by Anne Rice
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 retu
rning 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.
“Well!” Louisa laughed suddenly.
“What is it!” Suzette experienced an uncomfortable start. Nanette LeMond was such a lovely girl, and from such fine parents, why couldn’t Richard—
“Why, you’re staring at that cake as if it were poison, that’s what. Eat, eat, eat!” Louisa said.
“And you keep your figure following that advice yourself!” Suzette cut into the cake with her spoon. Augustin Dumanoir was not going to let Marie’s attention go. He was darker than Richard, but not very much darker. His long thin nose flared at the nostrils elegantly, his lips were small. Yet his father with heavier, flatter features was the more distinguished, smiling almost haughtily as he nodded to Celestina Roget as if he were perfectly proud of his broad African mouth. Both men had tight rippling hair, shining with pomade, and she caught, through the tinkle and hum, the father’s sonorous tones, “Oh, yes, indeed, everything for the table grown right on my own land.”
Suzette felt weary suddenly. She wanted to get rid of this cake. Her calculations struck her as inhuman and ugly, she wanted her son to be happy, and imagining him wounded, she felt at once an unbearable pain. She had made it a fixed rule with herself never to envision her older boys, and yet the memory of them descended upon her as surely as if they had come into the room. Boys! They had married white women in Bordeaux, they might as well have gone to China, or been lost at sea. Listing ever so slightly with her thoughts, she was suddenly startled to realize that Richard had been watching her and their eyes had met. A little smile played on his lips. He seemed not to have the slightest fear. If half the world thought her son as handsome as she thought him…her thoughts stopped. “Beauty, beauty everywhere,” she whispered, “and not a drop to drink.”
“Why, what on earth are you saying?” Louisa asked her.
“I don’t know,” she said. And staring at the door in amazement, she said. “Why, there’s Dolly Rose.”
No one had expected her. That she could cast aside her mourning often enough for the “quadroon balls” everyone knew, but to come here? Yet there she stood, two white camellias in her jet-black hair, her creamy bosom swelling above a taut border of lavender watered silk.
“Good lord!” Louisa whispered.
And had not Dolly moved swiftly to fill the silence that followed, it would have been a scene. But she kissed her godmother, Celestina, immediately, embraced Gabriella, and murmured a festive greeting to the two aunts. Only for an instant did a desperate light disfigure her composure and then she saw Suzette. She put her arms out.
“Why, come here, Dolly,” Suzette said. “How good you look, ma chère.” Her voice dropped as Dolly bent to kiss her. “How good it is to see you well.”
Louisa stared in horror. She rose quickly, leaving the chair for Dolly who settled beside Suzette at once. It seemed young Augustin, who knew nothing of all this, commenced his chatter with Marie again, Colette had begun to laugh, the party rippled on.
“Do you think me a monster!” Dolly’s eyes blazed. Again she kissed Suzette on the cheek. “I should stay home, should I not, I should wither on the vine. That would bring her back, wouldn’t it, she would breathe, she would have life again.”
“Dolly,” Suzette whispered taking her hand, “believe me, if anyone knows the loss of a child I know it. Time is the healer. This is God’s will.”
“God’s will, do you believe that, Madame Suzette?” Dolly would not lower her voice. Drops of moisture glistened on her high forehead, the pupils of her eyes danced. “Or is that just our way of saying it is out of our hands?” There was wine on her breath, a ruddy color to her lips. “I don’t believe in anything except myself. Yet everything is out of my hands.”
“Dolly, Dolly…” Suzette patted her arm.
“Is Giselle happy?” Dolly asked now, her eyes moving across the ceiling. They settled fiercely on Suzette. “Oh, you don’t know how I cried that year…when we were no longer friends.”
“I cried, too, Dolly,” Suzette whispered, drawing near to her, hoping that that shrill clarion voice could be stilled. “You are not well…”
“Oh, I am very well!” she said. “I am free!”
Out of the corner of her eye, Suzette could see that Celestina was glowering at Dolly from across the room.
“No more children,” Dolly mused, “no more children, who would have ever guessed? And now it doesn’t matter all that rot Maman used to talk. If there can’t be children…”
“Dolly, there are other things to live for!”
“Yes, love,” Dolly smiled. “Live for love. I suppose you’ve heard of my white officer, Captain Hamilton from Charleston,” she laughed, and throwing back her head said it again in English mocking the southern American drawl. “Oh, yes, he’s going to take care of everything, ‘my dear, you leave it all to me!’ ”
She stopped, frozen, as if distracted by some awesome thought. Suzette gazed patiently at her tortured face, the dancing eyes, the high forehead with its moist wisps of raven hair.
“Maman would have loved him,” Dolly whispered, her eyes moving blindly over the assemblage. It was as if she’d forgotten that Suzette was even there. “But I do not love him!” she whispered. “I do not love him!” she pleaded. “I do not love him at all.”
“You need rest,” Suzette said softly.
But Marcel had appeared. He had come up before Dolly and stood staring down at her, his small face clouded with a scowl.
“Have you seen him?” he whispered frantically. “Christophe!” he said, when she did not appear to understand.
“Of course I’ve seen him,” she said, her voice suddenly guttural and alien. Her mouth was hard. “He’s been at my house all the time.”
Marcel was speechless. It was as if he had heard wrong.
“I left him there to entertain Captain Hamilton,” she said now, with an immediate innocent smile. “I do hope they get on together. The Captain is due in this afternoon.”
Marie had gone back the passage to the rear gallery, and not pausing to see whether or not she was followed descended the curving iron stair. Her steps were rapid. She moved under the porch in the shadows where she could not be seen, but was not at all surprised to see a pair of boots descending and then Richard’s large hand on the rail.
“Did you receive my note?” he whispered. He stood a pace away from her near the rear door of the dress shop which was shut. And it took a moment for him to realize that her face was flushed, that her eyes were red. “Why, what is it, Marie!”
Marie shook her head. She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief, turning ever so slightly away. “It’s all right,” she breathed softly. He could hardly hear her. “It’s just…it’s only…Dolly Rose.”
“She shouldn’t have come!” Richard said.
“No, no. I don’t condemn her!” Marie whispered. She was suddenly quite frustrated and then, swallowing, said in the same soft voice, “It’s only all the wretched things that people say. I feel…I feel so sorry for her!”
Richard dropped his eyes. He did not feel sorry for Dolly at all now. Or if he did, he did not expect that Marie could feel sorry for her. Dolly’s presence here was unforgivable. That anything of Dolly should touch Marie—it was more than he could bear.
But he was immensely relieved now to see that Marie had turned to him and her face brightened with just a touch of a smile.
�
��You needn’t have written that note,” she said. “I wanted so to tell you, but…but…”
“Marcel was there…”
“And Maman was there…” she said.
“And then Marcel was there…” he smiled.
They both laughed.
“Why is no one here?” she whispered with just a touch of the mischievous.
He experienced such a lovely pleasure then that he didn’t realize it was the first time he had ever heard Marie laugh. Hers was a wintry beauty, he would have known, had he ever thought to anatomize it; but she was radiant at this moment and she was looking directly into his eyes.
But then her face became morbidly serious. It had a frightening coldness about it, and he felt the same spasm of fear he’d experienced only moments before when he had seen her red-rimmed eyes.
“You needn’t have written it,” she said gravely.
“If I ever lose your trust, Marie…” he said to her.
“But you haven’t lost it. You couldn’t lose it,” she said, and she said this with such seriousness that it astonished him.
“Richard,” she went on, “I am torn in half.”
“But why?” he asked at once.
“Because I do not know how to behave with you!” she said. “I don’t know how to behave with anyone! I never have. That room upstairs, I find it an agony to be there. And every Thursday now we are to receive friends here, my aunts and myself, every Thursday there are to be little fêtes. Tante Louisa says she’s getting old, she wants to see young people, it would be fun for her to make dresses for me, to receive my friends. I don’t want this!” she looked at him miserably. The voice was her voice which he had known all his life, low, vibrant, and pure. But never had he heard such heat in it; never had he seen such heat in her face. “The truth is, it’s your company I want and yours alone, and yet I’m a fool for telling you so. I should be cold to you and coy with you, I should give you smiles begrudgingly, look away when our eyes meet, hide my real feelings behind a feathered fan. I detest it! I don’t know how to do it. And I cannot smile at Augustin, at Fantin, at those I despise. Why should I receive them? I don’t understand.”