She was looking at him with that same dreamy expression that he had seen before in the street. It wasn't clear that she was listening to him at all. "He's a hero to us, Madame," he went on anxiously, eyes lighting again and again on the small image. "We have his novel, copies of his stories, articles he's written for the journals...I read everything I can lay hands on. I read his Nuits de Charlotte Nuits de Charlotte, it was magnificent, like Shakespeare in the novel form, Madame, I could see it happening before my eyes, and when Charlotte died, I died too."

She's going to ask me to go, he thought, and I don't want to go, not now, not yet. There was something severe in the tiny face in the picture, the eyes fixing him fiercely.

"Of course, I copy his essays,..." he said quickly, "I have a notebook full of them, and sometimes I write essays-well I try-on my own. If he begins a school here...well, there is no telling how many pupils he'll have."

He could tutor the best white families, Marcel thought sullenly, perhaps he doesn't realize that....But he said the school was for us, for the gens de couleur gens de couleur...Marcel put that thought out of his mind. "There's no telling how many pupils will want to enroll. I imagine your parlor will be crowded with applicants."

"What parlor?" she asked in a flat, leaden voice.

He was shocked. He had offended her.

"There's nothing here anymore," she sighed, her voice so low that without realizing it he bent toward her. Her eyes were moving around the room slowly. "There's only ruin here."

"But all that can be changed, perhaps..." He was afraid. She would lose her temper in a minute, tell him he was impertinent and that he should get out. He stared dismally, helplessly, at the surface of the table before him, and then at that little portrait of the man sitting so regally in the chair. Even the boots were so expertly rendered, and the boards of some polished floor a thousand miles across the sea. He shut his eyes.

When he opened them again he saw that she was taking a ripe peach from the bowl. "Are you hungry, cher?" cher?" she whispered. It seemed little more than a soft explosion of breath. she whispered. It seemed little more than a soft explosion of breath.

"No, thank you, Madame," he murmured.

She stared at him as her teeth cut through the skin of the peach and he saw the ripe bright fruit against her lips.

"You were telling me things, cher cher..." she said in that same low voice. She ate the peach in great bites, the peeling and the fruit, with no other movement than the movement of her delicate jaw, her lips, her tongue...He felt some vague stirring in himself and shifted his weight in the chair.

"About my essays, Madame," he said without really hearing himself speak. "I was thinking perhaps that I could bring my work so that when the students begin to come..." He stopped. She was studying him, and she was frightening him. He did not want to admit this but it was true.

"And when the students come..." she breathed softly, "...he would take you as one of them."

He found he was amazed that she had followed his line of thinking at all. "Yes, that's it exactly, Madame. I want so much to be one of his pupils," he said.

She began to lick her fingers. The peach was gone. Only the rough kernel lay on the table, picked clean. And he was astonished, even embarra.s.sed, as he had never seen a lady do this before, and he had never seen anyone, not even a child, do it quite like this. She licked the first finger, drawing it straight across her tongue, and then the second. Then holding her hand like a fan, her tongue found the nook between finger and thumb and sucked there. Gradually as he watched, she licked the whole hand as though it were only natural, and dainty, and then she rested her chin on her clasped fingers, elbows on the table. Her eyes had never left him once.

"You want to go to the school," she sighed. The gold hoops in her ears moved ever so slightly against the dark waves that hung down her back.

"Oh, yes, Madame, more than anything. I want to try!"

"Hmmmm..." she took a long breath. "And this is why he comes home, then," she said in an expressionless voice that made her steady gaze even more unnerving..."not what he says in his letter at all."

"Oh, no, no, that can't be true," he said at once. "I'm sure what he says in the letter is true, Madame. He's coming home because...because of you."

This was dreadful, he had been saying all the wrong things to her and didn't know it. He saw her again as he had seen her when he entered the room, holding the portrait, and talking to it in a whisper.

The only sound now was the sound of the breeze. Trees swelling, rustling against the gla.s.s, then dying back. Her dark eyes were fixed on him as they had been all along, and her narrow face had that youthful smoothness that was always hers. Not a line of care marked her forehead. Only some subtle softness around her eyes and around her throat betrayed her age.

Then low, with the barest movement of her lips, her voice came again, "You are hot, cher?" cher?" she asked. "You are tired?" A snakelike arm extended across the table between them, and her long fingers played with the b.u.t.tons on his vest. He had never seen a woman in his life as beautiful as she was; even the tiny lines around her eyes were exquisite, the flesh a little paler there, very soft perhaps to touch. He looked down suddenly with the first hint of shyness and found himself gazing at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The tips of the nipples showed through the silk, he could even see the dark circle of flesh around the nipples, and as her hand found the back of his neck, as her fingers actually touched his skin, he felt a tremor pa.s.s over him that contracted to a sudden forbidden excitement swelling uncomfortably, unmistakably between his legs. she asked. "You are tired?" A snakelike arm extended across the table between them, and her long fingers played with the b.u.t.tons on his vest. He had never seen a woman in his life as beautiful as she was; even the tiny lines around her eyes were exquisite, the flesh a little paler there, very soft perhaps to touch. He looked down suddenly with the first hint of shyness and found himself gazing at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The tips of the nipples showed through the silk, he could even see the dark circle of flesh around the nipples, and as her hand found the back of his neck, as her fingers actually touched his skin, he felt a tremor pa.s.s over him that contracted to a sudden forbidden excitement swelling uncomfortably, unmistakably between his legs.

She was feeling his hair. He saw nothing before him for an instant, except the gathered silk of her sleeve where her arm pressed against the bulge of her breast. But he made up his mind to look into her eyes, to be the gentleman if he could not be the child she apparently thought that he was. However, she was rising now, and though she had let him go, she was beckoning for him to get up also. And he could still feel the touch of her fingers as if she'd never moved.

A cloud pa.s.sed over the sun. And then came another. The room was dim, and she was standing by the bed, drinking from a silver pitcher. She turned to him, holding it in both hands as she extended it. He walked toward her, his feet deafening on the bare boards and taking it from her, he drank. His thirst was far worse than he had realized, and in a moment the pitcher was empty. And when he looked up again, he was dumbfounded.

A rapid explosion of rips that he had heard were the hooks of her dress. And she had stepped out of it, and held it loose, gathered against her naked shoulders. He could see the thin margin of her naked leg, the curve of her hip; the fixed expression of her dark eyes might have struck terror.

But never in his life would he be able to describe the physical sensation that overcame him, the immediate grinding pa.s.sion that obliterated every other sense, any scintilla of judgment. He knew he should run from the room, and he had no intention of doing so.

And as she drew near to him, as her arm went around his waist, he became some single-minded thing that wanted nothing but to rip away that red silk dress. With a gentle tug she opened the b.u.t.tons of his shirt.

He did not remember getting undressed. Except that he had never done it so fast, with so little regard. She had let the dress drop and slipped between the sheets. Sinking down beside her, he felt the breeze from the darkling windows cool on his arms and on his face. It stirred the tendrils of her hair.

She kissed him on the mouth, and he felt at once clumsy and stiff in his pa.s.sion, the blood pounding in his head as her hard tiny nipples pressed against his chest. It seemed then for one moment when he did not know how to proceed, that all the voices of his childhood were murmuring anxiously to him, commanding him to rise and go, to grab his clothes and flee. "This is without honor!" said the chorus. But over its slowing and predictable rumble, there came another voice echoing through the long halls of time that needed no vernacular to declare with a stentorian authority: Man, are you mad? Go to it!

He had in his hand the gorgeous satin weight of her breast, the very contour that had driven him to distraction in his dreams, and pressing his lips there, he stopped breathless and afraid. Even the friction of the sheets against him might be too much. He could not hold back. But with a shift beneath him and the swift subtle movement of her hand, she guided him to the moist hair between her legs and into the place where he belonged. He clenched his teeth, moaning as he went in. Never had he even seen this place! And he did not see it now, only felt himself slide into the perfect pulsing opening, the embrace toward which he had been moving all of his life, and in a mounting rapture, all the fantasies of his childhood burnt dim, and forever went out.

Then he heard her cry.

She was blood-red and suffering, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and face flushed, a low hoa.r.s.e sound coming out of her as if she struggled for breath. She was dying in his arms! Yet when he struggled to free her, her hands held him fast, and the sudden sharp movements of her hips sent him straight to heaven.

It seemed to go on forever.

And then to be more over than anything he had ever known.

On his back in the gloom, the breeze moving over him like water, he kissed her hair as her forehead pressed against his cheek. She was pleased; she lay still. And together they drifted off.

It was a deep sleep at first that left no dreams to mark the length; and then he was conscious of loving her, of her arms around him, and that she held his back against her breast, her legs tucked beneath his, so that they slept tight together spoon-fashion and again he drifted off. He had never slept with another person that he could remember, not even when he was very small, and was ill, and this seemed luscious to him and natural and very sweet. But thin dreams came to him that were hardly dreams at all, in which he roamed the house, found gaping holes in the stairs, had the disconcerting vision of rats. And some time before the room grew dark, he knew the cistern was near, gaping by the leaf-shrouded windows. He opened his eyes once and saw her profile against the distant vines, and in sleep found her even more beautiful than she had been before. A dusky cologne emanated from her skin. He found himself savoring the scent it left on his finger-tips.

Hours must have pa.s.sed, he didn't know. Only that at some point, when he was dreaming of the letters in the chest, and of trivial intruding things, he had turned over, very hot, and seen the flowers in a vase on the round table. Only they were enormous; the magnificent blooms one gets from florists, and vaguely he had thought my eyes are not actually open, I am dreaming this, these perfect roses and their mist of delicate fern. But all the room was there in the shadows, as sometimes happens between sleep and dream. And there were the flowers, white, all but luminous, and beside the table, there stood a man.

A man.

A man! Marcel sat bolt upright in the dark, the sheet sliding down to his lap, and stared straight ahead, his fists clenched in an instinctual protective fury.

It was a man most definitely, medium of height, and apparently dressed in a smartly cut frock coat with a starched white shirt collar and something loose over his shoulders like a wool cravat. But his face was so dark that nothing could be seen save the barest glint of light in his eyes. And beside him, on the floor, stood a bulky valise.

Juliet stirred, turning over and touching Marcel's naked back. And rigid with alarm, he realized, beyond a shadow of a doubt, who this man was. All the air went out of him suddenly as Juliet cried out.

He did not need for her to say the name as she s.n.a.t.c.hed the sheet from his naked legs, threw it around her, and ran to the center of the room. "Chris!" she burst out, and "Chris!" over and over.

Marcel watched petrified as they embraced. It seemed Christophe turned her around and around in his arms, his laughter coming soft and rich and low under her gasps and cries. She was kissing him all over the face and neck; she was beating gently on his shoulders with her fists.

Suddenly her cries slowed, became deeper, and an awful sorrow broke loose in her voice. Christophe sat slowly in the wicker chair at the table and folded her against him so that she buried her head in his neck.

"Maman," he said to her softly, stroking her as she sobbed against him, saying over and over, as if with a broken heart, "Chris, Chris..."

Marcel pulled on his pants and his shirt at once. There was no time for his vest, watch, comb. Jamming his unfastened cuffs into his jacket sleeves, he turned around, shirt open at the throat and saw the man's large dark eyes fixed on him in the gloom. Juliet cried still, and Christophe's hand patted her gently. He looked down at her, much to Marcel's relief, and lifted her chin so he could look into her eyes. The light fell on his profile, gleamed for an instant on his forehead as he said to her, "Maman..." as if that word alone conveyed all the eloquence that he might need.

She was feeling his face, kissing his cheekbones, then his eyelids.

Shaking and on the verge of tears himself, Marcel pulled on his boots, and shoving his socks down into his jacket pockets turned toward the door.

"But who is this?" Christophe asked. Marcel froze.

"Oh, yes..." Juliet wiped at the tears on her cheek with the back of her hand. "Oh, yes, come here, cher cher, it's Christophe..." and when she said her son's name again her voice broke. She appeared to shudder, to kiss him again and then hold him tightly. Marcel was utterly miserable. But then she said, "Come here, cher cher, come come come!" and held her hand out toward him.

Marcel's legs were trembling so violently that he could only make himself approach the table by a severe act of will. And when he felt Juliet's hand slip into his and clasp it, he looked deliberately into Christophe's eyes.

It was the face he'd only just seen in the little picture, of course. A somewhat square face, the tightly curled hair making a neat frame for it with a straight line across the forehead and carefully trimmed side-burns. It was a common enough face where Mediterranean and African blood combine, the features small, the skin a light brown and supple, the jaw square, the whole effect being one of evenness, the kind of face which in later years is often rendered powerfully distinguished by its frame of graying hair, and the grizzled line of a mustache.

But the expression of that face was hardly the lifeless rendering of the portrait. It had rather a fire to it that seemed all but menacing in the twilight, something of mockery or absolute rage.

Marcel withered.

"This is a smart boy," Juliet said. She was crying still, and in another burst of excitement she kissed Christophe again. He was holding her firmly in his right arm, as if she weighed nothing on his lap, and with his left hand now he smoothed back her hair.

"I can well imagine," he said under his breath as he glanced up at Marcel, but his mother did not appear to hear.

"He read your letter to me, told me you were coming home, of Paris papers saying this, that you were coming home," and again she began to shake with sobs.

But Christophe was gazing levelly at Marcel, and he raised his eyebrows dramatically, pretending to study him with interest.

"These boys, they worship you, they put letters under the gate," she said excitedly, "But this one, Cecile's son, he came to me like a gentleman! No peeping at the windows..."

Cecile's son. It was like feeling the noose slip around his neck. How in the h.e.l.l could she have known he was Cecile's son! She seemed not to know the time of day, the day of the month, the month of the year! And yet she knew he was Cecile's son! Her words went on, but Marcel did not hear them. For one vain moment, it occurred to him there might be something to say, some magnificent explanation. But it died before it was born.

"And this school, he talks of this school..." she was saying. "And wants to meet you so, of course..."

A short ironic laugh came from Christophe's lips, and with an icy smile, he extended his hand. "Indeed? And so we meet."

Marcel took his hand mechanically. It felt powerful and somewhat cold. Perfect enough, Marcel was thinking and convulsively he drew back too soon while Christophe let his hand drop rather slowly again to his mother's waist.

"You know what I think of this school?" she was saying, wiping at her eyes with the edge of the sheet. She had loosened it slightly over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Marcel looked away. "I think this is the reason you have come back here, this school. Not your mother, I am not the reason..."

"Ah, Maman!" he said, shaking his head. He kissed her. It was the first spontaneous thing that he had said, and he looked at her now as if he were seeing her for the first time. And then taking her in his arms he held her as if he were doing this for the first time.

Marcel murmured quickly that he should take his leave. And had started for the door when she said "I'll talk to him about the school, cher cher. Christophe listen to me, he wants to go to your school."

"He seems a bit precocious for school," came the rich-voiced sarcastic reply beside the upturned innocent gaze of the mother.

"Ah!" she waved away words she didn't understand. "Go cher cher, come tomorrow."

"Oh, yes, do come again," said the man with a purely malignant smile.

Marcel could feel the tears just behind his eyes. But again, as he turned, she reached out for him, and tugging him gently close to her, she put her cheek against his chest.

He broke away slowly and with a gentlemanly murmur, went swiftly through the dark house, clattering down the hollow stairway and blundering out into the shadowy street. The sky was red with the sunset over the river, and he was crying now, so that as he reached the banana grove inside his gate, he stopped and choked back his tears, resolutely refusing to let them flow any longer, to let anyone see them, to let anyone know where he had been and what he had done.

V.

IT WAS DARK. The breeze was damp from the river and carried with it the scent of rain. All the day's heat was lessened now, and the long loose lace curtains rose and fell against the back window of Marcel's room, and the sounds of the evening meal below were just past. The lamp on the desk flickered dimly. Then there came Lisette's familiar steps up from the kitchen, and he heard her quick tread along the porch.

"Better eat something, Michie," she coaxed lightly in the Creole French. "Come on now, Michie, open up this door."

He lay still staring at the shadowy ceiling. She had moved to the window. So let her try to see him through the blinds, he didn't care.

"All right, then Michie! Starve to death!" she shouted at him and was gone.

"Mon Dieu!" he sighed, his teeth biting into his lip. He was going to cry again if he didn't get a hold on himself. His mother had flown at him as he ran up the stairs to his room. She had beat against his door while he stood inside, his hand trembling on the bolt. "How could you do it, how could you do it!" she had shrieked until he covered his ears. It had taken him a moment to realize that she couldn't have known what he had he sighed, his teeth biting into his lip. He was going to cry again if he didn't get a hold on himself. His mother had flown at him as he ran up the stairs to his room. She had beat against his door while he stood inside, his hand trembling on the bolt. "How could you do it, how could you do it!" she had shrieked until he covered his ears. It had taken him a moment to realize that she couldn't have known what he had really really done, any of it. It was the school that mattered to her. He'd been expelled, so be it. And now Lisette shouting at him as if he were a child. She'd burn his bacon in the morning and serve his coffee cold. He was becoming completely furious about it when he realized with a dry laugh that he was very shortly scheduled to die. done, any of it. It was the school that mattered to her. He'd been expelled, so be it. And now Lisette shouting at him as if he were a child. She'd burn his bacon in the morning and serve his coffee cold. He was becoming completely furious about it when he realized with a dry laugh that he was very shortly scheduled to die.

And then that familiar oppression descended upon him, that dull misery that had been with him all evening, more bleak perhaps than almost any depression that he had ever known. He'd ruined himself utterly with Christophe, and Christophe, if he did not kill him, would surely beat him within an inch of his life. He had thought it over from every vantage point and was sure of this beating if nothing else. And there would be dreadful humiliation afterwards and all the questions which he would never answer. And soon the world would know what he already knew, that he was shut out from Christophe's new school forever, shut out, in fact, from Christophe's world.

He rose suddenly as he had done a dozen times that evening, and holding the backs of his arms he paced the room.

The pungent atmosphere of Juliet's bed enveloped him, and he felt again her nakedness, that musky perfume, and warm hands that pulled him close so that he shuddered violently at the obscenity of it, was almost sickened, and the entire soft debacle was a rape. She was mad, everyone knew she was mad, he knew she was mad, had he ever heard so much as a smattering of the gossip about her without that word, mad? mad? And oh, how miserable she had been, how forlorn as she had sat at that table gazing at Christophe's portrait. No, he'd taken full advantage of her distress, abused her in her loneliness and her distraction, and Christophe had caught him, was going to kill him, and he deserved to die. And oh, how miserable she had been, how forlorn as she had sat at that table gazing at Christophe's portrait. No, he'd taken full advantage of her distress, abused her in her loneliness and her distraction, and Christophe had caught him, was going to kill him, and he deserved to die.

He saw himself quite clearly standing in a field before Christophe, it was bleak and windy, and he was saying, "Monsieur, I deserve it. I shall not lift a finger to prevent it. I deserve to die." Perhaps he should go there to the house and say these words, perhaps he should go there now. He would ring the bell, if there was still a bell, and wait on the banquette, his hands clasped behind his back, until Christophe came down.

But no, this would smack of some cheap dissimulation, some plea for mercy of which he was not capable, and must not be capable. No, the man would choose the moment. He had to wait.

He shut his eyes. He was leaning against the frame of the back window, letting the breeze cool him, still hugging his arms. That was the simplest part, perhaps, that first violent encounter. It was the aftermath that was to be his real punishment, his h.e.l.l. He tried to imagine for a moment the Christophe he had known before this afternoon, that distant and heroic novelist whose ink portraits still covered the walls of this room, he tried to savor the old excitement at the mere saying of the name. But that voiceless, remote, and endlessly glamorous Parisian writer was flesh and blood now, the cold-eyed ironical man who had glared at him through the shadows of Juliet's bedroom with unveiled contempt. And Marcel had cut himself off from both of those enigmatic figures, and what he felt was not so much fear for himself as a misery that was akin to grief.

Lights twinkled beyond, through the thick forest of oak and cypress that rose behind the garconniere garconniere, a swamplike growth that divided all the cottages of the Rue Ste. Anne from those of the Rue Dumaine. It was a lovely thing this wild untended place of knotted figs and knife-blade banana, of wild roses and the ivy that hung from the branches of the oaks in heavy drifts that often lifted all of a piece with the breeze. Crickets sang here at twilight, and obliterating the rattle and chatter of supper tables, and the cry of children, they lent a graceful privacy to this close and crowded block. It was sweet now to see no more of distant windows than a sudden tiny burst of yellow light among the shifting leaves, somewhat like the blinking of a star. Marcel had always loved these rooms, and as a little child came here to watch the sundown or rush from room to room over vistas of dusty floor. Last summer, Monsieur Philippe had begun to call it, quite suddenly, the garconniere garconniere. And in a matter of weeks, he was saying with a weary shrug, "Why the cottage is so small, he ought to be out there now and leave this place to you and Marie." Cecile was shocked. "Why, ma chere ma chere, on the plantation, he would have been moved before now. It's de rigueur." de rigueur."

"De rigueur!" Marcel had said to Richard with the same weary gesture. Richard had laughed. Of course the man did not want to go on making love to Cecile within the hearing of an adolescent son, what did that matter? Marcel was ecstatic, and Monsieur Philippe, whatever his motives, had some sense himself that the move for Marcel was a splendid thing. A narrow convent bed was made especially for the small room, a desk sent up, and he came one evening from the plantation with a series of old framed paintings, dim beneath their crazed varnish, saying they might look quite good on those walls. Marcel had said to Richard with the same weary gesture. Richard had laughed. Of course the man did not want to go on making love to Cecile within the hearing of an adolescent son, what did that matter? Marcel was ecstatic, and Monsieur Philippe, whatever his motives, had some sense himself that the move for Marcel was a splendid thing. A narrow convent bed was made especially for the small room, a desk sent up, and he came one evening from the plantation with a series of old framed paintings, dim beneath their crazed varnish, saying they might look quite good on those walls. "Eh bien," "Eh bien," he sighed when he saw Marcel's sketches everywhere. He drew on his cigar and letting the ash fall, he smiled. "Do as you like, he sighed when he saw Marcel's sketches everywhere. He drew on his cigar and letting the ash fall, he smiled. "Do as you like, mon fils mon fils, after all, the place is yours." A Turkey carpet arrived a day later, worn, but quite beautiful still and very soft.

Eh bien...it had been a refuge since the beginning, but now? Marcel would have lost his mind had he not had that door with its latch behind him. It was sanctuary.

"Je suis un criminel," he tested the lovely epithet on the empty air. Tears came again. Turning, he bent gently to the lamp on his desk and lowered the small flame. Then taking the chair in both hands he brought it near to the back window, and sat so he might look out, his feet propped on the sill. he tested the lovely epithet on the empty air. Tears came again. Turning, he bent gently to the lamp on his desk and lowered the small flame. Then taking the chair in both hands he brought it near to the back window, and sat so he might look out, his feet propped on the sill.

It was not guilt he felt for what he'd done so much as sorrow. He had lost Christophe, and he had known this kind of loss only once before in his life, and he had been as lonely in it then as he was now. This was the loss of Jean Jacques, the cabinetmaker, when Marcel was thirteen years old.

PART TWO.

I.

THE YEAR had been begun well enough, it seemed. Nothing unlucky in the thirteen candles. Nevertheless his mother, teasing him, had winked her eye, and said, "A bad age." had been begun well enough, it seemed. Nothing unlucky in the thirteen candles. Nevertheless his mother, teasing him, had winked her eye, and said, "A bad age."

And then came an afternoon, remarkably like many others, on which Marcel had been walking with his Tante Josette to church. She had just come in from the country, her carriage full of baskets of fruit from the orchards of her plantation, Sans Souci Sans Souci. He loved the name of her plantation, and was saying it over and over to himself as they drifted slowly through the winter street toward the Cathedral. She went always as soon as she arrived to the altar of the Virgin Mary and said a rosary there in thanks for the safe journey from Saint-Domingue years ago before Marcel had been born. Her sisters, Tante Colette and Tante Louisa, were in a paroxysm for days before these visits, and with Cecile's help veritably renovated their dress shop in the Rue Bourbon and the long flat in which they lived, above. These women had reared Cecile, having brought her with them in that flight from Saint-Domingue for which Tante Josette gave thanks.

What had there been in his life before that afternoon, when he and Tante Josette had set out for church? Only routine and wondrous events such as the beginning of school, suppers with the family of his new cla.s.smate, Richard Lermontant, the change of the seasons, the Mardi Gras, and those long afternoons he had spent with his friend Anna Bella Monroe reading English novels, talking of pirates, and walking out sometimes hand in hand like brother and sister along the broad ditches of the outlying streets where minnows swam and frogs croaked amid the high weeds. And boredom, utter and complete boredom, that made the blue sky a monstrous and eternal roof and the miracle of white b.u.t.terflies in wild vacant lots hypnotic and somehow grating.

Tante Josette was an eccentric woman, preferring grace in old age to nonsense in manner and dress, wore her gray hair back in a chignon, and was in dark blue always regardless of the weather, though this was sometimes trimmed with a little lace, but more often with jet. And she was talking, low and steady, to him as she walked, reading the signs over shops and the funeral notices tacked to the lamp posts, and picking out places where the brick banquettes were "a disgrace," and lifting her skirts carefully above her long thin leather boots, then she stopped short and with a quick bow nodded to the cabinetmaker, Jean Jacques, at his door, and said low, under her breath, "That man taught himself everything that he knows."

Marcel heard these words, as if they had flashed clear suddenly from so much that was of no concern to him and turning back he looked at the man, Jean Jacques.