"...parties are good for a young girl, they give a young girl poise, why, there's nothing wrong with your receiving all the boys, as long as all the boys are invited, as long as..." And so on it went, until deeper and closer it came to the heart of the matter as the clock ticked, as the tiny golden hand moved from one to two.

Silence in the room except for the ticking. Colette was scratching at a note at the desk.

Louisa was trying to soften it, make it all seem rather matter-of-fact, "You see, even if you were to marry a colored boy, I mean if you were to make up your mind that that was what you wanted for yourself, and Michie Philippe was willing and your Maman was willing and...well, you see Augustin Dumanoir is a planter's son, chere chere, a planter's son, with land that goes on farther back from the river than the eye can see, and I'm not saying that Richard Lermontant won't make some nice girl a fine husband, why if you want to know the perfect truth, chere chere, I have always liked Richard Lermontant just about the best."

Colette put down the pen. She rose from the desk.

"Now I have taken care of this," she said gravely. "You musn't worry about things. I have known these old families all my life, I've known them on the Cane River and I've known them here. Madame Suzette will understand. Now do you want to take this down to Jeannetta, or shall I take it on down myself?"

"I'll take it," Louisa said rising. Marie had not moved. She was staring at the note. And she did not know it, but the drawn and grave expression of her face sobered and frightened her aunts. Louisa made a patient gesture of "let her be" and Colette made a little shake of the head.

"Chere, someday when you're older, and that will come awfully soon," Colette said, "you will thank me for this. I don't expect you to believe that, but I know it's a fact."

"Give me the note," Louisa said quickly.

But Marie reached out her hand.

"I'll take it," she said softly. And she rose from the chair.

"Well, then, now that's better," Tante Colette embraced her, kissed her on both cheeks.

"We're not saying you can't still see that boy...long as you see him with all the others..." Louisa had commenced again as Marie went out the door.

She was in the back of the shop for a full five minutes before Jeannetta down on her knees to pin up a hem for a white lady rose quickly to her beckoning finger.

"Is my new green muslin ready?" Marie whispered.

"Oh, yes, Mamzelle," the girl answered. The other seamstresses looked after her a bit resentfully, as she took Marie into the small dressing room opposite, "See, perfect, Mamzelle!"

Marie's eyes moved coldly over the ruffles. "Then help me dress quickly." she said. She had already crumpled the note into a ball.

She had never been in the house. She had pa.s.sed it a hundred times, it seemed, and never crossed that threshold and at times she had lain awake at night knowing her brother was there.

Her world was made up of flats and cottages, finely furnished always, but nothing of the grandeur of this immense facade rising three stories above the Rue St. Louis, a broad fan light above its paneled door. She did not stop to look at it now, to look up at the high attic windows, or the lace curtains that fluttered a bit carelessly from an upper room. Because if she did stop, she would be afraid.

And since she had left the shop, all fear had been obliterated in her by an anger so perfect in its clarity that it had impelled her on without pause for the slightest question of her course. Now she lifted her hand to pull the bell. Far off it rang, and clearer yet was the sound of a clock, an immense clock, ringing the hour of three. Her eyes fixed on the granite step before her. She refused to think a moment ahead. And when Placide, the old valet, opened the door for her, she did not know what words she murmured to him except that they were polite. A great stairway rose before her, winding its way up beyond a landing where a high window looked upon a lace of leaf and sky. And her eyes turned slowly, steadily, to follow the old man's back as he led her into a large room. Madame Suzette was there, she knew it before she lifted her eyes. Very slowly, timelessly it seemed, the room impressed itself on her. The low table before the marble fireplace set with cake, the china cups, and the lone woman rising to her feet, the pale creamy brown skin of her folded hands against her blue dress. And there was that face, serene, not beautiful perhaps, but pleasing with its large dark eyes, the long and generous Caucasian mouth, the gray streaks in the deep chestnut hair. There was anger in the eyes, just the touch of outrage, as they shifted uneasily to the figure of Marie in the door. The lips didn't move. The expression shifted subtly from one of anger to patience and then a deliberate and wary smile.

"So you've come, after all," the voice was courtesy.

"Madame, my aunts and my mother regret..." Marie started. "Madame, my aunts and my mother regret that they cannot come. I have...I have come alone."

The eyes were wide with wonder, the figure contained as if it would not make some hasty move. And then all at once it seemed, soundlessly and gracefully, the figure came toward her, the hands out slowly to take her by the shoulders, "Why, ma chere," ma chere," she said softly, hesitating, "I'm so glad, then, that you could come." she said softly, hesitating, "I'm so glad, then, that you could come."

It was never awkward which seemed a wonder afterwards. Madame Suzette had commenced at once to talk. Not once had she mentioned the aunts or Cecile, there were no questions, in fact, and it seemed rather that she could carry the afternoon's conversation with only the sparest of monosyllabic answers on her own. She had talked softly of the weather at first as people do, moving gently into all the proper little subjects, did Marie sew, and wasn't it a lovely dress? Had she left school altogether after her First Communion, well, perhaps that was just as well.

It seemed at some perfect interval they had risen, and begun to move about the house. It was easier then, easy to ask about the crystal on the sideboard, the dining table which had come from France. And the garden was so beautiful that Marie at once smiled. They had wandered up the stairs finally, talking softly of Jean Jacques who had made the small table in the upper hall.

"And this, ma chere ma chere, is my son's room." Madame Suzette threw open the double doors. Marie had felt such a strange pleasure to see it, to think suddenly, incoherently, yes, Richard's place. For one instant, she had been startled by the sight of the small Daguerreotype of herself by the bed. "You see," Madame Suzette had laughed lightly lifting it, "you are very much admired."

Her own bedroom was to the back of the house, and lovely perhaps, Marie was not sure. For no sooner had they entered it than Madame Suzette had taken her into a small adjacent room. This had been the nursery once, but it was the room where she worked now. Her voice had become grave then, simpler. She had begun to explain about the Benevolent Society and the work that they did. Some two dozen women they were from the old families and some new, she made a little shrug, but united for one purpose, one and all. And that was to see no colored child went hungry, no colored child went without shoes. Even the poorest young girls were to have pretty dresses for their First Communion and if there was a single elderly woman of this parish alone somewhere neglected in a room they must know about it at once. She didn't say these things with pride. She said them with absorption. She had been sewing on the Communion dresses already for next year. Her hands lifted the sheer netting which would be made into veils. Marie was looking at her now more intently, certainly more directly than before. Because Madame Suzette was no longer meeting her gaze and forcing it away from her without realizing it, and Marie could see her as if she were close and quite far at the same time. They had the responsibility now for some seventeen orphans, she was saying softly with the faintest touch of concern, and she wasn't sure they were all so well cared for, two in particular were very little to be working so hard in the homes where they were kept. "It's so important that they learn a means of livelihood," she was explaining, and then suddenly lost in her thoughts, she let a silence fall in the room.

Marie saw her perfectly against the shelves of folded white cloth, baskets, b.a.l.l.s of yarn, her tall and rounded form dully reflected in the immaculate floor. Sunlight poured through the thinly veiled windows, and she said almost to herself, "There is never an end to it really, it will take all that you can give."

Somewhere in the house a small clock chimed. And then came the grandfather clock below. Madame Suzette was staring at Marie, her eyes vague and wondering and utterly kind. Marie knew that Madame Suzette had moved toward her but it was so silent and swift, she realized only that Madame Suzette's lips had brushed her cheek. And suddenly Marie was trembling, lifting her hands to her eyes. No, this was unthinkable, this just couldn't happen to her now, not after all the day's struggles could she weaken at this moment and lose control.

But she was shaking violently, she couldn't even be silent, she could not, would not lift her eyes. She knew Madame Suzette was guiding her out of that small workroom and across the bedroom floor. Through her tears she saw the flowers of the carpet and their curling leaves that seemed to flow outward as if the room could not end.

"I am so sorry, so sorry..." she was whispering, "I am so sorry..." over and over again. It seemed warm words were spoken to her, sincere words that stroked her, but they stroked only the outside of her, and left the inside dark and tangled and miserable as the tears continued to flow.

And then a voice came, so low, she thought perhaps it was an illusion. A voice very deep and soft that said with the touch of a great warm hand on her wrist, "Marie!"

"It's Richard, ma chere ma chere..." his mother said softly.

And stupidly, blindly, ignoring the proper and generous woman at her side, she reached out, clutched him and buried her face in his neck. She could feel the soft rumble of his voice against her, the world be d.a.m.ned.

"Marie, Marie," he said almost as if speaking to a little child.

It had been half past four when she left, and the three of them, Richard, his mother, and she, had sat talking quietly as if nothing had happened, as if she had not, without explanation, commenced to cry. There had been fresh coffee, cake, and Richard arguing intimately with his mother that, indeed, if he were to take three spoons of sugar now he might as well throw his supper away. She had had time to collect herself, Madame Suzette holding her hand warmly, the sweet stream of conversation moving on.

At one point she had feared she must explain, how in that moment in the workroom when Madame Suzette was speaking of the orphans, she had felt a longing so immense and so desperate that her soul and her body had become one. But she couldn't explain this because she did not understand it herself. The Benevolent Societies were nothing new to her, she had heard of them for years, her aunts gave fabric for their sewing, her mother now and then gave old clothes, but perhaps her view of such things had been ironical, distant and trivializing, she was unsure. But one conviction struggled for articulation inside of her even should it never come out: never in her life had she felt such respect, such trust for another woman as she had felt then for Madame Suzette; never had she known a woman could have substance, simplicity, and vigor which all her life she had a.s.sociated entirely with men. And this it seemed amid the usual feminine trappings which for her had spelt vanity in the past, unendurable hours with the needle, making lace to grace the backs of chairs.

But they had expected nothing of her then, Richard and his mother, only that she sit quietly if indeed she wanted that, and raw as she was she would have known it had Madame Suzette's soft and dignified concern for her been not so perfectly pure. She was glad she had come! She was almost happy sitting with them in that large front room.

At last she had risen to go. Madame Suzette's embrace was tense, lingering as was her gaze when she looked into Marie's eyes. She would send her maid, Yvette, to see Marie home.

Richard had come out on the steps with her, however, refusing to let go of her hand. "I'll walk with you!" he said almost righteously.

"No!" she'd shaken her head at once. For one moment, Richard's eyes met her eyes and nothing more was said. "I love you" was spelt there with the understanding that she could not let herself be alone with him and he could not let himself be alone with her. Even in the crowded streets they would have found some place to kiss, to touch. Turning her head, she was gone.

All the afternoon was beautiful to her. The sun was mellow even in the high windows of the townhouses where it turned to solid gold. And then the rain commenced, lightly suffusing all with a cooler, sweeter air. Flowers bent their necks along the garden walls, tiny blossoms broke and fell, shuddering in her path. She was walking fast as always, but uplifted and no longer angry, no longer afraid. It was as if all the gloom that she had ever known was remote from her. It belonged with her aunts and with her mother in some other world.

The Lermontant house with its soft scents and polished surfaces seemed to descend upon her, surrounding her like a fragrance wafted on the breeze. She could feel Madame Suzette's arm about her shoulder, feel that hand which held hers to the very end. She could see Richard's eyes.

And not remembering the little maid, Yvette, who followed her faithfully to her gate in the Rue Ste. Anne, she went in without looking back and shut the parlor door. She would not see her aunts today. She would not answer their questions, and Monsieur Philippe would be here, a great and pleasant force between her and her mother. She need not speak to anyone, actually, she would settle at her dresser, she would pull the pins from her hair. And maybe, just maybe, the time had come for her to talk to Marcel. Maybe, just maybe, she would mount the steps of the garconniere garconniere later and knock at the door of his room. He would not betray her, he would never betray her, and maybe it was time, now, to tell him what she already knew, that she would marry Richard Lermontant. later and knock at the door of his room. He would not betray her, he would never betray her, and maybe it was time, now, to tell him what she already knew, that she would marry Richard Lermontant.

But the house was quiet, and Marcel, home early from the Merciers it seemed, sat at the dining table glaring at the floor.

She removed her white shawl. "What is it?" she whispered as she came forward. But he was scowling past her as if she weren't there.

"Lisette's in jail," he said. "Monsieur Philippe's gone to get her out."

For one moment the words did not register-"in jail."

"But why?" she gasped. "How?"

"Drunk, fighting somewhere in a cabaret," he murmured. Still he did not look at her.

"But she's been so good since Zazu died. Why, she hasn't been in any trouble at all."

Marcel was ruminating. His eyes danced back and forth and then slowly he began to speak again as if he himself could not quite comprehend his own words. "It seems they quarreled, she and Maman, over something stupid, small. And Maman tore off Lisette's gold earring...ripped it down...gashing open the flesh."

V.

IT WAS A h.e.l.l OF A MESS, wasn't it? Philippe drained the gla.s.s, drowsy but just beginning to feel himself again as he always did by noon, the early hours full of tremor, headache. He'd have a little gumbo in a while, perhaps, that is, if Lisette would stop crying and deign to fix it for him. He bit the tip off his cigar. "I said when you were grown!" he stabbed the air with his finger, "and you know the law as well as I do, that means when you're thirty years old."

She threw up her hands and as she turned for the match he saw that scar on the side of her face where the lobe of the ear had been cut away. "Pull this down," he said to her now more gently, attempting not to grimace at the sight of it, but he could not prevent himself from sucking in his breath. He reached for the red silk tignon tignon and brought it over the hideous little gnarl. Her eyes were watery, her face puffy. "Hmmmm," he shook his head. But it was her own fault, wasn't it, drunk, dirty in the Parish prison. For days after the ear had festered until finally Marcel had all but dragged her to the physician. She was burning with fever and so afraid. "Hmmmp," he shook his head. "Now, that's not so bad," he mumbled to himself as she put the match before him, as he drew in the smoke. "I mean I've seen lots of likely girls with one earring, the and brought it over the hideous little gnarl. Her eyes were watery, her face puffy. "Hmmmm," he shook his head. But it was her own fault, wasn't it, drunk, dirty in the Parish prison. For days after the ear had festered until finally Marcel had all but dragged her to the physician. She was burning with fever and so afraid. "Hmmmp," he shook his head. "Now, that's not so bad," he mumbled to himself as she put the match before him, as he drew in the smoke. "I mean I've seen lots of likely girls with one earring, the tignon tignon tied quite prettily over the other ear." Lisette didn't answer. She was pouring the bourbon in the gla.s.s. He didn't know he had said this to her a hundred times in the past month never recollecting having said it even once. The fact was he felt sorry for her, and the scar on the side of her face made him sick. He had always felt sorry for her, sorry for her since she was born. She had inherited nothing of Zazu's remarkable African beauty, and certainly no decent Caucasian looks from his blood. It was the worst of luck that copper skin, those yellow freckles, and now that dreadful little scar. tied quite prettily over the other ear." Lisette didn't answer. She was pouring the bourbon in the gla.s.s. He didn't know he had said this to her a hundred times in the past month never recollecting having said it even once. The fact was he felt sorry for her, and the scar on the side of her face made him sick. He had always felt sorry for her, sorry for her since she was born. She had inherited nothing of Zazu's remarkable African beauty, and certainly no decent Caucasian looks from his blood. It was the worst of luck that copper skin, those yellow freckles, and now that dreadful little scar.

"Come on now, come on," he crooned as he rested back on the pillows, his large soft hand beckoning for her. "You sit here by me." She settled almost shyly on the side of the bed, swiping roughly with her ap.r.o.n at her watering eyes. A h.e.l.l of a mess, to put it mildly, he thought, it wearied him attempting to keep all the disparate elements clear in his mind.

"Michie," she was saying with a sniffle. "I'll be an old woman when I'm thirty, Michie, I'm a young woman now."

She didn't begin to understand it. Three-fourths of the Parish police jury had to rule on it, and then only for meritorious service could she be emanc.i.p.ated unless he was to post some bond, some outrageous bond of a thousand dollars and she would have to leave the state. Lisette, meritorious service, Mon Dieu Mon Dieu.

"I can earn my own way," she was almost whining, "I can cook and clean, I can dress a lady's hair, I can earn my own way..." It was an awful sound.

"Earn your own way, now don't start that!" he said roughly, teeth on edge. He drank a swallow of the bourbon, it was smooth and perfectly delicious. He was just beginning to really want some good breakfast, some nice soup. He lowered his voice as he bent forward, he wouldn't have Marie or Cecile hear a word of this. "You and that Lola woman, that voodooienne, don't speak to me about earning your own way. Is that what you'll be up to if you're set free!"

"Michie," she shook her head frantically, the voice still that low whine. "I don't go there anymore, I swear it. Michie, I've been good, I've been taking care of everything, Michie, I don't even go out, I swear it."

Again he drained the gla.s.s. He couldn't bear it, that whining. He was waving at her coa.r.s.ely with his left hand. It was worse than some field hand begging not to be whipped, it disgusted him, he'd rather hear her banging pots and pans. And what did all this mean about meritorious service, Marcel had explained it but it wasn't clear. Meritorious service if she was under thirty and born in the state, then she wouldn't have to be deported, no bond. Meritorious service, Lisette? Fined and imprisoned for brawling in a public street?

"...I've tried to be good, good as gold," she was saying, "and Michie, it's four months now since my Maman died."

"Now don't start that again," he said. He couldn't even keep one thought straight and now she was changing her attack. "Your mother was born the same year I was born," he said with that didactic finger, "I didn't know she'd die before you were thirty, I didn't know she'd die when you were still a girl." Maybe all this foolishness about meritorious service was a formality, Jacquemine could take care of it, write it on the pet.i.tion, and he would sign it.

"But I'm not a girl, Michie," her teeth cut into that thick lower lip. Mon Dieu Mon Dieu, it wasn't her fault she'd been born so ugly, he looked away from her shaking his head. "Fill this gla.s.s." And suppose he would have to post some bond, where was Marcel, Marcel had all this straight, what was the bond, one thousand dollars, Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! And what would it cost him, a new serving girl? And what would it cost him, a new serving girl?

"Don't, chere chere, don't!" he said now as she sat there crying, tears squeezed from the large protuberant eyes. "Lisette, ma chere ma chere..." He hugged her shoulder, shook her lightly.

"Please, Michie," the voice was low and shuddering, "Michie, please let me go!"

Suddenly she rose. He had the full gla.s.s again to his lips and was for a moment confused to see her standing on the other side of the room.

But Cecile had just entered, with Marcel behind her, and had come to straighten the light coverlet on the bed.

"Ah, pet.i.t chou," pet.i.t chou," he reached up to stroke her face. he reached up to stroke her face.

"Monsieur, there's a message for you," she said.

"And you, brat, what are you doing home from school?"

Marcel glanced uneasily at his mother. "Monsieur Jacquemine sent a boy to school, Monsieur, asking that I please find you, that there is urgent business, and he requests..."

"Find me? Find me?" Philippe gave in to a wild laugh. "Lisette, soup!" he said now, the finger pointing straight at the tester. She moved silently, almost gratefully out of the room. "Why, I've been here for two months, what does he mean, find me!"

"Apparently, it's very important," Marcel shrugged lightly. Cecile was wiping Philippe's face. He slipped his arm about her waist. "He asks that you come to his office as soon as you can."

"Ah, that's impossible, not today," Philippe took another swallow of bourbon. Jacquemine, urgent business. Jacquemine could answer all these questions about the Parish police jury, and just might likely know the cost of a new maid. He couldn't have some black sloven about this place, no, it would make his pet.i.t chou pet.i.t chou, Cecile, miserable and frankly he could not endure soiled bodies and fumbling service himself. No, it would have to be a fancy girl, a thousand dollars at least, Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!

"But Monsieur," Cecile was saying gently. "If it's urgent business, Monsieur, perhaps if you were to have some dinner and then a little nap..."

"Oh, urgent business, urgent business, what could be urgent business!"

Cecile's eyes narrowed for an instant, considering. He did not see her turn quickly to look at Marcel. He threw the coverlet back and gestured for his blue robe. Marcel held it open for him, and Cecile tied the sash.

"I only meant, Monsieur, if it were urgent business perhaps it concerns the country, Monsieur..."

Lisette had just come in with the tray.

"You want to see me go back to the country, mon pet.i.t chou?" mon pet.i.t chou?"

"Ah, Monsieur, never!" she whispered slipping her hands under his arms, her head inclined to his chest.

"They don't need me in the country, ma chere," ma chere," he said moving with her into the dining room. "I a.s.sure you, he said moving with her into the dining room. "I a.s.sure you, Bontemps Bontemps has never been in more capable hands!" He made a great dramatic gesture as he pulled back the chair. The aroma of the hot gumbo, shrimp, spices, the green pepper, filled the room. "No, they don't need me and they won't see me until the harvest, urgent business, they can go to h.e.l.l." has never been in more capable hands!" He made a great dramatic gesture as he pulled back the chair. The aroma of the hot gumbo, shrimp, spices, the green pepper, filled the room. "No, they don't need me and they won't see me until the harvest, urgent business, they can go to h.e.l.l."

Cecile pulled the napkin from the ring and placed it in his lap.

"And you," Philippe said now, regarding Marcel who stood patiently at the door. "We talk tonight, you and me, all that about the Parish jury, do you think you'd show a particle of common sense when it comes to purchasing a decent slave?"

Marcel's face drained. He glanced at Lisette whose steady brown eyes were fixed on Philippe.

"Well...I...yes," Marcel swallowed. "I could...."

Philippe was studying him, then he laughed as he picked up his spoon. "Oh, never mind, my little scholar," he said, "I'll put this in Jacquemine's hands. If I have to see him, I will put it in his hands. Urgent business. He can straighten all this out...Mon Dieu, I guess it's time."

Marcel followed Lisette from the room. Cecile was talking softly. He should dress, rest a little before walking uptown.

"Well," Marcel said taking her arm. "He's going to do it! Now, when he goes to see Jacquemine."

"I'll believe it when I see it, when I have those papers in my hand," Lisette turned away from him. "What's all that urgent business about anyway?" she asked as she started across the yard.

Marcel murmured softly, "I don't know."

At half past two he helped his father with his boots. He was talking in a low voice, telling him that Lisette had been a good girl all summer, and she knew it wasn't going to be easy for her when she was free, but she'd work hard, she wouldn't come to him for anything and Monsieur Philippe nodded, his eyes gla.s.sy, as he ran the comb through his hair. "My coat," he gestured. Cecile had just brushed it. It was days since he had even gone out of the house. "Just a little white wine," he said now as he inspected the faint glimmer of a gold beard. Cecile had shaved him that morning and done it well.

"Monsieur," she said so sweetly, "no more wine now, hmmmm? The sun's so hot."

"Walk with me a ways," he gestured for Marcel. "Business in this heat. All business ought to be suspended until October, anybody with any sense is at the lake." But then he laughed and clasped Cecile again as he rose to go. "That is, anybody, but me."

He took his time in the Rue Royale, leaving Marcel long before he reached the Hotel St. Louis where he went to the long elaborate bar at once. The air was cool under the lofty ceiling, and though the day's auctions were over, he nevertheless found himself considering the block. Jacquemine could handle all that well, of course, and he himself disliked buying slaves, in fact he hated it, especially if some family were to be separated and there would be a piteous squalling child and a mother frantic, ah, it was too much. But what if Jacquemine made a mistake? Some haughty girl that would take on airs about serving a colored mistress, Mon Dieu Mon Dieu, that was all he would need, and Ti Ti Marcel, Marcel, Ti Ti Marcel haggling with a slave trader? The way he went on about Lisette he was more likely to buy some downtrodden creature out of pity than a good mulatto maid. Mulatto maid, now that was a luxury, she didn't have to be a mulatto, but then what would Cecile think, he had never stinted on anything with Cecile, Cecile had from him the best! But the price, it could d.a.m.n well be a thousand dollars in these times, couldn't it, and with that quick shift, a series of figures invaded his brain, bills for Marcel's fall coats, he'd have to come up with something when he freed Lisette, bond or no bond, she'd need a start somewhere, a few months rent before she'd find a position, and his son, Leon, had just written home for some enormous sum, he was buying Europe apparently, piece by piece. Cold beer, he had told the bartender and now it was gone. He gestured for another gla.s.s. Marcel haggling with a slave trader? The way he went on about Lisette he was more likely to buy some downtrodden creature out of pity than a good mulatto maid. Mulatto maid, now that was a luxury, she didn't have to be a mulatto, but then what would Cecile think, he had never stinted on anything with Cecile, Cecile had from him the best! But the price, it could d.a.m.n well be a thousand dollars in these times, couldn't it, and with that quick shift, a series of figures invaded his brain, bills for Marcel's fall coats, he'd have to come up with something when he freed Lisette, bond or no bond, she'd need a start somewhere, a few months rent before she'd find a position, and his son, Leon, had just written home for some enormous sum, he was buying Europe apparently, piece by piece. Cold beer, he had told the bartender and now it was gone. He gestured for another gla.s.s.

And those gowns for Marie again, and what exactly was that witch Colette up to, coming and whispering to him that Marie was getting herself into deep waters with a colored boy? What colored boy? While Marcel had come to see him one evening, played a hand of faro, and talked vaguely of a "good marriage" with one of "the old colored families." The matter of dowries, that was it, dowries, he had been calculating roughly these expenses, dowries, these old colored families, they were as fussy and proud as any white family, of course he'd have to see to that, his Marie would not be married without a dowry, but what in the world did Colette mean with all that foolishness about "some colored boy?" Didn't Colette and Marcel speak to each other, what was this about? He would certainly rather see his belle belle Marie married to some good upstanding colored planter or tradesman than...than...hmmm, take that Lermontant boy, for instance, that beautiful giant of a boy. Dowry, those Lermontants with their mansion in the Rue St. Louis, they'd want his eyeteeth. Marie married to some good upstanding colored planter or tradesman than...than...hmmm, take that Lermontant boy, for instance, that beautiful giant of a boy. Dowry, those Lermontants with their mansion in the Rue St. Louis, they'd want his eyeteeth.

It gave him a pleasant though minor sensation to envision Marie in a bride's white, and it crossed his mind swiftly as he downed the second beer-deliciously cold, he ordered a third-that she ought to be the child he sent abroad, really, it would make more sense. But in all probability it wouldn't save him a dime. In fact, the cost of Marcel's up and coming venture would be staggering, a pension pension in the Quartier Latin, his allowance, the proposed travel, and all those years at the Ecole Normale. Of course he approved of the Ecole Normale, whatever the Ecole Normale was! He laughed suddenly at the riotous thought of his son, Leon's face, should he ever discover the ident.i.ty of this in the Quartier Latin, his allowance, the proposed travel, and all those years at the Ecole Normale. Of course he approved of the Ecole Normale, whatever the Ecole Normale was! He laughed suddenly at the riotous thought of his son, Leon's face, should he ever discover the ident.i.ty of this pet.i.t pet.i.t scholar who could read four languages and was his father's...ah, well! Leon had all the education a planter could use. He drank the third beer down. But it was important Marcel come home four years from now with some means of supporting himself, at least in part, or there would be no end to all this in sight. Of course, he could set him up, some rental property, but he had mortgaged that property to pay for something, well, maybe Marcel could manage those properties for a reasonable commission, the question was, how to manage the formidable sum of four thousand dollars at the moment, or should it actually be five? scholar who could read four languages and was his father's...ah, well! Leon had all the education a planter could use. He drank the third beer down. But it was important Marcel come home four years from now with some means of supporting himself, at least in part, or there would be no end to all this in sight. Of course, he could set him up, some rental property, but he had mortgaged that property to pay for something, well, maybe Marcel could manage those properties for a reasonable commission, the question was, how to manage the formidable sum of four thousand dollars at the moment, or should it actually be five?