by Anne Rice
The state of his nerves was raw, and the vision of the slaves had put him in a particular gloom. He was not at all excited to be making this journey to Sans Souci, in fact, Sans Souci itself seemed a myth, while his last few days with Christophe had been sublime. It seemed a great burden had been lifted from Chris, and their talks had been more intimate, spirited, and exhilarating than before. Marcel didn’t want to leave. And this afternoon, only hours before they left for the docks, Christophe had given him a very special gift.
At first it appeared to be an issue of a French journal, and Marcel, touched by Christophe’s brief but affectionate inscription had moved to tuck it into his valise.
“No, look at it,” Christophe had said.
And Marcel opened it again, quite surprised to discover that it had been published in New Orleans. But in a moment, he was leafing through it with unrestrained excitement. He knew the names of some of these contributors, some of them he had even met, and suddenly, excitedly he looked up:
“Why, this is published by our people!” he said. “These are men of color!”
Christophe nodded with a smile. “It’s the first number of a quarterly, and our people did it here,” he said, “not in Paris, but in New Orleans.”
Marcel was proud beyond words. “L’Album littéraire, journal des jeunes gens, amateurs de la littérature,” he read the title aloud and for a long time he sat reading the poems—they were in flawless Parisian French—and then reverently, carefully, he had wrapped the small magazine in brown paper and placed it with his belongings. An hour passed as he sat thinking of this little book, and not without some pain. He knew that one of the contributors had recently gone to Paris, and word had it that he was moving in literary circles there with some success. His father was a dry cleaning merchant whom Marcel had nodded to often enough in the street.
But this did not obsess Marcel, he did not dwell on the young man who had crossed the sea, rather he was thinking of the others here at home. And several times, he took out the little periodical, again leafed through it, and smoothing its cover with his hand, replaced it. He would read every word of it when he reached Sans Souci, Christophe would send him the next number, and perhaps, oh, yes, certainly, he would write to these men.
And now as the whistle sounded and people commenced to run toward the long gangplank, it did not surprise Marcel that he could find no words to tell Christophe farewell.
Their eyes met and Christophe gave him a firm clasp of the arm.
Marcel forced a thin smile, but he could feel the inevitable lump in his throat, and when Christophe, his eyes moist, made an emphatic gesture of release and turned away, Marcel started for the deck.
But when he reached the rail, he felt panic suddenly. He searched the crowd for Christophe, and picking out the small figure with arm raised, he waved broadly as the whistle gave another violent blast.
It was only when Christophe was out of sight that Marcel looked about himself, at the great swell of gray water pouring past the hull beneath him, and at the crowded stairs to the upper deck. In all his life, not five steps from the Mississippi River, he had never actually been on this water, and he had never heard the sudden violent blast of the whistle so close. It sent an immediate thrill through him. And even as he moved toward the stairs, he felt the immense floating palace shudder and as the hands on shore threw the ropes toward the heavy Negroes against the rails, he realized the boat was moving out.
Once on the upper deck he was amazed to see some yards already between the boat and the docks, the heavy boats at anchor rocking with the churning of the river around them, and the passengers shouting from the land becoming smaller as they received the last farewell from those on board.
Even after the others had dispersed, he clung to the rail, watching the city recede as the boat made for the very center of the immense river, and he was surprised to discover that he could see the towers of the Cathedral, the high fringe of trees among the mansard roofs, and that they were moving rapidly and steadily past the Rue Canal up-stream. The boat seemed so apart from the current, its giant wheel turning hypnotically, the smokestacks gushing, and only that tremor throughout that he could feel with his feet.
It was dark before he’d left the deck. The boat had long passed the city of Lafayette and the town of Carrollton, leaving the urban landscape for the open country, and all that could be seen of the plantations beyond the ragged trees and the low hump of the levee were occasional twinkling lights. The stars were wondrously clear over the low land, and the wind was cold. Those who promenaded on the decks wore heavy coats or shawls and light laughter came from the open salons. Marcel had not gone to supper, reluctant to eat, for the first time in his life, at a table separated from white men, but he did not much care. He was excited now, and it was penetrating to him at last that he had left New Orleans, and was really on his way to Sans Souci.
Turning to find his stateroom, he was pleased to run upon a courteous porter who directed him graciously, and as he slipped his key into the lock, a tall white man coming down the passageway acknowledged his nod with a murmured greeting of his own. The little room was splendid with its garlanded wallpaper and sumptuous furnishings, and through the open window he could see the heavens again with those miraculous and low-hanging stars. Sans Souci, he sighed, and was struck by the actual meaning of those words. It had been a name and picture on the wall so long he had forgotten: without care. It made him smile. And though he had the strangest feeling that the acute happiness of his last few years would not come back to him for a long while, something new and perhaps far more exciting was taking its place. He had always wanted it to end, that limbo of childhood, and now it had all but come to its close. And it astonished him to realize slowly that the next time he saw the home he was leaving now he would be on his own.
What would he do? What would he make of himself? Strange that in the midst of a morass of difficulty that question kindled a flame in him, a flame that actually warmed his heart.
IV
THE RAIN CASCADED DOWN the panes, and again there came that hard insistent knock. “Michie,” Felix said, rousing himself from a drowsy posture beside the mantel, his lean corded black hands loosely clasped over his bent knee. He had been looking out the windows at a landscape rendered shapeless and splendidly colored by the rain.
“I hear it,” Philippe muttered. “Open that bottle.” He turned up one more card. Red queen, red queen on a black king, he had been certain there was a black king. “Not that bottle, the Kentucky whiskey,” he said. The knock came again.
Felix filled the glass. “It’s the Maîtresse, Michie,” he whispered. He regarded Philippe almost sleepily, and the distress that lined his gaunt black face was remote, as if not attached to this room and this time.
“Hmmmmm,” Philippe gathered the cards again into a thick pack. He shuffled them easily, fancily. “Miss Betsy loves that,” he laughed, glancing to Felix as he arched the divided pack, the cards falling into place. Miss Betsy was Philippe’s daughter who was not there. “She loves that,” Philippe laughed again. He always called her Miss Betsy because she spoke English so well, had so many American friends, the mere thought of Miss Betsy brought him a soft delicious smile. Miss Betsy had been ten years old the week before, the perfect little lady, with his blond hair, his blue eyes. “That’s what I like,” he said as he dealt the long line of solitaire across the shining surface of the table, stopping once for a large swallow from his glass. “That’s what I like, two aces on the first go-round,” and quickly he removed these from the line and placed them above. His eyes moved back and forth over these fine surfaces, the gilded cards, the polished table, the shimmer of the amber whiskey in the glass. Then he stopped, eyes vacant. There was the grind of the key in the lock. His heavy face, the cheeks bruised with a wilderness of broken blood vessels, became set. Aglae stepped into the room, her eyes scanning it at once, and she gestured for Felix to go out.
“Don’t you move,” Philippe said, his eyes
fixed malevolently on his valet. Felix dropped back into the corner beyond the chimney where the fire illuminated nothing but the gleam of his patient eye. The mistress never countermanded the master’s orders, disliked to challenge the master in the presence of the slaves.
“Well?” Philippe said. “So I have no privacy even here in the garçonnière, and where’s your shadow, why didn’t you bring your brother here to break down the door?” He reached for the queen of spades. “Ever have your fortune told with the cards, Madame?” he said with a smile so sweet and natural no stranger could have perceived its bitterness as he looked up to her. “I’ve had my fortune told a thousand times, and it’s always the gambler’s card that turns up. I am a man willing to take risks. Give me the unknown rather than the known.”
“Monsieur,” she said in a deliberate monotone, “you are gambling with the entire crop.”
Philippe’s eyes widened. The expression became thoughtful. Vincent had moved into the room, as reticent as Felix on the edge. Heaving a sigh, Philippe turned up another card. “Madame, there is enough wood to run the mill for three years,” he said with that loose, gentle smile, “every fence is repaired, the…”
“That may be so, Monsieur, but you have been locked in this room for three days.”
He studied the board, moved a black king into the empty space left by the ace which he had placed above. Then he gazed at the palm of his hand, and holding it out to her by the light of the fire said, “Blisters, Madame, I was in the saddle for a week. Blisters take time to heal.”
“Monsieur, if we do not harvest now, we are running a dreadful risk. If you would leave this room only long enough to…”
“It’s too early,” he said firmly. He had turned up the two of clubs, placed it on the ace.
“Monsieur, the temperature has dropped drastically,” came the same monotone, Aglae’s figure as straight as if it were cut from cardboard against the fire. “You have not been out of this room for three…”
“When have I ever waited too long?” he said. “Madame, I have run this plantation for eighteen years, I have never, never waited too long.”
“I am losing patience, Monsieur.”
“You are losing patience!” His eyes grew wider, a flush disfiguring his face so that his golden eyebrows became prominent against the pink flesh and gave a sharp intensity to his anger. “You are losing patience! And what about your husband, Madame, eighteen years of this icy courtesy, this venomous decorum. Tell me, Madame, what is the inside of your mind? What barren, wintry place,” he spat the words, “that the fortress which surrounds it is so impregnable, so cold?”
“Aglae, come out,” Vincent whispered.
“Ah, yes, and it’s our blessed boy, is it, the joy of his father’s old age.” Philippe dealt another card. Good luck, a red seven. He laid it neatly in place, his hand deftly straightening the crooked rows before him. His eyes were glazed now with tears. He stared at Vincent who looked away from him. “All right, what do you want, cut the cane then, cut the cane! Go on, tell Rousseau to cut the cane!” he said with a powerful shrug. “And if the weather holds for another month, then what will you say, Madame, ‘he cut the cane too soon, he is not the master here any longer,’ and if there’s a frost tomorrow, you’ll say I waited too late.” He laughed, a soft genuine laugh. “Do as you like. Ride the fields if you like. I’m tired, Madame, your unpaid overseer is tired…This room, Madame, this room is my New Orleans, now if you please…” he stopped. He let the little pack slip from his hand and brought his hands up to support his bowed head. “What do you want of me, Madame?” he whispered.
“That you stop this, Monsieur,” Aglae said. “Your children have not seen you for three days. Miss Betsy is crying, Monsieur…”
“Miss Betsy loves me!”
“And Henri is old enough to know now…”
“Henri loves me!”
“You must eat, Monsieur…you must have a decent meal…”
He laughed, his head still bowed, the fleece on the backs of his fingers golden in the firelight. “I must have love, Madame,” he whispered. “Why don’t you tell your children what you think of their father, Madame, what you have always thought of him?” Vincent moved silently, slipping out onto the gallery against a backdrop of cold rain, the door closing behind him. “Why share that secret only with your brother?” Philippe asked. “No, Madame, it’s time you made them privy to the hell of ice and snow in which they were all conceived…”
“You are a fool, Monsieur,” Aglae said. “We begin the harvest tomorrow.”
• •
As soon as Aglae opened her eyes, she knew that Philippe was in the room, and Philippe had not been in this room in five years. But a fire burned on the hearth, and its warmth had awakened her, used as she was to order that fire only when she herself was up and dressed. Beside her, Miss Betsy slept, having awakened in the night afraid, and been taken into her mother’s bed. Now Aglae rose carefully, smoothing the comforter over her daughter’s shoulders, and stood beside the bed letting her lank flannel gown fall down around her ankles as she slipped on her robe. The long heavy braid of her salt and pepper hair had caused the familiar morning ache at the back of her head. She moved to the mirrored doors of her armoire, and saw through the mirrors the figure of Philippe sitting near the licking flames. He wore riding boots, his frock coat with the fur collar, and beneath a worn weary red-eyed face gleamed the brilliant azure of his silk tie. “Why are you here, Monsieur?” she asked. “I am going to dress now, Monsieur.”
“Are you?” he said. His head wagged slightly as he looked at her through the same mirror. These were fancy clothes. The gold chains of his watch crisscrossed the buttons of his embroidered vest, and there mingled with the sour fermented breath the clean smell of his cologne.
“You propose to ride the fields when you have been awake all night?” she asked, opening the door. “I suggest you leave this day’s work to Vincent, and Rousseau.”
“I’m not riding the fields, Madame,” he said with obvious amusement. “I’m going into New Orleans for an extended stay.”
When he said this, her frail form slumped slightly in the empty hanging gown. She let her head rest for a moment against an outstretched arm, hand clutching a black broadcloth dress on its hook. “Monsieur, we begin cutting today!” she said through her teeth.
“Do we, Madame? Well, your unpaid overseer won’t be here to manage it for you this year, he’s taking a leave of absence. Do you see this?” and he drew out of his coat a folded sheaf of papers. “All signed, Madame, just as you wanted them, your beloved Bontemps is no longer in my hands. And as soon as you exercise your new power of attorney by writing several drafts on your bank for me, these papers are yours. One thousand each, I think, and six drafts, that should be quite fine. Date them a month apart. I’ve always known you to be a woman of your word.”
“And what then, Monsieur!” she turned angrily. The little girl in the bed stirred, a sharp limb heaving the white comforter.
He shrugged, his blue eyes fired with a wild animation, red-rimmed as they were, and heavy and listless as his great frame appeared in the small curved-legged chair. “We’ll see, hmmmm? Six drafts, Madame, one thousand each, and we’ll see. I’m a gambling man.”
“You’re making a dreadful mistake,” she said, her voice for the first time infected with a slight resonance.
He had risen and drawn near the bed, his arm sliding down under his little girl. “Miss Betsy,” he whispered.
“Hmmmm, Papa…” the child whispered.
“Kiss me, ma petite, ma chérie…” he breathed, lifting the sleepy child. Aglae moved barefoot and silent into the dressing room and clutched her forehead in her right hand as if she meant to break by sheer force the bones of her own skull.
It was half an hour before she was dressed and had the drafts signed for him. The immense study of the lower floor was cold, without a fire, and a concealing fog rolled up the length of the French windows between their s
affron draperies. Her hand was stiff as she signed her name. And Philippe, a glass of whiskey in hand, walked to and fro on the immense Turkey carpet, humming some sweet air from the opera that Aglae knew but did not know. She watched him dully, and when he made some turn so that he might see her, she held out the bank drafts, her eyes cast down.
“What will I tell the children?” she asked.
“I don’t know, Madame,” he set down his glass, the papers folded and placed in his pocket. “But whatever you tell them, think on it carefully, as they are most likely to believe it, every word.” He went out the door.
Aglae sat still. Then she rose so quickly, she upset the random items of her desk, but took no notice, walking rapidly into the main hall. Her steps quickened until she was almost running as she passed out of the front door. Philippe had just mounted, and he gestured for Felix to ride on. The rolling fog from the river shrouded the entire avenue of the oaks so that almost nothing could be seen of it but the dim arching outline of the nearest trees.
“Monsieur,” she cried, her voice barely carrying on the moving air. But he turned his horse, urging it backwards and to one side and then came toward her. “Don’t do this, Monsieur,” she cried. “Don’t go!” She stood stiff, her hands clasping her skirts, looking up at him. “Don’t do this!” she said firmly. “You were doing well, Monsieur, you had the reins again.” The words came in tight blasts, the body tense as if something of immense value might escape. “You don’t want to do this, Monsieur!”
But he only smiled as he urged the horse on again, the black mare shying to the side, and he looked above her, beyond her, as though surveying the immense façade of the white two-storied house. The smile was vague and unfamiliar and seemed to have nothing to do with this moment or with her. He dug his knees into the horse’s flank, and the sharp hooves sent a spray against her dress from the wet grass. Her hand shot to her throat as though she were suffocated, and a cry died in a gasp on her lips. She saw the horse and its rider penetrate the limitless mist. They became colorless and without the faintest sound over the wind, and then vanished altogether right before her eyes.