Feast of All Saints (90 page)

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

She was clutching her shoulders with her hands, arms crossed over her bosom, the buttons half undone, the silk transparent and clinging to her arms with the heavy cold rain when she stumbled, her foot cut and bleeding, into Dolly Rose’s yard.

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

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

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

“I should go home first…” he said.

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

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

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

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

“But what is the reason?” Marcel was studying the impassive face.

Christophe took his key ring out of his pocket, and without answering he locked the door to the hall. Then he put the key ring back into his pocket and before Marcel could question this, he said,

“I want you to promise me that when I’m finished you will not try to do anything without my knowledge or permission. You understand? Your friend Richard is locked in his grandfather’s bedroom in the attic of the Lermontant house and for two days he has been trying to get out. Rudolphe and Antoine haven’t left the house, and they have left off trying to reason with him and they merely watch the door. I don’t
want to go through that with you. I want you to do exactly as I say. Is that clear?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s the boy to see you, Michie Vince,” the slave persisted, the loose mouth letting the words go slowly, “Michie’s boy.”

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

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

Twice before, Vincent had seen him. Glimpses when his mind
was set on other men. But in the wintry light from the windows, the boy was revealed to him entirely, an extraordinary
sang-mêlé
beauty of honey skin, ashen hair, blue eyes. Eyes bluer than Philippe’s had ever been, and altogether penetrating, sharp. The young man was tall, fine of feature, with a face that evinced breeding, grace. Vincent’s mind produced for him an image simultaneously of the boy’s sister, that striking and coldly beautiful girl who had spoken so politely, so bloodlessly of Philippe’s death. The mere thought of her conjured the horror of Lola Dedé’s house, the sneering humor in Alcee LeMaitre’s face before he raised the pistol to shoot. A slumbering rage awakened in Vincent, whispering to him, I am here, I have been here all the time, I shall be with you in the morning, I shall steady your hand. And his thoughts, proceeding slowly, ever so slowly in the great clarity produced by eminent danger moved on: this brother and sister were wildly unlike each other, and yet very much the same, they had the demeanor of that dark ladylike woman who was their mother, that haughtiness that reminded him of men and women he had known in Paris, aristocrats for generations who bereft of all wealth and title by recurrent revolution nevertheless commanded subservience all around.

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

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

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

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

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.