Something contemptuous, despairing, flickered in the quadroon's face. His voice was low. "If it goes against you," he repeated, "I will avenge my sister's honor on my own."

Vincent rose. It was rather unconscious, his rising. He realized that he was standing at the desk. He was leaning forward looking into this young man's eyes. His lips were pressed together, but they were straining to form some crucial statement which would not come to his mind. "I go to avenge your sister's honor," he whispered. "Not merely your father's honor, your father is dead."

And there was that contempt again, deepened, that despair. The young quadroon was leaving the room. The door opened soundlessly, shut. And Vincent was again sitting in the chair.

And if she did not need me, if she did not need me, Marcel was walking fast through the corridor, if she did not need me, the tears welling in his eyes, if she did not need me, I would kill that man now! d.a.m.n you, d.a.m.n you all to h.e.l.l, all of you, he didn't see the immense stairs before him, the great drifts of men and women moving under the rotunda, as his feet carried him down, faster and faster toward the front doors. That roar was rising in his throat, that roar escaping through his teeth. And she won't even talk to me, won't even see me, how can I tell her that I am here now, that I'll care for her, she must let me see her, and Dolly says they can't let her alone, that with a knife, with a scissors, with the splinter of a mirror...Marie, Marie! I'll take care of you, I am here! He stopped in the very center of the immense lobby, the crowd blinding and confusing him, he did not know where he was. He could not see the doors. Dolly said maybe in a week, maybe in a month, she had screamed when Dolly said Marcel was there! Marie, Marie, he whispered, he was moving belligerently forward, he could smell the rain in the street, he felt the draft from the open doors. "Promise me you will not try to do anything," Christophe had said. "What in the name of G.o.d," he had answered, "can I do!" Marie, please! She had screamed when Dolly said his name.

He stopped suddenly. It was raining all around him, the street ran with mud, he was on the curb. And there was the undertaker's shop across the street from him, the rain streaming down the windows, streaming over the carefully inscribed letters: LERMONTANT. She tried to cut her wrists, she tried to cut her throat, she broke a gla.s.s, a mirror, she screamed when she heard his name. "I won't let her come to the slightest harm."

"Are you going to bury my sister!" Marcel leered at those windows, eyes glazed, the street a lumbering procession of carts through which the letters flashed, LERMONTANT. "You were going to marry her, are you going to bury her!" He had moved forward without willing it, "Promise me you will not do anything." "What in the name of G.o.d can I do!"

"Are you going to bury her!" he shouted at the windows rising up before him, the black curtains on their gold rods. And suddenly he pitched forward, elbow, shoulder slamming into the gla.s.s, the gla.s.s shivered, then he heard the loud crack, the crash as it split and fell shattering around him, the giant heavy pieces coming down on him, slicing through the leather of his boots. "Are you going to bury her, bury her!" the roar came through his clenched teeth. The crowd was pressing on him, the wind whipping the black serge curtains, the door pulled back, its bell jangling, Placide rushing at him, "No, Michie, no Michie, Michie, don't." He had Marcel by the arms, Marcel reaching for the jagged pieces still stuck in the frame, while above at the window of his room in the St. Louis, Vincent Dazincourt stood behind the gla.s.s staring numbly down at Marcel in the street.

It was Felix who managed to get Marcel home. He had rushed down from the hotel and taken him quickly by means of an iron grip out of the thickening crowd. Placide had his hands full with the broken window and, to be sure, the police were on their way. But as they entered the stone-cold parlor of the little Ste. Marie cottage, Felix tightened his hold on Marcel. The place was deserted, had been deserted for days. A damp musty smell pervaded all as if doors or windows had been open to the rain, and as Felix's eyes picked the indefinite shape of the furnishings out of the gloom, he saw the little shelves were barren of their bric-a-brac, the candles gone from the mantel. However, the scuttle still held coal. "Now, stop that, Michie!" he said to the young man whose slight frame stiffened in his grip. "I got to find something now to bind those hands."

However, quite suddenly, he felt the boy's struggling cease, and he saw the cause of it, that there was a woman sitting at the dining-room table in the icy gloom and she had risen, a silhouette against the dim rain on the panes.

"What's the matter with those hands?" came the voice. It was that one, Michie Vince's Anna Bella, well, thank G.o.d.

"Cut clear to the bone, that's all," Felix said. "Breaking down the undertaker's window, and the gla.s.s like to cut clean through his boots, too."

"You had better get out of here," Marcel said thickly, sitting down heavily in a chair by the grate. "Go on, get out of here, before your white planter finds out you're here."

Anna Bella regarded him calmly. "Felix, you know there's pillowcases back there somewhere, just tear one of those pillowcases up, don't matter whether it's a good one or not," she said. "Let me see your hands, Marcel." She dropped down on one knee in front of him.

"Anna Bella, go."

"Seems like you haven't heard then," she said. "No, I guess you haven't since I asked Michie Christophe not to tell you, and since I made Richard promise he wouldn't tell you, and I never wrote to you and told you myself." The cuts weren't deep, but they were bleeding wildly. "Felix!" she cried out.

She couldn't know that the slave was standing aghast in the wreck of the back bedroom, surveying the broken lamp, the kerosene that had sunk into the carpet and eaten the wax from the floor. The windowpane was broken out, the mirror cracked and dark smears of blood streaked the carpet's gray flowers that writhed beneath the bed's fancy skirts. He pulled the pillow from beneath the coverlet and brought the case to her. Women knew how to tear cloth better, they found some weak spot, nipped it with their teeth. And then...as he bent to shovel the coal in the grate he heard the sharp rip.

"I got to go now, Missie," he said a moment later when he had the fire started, and he could see Marcel was sitting quietly as she bandaged his hand.

"Ah!" she let out a little groan as she climbed to her feet. The fire was quickening with the few sticks he had placed under the coals.

"Where you going, Felix," she asked, "back up to the St. Louis Hotel?"

He nodded. That's where he is, Missie, was what he knew he was saying.

"You tell your master one thing for me," she said. "You tell him Anna Bella will be praying for him tomorrow, that she's been praying for him all along."

"I'll tell him afterward, Missie," he said. "So as not to worry him one way or the other."

She smiled.

She saw him out and shut the door.

For a long time she merely watched Marcel who was sitting there with the palms of his hands wrapped in white. Then she came around again in front of him and dropped down slowly, sitting under her voluminous skirts on her heels.

"You want to hold on to me?" she whispered. "Just for a little while?"

He shook his head. But he was losing control again. "I want to kill them," he was barely able to articulate. "I want to kill them all."

There was nothing to do but wait. Perhaps there was food in the back kitchen, but it was bolted from the inside. And some bits of fruit which she had found, lovely hothouse peaches almost too ripe, he simply let lie there where she had cut them and arranged them on a plate. The bread was old, the wine as good as ever, and he drank a little of that from time to time as he watched the fire, and the clock above it, its painted face showing the hour of six, then seven, and eight. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were heavy with milk, so now and then, secretly she pressed her arms against them, as if she were merely clasping her hands and stiffening, he would never guess. While meantime, back at her little house in the Rue St. Louis, Idabel, that sweet young slave girl she'd bought from the mart in the Rue Ca.n.a.l, was taking good care of little Martin with cow's milk and a sugar t.i.t.

It had been five months since she had seen Michi Vince, five months since he had walked out her door, and five months since his lawyers had come round to tell her she must put her affairs in their hands, that there would be regular deposits for her at the bank. But she had led an independent life from then on, managing her own money, thank you, Monsieur. And drawing on the small pension left to her by Old Captain and the remnants of her father's property, she seldom touched the money Michie Vince left for her on account. Once it occurred to her to take it out, and redeposit it in her son's name. But she had never brought herself to do that, and the fact was, as the months pa.s.sed and the love for Michie Vince and the longing for Michie Vince were alchemized totally into pain, she didn't think of little Martin as Michie Vince's child anymore.

And it seemed at times when she woke in the night thinking of him, wanting him, that she clung to the misery of missing him because it shut another worse suffering out. If he was gone forever, if he was never coming back, then she would want Marcel again, Marcel, whose dreams had been shattered, Marcel, who was bitter and penniless and wouldn't be Michie Rudolphe's poor relation, and who would suffer again when he learned that his walk to Bontemps Bontemps had forced Michie Vince out of her life. But he hadn't done it, really. She had done it, the night she had not gone to Michie Vince when he stepped into that room. When he stood silently in her parlor waiting for the slightest word. Often, so often, she had thought of those moments, and one image only would illuminate for her the reason for her silence: it was that of the little baby in her arms. had forced Michie Vince out of her life. But he hadn't done it, really. She had done it, the night she had not gone to Michie Vince when he stepped into that room. When he stood silently in her parlor waiting for the slightest word. Often, so often, she had thought of those moments, and one image only would illuminate for her the reason for her silence: it was that of the little baby in her arms.

Now all such personal considerations had left her. They had been obliterated in her for days. She thought of nothing so simple and so self-serving as she sat still in the little dining room, her hands clasped, watching the tall man by the fire, this man whose height had so astonished her when Felix had brought him in, this man whom Marcel had become. And who was the boy, Marcel, very much still. She was thinking listlessly and morbidly, rather, of Marie Ste. Marie shivering and sobbing they said with Dolly Rose behind closed doors. And lamps everywhere in Dolly's room burning all night long because Marie couldn't endure the dark, Marie who just kept crying and wouldn't eat the slightest morsel of food. She had driven her hand right down into the water pitcher, feeling all around, before she would even trust the clear water which she then held to the light. Marie who at the sound of her brother's name had put her hands over her ears and begun to scream.

And Richard, she was thinking of Richard, too, locked in that attic bedroom with its barred windows on the roof, trying again and again to break that cypress door. "Did you hear," Marie Anais that pretty quadroon had said, "they tried to go in last night, he knocked his father to the floor. Took all three of the Lermontant men to hold him, even the old grandpere, but they got him locked up again."

And Michie Vince, what about Michie Vince, who just might get killed at dawn? Yesterday she had been crying over all of it, bawling, her rosary beads in her hands. And at some indeterminate hour-she had never thought to look at the clock-she had felt a dread so palpable, so sudden, and so abysmal that she had cried out. She had risen, frozen for a moment, staring into the air. And then rushing to little Martin's crib, grabbed him up in her arms. But he was all right, little Martin, sleepy, glad to be against her breast. Yet the sense of danger was all about her, hovering like a presence unseen. And three hours had pa.s.sed before they came to tell her, her neighbor, Madame Lucy, and then pretty Marie Anais from the cottage across the street: Michie Vince had just fought a duel with Alcee LeMaitre, the son of a wealthy planter of the same parish as himself, and it was LeMaitre who had fired the first shot, singeing the hair right from Michie Vince's temple; then Michie Vince had taken his turn. Only then had that sense of danger dissipated, and only then had Anna Bella known that as glad as she was for Michie Vince, she was trembling with relief that this dread that had so gripped her had not signaled a threat to Marcel.

Now what was there to say to him? What was there to do? He might sit all night as he was sitting now, could she persuade him perhaps to come with her to her own house in the Rue St. Louis, or was it best just to stay here at his side?

She rose now wearily but quickly, and commenced to straighten the rear rooms. She swept up broken gla.s.s with the torn pillowcase, and brought a lighted lamp back with her to the parlor where she found him unchanged.

But just when her heart was sinking and she was not sure he wanted her there, he put his hand out and slipped it into hers. She looked at the bandage which was white still, clean. And resolved to sit there for as long as he needed her, even if it were the whole night.

There was a knock at the door. It opened before she could even rise, and Christophe came, without a word, into the room. Marcel's eyes never moved from the fire.

"Did you talk to her?" he asked quietly.

"She won't see me. It's too soon," Christophe said. "It's just too soon."

Marcel merely sighed.

"And you, ma chere ma chere, how are you?" Christophe said gently. And reaching out took Anna Bella by the shoulders. He kissed her on both cheeks. "I'm very glad to see you here."

"Michie Christophe, this boy's got to eat something, I figure, though you'd never get him to allow that, if you just help me get that kitchen open, I'm sure there's yams or something inside."

Christophe nodded.

Neither of them took note of Marcel's slight alteration of expression. The bolt on the outside of the kitchen was simple, you could lift it with one hand.

"That shouldn't be any problem," Christophe said, and having started to peel off his leather gloves, he put them back on.

"No, it's locked from the inside, we've got to pry it, get a fence post..." Anna Bella explained. She had already started for the back door.

"Locked from the inside?" Marcel murmured. "Locked from the inside?"

"You just sit there, rest yourself, don't start those hands to bleeding..." Anna Bella said.

"But you can't lock it from the inside unless you're in it," Marcel said. And the three of them were struck suddenly and silently by the same thought.

Marcel rose. His eyes narrowed, his jaw set.

"Now, don't...don't do anything wild or crazy!" Anna Bella whispered. "If she's in there, she's drunk."

"She's in there!" he said and started for the back door.

They had caught up with him before he reached the kitchen and it was true, the heavy rough-hewn wooden door was shut tight. Rain was coming down in silver needles all around them, blown directionless by the wind. Christophe drew a knife from his pocket and popped open a long blade. He was able to pry the wood loose just enough to get a good grip on it with his hand.

"Now, be still, just wait..." Anna Bella took hold of Marcel. "You give her a chance to tell, you just don't know..." she whispered. But the door yawned back on utter darkness, and pulling loose from her and brushing aside Christophe, Marcel rushed inside.

"Lisette!" he said. "Lisette!" And then they both heard him gasp. He staggered backwards with his hand over his mouth.

Christophe could see nothing in the dark and then coming forward, step after step, he too felt the sudden heavy shape which had hit Marcel softly in the face. His hand groped before him. And he felt the coa.r.s.e wool stocking of Lisette's leg. She was hanging from the rafters, her feet already curling up.

II.

DOLLY R ROSE RAISED the back of her hand to her eyes as she entered the room. Lamps blazed on the dresser, reflected brilliantly in the polished mirror; they blazed on the tables, atop the armoire, beside the bed. "You can go," she said to her maid, Sanitte, as she looked down at Marie crouched in the far corner against the wall. Marie wore a soft silk dressing gown which Dolly had given her, threaded with lavender ribbon at the neck. She would not look at her own clothes. Dolly's maids had found dresses in the cottage, where there was no one to stop them, but Marie had screamed when she saw them, screamed as she had at the mention of her brother's name. Marcel had cried like a baby on the gallery, begging Dolly, let me see her, let me in. the back of her hand to her eyes as she entered the room. Lamps blazed on the dresser, reflected brilliantly in the polished mirror; they blazed on the tables, atop the armoire, beside the bed. "You can go," she said to her maid, Sanitte, as she looked down at Marie crouched in the far corner against the wall. Marie wore a soft silk dressing gown which Dolly had given her, threaded with lavender ribbon at the neck. She would not look at her own clothes. Dolly's maids had found dresses in the cottage, where there was no one to stop them, but Marie had screamed when she saw them, screamed as she had at the mention of her brother's name. Marcel had cried like a baby on the gallery, begging Dolly, let me see her, let me in.

"I can't, cher," cher," Dolly had gently turned him away. Dolly had gently turned him away.

And as she stood looking down at this beautiful girl who had crept into the far corner of the room, bringing her feet up under the beige silk of the gown, Dolly's eyes were softened with tears.

"Come, Marie," she said as she padded softly forward. She held a tray of food in her hand, the white meat of the chicken, slices of tomato, fruit. She set this down beside the bed, and dropping to a crouch, took Marie's hands.

Marie stared dully at the wall, at the skirts of the bed. Her eyes would not meet Dolly's and with one hand she drew her long flat black hair down over her face as if to hide herself from Dolly's gaze.

She was thinking that she had never known anyone in her life like Dolly, that all the world misunderstood Dolly, did not know Dolly's goodness, that Dolly was all the perfumed kisses of women at weddings and christenings and funerals, Dolly was verbena and lace and soft hands, the tickle of Gabriella's lashes when she whispered a secret, the touch of Celestina's hands on her hair. All things affectionate, yielding, ineffably sweet, that was Dolly, this woman whom everyone branded outcast, Dolly to whom she had wandered thinking well if I am ruined then I will go to Dolly, I will go the cordon bleu cordon bleu of ruined women, I will go to the ill.u.s.trious DOLLY Dolly DOLLY Dolly DOLLY DOLLY ROOOOOSE! of ruined women, I will go to the ill.u.s.trious DOLLY Dolly DOLLY Dolly DOLLY DOLLY ROOOOOSE!

But there was more to Dolly, something infinitely more vigorous about this affection which had never been a component of the affection Marie had known. Something self-appointed and self-sustained, unfettered by the estimation of others, yet without defiance, and Marie believed it, believed it, believed it when Dolly said, "You may stay here forever, safe in this room."

And the truth was Marie was terrified of the very reason that she had come here. That men could touch her again, that she should endure this as one of Dolly's girls was beyond comprehension, and yet this was why she had come. This was where she belonged. And Dolly didn't know how much she belonged here, no one knew, but Marie knew and stared dully past Dolly at the skirts of the bed.

But Dolly would not be refused.

"Come up here with me," she said. She lifted Marie's hand, tugging her gently to her feet. And leading Marie to the bed, she positioned her against the pillows, bringing the coverlet up over her lap. Then sitting next to her, Dolly showed her the plate.

Marie's eyes moved sluggishly over the white meat of the chicken, she was reasoning that insects couldn't be hidden there, but the sight of the tomato with those writhing seeds forced her eyes away. Since she had come she had eaten nothing, drunk nothing but clear water, opaque liquids terrifying her because she was overcome with the horror that insects lurked beneath the surface, big brown roaches with floppy wings that would rise to crawl into her mouth as soon as her lips touched the gla.s.s. Or one of these might appear wobbling, flapping on the spoon. She could not bear the sight of milk or soup, nor meats drowned in gravy, and sitting now against the cream-colored pillows of Dolly's bed, the room ablaze with light, she was suddenly jarred by the sensation, no, the memory, that a man was trying to force her mouth open as he straddled her, his knee crushing her arm. She shuddered, sitting forward, turning away from Dolly Rose.

"Marie, tell me," Dolly insisted, "don't shut me out."

Could men do that? Had they done that? Her mouth was sealed shut as she covered it with her hand, her shoulders hunched, her mouth sealed shut again as it happened every time that sensation or memory came back to her. Her nostrils were filled with a personal stench, she was in that dim smoky light, a man's voice talking casually, almost tenderly to her, her teeth clenched, she began to shake.

"Marie, Marie," Dolly said softly. She felt Dolly's hand on her arm. "There is nothing so dreadful that you cannot tell me, that you cannot put this burden in my hands."

Oh, but that's where Dolly was so wrong! There was something she could never tell anyone, not even Dolly, something worse than that man straddling her, that pain as his knee bore down on her arm, much worse, something that rendered it all perfectly just, perfectly just and disenfranchised all rage, she was about to scream again.

But she had sunk down into the pillows. She curled up, her forehead pressed against Dolly's wool dressing gown, her eyes shut.

"I belong in this house," she whispered. "I belong in this house."

A heavy listless sigh escaped Dolly. The hand that brushed Marie's hair from her forehead was warm, light.

Don't feel sorry for me, don't feel pity for me, Marie thought dully, her eyes half-mast as she stared forward, the green of Dolly's gown a pulsing blur. But I can't go across the yard, can't let those men, I...I...And without realizing it, she had rolled on her face and away from Dolly, burrowing her head into the pillow, forehead moving back and forth as if she meant to bore through the bed.

"Marie, stop this!" Dolly grabbed her suddenly, lifting her.

Marie gasped.

"Listen to me," Dolly turned her roughly, shaking her back and forth, her head bobbing on her neck. "You must talk to me, you must let it out!"

Marie's head fell to the side. She whispered, "I want to die."

"No," Dolly's eyes were gla.s.sy, her lips trembling. "You don't want to, ma chere ma chere, you don't want to die. They haven't killed you, they haven't touched you, not you!" And that hand, always so gentle, touched the well between Marie's b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Now, listen to me, the day you came here, you talked to me, you told me what they'd done..."

Marie drew herself up, a shriek rising behind her clenched teeth.

"...you've got to let it out like that now, again. It's a wound that must be lanced, the poison must be let to drain away..."

"I didn't know then, I didn't know," Marie whispered, the words barely escaping her lips, her eyes rolling listlessly to the side.

"What, Marie!" Dolly pleaded. "What didn't you know?" Her hand enfolded the back of Marie's head and brought her close. "Don't you see, ma chere ma chere, they can't make you into something by what they did, they can't make you into what they say." Her voice was low, the words carefully emphasized. "They take the pen in hand, they write the play for us, they tell us to take the parts, placee placee, white protector, virgin girl. But we can turn our backs on it, we can take the pen from their hand. We are free really, free to live as we want to live." Her lips pressed against Marie's hair. "We are alive, look at us, listen to the beat of our hearts, Marie..." she lifted Marie's chin in her hand. The girl was shuddering, the eyes struggling as if to peer through the heavy lids, and suddenly seeing Dolly, Marie drew up gasping, "No, no," backing away as if she might fall from the bed.

"Stop it, Marie." Dolly lifted her hand as if to slap her, but then her lips pressed together, the tears glimmering in Dolly's eyes. She took Marie by the shoulders and again she shook her hard.

"No, no!" Marie's mouth fell open, the cry coming louder and louder, "They knew, they knew, they knew when they saw me, stop it, Dolly, they knew, that's why they did it to me!" she was screaming, the voice rising, dying, rising again. "Don't you see, I deserved it!" she roared, "I deserved what happened to me!"

Dolly stared at her uncomprehending, holding her still. The girl was sobbing in her tight grasp, the head thrown back, the body heaving as she repeated those words again and again. "Why, chere chere, why, how could you say such a thing! Talk to me, Marie, tell me!" And desperate, she clutched Marie to her so that Marie's head fell against her own.

The lips were moving there, the words so low, rapid, feverish that Dolly couldn't hear, "I can't stand it any longer, I can't stand it any longer," came the rough panting breaths, and then Marie, exhausted, hysterical, turned her lips to Dolly's ear.

Dolly was staring forward, listening. At first her brows puckered and then gradually her eyes opened wide. "O G.o.d, chere," chere," she whispered. "Oh, she whispered. "Oh, bebe," bebe," she whispered, the tears slowly welling from her eyes. "Poor innocent baby," she cried. she whispered, the tears slowly welling from her eyes. "Poor innocent baby," she cried.

"But Dolly," Marie lifted her head, looked at Dolly, the whisper thin, shuddering, "don't you see, I felt those things every time Richard...I felt them even in my dreams, and they knew when they saw me, they knew! knew! They knew they could do that to me!" They knew they could do that to me!"

She didn't see Dolly shake her head, she didn't see the tears slipping down Dolly's cheeks. She only felt the hands that stroked her hair back from her forehead, the warm body next to her and she knew that at last, at last she had confessed it, she had told someone why she deserved no pity, no love, why it had happened, and limp she lay finally in Dolly's arms. Dolly rocked her back and forth, she felt the rise and fall of Dolly's breath. And then as if from some vast distance came Dolly's voice, simple, devoid of guile or solicitude, saying only, "Now I understand, ma chere ma chere, now we have a place to begin."

III.

SIX O'CLOCK AND M MARCEL was gone. The windows graying, the sound of a rooster over the back fence. An hour ago, he had risen from the bed, silently, slipping into his clothes. "Don't go out there," Anna Bella had whispered. was gone. The windows graying, the sound of a rooster over the back fence. An hour ago, he had risen from the bed, silently, slipping into his clothes. "Don't go out there," Anna Bella had whispered. "Must "Must go!" he had said. For a long moment they had embraced, her arm encircling his slender chest, her head against his warm neck. And when their lips met, all the night's desperate intimacy overwhelmed her again. But he had taken his leave, kissing the tips of her fingers as gently, he let them go. It seemed only minutes ago the sound of his horse at a gallop had left the yard. go!" he had said. For a long moment they had embraced, her arm encircling his slender chest, her head against his warm neck. And when their lips met, all the night's desperate intimacy overwhelmed her again. But he had taken his leave, kissing the tips of her fingers as gently, he let them go. It seemed only minutes ago the sound of his horse at a gallop had left the yard.

But here it was six o'clock, a cart lumbering through the Rue St. Louis, b.u.mping over the deepening ruts, and the clock on the mantel tinking the hour when Michie Vince just might, just might die. Little Martin stirred beneath the airy lace of his broad wicker ba.s.sinet, so that Anna Bella moved it subtly, the wheels not even making the slightest creak.

She rose, pulling her silk peignoir over her flannel gown and taking her rosary with her, tiptoed to the chair.