"But what about Madame Elsie?" he whispered.

"To h.e.l.l with Madame Elsie," she whispered back.

As they hurried up the block, she asked a few rapid questions about when the Englishman had been stricken and how.

"The man's been all over the world, he wasn't the least afraid of yellow fever, he's been in the tropics before," Marcel explained.

But when they reached the gate, Anna Bella hesitated, looking up at the shuttered windows, the dark outline of the chimneys against the pale but brightening sky.

"I'm here with you," he said.

She turned to him, her eyes large and soulful and just for an instant there was her silent reproach. Then she went in.

She had the sickroom in order at once, told Christophe to shutter the windows but to let in the air. The sheets had to be changed, they were damp, and there ought to be more blankets and drinking water, and water for compresses for the man's head. "Quinine won't do this man any good," she said when Christophe suggested it, "leeches neither, you just got to keep him really warm." She sent Bubbles on to the pharmacy to get a gla.s.s feeder for the drinking water, and told Christophe he was no longer acclimated after all this time, he ought to get out of the room.

"I'm not leaving here!" he said with mild astonishment. "The fever never affects us, besides."

"'Course it does...sometimes. But I knew you'd say that. If you're going to stay here go to sleep, you'll have to spell me for a while later on."

Just before noon, Marcel was awakened abruptly. He had been slumped up against the wall in the corner of the room. Now Bubbles told him that Lisette was downstairs with Madame Elsie's girl, Zurlina. They wanted Anna Bella to come home. The Englishman was shuddering violently and did not know where he was. He murmured names that no one knew.

The day looked unreal to Marcel when he went outside. His head ached violently, and the sun seemed to cut brutally through an uncommonly clear sky. Zurlina was haranguing him, demanding that Anna Bella come out, and without realizing it he was leading her back toward his own gate. His mother stood in the shade of the banana grove. "What is all this?" she asked. And when he told her, stammering, speaking in fragments, he saw a resolution forming in her face. "That old crow," she said, as she gazed with narrow eyes toward Madame Elsie's door.

"She's coming down here herself to get that girl, if you don't bring her out," said Zurlina.

"The h.e.l.l she is," hissed Cecile and barely lifting her majestic skirts she marched toward the boardinghouse at the end of the block.

When Marcel returned, cradling a pot of hot coffee between two towels, the Englishman was vomiting black blood. And Christophe was trembling so violently that at first Marcel thought he was ill. The Englishman's face was gleaming, his eyes rolled up into his head. Chest heaving beneath the blankets, his hands twisted the covers, the knuckles white.

It was late afternoon when Marcel stumbled out again, too tired to protest when Christophe told him to take some supper before he came back, that they would send for him if there was a change. He had the best of intentions of returning with soup and bread for all of them, but once at home he fell across his bed. Lisette had promised to wake him in an hour. He went into a deep sleep.

It was dark when he awoke, the cicadas were singing in the trees. He jumped up, almost cried out. The evening star hung in the sky and the night seemed strangely empty around him. He was certain the Englishman was dead. An awful anguish overcame him, that falling to sleep, he had let the man die.

Rushing up the dark stairs and along the empty hall, he found Anna Bella sitting quietly in the bedroom, her rosary beads in her hand. Dim candles flickered on a small makeshift altar, with a prayer book propped open to a picture of the Virgin, the whole set on a linen napkin on Christophe's desk. The corpse lay neatly against a snow-white pillow. Marcel let out a low moan.

"Marcel," she whispered drowsily, rolling her head to one side as if it were heavy on her neck.

He walked softly toward her as if somehow the dead man would be upset by the sound of his steps. Her hand burned against his, and feeling the weight of her forehead against him, he clasped her shoulders and held her, trying not to give way to tears.

"Where is Christophe?" he whispered.

"I don't know," she answered. "It was terrible, Marcel, it was the worst!"

She rose, leading him to the doorway, but just outside she stopped. She was looking back at the man on the bed, and obviously did not wish to leave the body all alone.

"Oh, Marcel it was the worst ever that I've seen," she said, her voice very low. "I tell you when that man died, I thought Michie Christophe was going to lose his mind. He just stood there staring at that man as if he couldn't believe his eyes. And then she came in, that crazy woman." Anna Bella shook her head. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "She just walked in here real slowly as if she didn't have anything in particular on her mind. And there was Michie Christophe just holding onto his own head and staring down at that man. And then, shrugging her shoulders, just like this, she says to him, 'I told you, didn't I, that he was going to die.' I tell you, Marcel, she might as well have been saying the weather was hot, or come to dinner or shut that door. And I thought that man would kill her, Marcel, he started screaming at her, he called her names I never heard a man call a woman, and his own mother, Marcel, why, he called her words I wouldn't say to you right here. He ran at her, trying to get a hold of her and she went down on the floor, sliding right down the wall, to get away of him, Marcel, it's a wonder they didn't knock that poor dead man right off the bed. Well, I got my arms around his waist, I held onto him with both hands, I said, 'I'm not going to let you go, Michie Christophe,' and he just slammed me back against the door. I tell you my head's still spinning from that."

Marcel murmured a negation, his head shaking.

"Oh, the language that that man was using to that woman. Well, she got up fast enough on her hands and knees and then she ran out. I don't know where she went. And Michie Christophe just stood there staring again at the bed. It was like he didn't even know I was there. 'Michael,' he said to that Englishman, not moaning for him, Marcel, talking to him. 'Michael,' he kept saying, and then he jerked him up by the shoulders, shaking him like he could wake him up. This is a mistake,' he said, 'Michael, we've got to get out of here, this is a mistake!' Then he was turning to me and saying it, like he could convince me that it was all a mistake. 'That man's not coming back, Michie Christophe,' I said. 'Let him go. That man's dead.' And oh, when I said that to him, Marcel, why he broke down just like a child. He was crying, crying, like a little boy. He kept looking at me, I swear he looked just like a little boy. I put my arms around him and held onto him, he was just rocking back and forth. One minute I'd been scared to death of him, and then I was just holding him like a child. I don't know how long that went on. It was a long time before he got quiet. He just wandered out here by the stairs. He had his hands on his head again. I told that worthless Bubbles to get on over to Michie Rudolphe's and get you on the way. And when I turned around Michie Christophe was gone."

"Gone?" Marcel made a soft, weary moan. "But where?"

"I looked all through this house, they were both of them gone. I came back here to wash and lay out the body. Michie Rudolphe's gone up to the hotel to see if he can find some papers in the man's room. And that Bubbles, I don't know where he is!"

"Forgive me," he shook his head. "Forgive me. For asking this of you, for leaving you here alone..."

"No!" she said emphatically. "I'm the last one to worry about, Marcel. You put that out of your mind." Her eyes were clear, honest. And it was so like her, and so unlike anyone else that he knew, that as he looked down at her he felt a peculiar catch in his throat. He wanted to kiss her, just gently, innocently, and he resented all the voices now which told him he must not. But hesitating only for a moment, he found that his hands were on her arms, her small plump arms, and his lips had brushed the rounded firm deliciousness of her small cheek. Everything about her was roundness, ripeness, and he was overcome suddenly with all the bold and bewildering physical awareness of her that he had so long denied. Only now did he realize how he had held himself back, how his eyes had resisted her, how his imagination had refused to weave this voluptuous flesh into the fantasies in which Juliet had become his queen. He had clenched his teeth now, his hands still holding her, and he was wrestling with some violent ugly anger against the whole world: against Madame Elsie, against Richard, but above all against himself, the young boy who couldn't have her, and wouldn't have her for all his dreams of Paris instead. A shameless sound escaped his lips, he could feel her cheek against his chin, feel the roughness of his own neglected beard against that ripe fruit. But even now he might have won this battle had she not drawn up on tiptoe and kissed his lips.

Her mouth was soft, guileless, utterly innocent as it opened, sucking gently, daintily at his breath. And in the sudden mounting of his pa.s.sion, the battle was lost. He had lifted her, and turned her, drawing her close against the wall as if he meant to conceal her while he kissed her over and over, his hands fumbling through the pleated muslin of her skirts for the contour of her hips. The house lay deserted around him, dark rooms gaping onto the hall. He might enfold her, carry her, but then his thoughts became one with the movement of his limbs. And so purely, sweetly, she gave herself over to him, that precious virginal innocence terrifying him, maddening him, heightening his desire. "No!" he whispered suddenly, and drew back from her, roughly pushing her away.

"d.a.m.n you, Anna Bella!" he stammered. He felt for the post at the top of the stairs. "d.a.m.n you!" he clutched the railing, his back to her, holding tight to it with both hands. "I can't, I can't...I can't let it happen!" he whispered. A throbbing in his head blinded him and became a dizzying pain. "Why in h.e.l.l do you think I've stayed away from you, why in h.e.l.l..." He turned on her suddenly to see her staring at him with immense glimmering brown eyes.

She didn't move. Her lips quivered. The tears poured down her cheeks. And then, her white teeth cutting into that tender vulnerable lip, she came forward, and lifting her right hand cracked him hard across the face.

He winced, shut his eyes. It seemed, as he heard her moving away from him, he positively savored the pain. And when he looked up she was gone.

Approaching the door of Christophe's room, he saw her sitting before the candles, her rosary in her left hand. With her right, she waved languidly, steadily at the flies that buzzed over the dead man's face.

She was sad and distant as if he were not even there to see it, her cheeks glistening with tears. He stared at the dead man, stared at the candles, and then blindly he took up his position to wait for Rudolphe at the foot of the stairs.

VI.

MADAME S SUZETTE L LERMONTANT HATED her husband Rudolphe with all her heart. She hated him and resented him as she did no other human being in the world. And she loved him at the same time. With a love laced with admiration, submission, and appalling need. She could not endure a word of criticism against him, though for twenty-five years not a day had pa.s.sed during which she did not wish at one time or another to beat him to death with her bare hands. Or better yet, stab herself in the breast to spite him, or blow her own head off in his presence with Grandpere's 1812 gun. her husband Rudolphe with all her heart. She hated him and resented him as she did no other human being in the world. And she loved him at the same time. With a love laced with admiration, submission, and appalling need. She could not endure a word of criticism against him, though for twenty-five years not a day had pa.s.sed during which she did not wish at one time or another to beat him to death with her bare hands. Or better yet, stab herself in the breast to spite him, or blow her own head off in his presence with Grandpere's 1812 gun.

Since the very first day of their marriage she had endured his ranting, his criticism, his scathing judgments and violent rejections of all she believed, all she held sacred, and she was no more used to it now than when it had all begun. Year after year he attacked her manner of speech, her manner of dress, threw her favorite volumes of poetry across the room in disgust, called her an idiot and a fool in front of family at table, and glared in SILENCE at her nervous, chattering friends.

Somewhere during the long years of quarreling and tears, she had come to realize an all-important point: none of this was personal with Rudolphe. He would have treated any wife the same way He would have treated any wife the same way. But far from easing her anger and pain, this revelation made her bitter, deepened her outrage. Because she realized that in all her ruthless self-examinations resulting from his condemnation, and all of her intense striving to make herself understood, she had been utterly wasting her time. Rudolphe ground her to powder for the benefit of some audience in his imagination for which her part might have been played by anyone, it was merely a supporting role. And sometimes screaming at her with his fist clenched as he strode back and forth across the room, he seemed some savage giant who might consume the earth, the water, the very air she breathed.

Had she been a more submissive woman she might have learned to accept Rudolphe's flamboyant fury the way one accepts the weather. In fact she might have undermined it with indifference and affection astutely combined. And had she been completely strong on the other hand she might have beaten him somewhere, or drawn back, content to live alongside him within a fortress of herself, sneering from aloft. But she was the perfect mixture of the two dispositions, a woman of strong personality and marked temperament, who nevertheless did not wish, and had never expected, to stand on her own two feet. She wanted Rudolphe's love and approval, and she wanted him to tell her what to do.

And among all the men she'd ever known, there was no one figure whom she respected, trusted, as she did Rudolphe. He had given her uncommon security, and was admired by everyone around him not only for his business sense, which was splendid, but for his professional decorum, his family loyalties, his stunning capacity to lead and calm others, his remarkable wits. He was a man of substance. And handsome to boot.

They had shared joys and sorrows together, suffered the loss of a daughter, the complete defection of two sons, and theirs remained a pa.s.sionate marriage when they had the time for it, complete with a great deal of commonplace affection, kisses, snuggling together under the covers, shared enjoyment of the good Creole cooking, exotic flowers for the garden, imported wines.

But constant were the ripping arguments. Suzette had only to declare a preference for it to be trampled, and she was berated day in and day out for being spineless in those matters where she had become clever enough to declare no preference at all. In all these years, she had never caught on herself to what others had sometimes hinted: Rudolphe was a little afraid of her, and of his love for her; he thought that all women were something slightly subversive that had at all times to be controlled.

Yet in one particular aspect of their life together she had recently decided that she would not be the loser even if he were to burst a blood vessel from temper on the spot. She was prepared to deceive him if necessary to gain her ends. But first she would try the truth. And this was in the matter of Marie Ste. Marie and their son, Richard, whom Suzette absolutely adored.

A week ago an invitation had come from the Ste. Marie family inviting the Lermontants to attend a reception for Marie's birthday and name day, August fifteenth. Rudolphe had said at once that he could not attend, he would be busy as always in August, and the war was on. By that evening he was raving that Suzette would not attend this reception either and at last that even Richard must not be allowed to go alone. But Suzette did not decline the invitation. And fighting with Rudolphe night and day behind closed doors, she told Richard softly but firmly not to give it another thought.

So on Monday at half past one, only a half hour before the reception was to begin, she was frightened to discover that Rudolphe had come unexpectedly through the front door. She was dressed and waiting for Richard who was still upstairs, and she had not expected her husband to drop in at home.

"All right," he said wearily as he removed his black frock coat. "I don't want coffee, get me a little cool white wine." He dropped into a chair in the second parlor.

She brought him the wine, along with his lighter coat which he always wore in the house. But he merely threw this aside.

"That was holy h.e.l.l," he whispered. "The Girod cemetery is worse than the St. Louis, what with the Yanqui Protestants dropping like flies."

"Hmmmmm," she said. She knew that he had just buried the Englishman, Michael Larson-Roberts, who had been Christophe Mercier's white friend.

"Mon Dieu," Rudolphe shook his head. "Get me the decanter for heaven sake's, what does this hold, a thimbleful?" Rudolphe shook his head. "Get me the decanter for heaven sake's, what does this hold, a thimbleful?"

"It will make you tired," she warned.

"Madame, I am not an idiot." He sat back and reaching for the palmetto fan at his side, waved it limply before his face. "Every one of the students came," he said, lowering his voice as he always did when he discussed his profession and those details concerning it which were never discussed outside the house. "I don't believe any of those boys welcome this unexpected little vacation," he said. "He's managed to make quite an impression on them in three short weeks."

"And Christophe himself?" she asked.

Rudolphe shook his head.

"You mean he didn't come?" She knew that Christophe had disappeared and that Marcel had been searching for him everywhere. But with the notices in the papers, and the announcements posted around the Quarter, they had all hoped that Christophe would return.

"The man blames himself, it's obvious." Rudolphe shrugged. "The Englishman followed him here from Paris."

"And Ma'ame Juliet?" she asked.

"She's gone out with Marcel to search the docks. She goes on board the steamboats and the foreign ships. She's convinced he's booked pa.s.sage out of here and is never coming back. He hasn't been home at all, nothing in his room has been touched."

"Ah, no, he wouldn't leave the school, not after all this work, I don't believe it," Suzette said sadly. "After all, the Englishman...why, they were only friends."

Rudolphe's face was thoughtful. She watched him curiously. But he made no comment. Then he said, "Well! The boys believe he's in mourning. I suppose that's perfectly true."

He turned, hearing Richard's heavy rapid rush down the stairs. Richard did not hurry in this fashion when he knew that his father was at home, and caught in the act, he stopped. Obviously he was dressed for the birthday reception, and obviously Suzette was dressed for it too. Richard glanced at his mother desperately. The clock in the hallway chimed lightly for the quarter hour. It was time for them to leave.

"Monsieur," Suzette began, drawing herself up to be firm.

"I know, Madame," Rudolphe sighed. "Well! Get me my coat. Don't just stand there, get me my coat. I can't very well go to a birthday reception in my shirtsleeves."

Suzette kissed him twice before he could brush her away.

It was crowded already when they arrived. Celestina Roget was there with her pretty daughter, Gabriella, and her frail but cheerful son, Fantin. Old lady friends of the aunts were already nestled comfortably into the more ample chairs. Young Augustin Dumanoir was there with his father, and his very lovely younger sister, Marie Therese, just in from the country, who was a dark-haired girl with pecan skin and bluish green eyes. Monsieur Dumanoir had only just come in from his plantation to meet the new teacher, Christophe, and with a letter of introduction had called upon the Lermontants the night before. "Quel dommage," "Quel dommage," he was sighing now. The death of this poor Englishman, no wonder the teacher "would see no one." he was sighing now. The death of this poor Englishman, no wonder the teacher "would see no one."

Anna Bella Monroe was in the corner and she rose at once to be kissed by Suzette on both cheeks. She was fresh, lovely, and yes, blushing, thank you, she had made the lovely green muslin with its pearl b.u.t.tons herself.

Nanette and Marie Louise LeMond were there, and Magloire Rousseau, the tailor's son who had just proposed marriage to Marie Louise and been accepted, the banns having been announced in church that week. Nanette smiled when she saw Richard and gave him a rather graceful curtsy which he did not appear to note.

But Marie Ste. Marie, the celebrity of the day, outshone all around her as she sat demurely beside her Tante Colette, the ma.s.sive flounces of her new dress threaded with pink ribbon, her dark full black hair drawn back softly to its chignon so that it covered the tips of her ears. A startling girl, this Marie Ste. Marie, one could not help but wonder when such beauty would reach its peak, and there was a flicker of pain in the eyes which she turned to Suzette. "Bonjour, ma pet.i.te," "Bonjour, ma pet.i.te," Suzette kissed her, "you are very lovely, very lovely indeed." Suzette kissed her, "you are very lovely, very lovely indeed."

A touch of color flared in the girl's white cheeks, her voice was barely audible as she murmured her thanks, and then she flushed outright as the shadow of Richard loomed over his mother's shoulder. Suzette saw her son bend to kiss Marie's hand.

She is not vain, Suzette was musing, no, she is not vain at all. It's almost as if she cannot guess that she's beautiful. And frankly the girl's beauty was too much. In drawing rooms around the world, she might have been presented as an Italian countess, A Spanish heiress, any dark nationality but that which she truly was.

"Ah well, Michie Rudi," Colette was pulling Rudolphe toward the crystal punch bowl, "did they bury that poor Englishman?" It was a stage whisper. "And where on earth is this famous Christophe! And does the man have any people, has he left anything, who will..."

"His lawyers will attend to all that," Rudolphe grumbled. He detested this sort of questioning. He never divulged this sort of information about the deceased and yet he was eternally asked. It was polite to ask, to show concern. "Where's Marcel!" he demanded now. "And his mother?" He glanced with irritation at the beautiful belle of the ball who was not looking at him. She was looking at his son.

"My niece is ill," said Colette. "She rarely goes out, some women are like that, I don't know why. As for Marcel, talk some sense to him, he's been out all night looking for Christophe!" She gestured to the open French doors. Marcel stood on the gallery, his back to the a.s.semblage, the taller Fantin Roget towering over him as he talked rapidly, rocking now and then on his heels.

"Hmmm," Rudolphe grunted. "Let me talk to Marcel."

Suzette, settling beside Louisa and an ancient quadroon woman who was completely deaf, played idly with a small bit of cake. It was not the the cake. cake. The The cake stood resplendent in the center of the nearby table, a majestic script spelling out on the white icing the words cake stood resplendent in the center of the nearby table, a majestic script spelling out on the white icing the words Sainte-Marie Sainte-Marie. This referred of course to the Virgin Mary whose feast day it was, and it struck Suzette as slightly disconcerting that it was the birthday girl's last name as well. Her eyes moved over the a.s.semblage returning furtively to the lean figure of the young Augustin Dumanoir who had just come between Richard and Marie, and bending over somewhat unctuously, it seemed to Suzette, meant to crowd her son away. Richard gave easily. He dropped back finding a seat beside Anna Bella and fell into conversation with her at once. Suzette studied Dumanoir. So this is the compet.i.tion, she was thinking, that sprawling new house in the Parish of St. Landry and fields of sugarcane. Fantin had come in to take his place behind Marie's chair, and from afar, young Justin Rousseau watched with obvious interest. Old families, good families, and this girl herself did not need family, her beauty speaking for itself.

"Well!" Louisa laughed suddenly.

"What is it!" Suzette experienced an uncomfortable start. Nanette LeMond was such a lovely girl, and from such fine parents, why couldn't Richard- "Why, you're staring at that cake as if it were poison, that's what. Eat, eat, eat!" Louisa said.

"And you keep your figure following that advice yourself!" Suzette cut into the cake with her spoon. Augustin Dumanoir was not going to let Marie's attention go. He was darker than Richard, but not very much darker. His long thin nose flared at the nostrils elegantly, his lips were small. Yet his father with heavier, flatter features was the more distinguished, smiling almost haughtily as he nodded to Celestina Roget as if he were perfectly proud of his broad African mouth. Both men had tight rippling hair, shining with pomade, and she caught, through the tinkle and hum, the father's sonorous tones, "Oh, yes, indeed, everything for the table grown right on my own land."

Suzette felt weary suddenly. She wanted to get rid of this cake. Her calculations struck her as inhuman and ugly, she wanted her son to be happy, and imagining him wounded, she felt at once an unbearable pain. She had made it a fixed rule with herself never to envision her older boys, and yet the memory of them descended upon her as surely as if they had come into the room. Boys! They had married white women in Bordeaux, they might as well have gone to China, or been lost at sea. Listing ever so slightly with her thoughts, she was suddenly startled to realize that Richard had been watching her and their eyes had met. A little smile played on his lips. He seemed not to have the slightest fear. If half the world thought her son as handsome as she thought him...her thoughts stopped. "Beauty, beauty everywhere," she whispered, "and not a drop to drink."

"Why, what on earth are you saying?" Louisa asked her.

"I don't know," she said. And staring at the door in amazement, she said. "Why, there's Dolly Rose."

No one had expected her. That she could cast aside her mourning often enough for the "quadroon b.a.l.l.s" everyone knew, but to come here? Yet there she stood, two white camellias in her jet-black hair, her creamy bosom swelling above a taut border of lavender watered silk.

"Good lord!" Louisa whispered.

And had not Dolly moved swiftly to fill the silence that followed, it would have been a scene. But she kissed her G.o.dmother, Celestina, immediately, embraced Gabriella, and murmured a festive greeting to the two aunts. Only for an instant did a desperate light disfigure her composure and then she saw Suzette. She put her arms out.

"Why, come here, Dolly," Suzette said. "How good you look, ma chere." ma chere." Her voice dropped as Dolly bent to kiss her. "How good it is to see you well." Her voice dropped as Dolly bent to kiss her. "How good it is to see you well."

Louisa stared in horror. She rose quickly, leaving the chair for Dolly who settled beside Suzette at once. It seemed young Augustin, who knew nothing of all this, commenced his chatter with Marie again, Colette had begun to laugh, the party rippled on.

"Do you think me a monster!" Dolly's eyes blazed. Again she kissed Suzette on the cheek. "I should stay home, should I not, I should wither on the vine. That would bring her back, wouldn't it, she would breathe, she would have life again."

"Dolly," Suzette whispered taking her hand, "believe me, if anyone knows the loss of a child I know it. Time is the healer. This is G.o.d's will."

"G.o.d's will, do you believe that, Madame Suzette?" Dolly would not lower her voice. Drops of moisture glistened on her high forehead, the pupils of her eyes danced. "Or is that just our way of saying it is out of our hands?" There was wine on her breath, a ruddy color to her lips. "I don't believe in anything except myself. Yet everything is out of my hands."

"Dolly, Dolly..." Suzette patted her arm.

"Is Giselle happy?" Dolly asked now, her eyes moving across the ceiling. They settled fiercely on Suzette. "Oh, you don't know how I cried that year...when we were no longer friends."

"I cried, too, Dolly," Suzette whispered, drawing near to her, hoping that that shrill clarion voice could be stilled. "You are not well..."

"Oh, I am very well!" she said. "I am free!"

Out of the corner of her eye, Suzette could see that Celestina was glowering at Dolly from across the room.

"No more children," Dolly mused, "no more children, who would have ever guessed? And now it doesn't matter all that rot Maman used to talk. If there can't be children..."

"Dolly, there are other things to live for!"