"So that's it, is it?" Rudolphe sighed. "If I do not bend to the will of my eldest son, my eldest son leaves this house."

"Mon Pere, I am devoted to you. I have always been devoted to you. But in this matter I must do what my conscience tells me and my heart tells me."

"And that is to destroy what this family has labored to build over four generations?" Rudolphe asked. "That's what you will do, you know. You will destroy it if you attempt to bring that girl into this house as your wife."

Richard felt a surprising calm as he stood there. He had not been aware of any tension in himself, that up until this very second, he had been poised as a soldier in battle. Rudolphe had never spoken to him with this seriousness before. Rudolphe had never spoken to him as if he were a man. And the relaxation which Richard experienced was almost delicious. Half the battle had been won.

"Because even if I accept her," Rudolphe said gravely, "and I'm not so sure I can! Even if I accept her and your mother accepts her, and somehow Grandpere could be won over, which strikes me as a sheer impossibility...the community would never accept her! The people who tip their hats to us today would turn their backs tomorrow. My clients would vanish overnight. We wouldn't be the ones whom they would call into the sanctuary of their homes to attend their dead. Everything I've worked for would be destroyed. But why must I say this to you? Don't you know it?"

"There has to be a way!" Richard said. "There has to be a way. To stand up to them all! They need us, mon Pere mon Pere, they can't turn their backs on us after years and years of our faithful service, not just like that. There has to be a way."

Rudolphe shook his head. "Richard, my heart aches for that girl. She made a foolish mistake! She was led into it, obviously, by that miserable Lisette and never dreamed what was going to happen to her. And she compounded that mistake, in her hurt and her confusion, when she sought refuge with Dolly. But it's done, mon fils mon fils, it's done."

"No, mon Pere mon Pere. Now you must listen to me. I know how you've worked, I know how Jean Baptiste worked, I was that high when Grandpere told me the story of how he bought his freedom and his wife's freedom, I've heard all of my life of how Grandpere worked in the tavern in the Tchoupitoulas Road saving every dime that he made, and teaching himself to read and to write at night by the fire. I cherish this heritage, mon Pere mon Pere, I have always cherished it. But I tell you, if you do not help me find a way to make Marie my wife, then you have made me the victim of this heritage, the victim of all you've worked for, not its heir. Don't do that, mon Pere mon Pere, don't doom me to a life of lowered voices in the parlor and balancing coffee cups on my knees. If it hasn't been for me that you've done all this, me as much as Giselle, then who was it for?"

Rudolphe sat back, his sigh almost a groan.

Richard was looking at the gun, the barrel of it cradled in his left hand. "The Lermontants have always been workers, mon Pere mon Pere, fighters! They've always had the strength to beat impossible odds."

There was a soft creak beyond them then, from the darkness of the stairwell. But both men were wrapped in their thoughts, Richard staring at the gun, and his father's eyes on the flames.

"There has to be a way for that strength to prevail in this affair, now!" Richard whispered.

Rudolphe shook his head.

But from the darkness of the hallway there came another voice which said calmly, "There is a way. It might be done."

Richard started. Rudolphe sat forward peering at the open doors.

It was Grandpere. He came slowly into the room, his slippers sc.r.a.ping with every step. His long wool scarf was wound twice around his neck and his small spectacles became brilliant and opaque with the reflected fire. "There just might be a way..." he said. He waved Richard out of his path as he approached the chair. Richard took his arm as he seated himself slowly and with obvious pain.

Rudolphe was staring at his father, amazed.

"I always swore..." Grandpere commenced now that he was settled, "that I would never consent to this boy going to France, not after what happened with his brothers. That I would never give my blessing to such a voyage until he was married, settled, with children in this house. Well, I am ready for a change of mind. He and the Ste. Marie girl should go together, just as soon as the ceremony can be performed, and they should stay abroad until all the tongues of the Quarter cease their wagging. A year, I should think, and then they will come home. Marie Ste. Marie will be the wife of a Lermontant, and I should like to hear anyone dare to insult her then!" He stopped and held up his hand. "Come here, Richard, so that I can see you," he said.

Richard clasped the hand tightly. His heart was pounding. "Yes, Grandpere."

"After that year..." Grandpere said, "you come home!"

"Grandpere. I will live all my life in this house, my children will be born in this house, I will live here until I die."

But Grandpere held tight to his hand as if he did not quite believe this. And then he said. "Mon fils "Mon fils..." then he stopped.

Rudolphe motioned for Richard to be silent. Richard thought Grandpere was thinking of those brothers of his that he'd never seen, those grandsons sent off with such high hopes for the education abroad.

"Grandpere," he whispered, "you've done the Lord's work."

"And the girl?" the old man asked. "How do you propose..."

"I took her out of Dolly Rose's house two hours ago," Richard said. "She's at home now with Marcel."

Both grandfather and father stared at Richard in amazement. "Well," Rudolphe began angrily.

But this time Grandpere motioned for quiet. "Go bring her here," he said. "We won't a.s.semble the family, it will be too hard on her. I'll tell your mother, go on."

But as soon as Richard had left, he sat back in his chair morosely and seemed almost to have fallen asleep. Rudolphe was studying him, aware that it was time to wake Suzette, to prepare a room, but some vague anxiety kept him there near his father, something greater it seemed than the sum total of all the difficulties they now faced.

"Mon Pere," he said finally, leaning forward and touching Grandpere lightly on the knee, "if you believe it can be done, I know it can be done."

The old man did not stir. His eyelids fluttered for an instant behind his spectacles.

"And Richard will be in this house at the end of that year, mon Pere mon Pere, nothing will prevent that." Rudolphe said.

"I know," Grandpere sighed, his voice barely audible, "I never doubted that. It's I who might not be here." But abruptly he rose, shaking his head, and started slowly toward the door.

Rudolphe wanted to speak to him, he wanted to tell him not to talk of such things, but he felt a fear like a spasm of pain. He was still sitting in the chair when Richard and Marie came through the front door. In fact, he was somewhat confused as it seemed only an instant had pa.s.sed, and taken by surprise he found himself staring up at the girl, who clung to Richard, her eyes like those of a wounded animal, her hair free and tousled by the wind. In an instant he was on his feet without thinking, and much to his own surprise he'd taken this girl in his arms. A wild flowery fragrance rose from her hair as he kissed her, and he realized that some powerful protective instinct had infected him. He drew back holding her at arm's length, as was perhaps a father-in-law's prerogative and realized that she had already become one of them in his mind. She was shy, miserable, but when she looked up at his son, her eyes were filled with dazzling love.

VI.

CHRISTOPHE DID NOT GO to Dolly directly after the wedding as he had promised. He knew that he ought to do this, however, because Dolly was not in a good frame of mind. She declared herself quite happy for Marie and Richard, but some well of buried emotion had been stirred in her by Marie's coming and going and she had in the last few days exhibited those very characteristics of debilitating grief that she had shown after the death of her own child. She did not dress or comb her hair, and keeping to her room, left her girls on their own. When no orders came from her for cook, maid, or valet, the house ceased to run itself, quarrels broke out, and all realized soon enough that she was quite willing to tell everyone and anyone to leave if they chose, and go their own way. The door in the Rue Dumaine was now locked. to Dolly directly after the wedding as he had promised. He knew that he ought to do this, however, because Dolly was not in a good frame of mind. She declared herself quite happy for Marie and Richard, but some well of buried emotion had been stirred in her by Marie's coming and going and she had in the last few days exhibited those very characteristics of debilitating grief that she had shown after the death of her own child. She did not dress or comb her hair, and keeping to her room, left her girls on their own. When no orders came from her for cook, maid, or valet, the house ceased to run itself, quarrels broke out, and all realized soon enough that she was quite willing to tell everyone and anyone to leave if they chose, and go their own way. The door in the Rue Dumaine was now locked.

But Marie's sojourn had brought Christophe and Dolly together again, just as the grief for little Lisa Rose had once brought them together, and Christophe knew as he left the Cathedral that indeed he would go to see her, confirm for her that the wedding had in fact taken place (she had her doubts, eh bien eh bien, the proper Lermontants) but he could not go just now.

And why he was not sure. Except that the quiet afternoon ceremony in the sacristy of the church had affected him profoundly in ways that he did not antic.i.p.ate. And as he wandered off along the waterfront, engulfed by the eternal crowds, he felt something of the desperation he had known during his last days in Paris, and recognizing this for what it was, he felt fear. Before five o'clock, he had stopped in half a dozen dram shops, and as the early winter dusk came on fast, with a heavy shrouding fog, he had the sense that he might be in any one of the vast cities he had once visited-the winding dirty alleyways of Cairo, the majestic and wildly beautiful squalor of Rome. All was alien to him, and the feeling of being home and where he belonged left him, so that he was disconnected and he did not understand why.

The school went well, better than ever, he was writing steadily, though nothing of real consequence, and a Paris journal had just written to him asking for more of his recent poems. Yet this harrowing feeling had mounted ever since he left the Cathedral and his mind would grant him no reprieve from some ruthless self-examination as he wandered about, feet often slipping on the wet cobblestones, terrified that were he to encounter anyone he knew at this moment, even his own mother, he would be visited by a sensation he had once experienced in Paris with Michael of simply not knowing who the person was, why he was with that person, why they were on that very spot.

Of course he was happy for Richard and Marie, supremely happy.

In general, respectable people had never interested him very much; and seldom had he invested any emotion in what seemed the inevitable course of their lives. Among his students, he had loved most the wild, the unpredictable, and often the poor rather than those stalwart sons of the good families who in truth tended to grate on his nerves. He had never for a moment entertained the notion, even in childhood, that Juliet was respectable, and she herself had repeatedly throughout her life chosen the more rash and flamboyant of men. It seemed, in fact, that she invariably demanded some monstrous breach of decorum as the price of her favors. She had demanded this of Marcel, surely. And she was demanding it now of Augustin Dumanoir pere pere who came to see her much too often for the good of his plantation and was even murmuring to Christophe something about marriage as if it were entirely possible to make Juliet the mistress of his house. Juliet managing a plantation household, kitchen, scores of slave women and children, the eternal round of sewing, entertaining-someone was losing his or her mind. who came to see her much too often for the good of his plantation and was even murmuring to Christophe something about marriage as if it were entirely possible to make Juliet the mistress of his house. Juliet managing a plantation household, kitchen, scores of slave women and children, the eternal round of sewing, entertaining-someone was losing his or her mind.

But the great exception to this quiet disdain for the respectable had always been the Famille Lermontant Famille Lermontant who struck Christophe not so much as desperately conforming bourgeoisie but rather the genuine article of middle-cla.s.s gentility possessed of whatever n.o.bility that hard-won position might allow. And Rudolphe's conviction that the family could absorb the tragedy and scandal which had all but destroyed Marie Ste. Marie, as well as Richard's courage in marrying her, had gone to Christophe's heart. Of course his love and relief for Marie and for Marcel knew no bounds. who struck Christophe not so much as desperately conforming bourgeoisie but rather the genuine article of middle-cla.s.s gentility possessed of whatever n.o.bility that hard-won position might allow. And Rudolphe's conviction that the family could absorb the tragedy and scandal which had all but destroyed Marie Ste. Marie, as well as Richard's courage in marrying her, had gone to Christophe's heart. Of course his love and relief for Marie and for Marcel knew no bounds.

So why then had an excess of emotion at the wedding caught him so off guard?

Had he not expected the current of shared feeling in that crowded sacristy, the bride's uncommon radiance, the raw and innocent love in the eyes of the tall groom? When Marie had spoken her vows in a halting and vibrant voice, Christophe's eyes had misted over, and it seemed to him, though he had scorned all things romantic since his exile from Paris, that the immense structure of the Cathedral itself veritably trembled when the bride and the groom embraced.

Reasonably enough, he could tell himself now that it had been a rare moment when the very concept of marriage had been exalted, and that the collective act of faith in that room had transcended the sum of all the individual hopes. Marry they had, in spite of everything. And even Richard's wan little cousins come so valiantly from far and wide to peer fearfully at the resplendent bride had been affected by it as well as the more worldly Anna Bella, Marcel, and Juliet.

So why this unhappiness, why as darkness fell completely over the struggling gas lamps, and the burnished light of the open taverns spilled into the fog, was Christophe on the verge of panic, trudging through these streets? Was it a sense of exclusion, no, that could not be, he told himself. And muscling to a crowded bar, he drank down another shot of cheap rum.

And yet summoned back and back to the sacristy door in his imagination, he was confronted by a bewildering sight, that of Marcel turning from the young couple, and smiling almost sadly at Christophe as he went off down the alley beside the Cathedral alone. Christophe's eyes followed that retreating figure unwilling now as they had been then to let the figure go. And he realized with a stultifying amazement that all this long dreary afternoon he'd been thinking of that moment, weaving it in and out of his more lofty considerations of the wedding, his more conscientious considerations of Dolly Rose. Marcel. And what was so remarkable about his leaving that sacristy, about his evanescent and melancholy smile? What was so remarkable about that figure moving on through Pirate's Alley, tall, blond-haired, indifferent, moving steadily away from the Cathedral and steadily away from him!

Images came back to him, images alien to these waterfront streets, images so old that their freshness startled him, shook him in their clarity, images of a mountainside at Sounion, the tip of Greece, below the Temple of Neptune where Lord Byron had carved his name. And Christophe was thinking of the low peasant's hut where he had first made love to Michael, after a year's wandering from Paris during which Michael had never once touched him, leaving it to Christophe to make the first move. No, Christophe wasn't thinking of it now, he was there!

And stumbling suddenly on the gunwale sidewalk, the crowd jostling him, he looked up with an exquisite relief to realize that he had found the familiar door to Madame Lelaud's.

In a moment he had pushed through the knot of white men blocking the entrance, and that relief still coursing through him, relaxing him, quieting him, he rested his back for a moment against a heavy rough-hewn wooden beam. Not ten yards from him was his regular table, the table where he and Marcel had talked when he had first come home. And the feeling of Sounion descended on him again, wouldn't leave him, and he was seeing in disconnected blasts those rocky cliffs, the sea itself stretching out forever and those few columns piercing the sky. Not this crowded bar, not the sweetly shabby figure of Madame Lelaud with skin the color of a walnut sh.e.l.l, who very obligingly left the bar to put the usual mug of beer in his hand. He was feeling, smelling that Greek countryside, and he could hear the tinkle of the bell about the neck of the Judas goat, see the shepherd climbing the steep cliff. He had to rest his back against the rough post to drink the beer. Where was Marcel now, at this moment? The smoke of this crowded place burned his eyes.

"And where's my blue-eyed bebe?" bebe?" Madame Lelaud smiled at him, flecking the smallest bit of dust from his lapel. He laughed. She wore a dark rouge on her lips that was dried and powdery, "Hmmm, I haven't seen my blue-eyed Madame Lelaud smiled at him, flecking the smallest bit of dust from his lapel. He laughed. She wore a dark rouge on her lips that was dried and powdery, "Hmmm, I haven't seen my blue-eyed bebe bebe in ever so long, he stayed here for three days, right at that table, and then he was gone." Gone, gone, gone, gone. "Hmm, you give him a kiss for me, hmmmmmm?" in ever so long, he stayed here for three days, right at that table, and then he was gone." Gone, gone, gone, gone. "Hmm, you give him a kiss for me, hmmmmmm?"

"Certainly!" Christophe winked as he blew the foam off the beer. And then on tiptoe Madame Lelaud kissed him, a worn working mouth but gentle, and resisting the urge to wipe the bit of moisture left on his lip, he smiled at her, beamed at her in fact. He and Marcel together at that table which he could no longer see for the crowd, "Monsieur, you don't know how I admire you, if you would only give me a chance..."

"I'll kiss you again if you don't watch out," she winked, but the man behind the bar was shouting at her, taunting her, they teased her about Christophe as they always did when he came in.

"Billiards, Madam, billiards," he said to her in English, quite unaware of the crisp British sound of it, a white man in a broad-brimmed hat looking up suddenly from the billiard table, his mouth a moist smile beneath the shadow of the brim. "It's time to play some serious billiards," and pushing toward the brightly illuminated felt as the white man was chalking his cue Christophe surveyed the scattered ivory b.a.l.l.s. There was the black man who was always there, the one with the two camellias in his lapel, the silk vest and the frock coat with its velvet collar, his skin so black it reflected the light all over it, the lips almost purple.

"Aaaah, Monsieur le Schoolteacher," he said, he spoke English also, elegant British English with just the hint of Jamaica, and saluted Christophe with his cue. He was running the b.a.l.l.s, had shot the last three in while Christophe was downing the beer. And now he moved around the table for his fourth. Christophe slapped a five-dollar gold piece on the rail of the table, and the black man smiled, nodding, "Yes sir, Monsieur le Schoolteacher." He bent over the table, made a high bridge with his very long fingers, and banked the red ball before it went in.

Sounion in this place, it was enough to drive a man mad! Some sudden irrelevant flash of sitting in his room drunk after Michael's death, on the very same bed in which Michael died, explaining something to Marcel about Sounion and telling him only some vaguely metaphorical image for the real truth, the raw and pa.s.sionate truth in the hut. "Not very high stakes," said the black man driving in the eight ball.

The white man with the broad-brimmed hat threw up his hands. The cue was standing against the table for Christophe to take it. The man wore fancy river gambler clothes, and rested his back with a feline movement on the rough-hewn support, crossing his ankles in pale immaculate buckskin pants that were tight over the bulge between his legs, the shimmer of his gray vest making Christophe grit his teeth suddenly at the thought of a fingernail running across the silk. The chest beneath it was solid, broad.

"Ten dollars, Monsieur," said the black man chalking the cue, "and you break."

"Generous, generous, let's lag for break," Christophe fished in his pocket, put the ten-dollar piece on the rail. "That's fifteen, sir." He liked the feel of this cue because it was heavy and short. "Eight ball," he said. The Jamaican nodded. Marcel had listened so patiently, the blue eyes so intense, the face exactly the color of honey poured from a gla.s.s pitcher in the sunlight. The same Marcel who did not seek my company today after the wedding, who turned and gave me that affectionate, almost intimate smile, easy, touched my arm and then walked out of the church precisely when I had expected, expected what, that we would go on together???

"You break, Monsieur," a smile on the sculpted black face, the high sloping forehead, prominent nose, white teeth.

"So I do." There were several ways to approach it, take a risk, he felt the thrust perfect and then the b.a.l.l.s went everywhere. Or so it seemed. He had sunk three.

A cl.u.s.ter of men pushed suddenly against the head of the table, and the usual din was underscored by the hard heavy sounds of a scuffle, shouts. And pa.s.sing then was the spectacle of a man hoisted in the air, brogans dangling above a score of rising, shoving hands. Into the street, the fog curling just for an instant as those who blocked the door gave way, and then closed again against the cold.

There was thirty dollars in gold gleaming on the rail, Christophe took his time, knowing now that he was at that perfect stage of drunkenness when this would be easy, this would go well. An hour from now, maybe less, get out of the game. "You have another one of those, cold and foaming?" he whispered to Madame Lelaud. Her ap.r.o.n was filthy, her thin rippling hair reminded him of his mother who said of Marcel so indifferently last night, "But he's no longer a boy, he's a man now," as if that made all the difference in the world to her pa.s.sion.

"But Dumanoir is no boy, what is that to you!"

"Ah, yes!" she'd answered with remarkable candor. "But he is a very old man!" Nothing like you, Maman, since ancient Rome, he had thought.

"Watch out for these boys, darling!" Madame Lelaud said to him in English. "You know what I mean?"

"Seven ball, far right pocket," he said and with a quick and somewhat reckless thrust sent it in.

"Hmmmm," he took the beer from her, drank a mouthful and giving it back, wiped his hand on his pants.

"They let you win a little at first, hmmmm? Watch out."

"Five ball, side pocket," he tapped the leather edge with the tip of the cue, then banked the ball at the perfect angle so that the black man smiled. He wore pomade on his tightly waving hair. It gleamed like his face under the low-hanging lamp, the little camellias in his lapel browning at the edges, but otherwise he was perfect, the coat tapering at his narrow waist, his nails shining as if they'd been buffed. A rough-bearded Dutchman appraised him slowly as he pa.s.sed, thudding up the wooden stairs to the rooms above. Men in the corner suddenly roared with laughter, heads bowing, rising, at some perfect exchange.

"Three ball, far left pocket," Christophe said, but he had been thinking this was the time to try to get both of them in, the three and the two, the two chasing the three perfectly, very tricky. And as they sank, he heard the murmur around him like applause, the riverboat gambler in his green coat shifting his weight from one foot to the other with that moist smile and only shadows for eyes. "Very good, Monsieur le Schoolteacher," said the black man.

"Now this is your Waterloo!" Madame Lelaud's hair brushed his ear. "This is where you always go crazy, with the eight ball."

"Madam, for the love of heaven," he rubbed the chalk on the cue, "have a little faith."

He was sizing it up, why not make it a beauty? And calling the farthest pocket, he heard them gasp.

"But on second thought," he said suddenly with a slight mocking lilt to his voice, and a touch of the fop to his gestures, "I think that ball looks just fine right where it is."

The black man was laughing, the riverboat gambler let out a low rumble as he smiled. Adjusting the brim of his hat he showed for one instant the gleam of a clear hazel eye.

"You are a witty man, Monsieur le Schoolteacher," said the black man. Christophe tapped the pocket again. Marcel had just left the church as though that smile were enough.

"Did you think he was going to be a boy forever?" his mother had turned the questioning around the night before, pulling the hair from her brush. "And you, Christophe, are you going to be a boy forever?"

"Stop, Maman, enjoy your old man."

"And suppose I go to the country with him..."

"But you won't!"

"I don't know," she had shrugged, flicking the long hair over her shoulder again, "I was born in the country, maybe I want to go back to the country, and you, Christophe, you?"

He drew in his breath and shot, hard, fast, the ball crashing against the right bank, left bank, right bank again and straight into the wrong pocket!

The black man had thrown back his head to laugh, his long concave fingers sliding the thirty dollars off the rail. "You should teach the art of billiards, Monsieur le Schoolteacher."

"The art art of billiards, the of billiards, the art?" art?" Christophe surrendered the cue to an anonymous hand. It seemed the black man's pocket jingled with coins. "Billiards is not an art, Monsieur," Christophe smiled as he turned to push his way toward the bar. "You wouldn't think of marrying," he had said to Juliet, and she with that wan smile, "Ah, but what you mean to say is I wouldn't think of leaving you!" Christophe surrendered the cue to an anonymous hand. It seemed the black man's pocket jingled with coins. "Billiards is not an art, Monsieur," Christophe smiled as he turned to push his way toward the bar. "You wouldn't think of marrying," he had said to Juliet, and she with that wan smile, "Ah, but what you mean to say is I wouldn't think of leaving you!"

He was staring at himself in the filthy mirror beyond the row of bottles. All the shades on the oil lamps that hung from the ceiling were completely black. "And I would think of it," she had touched him lightly with the handle of the brush. There loomed suddenly behind his own reflected image the broad-brimmed hat of the river gambler, the light skittering again on his gray silk vest.

"Kentucky sipping whiskey!" the barkeep stared into the river gambler's face, the glinting shadows that were the man's eyes. "Sipping "Sipping whiskey, whiskey, sipping sipping whiskey!" whiskey!"

"I know you have it," came the velvet whisper, a shoulder nudging Christophe.

What had he expected, that Marcel would come to him then after the wedding, alone, and vulnerable, what are you going to do now with your life, which direction, and they would sit again in his room as always talking, sharing all of it, the wine, the relief, the despair? Marcel didn't need him anymore, Marcel had not needed him for some time, the young man who returned from the Cane River was without that certain yearning, it was simply absent, replaced by that confident and remote smile. A hand was squeezing his arm.

He felt a pain in his temples as if the skin were tightening and the veins were protruding, veins that were always there, a small expressionless and completely unremarkable brown face confronting him in the splotched mirror, and the panic rising again which he had left, somehow or other, by magic at the door. This isn't the component of a great emotion, Christophe, this is petty, the thinking of a child. How to live without it, that's the question, without the cool Englishman sitting in the door of the hut at Sounion waiting, waiting, knowing precisely what was going to happen through all the confusion, the exposure, the pain. And the boy with the blue eyes, "But I don't know how to be your lover, you have to show me, be my teacher!" "No, the answer is now and forever no." Yes, love and pain, that's exquisite, but how to make life worthwhile even when they aren't there, how to be sustained by what you do, what you want, what you are yourself! "But you can't marry Dumanoir!" he had said to her, and she, "Ten long years I kept my vigil for you, Chris, I tell you I will marry him, I will leave this house." He shuddered. And in the dim mirror saw again the ruddy square face of the riverboat gambler, light glinting on the fine bones of his cheeks, his jaw. The lips spread in that moist, easy smile. The editor from Paris had written just months ago, "This novel has your old brilliance, but not your narrative strength. Send more, we want to see more, can't you recapture your old narrative strength?" One had somehow to feel one's own powers, one's own skill coursing through one's veins!

"I know you have good sipping whiskey, I've seen it!" said the river gambler.

"Ah, darling, you lost your money, I told you to be careful." Madame Lelaud leaned on Christophe's shoulder like a child going to sleep. I feel empty, empty! And over all is laid a layer of ash so that nothing has its former brilliance, all is indistinct. "Give them the good Kentucky bourbon," she winked her eye. "You don't play any more billiards tonight." She brushed Christophe's hair back from his temples which was perfectly absurd because his hair was so wiry and closecut it never actually moved. "You watch out for these boys!" she smiled at the gambler.

"I always watch out for the boys, Madam," Christophe beamed down at her. And he heard the river gambler's soft American laugh. The man had placed his elbow on the bar beside Christophe, one foot on the bra.s.s rail so the buckskin pants pulled over the bulge between his legs.

"And this house is going to be empty, empty," she had warned him with another long swipe at her dark hair. "You grow up, hmmmmm?"

"You want to find a little amus.e.m.e.nt?" the gambler whispered in French.

Of course it will all come back to you! Christophe drank the mellow expensive bourbon, soothing the rawness of his tongue. In the cla.s.sroom tomorrow it will come back to you when you see their faces, when you see young Gaston with those poems he won't dare to show to anyone but you, and Frederick, that brilliant Jean Louis, Paul. This deadening cloud will lift when you hear their voices, there will be a flavor to things, color, you were living with some foolish notion while Marcel was gone, or were you merely living with the notion that he would come back? "He's not a boy anymore," flick of the hairbrush, "and that's why I didn't wait for him. And you, mon cher mon cher, when I'm gone, what will you do?" Go to h.e.l.l, Maman, go to h.e.l.l for all I care, go to the country, go to h.e.l.l.

"Amus.e.m.e.nt?" he whispered to the mirror. The buckskin leg nudged his gently. "Women?"

"Is that that what amuses you?" asked the un.o.btrusive American voice. what amuses you?" asked the un.o.btrusive American voice.