Feast of All Saints (47 page)

For a long, tense moment they stared at each other in silence, mother and son, and then he turned and went out of the room. Marcel followed him until they had reached the head of the steps. Then Marcel watched him disappear in the darkness of the hallway, and heard the latch of his bedroom door slide into place. Marcel wanted to die.

He went down the steps, aware that Juliet was behind him, and felt her brushing against him as she reached to unlock the front door. “Go back up,” he whispered, “and lock your door while he’s calm.”

“He isn’t going to hurt me,” she said quietly. “So he bruised my face, so what?” she sighed. “He’s jealous.”

“He loves you, he’s your son,” Marcel said. “He’s only thinking what any son would think.” He bowed his head. He couldn’t put it into words, that the world thought she had no right with a boy his age, which meant that he as a boy had no right with her, that he could ruin everything that Christophe had built up, that that gray-haired Dumanoir had the right somehow but he did not have the right.

He had no right with Anna Bella, no right with Juliet, no right with anyone!

“The hell he is,” she said with a deep voice. “You don’t know him,” she whispered.

“I know he loves you,” Marcel whispered.

“Oh, yes, he loves me,” she whispered. “He’ll be all right tomorrow, I promise you. Come around.”

Rain was flooding the Rue Dauphine when he stepped out. He stopped in the deep niche of the door to straighten his clothes, fix his tie and his shirt, and properly right the cape on his shoulders. His mother might be up waiting on this special night, “playing the candle” and he only hoped there were no bruises on his face. But then, touching his chin, he felt the wetness of blood there. Well, marvelous! And then as if they had been waiting for some cue, all the aches and pains of his body chose to manifest themselves. The back of his head hurt, and so did his shoulder. And dizzy, he all but fell as he stepped into the rain. All he wanted in the world was to die, or fall into bed.

It felt almost good to step into the downpour. The rain pounded his head and slowly he turned his face up to the dark sky. It drenched him, pouring into his collar, splashing into his outstretched hands. An icy coldness crept over him, and half closing his eyes, he let the street become a blur.

He was walking through that blur toward his own gate when he saw the glimmer of lights through the trees. The parlor was ablaze and so were his mother’s rooms. “Lord,” he whispered, “if I can just get through this, just manage to answer her questions and get to bed.”

“Mon Dieu
, Marcel!” she let out a cry when she saw him. He shook off his cape before turning to her, and when he did turn to her, he felt all the blood drain from his face.

“Where the hell have you been,
mon fils?”
came Monsieur Philippe’s drawling voice.

H
E SAT AT THE TABLE
, his foot on the seat of a dining-room chair, his black cape loose over his shoulders as if he were chilly, and he was drinking wine from a stem glass. Through the haze of cigar smoke, his blue eyes appeared uncommonly brilliant and though he had acquired a touch of gray at the sideburns, his hair was as golden as ever, thick, a bit long, and moist on his forehead. He was drunk.

Marcel felt his teeth clench on all the abominable oaths he knew. What in the name of God was the man doing here? It was the opening night of the opera season, why the hell wasn’t he dancing at the St. Louis Hotel? Surely the family had come to town, they always came to town, didn’t they? But as Cecile bore down on him, Marcel went limp under a veritable swaddling of towels, and being shaken to near senselessness, he stood mutely wiping his face.

“Your pretty sister’s been home for hours,” said Monsieur Philippe pleasantly enough. He stretched, the chair creaked, and he clasped his hands behind his head. The room was redolent with the tobacco and something else which might have been cedar chips thrown on the fire. There were presents on the table, as always, sweets, jams, and a small shining lap
secrétaire
.

“Come here, and let me have a look at you,” Monsieur Philippe said, motioning limply with his right hand. “Come here.”

His face was mere geniality, nothing of threat whatsoever in the drowsy blue eyes. But Marcel could feel that Cecile was afraid. She had transformed herself quite agreeably since early evening. She was in décolleté with rhinestones, with just a hint of rouge on her lips. She brushed at his coat nervously. “
Mon Dieu
,” she said again, “you’ll catch pneumonia from this.”

“Well, get the boy some brandy,” said Monsieur Philippe quite gaily. “Either you’ve grown or I’m getting wizened with old age. Now I know why adults say that to children, you’ve grown. But you have grown!”

“Bonsoir
, Monsieur,” Marcel gave him a short bow.

The man laughed. “Brandy, brandy, where’s Lisette?” he demanded. “I am of the opinion that all young men are infinitely improved by a little brandy, here,
mon fils
, sit down.” And laughing at his own magnanimity, he lifted his own drink.

Marcel eyed him warily. Where was the anger he’d been expecting? If Cecile had handled this, why was she afraid?

“Now tell me, where have you been!” Monsieur Philippe demanded. It was almost a mockery of a parent’s solicitude.

“Walking, Monsieur,” Marcel murmured.

Leaning over the nearby candle, Monsieur Philippe lit another cigar. He sat back, drawing in the smoke. His cheeks were ruddy, and he had about him the smell of leather and horses which always mingled distinctly with his pomade, his cologne.

“Walking on a night like this, hmmmm,” he breathed, the air suddenly smelling like wine. Lisette had filled Marcel’s glass. And without waiting to be told, Marcel took a stiff drink. The brandy burned his throat, and stung his eyes.

“Another, another,” Monsieur Philippe motioned to Lisette. “Your mother tells me you went to the opera tonight, don’t tell me you enjoyed it,” he laughed, but with head wagging slightly, added, “But then you would!” His mouth turned down at the ends as he appeared to roll his wine on his tongue. “I expect one of these days I’ll be getting a little bill for a pair of those delicate spectacles,” he said pinching his fingers, “octagonal with gold rims. That would suit you,” he nodded, laughter cracking in his throat. “Such a boy, such a boy. What do people know of the world, I wonder, but then again what was that song?” He cocked his head as though listening to music, and suddenly began to sing. Marcel did not know the song, except it was an aria, and Monsieur Philippe seemed to handle it right on key. If anyone else in the world had been singing it, at any other time, Marcel would have liked it a great deal.

But he was numb as he listened. There was water in his boots and his shirt clung to his chest. He drank the brandy and motioned this time himself for Lisette to give him some more. On and on Monsieur Philippe was singing, his eyes moving over the ceiling, mossy blond brows gleaming in the firelight, his voice becoming high and thin with the words which were Italian, most likely, Marcel could not be sure. But the melody descended so that he became louder, clearer, and more poignant until at last he brought his fist down in time with the rhythm and shook all the china in the room.

Cecile laughed and clapped her hands.

“Come here,” Monsieur Philippe said, opening his arms. He hugged her tight and then set her down in the chair beside him, opposite Marcel.

“I have a book for you, my little scholar, where’s that book?” Lisette handed it to him from the buffet, and he thrust it at Marcel. It was a handsome volume, old, with gold letters fading in the leather cover. And opening it Marcel discovered it was a history of ancient Rome, complete with the most splendid engravings, each covered with its own thin tissue which he touched reverently.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” he whispered.

“And I’ll tell you a little secret,” Monsieur Philippe said, “you’ll be
the first person to read it, though it’s fifty years old. I always think of you when I see books,” he winked his eye. He said the word, books, with a special emphasis, continuing, “I saw some book the other day, what was it, ah, some splendid nonsense,
The Anatomy of Melancholy
, yes, that’s exactly what it was. Found it with some others in an old trunk, should have brought it to you. But, well, next time!”

“You’re very generous,” Marcel said.

“You know he’s studying now with Christophe Mercier, the novelist from Paris, you remember?” Cecile whispered. She poured some wine into Monsieur Philippe’s glass.

“Oh, yes, yes, that fellow came back on the same boat with my brother-in-law, did very well for himself in Paris,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “How’s that mother of his, still playing the mad Ophelia with all that…all that hair?” he made a wandering gesture about the head, and then laughed as though this were a capital joke.

“She’s better,” Cecile said with a slight air of condescension. “He’s a good teacher for the boys, Monsieur, a very good teacher, everyone sings his praises.”

Monsieur Philippe nodded and shrugged. He sat back, crossing his boots on the seat of the chair in front of him.

“And he tells you all about Paris, hmmmm? The Sorbonne!” he said exaggerating his voice. “The university, hmmmm? Well, tell me this, if this is such a dreadful place for them, why do they always come home?”

Marcel smiled and shook his head, muttering something respectful.

“And you, I suppose you’re anxious as ever to get on that boat, hmmm, to leave your poor mother all alone?”

“Oh, it’s my fault, Monsieur, I’ve talked so much about it,” said Cecile. “All the boys dream of it, but perhaps if I didn’t make such a fuss.”

Again came that magnanimous smile. He was eyeing Marcel up and down and Marcel could feel his wet shirt cold against his back and the sting of the cut on his chin. But in this smoky light, well, he tried to keep calm.

“Even soaking wet you’re all right,” Monsieur Philippe nodded approvingly. “You’re all right. Now go on to bed, take that book with you, and oh, and here…” He reached into his pocket withdrawing a wad of bills in a clip. “If you’re so crazy about this opera, here, then, this ought to get you a good seat.” Marcel was a little stunned at the amount.

“You’re generous, Monsieur,” he said again.

“You are pleased,” his mother said anxiously, “about this new school?”

“But, of course, why not?” said Monsieur Philippe. “Though I don’t see what was the matter with the old one. This young Mercier, he’s sensible, not giving them airs.”

“Oh, never,” she said. “Why, Lermontant, the undertaker, he’s sending his son.” she said, watching his face.

Monsieur Philippe was looking at Marcel with the most dreamy smile. Suddenly he laughed. “A scholar of all things,” he said. “You know, Marcel, once when I was fourteen I actually read a book all the way through.” Laughter erupted again. “Can’t even remember what it was. That was the first and only time I ever fell off a horse, and I’d broken my foot. One of these days you have to tell me what you think of this English fellow, Dickens, I have an old aunt from Baltimore, more American you know, she brought this fellow Dickens down with her in her portmanteau, and she started to read him and she cried!”

Marcel couldn’t help laughing for the first time. He had to make himself stop, and even then he couldn’t keep his face straight and had to look away.

“I know that Lermontant,” said the father, his mind wandering, “he does his job well, all right.” He nodded, glancing at Cecile. “And that son of his, a fine looking young boy…”

“Forgive me just a moment, Monsieur,” Cecile said following Marcel out of the room.

Marcel was trying hard not to laugh. He felt lightheaded, miserable, and was elated at the same time. As soon as he had reached the back door, he covered his mouth and began to shake with laughter.

“What’s the matter with you!” Cecile hissed, drawing up to him. “Stop it, stop it.”

“But he doesn’t remember!” Marcel said, trying to keep his voice down. He doubled over with laughter. “He doesn’t even remember the note!”

It was a full minute before he realized his mother was standing very still except that she was wringing her hands.

“Well, he must not,” he whispered. “Either that or he never got it.”

“He did get it, you told me that man…that notary said that he did,” she said.

“Maman, it’s too perfect!” he bent to kiss her.

“It is not perfect!” she burst out, then turned afraid that Monsieur Philippe might have heard.

“O my God, why not?” Marcel sighed wearily. A reprieve after all this time. He kissed Cecile. “Maybe he’ll think of it in the morning.”

“No,” she shook her head. “He’s forgotten it, if it ever made any difference to him at all.”

“Ah, now don’t worry,” he said.

“Cecee?” Monsieur Philippe called from the dining room. Putting his cape over his head, Marcel ran for the
garçonnière
.

Only a few hours later, when Lisette stood over him shaking him, he awoke quite cross.

“What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “Haven’t you enough to do in the cottage? I only just fell asleep.”

“Well, get up and on your feet,” she whispered. “And look down there right now.”

“At what?” he demanded, pulling on his robe. “Light the fire, for God’s sakes, this is a tomb.”

“Look down there!” she said, pushing him.

And wrapping the robe quickly around him, he followed her angrily to the open door.

The rain had stopped, the morning was gray and cold. He stuffed his hands in his pockets as he went to the rail.

Anna Bella was staring up at him from the wet flags below.

H
IS VERY FIRST IMPRESSION
was that her face was not her own. She was over near the cistern, an utterly unlikely figure standing still beneath the wet banana leaves, her dark blue merino dress and cape blending, it seemed, with the mist that enveloped the yard. And the expression with which she looked up at him was simply not that of the Anna Bella he knew.

Only once before had Marcel seen the expression of a human being alter in that way. It had been on the morning that Richard’s sister, Françoise, had died. He had met Richard at Mass, and the change in Richard was so complete that it was terrifying. It seemed a supernatural being walked in Richard’s shape and clothing, and Marcel had never forgotten it. The memory swept over him now, palpably, as he looked down at this young woman whose black-gloved hands were clasped on the knob of her umbrella, and he felt this besides: enormous love for her, protective love. He had to know the reason for this at once.