't take his gaze from Lucien's face. "When a pleasure becomes a burden, there should be much thought about how a man rids himself of it."

Lucien stared at him, but his eyes were focused somewhere beyond Grand Isle.

"Neither your family nor mine has ever been touched by tainted blood. They can't be touched now," Antoine added, when Lucien didn't respond.

"Even if what you say about Raphael is true, my daughter's blood has no taint."

"Can you trust a woman who gives her body so easily? What blood runs through her own veins, do you suppose? The people on the cheniere cheniere are pirates, smugglers, fishermen. Do they care if a tinge of color darkens their skin? No, they care if the next breeze blows, the next ship comes by, the next fish bites. Can you say for certain that your Angelle's blood is pure?" are pirates, smugglers, fishermen. Do they care if a tinge of color darkens their skin? No, they care if the next breeze blows, the next ship comes by, the next fish bites. Can you say for certain that your Angelle's blood is pure?"

Lucien turned paler still.

Shaking his head, Antoine set his drink down and moved toward the fire and Lucien. "I have watched my daughter fail to give you a healthy child. I am an old man. I may not live to see a grandchild who will grow to adulthood, but I have a brother, and he has children. I will not allow you to give everything I am, everything I have, to your b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"They could not inherit, they-"

"They could inherit if you chose to make it so! And if Claire died, and you married this Marcelite, then they could inherit it all."

"That would never happen!"

"That will not happen." Antoine faced him. Their eyes were level. "I don't know how, Lucien, but you will end your relationship with this woman, and you will end it now. If you do not, I will destroy you. I will ruin your life in ways you have never dreamed of, but I will start by blackening your name in society and destroying you financially. When I am finished, you'll have nothing left to pa.s.s on to your b.a.s.t.a.r.d children."

"And Aurore? You would ruin her name along with mine?"

"I don't think Aurore will live long enough to be a consideration."

"Dear G.o.d..."

"A curious plea, under the circ.u.mstances." Antoine pulled his watch from his pocket and tipped it toward the flames. "Dinner is at seven. You should change."

"I need time to consider how best-"

"You have tomorrow. There will be no more time after that. We leave Monday morning for New Orleans, and when we do, you will leave behind all memories, all thoughts, of the cheniere cheniere and your pleasures there. And if you don't?" He slid the watch back in his pocket. "Then you will know what it means to be sorry, and I will know what it means to be heartless. Perhaps you can spare us both those fates?" and your pleasures there. And if you don't?" He slid the watch back in his pocket. "Then you will know what it means to be sorry, and I will know what it means to be heartless. Perhaps you can spare us both those fates?"

CHAPTER SIX.

The church of Notre-Dame de Lourdes was Cheniere Caminada's proudest possession, and the church's crowning glory was the ma.s.sive silver bell that tolled the Angelus three times each day and called them to ma.s.s. On Sunday, Raphael counted its melodious notes. To his ears, there was no sweeter music.

His mother had told him the story of the bell. Years before, the people of the cheniere cheniere had stopped their fishing, stopped their hunting and net-making, to build a church for G.o.d. And such a church it was. had stopped their fishing, stopped their hunting and net-making, to build a church for G.o.d. And such a church it was. Le bon Dieu Le bon Dieu had looked down with favor, but he had been saddened that no bell rang out to the heavens, praising his name. So the priest had given a silver plate with his family coat of arms on it to be melted down, and the good people of the village had responded by donating all their gold and silver. In the dark of night, neighbor had watched neighbor steal outside on mysterious errands, and in the morning, shining doubloons and pirate treasure had been added to the collection. had looked down with favor, but he had been saddened that no bell rang out to the heavens, praising his name. So the priest had given a silver plate with his family coat of arms on it to be melted down, and the good people of the village had responded by donating all their gold and silver. In the dark of night, neighbor had watched neighbor steal outside on mysterious errands, and in the morning, shining doubloons and pirate treasure had been added to the collection.

When enough had been gathered, all the precious metal had been taken far away to be cast, and at last the bell had been lifted to the belfry to send its song over the peninsula.

Now the bell told Raphael that ma.s.s would begin soon. As always, his family would slip inside after the processional and leave before the benediction. Raphael did not understand why they didn't stay longer; he only knew that, although his mother did not make or mend nets on Sunday, it was a day much like others for her. They had no family to visit; they did not seek out friends. Sometimes they took walks along the beach, but they were invariably alone, unless M'sieu Lucien was visiting.

As always, the ma.s.s had begun when they took seats on the last bench. Raphael only half listened to the familiar words. Father Grimaud was a kind man who had once given him a piece of sugarcane. His voice was deep and resonant, and Raphael was sure that G.o.d himself spoke with less power. He watched as the few others who had ventured out moved forward to take communion, but neither he nor his mother followed their path.

When they left, the wind was blowing harder, and rain splashed at their feet. Raphael had not spoken to his mother of Juan's warning. Now he was torn between what Juan and M'sieu Lucien had told him. Despite his mother's cloak and the thin overcoat she had made him wear, they were quickly soaked. The wind plucked his mother's hair from the pins that bound it, sending it streaming wildly behind her.

At home, she sliced corn bread to dunk in thick cane syrup. They sat at the table and ate in silence, listening to the wind. Finally Raphael could be silent no more.

"Juan says a big win' comes, bigger than this. He says we can't stay here when it does."

His mother poured herself some of the strong black coffee she had brewed as the children ate. "Does he say when?"

"Non. But he says we must go to Picciola's store. Then M'sieu Lucien said I wasn't to worry you with Juan's stories." But he says we must go to Picciola's store. Then M'sieu Lucien said I wasn't to worry you with Juan's stories."

"And did M'sieu Lucien think the wind would not worry me?" Marcelite wrapped her fingers around her cup for warmth.

Angelle stretched out her arms to Raphael, and he pulled her on his lap. She took the opportunity to finish off the rest of his syrup with the last crumbs of her corn bread. Her solid weight on his lap made him feel grown-up. He liked the scent of her curls, the touch of her chubby fingers against his cheek. Someday Angelle would be old enough to run as far as he did, and no one would tell her that she couldn't play with him. Already, when he told her about pirates and treasure chests, she listened attentively.

"Many would go to Picciola's," Marcelite said. "There would not be room for everyone."

"Angelle and I are small."

Marcelite didn't reply.

Raphael set Angelle on the floor when she began to squirm. She went to the driest corner of the hut to play with a toy that M'sieu Lucien had given her. He drank the small cup of milk his mother had poured him and waited.

"Father Grimaud would not turn us away," Marcelite said at last.

Raphael thought doubtfully of the long walk to the church. But the church was high off the ground, and much care had gone into building it. Surely, with G.o.d's help, it would stand.

Marcelite looked up at him and gave him one of her rare smiles. "You are a child, Raphael. You should not worry about these things." She held out her arms.

Shyly he circled the table and let her pull him to her. She smelled like jasmine and autumn rain. He laid his head against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and vowed that even if he was a child, if the big wind came, he would get his mother and Angelle to safety.

The same dog who had sniffed Lucien's shoes yesterday crossed the path in front of him today. Tail tucked between its legs, it slunk toward a house with shuttered windows and began to howl.

Sailing to the cheniere cheniere had been so difficult that now it was nearly three o'clock. As Lucien dragged his skiff to sh.o.r.e, he had noticed little that was unusual. The ebb tide had left small sea creatures and sh.e.l.ls stranded in isolated pools, and a group of older children scavenged among them. had been so difficult that now it was nearly three o'clock. As Lucien dragged his skiff to sh.o.r.e, he had noticed little that was unusual. The ebb tide had left small sea creatures and sh.e.l.ls stranded in isolated pools, and a group of older children scavenged among them.

But as he neared the village, the sights no longer seemed as innocent. At every house he pa.s.sed, there were women gathering everything they could carry and taking it inside. Even small children struggled under the burden of rubble that had once littered their yards. The men were outside, too, working to secure boats or make hasty repairs to houses, despite the fact that game birds often gathered on the ridges during storms and hunting on a day like this one would be a pleasure.

He hailed a young man with a cow tied to the end of a tattered rope. "What is everyone so worried about?" Thunder smothered his words, and he tried again, speaking slowly, since his own French differed so much from the patois spoken on the cheniere. cheniere.

The young man frowned, as if he resented having to point out the obvious. "There's a storm coming."

"But it's already October, and there's a low tide. The storm won't be a large one."

"You know this for a fact?"

"Then you believe differently?"

"G.o.d himself knows what kind of storm it will be. Me, I think I'll give him some help saving my cows."

Lucien thought of his return trip to Grand Isle. What if the man was right and the storm was a particularly bad one? What would Antoine do if he wasn't able to return in time for supper? The thought chilled him more than the rain seeping through his overcoat.

He moved faster along the path to Marcelite's and wondered how she would fare if the winds were high. Her house might be damaged, perhaps beyond repair. He thought of Angelle and realized she would suffer if the house leaked badly. But she was a strong child, and one drenching wouldn't harm her.

What would it do to her mother?

As he sailed from Grand Isle, he had considered and reconsidered how he would tell Marcelite that he was never coming back. She was not a submissive woman, nor a stupid one. Most of the people on the cheniere cheniere had little or no education, but Marcelite spoke both French and English and read from her own prayer book. She was entirely capable of finding her way to New Orleans and confronting him with his b.a.s.t.a.r.d children. had little or no education, but Marcelite spoke both French and English and read from her own prayer book. She was entirely capable of finding her way to New Orleans and confronting him with his b.a.s.t.a.r.d children.

He had promised her a house in the spring, and if she had a son, there was to be a lugger for him, as well. She would still demand these things, or more. And if Antoine discovered that Marcelite was still in Lucien's life, he would destroy him. Lucien had brought little more than a good name to his marriage. His finances were so intertwined with his father-in-law's that Antoine had ultimate control over them.

Despite the hours of pleasure she had given him, Lucien rued the day he had met Marcelite. The desire, the affection, he felt for her was nothing compared to the threat of losing everything that made him the man he was. Perhaps sometimes in New Orleans he had yearned for the simplicity, the warmth, of his life on the cheniere, cheniere, but never had he considered abandoning all that he possessed to live with Marcelite. but never had he considered abandoning all that he possessed to live with Marcelite.

Now an answer to his troubles was thundering on the horizon. It was possible that the storm, if fierce enough, could work to his advantage. If she was frightened, Marcelite might realize how completely she was at the mercy of the elements. Anything he offered her afterward might seem a lavish gift.

For the first time since his talk with Antoine, he felt a ray of hope. The worsening storm could be an ally. He resolved not to tell her the purpose of his visit until the storm's end. Choosing the right moment could make the difference between success and failure, and failure was out of the question.

As he approached the hut, he noted a crazy quilt of driftwood patching the exterior. He imagined Marcelite, with Raphael's help, standing on a chair in the rain, trying to make the house watertight. It seemed she had already gotten a taste of what might await her when the storm expanded.

He paused at the door and tried to shake some of the rain from his overcoat and shoes, but it was useless.

"Marcelite!" He pushed the door open and peered inside. A lantern flickered, and he saw Marcelite and the two children across the room. He entered, pulling the door closed behind him.

"Lucien!" She leaped from her chair and crossed the room in three steps. He opened his arms and enfolded her. The children stared at him.

She spoke in French, not even attempting the English that she knew he preferred. "I thought you were back in New Orleans."

"I leave tomorrow. I hadn't intended to come here today, but when I saw the storm approaching..." He let his voice trail away.

She circled his waist and held him tighter. He felt her grat.i.tude, and was distantly ashamed because of it. "You'll stay with us, then?" she asked.

"Until the storm is over."

"A storm killed my father. He and my uncles were out on the water. A storm blew up. Weeks later the boat drifted in to sh.o.r.e, full of rotten fish, fish you could smell across the whole cheniere, cheniere, but there were no men." She shuddered. but there were no men." She shuddered.

She had never told him anything about her past. Lucien held her and realized how frightened she must be.

Raphael got up from the bed where he and Angelle had been sitting. "M'sieu Lucien, if the storm gets much worse, we will go to the church."