by Anne Rice
It was sweet to know he might return at any moment to the crowded party and yet it was not sweet at all. He gazed up at the lighted windows of the Hotel St. Louis, watched the carriages stopping, heard the music of the salons.
The Mercier house was dark when he turned the corner into the Rue Dauphine. Then drawing near the end of the wall in back, he saw a light in Juliet’s window above. Curtains were drawn, a phantom smoke rose in gusts from the brick chimney against the gray sky. Catching his hand in the thick vines that still covered the bricks, he gazed upward, musing, wanting, but not really daring to sound the bell. So she could not be trusted at these affairs, so she had tried to catch that sorceress, Dolly, by the hair! It made him smile.
All of her life was Christophe’s now, she cooked for him, ironed his shirts with her own hands, worked like a servant in the back kitchen and seemed content with a white apron tied across her skirts, her hair gathered under a red tignon. And yet she could emerge that magnificent lady in black velvet who had smiled at him tonight as he entered the box. She had hummed once with the opera, and he had been touched by it, soothed by it, in spite of the complexity of his thoughts. “Ah, think of it if you like,” he whispered aloud in the dark street, “no one can stop you from dreaming, dreaming about them all.” But closing his eyes, a torturous sensation intruded. It was Anna Bella he was holding, Anna Bella he was kissing, and then he remembered with a surge of anger that guileless virginal sweetness, those trusting little arms. In this very street, he could have pressed his head against the vines until their thorns cut him, he could have cried.
But even as he turned to go, the light went out above. He took one last look. A dull glow swelled in the window above the stairs. It appeared next in the window at the landing. And then he heard the heavy muffled sound of the front door. She was coming out at this hour, alone?
But a man appeared under the gas lamp. He stopped, his opera cape folding in against him as he lit a cigar and then putting it to his lips lifted his head. Marcel’s eyes strained to make him out, the dark skin, the shock of white hair beneath the brim of the top hat, combed back to curl above the high collar of his cape. It was Augustin Dumanoir’s father, that man! Marcel wanted to kill him, tear him apart with his bare hands. But he stood rooted to the spot, watching the flare of that black cape as the man crossed the street, passing under another gas lamp and disappearing into the darkness as he moved toward the river along the Rue Ste. Anne.
A flame burst in Marcel. There was nothing of reason about it. He was moving before he could stop himself toward the garden gate. And knowing that old latch would easily give, he forced it with his shoulders and strode back the path to the side door. He felt his teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached and all the long night’s frustrations were mounting to some volatile and unknown pitch. So she was mad, was she? So she couldn’t be trusted in all that fine company above the dress shop, so she had tried to pull Dolly’s precious hair. And every slave on the block knew he had had her, did they? And so it would bring down the roof. But it was fine for that proud planter who whipped his slaves and rode to hounds. He hit the knob of the door upward with his knee, thrust his weight against the panels, and felt it give.
She was at the threshold of her room when he appeared, holding the lamp in her hand. Her long peignoir was open down the front and he could see a slice of her long naked leg.
“Cher,” she whispered with amazement. Then lowering the lamp so that it threw an unsteady light on her face, she smiled. This was madness, he had no right to be here, he was insane. And she was heartbreakingly beautiful, hair loose and light on her shoulders, the peignoir slipping over the dark shadows of her nipples under the silk. Christophe would make a grand entrance at the perfect moment and murder him, and what was his excuse, that he’d seen that rich colored planter, her lover, going down the stairs? But even as his brain teemed, the peignoir swung loose and he saw she was completely naked, saw the dark tuft of hair between her legs. She had backed easily into the room, which like all the chambers of the house had been restored. And entering it now for the first time since the first debacle he was maddened even in this near-blinding passion by the lady’s bower which it had become. A majestic frame held the soft mattresses, there was the tester with its wreath of roses, and in the mirror beyond her, above her marble dresser, he could see her reflection, hair rippling to the curve of her hips which moved beneath the thin flowered fabric, birds and birds of paradise glittering with the light.
“So at last,” she whispered.
He glared angrily at the table with its wine in the silver bucket, and the glasses still in place.
“So it takes another man to make you mad enough?” she laughed softly. “Hmmmmm? Another man to make you come to me? I should have known.”
He could feel his chest heaving, his own breath giving away what might have still been hidden beneath his clothes.
“And what if I told you, I didn’t let him touch me, hmmmm?” she whispered, eyes quivering with laughter. She gestured toward the bed. The coverlet was untouched, pillows in place. Her clothes lay in a heap over the painted screen. “And what if I told you that I would let you touch me,” she was smiling, “what would you think, then? Would you be angry, then?” She backed toward the bed, the peignoir completely open, the soft roundness of her belly gleaming above that tuft of dark hair. The lamp flickered behind the thickly carved post, and as she reached to turn down the coverlet, the peignoir slid from her shoulders hanging loosely on her arms.
He had lost all power to reason. He was merely moving toward her, and had taken the lamp out of her hand. He blew out the flame. He shut his eyes. And as he looked again, she materialized in the darkness, her own hands, lifting, offering her high firm breasts.
Having her again, having her again, he was breathing against her neck, realizing it was going to happen, nothing could stop it, no matter what the price. It was no bitter fantasy in his narrow bed, it was happening. He was dropping his clothes behind him and climbing in beside her under the coverlet, sinking into a voluptuous softness of feather pillows and mattress as she shifted away from him, as if teasing him, to one side. He would not let this end too soon. He would savor it as if it had to last him a year, as if it had to last him all his young life. Christophe was a stranger, everyone else was a stranger. “Je t’adore, je t’adore,” he whispered, holding her face upturned on the pillow as he felt her breasts with rapid, frantic gestures and bent to kiss her lips. He heard her low, maddening laughter, and suddenly she very lightly slapped his cheek. She pushed at his shoulder, she ran her hand roughly over his hair, she arched her back, and leaning upward let her teeth close on his ear. “I could kill you,” he whispered, “I’ve wanted you every second, I’d commit murder for you, I’d murder that man.”
“Don’t do it,” she said drawing him down, letting him kiss her neck and her shoulders, “Just come to me, come to me.” And then slapping him again, pushing him, she released the roughness in him so that he caught her wrists in one hand and held them over her head. She was laughing, undulating, her legs between his legs, that moist tuft of hair against his thigh. He slid his hand down fearfully and felt that place, shutting his eyes, for the sheer sweet warm wetness of it, as his breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t endure this, he couldn’t, couldn’t make it last. And thrusting home again powerfully, he heard her let out an awful inhuman moan and felt her shuddering as he had gone to Paradise again.
When he opened his eyes, she was on her elbow over him, against the gray light from the window so that he couldn’t see her face. She ran a finger over his cheek. She kissed him, pushing his lips apart with her tongue. He was too tired to move. Again he told her that he adored her, but she didn’t want him to speak. She wanted to begin again. He wanted to say that he couldn’t do it, it was all over, what was she doing? But he felt the passion mounting, slower, sweeter, and every bit as bestial as he rose up pushing her softly back. He could sense the difference, how it was happening, more piqua
nt and protracted and ecstasy just the same. “Juliet, Juliet,” he breathed into her neck, “say that you love me, say that you are my slave.”
“Lovely one,” she whispered, “pretty, pretty Marcel. Make me your slave if you want me to be your slave,” she pushed against him, dug her knee into his leg. “Make me your slave!” she gritted her teeth, and harder, wilder than before, he took her again.
She lay sleeping finally, hair out over the pillow. He could see nothing of the woman in her at all. She was as old as his own mother, and yet in the dim glow from the window she was as a young girl. Her flesh, so sweet and yielding, had its own drowsy, musky perfume. He stood by the window, and looked out at the rain. It thrilled him to be in this warm room with her, quieted by love, and almost sleepy, while all about him the rain fell, rushing in the gutters overhead, running with a gurgle into the cistern, teeming on the flags below. He stepped into his boots, shirt still unbuttoned, his coat loose, and poked at the coals in the grate. They were dead. A door slammed below.
Then another door closed, and there was the sliding of a latch. “Maman!” came the alarmed whisper on the stairs.
Marcel froze, still clutching the poker as Juliet, rising on her elbows, cried out, “Go way, Chris, your mother is not alone.” She fell back as if asleep. And then Christophe, standing in the doorway, saw through the murky light the figure by the grate.
“You bastard!” he whispered, and pitched forward straight at Marcel.
“Christophe!” Juliet shouted. But he had Marcel by the shoulders and had thrown him back against the wall. His fist shot out, but Marcel ducked this and attempting to get around him, was caught suddenly in his strong hands. But Juliet was up, peignoir flying loose around her, and she had hold of her son’s neck. “Let him go, let him go!” she was screaming, and then commenced to slap him over and over with both hands.
“You think you own me!” she growled and then grabbing him by the hair, swung him around. Her teeth gritted, her voice raging, she was speaking a patois which Marcel could not fully understand.
“Stop it, stop it,” Marcel pleaded with her as she slapped Christophe again. And Christophe, dizzy, stumbling, moved away from her finally, his head in his hands.
It seemed it was over then, and all were breathless, staring at one another in the dark. But then Christophe let his hands down slowly and as they both waited, uncertain, he sprang at Juliet. He caught her off guard with the back of his hand, flinging her against the bed. She let out a second cry as Marcel rushed to stop him, but Christophe had struck her again. She fell down on her knees.
“Don’t, Chris, my God,” Marcel said throwing his arm about Christophe’s chest, “it’s me you to want to hit, not her!”
And Christophe obliged him with one fine blow that sent him back to the floor.
Marcel had never lost consciousness before. He had no idea how it felt. He only knew that he was sitting against the wall and it seemed a long long time had passed, that surely he must be in another time and place. But he was right there, nothing had changed, except that Juliet was holding onto the lamp threatening to throw it at Christophe if he came a step closer and that Christophe, trembling, had slumped into a chair.
“All right,” he said. Marcel was just climbing to his feet. He had hold of the marble mantelpiece and his legs were refusing to support his weight. “Sleep with him then if you want to, sleep with them all,” Christophe said in a low voice.
“I don’t want them all,” Juliet whispered from beside the bed.
“Why don’t you invite them up right after class? Why don’t you just invite them up in the middle of the afternoon?” He was rubbing his forehead with his hands.
“It was my doing,” Marcel whispered. “All my doing.” He tried to stand erect. “There’s no one to blame but me, Christophe,” he said. He realized for the first time that Juliet was crying.
“You hit me like that, your own mother,” she moaned softly, her breath catching with sobs.
“Mother, mother,” he said in a low voice.
“They wanted me to kill you before you were born, you know that, they wanted me to kill you when you were in my body and I said no.”
“Well, that’s what they would want in a whorehouse, isn’t it?” he turned toward her, rising, upsetting the chair.
“Christophe, if you try to hit her again…” Marcel said simply, “I’ll kill you, I promise you. I’ve got this poker in my hand.” He didn’t have it, however. He didn’t even know where it was. He had dropped it when Christophe ran at him. But he stood resolute, as if he himself were some marvelous weapon.
“It’s not me you care about! You don’t care about me,” Juliet whispered, still crying. “Why don’t you tell him the truth, instead of calling me names, you and your English friend,” she said contemptuously. “Do you think I don’t know it, do you think I have no mind?”
“If you dare…” Christophe whispered, shaking his head. He had his fists clenched. “If you say one more word…”
“Christophe, please…” Marcel said.
“Tell him the reason you’re so angry, the real reason…” she taunted.
“I swear I’ll kill you…” Christophe said, “if you say another word.”
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 yo
u been, mon fils?” came Monsieur Philippe’s drawling voice.
IV
HE 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!”