The man sighed heavily and leaning on the banister appeared to be looking at the dark sky. Lights glimmered behind slatted blinds across the courtyard; there was, as always, noise from the nearby cabarets that were sprinkled throughout the Quarter among shops and quite lavish townhouses. He moved his jaw a little as though chewing his thoughts. There was something heavy about him beyond his build, though in fact he was rather firm. It was more in his slow casual manner and the deep voice that drawled as he spoke. It seemed his most natural gesture would be the shrug, a gesture that would consume him easily, even to the loose twist of the mouth and a droop to the heavy eyelids and a rise to the mossy brows. Richard did not find him compelling in any way, could see nothing certainly of the Ste. Marie children in him, but he was not insensible to the fact that the man had the aura of immense wealth. There was something powerful about him, too. Perhaps it was merely that he was a planter, that he wore high riding boots even now, and this heavy black serge cape that no doubt protected him even in this sweltering heat from the cold winds on the River Road. He smelt of leather and tobacco, and seemed made for the saddle and some seemingly romantic ride through the fields of cane. There was gold on his fingers, and a bright green silk cravat, which he had apparently taken off in deference to the funeral, bulged from his jacket pocket. "Anna Bella, is it?" he whispered now. "What does she do there?"

"She's an orphan, Monsieur, but well provided for. Madame Elsie is her guardian. I do not think that she works in the house."

"Hmmmm..." he drew on his cigar, and the fragrance was sweet but strong, hovering about them in a cloud.

"Pretty thing..." he muttered. "Well, you take him there when you leave, you can do that now, can't you?"

It wasn't until near midnight that Richard's cousin, Pierre, at last came to relieve Richard, and he set out for Madame Elsie's with Monsieur Dazincourt. The man said nothing as they walked, seemed to be brooding and deadly tired, and though he was shorter than Richard-as was almost everybody-he was by no means of small stature. He had a near military stiffness to his back.

As they pa.s.sed the Ste. Marie cottage it was completely dark, as Richard had expected, but he realized now that Philippe Ferronaire was not stopping there, and it was for this reason no doubt that he had not taken Dazincourt to the boardinghouse himself. He had not wished to be seen pa.s.sing, naturally. At least Marcel might have some time.

V.

IT HAD BEEN A LONG while since Richard had seen Anna Bella, except at Sunday Ma.s.s, and he was rather surprised when it was she who answered the front door. He was glad. He wanted a chance to talk with her alone. while since Richard had seen Anna Bella, except at Sunday Ma.s.s, and he was rather surprised when it was she who answered the front door. He was glad. He wanted a chance to talk with her alone.

In the normal course of his life, Anna Bella was a person Richard would never have known and never have noticed. But Richard did not fully realize this. It was Marcel who had made them close, they were his best friends, and Richard had grown fond of her in the last few years, trusted her certainly, and was eager in his concern for Marcel to speak with her now.

Anna Bella was to him, however, an American Negro having been born and brought up in the north of Louisiana in a small country town. Her father, the only free colored barber there and a very prosperous one, had been shot down one day in the street by a man who owed him money; and her mother having died some time before, Anna Bella fell into the hands of a kindly white man whom she always called Old Captain who brought her down to New Orleans to board with an elderly quadroon, Madame Elsie Claviere.

In times gone by, Madame Elsie had been more than a landlady to Old Captain, but that was all past. He had white whiskers and a bald head, could speak eloquently of the days when Indians still attacked the walls of Nouvelle Orleans, and Madame Elsie, crippled in the damp mornings with arthritis, walked with a cane. But she had been a wise woman when young, saved her money, and turned her townhouse into a fine boarding establishment for white gentlemen, from which she herself retired to a parlor and several bedrooms beyond the courtyard in back.

It was there that Anna Bella grew up, played with the neighborhood children, and had lessons in French and in the making of Alencon lace. She made her First Communion with the Carmelites, studied for a while with a Bostonian Protestant who couldn't pay his rent, and drew from her father's estate at a downtown bank all that she required.

She was ladylike in dress and manner, wearing her raven hair in a thick chignon, and though she spoke French now fluently, English was still her native tongue, and to Richard she was most definitely as foreign as the Americans who settled the faubourg faubourg uptown. uptown.

Of course, technically, he was as American as she was, but though born in the United States, Richard was a Creole homme de couleur homme de couleur, spoke French almost exclusively, and had lived all his life in the "old city" bounded on the one side by the Boulevard Esplanade and on the other by the Rue Ca.n.a.l.

But there were more profound reasons why Anna Bella would never have gotten more than a glance from him had it not been for Marcel.

For though she had skin the color of wax candles, a perpetual bloom in her cheeks that was a rose, and large liquid brown eyes heavily fringed with a sweep of soft lashes, she had an African nose, broad and somewhat flat, and a full African mouth. In addition there was about her stance, her long neck and the easy sway of her hips, something that reminded him all too much of the black vendeuses vendeuses who carried their wares to market in baskets atop their heads. All things African frightened him and put him off. who carried their wares to market in baskets atop their heads. All things African frightened him and put him off.

But this was not really known to him. If anyone had accused him of looking down on Anna Bella he would have been mortified, steadfastly denying it, and perhaps have gone so far as to insist that no such superficial judgment on the basis of appearance could cause him to dismiss a feeling, thinking human being, or even run the risk of hurting feelings as tender as hers. Was he not a man of color, he might have asked, did he not understand prejudice all too well, feeling its sting day after day?

But the truth is he did not understand it. He did not understand that its nature is that it is insidious, a vast collection of vague feelings that can wind their way into notions that are seemingly practical in nature, all too human, and have sometimes the deceptive aura of being common sense.

And in his heart of hearts, without ever voicing it to himself, Richard was repelled by Anna Bella's Africanness because of what it represented to him, the degraded state of slavery that was all round, and he would never have considered for an instant infusing by marriage into his own line those strong indications of Negro blood which had proved so obvious and profound a disadvantage for three generations and had now all but pa.s.sed from the Lermontants.

These feelings, unknown, unexamined, led all too easily to a sense on his part that they were different, could have little in common, must move in different worlds. But the sum of it was that he did not consider Anna Bella his equal and the measure of it was the courtly manner in which he invariably treated her, the near fussy politeness that governed his actions in her regard.

Of course had he fallen in love with her, he might well have thrown all this to the winds. But he couldn't have fallen in love with her. And in fact pitied her slightly.

But again, of all these things, he was unaware. And when Marcel once remarked in one of those dreamy and disturbing conversations that Anna Bella came nearest in his estimation to being "the perfect person," Richard had been baffled in the extreme.

"What do you mean, 'perfect person'?" Richard had asked. Thereby opening the door to one of Marcel's longest, most abstract and rambling speeches which seemed to culminate in this: she was honest in a selfless way, and would tell Marcel the truth when he needed it, even if it made him mad.

"Well, it's sometimes very hard to tell you the truth, I'll admit that," Richard had murmured with a smile. But the rest he didn't understand. Anna Bella was a sweet girl, he'd break the neck of anybody that hurt her; she'd make some hardworking man a good wife.

But he'd been a little surprised to hear Monsieur Philippe call her a pretty girl. And even now, watching her climb the steps ahead of Monsieur Dazincourt, throwing the light of her oil lamp before her, he found in the elastic movement of her hips, and the long low slope of her shoulders, something animalian and disconcerting. It was as if despite her carefully cl.u.s.tered curls and the pressed folds of her blue cotton skirt flaring so neatly from her whalebone waist, she was the black woman in the fields, the black woman swaying to the Sunday African Drums in the Place Congo. Very pretty? Well, actually...yes. He was not aware that Dazincourt who was plodding upward and down the long hallway after her had on the same matter decidedly more robust thoughts.

"Richard," she hissed at him from the top of the stairs when she was alone. He turned in the dim light from the fan window and saw her coming down in a hurry, like a little girl, her boots making not the slightest sound, the lamp held miraculously still at arm's length.

"You'll spill that!" he said, taking it and setting it down.

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you. I wanted to talk to you Sunday but I just couldn't get the chance. Come in here Richard, Madame Elsie's gone to bed; she's all crippled with this damp weather, she can barely walk."

She drew him into the parlor which was for the boarders and told him to sit down. He disliked being here. He had never visited her in these rooms.

"You've got to take a message for me to Marcel." she said.

"Then you haven't seen him...I mean today." There had always been the chance. In times past, when hurt, Marcel always went to Anna Bella. But that was before he had started to deliberately lose his mind.

"Oh, I haven't seen him in months!" she said, her head inclining to one side, her hands clasped in her lap.

He murmured awkwardly that it was one of Marcel's moods. It was a shame to treat her shabbily when before Marcel had visited her almost every afternoon.

"It's got nothing to do with moods," she shook her head. "It's Madame Elsie, she drove him off."

"But why?" he whispered.

"Oh, I don't know," she said disgustedly. "She says we're too old now just to be friends, me and Marcel. Imagine that, me and Marcel, you know how it is with me and Marcel. Oh, I don't pay her any mind, not really, not when it comes to something like this. But I can't get to see him long enough to tell him that. I can't just go down there to his house anymore, she doesn't need to tell me that, we're not children."

He nodded at once. He was embarra.s.sed. He was not at all sure that Madame Elsie might not appear at the slightest moment and here they sat in this shadowy parlor with the light behind Anna Bella's rounded shoulder, and he was wildly distracted by her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It seemed that she sat with them deliberately thrust forward and her head back so that a sloping line ran from the tip of her chin to the tip of what was almost brushing his arm. He did not like it, did not approve of it. And if anyone had pointed out to him that his own sister Giselle carried herself in much the same manner he would have been amazed. All he saw when he looked at Giselle was Giselle.

"Of course I'll take a message to him for you," he said at once, feeling guilty for these thoughts. She seemed trusting, simple, and her eyes were like those of a doe.

"Just tell him that I have to see him, Richard..." she began.

The door handle turned in the hallway. Several white men entered with the heavy tread of boots. Richard was on his feet at once and Anna Bella, taking the lamp showed the men up the stairs, leaving Richard in darkness. As soon as she returned, he headed for the door.

"I'll tell him as soon as I see him, but that might be a little while."

"Oh, but you'll tell him for sure?" she asked. And again she dropped her head to one side. A long loose lock made a perfect curl against her pale neck. "Seems like I can't go to market or to church anymore without Madame Elsie has to go with me, I can't even get out the door. And then when he comes, she's right there with him in the parlor and wants to know why he's there. You never saw such nonsense..." she dropped her voice. "And then she leaves me here late to let the gentlemen in!"

He did not answer her. He was staring at her, and then stammering, "I'll tell him," as he glanced at the floor. Above he heard the creak of the floorboards, the click of a lock. The house seemed vast, dark, and treacherous to him then as he slowly raised his eyes, and he felt an anger rising in him slowly and somewhat coldly so that he could not quite understand her words.

"...that he should come at supper time, Richard," she was saying, "Madame Elsie's always busy then, sitting in the pantry, watching everything, she wouldn't even know. Marcel and I could talk in the back..."

"Surely there are the maids about," he murmured now, his voice thick. "You're not here at night all alone."

"Zurlina's sleeping in the back," Anna Bella waved that away. "Don't you worry about that. But tell Marcel, Richard, tell him I have to talk to him now."

He did not relax until he heard the door close behind him and he was alone in the empty street.

Turning he saw through the fanlight her lamp moving upward and then the gla.s.s went dark. He stood motionless for a moment, anger gripping him, thinking of nothing but the words that she had said. So Marcel wasn't to call on her anymore, was he, so they were too old for that, were they, so Marcel mustn't come around. And yet she was alone in that house, "to let the gentlemen in." No, Marcel wasn't good enough, what young man of color would would be good enough, even for that simple country girl, the daughter of a freed slave? No, but she had to stay up late to let the "gentlemen" in. "There's a young girl there, a pretty girl," Philippe Ferronaire had said, pretty girl, pretty girl, pretty girl. be good enough, even for that simple country girl, the daughter of a freed slave? No, but she had to stay up late to let the "gentlemen" in. "There's a young girl there, a pretty girl," Philippe Ferronaire had said, pretty girl, pretty girl, pretty girl.

Richard turned on his heel toward the Rue Burgundy, his head down, his hands hanging heavily at his sides. He would speak to Marcel at once. But by the time he had reached the corner it was his father's image that was speaking to him, Rudolphe in the close heat of the shop this morning speaking so cynically, so earnestly of Marie Ste. Marie and the world. That sudden warm admonition that had shocked Richard to the core, "Son, don't break your heart."

Well, perhaps Rudolphe did know the world, the world of Dolly Rose and old Madame Rose, and Madame Elsie with her thumping cane. But he did not know Marie. He did not know Marie! The world was one thing, but all people are not of it. Some are better than it, apart from it, more splendid, untouchable and pure.

And as he finally mounted the steps of his home, he was dogged by a rasping fragment of all the long day's exhaustions and frustrations: Dolly, glazed-eyed as she lay against her pillow, saying so crudely to Christophe, "Only white men," only white men, only white men. Well, Christophe, welcome home.

PART FOUR.

I.

A WEEK Pa.s.sED WEEK Pa.s.sED before Marcel saw Christophe again. All the while he had been afraid to knock at the gate, afraid that Christophe would not want to see him and that he would be sent away. At times it occurred to him that Christophe had been drunk the night of their clandestine meeting in the St. Louis Cemetery and might have forgotten the later conference at Madame Lelaud's. Marcel believed this because he himself had been so drunk, yet he did remember every marvelous detail even to the morning sun falling on his eyelids when he had at last thrown himself across his bed. before Marcel saw Christophe again. All the while he had been afraid to knock at the gate, afraid that Christophe would not want to see him and that he would be sent away. At times it occurred to him that Christophe had been drunk the night of their clandestine meeting in the St. Louis Cemetery and might have forgotten the later conference at Madame Lelaud's. Marcel believed this because he himself had been so drunk, yet he did remember every marvelous detail even to the morning sun falling on his eyelids when he had at last thrown himself across his bed.

Each day after that he had risen, dressed excitedly and walked at the slowest pace humanly possible past the Mercier townhouse, only to see the usual shuttered windows and the vines threatening to close the old gate. Then he would go on to Madame Lelaud's, taking the route along the waterfront so he might pa.s.s in and out of the bustle of the market, and once inside the smoky cabaret, he would begin with coffee, later swallowing some gumbo for lunch, and spend the afternoon sipping beer, his sketchbook spread upon the greasy table, his pencil working constantly, his eyes returning again and again to the page.

Who knew but that Christophe might come through the door? He'd suffer the chastis.e.m.e.nt for being there, but it would be worth it just to see Christophe again.

And after all, he told himself, these gala days were coming to an end, it was good-bye to the delicious foam on the beer and the click of the ivories, he was a serious student now, and would soon be so busy with lessons that he would have no time to degenerate at all. It had to be so. Because he had to be at the head of his cla.s.s by the time Monsieur Philippe came to town. That was the cloud that hung over him, the coming of his father.

But meanwhile, it seemed he heard news of Christophe everywhere that he turned and all of it was good.

Christophe, for example, had already called upon the Lermontants, seeking Rudolphe's advice on how he might advertise the new academy. And Rudolphe, after some hours closeted with the new teacher in the parlor, had emerged to announce that he was much impressed. Indeed, he thought Richard should prepare himself for the change from Monsieur De Latte's.

Richard was flabbergasted, and Marcel who came that evening for supper was too excited to risk an impetuous word.

Only Antoine, Richard's cousin, spoke forcefully against the idea, hinting again and again that the boys really knew nothing of this Paris Bohemian. "You can admire a writer who is quite far from you, but schoolboys imitate their teachers, which is quite a different thing."

"I don't care how the man lived in Paris," Rudolphe had boomed impatiently at last. "That was Paris, the Quartier Latin Quartier Latin, where he was the dilettante and probably too popular for his own good. So he drank, so he kept company with actresses." Rudolphe shrugged. "He's home now, in New Orleans, and obviously prepared to be a serious man."

Antoine had not yielded, however. The family had never seen him in such opposition to Rudolphe, and even Marcel had to admit later that there was about him some sincerity in all this, which was rare. Antoine was jealous of Richard, at least so Marcel thought. But here Antoine seemed genuinely concerned. And finally giving his uncle a frankly incredulous look had said, "But you're not really considering it!..."

"Hold your tongue!" Rudolphe had pointed to his nephew. And then lapsing into a more practical tone of voice went on, "The man reads and writes ancient Greek fluently, he can recite from Aeschylus...from memory! His Latin is perfect, he knows all the poets, and Cicero, Caesar as well. And he's fluent in English, besides. Richard has to learn English. I can't understand him when he speaks English and I'm his father! The man deserves his chance, and if he's half as good as he sounds, we're fortunate to have him."

But it was when Antoine pressed, his vague but angry statements obviously circling some point that he feared to make, that Rudolphe lost his temper. "I deplore gossip!" he said, leaning with wide eyes toward Antoine. "I tell you I will not listen to one more word about this teacher, do you hear me?"

It was finished. And both boys knew of course that as soon as Rudolphe let it be known that Richard would attend the new school, many of the other old families would follow his example.

But Christophe with a shrewdness they might not have expected of him had also called upon Dolly Rose's G.o.dmother, the rich and independent Celestina Roget. Might she consider enrolling Fantin who had not been in school for years? Of course if Celestina were to do this, her quadroon friends might follow her example just as the old families followed Rudolphe.

And Celestina was indeed considering such a move. After all, Fantin was a young man of property, and though that property was well managed, shouldn't he perhaps know a little more of the basic skills, he didn't read so well, Fantin, he couldn't read English newspapers at all.

But what had influenced her in this decision-Fantin having proven "too nervous" for any extended educational effort so far-was her personal feeling for Christophe. She had known him as a boy. And Dolly, her G.o.dchild, had known him as a boy. And on that recent Sunday, at the funeral of Dolly's little Lisa, it was Christophe who had saved the day.

Of course Richard had witnessed the events at the funeral just as he had witnessed Christophe's meeting with Dolly at the wake the night before. But he could not tell anything of this to Marcel. He did not even tell Marcel that he had seen Christophe at all. The Lermontants never spoke of the private affairs of their clients, what happened in their homes was sacred, whether it be violent grief or quiet heroism, no mention was ever made. And Richard had been so strongly inculcated with this professional stance since childhood that he did not dare to say even utterly harmless things for fear this would lead him toward that bizarre bedroom conversation when Dolly had teased Christophe from her pillow and Christophe had teased her in return.

But Celestina had told the story of the funeral many times over. Everyone knew it by the week's end.

It seems the white father of little Lisa had been there on Sunday over Dolly's vociferous objections, and Christophe had come as well. And when the time came to nail shut the little coffin, Dolly began to scream. She tried to force her hand between the wood and the nails, and was pulled away. "Go on with it," said the white man, and the Lermontants, believing it was best for everyone, including Dolly, began to drive in the nails, Monsieur Rudolphe comforting Dolly all the while. "No, no, don't do it yet, stop it," Dolly kept screaming, however, until finally they hoisted the little box onto the shoulders of the pallbearers and Dolly went wild. Then Christophe appeared, "You want it opened, Dolly?" he had asked. And Dolly, covering her mouth with her hand, nodded her head. "Monsieur," Christophe turned to Rudolphe. "Dolly won't see that child again in this life. Open the coffin. Let her say her farewell. She'll be brief, I promise you, and then you can go on."

And all this had sounded perfectly reasonable to those who'd thought Dolly hysterical a moment before. The coffin was opened, Dolly kissed her daughter and touched her daughter's hair, and then bending low appeared to whisper a little chant to her daughter, telling her good-bye under all the little pet names the child had ever had, it was a poem coming from Dolly, they said, then it was over, and falling back on Christophe's chest, she let them take the coffin away.

But Celestina was not above adding, good friend to Dolly though she was, that Christophe had remained alone in that flat with Dolly when all the other women had finally gone home.

"Imagine that!" Tante Colette had laughed later with Cecile. Cecile was disapproving of the turn this conversation had taken and glanced pointedly at Marcel. No one had to explain to Marcel that Dolly Rose had never been seen "in the company" of a man who wasn't white.

"I'm quite sure he was there to comfort her," said Tante Louisa. "The man's to teach school after all, he has to think of his reputation."

"His reputation?" Tante Colette had laughed. "What about hers?"

It would have been difficult to define Dolly's reputation at any time before that, but by the following Friday it was d.a.m.ned near impossible, if Dolly had any reputation left at all. For on that evening, only five days after little Lisa's death, she had dressed to the teeth and strolled boldly through the streets to the Salle d'Orleans where she danced the night away at the "quadroon ball."

Eh bien.

Meanwhile, workmen had begun to swarm over Christophe's house, stripping paint from the streaked walls, hammering on the broken roof, filling the lazy afternoon with the clatter and boom of debris heaved from the heights onto the flags below. One could hear the sc.r.a.pe of shovels within the yard. And Juliet had been seen rushing to and from the market with her basket, properly dressed, her hair no longer a nest for the birds. Very soon fresh paint brightened the sc.r.a.ped shutters, clean gla.s.s sparkled in the sun, and from the back kitchen chimney rose the regular evening belch of smoke.

And on Sat.u.r.day morning, just when Marcel's excitement had reached a painful peak, Christophe himself appeared at the cottage door, bowing courteously to Cecile, the faint scent of pomade emanating from his brown curly hair, to ask if he might see Marcel that day, might Marcel consent to take him about the city for a while, be his guide?

Marcel was in heaven.

Christophe was amiable as they walked but very quiet, and when deep in his thoughts, his face would acquire that hardness that Marcel had noted when they first met. But now and again he would ask some question, or nodding to Marcel's tentative commentary, would smile. They roamed the market, stopping for a small cup of very black, very strong coffee which they drank on their feet, and went on, wandering finally into Exchange Alley, the domain of the fencing academies, and glimpsed that famous quadroon Maitre d'Armes, Basile Crockere, just stepping out of his fencing salon in the midst of his white students. A handsome man he was and a collector of cameos which he wore all about his person. And though no white man would fight a real duel with him, it was rumored he had buried quite a few opponents on foreign soil.

It was noon when they reached the Rue Ca.n.a.l, and early afternoon when they took the Carrollton Railroad uptown, past the ma.s.sive Grecian mansions of the Faubourg Ste. Marie, where all was still beneath the spreading oaks, as if the white families had fled, one and all, to the country to escape the summer's inevitable scourge of yellow fever. Early evening found them pa.s.sing slowly through the glittering coffee shops, confectioners and cabarets of the Rue Chartres, where occasionally Christophe would glance through the plate gla.s.s at the flicker of gaslight, at the white faces, at the spirited movement within. Marcel's heart contracted. He hastened to point out the sky, gone a rare and exquisite purple over the river, all but luminous behind the darkening trees, as if its extraordinary glow had nothing whatsoever to do with the dying sun. A serene smile softened Christophe's features, and reaching out he did that inevitable thing which Marcel so hated from others, he touched Marcel's tight yellow hair, "Ti Marcel," he murmured. Marcel was indignant and deeply moved at the same time. Yet Christophe seemed to savor the evening, its fragrances, the coolness of the air, and as they stood beneath an old magnolia leaning out over the arch of a Spanish house, his eyes narrowed to pick out the distant white blooms. Marcel murmured that they had always frustrated him, because they were so high. Children sold them sometimes in wagons, but the waxy white petals were invariably bruised then, perhaps from being thrown from the heights. Christophe seemed heavy, almost sad. And then with the shameless agility of a street urchin, he climbed the wrought-iron carriage gate, and mounting the stone arch, broke loose an immense flower at its brittle stem. "Give that to your mother," he said softly as he landed on his feet beside Marcel.

"Merci, Monsieur," Marcel smiled, taking it in both hands.

"And grant me one very special request," Christophe said, putting his hand on Marcel's shoulder as they walked home. "Don't ever call me Monsieur again, call me Christophe."

What had Christophe thought to hear of Dolly's return to the "quadroon b.a.l.l.s," what had Christophe thought of all those gilded billiard parlors, white men and women sipping chocolate through the windows of the fashionable Vincent's, what was Christophe discovering all about him now that he was home? Marcel shuddered.

Alone again in Madame Lelaud's on a Monday afternoon, his sketchbook before him, he let the pencil move sluggishly as he felt himself numbed by a vague and familiar pain. He had long ago erected between himself and the white world a wall that he was not eager to penetrate, but the thought of Christophe penetrated it for him, thrust him acutely against the doors that were closed to him, the lines of caste and race that he felt powerless to change. He thought of Rudolphe, shutting up the undertakers shop on days when death did not detain him, who might stop into the Hotel St. Louis long enough to gather the newspapers of the day, nod to white acquaintances, or even speak with them a moment under the rotunda, then walk quietly to his immense house in the Rue St. Louis where his valet, Placide, had ready for him his small gla.s.s of amontillado, the day's mail. Would he give a thought to the bars where he could not drink, the restaurants where he could not dine? Rudolphe did not set foot in the shabby waterfront cabarets that served the common black man, and perhaps Marcel would not either as the years pa.s.sed. Nor ride in the starred public cars for Negroes even if he must walk the length of the town.

But what does all this mean to a man who has strolled with other white-gloved gentlemen on the parquet of the Paris opera, to a man who has danced at the Tuileries?

Only that spring, another such world traveler had returned to New Orleans, and Marcel could well remember the outcome of that visit, as would others. This had been Charles Roget, Celestina's eldest son.

All the Roget family was excited, of course, though Charles had warned by letter that his stay would be brief. And on the great day when he at last arrived with presents for everyone, a party was given that spilled over onto the front banquettes while the courtyard of the Roget house roared with gentle voices, the tinkle of gla.s.ses, and the shrill sound of violins. Marcel had glimpsed Charles hugging his brother, Fantin, bestowing kiss after kiss on his little sister, Gabriella, and chatting now and again with two white men who stood near the back gate smoking cigars. The young boys studied him, approving his elegant dress and the pomade that he wore in his hair. There seemed no touch of the Louisianian in his speech, he was a Parisian, had strolled the boulevards.

But as the party wore on with talk of supper and Celestina pressed Marie and Marcel to stay, Charles at last took the family aside to confess that he was returning to France that very night on the same ship that had brought him in before dawn. He had spent the morning in law offices untangling his recent inheritance and he was going "home."

Celestina fainted. Gabriella broke into uncontrolled sobs, while Fantin, playing the man at once, implored his brother to change his mind. This was cruel, really! But Charles, his arms folded as he stood against the curving banister of the iron steps, swore he had seen enough of New Orleans on his journey from the docks, he was a man, he would not spend one night on southern soil. It was then that he confessed that he had a white fiancee abroad, whom he could not even bring to visit his mother as his wife. To appear in public with her in this savage place, why he would risk insult, a.s.sault more than likely, possibly even arrest. Mais non! Adieu Mais non! Adieu.

Months after, Gabriella, drifting into Marie's bedroom, flung herself with flounces and tears on the bed and cried that Charles had written insisting they all move to Ma.r.s.eilles. "I don't know anything about Ma.r.s.eilles, I don't want to go to Ma.r.s.eilles!" She beat the pillow and yanked her hair. Even Cecile who generally greeted her with a subtle disdain had spoken some comforting words though later she muttered to Marcel, "Such nonsense over that spoilt yellow brat, so let him live where he wants."

Marcel had winced. And couldn't help but note silently that Charles, that "spoilt yellow brat" was somewhat less yellow than himself. But that was not the point. His mother's sentiments offended him. They were gross and out of place. One did not use such language especially not when speaking of those one knew. And meanwhile Gabriella lost herself in a round of soirees after her fourteenth birthday and Celestina having mourned a little while for Charles' father (she had always liked him "the best") began to keep company with an old white gentleman from Natchez. They had turned Charles' pictures to the wall.

But Marcel could not forget the biting determination on that young man's face when he had announced his departure, the ringing sarcasm in that laugh when he had been pressed to remain. And thinking of all this now in the dingy light of Madame Lelaud's, a sparkle of sun occasionally blinding him when the rear door opened and shut, his pencil working, his lips occasionally moving with a fragment of his thoughts, he envisioned Christophe as he had left him that first night in front of this bar, standing in the thin rain. The posture had struck him then, Christophe's stance, eyes fixed upward as if on the pale stars. And he had a strong sense suddenly of the quiet, soft-voiced man who had followed him everywhere for a day without complaint, and then leapt so suddenly atop that carriageway to bring down the fragrant magnolia flower in his hand.