Feast of All Saints (21 page)

R
ICHARD STOOD WATCHING
Marie as she moved away along the crowded banquette, into the shade of one overhanging balcony after another. She had square shoulders, nothing of artifice in her walk, only a natural grace and dignity of which she herself seemed utterly unaware. Her hair flowed to her waist, and the thick ruffles of her shorter girlish skirts showed a bit of narrow white-stockinged ankle above the bright heel of her slipper that caused him quickly to drop his eyes.

Then folding his handkerchief carefully, he put it in his pocket and followed his father across the Rue Royale and into the undertaker’s shop.

“I would have insisted that girl sit down, but who knows, this place
might have unsettled her,” Rudolphe murmured, glancing at his watch, “and if I don’t get some of my work done, I’m going to be unsettled. Why don’t they post it, tell me that?” he said angrily to Richard. “Do you hear?”

He was listening to the bells. The mortuary chapel had been tolling steadily since morning, and the Cathedral was tolling, and no doubt other churches all over town. “Yet they don’t post it!” Rudolphe said with a sneer.

He meant by this the notices at the Board of Health that the yearly scourge, yellow fever, had reached the proportions of an epidemic, the news that would send the last of the gentry scurrying for the country where they should have been before now. Deaths were worst among the immigrants, but the Lermontants would be busy round the clock. They had only just come from the cemetery, and Richard was already changing his boots so that they could be blacked again. This would happen perhaps three times this day, maybe more.

As Antoine, his cousin, gathered these, and Rudolphe’s as well, Richard went at once to the high stool before his slanting desk and began to go through the bills that had accumulated in the past few days. He would have to put the books in order before Monday when he returned to school.

“She’s prettier than I remembered, really she is,” Rudolphe murmured, and Richard stopped, held the brass letter opener poised for an instant, and then went on. It seemed Antoine, gone into the back office to black the boots, uttered a short laugh.

“Well, I don’t suppose you haven’t noticed!” Rudolphe said to Richard. “You heard what I said, didn’t you? Or have you gone deaf?”

“No,
mon Père,”
Richard whispered.

Again came that derisive laugh. Richard glanced at the open door.

“Never mind him, I’m talking to you,” Rudolphe said, but at that moment there was a tap at the glass and a tall Negro, in the same gentlemanly black as the Lermontants, entered, the bell jingling.

“That little girl’s gone, Michie, went at nine o’clock, and that Madame Dolly is out of her mind,” he said.

This was Placide, valet, butler, and assistant in a thousand capacities, bought for Rudolphe when Rudolphe was born. He was an old man, his very dark face heavily creased, and he removed his hat at once and held it in his thin hand. “And they say there’s nothing in that flat, Michie, not even chairs to sit on, seems Madame Dolly’s been selling everything piece by piece for a long time.”

“Mon Dieu!”
Rudolphe shook his head. “And that little child?”

“Nine o’clock this morning, Michie, with three doctors there, at this time of the year, with three doctors there,” he held up three fingers.

“Get in here, Placide, and black these boots,” came a low disgruntled voice from the back room. Antoine emerged, wiping the bootblack from his fingers. “You wait until my hands are filthy before you finally show up.”

“I only have one body, Michie,” said the tall Negro, “I can’t be two places at the same time,” and he moved slowly toward the rear door, his walk uneven as though it hurt him to bend his knees.

“This is Dolly Rose’s daughter?” Richard asked.

“Lockjaw.” Rudolphe shook his head. “I’ll go there first.”

Richard sat slightly hunched on the stool, his eyes on the desk. He looked up, eyes moving languidly over the shop. A dull light fell over the smooth mahogany of the long counters, the stacks of folded crepe, the black cloaks on hooks, and bundles of bombazine along the shelves. “Lockjaw,” he whispered.

“All right,” said Rudolphe, “enough, the child’s in heaven to be sure, which is more than we could say with any certainty of anyone else. Now I want to finish what I was saying to you, listen to me. I’ve seen you looking at that girl! I’ve seen you gawking at her on the street the way you did just now, and gawking at her in church when your mind should be on the Mass.”

Richard’s brows knit. He lifted the letter opener again and slid it quickly into the envelope in his hand.

“Put that down and turn around,” Rudolphe said furiously. “You’re too big for your age, that’s your trouble, people take you for a man, and you’re nothing but a child. Now, listen to me, you know perfectly well what I mean.”

Richard drew himself up, taking a long silent breath, and slowly raised his eyes to his father’s. He summoned all his self-control to make his face a mask of calm. Even the slightest resistance, he knew, would make this worse.

“Mon Père
, I never meant…” he began.

“Don’t talk to me as if I were a fool!” Rudolphe said.

Antoine had emerged again from the rear door, and now wore his black coat. He was smoothing his straight dark hair with one hand.

Richard pressed his lips together and again fixed his eyes on his father. The muscles of his face were taut. “Yes,
mon Père?
” he whispered. Anyone but Rudolphe might have caught the timbre of sarcasm in the polite tone.

“Oh, so you’re angry now, well, good, because then you’ll pay some attention. All the rest of the time you dream! A girl like that—!”

Richard started. Before he could stop himself, he said,
“Mon Père
, she’s Marcel’s sister.”

“I’m not insulting her, don’t be an imbecile,” Rudolphe said. Both of them heard Antoine’s derisive murmur, and Rudolphe turning
sharply to his nephew said coolly, “If you are ready, go on to the LeClairs’, they’re waiting for you. The Mass is at eleven, go on!”

With a faint smile, a superior and knowing smile, Antoine walked slowly out of the shop. When the door had shut Rudolphe turned to his son who sat slightly hunched over the desk, all but crushing the envelope in his large fingers. Richard had been staring at the words written there but they made no sense, they might as well have been a foreign language.

“I mean no insult,” Rudolphe said with annoyance. “If I didn’t approve of Marcel you wouldn’t be his friend. I like Marcel, I always have. I feel sorry for him, if you want the truth, though that would curdle his mother’s blood, wouldn’t it, a ‘shopkeeper’ feeling sorry for Marcel!” He made a short laugh. He turned, and reaching into the corner behind his rolltop desk, he produced a small bottle of rose water and pouring it into his handkerchief blotted his lips and his face. “But my point is simply this,” he went on. “I’m tired of being the one to state the obvious to people, tired of being the one to bring them face to face with facts that ought to be already known…”

“She is above reproach,
mon Père,”
Richard whispered. “I have never so much as spoken to her except in the presence of others, her mother…Marcel…”

“Above reproach, of course she’s above reproach, virtuous, lady-like and beautiful! Beautiful beyond compare!” Rudolphe glowered at him. “Isn’t she? Well, isn’t she…
beautiful?”

“Yes, yes!” Richard whispered. The blood pounded in his temples. He looked at his father helplessly, desperately. And again dropping his voice to that velvet tone that was just above a whisper, the invariable characteristic of him when he was furious, he said, “If I looked at her in some way, it was nothing, I assure you…”

For a moment their eyes met directly and in silence. There was a change so subtle but unusual in Rudolphe’s expression that Richard was bewildered.
“Mon fils,”
Rudolphe said, his voice low, softer, “don’t you understand? I know perfectly well what you’re thinking about that girl, I’m no fool. And don’t you understand that girls like that, girls like Marie Ste. Marie, yes, yes, Marie…girls like that
always
follow in the footsteps of their mothers?”

Richard’s eyes moved slowly down. The entire posture of resistance to his father which was more than habit, rather something inveterate, was softly broken.

“But no,” he shook his head. “No,
mon Père
, not Marie. No.”

“Oh, son,” Rudolphe sighed. He had never taken this tone with Richard before. “Don’t break your heart.”

I
T WAS ONE O’CLOCK
before Marcel came down, and rushing into the cottage, he stared amazed at the brass clock on the sideboard, whispering,
“Mon Dieu
, I slept like the dead. And the truth is, I’ve been reborn. I’ve been reborn!” He snapped his fingers and turned to Marie. “And you look lovely this afternoon.” He approached her with brisk steps. “It’s been too long since I told you that you were lovely, that I derive the sweetest
constant
pleasure from your loveliness. Am I too old for us to kiss, no, we’ll never be too old to kiss, will we, you and I?” and reaching down so that he lifted her by her shoulders, he kissed her on one cheek and then the other and let her drop. He laughed. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked, suddenly becoming serious. “You’re crying?”

“No,” she shook her head, turning away. But again she looked up at him as if he were mad.

“Oh, my head is splitting,” he said in another quick shift, “and I’m starving, where’s Lisette, I’m starving.”

“Where’s Lisette, I’m starving,” came Lisette’s echo in disgust from the back room. “As if I didn’t hear you get out of bed, it’s a wonder you don’t go right through the floor.” Her face was puffy from napping. But she had a tray in hand and was setting his silver and napkin at the head of the table. The steam from the soup rose in her face. “You better want your dinner, too, don’t tell me you want breakfast.”

“Of course I don’t want breakfast, dinner’s fine, and I’m sorry that I wouldn’t answer you last night, Lisette, sometimes I don’t think I appreciate you as I should—”

She laughed loudly. “Eat that before it gets cold.”

“I was in despair last night,” Marcel went on, approaching the chair. He glanced at the soup. “In utter despair. But I’m no longer in despair, and I’m sorry.”

“In
despair,”
she repeated, her hand on her hip. “You were
in despair,”
she said again. “And now you’re not
in despair
, Michie?”

“No, absolutely not. As a matter of fact, I feel wonderful! Except for my head, my head’s splitting, you know that white wine that’s in the water barrel, the bottle I put there, get it, please, my head’s coming off. But what is this, one place? Am I dining alone, where’s Maman? Marie, are you ill?”

Lisette’s eyebrows went up in mock astonishment, and Marie from the settee regarded him with round eyes, her mouth open.

“You look dreadful,” he said to Marie, “what is it?”

“Well now, Michie,” said Lisette swaggering again toward the table, her eyes darting quickly to the front door and back to Marcel. “There’s two ways of explaining it, this dining alone. First off, your sister and your mother have been just a little too upset to want any dinner???? Hmmmm? What with you doing so well these days in school???? And staying out all night? But then I hustled to fix your soup the best I could as soon as I heard your foot hit the floor because I knew, no matter how grave the crime, there is always got to be that final meal for the condemned man. Now eat up, Michie, before that platform drops from under your feet.”

Marcel burst out laughing. “Lisette, this is no meal for a condemned man!” he said. And seating himself quickly he drew his napkin from the silver ring. “Now please get that wine, this is a celebration, and my head’s throbbing.”

Lisette was staring at the door. A shadow loomed on the path.

“Wine, Michie?” she murmured, and backed slowly toward the bedroom.

“Wine, wine!” he said. “Hurry!”

“WINE!”

Marie put her face in her hands.

Marcel rose at once, his eyes fixed on Cecile as she entered the room, but nothing changed in the brightness of his expression. His lips narrowed with a smile.

“You are asking for wine!” Cecile screamed again. The door banged shut behind her.

“I was asking for you, too, Maman,” he said softly. “I have some news for you, but what’s the matter?”

“WHAT’S THE MATTER!” She ripped off her lace gloves, the seams splitting, and flung them impotently in the direction of the far wall.

“Oh, I know I’ve worried you,” he said in a small voice. “I know I’ve been dreadful.” He stopped, biting his lip so that he looked like a small boy. “But Maman, it’s going to be different now, you must believe me, all that’s past, and I have some good news for you, wonderful news!” He began to pace the flowered carpet suddenly as if he were lost in thought, his hands rubbing together, his face the picture of acute concentration. But then turning to her again, he smiled. “I won’t worry you again, I promise you. Please, come have dinner now…”

Cecile was petrified. Marie was speechless.

He waited, his expression open, looking from one to the other of them.

“Have dinner!” Cecile gasped, her hands rising to cover her ears. “Have dinner!” she screamed. And suddenly stomping her feet in rapid
staccato she let out one low shriek after another until finally she clenched her teeth and burst into tears. Lisette at the dining-room door, turned and ran.

For a moment Marcel did nothing. He bit his lip again, turning it slightly inward, and then he folded his arms. He walked solemnly to his place at the table and turned to face Cecile. “Tell me, Maman,” he said with the voice of reason, “what must I do, what explanation can I give you, what assurances, how can I prove to you that I love you and I’ll never distress you again?”

“AAAAAAHHHH!” she screamed. “You are expelled from school, expelled from school, and you say this to me! You stay out till dawn and come home drunk and you say this to me!”

He appeared to meditate on this, as if it were all new and unexpected, and then with a resolution that Marie had not seen in him in months, he approached his mother and took her firmly by the arms, saying in a commanding voice, “Of course you’re angry with me, and of course you’re worried. Come sit down, please!”