"I'm sorry," Marcel sighed. "If there is anyone who is blameless in this affair, it's you...But we cannot help each other now, you must spare me your presence, and I shall spare you mine."

Richard's only answer was silence. For a long moment he stood at the window, his eyes on the steamy panes. The rain had stopped, and the night and the room were perfectly still. And then slowly he crossed the room, his heavy boots making the faintest sound, and without a word he left.

Christophe was watching the fire.

"I was cruel to him, wasn't I?" Marcel said.

Christophe made a small gesture, Let it be.

"But did she...did she go into the parlor of Dolly's house?..." Marcel's voice faltered. He was going to cry again like a child if he went on, and seeing Christophe's nod, he turned away.

"Marcel, I don't expect you to understand this," Christophe murmured, "but this is not the worst fate that could have been visited on Marie. I think you remember the bitter and destructive human being that Dolly was before she chose her path. And in some very real way, that path for Dolly was a choice of life over death. Now she is offering that to your sister, and she will care for your sister, and again it just may be a choice of life over death."

It was more than Marcel could bear. He rose to go.

"But sooner or later, Marcel," Christophe said gently, "you must begin to think of yourself."

"Christophe, I cannot think of anything now, I cannot breathe."

"I understand that," Christophe answered, "but this situation with Marie is not likely to change. I don't know what could save Marie at this point, I don't know that anything will. But I do know that you must go on living, you cannot spend your life mourning her as if she were buried alive."

He urged Marcel to be seated at the table again and he commenced to speak to him steadily, calmly, in a low voice.

"Now you planned to sell the cottage," he said, "you planned to sell the furnishings, get what you could. And as you know, I have some two hundred dollars here of my own...."

"If Marie would have gone with me!" Marcel said, "I would have accepted then for her."

"I realize that. But I am asking you now to accept it for me! I am asking you to take this money and whatever you can get for your property and go on to Paris on your own. As soon as you arrive there I can send you money, each month I can send you money, I can send you enough that you could enter the university..."

"Christophe you are torturing me," Marcel said. "I cannot accept this and I will not."

However, Christophe was adamant. "But you do this for me, don't you understand?" he pleaded. "I've had my chance, Marcel, I know what it's like to live where I am not a man of color but simply a man. Now I want you you to have that chance. Don't look away, Marcel, you must let me do it-for my sake as much as yours....I know this can be done if you only let me..." to have that chance. Don't look away, Marcel, you must let me do it-for my sake as much as yours....I know this can be done if you only let me..."

Marcel rose abruptly as if again he meant to go.

"All my life," he said, looking down at Christophe, "I was taught that someone was going to give me my future, that Monsieur Philippe would provide me with my inheritance, send me to Paris in style. I heard it so often I came to believe I was ent.i.tled to it, that I was born to be a gentleman of means. Well, it was an illusion, and my expectation, my conviction that I could never be happy anywhere but in Paris has caused too much misery to me, it has caused too much misery to those I love.

"If I hadn't wandered off to Bontemps Bontemps that day enraged because of Monsieur Philippe's broken promises, I wouldn't have been sent away to that day enraged because of Monsieur Philippe's broken promises, I wouldn't have been sent away to Sans Souci Sans Souci. I would have been here when Marie needed me, when my mother tried to get that dream for me again by using her. I would have been here to look out for her, I should have been looking out for her all along."

"If you blame yourself for this," Christophe said, "you are making a dreadful mistake."

"I don't blame myself. I know the world isn't that simple, that good and evil-as you once explained to me-are not that neat. What I'm saying is that I have pursued a certain path in vain. And it's time for me to change. It is time for me to make something of myself on my own. And when I do make that voyage to France, and I will make it, I will have earned it myself as well as the means to sustain myself when I am there.

"So you see no matter what happens to Marie, I can't accept your offer. And as long as Marie is with Dolly Rose, I must remain here."

IV.

THERE WAS ALWAYS an excitement in the house at this hour, an excitement that you could feel. Even in the quarters you could feel it, the rushing steps along the galleries, the piano music echoing down the long hall so that when the back door opened, you could hear it in the yard. And under a clearing sky, the yard had been strung with lanterns so that the gentlemen could wander there, for the fresh air, in spite of the cold. an excitement in the house at this hour, an excitement that you could feel. Even in the quarters you could feel it, the rushing steps along the galleries, the piano music echoing down the long hall so that when the back door opened, you could hear it in the yard. And under a clearing sky, the yard had been strung with lanterns so that the gentlemen could wander there, for the fresh air, in spite of the cold.

Dolly was dressed and beautifully dressed, in her favorite black velvet, placing the white camellias, with her own careful hands, in her hair. She had laced Marie, put two silver rings on Marie's fingers, and chosen the sprigged lavender silk dress at first, only to put this aside. "Royal blue," she said, "you must wear a strong color, a pa.s.sionate color." Royal blue silk, the hem scalloped and studded with cl.u.s.ters of pearls. Bits of green ribbon flared from the cl.u.s.ters as if they were tiny leaves. Dolly pulled the small puffed sleeves down low from Marie's shoulders and turned Marie to the mirror so that she might approve. A deep cleft showed the fullness of Marie's b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

And when Dolly went off to the parlor of the big house for her de rigueur de rigueur appearance-never very long-she left Marie alone in the blazing room. And then Marie went out quietly to walk under the stars. appearance-never very long-she left Marie alone in the blazing room. And then Marie went out quietly to walk under the stars.

It was a delicious coldness, the winter air. The bare limbs of the crepe myrtles glistened white under the moon while all about the ivy, still wet from the earlier rain, shivered on the high brick walls. It wound its way along the banisters of the big house, hanging down in drifts over the entrance of the carriageway, where it swayed lightly in the breeze as it sc.r.a.ped the ground. A man had come out on the porch above and seeing Marie below tipped his hat. She had watched him pa.s.s along the shuttered doors of the long rear wing that ran like an arm against one side of the darkened court; she knew his eyes were fixed on her, she could see the trace of a smile beneath his mustache. Again he tipped his hat before he disappeared into one of those long narrow rooms.

The music was fast. It seemed, even where she stood among the bare trees and the glimmering lanterns, she could hear the reverberations of the dancers on the boards. Horses clopped on the distant cobblestone street and the stars were dim behind the ghostly shapes of the drifting clouds. She wished now she had brought her gla.s.s with her. It would have been nice to feel the warmth of the wine. But she walked round and round, enjoying the sound of her heels on the flags, knowing she might go into the house tonight, that she might bring herself to do it, even though she had been so frightened the first time.

This was a new life, a new life, she said this to herself over and over. She had no history, no existence beyond this place. She would not even say the name Richard in her mind, she would not even picture him. All that was gone now, along with its miseries and its betrayals, its half-understood ecstasy, its love, this was a new life and-her mind went blank!

She wished suddenly that Dolly was with her.

If Dolly were with her, just for a few moments, then maybe, just maybe she could go into the parlor again. But at this moment, it seemed quite impossible that she had gone, on her own, the night before. What vague excitement had led her there, unannounced, as Dolly was waltzing wildly in a flurry of velvet with an old white man, his hair silver, his gestures graceful but self-satirical as he attempted to appear spry. The room had been a flicker of shadowy faces, dim candles, and ripping music. Women smiled at her from the dark edges of the carpet and men bowed their heads. She had slipped away to the corner of the dining room from which she might survey all unseen, but then that old man, having kissed Dolly's hand, had come toward her and she had felt herself stiffen as he sat by her side. There was something tender, doting, in his manner, but then she heard his breathing, too rapid beneath those enormous white whiskers, and there was the insistent pressure of his hand. She had felt panic then, what am I doing here, Marie Ste. Marie in this room! what am I doing here, Marie Ste. Marie in this room! She didn't remember rushing out, she didn't remember crossing the yard. She didn't remember rushing out, she didn't remember crossing the yard.

But when Dolly had come to her, she had said, "Time is not important, you are safe with me here, but you will do it someday. You will do it because it's there waiting for you, and there will come that moment when you are bored and unhappy here, when you are restless, and you yourself want to leave this room." And Marie, strangely rea.s.sured, had fallen asleep in Dolly's arms.

Was she bored tonight? Was she restless? Was that why Marie had been so eager to dress, to wander out here alone in the yard? No, it was something else, something which Dolly had not yet begun to understand. Because Dolly didn't know that no one had ever loved Marie as Dolly loved her, nor how extraordinary was the warmth of that bed, the two of them together, those soft maternal touches, that candor, that delicacy, that trust. And revealing to Marie purely and so honestly the secrets of a woman's body, the pa.s.sions to which all women were subject, be they sheltered or experienced, innocent or skilled, Dolly had led her farther and farther away from the voices of the past which had only deceived, distorted, betrayed. Marie wanted to please Dolly more than she had ever wanted to please anyone, and it was for this that she had come out tonight, for this reason that she wanted to go into the parlor again.

For though Dolly spoke of time and patience, Dolly really wanted this: that Marie be alive and happy, that Marie be born again with Dolly's freedom and Dolly's curiously guarded heart.

Yes, Marie was here for Dolly. But she could not do it suddenly. She could not move toward the big house. Not just now.

She bowed her head, and made a silent little promenade about the fountain until out of the corner of her eye she saw in the carriageway, behind those drifts of ivy, the unmistakable figure of a tall man.

She turned away at once. She walked quickly towards the quarters. For one second she thought she imagined the boots thudding fast across the courtyard, but then she realized the man was after her, he had even come up behind her on the stairs. She ought to shout for Dolly's maid, Sanitte, she ought to shout for Dolly. But perhaps she was being foolish, and this was some regular visitor on business of his own. She rushed along the gallery, her cheeks burning, and just as she reached the door of her sanctuary, she felt his hand on her bare arm.

"Marie!" he whispered.

She gasped, shutting her eyes. "Let me go!" she said.

"Marie, it's me, Richard, please!" He stepped in front of her.

"Richard, go away from here," she whispered. "I'll scream if you don't go away, I'll scream now." She reached past him pushing open the bedroom doors. He followed her, letting them bang shut behind him, and when he saw where he was...the cluttered dresser, the huge unmade bed, he was obviously at a loss.

It seemed a hundred years since she had laid eyes on him. In all this time, she had not allowed herself even once to visualize him, and there he was, the majestic height, the dark hair curling over the heavy collar of his winter cape, his large brown eyes, tinged with sadness, surveying this garishly lighted room. He looked at the lamps atop the armoire, he looked at the lamps beside the settee, and as Marie settled in front of the dresser on the long padded bench, he looked at her. And then away.

"Why did you come?" she asked bitterly. "You cannot even look at me, so why did you come?"

His heavy lids lifted slowly and she could see the confusion in his face. But she did not know what he saw in hers. "Greatly changed," Christophe had told him. The words were pathetically inadequate, for sitting there with her long hair undone down her back, her bosom and arms bare in the glare of these lamps, she was as always perfectly beautiful. But the veil of serenity was gone from her eyes. Some new fire radiated from within. It was as if the young girl he'd known had been an unstamped coin, and here was the woman, eyes ablaze with some new pa.s.sion infecting all of her features, and all of her manner, even to her posture on the bench, her elbow on the dresser, and head turned toward him almost arrogantly, her finger to her cheek. And all about her were the sumptuous trappings of Dolly's world, so like he had seen them in the big house the first time he had entered it when Dolly's little girl was dead.

"Richard," she said. "Go!"

"I had to see for myself," he said, meeting her gaze though it took all his strength not to pull himself away. "I had to know that it's your decision to stay here, I had to hear it from you." His face convulsed. Some awful sadness had come over him, looking at her.

"There's got to be someplace else for you," he stammered, "there are other places. Marcel has the cottage, you could go home..."

But this was nonsense. Her live in that cottage now? With people stopping as they pa.s.sed to try to get a glimpse of her from the gate? There would be the whispering and turning of heads every time she set her foot out the door. And what else? The inevitable familiarities from the rough men of the neighborhood who believed her tarnished and fair game? Why had he spoken such nonsense to her, what had he meant to say? That surely there was some answer, some way?

"Your aunt, Marie, in the country, the Cane River," he whispered desperately, shocked, as he gazed at her, by the incandescence of her wide black eyes.

"And what makes you think that she would have me, Richard? My mother and my aunts have disowned me and my mother and my aunt Louisa have gone to Sans Souci Sans Souci. I would die first before I'd live with them, and I a.s.sure you, they would never consent to live with me..."

"The nuns, then, Marie, the nuns..."

"Why, Richard, to make it easier for you?"

He had never heard such a voice from her, such a rapid and searing tone, quicker than his thoughts. Her voice had always been so tentative, so soft. He could not endure this much longer. He had not cried since he was twelve years old. But he was on the edge of it now.

And he turned his back. It was simply more than he could bear.

"Nuns, aunts...the country..." she said in that same quick voice. "Did you come here to let me know yourself that my life is finished in your eyes? That I am dead to you, so you wish that I would entomb myself? You're grieving for me, Richard, as if I had already pa.s.sed from this earth, and indeed it would be easier for you, and for Marcel, were I to bury myself alive. Well, I have no such intention. You've done your duty, Richard. Go home."

He couldn't answer her now. He couldn't move. He stood there struggling against his tears as a much older man might who did not know how to give vent to tears at all.

"You know," she said softly behind him, "I have known love only twice in my life. Once with you...and then again here in this room. I never thought I'd find it here, I was crazy when I came here, but I found it nevertheless. And I have come to an appalling conclusion, Richard, that this love, this powerful sweet love, is something that others know in varied ways all their lives. They know it from mother and father and sisters and brothers, they feel it even from friends. My brother has basked in it ever since he was born. But I've never really known it except for those few moments when I was with you. And now I have it here with Dolly, day-to-day love, and affection, and care. Well, I'm through with the world of cruel and unfeeling women, their virtue or discretion does not impress me. I am not leaving here. You have it from me now, in my own words. So spare me your grief, take it away."

He was grieving for her, it was true. He was grieving for her and for himself, He was grieving for the Marie that had been and the Richard who had loved her, both of whom were now lost. But as he stood there staring at the wall before him, he was wishing desperately that the world were a place he could shape to his own choosing, that he could make his father and mother such that they would have to accept her were he to bring her home, and he could make himself such that he could stand up to them and to everyone around them and say she is going to be my wife. He wished that he could make himself the man who could take her out of here, and stand them off, all of them, no matter what were their proscriptions and their declarations.

But suppose he was that man and they were such malleable creatures that that great fortress of respectability, the Lermontant house, could be stormed? Could he do it? Could he love her again? Want to touch her? The very thought of it filled him with violent confusion, a violent revulsion for what had happened to her, and a longing for her at the same time so that he felt he was literally coming apart. Love her, he loved her more than ever, but it was over, finished, and he could not save her. Another man, another time in history, another family, perhaps...

He turned to face her. His eyes were fixed on her, and then gazing past her and beyond her so that he didn't see her at all. Rather he saw the frightening fire that emanated from her like the heat deep within a dark sealed stove, and he was not conscious of her rising or of her coming toward him. All the mingled sensations of a vast and endless funeral rite invaded his mind, with that awful sense of finality, the sheer futility of weeping, or making one's hand into a fist in the face of G.o.d.

Then clearly, completely, she came into view. She was standing in front of him. The arrogant posture had broken away because it had only been a guise and she was moving toward him as if some supernatural force moved her limbs.

He could not know what she was thinking; he couldn't know the terror that gripped her at the thought of touching any human being except Dolly, the fear in which she lived, slipping night after night in and out of nightmare, as those fragmented sensations from that long night of rape and cruelty came back to her unbidden, on their own. He couldn't know that she was thinking wildly, desperately, of how much she loved him, and that if she could just cross this s.p.a.ce that separated them, if she could just touch him and feel his arms again, then maybe she could love again, live again, maybe even get out of this crazy world where she had become a child clinging to Dolly Rose.

"Richard," she whispered suddenly. "It's Marie. It's the same Marie! Nothing's changed in me, Richard," she said. "Don't you understand? They did this to me! I did not do it to myself. I am the same in my heart, and I love you..."

He stood rigid, his eyes closed. He could feel her hands on his arms, and feel her soft bosom pressed to his chest. But he couldn't move, he couldn't feel. And then suddenly, he held her. He almost crushed her against him. His lips pressed her eyelids, her cheek, her mouth. He was trembling violently as he lifted her off the ground and kissed her over and over again, and there came that old shock, that powerful vibrant shock radiating from her body through his so that he could see and feel nothing around him except Marie, Marie in his arms.

"O G.o.d..." he whispered suddenly. "G.o.d!" He had set her down, roughly. He had backed away from her, and he turned, opening the doors so that the night air hit him, cold and bracing, and he stumbled down the porch. He could hear her crying behind him, a bitter despairing crying. And the doors banged shut, the latch sliding into place. He was standing at the head of the stairs above the empty courtyard, the music of the big house distant, the lanterns below him a series of scattered beacons in the dark. He touched the rail. He willed himself to go down.

But something struck him then. All his life he would remain unable to explain it. He would never fully understand the wealth of sensation that overcame him and the clarity of the wordless vision that appeared before his eyes. It was as if when his fingers curled on that banister he knew that he was privy to a rare secret: that the move he would make now would fix the course of his life. And he knew, without pride or guilt, that it would fix the course of Marie's life too.

A great mingling of impressions visited him. He saw himself in the small dim parlor of his Vacquerie cousins, those sweet-faced girls his mother had so recently taken him to visit, and he heard his cousin Isabella singing softly as her fingers touched the keys, the dull afternoon light glinting on the lacquered portraits of men and women who had been dead for one hundred years. And even as he sat in that dusty, stifling, room, his spirit caught in his throat, he was in another place, alone with his father and he was telling him in an animated voice, reserved only for his rare and precious secrets, of that dark force that he could feel as it menaced Marie, that dark force that seemed always to surround Marie, that dark force which he drove back when he held her in his arms. And he knew now in this instant what that dark force had been; it had been the lovelessness of her world, it had been all the powers that had sought to destroy her in that lovelessness, and now those powers had done their d.a.m.ndest to force him away from her forever. They had dragged her down, abused her, and even Dolly had become part of them, Dolly with her sheltering affection and her perverse and vengeful brothel world. But just now, just for an instant, he'd been able to drive that force back again when he held Marie in his arms. He had felt that exquisite love between them, pure and untouched by all that had menaced it, and he was turning his back on it now! For what? A lackl.u.s.ter void that stretched before him like the dusty parlor of those Vacquerie cousins, an eternity of decorum and mellow rooms, a life sentence of mourning for the one real pa.s.sion his life had ever known? Was the peace of his house worth that? Was his family worth that? Was the world worth that, jeer as it might, ostracize as it would? Why didn't he take Grandpere's pistol off the wall, if he was going to leave her, and just put it right to his head?

He went back down the length of the porch. He pushed at the doors. They had been latched, but it was easy enough to break them in. And instantly, with the hard thrust of his shoulders, he sent them caving backward, the latch tearing loose from the wood.

She was standing there, stark still in front of the dresser, and in her hand was a raw piece of gla.s.s. He could see the broken hand mirror amid the powder and combs, and he could see that pure jagged piece of it in her hand. He took it quickly and threw it aside.

"You are coming with me," he said. "Now."

V.

RICHARD DROPPED HIS CAPE on the hat rack without so much as stopping so that before the heavy front door had closed he had crossed the parlor, careless of the mud on his boots, and was standing before the ancient portrait of Jean Baptiste, and the guns that were affixed to the wall beneath it, the long shotguns, and the pistols with their pearl handles that Grandpere polished twice a year. He was reaching for the first of these pistols when Rudolphe's voice crackled from the deep shadows. on the hat rack without so much as stopping so that before the heavy front door had closed he had crossed the parlor, careless of the mud on his boots, and was standing before the ancient portrait of Jean Baptiste, and the guns that were affixed to the wall beneath it, the long shotguns, and the pistols with their pearl handles that Grandpere polished twice a year. He was reaching for the first of these pistols when Rudolphe's voice crackled from the deep shadows.

"Have you given up the custom of dining with this family? We waited for you, one half hour at your mother's request, and it is nine o'clock."

The voice lacked its usual edge of exasperation. A gloom hung over the family just as if Marie had recently died and been buried, and no one would touch the piano for days, nor laugh too loudly, nor think of any light entertainments out of deference for Richard and for the girl herself whom they had in their own way loved.

"What is the matter with you?" Rudolphe leaned forward, from behind the heavy leather wing of his chair.

Richard had the pistol in his hands and was trying the triggers. It was not loaded. But he knew how to load it, and he knew where the bullets were kept. He moved to the sideboard and opened the first of three very tiny top drawers. There were the bullets. He proceeded to load the gun. "What has come over you!" Rudolphe demanded. And Richard could understand why. It was seldom that he didn't crumple politely at the sound of his father's voice, and his own movements felt marvelously light to him. All the world was clearly delineated and devoid of shadowy margins. It was just that simple when you had made up your mind. "What are you doing with that gun!"

"I am loading it, that's what I'm doing with it. Where's Maman, is she in bed?"

"Loading it, why? Yes, she's in bed."

"Grandpere?"

"In bed." For days they had all gone up to their rooms early, having no desire to share the feeling of depression that lingered in the house.

"All right, then," Richard said. He could see the shape of his father's head clearly in the light from the grate but not the features of his face. Better that way, he calculated. "Now you see I am placing the gun to my head."

"Stop that!" his father's voice was a resentful growl. "Stop that this instant, put that gun down!"

"No, look at it, I have it against my temple," Richard answered. "And if I pull the trigger..."

Rudolphe was afraid. Afraid even to move from the chair. He was bent forward, afraid even to rise and try to s.n.a.t.c.h the gun. He sighed audibly as Richard put the gun down and let it hang at his side.

"If I had pulled the trigger," Richard said coldly, "I would be dead. I am your only son, and I would be dead."

"Keep this up and I'll shoot you!" Rudolphe said furiously.

"No, you won't," Richard said, but he couldn't repress a smile. It was perfectly fine this little touch of humor because he had made his point. He came forward to the fire, but he did not sit down. Rudolphe glowered at him, the brown leather behind him gleaming faintly with the reflection of the flames. "But you might as well do it," Richard said. "That is, one of us might as well pull the trigger if I do not marry Marie."

Rudolphe was visibly startled. But his eyes never left Richard for a second. "Don't torment yourself," he said in a low voice.

"I mean it, mon Pere mon Pere, if you do not consent you might as well put the gun to my head. You know what it would do to me if I left this house and married without your consent. And frankly, you know what it would do to Maman, and you know what it would do to you."

"Don't threaten me, Richard," Rudolphe's voice was low. He was straining to perceive if Richard were serious.

"Mon Pere, I want to marry her now, tonight, and bring her home."

"O my G.o.d," Rudolphe gasped. He placed his elbow on the arm of the chair and ran his fingers across his forehead. "Mon fils," "Mon fils," he said softly, "you cannot turn back the calendar or the clock." he said softly, "you cannot turn back the calendar or the clock."

"Mon Pere, you misunderstand me. My mind is made up. I love you and I love Maman, Grandpere, all of you. But I am going to marry Marie with or without your consent. If I cannot find a priest in the Quarter who doesn't know you, I will go out of the Quarter. I will do what I can to obtain witnesses, and I will marry her just as soon as I can. It will kill me to go against you, kill me to leave this house, but I have no choice."

The voice was cool, respectful, but utterly confident. Richard had no idea himself of how resolute his tone was. He was thinking only of what he had to do, and feeling again that clarity, that simplicity of one who has made up his mind. The impression of the future which he had seen from the top of the stairs only an hour before hadn't left him, not for a moment, and he knew that once he went back into the bedroom for Marie the path was irrevocable.

And Rudolphe was just beginning to understand. He was regarding his son with a peculiar expression almost as if the two had just met.