“Oui, mademoiselle! I will certainly save it. And what might your name be?”
“I am Chantel Renee Fontaine.”
The shopkeeper glanced toward the men, who were taking all this in, and said, “I will write it down and await your return.”
Chantel waited until they were outside and walking again in the milling crowd. “He was making fun of me, but I’m going to buy that gun.”
“What do you want a gun for?” Elise demanded.
“When I get older I’ll need to protect myself.”
“You will have a husband or your father to do that. Let’s go home now.”
“No, I’m hungry. I want some gumbo.”
The two made their way down the street, and just as they reached a cafe where Chantel had eaten with her father several times, she saw Neville coming down the street.
“Neville!” she said, and ran to meet him. “I’m glad to see you.”
“Why, I’m glad to see you, too. You’re out shopping?”
“Yes. This is Elise.”
“Oh, yes, I remember you,” Elise said. “You came to the house once with your father, Mr. Oliver, did you not?”
“Yes, I did. I’m glad to see you again.”
“We’re going to eat,” Chantel said eagerly. “Do you want to join us?”
“Why, as a matter of fact,” Neville said with a smile, “I was on my way to get a bite myself. This is a fine cafe.” He followed them inside. It was a small shop with only eight tables, all of them filled but two. The proprietor came over and greeted Neville. “Ah, Mr. Harcourt. It’s good to see you again.”
“I have guests today, Nicholas.”
Nicholas beamed and bowed at the waist. “Come this way.” He seated them and said, “What will it be today?”
“I want some gumbo,” said Chantel.
“I think I’ll have shrimp. What about you, Elise?”
But Elise was looking across the room at a young man who was smiling broadly at her. He arose and came over and said, “Good morning, Elise.”
“I’m glad to see you, Charles.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your party, but perhaps you’d care to join me.”
Elise looked flustered, and Chantel came to her rescue. “You may go if you want to. Neville and I will stay here.”
“I suppose that will be all right,” Elise said.
As soon as the two had left and seated themselves across the room, Neville said, “I’ve missed you. I haven’t seen you riding lately.”
“Papa’s been out of town a lot, and I can’t go unless Robert takes me—and Robert usually goes with Papa.”
“So, what have you been doing, besides going to school?”
Chantel stared rebelliously across the table. “I’ve been very bad. This morning I threw a book across the room and broke a very valuable vase.”
Neville pursed his lips, turned his head to one side, and asked, “What made you angry enough to do that?”
“It’s my schoolwork. They’re making me do stupid things.”
“I had the same problem in school. I suppose everyone feels the same way at times. What was it in particular that upset you?”
“My literature class. Sister Jane is making us read poetry, and next Monday morning I’ve got to recite a foolish poem and tell everybody in the class what it means.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound too bad,” Neville remarked.
Chantel continued her lament while they ate.
“What is the poem? Have you memorized it yet?”
“Yes, I have,” Chantel said, enjoying the gumbo. It was delicious, hot and spicy the way she liked it, and she quoted her poem rapidly around mouthfuls of food.
Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room:
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison, into which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, ’twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some Souls “for such their needs must be”
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
Chantel scraped the bottom of her bowl and looked up with disgust. “Isn’t that a silly poem?”
“Why did she give you that particular poem to work on?”
“I think because it’s about nuns.”
Neville was looking neat as usual. He had on a dark gray suit, and his shirt was gleaming white. His hair was brushed, and his eyes were warm as he studied the girl. “I don’t think it’s really about nuns,” he remarked.
“Why, what is it about then?”
“You know, Chantel, poems usually say one thing and mean something else.”
Chantel stared at him and then snorted with disgust. “Why don’t they just say what they mean?”
“Because we don’t want things always to mean what they say, and sometimes you can’t say what a thing means.”
“Why can’t I? If you ask me how many apples there are in a barrel, I’d just say ‘six.’ I don’t start making rhymes and talking about them as if they were something else.”
Neville smiled. “Yes, but you can remember other things that you couldn’t find words for. For example, a time that you were so happy that you couldn’t possibly tell anybody so that they’d understand— or perhaps so sad that you couldn’t express it.”
Instantly Chantel’s head dropped. She thought of the time after her mother and her sister died. She had not been able to say to anyone how she felt. “I guess that’s true. But this old poem talks about nuns.”
“Take it a line at a time. ‘Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room, and hermits are contented with their cells.’”
Chantel stared at him, astonished. “You know that poem? Do you have it memorized?”
“As a matter of fact, I like it. Now, what do those things have in common?”
“Well, it’s about nuns who are in a room.”
“What kind of a room?”
“A narrow room.”
“Right. And where are hermits?”
“They’re in cells.”
“And what’s a cell like?”
“Well, it’s small.”
“Right. So, we’re talking about small, narrow rooms and small, narrow cells. And the next line talks about students. They also are usually in a confined space.”
“Well, what about maids at the wheel, and the weaver at his loom?”
“Well, when maids work they are confined. They have to sit for hours at their spinning wheels. And the weaver, he’s tied to that loom. He may have to sit there as much as twelve hours a day. But notice the next line. These maids, and these weavers and students and nuns and hermits, how are they sitting there?”
Chantel thought for a moment. “They sit blithe and happy.”
“That’s right. So, even though all of these individuals are in rather confined and sometimes hard circumstances, they’re happy. Now, think about the rest of the poem and tell me what that sort of thing has to do with the rest of the details.”
“Well, let’s see. It says that bees will soar, but they’ll murmur by the hour in foxglove bells.”
“A foxglove is a small flower, Chantel. And a bee will get inside of one. It’ll be not much larger than the bee itself, but the poet Wordsworth says that the bee will murmur by the hour there. So, that’s where the poet is leading us. Now look at the next line: ‘In truth, the prison into which we doom ourselves, no prison is.’”
Chantel listened as Neville talked about the poem, his face glowing. She was fascinated that he found so much pleasure in it, an
d she found herself caught up in it.
“Actually, although there is a nun in the poem and there is a hermit, it’s really about the sonnet. That’s what this poem is.”
“Sister Jane told us that. It has only fourteen lines.”
“And what does the poet say about the sonnet?”
Chantel thought and then replied, “Why, he says the sonnet’s scanty plot of ground is a pastime.”
“That’s right. He found pleasure in working in a very small area. So, I think the poem talks about being happy and content even though we don’t have the whole world. Maybe we have a very small job or a very small circle of acquaintances. But being big doesn’t mean a thing is good. Can’t you remember some whole weeks, Chantel, that were not nearly as good as one hour?”
“Yes, I can,” Chantel said. “Lots of them. Like when Papa would take me riding. I lived for that. I’d wait for weeks, and then finally he would come. And that was good.”
“Well, life is like that. Perhaps you could point this out to the other students. And at the end of the poem there is a strange expression. Wordsworth speaks of people ‘who have felt the weight of too much liberty.’”
“I don’t understand that. I don’t have enough liberty.”
“I think all of us need some sort of bounds. For example, you are getting to be a grown-up young lady. When a young lady is not married, she can see any number of men. But after she’s married her attentions have to be concentrated on her husband. And that’s a good thing.”
“I should think it would be.” Chantel suddenly laughed. “Why, this was fun, Neville!”
“I think so too.”
“You’ll have to help me with more poems. I don’t have the vaguest idea of what some of them mean.”
“Maybe so. Ask your papa if I can come by some evening and go over some of your work with you.”
“I will. I really will.” She looked over suddenly at Elise and laughed. “Elise tells me about the men who come calling on her. She’s thirty now, but is still so pretty lots of them come. I think she enjoys teasing them.”
“I hope you never do that, Chantel.”
“Me? They’ll never come chasing after me the way they do Elise. I’m not pretty.”
Neville suddenly reached over and took Chantel’s hand. “You’re growing up. You’re going to be a lovely woman some day, and I think you’re pretty right now.”
A warmth suddenly seemed to grow inside of Chantel, and her face grew red. She murmured, “Thank you,” and when he released her hand, she knew that his compliment would stay with her for a long time.
The door opened, and Chantel, who was sitting in a chair, jumped up and ran to her father. She dropped a book on the floor as she went, and when he had kissed her and released her, she bent to pick it up.
“What book is that?” Cretien asked curiously.
“This is a present that Neville gave to me. Papa, listen. He helped me with the poem that Sister Jane assigned me to memorize and teach to the class.” She told him how Neville had explained the poem to her. “He’s so smart about poetry and I’m so dumb,” she concluded. “Can he come by some time and help me some more?”
“I don’t see why not.” Cretien looked at the book and said, “But what book is that?”
“It’s a Bible. Look, he signed it for me. It was the first day, when we went to his father’s office. You remember? And he took me out to buy me something to eat. We went to a bookshop, and he bought it and gave it to me.”
Cretien Fontaine was not overly religious, but what religion he had was tied up completely with the Catholic faith. He shook his head, saying, “If you want to know anything, you should ask the priest. He is qualified to interpret Scripture.”
“Oh, yes, Papa, but it was a present, and Neville signed it.”
“Well, I suppose you may keep it, but I would rather you did not read it.”
It was not a direct command, so Chantel did not argue. She said instead, “Papa, I saw what I wanted for Christmas.”
“Good. What is it?”
“It’s a pistol. I found it in a shop while Elise and I were out at the square.”
Cretien stared at this daughter of his. She was growing up so fast that he could hardly keep up with her. Now he suddenly laughed and said, “No, you may not have a pistol. Certainly not! Now, you pick something else.”
“All right,” Chantel said. But inwardly she thought, When I’m a grown woman I will buy a pistol for myself. “Can we go riding today, Papa? We haven’t been in a long time.”
“No, I have to take Collette to the doctor.”
Chantel looked up quickly. “Is she sick?”
“No, she’s not sick.” Cretien came closer and let his hand drop on the girl’s shoulder. When she turned and looked up at him, he was struck, for the moment, at how much her eyes brought back the memory of his first wife. He could not speak for a moment, then he came around and said quickly, “No, she’s not sick, but she’s going to have a baby.”
He watched the girl’s face and saw doubts flicker in her eyes. “Aren’t you happy about having a brother?” he demanded.
“Yes—but, Papa, it may be a girl.”
“No,” Cretien Fontaine said firmly, “it will be a boy! You will have a brother—and I will have a son.”
Chapter eleven
August brought a terrible heat wave to New Orleans. As Oliver Harcourt sat at the dinner table, sweat poured down his face. Taking out a damp handkerchief, he mopped the perspiration away and then said, “I’m not happy with your attitude, Neville.”
The dinners that Neville shared with his father were not the most pleasant times for either of them. The food, of course, was very good, because Oliver Harcourt would have nothing but the best. The room was attractive and pleasant, with fine pictures on the walls and a rosewood buffet and a snowy white tablecloth with fine china, but there was more to a dinner than a room and a fork.
“What’s wrong, Father?”
Oliver chewed a bite of the thinly-sliced baked ham and said, “You just don’t have enough drive. That’s the main problem. I’ve told you before that the law is not an easy master. When we have a case, we have to fight as a soldier fights against an enemy. Our opponents are our enemies, Neville. You go around trying to be nice even to people like the Barnleys.”
“I feel a little sorry for the Barnleys,” Neville replied. The Barnleys were an older couple, almost helpless, who were being sued by one of their clients. The man was determined to ruin them. Neville had winced when his father had struck out with all of the power of his sharp legal mind at the older couple.
“They made their bed, and now they’ll have to lie in it. And I want you to prepare a brief that will finish them off.”
“I think you could do it better than I could. I don’t really believe in this case.”
“You’re soft like your mother!”
“I think you’re right about that, Father. I’m not much like you. I never have been.”
Oliver Harcourt stared at his son. It was as close to a rebellion as he had ever seen in the young man, and his eyes grew half closed as he studied him. He had never spoken of his disappointment that Neville was, indeed, like his dead wife. She was a gentle soul, but there was no room for gentleness in the courtroom.
Neville looked a great deal like her as well, having rather classic features and being of a relatively small stature. Oliver would have preferred that his son be six-foot-four, as he himself was, and burly as a wrestler.
He had no other children, and all his hopes were tied up with this young man. He had not learned that one sometimes must deal with youth a little differently from the way he dealt with an opposing lawyer in a courtroom. For some time he spoke, driving his point home by smashing his fist into his palm.
Suddenly he remembered something. “By the way, what’s this about your giving a Bible to Mr. Fontaine’s daughter?”
“Why, yes, I did. You remember the day he brought Chantel to our office?
You asked me to take her out and buy her something to eat. She was interested in something in the Bible, so I bought her one.”
“Well, it was a fool thing to do! Those people are Catholics. Didn’t you know that?”
“I suppose I knew it.”
“Well, Catholics don’t read the Bible; only priests do. I wish you wouldn’t read it so much yourself.”
Neville suddenly sat up straight and said, “I’m sure you don’t mean that, Father.”
For just a moment Oliver Harcourt was shocked. Neville was usually so pleasant and soft-spoken, but suddenly he had seen something in his son’s eyes that he rarely saw—something close to anger and determination.
“There’s nothing wrong with reading the Bible, son,” he said quickly. “For yourself, I mean—but giving a Bible to a young Catholic girl, especially one of our clients, is different.”
“Did Mr. Fontaine lodge a protest?”
“He mentioned it. The girl’s very impressionable.”
“I’ve been helping her a little with her lessons. I stopped by the house twice. She’s having trouble with her literature class.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good thing. It’s good business to be nice to clients, but you don’t want to get involved with their home lives.”
The two ate silently, and then Oliver said, “I don’t understand you at all. This unhealthy interest you have in religion troubles me.”
“I don’t think it’s unhealthy.”
“Why, going down to the docks and talking to men about God and handing out religious tracts to them! That’s not your place, Neville.”
“Well, whose place is it?”
“The ministers’.”
“Can you imagine our minister doing that?”
“No, I can’t, and I don’t appreciate your doing it either! It doesn’t look good. Now, why can’t you just do your duty? Simply go to church and give money.”
Neville touched his lips with the linen napkin, then put it down. He said carefully, “I think God wants me to do more than that, Father.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been thinking God might want me to serve Him in a more active way.”
The older man stared at his son. “You don’t mean you’re thinking of entering the ministry?”
The Exiles Page 11