The Foxes of Harrow

by Frank Yerby

  Etienne was studying the picture.

  “Yes,” he said slowly, “yes!”

  Early in the afternoon, Etienne and Paul turned their horses into Dauphine Street. Etienne’s heavy black eyebrows rose.

  “She lives here?” he asked. “I thought you said she was a quadroon.”

  “She is. And she doesn’t live here. She has a house on Rampart Street. You know, ‘Tienne, it’s marvelous what that little touch of dark blood can do to their coloring. Makes it richer, somehow, and vastly more interesting . . .”

  “But where are we going?”

  “To my place. I have a studio between Dumaine and St. Phillips. Your Louisiana belles have been wonderfully kind. I’ve decided to stay here, ‘Tienne. ‘Tis so much more artistically stimulating than France.”

  “Good. I’m very glad of that, Paul. But I thought you were going to let me see your quadroon.”

  “Not my quadroon, ‘Tienne. She is very much her own mistress. You’ll see her, all right. She comes to the studio to pose. She permits no whites to visit her house. Of course I pay her well.”

  “She permits! Mon Dieu, Paul, it seems that she is uncommonly high flown for a Negress.”

  Paul looked at Etienne steadily.

  “One word of caution, ‘Tienne. This most prized model of mine has no need for humility. She is the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen. She is financially secure—having some sort of trust fund set up for her by a former protector. In addition, she manages a boarding house for wealthy bachelors that is a model of taste and propriety. She feels no inferiority, so if you attempt to put her in her place . . .” He shrugged expressively.

  “I see. If she has all this, why then does she pose for you?”

  “She has a son who is now being educated in New England. The money I pay her helps.”

  “Then this protector of hers made no provisions for his offspring?”

  “I asked her about that. She said that the break between them came while she was carrying the child, and that she never told him. Pride and pique, ‘Tienne. Women are queer creatures.”

  “In that you have much right,” Etienne sighed.

  They dismounted in front of a typical house of the old quarter. While Paul searched through his pockets for the key, Etienne stood by, watching him with somber eyes.

  “It’s not locked, monsieur.” The voice floated down from the gallery. “You’re very forgetful.”

  Etienne backed out into the muddy street and gazed upward. The woman was leaning over the wrought-iron balustrade. She wore no hat, despite the steady drizzle, and her hair was clubbed into a soft knot on the back of her neck. It was a tawny chestnut, her hair, and despite the thick overcast Etienne could catch the gleam of golden highlights in it.

  “Ma foi!” he whispered, “you didn’t lie—did you, Paul!”

  “I never lie,” Paul said, putting his weight against the door. It groaned open and the two of them went into the gloom of the hallway. Then they were mounting the stairs that led to Paul’s studio. As they reached the landing, the voice came out again to greet them.

  “Come in, messieurs.” It had a haunting, lingering quality, so that Etienne was sure that still he heard it after it was gone, a rich contralto that caressed the ears like the notes of a soft, golden gong. He looked at Paul, his pale blue eyes luminous in the semi-darkness. Paul smiled and the two of them went in together through the door.

  She was standing in the middle of the room. In her maroon velvet riding dress, she had the figure of a girl. She looked at Etienne and her fine brows rose, then the sooty lashes swept down over her great eyes. Green, Etienne decided, but of a coloring I’ve never before seen.

  “Desiree,” Paul Dumaine was saying, “may I present my friend, Monsieur Etienne Fox?”

  “Fox?” she said, and her voice sank deeper in her throat than before. “Fox? But yes, of course, Fox—those eyes . . .”

  “What about my eyes?” Etienne demanded.

  “They are very blue,” Desiree murmured. “There are not many men with such eyes. Yet otherwise you are not very like—the coloring is different—but still there is the carriage and the tilt of the head and something of the same arrogance . . .”

  Etienne turned helplessly to Paul.

  “You talk riddles, Desiree,” Paul said; “ ‘Tienne is like whom, or not like whom, or—what on earth are you talking about?”

  “He reminds me of someone whom I knew once—long ago. But since you have company, I had best be going back.”

  “Going back! Aren’t you going to pose today as we agreed?”

  “In the presence of Monsieur Fox? That makes a great deal of difference.”

  “I don’t agree—what matters one more pair of eyes?”

  “Monsieur is an artist. His gaze is impersonal. While Monsieur Fox is . . .”

  “Is what?” Etienne growled.

  “A Fox, perhaps. Goodday, messieurs!”

  “No,” Etienne said. “Stay and sup with us. This affair of the picture we will forget for the evening, but the pleasure of your company is quite another matter.”

  Desiree looked at him, and the little flakes of seagold caught the light of the candles and sparkled in her green eyes.

  “Very well,” she said softly. “I will stay.”

  “You see?” Paul hissed. “I told you!”

  Desiree sank down upon the divan and watched Etienne. He pulled up a chair and sat facing her, looking gravely into her eyes.

  “You are very beautiful,” he said. “But already you must have tired of hearing that.”

  Desiree smiled slowly; the wine-red lips curving upwards at the corners for a brief moment.

  “And you’re like someone else, too,” Etienne declared; “someone I knew—but who? For the life of me I cannot recall . . .”

  “Monsieur was in Paris—recently from the accent. Perhaps you knew my brother.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Aupre Hippolyte.”

  Etienne’s black brows almost met over the bridge of his nose.

  “Yes,” he said, “I knew him—well. Where is he now?”

  “Gone back to France. The—the climate here didn’t agree with him.”

  “The climate?”

  “Well—there were other complications . . .”

  “Such as?”

  “Truthfully, monsieur, he was set upon by footpads and beaten so badly that he almost died of it. It was his spirit, perhaps more than his body, that was broken. I nursed him back to health and then I sent him away. I hope that he is happy there.”

  “But these—assailants of his?”

  Desiree shrugged.

  “God will punish them,” she said.

  “But didn’t he—recognize any of them?”

  “He couldn’t bear to talk about it, monsieur. I didn’t urge him.”

  “Good,” Etienne said. “You were very wise.”

  Desiree sat very still looking at Etienne. From time to time the amazingly long lashes would sweep down and hide her eyes. When they moved, Etienne caught the gleam of dull gold at their roots. But most of the time she looked at him very candidly without any attempt at concealment.

  Paul busied himself with the preparation of supper, for he lived very simply without a servant of any kind. At once Desiree sprang to her feet and ran to help him.

  “No, no,” he said. “Today you are my guest.”

  “And a very lovely one,” Etienne declared. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone else quite so beautiful.”

  “Thank you, monsieur,” she said. But she continued to help Paul and in a few minutes the little table was spread with cheese and brioche and steaming café au lait. Etienne watched the way her hands moved, pouring the coffee. There was something regal in their grace. With a sudden sense of guilt he forced himself to remember Ceclie. Dear little Ceclie—as untamed as a prairie filly, and as strenuous almost. The way these hands moved was restful. On a fevered brow they might be cool. And that voice, so slow, and
soft and deep, the vowel sounds singing. Never would it grate upon one’s ears, hoarse and beside itself with passion and anger. Yet there was fire here-a smouldering flame that would never burn out. Dimly he sensed how it could steal deep into a man’s veins and slowly, persistently, sear away his senses. This is a danger, he thought; the cure could be worse than the disease

  “Desiree,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “I should like to see you home. And afterwards I want to visit you there.”

  The dark lashes swept down over the great green eyes.

  “I’m sorry, monsieur,” she murmured, “but that is quite impossible.”

  “Why?” Etienne demanded.

  “You are white. There are oceans of blood between us.”

  “That has not always been considered a difficulty in Louisiana.”

  “I know. But the days of the Quadroon Balls are over. There hasn’t been one in half a dozen years now. ‘Tis better so.”

  “I don’t agree. There was dignity and beauty in those arrangements. Now, life has become needlessly sordid.”

  “Perhaps. But for me the time has passed for arrangements of any sort. Since the days of the Cordon Bleu, I have known much loneliness, but also I have known much peace.” She stood up. “Adieu, messieurs,” she murmured.

  Etienne frowned. Then, very slowly, he got to his feet.

  “You’re right,” he said deliberately, “I am white. But there is one thing you’ve forgotten, Desiree. I am a Louisiana white—born on this soil and of it. I have never permitted my wishes to be gainsaid by one of your race—even one who holds so slight a membership in it as yourself. And I don’t propose to begin now. This is your cloak?”

  Desiree looked at him and her eyes opened wide so that her lashes caught the light of the candles fully and for once were all burnished gold with no shadowy darkness anywhere. The little golden flakes in her green eyes swam together and made a ring around the lightless, widening pupils. When she spoke her voice was rich and deep, with a huskiness in it, just a trace, so that Paul and Etienne, listening, were unsure that they had heard it.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes—that is my cloak.”

  Etienne held it out to her, and she slipped it around her shoulders. Then he took her arm, and the two of them went out the door together.

  XXIV

  STEPHEN FOX broke the seals on the letter that the post rider had brought him from New Orleans. His blue eyes danced over the page, pale in his lean, lined face.

  “Saints and devils,” he said, “what an abomination Mike makes of the English language!”

  Aurore looked up from her sewing.

  “What is it, Stephen?” Her voice saying his name made of it a caress.

  “A letter from Mike Farrel. As nearly as I can make out from the spelling, he is going to race the Creole Belle against the Thomas Moore—downriver from St. Louis to New Orleans.”

  “At his age! I thought you told me he had retired.”

  “So he had. But ye know how Mike is. Never would he refuse a challenge. And the stakes are already a hundred thousand dollars. The results will be cabled to Europe and the wagers are enormous. ‘Twill be his last voyage, he swears.”

  “When is this race to be, Stephen?”

  Again Stephen scanned the letter.

  “The twenty-seventh, he says. Why that was yesterday! If he makes any speed at all he should pass Harrow tomorrow morning early. Julie!”

  The clear, tinkling notes of the piano stopped abruptly.

  “Yes, Papa?”

  “The Creole Belle will pass the landing in a race early tomorrow morning. See that ye are up or else ye’ll miss it. ‘Twill be a sight to see, I tell ye!”

  Julie burst into the room, her black eyes sparkling.

  “We can watch it from the belvédère, can’t we, Papa? And Mike will win, I just know he will!”

  “Aye,” Stephen laughed, “the Belle can show a clean pair of heels to any packet on the river. Why didn’t the old pirate let me know earlier! Why, I could have gotten in a tidy wager . . .”

  “Stephen, Stephen!” Aurore said. “Will you never get that gambling fever out of your system?”

  “No. All of life is a gamble, my dearest, and so far I’ve won the highest of stakes: this house, the land, you . . .”

  A soft flush stole upward over Aurore’s face.

  “You must marry an Irishman, Julie,” she said. “They always manage to say the nicest things—even when they’re wrong. ‘Tis that stone with the unpronounceable name that they kiss.”

  “If I can find one like Papa. He’s the sweetest old thing, isn’t he, Mother?”

  “Thank ye, my dears. Now must I call the servants to remove all the bouquets ye’ve tossed?”

  “Oh, Papa!” Julie laughed.

  Stephen ran a lean hand through his daughter’s golden curls. “Back to your piano, me lass!” he laughed. “ ‘Tis thinking I am that I heard a false note.”

  “Oh, I can’t play now!” Julie protested. “I’m too excited!”

  “Let her stay, Stephen,” Aurore said.

  “Ye see?” Stephen growled playfully. “In my own house I have no authority.”

  The heavy figure of old Jean-Jacques, the butler, hovered in the doorway. He coughed respectfully to gain their attention.

  “Yes?” Aurore said. “What is it, Jean?”

  “ ‘Tis a young lady. She wants to see you, her.”

  “Show her in here. Do I know her, Jean?”

  “I think so, yes, maîtresse. But, maîtresse—”

  “Show her in, Jean.”

  The butler spread wide his hands in an expressive gallic gesture, and his eyes rolled in his black face.

  “All right, all right,” he said, “but she half wild, her! Can’t nobody tell nobody nothing in this house, nohow, no!” He turned angrily and ambled out into the hall.

  Aurore turned to Stephen, her eyebrows rising. There was the clatter of booted feet in the hall, and Ceclie Cloutier was leaning against the doorframe, her young face completely devoid of color.

  “Where is he?” she said, the great tears making streaks down her pale cheeks.

  “Where is who?” Stephen demanded.

  Ceclie looked past him as though he were not there, her brown eyes fixed upon Aurore.

  “You’re keeping him from me!” she stormed. “You are! I know you are!”

  Aurore turned to Julie, whose eyes were big as full moons.

  “Leave us,” she said crisply. “Go upstairs to your room, Julie!”

  “Oh, Mother . . .”

  “Do as your mother tells ye!” Stephen said quietly. Julie turned and ran from the room. Stephen waited until the clatter of her footsteps was gone from the great stairs, then he turned to Ceclie.

  “And now, young lady,” he said. “Would you please explain the meaning of this?”

  “ ‘Tienne,” Ceclie whispered. “I haven’t seen him in three weeks. At first, I thought he was sick, but then he stayed and stayed away from me.”

  Aurore studied the girl’s pale face then she said gently:

  “Won’t you sit down, my dear?”

  Stephen rose and pushed forward a big chair. Ceclie dropped into it, looking very small and lost within its depths.

  “Now,” Stephen said kindly. “Begin at the beginning, little Ceclie.”

  “I was raised in Texas,” Ceclie said. Aurore looked at Stephen seeing him wince at the ‘raised.’ “I don’t know how to do things right. I wanted to see ‘Tienne, and father said I was too young to receive company, so I came here to see him. Afterwards 1 found out that that was wrong. Even ‘Tienne scolded me about it. Then I started meeting him anywhere, anytime I could. Mostly we sat on horseback in the rain and talked and talked . . .”

  Aurore looked at her sharply.

  “Yes, I kissed him!” the girl said defiantly. “Anybody would want to kiss ‘Tienne—anybody at all!”

  “I don’t doubt that,” and Aurore smiled.
>
  Ceclie sank back against the chair. Then she straightened and looked Stephen full in the face.

  “But that was all, sir. ‘Tienne is a gentleman—a real gentleman.”

  “I should hope so,” Stephen said.

  “I never kissed anyone before I never wanted to. But if I don’t see him soon I’m going to die. I hurt all inside from wanting him so . . .” She buried her face in her hands and shook with sobs.

  Aurore got up and crossed to where she sat. Gently she put her arms around the girl’s shaking shoulders.

  “Ceclie,” she said softly. “Never by word or gesture did I forbid Etienne your company. You must believe me. And today my husband will ride out to Rosemont to ask your father to permit Etienne to call upon you properly.”

  Ceclie’s eyes shone with joy. “Oh, Madame!” she wept. “Madame!”

  “ ‘Tis nothing, my dear. Love can be a great burden. Now as to Etienne’s whereabouts—that I cannot tell you, because truthfully, I don’t know. He stays away from Harrow for days at a time. This I do know: he usually stops at Paul Dumaine’s studio on Dauphine Street. We see Paul often—oftener in fact than our own son.”

  Ceclie got to her feet at once.

  “I shouldn’t seek him there if I were you,” Aurore said gently. “That, too, would be improper. Be patient. We shall have him out to Rosemont within the week.”

  “Thank you,” Ceclie whispered. “Thank you, so very much!” She took a step forward, and then, before either of them could reach her, pitched forward full length upon the floor.

  Aurore sank down beside her.

  “Get water, Stephen,” she said. “The poor child has fainted.” Stephen strode through the doorway and was back in a moment with a glass. He raised her head while Aurore got a little of the water down Ceclië’s throat. Slowly the brown eyes came open.

  “I’m sorry,” the girl whispered. “I’m so terribly sorry!”

  Aurore looked at Stephen, but he was gazing into Ceclie’s face, snowy white beneath the black hair.

  “How long,” he said, “has it been since ye’ve eaten, child?”

  “Four days,” Ceclie whispered. “How did you know?”