Feast of All Saints (61 page)

Now the boy appeared quite clear to Rudolphe as he stood before the sculpture, the dust clinging to his dark lashes and the tight halo of his black hair. His words were soft and winding and unobtrusive and Rudolphe without even hearing them suddenly realized what they meant. The boy was going to Europe, he was going to Italy to study art.

That he would be disappointed now to see his employer bow his head, that he would be disappointed to see his employer turn his back, all this Rudolphe knew. But just for a moment Rudolphe could say nothing, and it seemed all the bitterness that had been building in him all the long day came up like the taste of poison in his mouth. “Going,” Rudolphe whispered. “Going. Like all the rest.”

“Pardonnez
, Monsieur?” the boy whispered behind him.

Rudolphe shook his head. Turning he saw the sculpture had become slightly indistinct, shadows obscured the beautiful face.

“Monsieur, I have worked for years for this…”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Rudolphe said wearily, and without thinking to explain, he walked heavily past the boy, past the angel, into the shed. He found a chair there without worrying about dust or dirt and sat down, his arm on the deal table against the wall. The boy was taking his time as he came from the yard, sensing Rudolphe’s displeasure, and it was the boy who now bowed his head.

“What can I do here, Monsieur?” came the voice as the figure, quite completely dark, stood against the open door. “In Rome, I can study with the masters, Monsieur, I can have the future…” The words without sound or meaning rumbled on.

It seemed a long time before Rudolphe finally spoke.

“I know, Narcisse, I know.” His hand moved into his coat pocket. He felt his leather wallet there and drew it out. He let it rest on his knee. “It’s just that all the young talented ones leave us, Narcisse. Or so it seems.” He sighed.

“Monsieur,” came the soft reasonable voice. “What is there here for me? My work is admired, but I will never be admired!”

It was all the same old story. Why put it into words again?

You can go whenever you want, Rudolphe was explaining, Jacques would take over the remaining orders, and if there is anything special, well, then tomorrow we will go over the books together, we’ll talk. Drowsily, heavily, Rudolphe rose to his feet. He opened his wallet, and he heard the boy’s frank gasp as he received the bills.

“But Monsieur…”

“No, no, no…you deserve it,” Rudolphe was already on his way.

And it was night before he reached the Rue Dumaine.

He had given his mind over to practical thoughts. How tomorrow evening when meeting with his Benevolent Society he would introduce a resolution to raise a fund for the young sculptor to help him in Rome. Of course LeMond would be willing, and Vacquerie delighted, but Rousseau would probably balk. Didn’t the boy already have his Craftsmen’s Society? “You know very well they’d be grateful for our assistance!” Rudolphe would insist with pride. So on his thoughts went. But try as he might, he could not put the bitterness of the loss of Narcisse out of his mind, and as he approached Dolly’s house with its blazing lights, he was eager for any distraction.

And Dolly was one of the more powerful distractions of which he knew.

The truth was that Rudolphe had always been fond of Dolly, and terribly fond of her when she was a young girl. He was a faithful man, deeply in love with Suzette, but fidelity had not always been easy for him. And being powerfully built and handsome in the Caucasian mode, with light brown skin, he had ample opportunity to stray. Only a few lapses had blemished his respect for himself, lapses without affection or warmth. And confessing these to Suzette after, he had endured her scornful condemnations almost gratefully, resolving never to travel sordid paths again.

But he had lusted, truly lusted, after a few very beautiful women
in his heart, women whom he had never even thought to touch. One of these was Juliet Mercier in her youth who had all but bewitched him without the slightest knowledge of it, and another was Dolly Rose.

However, this was not the Dolly who had become Dazincourt’s mistress, nor the spiteful crazed woman who had come drunk and wild-eyed to Marie Ste. Marie’s birthday fête. It was the young Dolly, the honest Dolly, one of the purest, gentlest and truly innocent women Rudolphe had ever known. During those years when she had frequented his home with Giselle, Rudolphe was often in a private hell watching her, listening to her spirited laughter, feeling the bold and naive touch of her cheek when she rose on tiptoe to greet him with a simple kiss. And loving as she did to entertain the respectable young men of color who came to visit with her and with Giselle, Dolly would be the one, for certain, he had thought, to go against her mother’s ways. Times were changing, after all, and these were not the days of
Les Sirènes
as Madame Rose and the old beauties from Saint-Domingue had been called. There was a sordid air in recent years about the Salle d’Orléans on those nights when women of color went there to meet their white “protectors” and surely this lovely Dolly, so fresh, and so strong in a perfectly feminine fashion, would not choose the old path.

But Dolly had chosen it. In her sixteenth year she had been presented at the “quadroon balls.” Giselle had thrown herself across the bed sobbing when Rudolphe forbade the friends to meet. And on the day that Giselle was married at the St. Louis Cathedral, she had not seen Dolly watching the wedding from the back of the church. But Rudolphe had seen her, and would never forget that pretty figure, Dolly done up as if she were to be a bridesmaid, quite alone, watching all with tears in her eyes.

Of course she was rich then. Young Vincent Dazincourt kept her in silks and satins, she had a beautiful baby girl. A private orchestra was hired to play just for the pair whenever Dazincourt came to town.

Rudolphe seldom saw her after that. Dolly was a wild and bitter woman by the time she lost her mother. But he had never forgotten the vision of that pristine and blossoming girl.

And it was that girl, actually, who had flamed to rage the anger he felt for the woman she had become.

Walking back her carriageway now, he did not wish to see her, did not wish to battle with her over her daughter’s gravestone, nor to hear her crude invectives on the matter of Vincent Dazincourt. Nevertheless he felt a certain grim curiosity about her. Despising her as he did for her behavior with Christophe, he had never guessed that her life would take this course. He had envisioned a series of broken romances for her, the quasi-respectable arrangements of
placage
fractured again
and again by her whims. Advancing age would have put an end to it, an end that might have been shabby indeed.

But Dolly’s “house” and the word did indeed now merit that connotation, was one of the most prosperous in the Quarter, all the rage for its newness and for the luminary that Dolly had been. It was clever, all of it, yet dreadful. Dolly had thrown away everything. Yet Dolly had triumphed at the same time.

He was not at all surprised now to happen upon a courtyard strung with pretty lanterns, and candles on the iron tables about which a few white men were already gathered in the company of dark women whispering in the gloom. And it did not surprise him either that a pretty young mulatto girl came at once to ask his business and went to inform the mistress that he was here.

Led along the upstairs gallery of the servants’ quarters he hesitated outside the appointed room. No one below took notice of him anymore than if he were a Negro servant, and he was too tired to be irritated, and felt merely the vaguest excitement at the prospect of seeing what Dolly really was.

It was her maid who threw open the heavy green shutters and said come in.

The bright lamps of the room blinded him for an instant and he was startled by what he then saw.

For in this smaller servant’s boudoir was crowded all of Dolly’s bedroom trappings from the big house across the yard. Here was the immense four poster from which Rudolphe had pulled the drunken Christophe the summer before. And here that immense dresser with its beveled mirrors, those painted screens. But at a rolltop desk against the wall at the foot of the bed sat Dolly quite collected in a blue dimity dressing gown. Her thick black hair hung loose in deep waves down her back, and as she turned to greet him, her face was bright, almost radiant, and youthful, without the trace of pain.

“Come in, Rudolphe,” she said to him without mockery. She laid down her pen. Her ledgers were open there and he saw in one quick glimpse columns of figures. And a great deal of money, very likely a reckless amount of money, stacked in an open metal box. “Sit down, Rudolphe,” she was saying. “What brings you here?” It was just as if they were old friends.

The sash of the dimity dressing gown was quite modestly wrapped and a froth of beige silk flounces rested high on her breast to the neck. He reflected in a moment of peculiar intensity that sin was doing her good. In fact she looked better than she had in years. She looked almost like…quickly, he shook his head.

“It’s a matter of the gravestone, Madame, for your daughter. It’s a matter of a monument ordered for it by Monsieur Dazincourt.”

There was a flicker in the clear black eyes, a flicker that made him stiffen, ready for all those excesses he had witnessed in the past. But she appeared to be thinking and said, “I didn’t know of this.”

“Well, it’s quite beautiful, Madame, and more than fitting. He ordered it some months ago. I had thought it was your order until it was recently finished and the matter came to my attention yesterday afternoon. I’ve seen the sculpture in question and truly it is fitting. I think perhaps you should see it yourself.”

In a few words then he attempted to describe it to her, but this could not touch it, and the atmosphere of the shed and the yard came back to him along with Narcisse’s revelation that he would soon go abroad. He found that beautiful as the statue had been it was unpleasant to think about it, unpleasant to be overpowered again by that sense of anguish and the deepening dusk. He had stopped speaking and was scowling at the carpet before him, at her small morocco slipper and the dimity against the naked instep of her foot. “Madame, of course, we’ll do as you wish,” he said, looking up. “But before you make up your mind, see it first.”

“I know Narcisse’s work,” she said. “Everyone knows it. Put the statue in place.” Her manner was completely reasonable. She sat with her back to the desk, one elbow on the open ledger, her small pale hands clasped.

“Very well, Madame,” he rose at once and reached for his hat.

“Rudolphe,” she said suddenly. “Don’t go so soon.”

He was about to make some trivial excuse when he saw by her manner that this was not merely politeness on her part. Her eyes had an imploring expression while the face remained firm.

“How is Madame Suzette?” she asked. “How is Giselle?”

“Very well, Madame, all of them, very well.”

“And Richard?” she asked. “You know Richard did me a great kindness once, bringing me home when I was ill.”

Rudolphe nodded. He knew nothing about this, naturally enough, his gentleman of a son hadn’t bothered to tell him, but
eh bien
, people were forever telling him how Richard had done this or that kindness, well, perfectly fine.

“Very well, Madame,” he said in the same dull and discouraging tone.

“Is this true that he is courting the Ste. Marie girl?” she asked. He felt himself tense at this question, and he realized he was glowering at her, at the seeming openness of her expression.

“He’s far too young for that,” he murmured carelessly, and again he moved to go.

“And Christophe?” she asked.

He glanced at her over his shoulder. Only now was the calm
breaking. Her eyebrows had knit in an intense frown. She was waiting for his answer, her chin lifted, her body inclined slightly forward in the chair. “You do see him, do you not? Richard goes to his school?”

“He’s done very well, Madame,” he said, unsure of his voice. He was not good at pretending events had never happened, not good at “carrying on” as if there weren’t old wounds. “And you, Madame?” he said suddenly angry. “And how does it go with you?”

There was that flicker again, marring the steady gaze. And she looked down, her hand rising to find some imperfection in the paper of the ledger, her dark lashes casting the most delicate shadow on her cheeks. “I do not go out much anymore, Monsieur, I do not see anyone,” she said her voice deepening. “I merely wondered if he…if his life is going well.”

“Exemplary,” Rudolphe murmured, the blood warm in his cheeks. “He turns students away, and gives private lessons in the evening. But of course it’s hard. A schoolteacher is never a rich man.”

She was pondering this. Or something else. And when she looked up again, her voice was soft and slightly sad. “Would you give him a message for me, Monsieur?” she asked.

He would certainly rather not. But how say so, he wondered. So he said nothing, and knew that it was perfectly plain.

But she rose from the desk and moving around the bed went down on her knees beneath the ruffles and drew out a large leather case.

“Here, allow me…” he mumbled resentfully, and took it from her as he also took her hand. It was moist and warm in his own and almost perfectly the same color.

“I want you to take this to him for me,” she said. It was heavy, very heavy. He set it down by the door.

Why a slave couldn’t have done that, he couldn’t imagine, because now she certainly had slaves enough. And the image of himself lugging this case through the streets distressed him. “But what is it?” he asked.

“Tuning wrenches. They belong to Bubbles, and he can’t do his work without them,” she murmured. She stood beside the desk, her head to one side, looking down.

“Ahhh,” he nodded. He had heard that story often enough. Stopping Bubbles in the street to ask if he might tune the new spinet, he had been told the slave’s lament. Dolly Rose wouldn’t give the wrenches back. And seeing now that all this was quite impulsive with her, that in this brightly lighted room at seven o’clock on a summer evening because he had dropped in, she had decided to do right by Bubbles, he murmured indeed he would take them to Christophe on his way home.