The Foxes of Harrow

by Frank Yerby

  On the bayou road, Etienne rode toward New Orleans at a fast trot. Again Ceclie had refused to see him! The first time he had put it down to pride and feminine pique; but this made six times in a row. No, there was something definitely wrong here. Well, damn it all, he wouldn’t try again! She’d come to him on her hands and knees—or would she? He groaned dismally, kicking the palamino forward.

  He stopped first at the sheriff’s office, to inquire whether or not any word had been received about Inch. As he expected, there was no news. The black appeared to have made good his escape. This was a great vexation. There were so many things upon which he had come to depend implicitly on Inch.

  He rode aimlessly through the streets of the old quarter. Ahead of him, the doors of the Saint Louis Hotel—which had been rebuilt from the original City Exchange after that structure had burned in 1841—opened and a group of young men spilled out into the street, all talking and laughing at once. Etienne recognized them: there were Pierre Aucoin, Henri Lascals, Jean Sompayrac, but there were also Bob Norton, James Duckett, and Walter McGarth. When Stephen Fox had come to New Orleans, such a combination would have been rare; but today one thought little about whether a person were of American or Creole origin. The Creole belles were going out of their way to marry “uptown” as the expression was; the Americans had all the money, and were in full control of the political life of New Orleans. In fact, there were a surprisingly large number of Creole youths who could not speak one word of French!

  Young Norton ran out into the street and grasped the bridle. “Down with you, ‘Tienne,” he roared, “and join a bunch of good fellows!”

  Smiling, Etienne dismounted.

  “And what,” he asked, “shall I do with my horse?”

  Henri Lascals laid a finger along his slim, aristocratic nose.

  “Well,” he said, “I don’t think there’s a glue factory handy . . .”

  “That cayeuse won’t even make decent glue,” Duckett drawled in his deep Texas accent. “Jus’ shoot him an’ leave the carcass lay.”

  “A horse,” Etienne observed, “is a man’s best friend. He doesn’t drink up my liquor or purloin my women. He goes where I want him to, and . . .”

  “Oh, my God,” young Sompayrac groaned. “He’s sober! He’s coldly, obscenely, disgustingly sober.”

  “We’ll fix that,” Aucoin grinned. “Walter, go get a nigger from the hotel to take care of that off-color nag, while we take ‘Tienne in to catch up on his drinking.”

  Norton and Lascals locked arms with Etienne, and all of them, except Walter McGarth, who had gone in search of the hotel’s groom, went back into the bar.

  Lascals pounded the bar.

  “Waiter!” he roared. The waiter came, frowning severely at the noisy young men. “For me, a crusta—and a pousse-café for Pierre and one for Henri. You, Bob— What’ll you have?”

  “The same,” Norton declared.

  “Jim?”

  “Whiskey and water—Rye,” the Texan drawled; “and order Scotch for Mac.”

  Lascals looked at Etienne.

  “For this lackadaisical, erstwhile drunkard,” he said, “four Sazeracs.”

  “Four!” Etienne said. “My God, Henri, two would kill a man!”

  “You’ll make a cheerful corpse. Yes, waiter, I said four Sazeracs.”

  A half hour later, they were all talking and singing at the top of their lungs. Henri Lascals was admiring his own image in the mirror.

  “You know, ‘Tienne,” he declared. “I am a very handsome lad. Yes, very. I should have my portrait painted. By the way, where is Paul? We haven’t seen him in more than three weeks.”

  “Nor have I.” Etienne said.

  “Let’s go up there,” Bob Norton suggested. “They tell me he has gorgeous paintings . . . such women!”

  “And all in complete déshabillé,” Henri gloated.

  A slow grin spread itself across Jim Duckett’s lean, tanned face.

  “Well,” he drawled, “what are we waiting for?”

  Out on the banquette, they broke into twos and marched along, swaying grandly.

  “Don’t know how Paul does it,” McGarth groaned. “Judy-Ann caught me taking a peek at her ankle—just a peek—and I had to go down on my knees—and at that it was two weeks before she’d have me back.”

  “You’re not a Parisian, Mac,” Etienne pointed out. “The French have a way about them.”

  “But you’re French,” Bob Norton put in, “or at least half and I don’t see you cutting much of a swath. That Ceclie Cloutier’s had you dangling all Winter.”

  “Too true,” Etienne moaned; “but look at Pierre, here, and Henri, and Jean. They’re as pure Gallic types as Paul himself, and they’re in the same boat with the rest of us. It isn’t the blood, Bob, it’s the training. Why, in France, the proud papas take them on their knees at the age of two and say: ‘But of a certainty, mon fils, when one goes to the woman, one kisses her thus!’ ”

  The whole group rocked with laughter. Suddenly Etienne felt Henri’s hand upon his arm.

  “Look, ‘Tienne,” he said, “isn’t that Paul riding away from us? Yes it is! Of all the miserable luck! We’ll never see those paintings now!”

  “Who’s that with him?” Walter McCarth demanded. “I’d swear it was a woman, but women don’t ride cross saddle . . .”

  Bob Norton shot a wicked glance at Etienne, seeing his face darken even in the rapidly fading light.

  “I know one who does!” he chuckled. “No wonder you never got anywhere with Ceclie, ‘Tienne; you’ve got too much expert competition.”

  Etienne turned and faced him, his heavy black brows meeting over his nose.

  “You’re mistaken, Bob,” he said evenly. “That’s a man with Paul.”

  “Like hell it is! A man with long black hair spilling down over his shoulders?”

  “I said you’re mistaken, Bob,” Etienne said quietly.

  “Now look, ‘Tienne,” Bob said, his voice rising. “You want me to deny the evidence of my own eyes? Who do you think you are?”

  “You’re drunk, both of you,” Jim Duckett declared. “And I’ll be damned if I’ll see a couple of good friends shoot each other up in a tomfool duel. If it is Ceclie, Bob, which you don’t positively know, it’s still a matter between her and ‘Tienne. So shut your trap and let’s go back to the hotel since we can’t see the paintings anyway.”

  “Wait,” Etienne said, “maybe we can see them.”

  “How?” Jean Sompayrac demanded. “There’s no doubt that that was Paul who rode away just now.”

  “The lock on that door doesn’t work. Paul’s been planning to have it fixed for the last seven months, but when it comes to anything else besides painting and women, my good Parisian friend isn’t all there.”

  “Think he’ll mind?” Lascals asked.

  “What if he does? Who’s going to tell him? We aren’t going to steal any of his pictures are we?”

  “Well,” McGarth grinned, “I wouldn’t swear that I mightn’t lift one if they’re as interesting as you fellows say.”

  Etienne turned in toward the door of the studio. He put his weight against it and pushed. Slowly it groaned open. Then they were all going up the stairs, laughing throatily in the darkness.

  Inside the studio, it was black as pitch.

  “Make a light somebody,” Pierre Aucoin said, “I want to see if I’m here or if you left me back at the hotel.”

  Etienne, who had often visited the studio, walked straight to the candlelabra before he struck a match. The soft glow stole through the room and all the young men turned. Here were the landscapes: the river and the oaks of Harrow; the house itself, portraits of prominent people in various stages of completion; studies of Negroes; and three nudes—all of Desiree, and all painted from memory in vain attempts to recapture the picture that Ceclie had destroyed.

  The seven youths bunched around them.

  “Name of a name of a name!” Henri said. “How did he ever
get around to painting her?”

  “Simple,” Aucoin said. “First one exhausts oneself, then the rest of the evening may be devoted to painting.”

  “No,” Jean declared, “after three brush strokes there would be the necessity of exhausting one’s self all over again!”

  “You Creoles!” Jim drawled. “Still . . . the wench has her points. Taming such a filly wouldn’t be a half bad way to spend an evening . . .”

  “Or a month,” Walter grinned.

  Bob Norton had wandered away from the group and was diligently searching for other nudes. In the middle of the studio he stopped before a huge canvas, draped with cloth. He lifted one corner of the cloth and a slim white leg glowed softly before his eyes. He raised the cloth higher.

  “Here’s the best one!” he roared. “ ‘Tienne, come help me get this damned cloth off!”

  In the next instant half a dozen hands were tugging at the cover. It came free, rocking the easel so violently that Etieime was forced to steady it with his hand. Then the veins at his temple were standing out and throbbing visibly. Behind him Bob Norton’s voice came out in a softly whispered: “My God!” Etienne whirled.

  “Yes,” he said harshly, “yes, it’s Ceclie! But you’ve seen nothing—do you hear? Nothing—all of you!”

  Jim Duckett frowned.

  “Easy, ‘Tienne,” he said. “You’re a bit too ready with your threats for my liking. I’ve seen that painting, by God! But if you want my word as a gentleman never again to mention I’ve seen it, you have it. And that goes for the rest of the boys. But don’t threaten me. I should regret having to kill you.”

  Etienne swayed a little on his feet, his dark face drained of all color.

  “You know, Jim,” he said slowly, “at the moment that would be almost a kindness.”

  He turned again to the painting smouldering upon the canvas. The figure was reclining, and there was provocation, and slow, spine-tingling invitation painted into every line of it. He had not realized that Ceclie was so beautiful; every curve of that perfect body sang from the canvas, and the song was the one Ulysses heard, straining against the cords that bound him to the mast. Here was consummate artistry; but, Etienne realized, Paul had merely done her justice.

  Behind him, someone stirred. Etienne started at the sound. He had forgotten the others existed. His hand went into his pocket and came out with a jackknife. Slowly, carefully, he cut the painting from its frame and rolled it into a huge roll. Then he turned to the silent group.

  “Let’s go,” he said. His voice had a rasp in it.

  The others looked at one another. Then one by one they followed him down the creaking stairs and into the street.

  It was well after midnight when Etienne reached the gates of Rosemont. He dismounted and opened them, then he climbed back upon his horse and rode on again toward the house. At this hour, no groom could be expected to take care of the horse, so he left the reins trailing over the horse’s neck and started up the steps.

  Twenty minutes of thunderous knocking at last brought out the butler. He stood there blinking like a fat, black owl, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands and saying:

  “Suh? Suh?”

  “I want to see Miss Ceclie,” Etienne snapped.

  “She sleep, her,” the butler got out. “It ver’ late now, monsieur, yes.”

  “Awaken her!” Etienne said.

  “But, suh, the ole maître, he don’t ‘low . . .”

  “I said awaken her!”

  “Awright,” the butler said, “I go tell her, me. But Maître Phillippe gonna be powerful mad . . . yes!”

  He shuffled away, head bent toward the stairs.

  “Tell her it’s about the painting,” Etienne called after him.

  The old Negro nodded and crawled snail-like up the stairs. Etienne started pacing up and down the hallway, holding the painting tightly in his hand. Then, after a few minutes, there was the swift whisper of footsteps on the stair. Etienne looked up. Ceclie was in nightdress, and her robe fell loosely from her shoulders.

  So it’s true, Etienne thought, you are like the painting. What a pity that such an artist as Paul has to die . . .

  “Well?” Ceclie said, “well—what is it, ‘Tienne?” Wordlessly, Etienne unrolled the painting. Ceclie looked at it, then her brown eyes raised to Etienne’s face.

  “Yes, I posed for it. Beautiful, isn’t it, ‘Tienne?”

  “You sat there like that and let a man look at you? You did that, Ceclie?”

  “Yes.”

  Etienne’s eyes were colorless beneath his black brows, and his voice terribly quiet.

  “What else, Ceclie?”

  The girl smiled at him.

  “What concern is it of yours, ‘Tienne?”

  “You were going to marry me, remember. Everything you do is my concern!”

  “So?”

  “I asked you a question, Ceclie!”

  “Do you really want me to answer it, ‘Tienne?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your friend is a very great artist . . . in all things.”

  “Ceclie!”

  “He is very gentle and tender. Yet he’s strong—so strong that he makes even pain—exquisite.”

  Etienne’s pale eyes caught the candle flame like twin mirrors. His lips moved slowly, shaping the words, and his voice was very quiet.

  “You whore!”

  Ceclie took a step backwards as though she had been struck. Then she came forward again, walking deliberately up to him until her mouth was inches from his face.

  “Yes, yes!” she said, “there is such a word for a woman. But what is there for a man? Tell me, ‘Tienne! Give me a word vile enough to describe you! I could not ride up to Harrow to see you, because that was wrong and people would talk. I couldn’t kiss you and be with you always as I wanted. But you could leave me day after day to go and wallow with a Negress! At least Paul is clean and sweet and gentle; at least I don’t have to scrub off my skin with lye soap to get rid of niggerstench! Go on, ‘Tienne, tell me the word! What is it?”

  Etienne’s eyes narrowed to slits in his dark face.

  “Don’t talk like that, Ceclie,” he said, “I’m warning you!”

  “I will talk! I’ll talk all I please. You had all my love. You know that. Oh, my God, how I loved you! But you must go to your Negress, and I must sit patiently and wait for you to come back when you’d had your fill . . . like one of your pale Louisiana women. You forgot I was one quarter savage, didn’t you, ‘Tienne? It never occurred to you that I could match and top anything that you did! How was she—your Negress? No, don’t tell me! Just remember—and when you see Paul, compare notes!”

  Etienne stepped back away from her. Then he slapped her, hard across the face. She stood there, facing him, and a little trembling started in her limbs, and grew and grew until she quivered all over like a willow sapling in a high wind. Where his fingers had struck, her face was very white, then the red was coming in until the shape of his fingers was printed angry and crimson across her face.

  “You have a weapon, monsieur?”

  Etienne whirled.

  Philippe Cloutier was standing there in the doorway, clad in a dressing gown. His eyes searched the youth briefly.

  “I see that you have not,” he said quietly. “Then we’d best postpone this until tomorrow morning. Is the oaks agreeable to you?”

  Etienne licked his dry lips.

  “Yes,” he got out, “yes—quite.”

  “My seconds will wait upon you at eight o’clock. You’ll be so good as to indicate your choice of weapons then. I’ll meet you at—say—eleven. I dislike rising too early. But perhaps you have a counter-suggestion, Monsieur Fox?”

  Etienne shook his head.

  “No,” he said, “none.”

  “Very well. Come, Ceclie. Good night to you, monsieur.” Ceclie did not move. She was staring at her father. “No, Father,” she said. “No!”

  Phillippe turned to his daughter.

&
nbsp; “I gave you an order, Ceclie!”

  “But you can’t! You mustn’t, Father! You can’t kill ‘Tienne! You can’t, I won’t let you!”

  Phillippe looked at his daughter.

  “You’re a fool,” he said coldly.

  “I don’t care what he did to me. I don’t care and it doesn’t matter. Look there upon the table. Look and see how well I deserved that slap. Go on, Father. Look!”

  Phillippe hesitated. Then he crossed to the table and stared at the painting spread out across the table. He looked at it a long time, staring at the corner where the painter’s signature was lettered in. When he spoke his voice was weary.

  “I see,” he said. “You’ll accept my apology, monsieur?”

  “I—I forgot myself, sir,” Etienne said. “I ask your forgiveness and mademoiselle’s. That was a hard thing to take.”

  “You know where this Dumaine lives?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ll guide me there. Jules!”

  The old Negro appeared at once through the doorway behind which he had been listening.

  “Yes, maître,” he quavered. “Yes?”

  “Have horses saddled for Monsieur Fox and myself. And, Jules . . .”

  “Yes, maître?”

  “Bring coffee. It’s beastly cold at this hour.”

  “Father,” Ceclie whispered, “Father . . .”

  “Go to your room, Ceclie. I’ll attend to you later.”

  “You . . . you’re going to beat me?”

  Phillippe’s voice was cold.

  “No,” he said. “There are more fitting methods. You’ll excuse me, Monsieur, while I dress?”

  The sky was lightening a little when they reached New Orleans. But the sunglow was weak, and the air had a bite to it. They rode silently until they reached the studio. Then they dismounted. They walked very slowly to the door and knocked.

  Paul’s voice floated down the stairway. It sounded almost relieved.

  “Come in, messieurs,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you.” Etienne and Philippe stood in the doorway staring at the young painter. He was haggard, and his hair and clothing were in wild disarray. But his voice was calm.