Long Distance Life Part 32

But she came across the carpet then and taking his arm in one hand, pushed gently at his right hand with the other until he let the case go. "Rudolphe," she said. "Tell that to Christophe for me."

For a brief moment he merely looked into her eyes. And then without thinking, he whispered to her, heartfelt, "Dolly, why! Why this house, why all of this! Wasn't there some other way?"

At first, she merely shook her head, the smile lengthening, brightening on her face. And then leaning against him, her hand on his shoulder, she said, "You know sometimes I think that if Christophe had been, well...if Christophe had been the marrying kind, maybe it would have all been different, maybe it would have been different indeed. But that's foolish isn't it, Rudolphe? To imagine that now?"

"Too easy, I think, Dolly," he said softly. He could not imagine her content with any man, let alone a man of color, it was absurd. In fact, the image of some sordid and miserable marriage between her and Christophe sickened him. But it was difficult to think of this clearly when he looked at her now. Her high forehead was as smooth and free of care as that of a child.

"Do you really believe in life after death?" she asked him. He was startled by the question, but answered immediately, "Yes."

"That the dead are somewhere...else?"

"Of course."

"That Lisa is somewhere...and that I'll see her again?" Her eyes were moist as she looked up.

"Definitely," he replied.

"And that my mother is somewhere...and she knows what I do?"

Ah, so that was it. He studied her, trying vainly to think of something comforting to say. He had no such trouble when dealing with the mourners at funerals and wakes. And he wondered that this ability, so often polished, should fail him now. Perhaps it was her expression. Her eyes were wide, musing, and there was nothing of the sentimental about her.

"Imagine," she said softly, staring forward, "what Maman would have thought had I married Christophe! Her precious Dolly with a man of..."

He turned away. His face was suddenly throbbing. It was an insult that she should speak thus to him and he wouldn't endure it. He had the case of wrenches in his right hand at once and nothing would keep him here now.

But she drew close to him right at the door, one arm sliding urgently about his waist. She was looking down, her head all but brus.h.i.+ng his chest.

"I have to go, Madame," he said. A fast, light music came from the big house, and an indifferent murmur from the yard below.

"It doesn't much matter, does it?" she sighed. "Marrying him or not, does it? After all, Maman's turning in her grave."

"Life is for the living, ma chere," ma chere," he said suddenly, not conscious that he had closed his hand on her small shoulder and was pressing it tightly. "What the dead think of us in G.o.d's time and wisdom is just fiction in our minds. Life is for the living, for us now. Close up this house for your own sake. That power is yours anytime." he said suddenly, not conscious that he had closed his hand on her small shoulder and was pressing it tightly. "What the dead think of us in G.o.d's time and wisdom is just fiction in our minds. Life is for the living, for us now. Close up this house for your own sake. That power is yours anytime."

He stepped onto the porch. Her arms dropped to her sides.

She smiled as she looked up at him, her hair so full it made a dark shadow behind her to her waist.

"Rudolphe, none of that concerns me," she said simply. "I've made my choice and I rather like it. And maybe, just maybe, it's the only real choice I've ever made."

"Dolly, Dolly," he shook his head.

But she was not sad, nor spiteful. There had been a conviction in those appalling words. She folded her arms and leaned against the frame of the door, obscuring for the moment the light behind her. "You know it is such a sublime feeling to do as one pleases for once, to own one's own person, one's own soul."

"How can you say this?" he protested.

"I don't go into that house over there, Rudolphe, I haven't been in it for months," she smiled. "I can do what I want, Rudolphe, what I like. And I'll tell you something. If I weren't so devoted to Madame Suzette, I'd beg you to stay for a while...here...with me. No one would take the slightest notice of that now, no one would care. Just you and me here alone. But then perhaps I underestimate Madame Suzette. She was always an understanding woman. Maybe she'd forgive, that is, if she ever found out..."

For an instant, he merely stared at her, his eyes wide. And then softly, he said, "Adieu "Adieu, Madame," and was gone.

It was very late that night before he finally went home. Bubbles had been overjoyed to receive the wrenches. He had salvaged a ruined piano from a recent fire in the neighborhood and was in the process of restoring it in Christophe's kitchen shed. Now with the wrenches and other tools in his case, he would complete this task and his grat.i.tude knew no bounds. He cut such an elegant figure these days, quite accustomed now to the fine clothes Christophe continued to give him, that he would soon be earning money for himself and for Christophe of which Christophe was sorely in need. The Mercier house after so many years of blatant neglect was a constant liability as well as a priceless a.s.set; its ongoing repairs took every penny that Christophe made.

Christophe himself had not disappointed Rudolphe, and after accepting Dolly's expressions of good will with a gentlemanly nod, he had poured the wine and offered a sympathetic ear. He concurred with Rudolphe on political matters as he always did, but he himself seemed unmoved by the current state of affairs except for one point: it was so hard now to set a slave free. And Christophe wanted to set Bubbles free. Bubbles would have to be thirty years of age and self-sufficient unless a pet.i.tion was filed and an exception granted, and this was becoming harder to accomplish all the time. Louisiana was afraid of her free Negro population and did not wish to see it increased. Meantime free blacks and people of color poured into New Orleans from all over the South seeking the anonymity and tolerance that the city had to offer. The legislature sought again and again to control this, to limit it, to prevent it. Their contempt for their colored population was abundantly clear.

But in all this Christophe was alert but calm, sympathetic but removed. And Rudolphe as he had hoped, felt better for having seen him and spoken to him, for having unburdened his soul. It had occurred to him just before leaving that Christophe's att.i.tudes represented an alternative of which Rudolphe in the past had not been so keenly aware. Christophe knew exactly what was happening to his people, and he cared very much about it, but he was not personally diminished by it in any way. He saw his task as the education of his students and he felt he might strive to do that to perfection regardless of the injustices of this time and place.

And this time and place seemed far more bearable to Rudolphe as he finally went home. If a man could perceive that deeply, neither excusing nor ignoring it, and still have peace of mind, well, that was a worthwhile thing. Wisdom was the only word for it that Rudolphe knew.

And wisdom was on his mind to some extent when coming up the stairs that night, he pa.s.sed his son's room.

The door was open to catch the cooling draughts of the house and a weary Richard was squinting by the light of the lamp over his books. He wore a dressing gown, open at the throat to show a bit of the dark hair on his chest, and as usual appeared to Rudolphe, when seen in a sudden unexpected glance, as a much older and somewhat impressive man.

Rudolphe paused. He attempted to put the imposing figure into perspective, this was his son, his youngest, a boy of seventeen.

"Mon Pere," Richard murmured politely, rising from the desk. Rudolphe, disliking to look up to Richard, motioned for him to sit down. He came into the bedroom as Richard obeyed and made a small stiff survey of it with a furrowed brow. Richard murmured politely, rising from the desk. Rudolphe, disliking to look up to Richard, motioned for him to sit down. He came into the bedroom as Richard obeyed and made a small stiff survey of it with a furrowed brow.

This was always his manner in Richard's presence as it was his manner with his nephews, his employees, his slaves. Its effect was simply to produce a state of tension in others; this man of authority might find something here short of perfection and everyone knew that he would settle for nothing but perfection, he was all but impossible to please.

Richard felt that tension. His eyes moved furtively about the room after his father, and he saw with a sharp twinge that he had left his soiled boots on the hearth. Had he summoned Placide...But his father was not taking note of the boots, nor the somewhat frivolous novel on the bedside table, but instead had fixed his attention on the Daguerreotype of Marie.

The anxiety in Richard made a knot inside him. He had verses to translate before retiring, and now this.

But it was with an unusual countenance that Rudolphe turned to him finally as he clasped his hands behind his back. "Les Sirenes," "Les Sirenes," Rudolphe murmured almost absently, and Richard inclining forward, asked, Rudolphe murmured almost absently, and Richard inclining forward, asked, "Mon Pere?"

But suddenly the slight alteration in his father's face confused Richard. And he had a vague and painful memory of having seen such an alteration once before.

"You don't follow my advice, do you, mon fils?" mon fils?" The voice was gentle, quite unlike the bl.u.s.tering father of whom Richard lived in glum fear. Out of habit, as old as himself, Richard struggled to find the right diplomatic tone, the perfect placating phrase. But his father approached him, which was seldom his custom, and placed his hand on Richard's arm. Richard stared up at him in utter bewilderment. The voice was gentle, quite unlike the bl.u.s.tering father of whom Richard lived in glum fear. Out of habit, as old as himself, Richard struggled to find the right diplomatic tone, the perfect placating phrase. But his father approached him, which was seldom his custom, and placed his hand on Richard's arm. Richard stared up at him in utter bewilderment.

"What is love to you, Richard?" Rudolphe sighed. The voice was was sad. "Romance, women as pretty as spring flowers, the peal of bells?"

Rudolphe stopped. His eyes were wide, and he was not really conscious now of what he had just said. He was seeing the vestibule of the St. Louis Cathedral on the day of Giselle's wedding, and it seemed all those sounds and scents mingled for him, along with some vagrant image of Narcisse's perfect statue that put him in mind of love and love lost as much as his evening visit with Dolly Rose. He did not see that Richard was awestruck by this lapse of the decorum that forever divided them, and he was awakened, as it were, when Richard began to speak.

"Mon Pere, it's more than love, it's something more splendid and more important than love ever was. I don't have the gift to explain it," came the slow, hesitant, and then carefully chosen words. "I never had your gift for explaining things and never will. But believe me, what you fear for me simply will not come to pa.s.s." The tall figure was rising, unwinding from the chair, and looking down at Rudolphe now as if this were inevitable and Rudolphe glanced away disquieted and strangely raw. "It's not only love we feel for each other, we know each other!" The voice was a whisper. "And there is...there is trust!"

"Now, now there is trust!" Rudolphe whispered, shaking his head. He was losing control. He had not even wanted this conversation, he had so much on his mind from this fatiguing, and endless day. He glanced up at the wide black eyes that were gazing down on him; he wanted to say more. He wanted to reach across the years and years of sharp reprimands and brusque orders to say simply now, I love you, you are my son, my only son, you don't know how much I love you, and if this girl wounds you I cannot bear it, if she wounds you, she wounds me.

But Richard had begun to speak.

"Mon Pere," he said, the voice soft but urgent. "Is it so difficult for you to believe that she can love he said, the voice soft but urgent. "Is it so difficult for you to believe that she can love me! me! Is it so impossible for you to believe that she can respect Is it so impossible for you to believe that she can respect me! me! I am not the son you wanted, I've always disappointed you, and I always will. But please believe me when I tell you that Marie sees in me the man you'll never see." I am not the son you wanted, I've always disappointed you, and I always will. But please believe me when I tell you that Marie sees in me the man you'll never see."

"Richard, no..." Rudolphe moaned. "No, no!" he shook his head. But the hand that he held out closed suddenly and dropped helplessly at his side. And before he could gather himself for this moment, before he could express the love that was so abundant and so accessible to him, Richard had begun to speak again.

"Mon Pere, I want to tell you something which I myself don't understand. You see Marie with all the advantages, she's beautiful, she's courted by everyone, she can do whatever she wants. But I tell you there is some grave sadness in Marie, something dark and dreadful, and I sense it when I'm with her, I feel it as if it were a force lurking about her, seeking to do her harm. I don't know why I feel it, but I do feel it, and I feel that when we are together I stand between her and that force. And she knows it, knows it without words as I know it, and there is trust in her for me that she feels for no one else. It's not only that I love her or that I want her, it's that in some way she's already mine. Now is that spring flowers, mon Pere mon Pere, is that the peal of bells?"

When Rudolphe turned to look at him, Richard was staring off, unsatisfied as if his words had failed. He did not realize that his father was scrutinizing him from a vantage point entirely new to them both. He did not sense his father's amazement, he did not see the remarkable concentration in Rudolphe's face.

But some profound instinct in Rudolphe recognized the truth of Richard's words. Because Rudolphe, too, had sensed this inexplicable sadness in Marie Ste. Marie. He had even sensed that air of menace that seemed forever to encircle her like an aureole. But Rudolphe had mistaken the darkness at the core of knowing the girl for something that emanated from her, from within. He had not thought her the victim of it. Rather he mixed it completely with his fears for his son, his distrust of the girl's enticing beauty, his scorn for Les Sirenes Les Sirenes in all their varied forms. in all their varied forms.

"No, Richard," he said softly. "It's not spring flowers nor the peal of bells."

"Mon Pere!" Richard glanced at him directly. It was not clear that he'd even heard. "Give your consent!" he said. "Let me ask for her now!" Richard glanced at him directly. It was not clear that he'd even heard. "Give your consent!" he said. "Let me ask for her now!"

Rudolphe's face was pa.s.sive, uncommonly calm. He regarded Richard for a long moment without anger or impatience, but when he spoke it was with conviction.

"You are too young."

He could see that Richard had expected this. His son lapsed into his characteristic posture of acceptance, eyes down.

"There's only one sure test of love that I know," Rudolphe said. "That's the test of time. If this girl's affection for you is equal to your affection for her, then it will stand that test, and be all the stronger for it when you've reached the proper age."

"Then you will consent. You will give your blessing...in time."

Rudolphe's gaze was steady, thoughtful.

"You can be certain of one thing," he said. "Whatever I decide it will be for you. For your happiness, for your good."

He reached up. His hand closed on the back of Richard's neck and he held him for a moment, eyes calm as before. Richard was astonished. Then the hand tightened affectionately, and leaving the room, Rudolphe said softly over his shoulder, "I have never, never been disappointed in you, my only son!"

II.

IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE, she couldn't have run off at a time like this! Not even Lisette, bad as she'd been all year and getting worse all the time. Marcel dressed hurriedly. It was July and unbearable, he had spent a sleepless night on moist sheets, mosquitoes droning about the netting, and now as he drew on his limp white s.h.i.+rt, he realized it was already too small for him, and he threw it aside with annoyance. He would have to be visiting the seamstress again. Monsieur Philippe stood on the gallery of the garconniere garconniere, his back to Marcel's door.

"If you don't find her in an hour, just come on back here," Monsieur Philippe said disgustedly. They had been arguing all morning, Lisette and Monsieur Philippe, a mystifying but familiar sound. Marcel had heard her low, rapid voice, m.u.f.fled so that he could only catch an occasional word; and Monsieur Philippe's replies, a steady rumble from the kitchen before he finally left it, slamming the door.

He had been drinking beer since breakfast, and drank it now from an earthen mug, his vague blue eyes weary. But he held it well, considering that he had spent the night with Zazu who was so sick now that she thought she was at Ferronaire, Monsieur Philippe's old home downriver, where she'd been born.

She had been failing at Christmastime, and then when a stroke crippled her left side, Monsieur Philippe had moved her up from the damp brick room beside the kitchen into the garconniere garconniere. All through the spring and early summer Marcel had heard her wracking coughs through the walls. The warming weather had not improved her, and unable to move for the paralysis and the congestion in her lungs, she had soon wasted from the tall handsome black woman she had been to a wizened crone. It was the worst of deaths, Marcel thought, gradual, but not gradual enough. Madame Suzette Lermontant had sent maids to help; and after Madame Elsie died Anna Bella sent Zurlina whenever she could. Lisette was patient one minute and then wildly afraid the next.

"Do you have any notion where she's gone?" Monsieur Philippe gestured vaguely, contemptuous of the whole affair.

"I know a few places," Marcel murmured. But this was foolishness. Lisette knew dark alleys and dark secrets of which he had no more knowledge than a white man, in fact, in the past few years, he had steadfastly guarded that ignorance, shaking his head to see Lisette's puffy face on Sunday morning, and to mark the new earrings, silk tignons tignons. She had money in her pockets whenever she wanted it, and stole nothing from them, he was sure. "I'll do my best, Monsieur," he said now. Then he stopped. The door of the sickroom was ajar and he could see that Marie had just lit the candles. The articles for Extreme Unction were set out. So it had come to that. Marie emerged and gently touched her father's arm.

"Shall I go now?" she asked. Marcel knew that it was for the priest.

"You find her!" Monsieur Philippe said to Marcel. "You tell her to get back here!" he muttered.

"I'll do my best, Monsieur," Marcel started off. Never in his life had he seen Monsieur Philippe even mildly angry, and he was surprised at the vehemence with which the man behind him swore, "Worthless, worthless girl!"

But it was more than an outburst of temper, it was fast becoming the truth. And there had been no real beginning to it, Marcel reasoned as he hurried toward the Place Congo, no real provocation for Lisette's behavior which he could fix, in his mind. She had always been the grumbler, sullen, and sharp of tongue when she chose. But with Zazu's illness and all the burdens of the cottage descending upon her alone, she had become outright rebellious in the last fall. On her twenty-third birthday she had taken the silver dollars Marcel gave her and thrown them on the floor. He would have liked to be angry with her, now and then, but he was afraid. He loved Lisette, she'd been there when he was born, was part and parcel of his life. And in some private unconfessed way he had always felt painfully sorry for her, sorry for the keen mind behind that brooding, contemptuous face, for the shrewd and secretive person locked within the sulking slave.

But she was out of hand now. What did she want? Complaining of the simplest orders, she lavished all her attentions on Marie of late as if to say: I do this of my own will. Of course she obeyed Marcel, he had always had a way with her, but more and more, she flaunted, aggravated, provoked Cecile. And at last over some trivial matter of hairpins, mistress and maid had quarreled and Cecile in a unique display of temper had slapped Lisette's face.

"You pray your mother gets up from that sickbed," Cecile's words had flashed through the small rooms of the cottage, "or so help me G.o.d, I'll see you on the block. I'll sell you downriver, do you hear me, I'll sell you myself into the fields!"

Even Lisette had been appalled. And a frantic Marcel ushered his sobbing mother from the room.

Of course it had been nonsense, vulgar, monstrous, but nonsense all the same. Talk of the block to Lisette who had grown up in this house, her mother born on Ferronaire land. Nevertheless it had lacerated the fabric of domestic tranquillity and there had been the unwholesome ring of long-repressed rage in Cecile's voice.

She had wept after that by the grate, Marcel stroking her hair. And that image came to him, an image which, in fact, had never really left him of the little girl rescued in Saint-Domingue from the blood-drenched street. "Maman," he said gently. He wished that he could somehow stroke her heart.

But he had been helpless. And helpless, too, later that night before a silent Lisette bent over Marie's dress on the ironing board who would not so much as look him in the eye.

This would pa.s.s, he told himself, but it did not. As the months moved into spring, Cecile sent out her garments to the laundress, and had the hairdresser twice a week. Marie laced her mother's corsets, gave the orders at the kitchen door. While Lisette went about the careful care of the two children as she had always done ever since they had been in the crib.

It wearied Marcel as it must have wearied Monsieur Philippe, who effected a chilly order by his presence, Lisette ministering in grim silence to a flint-hard Cecile. But sometimes the image of Lisette bent over Marie before the mirror, her yellow face slack with adoring preoccupation, etched itself on Marcel's heart. It seemed Lisette dreamed with Marie as little girls dream with pretty dolls. And Marie who had found these months of soirees since the opera rather agonizing had never needed Lisette more. Yet it was Marie who sought over and over to reconcile them both, attending to any small matter that she might herself, ashamed it seemed sometimes of Lisette's loving care.

"In time, in time," Monsieur Philippe whispered to Cecile softly, "I promise you another girl." But he was sad now over Zazu's worsening illness, he had always had a special affection for Zazu and wanted only that she should die in peace. In fact, Monsieur Philippe showed such devotion to her in these months that Marcel had not resented his presence in the house. And he was there so often now as spring moved into summer and summer to its peak, that his presence ceased to be the exception and became the rule.

No one had expected him that Sunday morning only a week after the opera last November when he had come back, riding his favorite black mare, having brought the horse down with him on the boat from Bontemps Bontemps. He had parcels for everyone as though he hadn't been there only the Sat.u.r.day before, and hardly a month went by, it seemed, when he hadn't come for days, even weeks. There were those slippers on the hearth, layers of pipe smoke floating at the dinner table, and empty kegs of beer in the yard.

He had even appeared the day after New Year's when everyone knew this was the greatest feast on the plantation, saying "As soon as I could get away, mon pet.i.t chou," mon pet.i.t chou," while he pressed Cecile to his chest. And she in a perfect ecstasy had spent a winter of ordering special dishes, rus.h.i.+ng out to shops to find him rare blends of tobacco, selecting for him new and fancily carved ivory pipes. Lisette was sent at dawn to market for the best oysters, and new dresses had been ordered for Cecile from her aunts. Monsieur couldn't have enough wax candles, tallow was intolerable, bought an argand lamp for the parlor, and a new Aubusson carpet for the boudoir. And in bed till afternoon on Sundays had Marcel read him the papers while he sipped his brandy, or his sherry, or his bourbon, or his beer. while he pressed Cecile to his chest. And she in a perfect ecstasy had spent a winter of ordering special dishes, rus.h.i.+ng out to shops to find him rare blends of tobacco, selecting for him new and fancily carved ivory pipes. Lisette was sent at dawn to market for the best oysters, and new dresses had been ordered for Cecile from her aunts. Monsieur couldn't have enough wax candles, tallow was intolerable, bought an argand lamp for the parlor, and a new Aubusson carpet for the boudoir. And in bed till afternoon on Sundays had Marcel read him the papers while he sipped his brandy, or his sherry, or his bourbon, or his beer.

"I've got a new pup at Bontemps Bontemps, thinks he wants to play the master," he had remarked once with a confidential sneer to Marcel, "so let him get a taste of it. He's at odds with the overseer, nothing's done right, has to mend the levee his own way, let him get a taste of it. What are those cakes I like, you know, with the chocolate and the cream, get those for after dinner, here, take this, go yourself, Lisette's got her hands full with Zazu, here, buy yourself something while you're out."

So it's that black-haired white man with eyes like the devil, Marcel was thinking, "the young pup." And a vision disconcerting in its clarity visited him of Anna Bella in that man's arms. He could not think about it, Anna Bella puttering about her own small house, how soon would she be...would she be with...child? He wouldn't think about it. His mother was so happy these days, all was going too well.

Cecile in black lace cut low over her full bosom presided at their private midnight suppers, and seemed to Marcel in these months a perfect rose, the petals at their fullest with no hint of inevitable fall. Some unnatural froth or forced gaiety might have ruined this, but she was too clever for that, his mother, her instincts were too sound. She leaned against Monsieur Philippe when he had to go, and wept when he returned, unexpectedly and so soon! And "at home" with her, cheris.h.i.+ng her, Monsieur Philippe dropped his ashes on the carpet and snored till noon.

Now and then, drunk and forgetting himself, he would ramble about that white family that Cecile had never seen. Marcel, bolting his dinner with a book at table could hear the deep voice in the afternoon quiet of the other room. His son, Leon, had just left for the continent with his great-uncle, it seems that opera gowns are made of money, why does every young woman these days have to have her own tilbury, and those trips to Baltimore were costing him a fortune, what with accommodations for five slaves. Cecile marked all this quietly, never uttering a question or a word.

And he was all the time urging money on her, would she like a new pearl necklace, then she should have it, he liked her so in pearls, but then she wore diamonds so well. Only a beautiful woman could wear diamonds, he whispered the words, Venus in Diorite, in her ear. On his return from Bontemps Bontemps one week, he bought her a new ring. Marcel must go the theater whenever he wished, and take that Lermontant boy with him if he liked, or his schoolteacher, yes, take the schoolteacher, how could anyone make a decent living as a teacher, here, they're playing Shakespeare aren't they, and Marie should have new gowns. He picked the cloth himself once or twice, of course Tante Louisa should charge him the full amount, why not, send Monsieur Jacquemine the bill. There was a slight defiant lift to his chin as he peeled off the dollar bills. one week, he bought her a new ring. Marcel must go the theater whenever he wished, and take that Lermontant boy with him if he liked, or his schoolteacher, yes, take the schoolteacher, how could anyone make a decent living as a teacher, here, they're playing Shakespeare aren't they, and Marie should have new gowns. He picked the cloth himself once or twice, of course Tante Louisa should charge him the full amount, why not, send Monsieur Jacquemine the bill. There was a slight defiant lift to his chin as he peeled off the dollar bills.

And meantime he teased Marcel about his books, admitted airily that he could not read a word of English, and seemed vaguely amused by the recitations of Latin poems. Marcel had won every prize in Latin and Greek that Christophe offered and would not have minded the nickname, "my little scholar," if he had not gotten it already from the boys in school. But even the older boys had said it with some measure of respect for him, while Monsieur Philippe's manner hinted that all these academic matters were foolishness really, they hadn't the pungent reality of horses' hooves beside the stalks of ripening cane. He swirled his bourbon in the firelight, slapping the cards down on the dining table. "Marcel. Come here, you play faro? Well it's time to learn." Even in ballooning sleeves, s.h.i.+rt open at the throat and tight black pants tapering to those soft blue slippers, there was an arrogant glamour to the man always, never dulled by the liquor that clouded his eyes. Marcel could see him sauntering among the fencing masters of Exchange Alley, a silver rapier clanking at his side. His spurs had rung on the flags when he came in one afternoon, and children up and down the Rue Ste. Anne hung on the gates to see his sleek black horse.

One's own world could shrink in the face of all that, Marcel mused. It was bitter to feel apologetic for the yearnings of one's soul. It seemed a miracle had been worked for Marcel in Christophe's cla.s.s and Marcel, seeking the Mercier house whenever he could, slipped into his own skin there where he could be proud.

Because all the struggle of those early months, the books open past midnight, the hand cramped from the pen, all that struggle had indeed borne its fruit. History, that dark chaos of sublime secrets was at last yielding to Marcel a magnificent order; and the heavy cla.s.sics that had once frightened and defeated him came clear under Christophe's light. But grander, more important, and so important in fact that Marcel shuddered to think of it, was simply this: Marcel had learned how to learn. He had begun to really use the powers of his own mind. He could feel the sheer exhilaration of his progress in all the subjects he had undertaken and his day-to-day world of lectures, books, and even the old street-roaming, was one of momentous and meaningful shocks.

So did it matter when that robust smiling planter, reins in one hand, trotted his mare through these narrow streets as if they were his own fields?

Of course Monsieur Philippe approved when Marcel spoke of his determination to sit for the examinations of the Ecole Normale in Paris. A year ago, Marcel could not have hoped to pa.s.s. But it was more than possible now. Christophe had told him so. "You'll be prepared by the time you go."

"Then I could teach at a French lycee lycee, perhaps go into the university itself some day," Marcel explained as Monsieur Philippe blew the foam from the mug. "I would have my profession!" the word had a gilded ring. Of course the salary for such positions was nothing, most likely, he murmured. Monsieur Philippe said, "No matter," under his breath. "Very good, very good indeed. But does that teacher ever teach you anything practical?" Philippe shrugged. "Sums, accounting, whatever," he snapped his fingers to summon some intangible from the air.

He was pleased then to hear that Christophe had them read the English papers twice a week aloud in cla.s.s, discuss the reportage, the political and financial events. And that Christophe had taken them all to see the Daguerreotypist, Jules Lion, who lectured on this magnificent new process, did Monsieur Philippe know of this man, a man of color, who had introduced the Daguerre method here from France?

"Ah, he is mad for all this, Monsieur," Cecile laughed, almost as if slightly ill at ease to see Marcel go on so.

"But here, Monsieur," Marcel was undaunted. "I insisted we all have a portrait made, together, to commemorate the school." And Marcel produced the large s.h.i.+ning full plate of these twenty individuals staring stiffly at the camera, a dark spectrum from the near-black Gaston, son of the shoemaker, to the snow-white Fantin Roget. Monsieur Philippe laughed.

"Magic, magic," he said to Marcel with the characteristic twinkle in his eye. "One no longer has to sit for the painter, I always loathed it, so boring," and then squinting he found Marcel among the a.s.semblage with a playful laugh. "Ah, those Dumanoirs," he said recognizing the son of the planter, "I tell you they do better than I!"

Cecile laughed as though this were capital wit. And in spite of Marcel's increasing height, he discovered his father could still reach to pat him on the head.

Marcel smiled. Ti Ti Marcel indeed. On the balmy nights of summer when he heard their lovemaking across the little courtyard, the heavy breaths, the creak of the giant bed, he lay calm in the shadows of his upstairs room waiting for them to fall asleep. He was too much the gentleman to have said it even to himself, but the truth was, he had a mistress as beautiful as Monsieur Philippe's. Marcel indeed. On the balmy nights of summer when he heard their lovemaking across the little courtyard, the heavy breaths, the creak of the giant bed, he lay calm in the shadows of his upstairs room waiting for them to fall asleep. He was too much the gentleman to have said it even to himself, but the truth was, he had a mistress as beautiful as Monsieur Philippe's.