by Frank Yerby
“Come in, monsieur I’ve been waiting for hours!”
There on the mahogany table two candles flickered. The rich, off-white tablecloth threw back the soft glow, and the goblets and silver sparkled. There in a pail of ice the wine bottles stood.
Desiree put out both her hands to Stephen.
He took them gently but held her there at arms’ length, looking down gravely into her face.
“Aye,” he said at last. “Ye’re as I remembered.”
“And how was that, monsieur?”
“Unbelievable.” His eyes strayed around the little house. Desiree had rearranged it so that it was quietly, elegantly perfect. There was nothing superfluous; nothing in the way. Restful—that was the word for it. None of the stupendous, nerve-tingling magnificence of Harrow, here; but only simplicity raised to the level of an art.
“Ye’ve done well,” he said.
“I’m glad monsieur likes it. Monsieur would have wine?”
“Yes,” Stephen said. He sank down into the great chair. Desiree brought the sparkling ruby-colored liquid in a bell-shaped goblet. She leaned over the back of the chair as he sipped it, gazing down upon the fiery mass of curls upon Stephen’s head. Here and there was a strand of white at the temples, she saw. Slowly she put out her hands and stroked his forehead. Her hands were warm and very soft. Stephen could feel the tension of nerve and sinew ease under her touch until at last even the little knot of muscle that had gathered perpetually of late above the bridge of his nose relaxed and disappeared. He caught both her hands and drew them downward, turning at the same time and gazing upward into her face.
“There’s magic in your hands,” he said. “Never in years. . . .”
“Monsieur is unhappy,” she whispered. “But there is no room here for unhappiness.” She looked around the room. “This was built only for joy.”
“Yes,” Stephen said. “Ye are very wise, Desiree. Too wise for your years. How old are ye?”
“Sixteen,” she said.
“Holy Mother of God!”
“That troubles you, monsieur?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t let it. We are never young. We cannot afford youth. This wisdom, as you call it, is a thing handed down from mother to daughter for generations. This is what I was born for, monsieur.
Stephen sat very still in the big chair, watching her moving about the table, preparing the meal. There was something unearthly in her grace. He felt strangely at peace. No need to hurry this; better to savor every moment as it passed; better far to let the evening sink into night unhastened, without abruptness or too rude eagerness. Play it out like a perfect hand; God knows he held a Royal Flush.
Desiree served his plate and poured out the wine for him, then she stood behind his chair like a servant.
“Sit,” he growled.
“No,” she said. “It is not fitting.”
“I told ye to sit!”
Silently she took her place across the table from him, the outlines of her face softened in the small flameglow of the candles. She kept watching him, the sea-green eyes dancing under the long lashes, fixed upon his face.
“Ye’re not eating,” he said.
“I’m not hungry, monsieur.”
Abruptly he pushed back his chair and stood up.
“Come here,” he said.
She came to him very simply, lifting her face to his.
In the morning, in the faint gray haze of just before dawn, when Stephen rode homeward toward Harrow, the air was like wine and all the winds had a singing in them. He felt curiously light and weightless; full of a soft tiredness and a warm contentment. His bones felt hollow with fatigue and his blood ran slow and cool through his veins. His mind was amazingly clear. All the future lay before him, with its outlines sharp and discernible. Etienne must be sent abroad for his education—to England, beyond all reasonable doubt. A husband must be found for Aurore. He stopped for a moment frowning upon that thought, wondering why he found it vaguely unpleasant. If only young Cloutier had not gone to Texas; he would have been ideal. Still there must be someone. And this bitterness growing out of the annexation question must be allayed somehow; though how he or any other one man could halt the inevitable trend of events was more than he could see.
Desiree. This was something else again from what he had thought. She had come to him simply and directly without pretense or shame. And to his amazement, he had found her virginal. Yet, in her, instinctively, love was an artistry. “This is what I was born for, monsieur . . .” This above all—to be to him a salvation from the emptiness of his existence. I had everything but happiness, he thought, and that eluded me.
Over the broad fields of Harrow the young cane stalks bowed altogether to every passing wind, and the cotton was up and greening. High on the skyline, Stephen could see Achille sitting hunched over on his mule, his face half covered by the big straw hat. But the earthen wall of the levee was empty; never again would old Josh sit over his lines, dozing above the ancient river. So many had gone: Zerline, Odalie’s maidservant, Pierre Arceneaux, old Le Blanc . . . In the midst of life there was always death. But Harrow would go on, for in the great house slept a manchild. Strange and difficult to be sure: with Gallic fire and Celtic mysticism; but still a lad upon which to pin one’s hopes. There would be other Foxes at Harrow—a long dim line of unborn ghosts stretching out to the edge of eternity.
This, all this, because a golden girl with hair of tawny flame had lain in his arms all night and awakened him in the morning with the soft brushing of her lips against his throat? What a foundation to erect such a towering structure upon! He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and thundered up the oak-canopied road at a gallop.
In the weeks that followed, Stephen went almost nightly to Rampart Street.
Odalie’s eyes grew dark and ringed from watching for his return. Yet, she had to admit, never had life gone smoother at Harrow. Stephen was almost too goodnatured, smiling easily over nothing, impervious to her worst outburst of temper. Not even Etienne could disturb him. And now at last the boy was beginning to follow his father, silently and afar off, around the great plantation. There grew up between father and son a sort of silent companionship. Etienne began to learn English, slowly and haltingly but entirely of his own free will.
Sitting at the great table awaiting Stephen at the evening meal, Odalie heard him coming through the hall, whistling to himself, in smooth runs and tills as clear as any mocking bird’s. Her hands tensed upon the edge of the table. There was something amiss here. He had no right to be so happy—so outrageously, completely happy. He came in the door at a brisk pace and crossed to where she sat, bending to kiss her cheek.
“Stephen,” she began.
“Yes, my dear?”
“You never take me anywhere. Friday night there is a ball at the City Exchange. I promised Amelia that we would come.”
“Friday night?” Stephen thought rapidly. Friday night was the final Grand Ball of the Cordon Bleu. Desiree was expecting him as a matter of course.
“No,” he said shortly. “ ‘Tis quite impossible!”
“Why, Stephen?” she leaned forward across the table. “Stephen,” she said softly, “who is keeping you away from me?”
The fair brows almost met over the thin nose, and the blue eyes blazed.
“About that, I would not inquire if I were ye,” he said. Then he stood up, his dinner untasted. “Very well,” he told her slowly. “We shall attend your ball!”
Odalie sat in dumb misery, watching him stride through the doorway, his back very stiff and proud against her glance.
Stephen went down the stairs into the courtyard at the rear of the house and summoned Georges.
“Saddle Prince Michael for me,” he growled. Then he stood by the stairs drumming nervously upon the balustrade. When the big palamino was led forth, Stephen swung at once into the saddle and headed for New Orleans.
“That Negre gal must be something, her!” Georges murmur
ed. Georges knew. Such a thing came early to the ears of the Negroes.
When Stephen turned the horse’s head into Rampart Street, he was in a thoroughly bad humor. He would have to break a promise, and that he disliked doing. Worse still, Desiree would not cry or reproach him, but incline her head to his decision with no show of whatever she might feel. He swung down from the horse and entered the house without knocking.
Instantly a young man as handsome as Andre had been in his youth sprang to his feet. Stephen inspected him coldly. The youth was fair of skin, with great mases of tawny chestnut hair curling thickly over his high white forehead. Stephen looked from him to Desiree, but the girl was smiling serenely.
“Monsieur,” she said, “this is my brother, Aupre. He has just returned from France.”
“Your brother?” Stephen growled. “But this one is white!”
The youth flushed darkly.
Desiree laughed, a clear, golden sound.
“ ‘Tis only I inherited the blood of the blacks,” she said. “Aupre labors under no such disadvantage.”
Stephen looked at the youth. Yes, the resemblance was there; even to the beauty of face and form. This soft boy’s face was almost girlish. Stephen relaxed slowly, and put out his hand.
“ ‘Tis glad I am to meet ye, Aupre,” he said.
The boy stood before him, as rigid as a statue, his hands limp at his sides. Stephen’s fair brows flew together.
“I offered ye my hand!” he thundered. Slowly, the boy put out his hand. Stephen took it, almost crushing it in his grip. Then with a sound very like a sob, Aupre whirled and was gone through the door.
“What on earth . . .” Stephen began.
“Was that necessary, monsieur?” Desiree said. “Did you have to humiliate him so?”
“Humiliate?” Stephen said. “Nothing was further from my intent.”
Desiree’s eyes were bright with tears.
“He was debating whether or not to return to France,” she whispered; “there he knew nothing but liberty. And now this . . . he will go now, and I’ll never see him again.”
“I don’t understand,” Stephen said. “What was it that upset him so?”
“Put yourself in his place, monsieur. Suppose you returned to find your sister, flown, unmarried, to the arms of a lover—and that lover a man of another race. What would you do?”
“Aye, I see. Such a one would not live one hour. But since ye think like this—why did ye not marry one of your own men—say a Dumas or a Lagoaster?”
Desiree’s face showed disgust.
“They are so disgusting? Why? I’ve found old Lagoaster a capital fellow.”
“They are not men. You do not permit them to be. When they rise up and attempt manhood, you shoot them down like dogs and exhibit their bodies in Jackson Square—like Bras Coupe, remember. To live at all they have to fawn and bow, and permit you the liberty of their homes and the favors of their daughters. I am a woman, monsieur; I can only love a man—not a thing!”
“Holy blessed Mother of God,” Stephen whispered. “To live always with a thing like that in your mind—in so young a mind as yours!”
“Forgive me, monsieur. I—I forgot my place. ‘Twill not happen again.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Stephen said. “I have no wish to hurt ye.” He stopped, frowning. “Yet, I’m afraid I must. Desiree, I cannot take ye to the ball Friday night.”
The girl took a step backward and her face was stricken. Then instantly she was all composure.
“As monsieur wills,” she murmured.
“No,” Stephen said gently. “Such submissiveness ill becomes ye. Say what ye will.”
“If I do not attend the ball,” Desiree said, “tongues will wag. If I go alone, I shall be the laughing stock of the whole quarter. But . . .”
“But what, Desiree?”
“If monsieur will condescend to leave the City Exchange and come to the Orleans Ballroom for just one dance . . . just one . . .”
“I see,” Stephen said gravely, but there was a laughing light in his pale eyes. “Ye’re a lovely little witch!”
“I wish I were. Then I’d cast such a spell upon you that you’d never leave me.”
“Afraid of that so soon, my little Desiree?”
“Yes—horribly. ‘Tis my favorite nightmare: that someday a night will fall without you in it. I try to think how it will be to live day after day not hearing your voice or seeing your face. I can’t—the thought itself is a kind of death.”
Stephen put his arms around her.
“Then why think so?” he asked. “Such a day may never come.”
“Oh, but it will. There are oceans of blood between us. There is your loyalty to your own kind. So I have to think about it. I have to steel myself. And already it is beginning.”
“I don’t like this somber mood,” Stephen said. “Ye were made for gaiety not for this.”
“Then I shall be gay. Shall I sing for you?”
“Of course; I should enjoy that.”
Desiree disappeared into an inner room and came back with a mandolin. Then striking a comical pose she began to sing a satirical patois song about Judge Preval.
“Monsieur Preval, he gave a great ball:
He made the Negroes pay to march in line.
Monsieur Preval, he was captain of this ball;
His coachman, Louis, was master of ceremonies.
In the stable there was so much gaiety
I believe the horses must have been amazed.
There were Negresses more beautiful than their mistresses—
They stole their finery from the armoire of Mademoiselle.”
Stephen rocked back against the great chair with laughter. The stinginess and other eccentricities of Judge Preval were legend in New Orleans. Desiree tossed aside the mandolin and sat down in his lap, twining her arms about his neck.
“Monsieur is happy?”
“Aye. What a creature of moods ye are!”
“I’m glad. I like for you to be happy. Now you must make me happy.”
“How?”
“By kissing me. Kiss me a thousand times. No—a million. Kiss me and never, never stop.”
“But that always leads to other things.”
“So?”
“Ye little witch,” Stephen laughed. “Ye lovely little witch!”
The City Exchange was another of De Pouilly’s architectural triumphs, though a sadly curtailed one. At first the architect. had planned for it to occupy the entire square bounded by Royal, Toulouse, Chartres, and St. Louis Streets; but the panic of 1887 had put a stop to this grandiose scheme. Now, in 1838, it occupied only the St. Louis Street side of the square. But with its magnificent ballrooms on the second floor and the awe-inspiring rotunda, it was a structure by no means to be sneered at. And on Friday night, most of the first families of New Orleans were in full attendance. The music, furnished by a Negro slave orchestra, was superb; and outwardly at least the ball had an air of carefree gaiety. But as the evening wore on, the number of males present steadily decreased.
Odalie turned to Amelia.
“The men,” she said. “They’re all going! Never have I seen so many wallflowers—and lovely girls, too!”
“Those Negresses,” Amelia snorted. “They’ve grown impossibly bold. I think that they do it on purpose!”
“Negresses? What do you mean, Amelia?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the Quadroon Balls?”
“Yes—vaguely. But they occurred years ago, under the French. . . .”
“They occur now—tonight,” Amelia said drily. “They’ve never stopped.”
“Ma foi! You mean that the men are leaving these girls to disport themselves with black wenches?”
“Not black ones at any rate. Your Suzette and the one who died in the plague—Zerline? That was the name, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“They’re like that—and fairer. And I’m quite sure they give their filt
hy balls deliberately on the same nights as ours to flaunt in our faces their power over the men.”
“My Stephen would never do a thing like that,” Odalie said.
“Perhaps not,” Amelia declared. “But I’ve been wondering for the past half hour where Stephen was—and Andre.”
“Amelia!”
“I’m sorry. Perhaps I’m being morbid. Forgive me, won’t you?”
Odalie stood up.
“I’m going to look into this,” she said.
“And I also,” Amelia declared.
The two women moved quietly off toward the stairs. On the first floor, outside the barroom, they stopped.
“We can’t go in there,” Amelia observed. “How on earth . . .”
“I’ll go down and get Georges,” Odalie said, “and send him up to inquire after his master.”
They went out of the entrance on Royal Street, and walked around to the stables. Georges was sprawled over the seat of the yellow coach, fast asleep.
“Go up into the bar,” Odalie commanded, “and tell the maître I’d like to have a word with him.”
Georges’s eyes were big in his black face.
“The maître ain’t . . .” he began.
“You were about to say that the maître isn’t in the barroom? Then where is he?”
“Oh, he there, all right; I go tell him, now, me.” Then he was off as fast as his legs could carry him.
“He’s lying,” Odalie said. “They always defend Stephen—the Negroes. They literally worship him.”
Amelia said nothing. In a few minutes Georges was back. “The maître ain’t there,” he said. “Perhaps he go back upstairs, yes.”
“Georges,” Odalie said. “Go and call a cabriolet for us. Quickly now.”
Georges scurried off, his face grey with fright. Any way this ended, it would be too bad for him—yes, any way at all. . . .
At the Orleans Ballroom, Stephen was dancing with Desiree. Her golden face was radiant.
“I knew you’d come,” she whispered. “I knew it!”
“One dance, remember,” Stephen growled. “Only one!” Desiree half closed her eyes so that the long curving black lashes with gold at their roots swept downward, but her lips were smiling. Then she tilted her head back and swung up on tiptoe, whirling expertly so that her lips were like wine flames, inches from Stephen’s mouth. The tawny mass of hair swirled backward and out, and that elusive perfume which was almost a part of her floated upward past his nostrils.