Feast of All Saints

by Anne Rice

  But the house was quiet, and Marcel, home early from the Merciers it seemed, sat at the dining table glaring at the floor.

  She removed her white shawl. “What is it?” she whispered as she came forward. But he was scowling past her as if she weren’t there.

  “Lisette’s in jail,” he said. “Monsieur Philippe’s gone to get her out.”

  For one moment the words did not register—“in jail.”

  “But why?” she gasped. “How?”

  “Drunk, fighting somewhere in a cabaret,” he murmured. Still he did not look at her.

  “But she’s been so good since Zazu died. Why, she hasn’t been in any trouble at all.”

  Marcel was ruminating. His eyes danced back and forth and then slowly he began to speak again as if he himself could not quite comprehend his own words. “It seems they quarreled, she and Maman, over something stupid, small. And Maman tore off Lisette’s gold earring…ripped it down…gashing open the flesh.”

  V

  IT WAS A HELL OF A MESS, wasn’t it? Philippe drained the glass, drowsy but just beginning to feel himself again as he always did by noon, the early hours full of tremor, headache. He’d have a little gumbo in a while, perhaps, that is, if Lisette would stop crying and deign to fix it for him. He bit the tip off his cigar. “I said when you were grown!” he stabbed the air with his finger, “and you know the law as well as I do, that means when you’re thirty years old.”

  She threw up her hands and as she turned for the match he saw that scar on the side of her face where the lobe of the ear had been cut away. “Pull this down,” he said to her now more gently, attempting not to grimace at the sight of it, but he could not prevent himself from sucking in his breath. He reached for the red silk tignon and brought it over the hideous little gnarl. Her eyes were watery, her face puffy. “Hmmmm,” he shook his head. But it was her own fault, wasn’t it, drunk, dirty in the Parish prison. For days after the ear had festered until finally Marcel had all but dragged her to the physician. She was burning with fever and so afraid. “Hmmmp,” he shook his head. “Now, that’s not so bad,” he mumbled to himself as she put the match before him, as he drew in the smoke. “I mean I’ve seen lots of likely girls with one earring, the tignon tied quite prettily over the other ear.” Lisette didn’t answer. She was pouring the bourbon in the glass. He didn’t know he had said this to her a hundred times in the past month never recollecting having said it even once. The fact was he felt sorry for her, and the scar on the side of her face made him sick. He had always felt sorry for her, sorry for her since she was born. She had inherited nothing of Zazu’s remarkable African beauty, and certainly no decent Caucasian looks from his blood. It was the worst of luck that copper skin, those yellow freckles, and now that dreadful little scar.

  “Come on now, come on,” he crooned as he rested back on the pillows, his large soft hand beckoning for her. “You sit here by me.” She settled almost shyly on the side of the bed, swiping roughly with her apron at her watering eyes. A hell of a mess, to put it mildly, he thought, it wearied him attempting to keep all the disparate elements clear in his mind.

  “Michie,” she was saying with a sniffle. “I’ll be an old woman when I’m thirty, Michie, I’m a young woman now.”

  She didn’t begin to understand it. Three-fourths of the Parish police jury had to rule on it, and then only for meritorious service could she be emancipated unless he was to post some bond, some outrageous bond of a thousand dollars and she would have to leave the state. Lisette, meritorious service, Mon Dieu.

  “I can earn my own way,” she was almost whining, “I can cook and clean, I can dress a lady’s hair, I can earn my own way…” It was an awful sound.

  “Earn your own way, now don’t start that!” he said roughly, teeth on edge. He drank a swallow of the bourbon, it was smooth and perfectly delicious. He was just beginning to really want some good breakfast, some nice soup. He lowered his voice as he bent forward, he wouldn’t have Marie or Cecile hear a word of this. “You and that Lola woman, that voodooienne, don’t speak to me about earning your own way. Is that what you’ll be up to if you’re set free!”

  “Michie,” she shook her head frantically, the voice still that low whine. “I don’t go there anymore, I swear it. Michie, I’ve been good, I’ve been taking care of everything, Michie, I don’t even go out, I swear it.”

  Again he drained the glass. He couldn’t bear it, that whining. He was waving at her coarsely with his left hand. It was worse than some field hand begging not to be whipped, it disgusted him, he’d rather hear her banging pots and pans. And what did all this mean about meritorious service, Marcel had explained it but it wasn’t clear. Meritorious service if she was under thirty and born in the state, then she wouldn’t have to be deported, no bond. Meritorious service, Lisette? Fined and imprisoned for brawling in a public street?

  “…I’ve tried to be good, good as gold,” she was saying, “and Michie, it’s four months now since my Maman died.”

  “Now don’t start that again,” he said. He couldn’t even keep one thought straight and now she was changing her attack. “Your mother was born the same year I was born,” he said with that didactic finger, “I didn’t know she’d die before you were thirty, I didn’t know she’d die when you were still a girl.” Maybe all this foolishness about meritorious service was a formality, Jacquemine could take care of it, write it on the petition, and he would sign it.

  “But I’m not a girl, Michie,” her teeth cut into that thick lower lip. Mon Dieu, it wasn’t her fault she’d been born so ugly, he looked away from her shaking his head. “Fill this glass.” And suppose he would have to post some bond, where was Marcel, Marcel had all this straight, what was the bond, one thousand dollars, Mon Dieu! And what would it cost him, a new serving girl?

  “Don’t, chère, don’t!” he said now as she sat there crying, tears squeezed from the large protuberant eyes. “Lisette, ma chère…” He hugged her shoulder, shook her lightly.

  “Please, Michie,” the voice was low and shuddering, “Michie, please let me go!”

  Suddenly she rose. He had the full glass again to his lips and was for a moment confused to see her standing on the other side of the room.

  But Cecile had just entered, with Marcel behind her, and had come to straighten the light coverlet on the bed.

  “Ah, petit chou,” he reached up to stroke her face.

  “Monsieur, there’s a message for you,” she said.

  “And you, brat, what are you doing home from school?”

  Marcel glanced uneasily at his mother. “Monsieur Jacquemine sent a boy to school, Monsieur, asking that I please find you, that there is urgent business, and he requests…”

  “Find me? Find me?” Philippe gave in to a wild laugh. “Lisette, soup!” he said now, the finger pointing straight at the tester. She moved silently, almost gratefully out of the room. “Why, I’ve been here for two months, what does he mean, find me!”

  “Apparently, it’s very important,” Marcel shrugged lightly. Cecile was wiping Philippe’s face. He slipped his arm about her waist. “He asks that you come to his office as soon as you can.”

  “Ah, that’s impossible, not today,” Philippe took another swallow of bourbon. Jacquemine, urgent business. Jacquemine could answer all these questions about the Parish police jury, and just might likely know the cost of a new maid. He couldn’t have some black sloven about this place, no, it would make his petit chou, Cecile, miserable and frankly he could not endure soiled bodies and fumbling service himself. No, it would have to be a fancy girl, a thousand dollars at least, Mon Dieu!

  “But Monsieur,” Cecile was saying gently. “If it’s urgent business, Monsieur, perhaps if you were to have some dinner and then a little nap…”

  “Oh, urgent business, urgent business, what could be urgent business!”

  Cecile’s eyes narrowed for an instant, considering. He did not see her turn quickly to look at Marcel. He threw the coverlet back a
nd gestured for his blue robe. Marcel held it open for him, and Cecile tied the sash.

  “I only meant, Monsieur, if it were urgent business perhaps it concerns the country, Monsieur…”

  Lisette had just come in with the tray.

  “You want to see me go back to the country, mon petit chou?”

  “Ah, Monsieur, never!” she whispered slipping her hands under his arms, her head inclined to his chest.

  “They don’t need me in the country, ma chère,” he said moving with her into the dining room. “I assure you, Bontemps has never been in more capable hands!” He made a great dramatic gesture as he pulled back the chair. The aroma of the hot gumbo, shrimp, spices, the green pepper, filled the room. “No, they don’t need me and they won’t see me until the harvest, urgent business, they can go to hell.”

  Cecile pulled the napkin from the ring and placed it in his lap.

  “And you,” Philippe said now, regarding Marcel who stood patiently at the door. “We talk tonight, you and me, all that about the Parish jury, do you think you’d show a particle of common sense when it comes to purchasing a decent slave?”

  Marcel’s face drained. He glanced at Lisette whose steady brown eyes were fixed on Philippe.

  “Well…I…yes,” Marcel swallowed. “I could.…”

  Philippe was studying him, then he laughed as he picked up his spoon. “Oh, never mind, my little scholar,” he said, “I’ll put this in Jacquemine’s hands. If I have to see him, I will put it in his hands. Urgent business. He can straighten all this out…Mon Dieu, I guess it’s time.”

  Marcel followed Lisette from the room. Cecile was talking softly. He should dress, rest a little before walking uptown.

  “Well,” Marcel said taking her arm. “He’s going to do it! Now, when he goes to see Jacquemine.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it, when I have those papers in my hand,” Lisette turned away from him. “What’s all that urgent business about anyway?” she asked as she started across the yard.

  Marcel murmured softly, “I don’t know.”

  At half past two he helped his father with his boots. He was talking in a low voice, telling him that Lisette had been a good girl all summer, and she knew it wasn’t going to be easy for her when she was free, but she’d work hard, she wouldn’t come to him for anything and Monsieur Philippe nodded, his eyes glassy, as he ran the comb through his hair. “My coat,” he gestured. Cecile had just brushed it. It was days since he had even gone out of the house. “Just a little white wine,” he said now as he inspected the faint glimmer of a gold beard. Cecile had shaved him that morning and done it well.

  “Monsieur,” she said so sweetly, “no more wine now, hmmmm? The sun’s so hot.”

  “Walk with me a ways,” he gestured for Marcel. “Business in this heat. All business ought to be suspended until October, anybody with any sense is at the lake.” But then he laughed and clasped Cecile again as he rose to go. “That is, anybody, but me.”

  He took his time in the Rue Royale, leaving Marcel long before he reached the Hotel St. Louis where he went to the long elaborate bar at once. The air was cool under the lofty ceiling, and though the day’s auctions were over, he nevertheless found himself considering the block. Jacquemine could handle all that well, of course, and he himself disliked buying slaves, in fact he hated it, especially if some family were to be separated and there would be a piteous squalling child and a mother frantic, ah, it was too much. But what if Jacquemine made a mistake? Some haughty girl that would take on airs about serving a colored mistress, Mon Dieu, that was all he would need, and Ti Marcel, Ti Marcel haggling with a slave trader? The way he went on about Lisette he was more likely to buy some downtrodden creature out of pity than a good mulatto maid. Mulatto maid, now that was a luxury, she didn’t have to be a mulatto, but then what would Cecile think, he had never stinted on anything with Cecile, Cecile had from him the best! But the price, it could damn well be a thousand dollars in these times, couldn’t it, and with that quick shift, a series of figures invaded his brain, bills for Marcel’s fall coats, he’d have to come up with something when he freed Lisette, bond or no bond, she’d need a start somewhere, a few months rent before she’d find a position, and his son, Leon, had just written home for some enormous sum, he was buying Europe apparently, piece by piece. Cold beer, he had told the bartender and now it was gone. He gestured for another glass.

  And those gowns for Marie again, and what exactly was that witch Colette up to, coming and whispering to him that Marie was getting herself into deep waters with a colored boy? What colored boy? While Marcel had come to see him one evening, played a hand of faro, and talked vaguely of a “good marriage” with one of “the old colored families.” The matter of dowries, that was it, dowries, he had been calculating roughly these expenses, dowries, these old colored families, they were as fussy and proud as any white family, of course he’d have to see to that, his Marie would not be married without a dowry, but what in the world did Colette mean with all that foolishness about “some colored boy?” Didn’t Colette and Marcel speak to each other, what was this about? He would certainly rather see his belle Marie married to some good upstanding colored planter or tradesman than…than…hmmm, take that Lermontant boy, for instance, that beautiful giant of a boy. Dowry, those Lermontants with their mansion in the Rue St. Louis, they’d want his eyeteeth.

  It gave him a pleasant though minor sensation to envision Marie in a bride’s white, and it crossed his mind swiftly as he downed the second beer—deliciously cold, he ordered a third—that she ought to be the child he sent abroad, really, it would make more sense. But in all probability it wouldn’t save him a dime. In fact, the cost of Marcel’s up and coming venture would be staggering, a pension in the Quartier Latin, his allowance, the proposed travel, and all those years at the Ecole Normale. Of course he approved of the Ecole Normale, whatever the Ecole Normale was! He laughed suddenly at the riotous thought of his son, Leon’s face, should he ever discover the identity of this petit scholar who could read four languages and was his father’s…ah, well! Leon had all the education a planter could use. He drank the third beer down. But it was important Marcel come home four years from now with some means of supporting himself, at least in part, or there would be no end to all this in sight. Of course, he could set him up, some rental property, but he had mortgaged that property to pay for something, well, maybe Marcel could manage those properties for a reasonable commission, the question was, how to manage the formidable sum of four thousand dollars at the moment, or should it actually be five?

  He had just opened the door of the notary’s and moved into the cool shade of the office when he was aware that something was not right. He turned, unsteady on his feet, a drinker’s sweat breaking out uncomfortably all over his face, and peered into the sparse crowds of the street. It was Felix, his coachman, he was sure of it, he’d seen him and Felix had looked away! Felix should have been at Bontemps, and Felix had looked away. Perhaps that damned Vincent had sent him on some errand, but Felix had pretended not to recognize his master, this was absurd.

  “Won’t you step inside, Monsieur?” came the grating voice of Jacquemine from the door of his inner office.

  “I’ll have a drink, that’s what I’ll do,” Philippe murmured. His eyes widened as he saw through the open door. A cluster of dark-clad figures surrounded the mahogany desk, there was his sister-in-law Francine, her husband Gustave, and a tall gentleman with very familiar white whiskers clutching a leatherbound folder. Aglae was sitting in front of this man, Aglae! And beside her, rising slowly and ceremoniously with a remarkable intensity of expression on his silent features, was Vincent.

  “What is this?” Philippe’s eyes narrowed.

  “Please sit down, Monsieur,” the notary mopped his forehead. “Please, please, Monsieur, please…”

  It was almost dusk when Philippe emerged from the office. He glared at Felix and before the coachman could turn away, Philippe had snapped his fingers
and beckoned for him with such a dour expression that the man didn’t dare ignore the command. “Go to my woman’s house in the Rue Ste. Anne and get my valise,” Philippe said in a low voice, oblivious to the family filing out of the office behind him. “And bring it to my room in the hotel. I want you there in one half hour.” He strode across the Rue Royale and toward the St. Louis, and within a matter of minutes had been shown to the cool solitude of his regular suite, stuffing a few coins in the bellhop’s hand.

  “Your usual, Monsieur?” the drowsy black face waited.

  Philippe stood glaring into space. “Yes,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. He was cold sober now, his head throbbing, and he knew that if he did not have a taste of beer he was going to be ill. He fell heavily into the large fauteuil by the grate and folded his arms. His mind struggled for some calculated analysis among a morass of emotions not the least of which was fear. He had almost signed those papers. During the first few moments, confused, weary as he was, he had almost signed! And drunk, yes, drunk. And they had known he was drunk when they put the pen in his hand. There had been that moment of total sentimental weakness when he had been almost willing to do what they wanted him to do. A serpent’s tooth, that Vincent! Even in the privacy of this room, Philippe’s face flushed to the roots of his yellow hair. And Aglae, that reptile in the gentle guise of a woman. He had almost dipped that pen! It was no use attempting to rest, he could not sit still there, he could not stand still. He ended pacing the floor, and when Felix entered he took him roughly by the lapel.