Feast of All Saints (38 page)

Her mouth was soft, guileless, utterly innocent as it opened, sucking gently, daintily at his breath. And in the sudden mounting of his passion, the battle was lost. He had lifted her, and turned her, drawing her close against the wall as if he meant to conceal her while he kissed her over and over, his hands fumbling through the pleated muslin of her skirts for the contour of her hips. The house lay deserted around him, dark rooms gaping onto the hall. He might enfold her, carry her,
but then his thoughts became one with the movement of his limbs. And so purely, sweetly, she gave herself over to him, that precious virginal innocence terrifying him, maddening him, heightening his desire. “No!” he whispered suddenly, and drew back from her, roughly pushing her away.

“Damn you, Anna Bella!” he stammered. He felt for the post at the top of the stairs. “Damn you!” he clutched the railing, his back to her, holding tight to it with both hands. “I can’t, I can’t…I can’t let it happen!” he whispered. A throbbing in his head blinded him and became a dizzying pain. “Why in hell do you think I’ve stayed away from you, why in hell…” He turned on her suddenly to see her staring at him with immense glimmering brown eyes.

She didn’t move. Her lips quivered. The tears poured down her cheeks. And then, her white teeth cutting into that tender vulnerable lip, she came forward, and lifting her right hand cracked him hard across the face.

He winced, shut his eyes. It seemed, as he heard her moving away from him, he positively savored the pain. And when he looked up she was gone.

Approaching the door of Christophe’s room, he saw her sitting before the candles, her rosary in her left hand. With her right, she waved languidly, steadily at the flies that buzzed over the dead man’s face.

She was sad and distant as if he were not even there to see it, her cheeks glistening with tears. He stared at the dead man, stared at the candles, and then blindly he took up his position to wait for Rudolphe at the foot of the stairs.

M
ADAME
S
UZETTE
L
ERMONTANT HATED
her husband Rudolphe with all her heart. She hated him and resented him as she did no other human being in the world. And she loved him at the same time. With a love laced with admiration, submission, and appalling need. She could not endure a word of criticism against him, though for twenty-five years not a day had passed during which she did not wish at one time or another to beat him to death with her bare hands. Or better yet, stab herself in the breast to spite him, or blow her own head off in his presence with Grandpère’s 1812 gun.

Since the very first day of their marriage she had endured his ranting, his criticism, his scathing judgments and violent rejections of all she believed, all she held sacred, and she was no more used to it
now than when it had all begun. Year after year he attacked her manner of speech, her manner of dress, threw her favorite volumes of poetry across the room in disgust, called her an idiot and a fool in front of family at table, and glared in SILENCE at her nervous, chattering friends.

Somewhere during the long years of quarreling and tears, she had come to realize an all-important point: none of this was personal with Rudolphe.
He would have treated any wife the same way
. But far from easing her anger and pain, this revelation made her bitter, deepened her outrage. Because she realized that in all her ruthless self-examinations resulting from his condemnation, and all of her intense striving to make herself understood, she had been utterly wasting her time. Rudolphe ground her to powder for the benefit of some audience in his imagination for which her part might have been played by anyone, it was merely a supporting role. And sometimes screaming at her with his fist clenched as he strode back and forth across the room, he seemed some savage giant who might consume the earth, the water, the very air she breathed.

Had she been a more submissive woman she might have learned to accept Rudolphe’s flamboyant fury the way one accepts the weather. In fact she might have undermined it with indifference and affection astutely combined. And had she been completely strong on the other hand she might have beaten him somewhere, or drawn back, content to live alongside him within a fortress of herself, sneering from aloft. But she was the perfect mixture of the two dispositions, a woman of strong personality and marked temperament, who nevertheless did not wish, and had never expected, to stand on her own two feet. She wanted Rudolphe’s love and approval, and she wanted him to tell her what to do.

And among all the men she’d ever known, there was no one figure whom she respected, trusted, as she did Rudolphe. He had given her uncommon security, and was admired by everyone around him not only for his business sense, which was splendid, but for his professional decorum, his family loyalties, his stunning capacity to lead and calm others, his remarkable wits. He was a man of substance. And handsome to boot.

They had shared joys and sorrows together, suffered the loss of a daughter, the complete defection of two sons, and theirs remained a passionate marriage when they had the time for it, complete with a great deal of commonplace affection, kisses, snuggling together under the covers, shared enjoyment of the good Creole cooking, exotic flowers for the garden, imported wines.

But constant were the ripping arguments. Suzette had only to declare a preference for it to be trampled, and she was berated day in
and day out for being spineless in those matters where she had become clever enough to declare no preference at all. In all these years, she had never caught on herself to what others had sometimes hinted: Rudolphe was a little afraid of her, and of his love for her; he thought that all women were something slightly subversive that had at all times to be controlled.

Yet in one particular aspect of their life together she had recently decided that she would not be the loser even if he were to burst a blood vessel from temper on the spot. She was prepared to deceive him if necessary to gain her ends. But first she would try the truth. And this was in the matter of Marie Ste. Marie and their son, Richard, whom Suzette absolutely adored.

A week ago an invitation had come from the Ste. Marie family inviting the Lermontants to attend a reception for Marie’s birthday and name day, August fifteenth. Rudolphe had said at once that he could not attend, he would be busy as always in August, and the war was on. By that evening he was raving that Suzette would not attend this reception either and at last that even Richard must not be allowed to go alone. But Suzette did not decline the invitation. And fighting with Rudolphe night and day behind closed doors, she told Richard softly but firmly not to give it another thought.

So on Monday at half past one, only a half hour before the reception was to begin, she was frightened to discover that Rudolphe had come unexpectedly through the front door. She was dressed and waiting for Richard who was still upstairs, and she had not expected her husband to drop in at home.

“All right,” he said wearily as he removed his black frock coat. “I don’t want coffee, get me a little cool white wine.” He dropped into a chair in the second parlor.

She brought him the wine, along with his lighter coat which he always wore in the house. But he merely threw this aside.

“That was holy hell,” he whispered. “The Girod cemetery is worse than the St. Louis, what with the Yanqui Protestants dropping like flies.”

“Hmmmmm,” she said. She knew that he had just buried the Englishman, Michael Larson-Roberts, who had been Christophe Mercier’s white friend.

“Mon Dieu,”
Rudolphe shook his head. “Get me the decanter for heaven sake’s, what does this hold, a thimbleful?”

“It will make you tired,” she warned.

“Madame, I am not an idiot.” He sat back and reaching for the palmetto fan at his side, waved it limply before his face. “Every one of the students came,” he said, lowering his voice as he always did when he discussed his profession and those details concerning it which were
never discussed outside the house. “I don’t believe any of those boys welcome this unexpected little vacation,” he said. “He’s managed to make quite an impression on them in three short weeks.”

“And Christophe himself?” she asked.

Rudolphe shook his head.

“You mean he didn’t come?” She knew that Christophe had disappeared and that Marcel had been searching for him everywhere. But with the notices in the papers, and the announcements posted around the Quarter, they had all hoped that Christophe would return.

“The man blames himself, it’s obvious.” Rudolphe shrugged. “The Englishman followed him here from Paris.”

“And Ma’ame Juliet?” she asked.

“She’s gone out with Marcel to search the docks. She goes on board the steamboats and the foreign ships. She’s convinced he’s booked passage out of here and is never coming back. He hasn’t been home at all, nothing in his room has been touched.”

“Ah, no, he wouldn’t leave the school, not after all this work, I don’t believe it,” Suzette said sadly. “After all, the Englishman…why, they were only friends.”

Rudolphe’s face was thoughtful. She watched him curiously. But he made no comment. Then he said,

“Well! The boys believe he’s in mourning. I suppose that’s perfectly true.”

He turned, hearing Richard’s heavy rapid rush down the stairs. Richard did not hurry in this fashion when he knew that his father was at home, and caught in the act, he stopped. Obviously he was dressed for the birthday reception, and obviously Suzette was dressed for it too. Richard glanced at his mother desperately. The clock in the hallway chimed lightly for the quarter hour. It was time for them to leave.

“Monsieur,” Suzette began, drawing herself up to be firm.

“I know, Madame,” Rudolphe sighed. “Well! Get me my coat. Don’t just stand there, get me my coat. I can’t very well go to a birthday reception in my shirtsleeves.”

Suzette kissed him twice before he could brush her away.

It was crowded already when they arrived. Celestina Roget was there with her pretty daughter, Gabriella, and her frail but cheerful son, Fantin. Old lady friends of the aunts were already nestled comfortably into the more ample chairs. Young Augustin Dumanoir was there with his father, and his very lovely younger sister, Marie Therese, just in from the country, who was a dark-haired girl with pecan skin and bluish green eyes. Monsieur Dumanoir had only just come in from his plantation to meet the new teacher, Christophe, and with a letter of introduction had called upon the Lermontants the
night before.
“Quel dommage,”
he was sighing now. The death of this poor Englishman, no wonder the teacher “would see no one.”

Anna Bella Monroe was in the corner and she rose at once to be kissed by Suzette on both cheeks. She was fresh, lovely, and yes, blushing, thank you, she had made the lovely green muslin with its pearl buttons herself.

Nanette and Marie Louise LeMond were there, and Magloire Rousseau, the tailor’s son who had just proposed marriage to Marie Louise and been accepted, the banns having been announced in church that week. Nanette smiled when she saw Richard and gave him a rather graceful curtsy which he did not appear to note.

But Marie Ste. Marie, the celebrity of the day, outshone all around her as she sat demurely beside her Tante Colette, the massive flounces of her new dress threaded with pink ribbon, her dark full black hair drawn back softly to its chignon so that it covered the tips of her ears. A startling girl, this Marie Ste. Marie, one could not help but wonder when such beauty would reach its peak, and there was a flicker of pain in the eyes which she turned to Suzette.
“Bonjour, ma petite,”
Suzette kissed her, “you are very lovely, very lovely indeed.”

A touch of color flared in the girl’s white cheeks, her voice was barely audible as she murmured her thanks, and then she flushed outright as the shadow of Richard loomed over his mother’s shoulder. Suzette saw her son bend to kiss Marie’s hand.

She is not vain, Suzette was musing, no, she is not vain at all. It’s almost as if she cannot guess that she’s beautiful. And frankly the girl’s beauty was too much. In drawing rooms around the world, she might have been presented as an Italian countess, A Spanish heiress, any dark nationality but that which she truly was.

“Ah well, Michie Rudi,” Colette was pulling Rudolphe toward the crystal punch bowl, “did they bury that poor Englishman?” It was a stage whisper. “And where on earth is this famous Christophe! And does the man have any people, has he left anything, who will…”

“His lawyers will attend to all that,” Rudolphe grumbled. He detested this sort of questioning. He never divulged this sort of information about the deceased and yet he was eternally asked. It was polite to ask, to show concern. “Where’s Marcel!” he demanded now. “And his mother?” He glanced with irritation at the beautiful belle of the ball who was not looking at him. She was looking at his son.

“My niece is ill,” said Colette. “She rarely goes out, some women are like that, I don’t know why. As for Marcel, talk some sense to him, he’s been out all night looking for Christophe!” She gestured to the open French doors. Marcel stood on the gallery, his back to the assemblage, the taller Fantin Roget towering over him as he talked rapidly, rocking now and then on his heels.

“Hmmm,” Rudolphe grunted. “Let me talk to Marcel.”

Suzette, settling beside Louisa and an ancient quadroon woman who was completely deaf, played idly with a small bit of cake. It was not
the
cake.
The
cake stood resplendent in the center of the nearby table, a majestic script spelling out on the white icing the words
Sainte-Marie
. This referred of course to the Virgin Mary whose feast day it was, and it struck Suzette as slightly disconcerting that it was the birthday girl’s last name as well. Her eyes moved over the assemblage returning furtively to the lean figure of the young Augustin Dumanoir who had just come between Richard and Marie, and bending over somewhat unctuously, it seemed to Suzette, meant to crowd her son away. Richard gave easily. He dropped back finding a seat beside Anna Bella and fell into conversation with her at once. Suzette studied Dumanoir. So this is the competition, she was thinking, that sprawling new house in the Parish of St. Landry and fields of sugarcane. Fantin had come in to take his place behind Marie’s chair, and from afar, young Justin Rousseau watched with obvious interest. Old families, good families, and this girl herself did not need family, her beauty speaking for itself.