"I think so, they must have been, big maps showing the whole outlay, the sugarhouse, the fields, I'm sure they were maps of Bontemps Bontemps, why?"

"I don't know. I never saw a map of Bontemps," Bontemps," he said. "Strange..." he said. "Strange..."

"Strange?"

"You and I...and Bontemps," Bontemps," he murmured. he murmured.

Anna Bella sighed. She put the tiny pair of eyegla.s.ses into her bodice. "And you're dreaming of the day you can get on that boat for France."

"More than ever," he said. "More than ever."

It was late when he rose to go. Anna Bella had lit the candle and been startled by the clock. The house had grown quiet around them as had the neighborhood, and she figured that for spite, Zurlina had gone off to bed.

"Anna Bella," Marcel was not looking at her. He was looking out beyond the door. "I would like to come back..."

"Strange your saying that," she said. But she didn't say anything else. He bowed his head and was about to leave when she touched his arm. "Michie Vince comes on Fridays, late generally, but if he's not here by Fridays, then usually he doesn't come at all."

"It will be in the afternoons."

He was watching her, the candle behind her making a wreath of faint light about her head. Her eyes were downcast. There was so much he wanted to say to her but above all, this: that the frustrating pa.s.sion he'd felt for her a year ago was now within his rein. Had it not been for his Juliet and her Michie Vince they could not have sat together, talked together, in this room. But whatever they had captured tonight it was fragile; he realized this, and he did not want to blemish it now.

"Do you want me to come back?" he asked.

"I want it to be as it was before," she said, eyes averted, her head to one side. She had her hand to her temple as though hearkening to her own thoughts. "When we were children," she looked up. "The way it was with us here tonight."

"I know that," he turned slightly angry. "You needn't have said it."

"But I thought if I didn't say it, if I didn't let you know, then you wouldn't come back," she said.

He was softened at once. "I'll come back," he said. He wondered if he might kiss her then, just gently, as he might kiss Marie. But realizing the light was behind them and they stood in the open cottage door, he found himself placing a kiss on the tips of his fingers exactly as he had done that night at the opera and touching those fingers to her shoulder as he went out.

But a strong feeling mounted in him as he walked away, his pace becoming quicker as he neared the Rue Ste. Anne. If he could rouse Christophe at all, he had urgent news for him. He would study round the clock from now on, take any private instruction Christophe could give. And as soon as Christophe told him he might pa.s.s the examinations for the Ecole Normale he would press to leave for Paris at once. And slowly, as he grew closer and closer to the Mercier house, the sweetness of this long evening with Anna Bella, its desperate solace, became laced with something bitter that seemed part and parcel of all the tasks that lay ahead of him, the burdens he could not thrust off. Some somber reasonable voice said, "What of Marie? Will you leave before she's married, before Rudolphe even lets Richard ask?" And what of Cecile, then, would she be completely alone?

But this had always been just a matter of time, and never had he felt such an urgency to have that time concluded. What would it matter to Monsieur Philippe if he went a year early and wouldn't Marie say yes now to Richard, if Rudolphe would only allow the proposal to be made? A sweet peace came over him when he thought of Marie. She was the single person in this world who seemed untouched by the sordidness around him, unsullied by complexities that made his head ache. And it was not until he was started up the stairs of the Mercier house toward the light in Christophe's room that he thought vaguely of all that talk of lawyers, and maps. So Dazincourt, "the young pup," was giving Monsieur Philippe a hard time, was he? And might there even be some feud in the making, over inheritances and lines? The disgust Marcel felt for his father was too profound to admit of the slightest sympathy. And he could not care about it all once he was across the sea. Yes, get Lisette's freedom for her, and then go, he thought. Then go!

Anna Bella latched the front blinds and moved slowly toward the bedroom door. She prayed Zurlina had gone to bed-though Zurlina should not have gone-she did not wish to hear her predictable hostile words. She set the candle down on her dresser and as the flame steadied and the light spread out beyond her, she all but let out a scream. There was a man sitting on the bed, his legs crossed, the red glint of a cigar in his hand.

"Michie Vince!" she gasped.

She lifted the candle and saw his still, relatively calm face. He was in shirtsleeves, his coat laid neatly over the foot of the bed, "Michie Vince, if I had known..."

"I know that, chere," chere," he said. "It's quite all right." he said. "It's quite all right."

"Why, I thought when you didn't come by supper. Why, I didn't have any idea..."

"Anna Bella, it's all right."

She sank down in the chair beside the dresser, and in spite of his words began to cry softly, inconsolably, covering her face. He slipped off the bed and lifted her by the arms.

"Anna Bella, come now," he said. "I could have sent Zurlina in, I chose not to. Now don't show me tears," he held her tightly. "I've come too far."

This seemed only to aggravate her misery. He led her to the bed, kissing her, smoothing her hair. She slipped her arm up around his neck. "I love you, Michie Vince," she said. "I love you, I love you, I love you!"

"Then why the tears?" he whispered. "Hmmmm, ma belle ma belle Anna Bella?" Anna Bella?"

They came in a torrent and she was powerless to stop it, only clinging to him and making that same affirmation of love again.

It was dawn when Marcel at last reached home. He had fallen asleep, not in Juliet's room, but in Christophe's on the rug before the hearth. Late talk, some wine, and then the tossing and turning to discover that they had both of them dropped off in their clothes. The air of the room was smothering. He slipped out without waking Christophe and went down the street sleepily toward his own bed.

But the city was awake already, the vendeuses vendeuses on the way to market from the outlying farms, and the lamps lit in his mother's room. Well, if there was no time before cla.s.s for sleep he might at least splash some water on his face, bathe his arms and chest. Study round the clock, indeed, this was a great beginning, and was Lisette still dead to the world in her room, he had to rouse her, reason with her, and a cold dread came over him as he thought to himself, what if she's gone? on the way to market from the outlying farms, and the lamps lit in his mother's room. Well, if there was no time before cla.s.s for sleep he might at least splash some water on his face, bathe his arms and chest. Study round the clock, indeed, this was a great beginning, and was Lisette still dead to the world in her room, he had to rouse her, reason with her, and a cold dread came over him as he thought to himself, what if she's gone?

Hurrying up the garconniere garconniere steps, he couldn't wait to peel off his limp and rumpled clothes. steps, he couldn't wait to peel off his limp and rumpled clothes.

But just as he was removing his boots, he heard a rude rap at his door.

"Who is it?" he asked crossly. He was unb.u.t.toning his shirt.

"Lisette, who do you think it is!" came the answer, and the door swung back.

She wore a bright fresh calico with a spotless ap.r.o.n, starched and ruffled, as she stomped into the room. His coffee was steaming on the tray, and there was a special breakfast, the sort she whipped up for him when he'd been good to her, slabs of bacon, eggs perfectly done, the grits melting with b.u.t.ter, and warm bread. He was flabbergasted as he watched her set the tray on the desk. She picked up his soiled boots.

"Do you look for every mud puddle between here and that teacher's house!" she demanded.

He couldn't answer. He was staring at her as stupidly as he had ever stared at anyone in his life.

"Well!" she demanded, reaching for his soiled shirt. "You going to eat that or let it turn to stone?"

"You didn't...you didn't have to..." he whispered.

She was shaking her head in disgust as she held out the boots. Then their eyes met.

Her face was as sullen and unreadable as it had always been, the eyes brown and overcast with weariness, but sharp in the smooth copper-colored face. A snow-white tignon tignon mashed her springy hair, and she was studying him as if it were any day of the week, any week of the year. mashed her springy hair, and she was studying him as if it were any day of the week, any week of the year.

He swallowed, glancing away from her and suddenly back to her, and struggling to form words, he said nothing but the driest whisper of her name.

"Now, do you want these cleaned now, Michie," came the low matter-of-fact voice, hand on the hip. "With every china plate in this house stuck with food and the laundry stacked to the ceiling, or couldn't you manage with your old boots?"

But she didn't wait for his answer. She had seen the rumpled coat on the bed and was furious. "Look at that!" she swept it up as she went out the door. "What did you do, roll around in the street in that!" She was on her way downstairs.

IV.

IT WAS THE SAME dream again, vague and bordering on nightmare, and that excitement mounting until Marie awoke, pushing her hands against the mattress, her body rigid, the excitement culminating in a series of delicious and reverberating shocks. She was jarred by the sound of her own moan. And stung with shame, she turned over on her back and gazed numbly through the gauze of the mosquito dream again, vague and bordering on nightmare, and that excitement mounting until Marie awoke, pushing her hands against the mattress, her body rigid, the excitement culminating in a series of delicious and reverberating shocks. She was jarred by the sound of her own moan. And stung with shame, she turned over on her back and gazed numbly through the gauze of the mosquito baires baires at the familiar furnishings of this narrow bedroom in her aunts' flat. So the dream had followed her here as well, and even through the immense and heavy cypress door, her aunts might have heard her soft sounds. at the familiar furnishings of this narrow bedroom in her aunts' flat. So the dream had followed her here as well, and even through the immense and heavy cypress door, her aunts might have heard her soft sounds.

She sat up, leaned forward, and pressed her hand to her cheek. The excitement was only now subsiding and she felt a shudder as her heavy tresses fell over her shoulders and brushed the nipples of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

The dream had been happening for a year now, with its inevitable and shattering pleasure, and she knew without anyone telling her it was wrong. But what brought this peculiar and terrifying cross to her, that she could not understand. Behind a door in her mind lay the simple fact, quite unexamined, that never in all the years of her childhood had she heard from her mother's bed any sound other than Monsieur Philippe's laboring breath. And a sordid suspicion had begun to form behind that same door, form somewhat like a cartwheel spiderweb, that women who felt this debilitating and exquisite pleasure were wretched women, women such as Dolly Rose and the girls who had come to live in Dolly Rose's house. So abhorrent was this, and yet so obsessive, that in recent weeks it had terrified Marie even to see one of those women walking about, and that Dolly Rose herself was seldom seen in public anymore was quite a relief.

But Marie would begin to cry if she thought of this and as always her tears would be aggravated by a dull rage. And these tears would alleviate nothing, rather, they would produce a new chaos with which she would then have to contend.

She sat back against her pillow, the pleasure having drained away, the air of this narrow and darkly furnished room very still. And the dream in all its simplicity came back to her: she wandering in a strange house, Richard wandering in that same house, the two of them advancing across a vista of empty floors. That was all of it, really. Nothing brutal, nothing raw, and yet all was charged with that vanquishing pleasure that faded slowly afterwards as if of its own accord.

It was unpredictable. It might not visit her for a month and then it might come several nights in a row. She could interrupt the pleasure, however, were she to wake in time and sit up at once, slipping out of bed to stand on the floor. But often she didn't do this. This morning she didn't do it, and she felt a dreary anger against herself. No one had to tell her that, no matter whatever else was true of women, decent or indecent, this pleasure for an unmarried girl was a sin. And that it was merely a more brilliant and unhampered expression of the same pleasure she felt whenever she touched Richard, whenever she was near him, well that much was certain, too.

And Richard, had he begun to suspect? She ached for Richard now, positively ached for him, and she knew that had he been present at the moment she awakened, she would not have denied him anything for any reason in the world: not for guile, not for cunning, not for reputation, not for G.o.d. And she had the oppressive, near despairing fear that Richard in some wordless way had come to understand that she felt these blinding pa.s.sions and that because of them, he and she must not be alone. She was not the proper lady protecting her virtue and had not been for some time. Richard was protecting it, meeting her only at the little soirees which her aunts still gave for her, accompanying her without fail to Sunday Ma.s.s. He would not risk a moment of privacy with her, and she, often driven to distraction by the hum and chatter of senseless conversation in a room about them, could think of nothing else. But so be it, it was best.

Because the boy Richard whom she thought she loved a year ago was merely a gentle precursor of the man, Richard, whom she loved now. At one time, she had still been able to count their meetings, the little stolen tete-a-tetes at the soirees, the leisurely walks, Lisette following, from church. She had been able to summon to mind a dozen brilliant and subtle images of him which had marked the stages of her deepening love and savor them as one might Daguerreotypes and engravings memorizing every salient detail. But she had long lost count, for too much had pa.s.sed between them, too many times together, hushed voices telling of their day-to-day world, hers so neat and lackl.u.s.ter, his own so full of relentless demands. Life and death beyond themselves had brought them together, too, in other parlors where people wept and Richard, never shy or effusive with her, managed the mourning, the burying of the dead with a man's hand. It was after Zazu's death at the beginning of summer, however, that he had made his most indelible impression upon her, coming into the death room to take her quite by surprise. She'd been frightened then. She didn't know how to prepare the body for burial, and was praying that Zurlina would come to help her, that Marcel had not gone wandering away to leave this burden to her alone.

And then Richard had come through the door. "You go out now, Marie," he had said firmly as she floundered, "You leave this to me." All that night and the next day he had been there, directing the neighborhood cooks and maids up those steps, bending a patient ear to hear their soft eulogies, gathering the flowers they brought to be placed in water along the walls of that little room. There was no hint of intimacy even when he glanced at her, and yet no boy's awkwardness prevented him from telling her now and then she must sleep, take a gla.s.s of water, get in out of the heat. That wasn't Richard the boy of those first few dazzling encounters. No, it was the man for whom her admiration was as thorough as her love. She could not live without him.

And she would not live without him.

Be it an hour they might have together this week in her aunts' parlor, or five minutes s.n.a.t.c.hed from their random errands to meet at the gates of the Place d'Armes. Richard had become her life just as this tormenting pa.s.sion for him had become her life, and she would suffer it in silence, bury it, as she moved relentlessly toward a future which was Richard in which this pain would be dissolved. It was unthinkable that once they were united this pleasure could be wrong. And now a pure sense of his presence revisited her, nothing dreamlike, but the real Richard who would press her quite suddenly against him in the shadows near her front gate, his own body echoing that pa.s.sion, yearning for it even as he stepped back and away. No, if he sensed it, it could not divide them; it was not shame that prompted his care, but rather the goodness that had always been in him, he would wait as she would wait.

She had gotten up from bed. Without even realizing it, she had risen, had taken the washcloth from the stand, submerged it in the tepid water of the basin and brought it up to bathe her face. No refreshment there. August was too damp, too warm. And she had to go out into the street now before the midday heat became too wearying, she had to make her way home.

For a week she had been living in this room. Of course Tante Josette never came down from the country anymore, never needed it, and her aunts were only too glad to have her stay. More and more often her mother suggested it, never in words to Marie, only obliquely to Monsieur Philippe, the cottage is so warm, Monsieur, why, Marie might stay with her aunts. And off she would go for a night there, two days there, now this time a week. And Monsieur Philippe having been at the cottage for over a month showed no signs of going back to Bontemps Bontemps.

Of course she was grateful for the privacy. This narrow shadowy bedroom with only rare shafts of sun piercing the alleyway beside it, its darkly stained furniture, Tante Josette's desk, Tante Josette's books. It was remote from the little thoroughfare that was her boudoir at home. Yet there were times when she resented it as if it were exile. Her mother did not want her at home! What obdurate pride, she wondered, kept Cecile from sending her here with her aunts for good? It was not Monsieur Philippe who was forever asking for her, nor Marcel who would sense a rift at once. It was some ironclad, yet elusive persona persona of respectability that hovered at her mother's shoulder, keeping that dull contempt for her daughter in check. of respectability that hovered at her mother's shoulder, keeping that dull contempt for her daughter in check.

Again she put the washcloth into the water. Wringing it out tight she pressed it to her eyes. She needed clothes from the cottage, if Monsieur Philippe had been out at all, he would have some little gift for her and be sending for her, and she missed, positively missed Lisette. Since Zazu's death it seemed Lisette had been the perfect servant, sometimes even a little tender not only with her but with Marcel. And he as always took special pains to keep her content. It was Marcel naturally who had defended her earlier this summer from Monsieur Philippe's rage. He might have whipped her, he said, for leaving her mother's deathbed. Marie had been aghast. But Marcel had been as clever with him, it seemed, as ever Cecile had been, calming him with soft words, Lisette was being so good now, why she had a special dinner prepared for him and had worked all day to make it, would he, Monsieur, I beg you, give her just one more chance? And it was Marcel now that pleaded against Monsieur's latest and most ambitious domestic plan.

Yes, the household needed another servant, but he could not see bringing a strange slave woman in under this small roof, no, Lisette should train a nice healthy little girl. About twelve would be a good age, he stated one evening at supper, and Cecile could mold her as she chose. It seemed only Marie and Marcel saw the shadow pa.s.s over Lisette's face. "In a few years," Monsieur Philippe had been saying, "you'd have the finest lady's maid you could want, with all that Lisette could teach her, and in the meantime, well, Lisette would have another pair of hands. G.o.d knows it would be cheaper," but then he shuddered with distaste at his own word.

"But Monsieur, isn't it too much for her now?" Marcel had pressed him ever so gently. "Doesn't Lisette need a woman in the kitchen with her right away? To train a little girl, it would take so long." Softly, subtly, on other nights the subject would arise again while day after day there was no venture to the slave marts, no summons for the notary, Jacquemine. Monsieur Philippe drank bourbon at noon for breakfast, dropping his raw oysters deftly right into the gla.s.s. And Lisette, broom in hand, glared at him from beneath lowered lids in a flash of weary yellow eyes.

If I was there I could help her, Marie was thinking. She had always folded the linen, put the china away. No, even in the sedate comfort of Tante Josette's bedroom, she stood quietly at the washstand thinking of the cottage which for all the miserable hours she had spent there was still her home.

She was breathless as she rushed up the stairs. Anyone who ran through the streets at high noon in the month of August was a fool, and certainly, any young woman who had just celebrated her fifteenth birthday should not be running through the streets at all. But she had run all the way from the cottage to the dress shop, and she did not care. She stopped in the hallway of the flat to catch her breath, and to take Madame Suzette's letter out of her valise, and then sighing made her way to the parlor door. Tante Colette had been dozing by the window, the blinds loosely latched to keep out the sun while admitting the breeze. And Tante Louisa with the Parisian Sylphe des Salons Sylphe des Salons hovered over the table, a monocle held to her eye. "Ah, Marie, hovered over the table, a monocle held to her eye. "Ah, Marie, chere," chere," she murmured as if the words must be said softly so as not to dissipate the cooler air that hovered motionless in the shadowy room. "Have you been home?" she murmured as if the words must be said softly so as not to dissipate the cooler air that hovered motionless in the shadowy room. "Have you been home?"

"Tante," Marie kissed her breathlessly. She was seated quickly across from her as Tante Colette roused herself and peered, one hand shading her from a small burst of sunlight between shutters, at the distant mantel clock. "Don't read in that light, Lulu," she said. And to Marie, "Did you get all your things?"

"Yes, but you see, you see..." Marie started. Still she had not caught her breath, and there was so much to explain.

"And what is the matter with you?" Colette rose, rustling, as she came forward. She put her hand on Marie's head. "Mon Dieu." "Mon Dieu."

"Tante, it's a letter," Marie said. "From Madame Suzette."

"Well, who is the letter for, chere." chere." Colette took it, holding it quite far away so that she might read it, then clucking, she turned it toward the light. Colette took it, holding it quite far away so that she might read it, then clucking, she turned it toward the light.

"What did your Maman say, it's all right with her if you stay?" Louisa asked dreamily. She was turning the pages again.

"Yes, yes," Marie shook her head. Stuff and nonsense. It was always all right, but still they would always ask, "Did you ask your Maman, now are you sure that your Maman...?"

"Tante, Madame Suzette's asked us to coffee, all of us...this afternoon!" Marie said.

"This afternoon!" Louisa put down the monocle. She squinted at the clock. "This afternoon?" afternoon?"

"The invitation came last week," Marie shook her head again. "But there was no answer, the invitation must have been lost."

"Lost?" Louisa said. "Why it's twelve-thirty, ma chere ma chere, coffee this afternoon?"

Colette had taken the letter to the front window and held it to the thin bars of light. "Hmmmm, hmmmmp," she was saying. "And she just said to me after Ma.s.s Sunday, 'well I suppose I'll see you all on Tuesday afternoon,' and do you know I couldn't for the life of me figure what she meant, 'see you all Tuesday afternoon.'" She folded the letter. "What do you mean the invitation was lost!"

"But Tante, there's still time," Marie said. "It's not till three o'clock and..." Marie stopped. She was so hot now she was dizzy. She sat back abruptly causing the small Queen Anne chair to creak. She put her hands to her face. The weight of the chignon on the back of her head was painful and it seemed even her clothes were heavy, pulling her down with them. "Tante, I must write to her this minute, tell her that we'll be there, Jeanetta could take the letter now."

"Now just be patient, chere chere, just be patient," Louisa took the letter from Colette's hand.

"Lost indeed," Colette said. "Your Maman received that invitation, didn't she?"

Marie stared from one to the other of them. She started to speak and then stopped. Bending forward from the waist, she looked away from them down the long pa.s.sage from the parlor door. The shutters were open at the end of the pa.s.sage and the light forced her to close her eyes.

"It doesn't matter, does it?" she whispered, turning back to them. She was in pain.

"So what did she say!" Colette demanded.

Marie shook her head. Her shrug was subtle, not a consummate gesture. "She doesn't recall receiving it," she said, her voice faltering, weakening. She didn't want to speak of this, or even think of it. It wasn't important to her. "Ah..." she took a deep breath, "Monsieur Philippe received the letter this morning...Maman says...she cannot go."

"Hmmmmp, well that's understandable enough with Monsieur Philippe there," Colette conceded, "but not to answer that invitation, I bet she threw that invitation away."

"Doesn't matter, we'll just have to write to her and explain that we can't go now." Louisa said.

Marie was on her feet again. Red blotches appeared in her white cheeks. "Can't go? But we must go. She's expecting us, you said that Sunday...Sunday..." she looked at Colette. Her voice was unsteady, hoa.r.s.e from her running, but her eyes were imploring and rather strong. "Tante, don't you see?" she said. "She's invited us, all of us, formally to coffee..."

"Why, ma chere ma chere, of course I see," Louisa interrupted. "And so does your Tante Colette, but it's twelve-thirty-five by the clock and we can't..."

Marie put her hands to her temples as if she were hearing a discordant sound.

"Now you listen to me, Marie," Colette said quite simply. "This is just a little bit of a mess, here with your mother unable to go, and the invitation not properly answered, things like this have to be attended to in the proper time..." she stopped. "Well," she said suddenly, and looked from her sister to her niece.

"The point is," Louisa said, opening the journal again and lifting her monocle, "this is a certain sort of invitation, I mean, considering the visits you've had from young Richard..."

"But that's just it," Marie said softly. "That's exactly it."

"And it's just not proper that we rush into something like this, not with people who are so, well, formal, like the Lermontants..."

"Now you have to understand," Colette interrupted gravely, "when you let a boy visit you like that so often, walk with you to Ma.s.s every single Sunday and you don't pay even the slightest mind to anyone else..."

"But I understand!" Marie was gasping. "I knew that sooner or later she might ask us, I was...I was hoping..." She pressed her knuckles to her lips.

Both the aunts remained silent for a moment. They were looking at her, and a slight frown marred Colette's rather smooth forehead. She had her head just a little to one side. It was an air of skepticism and then drawing herself up she began again, "Now you just can't do something like this without thinking it over..."

"You're not saying you won't go!"

It was two o'clock before it ended. Marie sat numbly in her chair. For a long time she had said nothing, the early arguments had been easy to counter, that she must not be hasty, that there were so many fine boys, and Augustin Dumanoir was a planter's son, and she was so young, yes, again and again, she was so young. But some time or other in the room matters had changed. It was a tone of voice perhaps, something impatient in Colette's tone. Marie did not even know then but she had commenced to shake all over as she heard that voice altering, the words becoming slower, weighted with the necessity for truth. Marie had run her hands into her hair, palms pressed to her forehead. She did not believe it! But it was always Colette who would finally come to the point.