by Frank Yerby
“There, there,” Stephen said. “There, there.”
When he left the house, Stephen had undertaken the expense of the funeral and made Madame Wilson a present of the house, as long as she cared to reside at Harrow. Harrow—deucedly appropriate that name. Truly it harrowed a man’s soul with trouble often enough.
Thinking thus, he rode along the highway with his head bent upon his bosom. A son for Harrow. That put quite a different shape upon things. As hard as he had worked, now he must work harder. The plantation must be put on a firm basis for all time. The debts must be cleared and operational costs decreased so that never would his son want for anything. He must have everything and the best of it. Care, tutorage—a university education. Which should it be—Oxford or Cambridge? Then there was Edinburgh—not to be sneered at by any manner or means. But he must be trained for leadership. The Foxes were here in this new world to stay. And not merely to stay—to lead it, rule it, leave their mark upon it. Having no ancestors, he told himself, I am become one. The thought pleased him. He straightened in his saddle, gazing down the road.
As he did so, he noticed a horseman bearing down upon him, sitting in the saddle like a centaur. That would be young Cloutier—nowhere in the state was there a better horseman. As the two riders closed the gap between them, the young man’s face lighted in a rueful smile.
“I was bound for Harrow,” he said. ‘I expected to find you there. But now that I see you’re not. . . .” He reined in his horse. The sleek animal sidestepped like a dancer.
Stephen looked at Phillippe Cloutier. Truly the lad was a handsome devil. But this role of dancing attendance upon Odalie was not a thing suitable for Louisiana. Yet Odalie obviously enjoyed his company. Perhaps she would have been happier had she married such a man—with grace and distinction implicit in his bearing, and of her own kind.
Stephen smiled suddenly.
“My absence is no cause for ye to change your intent,” he said. “Madame Fox will be glad to see ye. And anything that brings her happiness is not displeasing to me. Ride on, lad. Ye’re always welcome at Harrow.”
Young Cloutier studied the lean face before him. Was this mockery? There was no trace of irony in Stephen’s tone. But the twist of lip and play of brow and eye made everything that Stephen uttered suspect. Not a man to trifle with—this. But Odalie—Odalie! If only he had come back to Louisiana two years ago. Well—he hadn’t. He was here now—two years and more too late. And nothing—not the laws of man nor the doctrines of the Church nor even the fear of Stephen’s wrath could stop him now. This thing was here, and there was no solution to it. What must be must be, if he wrecked half a world.
He bowed slightly from his hips.
“Thank you, monsieur,” he said, “I’m glad you don’t find my visits a burden.”
“When they become one,” Stephen said evenly, “they will end. ‘Voir, Monsieur Cloutier.”
Phillippe lifted his hat and the clatter of horses’ hoofs rang sharply upon the sunbaked road.
Stephen dismissed him from his mind almost at once. Whatever Phillippe’s intent might be, he was aeons from its accomplishment. There was this about Odalie—a husband of hers would never wear horns. He slowed Prince Michael to a walk. No need to kill the beast in this heat. God and Our Lady, what a distance it was!
Later, winding through the streets of the Faubourg St. Marie, Stephen was struck with the desolation and squalor of the place. The Americans produced most of the wealth of New Orleans. They were thrifty, enterprising people. Yet the council, firmly in the hands of the Creoles, calmly and persistently vetoed any appropriations to improve the place. The revenues from the Saint Mary district more than doubled those of any other section; yet the streets remained unpaved, and the wharves were rotting away. No wonder the Americans were up in arms against anything French—whom already they were beginning to outnumber. This racial quarrel would come to bloodshed yet, Stephen reflected soberly. And he and Andre and the hundreds of others who had married across the line would be caught in the middle.
Still, to leave the drainage in such a state! The stench was enough to sicken a man. And the yellow fever killed hundreds yearly. Yet the Creoles, when this was pointed out to them, only shrugged. Yellow Jack was a “stranger’s disease.” They did not die of it. Used to the climate, habitually drinking wine instead of water, they lived calmly through epidemic after epidemic, while the raw Irish immigrants on Rousseau Street dropped in their tracks like flies, and. the Germans died and the English and the Americans were decimated. Damn the Creoles anyway! Except, of course, Odalie and Aurore and Andre and old Le Blanc and Pierre Arceneaux.
Prince Michael’s hoofs raised little clouds of dust in the street. Stephen rode on, holding a fine handkerchief to his nose. The carcasses of dead animals lay rotting in the streets, and the garbage lay in stinking month-old mounds. And when it finally rained, conditions would only become worse. Every street would become a sea of impassable ooze, if it were not actually flooded. No wonder the Creoles called their street blocks ilets; the name was undeniably appropriate.
In the Vieux Carre, conditions were a trifle better. But only a trifle. Apart from their own persons, the French were not a cleanly race. Here, to be sure, were streets paved with cobblestone, or cypress blocks, or brick; but they were narrow and dark, and in them the heat was doubly oppressive. Even the main thoroughfares were so narrow that two coaches could not pass abreast. But at least the overhanging galleries did provide some relief from the sun.
Turning into Chartres Street, Stephen stopped before an imposing edifice. Identical in style to all the others, it was a veritable skyscraper—four stories tall. Glistening in its newness, it made the other establishments in the street seem shabby by comparison. Truly, Tom Warren must have struck it rich. Land on Chartres was impossibly dear. Most of it was owned by Creoles who had turned their backs upon Louisiana and gone back to France to live off the rentals that property in the new world brought them. Their fees were high, and their rental agents, by and large, an unprincipled set of scoundrels. Yet Tom Warren had bought and built here, where one hundred feet of frontage had often brought as much as fifty thousand dollars. Well, he had done Tom favors in the past; ‘twould not be amiss to ask one now.
He climbed down from Prince Michael and went into the doorway. One of the half dozen clerks who were busy with their pens at the high desks scurried away into an inner chamber to summon Tom Warren.
The big man came out, frowning a little; then, seeing Stephen, his face cleared. He took a step forward, stretching out his hand.
“Stephen!” he said. “Tis good to see you again. Come into the office—this is a pleasure.”
Stephen took the offered hand and looked at Tom Warren. He’s put on flesh, he decided. Dresses better, too. And it’s “Stephen” now. Always before it was “Mister Fox.” Still the man has grown in importance. I can hardly expect diffidence from him now.
“Ye’ve prospered,” he said, as he followed Tom Warren into the well equipped inner office. “I’m very glad.”
“Thank you,” Tom Warren said. He picked up a small wooden box from his desk. “A segar?” he asked, his little eyes shifting rapidly from the box of twisted Cuban tobaccoes to Stephen’s lean face.
“No, thank ye,” Stephen said. “Twas scarcely civil of ye not to visit us at Harrow, Tom.”
“I know. But I’ve been infernally busy. You’ll forgive an old friend, Stephen. Yet, I don’t recall seeing you at my house for nearly three years now.”
“Ye never invited me, Tom.”
“It never occurred to me you needed an invitation. My house was always yours, Stephen. But to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“I need your help,” Stephen said bluntly. “I’m in trouble. Cane needs water—lots of water, and ye know how this summer has been.”
“Do I! I’ve suffered losses all down the line. But anything I can do—how much do you need, Stephen?”
“Fifteen thousand. And I�
��ll need it until next harvest. Ye can fix what rates ye will.”
Without a word, Tom Warren took up his pen. Then from the drawer he drew a cheque book. Scarcely glancing at Stephen, he wrote rapidly. He sanded the cheque, dusted it off and passed it to Stephen..
Stephen’s fair brows rose. The cheque was for thirty thousand dollars.
“I asked ye for fifteen only,” he said.
“You shouldn’t figure so closely, Stephen,” Tom Warren observed. “I’ve had dealings with many planters lately, and I know the expense of running a place.”
“And what are your rates?” Stephen asked.
“To you—none. And the date of repayment is left to your judgment. I have no need of the money. Take what time you will.”
Stephen stood up.
“Ye’re a good friend, Tom,” he said. “But I shall repay ye at the next harvest—and with interest too. And now I must ride back to Harrow. I’ve been gone overlong. A thousand thanks for your kindness.”
Tom Warren put a sulphur match to the end of his segar. The fragrant blue smoke drifted through the room.
“Stay a bit,” he urged. “And dine with me. A man should not ride so far with his belly unfortified.”
“No,” Stephen said, “I must be going. But your standing invitation to Harrow remains. This fall the hunting will be poor, no doubt; but ye can enjoy what shooting there will be.”
“I’ll try hard to come,” Tom Warren said. “But do not hold it against me if I do not. ‘Twill be only because I can’t. My regards to Madame Fox. I hear she is the loveliest lady in Louisiana. You’re a lucky man, Stephen.”
“Thank ye,” Stephen said, and took his leave. Whatever might be said about the sharpness of Tom Warren’s dealings there was no denying that he had a heart.
There was really no reason for his rushing back to Harrow, Stephen decided as he left the bank after having deposited Tom Warren’s draft. Odalie was probably pleasantly occupied with Phillippe Cloutier, so that she would not mind his staying away. It would be pleasant to drop in upon Andre and Amelia, but their happiness always evoked the pangs of comparison. Beside, Amelia’s figure must be considerably altered by now, and she, as a consequence, reluctant to receive visitors. Why not then drop in at Bellefont, and lunch with old Arceneaux and Aurore? The idea was an appealing one. Stephen was genuinely fond of both his in-laws. Aurore, he reflected, was a lovely girl. Strange that she had not married. She must be in her twenties now—she was a full three years younger than Odalie. She’d had her share of beaux, but about them she seemed even more reticent than Odalie. Odd, this trait, in the daughters of old Pierre. The old man had an eye for beauty and there was nothing cold about him. Madame Arceneaux must have been an iceberg!
Aurore was standing on the broad gallery looking out over the drive as Stephen rode up to Bellefont. She came down the stairs to greet him, a tiny smile curving the corners of her mouth. Odd that a smile could convey the impression of sadness, Stephen found himself thinking. Yet what could a lovely creature like Aurore know of sadness? She put out her hand to be kissed.
“My dear little sister,” he said, bending over it. “I came especially to see ye.”
“That would be nice,” she said, “if it were true. But I’m afraid you’ve wasted your visit, Stephen; father isn’t here.”
“So? Then ye object to exchanging a pleasant word or two with your superannuated brother-in-law?”
“Not at all. In fact, I’m very glad to see you. It’s nice that you’re ‘family’ now, Stephen.”
“Why?”
“Because I couldn’t sit and talk with you without father here if you weren’t. You know that, Stephen.”
“Aye. Never have I known a place with more cursed conventions! Ye grow more beautiful daily, Aurore. Ye tempt me to embrace the Moslem faith and become a Turk.”
“Why, Stephen?”
“Because then I should be allowed four wives. However, if ye would have me, I think I should be most content with two!”
“Stephen!” Aurore laughed. “Of all the unconventional ideas!”
“Do ye like the idea, Aurore?”
“Of course not! I think it’s perfectly scandalous! And, besides, Odalie wouldn’t stand for it.”
“How could she help it, if it were the law? But I’m hungry, Aurore. Might I not have some coffee and cake?”
“Of course, Stephen! Is that all you want?”
“Yes—I don’t eat very much.”
Following her into the house, Stephen was struck by the grace of her walk. She grows more like Odalie every day, he thought; the coloring is different—still they are much alike. But Aurore was turning into the dining hall and the dim light edged her profile briefly. Stephen found himself confronted with the necessity of reversing his judgment. Odalie and Aurore were nothing alike: there was only the family similarity; but in all else they were actually different.
Stephen looked at her over his steaming cup. The look was hard, intent. The small smile on Aurore’s face wavered. Then abruptly it died. The spoon in her hand came to a halt in midair. And her eyes, meeting his, were utterly naked.
Stephen’s forehead creased into a frown, and his fair brows knit over the bridge of his nose. He shook his head slightly as if to clear it. It was the motion which released her. She stood up quite suddenly, the russet tides spreading over her face.
“I—I don’t feel well, Stephen,” she said. “You’ll excuse me, won’t you?”
“No,” Stephen growled. “Something in your look puzzled me just then. What is it, Aurore? What’s troubling ye?”
“Nothing—really, it’s nothing, Stephen. The heat and all—please let me go!”
“Not until I have your promise to visit us more often at Harrow. We’ve missed ye sadly.”
“Oh, I’ll come! I’ll come! Please excuse me now, Stephen. I really must lie down.”
“Very well.” Then a mischievous glint came into Stephen’s eyes. “But first ye must salute me with a sisterly kiss, or else I shall not budge from this spot.”
He stepped forward and caught both her hands at the wrists. Her arms were warm and soft, and he could feel her pulse pounding against the palms of his hands.
“No, Stephen,” she said, and her voice was very quiet. “You mustn’t.”
“And ye said I was ‘family’,” Stephen mocked. Then he leaned forward suddenly. But she turned her head very rapidly so that his kiss brushed lightly across the corner of her mouth.
“That wasn’t much of a kiss,” he laughed. “But ‘twill have to do for now. Goodday, my dear sister.” His bow was unnecessarily deep, and his laughter floated back after he had gone.
Aurore sat very still, rubbing the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. She rubbed it for a long time and very hard until it began to swell. But even then, through the numbness and the bruise, she could still feel the light brushing pressure of his lips on hers.
Riding away, Stephen’s brows were furrowed, but his mouth was smiling.
“They’re cold, both of them,” he mused. “But she less than Odalie. I wonder—yes, I wonder . . .”
XII
ODALIE sat in the chambre-à-brin—the little screened enclosure on the corner of the great gallery—talking to Phillippe Cloutier. It was necessary for her to have fresh air, but the fierce maringouins—the huge mosquitoes of the bayou country—would have devoured her alive if she had not had the protection of the screening.
Strange that Stephen had not yet returned. He should have been back a long time before now.
Phillippe’s heavy black brows came together in a frown.
“You love him, this husband of yours,” he observed drily.
“But of course. Why else would I have married him?”
“Why, indeed? This foreigner—no, that’s not the word. The Germans have a better—I learned it on my grand tour. Auslander. It has the proper harshness.”
“Need one be harsh?”
“Yes! These Americans! Ente
rprise, push, boorishness—and you, married to one of them! Oh, I admit that he has better manners than most of them, but you’re a Creole, my dearest—and Creoles don’t mate with barbarians!”
“But since I’ve already married my barbarian, my dear Phillippe, I don’t quite see . . .”
“You could not love another man?”
“You, for instance? No, Philippe, I couldn’t. There is nowhere on this earth such a man as he.”
“You’re mistaken,” Phillippe said. “I’ll prove you’re mistaken!” He bent forward suddenly and swept her up into his arms. Then very slowly and with great deliberation he kissed her, hard upon the mouth.
Odalie did not resist. She stood very quietly in his arms and allowed herself to be kissed; but she made no response—no response at all.
When he released her, she looked at him with eyes that were very wide and dark. But when she spoke her voice was calm.
“I’m sorry you did that,” she said.
“Why?” he demanded.
“Because I’ve enjoyed your company so much, Phillippe. But now I must ask you to go and never come back again.”
“You’re being unfair,” he said. “Monstrously unfair.”
“Perhaps. I don’t know. I’m no judge of such matters. It grieves me to send you away, Philippe. I shall miss you. And if I ever—by word or gesture—led you to think that I would permit such liberties, please forgive me, for it was not my intention to. Goodbye, Phillippe.”
He bowed silently. One dark eyebrow climbed sardonically toward his heavy black curls. Seeing it, Qdalie smiled a little.
“Now I know why I liked you so,” she said. “Except for the difference in complexion, you look quite a lot like Stephen. There is in you both the same quality of arrogance and recklessness and mockery . . .”
“You might have spared me that, Madame,” Phillippe said, and went down the stairs.
Odalie sighed. Poor Phillippe! She had not meant to hurt him. He was a very handsome lad—very lean and hard and polished like a rapier blade, a true gilded youth of the Parisian school. For a moment she wondered how it would have been if he had come back two years ago. Then she stopped abruptly, shocked at her own thoughts. She looked down the alley of oaks and saw Phillippe riding away.
