Oh, poor helpless little white Missie Marie with all that beautiful long hair. Poor, poor, little Missie Marie who had never been anything but unhappy all her life! "Let me just sit here with you, Lisette, Lisette, he has to come home!"

"What you need is a charm, Missie." Again the arm raised the gla.s.s. "Some powerful magic to make them leave you alone till your brother comes home, to make those white men look away from you." That little waist, that red mouth, Lisette let out a husky mean laugh.

"No, no, don't talk of all that, Lisette, let me stay here with you in the kitchen, I can't go into the house."

"Get a charm," Lisette murmured. You know how it will probably turn out, you won't steal anything from them, nothing, no poison in the food, and no little free n.i.g.g.e.r going into the bank with her own money and her own little house and some nice spiffed-up free n.i.g.g.e.r coming to call on you on Sundays, "Well, good afternoon, Miss Lisette, you mind if I just sit with you for a while on your step??????"

Stop it, stop dreaming. Those papers might just be here tomorrow and you are not, not going on that block!

A strange thought came to her. She was holding the gla.s.s in her hand.

It was a sensation at first, something she felt in the muscles of her face and in the roots of her hair. A strange relaxation very like the relaxation of getting drunk. She could feel the air on her face, and her mouth partially open as, concealed by the darkness, she was peering into it, at a possibility that had never occurred to her before. Was it like all the rest, would there come that little catch when she knew it was all make-believe? No. This was so easy, so simple, and so big, bigger than anything she'd ever imagined, she was struck dumb. Her mind tried to back off and say, no, you'd never do that, not you, Lisette. It wanted her head to fall to the side with the "no" on her lips as she looked away. But what if you did it! What if you do do it! And who can stop you, you can do it, you can do it now! it! And who can stop you, you can do it, you can do it now!

And suddenly it expanded in her vision; it blossomed from its first conception into something ripe and immense and evil, and splendid in its evil, splendid in all that it would do to all of them, that black shrew Cecile, that shrew Louisa, that shrew Colette, that knight in shining armor, that brother, who is not here! She let out her breath and drew it in deeply, it was magnificent, the like of which she had never never done.

"...don't believe in charms, please don't talk of charms, Lisette, just let me sit here with you..." Marie was crying, poor, poor little rich, white, beautiful Marie!

"Poor Missie," Lisette's eyes grew wide looking at the white ghost of the girl across from her. She ran her tongue along her lips. "But there are such charms. Just a little thing that can make them not want you anymore, they won't even look at you when you pa.s.s in the street, makes no difference what your aunts say, they can talk themselves sick to those fine gentlemen..." her voice trailed off. And she slid her legs off the cot. She felt her feet find the slippers, and rose in the darkness, moving toward Marie, there was that splendid evil before her, the chance of a lifetime, there was no doubt any longer. As she lifted Marie by the arm, it was done it was done.

V.

MARIE STOPPED AT THE MOUTH of the pa.s.sage, as for one second the silent glimmer of lightning showed the small peeling cottage in the slanting rain. She blinked in the darkness. Music pounded from within and behind the colored cloth that masked the windows, she could see figures dancing to the rhythm of the drums. "What is this place?" she whispered. of the pa.s.sage, as for one second the silent glimmer of lightning showed the small peeling cottage in the slanting rain. She blinked in the darkness. Music pounded from within and behind the colored cloth that masked the windows, she could see figures dancing to the rhythm of the drums. "What is this place?" she whispered.

"Come on, out of the rain." Lisette put her arm around Marie's shoulders and forced her forward into the alley. "We aren't going in there!" she said with contempt. "We're going to see Lola Dede in the back."

"But I don't believe it, how can it make men look away from me?" Marie stopped again.

"You leave that to Lola Dede," Lisette said, "you leave everything to Lola Dede and me!"

Someone in the little cottage was shouting and figures leaped against the red cloth on the windows, as Lisette pulled her back through the crunching sh.e.l.ls, under the wet branches of the fig trees toward the huge hulk of the house in back. Long galleries ran the length of the yard, two stories high with glowing windows against the falling rain, and a yellow door lay open from a townhouse whose facade opened on another street. A figure was standing in the door and it was to that figure now that Lisette and Marie ran.

"Let this girl sit down, Ma'ame Lola," Lisette said. They had come into a cluttered room. A bra.s.s bed stood against a row of lace curtains. A long altar there was crowded with statues of the saints. "Voodoo saints," Marie whispered. She pushed back against Lisette toward the door.

"You just rest yourself," Lisette said. "You don't have to stay here if you don't like it, you just let me talk to Ma'ame Lola."

A man was laughing somewhere, and there were steps on those galleries in back, and the music thudding from the little cottage beyond. Marie had been offered a chair. Scarves hung over it, a fringed shawl, but a black woman s.n.a.t.c.hed these away. And sitting, her hands smoothing the rain-spotted flounces of her skirts, she looked up to see some shadowy figure beyond a thin veil of beads at the door. It seemed a man with a top hat was talking to another man there, but then this brown-skinned woman in a brilliant red silk dress drew a tapestried curtain over that door. "Lisette, I want to go!" Marie said.

"Now, bebe bebe, why you want to go and leave us on a night like this when you only just came in?" said this brown-skinned woman, her long dark tendrils of hair winding down her back beneath her flowered tignon tignon. Her voice was like a song.

"This is my mistress, Ma'ame Lola, Marie Ste. Marie," Lisette said.

"Oh, I know who this girl is," sang the brown-skinned woman. "Now Lisette, gal, get your mistress some tea. You talk to me, pretty girl!" The brown-skinned woman dropped onto a piano stool in front of Marie and clasped Marie's hands in her own. "Child of grace," she said, and reached out to touch Marie's cheek. Marie drew back, and looked at the hands that were holding hers, the small serpent ring that wound about the woman's finger so that she pulled away. This was a mistake, all of it, a dreadful mistake!

"Now what this girl needs is a charm, Ma'ame Lola, you know what her Maman and her aunts want her to do, they want those white men to fix her up, they want those white men quarreling over her at the Salle d'Orleans, at the b.a.l.l.s."

"Lisette, I want to go," Marie said in a timid whisper. She tried to pull her hands loose, but the woman, Lola, held them fast. She was a pretty woman, she had perfect teeth. Again she lifted a hand to brush Marie's cheek. She brushed Marie's hair back from her face. "Don't you like those fancy gentlemen, precious bebe?" bebe?" she asked. But something had distracted Marie. It was a statue of the Virgin on that altar, complete with blue veil and white gown, and the hands outstretched lovingly and around it was wound the dead skin of a snake. Marie gasped, and Lola Dede was taken by surprise when Marie jerked loose and stood up. she asked. But something had distracted Marie. It was a statue of the Virgin on that altar, complete with blue veil and white gown, and the hands outstretched lovingly and around it was wound the dead skin of a snake. Marie gasped, and Lola Dede was taken by surprise when Marie jerked loose and stood up.

"Now why you want to go and make a fool of me in front of my friends," Lisette whispered. She had her arm around Marie's waist. "It isn't going to do any good for you to go home now. Your aunts are probably there by this time, and then it will be the three of them on you, you best stay with me. Now sit down, you just sit down and wait now while I talk to Ma'ame Lola, you hear me? Sit down!"

Madame Lola had shut the door to the yard. "Cold wind," she sang out, "cold wind, you and this girl like to caught your death."

And Marie turning saw the two women's heads together as Lisette whispered in the woman's ear. "Get that girl some hot brandy with her tea," sang Ma'ame Lola's voice and a black woman who had s.n.a.t.c.hed the scarves from the chair set them down now and returned, the ivory white of her eye growing huge in her head. Madame Lola took the cup from the black girl as soon as it was poured and taking a brown bottle from the marble dresser by the bed tilted it into the tea. A piano began above. Marie looked at the ceiling, at the faded paper with its wreath of painted roses about the chain that held the candles in the bra.s.s chandelier.

"Don't you be rude now!" Lisette scowled with the cup in her hands. "You drink this now, you be polite to my friends!" Marie could smell the brandy wafting up with the steam and meant to turn her head when Lisette raised it to her lips.

"You let me cool that for that girl," said Madame Lola, "you let me put a little sweetness in it," and taking the cup she poured a dark syrup into it and gave it back. It smelt strange but good. Marie let her eyes close just for an instant feeling the steam on her face. Her hands and feet were cold and she was wet all over from the rain which had soaked through the shoulders of her dress and run down her bodice and her back. She sighed, exasperated, weary, and took the smallest drink of the tea. "I want to go," she whispered to Lisette. Lisette glowered at her. "You drink that first!" came the intimate whisper. "What you want to do, shame me in front of my friends! Drink it, I told you, then we can go!"

"Drink it, pretty child," said Ma'ame Lola, "drink it down." And then with a smile, she lounged back against the high bra.s.s footboard of the bed and drank her own tea from a broken cup.

It was good, the taste, laced with peppermint perhaps, Marie was not sure. She stared at the murky substance in the bottle and saw the little spout of the teapot in front of her and the pouring liquid stirring the sediment again as the cup grew heavy in her hands. Her ears began to ring with the pain that had been in her head all the long afternoon. Lisette was talking in a low rapid voice about a charm, a charm to take away her charms. "And those charms," Madame Lola said, "such charms as those charms, you can't kill those charms without a powerful charm." The cup had almost slipped from Marie's hands! The black woman gave it to her again, and Madame Lola sang out, "Yes, drink that, cherie cherie, precious cherie," cherie," and this time the tea burnt her mouth but strangely enough this burning was outside of her and she almost liked the sensation of this in her chest. She rested back against the chair and stared forward at the flowers on the wall. The flowers danced-on the wall, thousands and thousands of tiny roses marched upward at long angles toward the ceiling and there it seemed a yellow smoke gathered, a smoke that she had not seen before. It wound itself about the candles in wreaths and was alive but dissipating rapidly into the shimmering air. And just below the candles as it vanished in an ever-thinning haze were the two women, Lisette and Madame Lola, with their heads together again, each tilted toward the other, Lisette's b.r.e.a.s.t.s almost touching this woman's b.r.e.a.s.t.s and their skirts descending in long flowing lines. Little paisley tails of gold wound in and out on the red silk of Madame Lola's skirts, had Marie even seen these before? She wanted to remark that she had not even seen them, seen only the redness, but she had the most curious sensation of not being able to open her lips. And the two women had become perfectly flat. and this time the tea burnt her mouth but strangely enough this burning was outside of her and she almost liked the sensation of this in her chest. She rested back against the chair and stared forward at the flowers on the wall. The flowers danced-on the wall, thousands and thousands of tiny roses marched upward at long angles toward the ceiling and there it seemed a yellow smoke gathered, a smoke that she had not seen before. It wound itself about the candles in wreaths and was alive but dissipating rapidly into the shimmering air. And just below the candles as it vanished in an ever-thinning haze were the two women, Lisette and Madame Lola, with their heads together again, each tilted toward the other, Lisette's b.r.e.a.s.t.s almost touching this woman's b.r.e.a.s.t.s and their skirts descending in long flowing lines. Little paisley tails of gold wound in and out on the red silk of Madame Lola's skirts, had Marie even seen these before? She wanted to remark that she had not even seen them, seen only the redness, but she had the most curious sensation of not being able to open her lips. And the two women had become perfectly flat.

They were perfectly flat. They could have been cut from cardboard and placed there together, or no, rather cut from the same piece as nothing showed of the room behind them where they were joined, Madame Lola's dark hair filling the gap between the flesh of their cheeks. And they had been standing there for the longest time perfectly, perfectly still. And Marie had been sitting here watching them. She had been sitting forever here, her back against the chair, her head thrown to one side, her hair trailing down on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Slowly, ever so slowly she shifted her gaze down and saw the teacup lying on the floor. Tea ran out over the cypress boards, tea ran in rivulets into the cracks between the boards and tea had stained her taffeta dress, tea had burned her hands. Lisette's voice was a rumble, urgent, argumentative, then soft, and right before Marie's eyes the cardboard cutout of the two women was broken and Ma'ame Lola bending now to the open drawer of her chest drew out dollar bills. One of these bills fell to the floor. That tapestry was drawn back, and the black woman had gone out. But then again it seemed the tapestry had not been drawn back because it was perfectly in place, and Madame Lola was facing her, leaning against the bra.s.s bars of her bed again, smiling at her, and Lisette was gone.

Lisette, Marie thought, Lisette, and she brought her tongue up between her teeth. She could feel the first syllable forming and then it came out of her in a long, never-ending hiss.

"You best drink some more tea, gal," Madame Lola's face was right in front of hers suddenly. And the most magical thing had happened. The tea was all back in the cup again, and the cup was in her hands. Marie wanted to say, I cannot do it, I cannot even move my lips, but the tea was in her mouth and Madame Lola's hand did the most intimate and slightly repulsive thing of touching her on the throat.

When she looked down, afraid of vomiting the tea, she had drunk it and Madame Lola's hand was on her breast. This was quite out of the question, unb.u.t.toning her dress for her, she did not wish to stay here, she did not wish to be lifted out of the chair like this, and suddenly she opened her mouth wide to scream but her mouth didn't open. It was as if the scream rolled up and filled her mouth, pressing against the teeth, she saw her naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s when she looked down and the opened b.u.t.tons of her white chemise. Her dress was on a chair across the room.

Sometime during the long night Marie was awake and knew exactly what had happened.

There were five white men, gentlemen all of them with their stinking breath and their stinking pomade, this big one with the black whiskers digging his knee against the inside of her thigh, his thumbs pressed down into the flesh under her raised arms so that she arched her body, that scream rising against to suffocate her, a stream of vomit rolling up with it that leapt out in silence to make peaks on the walls. They didn't bother to take off their clothes.

The young one with the blond hair wept in his wine until the tall one threw the wine in his face, and he sat there, long arms hung between his sprawling knees, the tears and the wine dripping from his swollen face, little whines coming out of him. The man beside her on his elbow said, "Now you're not going to try to hit me now, no, you don't want to do that," and untied her hands. Darkness. Only to awaken to that room again. And again. And again.

Until in darkness, she heard the morning sounds.

Sun shone on the mud-streaked floor, and the rain teeming on the sh.e.l.l yard became a glare as it hit the puddles in the sun. Not one particle of this had been imagined, it was all true. And the blond-haired man, drunk, blubbering, listed still in the chair with his wine-soaked cravat, his opera cape with its white satin lining hanging down so far it was caught under the leg of the chair. He tilted his head to one side, crying, murmuring, crying. Everyone else was gone. Except that singsong voice that sang to him, "You go home now, Michie DeLande, you just go on home now, Michie, you got to get some sleep now, Michie, party's over now, Michie," while he sat there, head to one side, whining and murmuring, and sobbing with a sudden shift of his shoulders, the snot and the spit on his lips and his face.

Marie watched that woman moving about the room. She watched her emptying the whiskey from the gla.s.ses into a brown bottle, she saw her pitch the b.u.t.ts of the cigars out the open door. She saw her nudge the drunken man again and to her surprise the drunken man did not get out of the chair. His gray red-rimmed eyes were still fixed on Marie, and his mouth shuddered, thick and the color of salmon, with his whimpering cries. "You go home now, Michie, you best get out of here, your brother's going to come looking for you, Michie, party's over." So that was it, he was not a man, he was a boy.

Ever so slowly Marie moved her left hand. She lay with her head twisted so that her neck ached, but she did not move her head, her eyes following the woman, she merely lifted, slowly, her left hand. She could feel the strap of her chemise and moved it up ever so slowly to her shoulder. She could feel the other strap and moved it ever so slowly up over her shoulder and let her hand drop then as the woman turned, "Michie, now you got to get out of here, Elsa get that boy to take this man out of here, Elsa?" Ever so slowly, Marie's hand tugged at the white muslin until the b.u.t.ton loop closed over the b.u.t.ton, it would have been infinitely easier with her right hand, but her right hand was twisted upside down under the bar, and she could not move it without turning over, so she just kept on working with her left hand. One b.u.t.ton. Two b.u.t.tons, three b.u.t.tons, four. She could see her naked knee against the wall, and the thigh black with bruises and the smears of blood. With her left hand, she slid the muslin down. There was blood over it, it was impossible to get out of here like this. She stared at the blond-haired man.

But Madame Lola had seen her eyes. "You just lie back, girl," she was saying in that singsong voice, and had snapped her fingers. Another woman had come into the room. There was the sound of a rag being squeezed through water, and beside Marie there was a bottle of green gla.s.s with a long narrow neck. If she reached out quick with her left hand...But now this woman had touched her right wrist and was turning her hand painfully under the bra.s.s bar and had it free. It was absolutely essential to act before they got rid of that man.

Her head nearly pitched to the floor when she turned over but she had that bottle and it took two slams at the corner of the marble to break it. She was sitting up with it, and staring at the voodooienne for the first time.

"Now why you want to go and do that now, cherie cherie," said Madame Lola. "Now why you don't want to lie still now?" She came forward motioning to that other woman who was wringing the rag in the water, "You put that down, cherie cherie, you got to have a nice bath now, you got to rest."

"Don't you hurt her!" The drunken man blurted out. But he could not stand. He had put his hand on the back of the chair and nearly fallen just as the woman with the rag had reached out and Marie sc.r.a.ped the broken bottle down the length of her arm. Both women stood still. "Don't you hurt her!" he was roaring, trying to get up on his feet, his opera cape dragging on the muddy floor.

"You get out of here, Michie!" Madame Lola growled at him over her shoulder. "You're in bad trouble, Michie, now you want to make it worse, you just stay, this ain't no n.i.g.g.e.r girl, this is a white girl..." Perfectly stupid, the man didn't hear a word she was saying. But that other woman had run out of the room. It was absolutely essential to get up before that woman brought someone else back.

And Marie sprang off the bed and rushing past Madame Lola with the bottle clenched in her right hand, got behind the white man, her left fingers digging right through his coat.

"You leave her alone!" he said at once, and reached back behind himself to hold onto her. She pulled him toward the door, his big stumbling feet crushing down on her toes; no time to think about that, she felt herself back suddenly into the cold downpour of the rain.

She grabbed the cloak off his neck nearly pulling him over and he helped to put it on her shoulders now, the hem of her chemise and the hem of the cape disappearing into the great sheet of water that was spreading out endlessly in the alleyway and in the yard.

"Now, you come back here, girl." Madame Lola put a hand up against the rain, eyes squinting, "Where you think you're going, girl? You belong with us, girl, your Maman don't want you now, you belong with us, now you come back in here, girl, you got to have a nice bath and lie down."

Marie was stepping backwards through the water, the sh.e.l.ls cutting into her feet, the big c.u.mbersome drunken man soft and stumbling as he backed away with her, his hand fluttering behind him trying to catch hold of her as reaching under his coat, she dug her fingernails into his side right through the linen of his shirt.

"Animals, animals!" he bawled at the advancing woman. They had reached the street.

The water spread in all directions obliterating the banquettes, streaming from the gutters along the galleries, flooding down the dirty plaster of the houses, shooting off the ends of the sloping roofs. Figures stood behind the half-opened doors, men cl.u.s.tered under the eaves of the little grocery, and someone had come out splashing in the rain, and at the edge of the wall the woman stopped.

Marie could see the dark folds of the cape coming together as slowly she let down the bottle, and let go of the drunken man. She held the cape together from the inside and squinting at the buildings around her, the rain blinding her, felt that scream rising again in her throat like a convulsion until again it curled against the roof of her mouth as she had to reach out again, get hold of that man's shoulder or fall down. He was babbling foolishness that he would protect her while her eyes moved back and forth from one side of the street to the other and at last she knew where she was, this was the Rue St. Peter at Rampart, she knew where she was, and how to get home.

She saw him fall as she ran, splashing through the water toward the alleyway that would lead her to the bracken at the middle of the block. He was trying to get to his feet, but seeing that great ma.s.s of snarled vines and trees ahead of her, she ran.

And it was from that bracken behind the Ste. Marie cottage, that she finally emerged to limp across the courtyard toward the back door.

She saw the bed first. She did not see her mother but then she knew her mother was there, and that her mother was screaming and Tante Louisa was telling her to wait, to be still. "I know it's her, it's her, it's her..." her mother was saying, but her mother did not know she was in the house, did not know the she was holding on to the post of the bed and falling forward toward the white spread.

Then again she heard her mother scream. When she turned it seemed they were at a great remove from her, her mother screaming and Tante Louisa with her arm around her mother's waist. Tante Louisa was lifting her mother right off the floor. And then her mother got free and tore at the b.l.o.o.d.y chemise with both her hands. Marie felt her mouth open, she felt it open and the scream inside filled it silently so that she couldn't breathe.

"RUINED, RUINED!" Cecile roared, "RUINED, RUINED," it seemed the roar was filling the room and Marie reached to cover up her ears. "RUINED, RUINED," her mother bellowed, and rising again and again in Tante Louisa's arms brought her feet down with a clonk against the floor. Marie was gasping, choking, at her effort to scream, her eyes growing wider and wider, her mother's face convulsed and swollen as suddenly her hand flew out and caught Marie on the side of the face. Marie clutched at the neck of the broken bottle only to realize that she had lost the broken bottle, her hand was empty, her mother's hand struck her again and her forehead hit the heavy post of the bed. She had dropped the bottle in the street. "RUINED, RUINED," came that bellow again and again until it was one great insensate roar through her mother's clenched teeth in time with the blows that struck Marie until Marie reeled again and grabbed for the far post of the bed with both hands.

"Stop it, Cecile, stop it, stop it!" Tante Louisa was grabbing at her mother, but her mother lunged forward, and when she lunged forward, Marie was ready this time. That scream was throbbing DON'T YOU TOUCH ME, DON'T YOU HIT ME, DON'T YOU SAY THAT TO ME RUINED RUINED DON'T YOU COME NEAR ME all the while not a syllable of sound was pa.s.sing her lips, as she swung her hand right against her mother's face and felt her mother's teeth cut the flesh. She saw her mother's head jerked around and up as if it were going to be broken right off her body, DON'T YOU HIT ME, DON'T YOU HIT ME, DON'T YOU SAY THAT TO ME RUINED RUINED. And her fingers got her mother's hair, dug right down to the scalp and rushing forward she banged that head into the wall. Again and again she banged it, her mother's eyes were rolling, and with her right hand she slapped that swollen cheek, that shoulder, DON'T YOU HIT ME, DON'T YOU HIT ME, d.a.m.n YOU, d.a.m.n YOU, d.a.m.n YOU, d.a.m.n YOU. And when her fingers were rigid, the strength of her mother's hair tangled around her fingers was not enough and tore loose as her mother slid free down the wall to the floor. She let Tante Louisa have the back of her hand and Tante Louise broke the kerosene lamp with her elbow as she toppled over and crouched down behind the dresser, whimpering, on her knees.

She wanted to kick her mother. But she did not have on her shoes. Shoes. Put on shoes. Everyone was perfectly still. And someone was beating at the front door. All the blinds of the house rattled, someone was beating with both fists. Marie turned around. She had to put on her shoes, and backing toward the bed, felt beneath the dust ruffle for those old slippers. She got down on her knees and pulled them out. She ripped her dress off the hook and tore the sleeve as she pulled it over her arm. This was foolish, smoothing it down like this, but she could not stop her hands from smoothing it over the b.l.o.o.d.y chemise and had to grab one hand with the other and make them deal with the b.u.t.tons, that scream coming out only as an awful muted syllable, an animal sound that wasn't even a sound, as she tried to breathe.

She was clutching her shoulders with her hands, arms crossed over her bosom, the b.u.t.tons half undone, the silk transparent and clinging to her arms with the heavy cold rain when she stumbled, her foot cut and bleeding, into Dolly Rose's yard.

Everyone was on the galleries, women all over the gallery of the back of the house and the gallery of the quarters, women in peignoirs and dressing gowns, and black women and no Dolly. And then she saw Dolly gripping the iron railing with both hands. Dolly shoved the women and ran along the gallery and Marie reached up as she put her foot on the stairs, her legs vibrating and weak under her as she attempted to mount the steps. She reached out, that single muted syllable, that grunting sound coming from behind her closed lips. "Hm, hm, hm, hm," as she reached up for Dolly Rose who was crying, "O my G.o.d, my G.o.d, my G.o.d!" She could explain this if she could only get her mouth open, RUINED, RUINED, she reached out for Dolly Rose, Dolly Rose had to understand, but she could not get her mouth open, and as she reached out for Dolly Rose, her hands went up instead to her own mouth, trying to get it open, Dolly Rose had to take her, RUINED, RUINED, it was not possible that those women who had done this, RUINED, RUINED, Dolly Rose had to take her in with her women, RUINED, RUINED, she felt Dolly lifting her by the elbows, saying, "O my G.o.d, O my G.o.d, go get Christophe, O my G.o.d," tears streaming down Dolly's face as she lifted her and someone else lifted her, carrying her under the painted roof of the gallery on running feet, under the papered ceiling of this room.

She rose up on the bed. Dolly Rose tried to push her back down, that same sound, "Hm, hm, hm, hm," until suddenly, suddenly, rising up again, she felt her lips parting, she felt her teeth opening, she felt the scream escaping, the giant curling scream coming out of her throat and out of her mouth. It poured out of her, deafening her, blinding her, rising in one great loop after another until she fell back, the scream throbbing and soaring to fill the room, to fill the yard, to fill the world.

PART TWO.

I.

MARCEL HADN'T EXPECTED anyone really, how would they know when he would come in? But there was Bubbles, moving swiftly toward him through the crowd. "I have a cab for you, Michie," he said, and quickly heaved the heavy trunk up on his back. "You come with me to Michie Christophe." anyone really, how would they know when he would come in? But there was Bubbles, moving swiftly toward him through the crowd. "I have a cab for you, Michie," he said, and quickly heaved the heavy trunk up on his back. "You come with me to Michie Christophe."

"I should go home first..." he said.

"No, Michie, you come with me to Michie Christophe." The slave was insistent, his usual feline grace strained by a certain urgency. Marcel could hear him giving the driver Christophe's number in the Rue Dauphine.

And as soon as they reached the townhouse, Marcel saw Christophe at the top of the stairs.

"I couldn't get here any sooner," Marcel said, hurrying upward. "The day your letter arrived there was one also from my mother saying I must not come home. I had a devil of a time convincing my aunt that you wouldn't have written without a reason..."

Christophe was walking away from him toward his room. He gestured for Marcel to enter.

"But what is the reason?" Marcel was studying the impa.s.sive face.

Christophe took his key ring out of his pocket, and without answering he locked the door to the hall. Then he put the key ring back into his pocket and before Marcel could question this, he said, "I want you to promise me that when I'm finished you will not try to do anything without my knowledge or permission. You understand? Your friend Richard is locked in his grandfather's bedroom in the attic of the Lermontant house and for two days he has been trying to get out. Rudolphe and Antoine haven't left the house, and they have left off trying to reason with him and they merely watch the door. I don't want to go through that with you. I want you to do exactly as I say. Is that clear?"

Marcel moved slowly to the desk. He sat in Christophe's chair. He started to speak, but then said nothing. He tried to read Christophe's expression and could not, and he realized he was experiencing the very unpleasant sensation of fear.

"Two days ago," Christophe began, "in the house of that voodooienne, Lola Dede, your sister was a.s.saulted by five white men. They paid for the privilege, and your sister was drugged and forced. She's alive. And she's sustained no serious injury and she's with Dolly Rose.

"How and why she got into the hands of Lola Dede is a mystery but all points to the fact that Lisette took her there. She was seen leaving home with Lisette that night and Lisette has disappeared.

"Now, yesterday, Vincent Dazincourt had that house raided by the police and shut down. And yesterday, Dazincourt also shot and killed young Alcee LeMaitre who was apparently the leader of the five men. He called him out right at his plantation, and settled the affair on the bayou some five miles away. At three o'clock this afternoon, he shot and killed Charles Dupre who was also among the five, calling him out in the bar at the St. Louis Hotel and threatening to kill him on the spot if he didn't defend himself. Two of the other men, D'Arcy Fontaine and Randolphe Prevost have both disappeared. The families are letting it out they were called away on business; the rumor is they are already at sea, bound for France. And the fifth and last of the group, a boy of nineteen named Henri DeLande will meet Dazincourt at six o'clock tomorrow morning before the Metairie Oaks. The DeLande family is trying everything in its power to stop the duel, but the husbands of Dazincourt's sisters will not intervene. All of these men have claimed of course that they did not know who your sister was, that they didn't know she was Philippe Feronnaire's daughter, or that they were seduced. The former is true, the latter's a d.a.m.nable lie. Your sister is black and blue with bruises, her wrist broken, her lip split. DeLande claims he had no part in it, and that he helped your sister escape. This may or may not be true, no one knows.

"But the morning after it happened, with or without the n.o.ble Monsieur DeLande, your sister wandered back to the cottage alone. Your mother and your aunt had already heard the tale, everyone had heard it, it was flying over the back fences even before your sister got away. So they knew what had happened when your sister came into the house. A battle of sorts ensued and a crowd gathered outside. But when I got there your sister was gone. Your mother was badly hurt, and your aunts told me that your sister tried to kill her, but when the truth was got out a little further, it was your mother who attacked your sister, beating her until your sister fought back. She stopped long enough then to get a dress and shoes and went to Dolly Rose. Dolly won't let me see her, she won't let anyone see her, your sister has tried repeatedly to destroy herself, but Dolly is keeping a good watch on her, she's caring for her. Your sister is safe."

He watched Marcel's face, and Marcel staring up at him registered no expression at all.

"Now, there's nothing you can do against the men who did this," Christophe went on, "two are dead and a third is going to die, or kill Dazincourt, at dawn. The others are out of the country for sure. You have got to leave this in Dazincourt's hands. But I want your word you will attempt nothing on your own. You know as well as I do that there's nothing you can do."

Marcel did not answer immediately. He had risen and was standing with his back to the desk, his face utterly blank. His eyes were fixed on the s.p.a.ce before him, and when he spoke his voice was reasonable and low.

"Did my sister know what was happening to her?" he asked. "You said she was drugged, did she know?"

"Yes," Christophe said. "She has described it to Dolly Rose."

Again Marcel appeared to reflect. And the changes in him were so gradual, so slight that at first Christophe didn't perceive them-the closing of the fists, the mouth shuddering, and then though the mouth was closed, Christophe heard the low roar. It grew louder and louder, Marcel turning his back to Christophe. And Christophe took hold of him by the arms.

Felix came in quietly, having pushed the door to without a sound. Vincent sat at the desk writing, the thin curtains drawn over the Rue Royale. His pistols lay before him in their satin-lined case. He had cleaned them, loaded them, checked them, and put them there where he could see them, as dipping his pen, he commenced again to write. A single sheet of paper lay on the desk. The words, "Dear Aglae" were inscribed carefully with purple ink.

"Not now," Vincent said softly as he looked up into Felix's eyes. The slave's face was worn, furrowed, his shoulders stooped.

"It's the boy to see you, Michie Vince," the slave persisted, the loose mouth letting the words go slowly, "Michie's boy."

Vincent did not move. For four hours he had been sitting at this desk, the pen in his hand. His lips barely parted as he whispered, "Michie's boy?"

But the slave had opened the door. And "Michie's boy" had pa.s.sed silently into the vivid colors of this room. He wore a greatcoat speckled with rain, the mud had been hastily wiped from his boots. He came forward with measured steps to the desk.

Twice before, Vincent had seen him. Glimpses when his mind was set on other men. But in the wintry light from the windows, the boy was revealed to him entirely, an extraordinary sang-mele sang-mele beauty of honey skin, ashen hair, blue eyes. Eyes bluer than Philippe's had ever been, and altogether penetrating, sharp. The young man was tall, fine of feature, with a face that evinced breeding, grace. Vincent's mind produced for him an image simultaneously of the boy's sister, that striking and coldly beautiful girl who had spoken so politely, so bloodlessly of Philippe's death. The mere thought of her conjured the horror of Lola Dede's house, the sneering humor in Alcee LeMaitre's face before he raised the pistol to shoot. A slumbering rage awakened in Vincent, whispering to him, I am here, I have been here all the time, I shall be with you in the morning, I shall steady your hand. And his thoughts, proceeding slowly, ever so slowly in the great clarity produced by eminent danger moved on: this brother and sister were wildly unlike each other, and yet very much the same, they had the demeanor of that dark ladylike woman who was their mother, that haughtiness that reminded him of men and women he had known in Paris, aristocrats for generations who bereft of all wealth and t.i.tle by recurrent revolution nevertheless commanded subservience all around. beauty of honey skin, ashen hair, blue eyes. Eyes bluer than Philippe's had ever been, and altogether penetrating, sharp. The young man was tall, fine of feature, with a face that evinced breeding, grace. Vincent's mind produced for him an image simultaneously of the boy's sister, that striking and coldly beautiful girl who had spoken so politely, so bloodlessly of Philippe's death. The mere thought of her conjured the horror of Lola Dede's house, the sneering humor in Alcee LeMaitre's face before he raised the pistol to shoot. A slumbering rage awakened in Vincent, whispering to him, I am here, I have been here all the time, I shall be with you in the morning, I shall steady your hand. And his thoughts, proceeding slowly, ever so slowly in the great clarity produced by eminent danger moved on: this brother and sister were wildly unlike each other, and yet very much the same, they had the demeanor of that dark ladylike woman who was their mother, that haughtiness that reminded him of men and women he had known in Paris, aristocrats for generations who bereft of all wealth and t.i.tle by recurrent revolution nevertheless commanded subservience all around.

He was struck suddenly by the casual progression of his thoughts, the vision of the boy being allowed to stand there, the odd sharpness of every detail of this hotel room. There was no urgency, there was no ticking clock. One single fact reigned supreme. At six o'clock in the morning, he would meet Henri DeLande at the Metairie Oaks and Henri DeLande was the most dangerous of opponents, young, volatile, and afraid.

"You go to defend Monsieur Philippe's honor tomorrow," the young man said suddenly, softly. "And I wish to inform you that should it go against you, I will kill Henri DeLande."

Vincent didn't answer. He had brought his knuckles up to his lip, thinking, thinking. The boy's voice was Caucasian like that of his sister, the boy's eyes like two stones. And Vincent could say, But Henri DeLande will never meet you in the field, you know that, and then the proud quadroon would say, Then I shall shoot him down, and Vincent could say, They'll kill you, regardless of your cause, and the quadroon would say, This doesn't matter, I will do what I must do. And something in Vincent which was more man than white man thought, Well, I respect you for it and I know that if it goes against me as you say, you are doomed.

"It will not go against me," he said. It was quite out of the question. "And until such time as it's finished, you must leave it in my hands."