Feast of All Saints (96 page)

“O God…” he whispered suddenly. “God!” 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 damndest 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 lackluster 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 passion 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 Grandpère’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 glass. 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.”

R
ICHARD 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 Grandpère 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.”

“Grandpère?”

“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 snatch 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 Père
, 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 Père
, I want to marry her now, tonight, and bring her home.”

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

“Mon Père
, you misunderstand me. My mind is made up. I love you and I love Maman, Grandpère, 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.

“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 Père
, 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 Grandpère 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 Père
, 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
, it’s done.”

“No,
mon Père
. Now you must listen to me. I know how you’ve worked, I know how Jean Baptiste worked, I was that high when Grandpère told me the story of how he bought his freedom and his wife’s freedom, I’ve heard all of my life of how Grandpère 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 Père
, 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 Père
, 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 Père
, 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 Grandpère. He came slowly into the room, his slippers scraping 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…” Grandpère 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, Grandpère.”

“After that year…” Grandpère said, “you come home!”

“Grandpère. 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 Grandpère held tight to his hand as if he did not quite believe this. And then he said.
“Mon fils
…” then he stopped.

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

“Grandpère,” 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.