by Anne Rice
But when he reached the block where Dolly Rose lived, the mother of the dead child, he came upon a strange pocket even at this quiet time, a stretch of some ten or twelve doors where the only sound was the song of the insects and the remote melancholy ringing of a church bell. The sky darkened; the stars seemed low, and yet the distant corner lamp remained dismal against the azure gloom, unable to shed its full light until the real night. He quickened his pace, as if someone, something were following him.
And it was with relief at last that he reached the archway of Dolly Rose’s courtyard drive.
A man stood there, a lean square-shouldered man of color, dressed in a coat that seemed quite fresh for the balmy summer and very smartly cut. He wore a slight mustache, no more than a line of dark hair, and his eyes, flashing on Richard quite suddenly from the shadows of the archway gave him a mild shock. They looked at one another, and it seemed the man was uncomfortable, on the verge of saying something, yet did not know how to begin. The man was also obviously struck by Richard’s height.
“Can I be of service, Monsieur?” Richard asked.
“Can you tell me, is there a wake here tonight?” the man asked. His pronunciation was slightly sharp but what marked the voice more distinctly was its flat, inflectionless tone. For some reason this made his words rather expressive.
“Yes, Monsieur.” Richard answered. This the man might have learned very simply from the black-bordered notices that fluttered on the lamp posts nearby, on the trunks of the trees. These had been posted all about the Quarter in the late afternoon. “It’s upstairs.”
“But is this wake open to all the friends of the family?” the man asked.
Ah, that was the problem. “Monsieur, it’s open to everyone who knows Madame Rose or her family, it is not merely for close friends. I’m sure if you know them at all you would be most welcome, there will be many many people there.”
The man nodded. He seemed relieved, yet uncomfortable, and a little annoyed with himself for that discomfort. And there was something distinctly familiar about his face. Richard was certain he had seen him before. As for the clothes, he was quite sure they were from Paris. Paris maintained such a vast lead in fashion, it seemed you could always tell these gentlemen who had just come home.
“Permit me, Monsieur, I’m Richard Lermontant, the undertaker,” Richard said quietly. “If you will follow me?” he gestured to the door.
The man bowed his head, did not say his name and behaved as if this were of no consequence, following Richard into the short hallway and up the carpeted stairs. Entering the parlor, he moved quickly away behind a crowd of men and women along the wall and Richard at once turned his eyes to the small bed surrounded by white chrysanthemums on which the child was laid.
Because funerals had been his life for years, Richard never associated these particular flowers with funerals. That is, they had for him no morbid resonance, and were always just what they were meant to be when brought into such a room; something lush, beautiful, and alive—springtime—an offering amid the sorrow that brought to mind the cycle of life and death at the very time when death weighed so heavily on the soul. He was glad to see them now. And quickly greeting Antoine who took his leave, Richard moved silently, invisibly along the borders of the room, around the clusters of whispering women in black dresses and gentlemen with hat in hand, until he stood over the large fragile bouquets and looked down through the perfume, and through the smoke of the wax candles, at the dead child.
She was a little older than his sister had been, and perhaps every bit as pretty. In fact, her beauty shocked him. He had seen her often enough on the high seat of Dolly Rose’s carriage, her bonnet ribbons whipped in the wind, but she was all clothes then, bundled up except for a dimpled cheek. And he saw for the first time here her rounded bare arms and pale throat. Of course she appeared to be asleep. They all did, no matter what the manner of death, no matter how acute the suffering. This child had died of lockjaw, and yet she lay serene in this lifelike posture. It never failed to give him a moment’s pause. And he was surprised as he brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead to realize that she was already stiff. But there was no odor, in spite of the heat, except that of the rose leaves and orange leaves beneath the sheets, and the heavy flowers.
And pleased with this and a dozen other minor details (Antoine did this sort of thing perfectly), he was relieved of everything for the moment but his contemplation of her face. She was baby-round still and very white, could have been a white child for all a stranger knew, and her brows seemed a bit too dark against her forehead so that her expression in death was too serious. It was as if she were having an absorbing dream. There was a sound then that he could not have identified, but he realized that it was a series of narrow white petals breaking loose from a flower and falling down to the pillow beside her head. He moved to pick these up, but an unusual thought struck him. They were soft as the child had been in life, but was no longer. He felt the impulse to leave them there. But no one else would have understood. Then he saw nestled with the thick chrysanthemums a prim spray of white rosebuds. He took one of these and quickly breaking its long stem, tucked it in with the pearl rosary beads intertwined in her folded hands. He touched it lightly and drew back.
Dolly Rose was not there. Her godmother Celestina Roget, haggard and pale, rose now to go, whispering to Richard that she had been up three nights and three days with the sick baby and must see to her own house. “You watch her!” she said, and gestured as she left to a rear bedroom beyond the arch of the hallway. Muted voices came from that room. And when at last the door was flung open Dolly Rose did not come out. Rather a white man appeared who came down the long passage, went up to the coffin, looked down, and then retired to a far corner of the room.
He was a striking man, young, perhaps twenty-five, his black hair gleaming with pomade and curling just above his collar. A thick mustache and a fullness to his sideburns gave him a distinction that was rare in one so young, but having a hawklike expression he carried it well. His eyes now found some indefinable spot in front of him and he remained fixed on it, even when Dolly Rose finally entered the room. She glared at him from the doorway and was ushered, even pulled, by two other women to a nearby couch where she buried her face in her hands.
Richard could see at once that she was drunk. She was at that point of grief and drunkenness, in fact, where there might be trouble. And I have Antoine to thank for warning me, he thought bitterly, and Madame Celestina for leaving me to handle this on my own. Dolly looked up from time to time at the white man as if she were going to shout something at him, but she did not. And the other ladies, none of whom seemed quite to have her glamour, even in these moments, were clearly afraid as they held her by the arms.
Dolly Rose had, in fact, been a remarkable beauty, that kind of quadroon who had given the Salle d’Orléans its fame, but hardly the legendary faithful mistress who weeps upon hearing of the marriage of her white lover or throws herself beneath the wheels of a passing cabriolet. Rather she had gone through white admirers as through pairs of gloves, spending lavishly with each new connection, and never thinking to save for the future, often gave to her slaves taffeta and merino dresses that had scarce been worn. She had provoked duels, neglected creditors, adored only her mother and her daughter, both of whom were now dead, and had in the last few years been on bad times, though everyone said she might make a perfectly fine connection at any moment that she chose.
Once she had been friends with Richard’s sister, Giselle, and even come to dinner often at the Lermontant house, and Richard could remember them as grown-up girls of fifteen exchanging secrets behind the curtains of a bed. The little boys used to sing to her, chanting as they surrounded her skirts, DOLLY Dolly, DOLLY Dolly, DOLLY DOLLY ROOOOSE! Richard could still remember that engaging rhythm and how she had laughed. And from all the talk he had heard of her waning beauty, he was quite impressed to see she was very lovely still.
Hers was an unusual fac
e, not so much for its pale café au lait skin, nor its diminutive nose and mouth. But rather for its shape, not being lean like the faces of so many Creole girls, but rather square with high rounded temples beneath her dark waves, and eyebrows very flat across the almond shape of her eyes, rising slightly at the outside before they curved down. It was this straightness of the eyebrow, and the manner in which it set off the eye beneath it that had always intrigued him. Pretty was the word he thought of when he looked at Dolly, because there was a gaiety and loveliness in her looks that sometimes beautiful women lack.
But her friendship with Giselle had ended badly. One summer Dolly had left the convent school and commenced to appear at the “quadroon balls.” Rudolphe forbade Giselle to see her. And Dolly was not invited when Giselle was married at Nuptial Mass. Old Madame Rose, Dolly’s mother, was rude to the family, and Dolly took her first white lover in due time. But everyone had liked Dolly. And Richard would have known, even if he hadn’t been told, that half the furnishings of the room had been supplied for the funeral by his father. There were the Lermontant mirrors brought around merely to be draped, and the clocks set out merely to be stopped, extra chairs from the Lermontant storerooms, and even the settee beneath the front windows, as well as tables, the decanters of sherry and the glasses. It had all been brought up late that afternoon in a covered cart by Placide, the old valet, and passed quietly through the carriageway to the back so that no one was the wiser. And though it was of no consequence to him personally, Richard was rather certain that the bill for all this would not be paid.
Now, taking a deep breath, he approached Dolly tentatively only to discover that she did not know him, in fact, did not appear to know anyone, and the women who surrounded her appeared anxious and somewhat put out. Meanwhile, people entering turned their heads to the white man as though his face were a light. And he sat rigid, eyes on the floor.
In short, it was not a good situation. But as Richard slipped into the far corner behind the white man where the shadows might conceal him, the man of color in the Parisian coat approached.
“Vincent,” he said to the white man and he extended his hand.
Slowly the white man lifted his head. There was about him an air of wariness which was suddenly dispelled.
“Christophe!” he whispered, and at once they clasped hands.
A mild shock passed through Richard. It was Christophe Mercier! At once he recognized the smooth square face, and he understood completely the manner which bordered on the arrogant as the man stood before the white man’s chair. But their clasp was warm, lingering. “You came on my account?” the white man asked.
“And for Dolly,” Christophe nodded.
“Ah, then you know her.”
“For many years. If there is anything I can do, you must tell me.” Christophe’s voice was low, inflectionless as before. “But here, this is the undertaker,” he gestured for Richard to step forward, “his name is Lermontant.”
The man gazed up into Richard’s face and only then did Richard sense his torment, shrouded as it was by the shadow of his dark hair and black brows, the deepest eyes peering like lights.
“Lermontant, Monsieur,” Richard whispered with a slight bow.
The man nodded, and from his waistcoat he drew out a small card. The name was Vincent Dazincourt and Richard knew it at once. It was an old Louisiana family, and the name of the first lover that Dolly had taken years before. He was the father of the child. “Anything,” the man said, “any expense, the best hearse, the best horses…”
“It’s arranged, Monsieur,” Richard assured him. But at this moment, Dolly Rose came across the room.
A cluster of reluctant women attempted to stop her, but gasped indignantly as she pushed them off. And sitting down beside the white man, she hissed in a low voice, “So you’ll pay for everything, will you? Now…now that she’s dead?”
Backs turned to them politely.
“And where were you when she was alive, when she called for you, ‘Papa, Papa,’ ” she hissed. “Get out!”
The room had fallen silent. Richard bent to touch her shoulder, summoning his greatest reserve. “Madame Dolly,” he said gently. “Why don’t you come now and rest, this is the best time.”
“Let me alone, Richard!” she shrugged him off, her eyes fixed on Dazincourt. “Get out,” she said again, “out of my house, do you hear?”
He glared at her from under his black brows, only his mouth seeming soft and a little boyish as he twisted it into a bitter grin.
“I’m not leaving here until Lisa’s buried,” he said in a low contemptuous voice.
It seemed she would strike him then, but one of the women attempted to take her arm. Her hand flew out smacking the woman’s face. And at once she was abandoned as soft shuffling skirts drew away from her all around.
“Dolly, please,” Richard addressed her as he had a thousand times when he was a little boy. He went to take her by the waist, but she jerked from him violently, the wine sour on her breath, the flesh that slipped from his hand feverish. He was afraid of her, and what right had he to hold her, this was after all, her house as she had said. He watched helplessly as she reached for Dazincourt who had turned away as if she weren’t there.
But it was Christophe who slipped between them, whispering low to her upturned cheek, “Dolly, you don’t want to do this.” It was a tone of simple command.
She wavered, and put her hand uncertainly to her brow. “Christophe!” she whispered, “wild little Christophe!”
“Come on, Dolly,” he said, and as angry, scornful faces looked on he lifted her gently to Richard’s arms. Her eyes were vague, dazed, but with a wan smile she gave herself over to Richard, gesturing to a doorway down the hall.
It was a disaster of a room, clothes heaped amid crumpled sheets, which at once made Richard mad. Old liquor reeked in glasses everywhere and thrown helter-skelter over the screen were a corset, chemises, scarves. The house was rudderless, the woman friendless, and as he guided her gingerly to the high bed, he was ashamed for her, ashamed that she would be alone in this room with him and with Christophe at the door.
“I want brandy there!” she declared and would not lie down. He turned to see a bottle beside the sputtering lamp. Without glancing at Christophe for approval, he filled the glass and gave it to her as if it were milk for a child. Her hair fell over her broad high forehead and her fingers made him think of claws.
“Rest now, Dolly,” Richard said, and he covered her shoulders as she settled back.
“Maman,” she groaned suddenly into the stained pillow. And then, shuddering, opened her eyes wide. “Christophe!” she said. “I want to talk to Christophe.”
“You can talk to me anytime, Dolly,” Christophe said. “I’m not going anywhere for a long while.”
“You bastard,” she said, straining to make him out in the gloom. Richard shuddered. Her face was pale, her eyes glittering. “You threw me in the river!” she said.
“Ah,” Christophe answered softly. “You threw me down the stairs first.”
Her laughter was light, girlish. “Why the hell did you come back here, anyway?” she asked. “They had you dancing with the Queen.”
“I came back to throw you in the river again, Dolly,” he said.
She closed her eyes, shivering, but the smile on her lips remained. “Only white men can throw me in the river now, Christophe,” she answered. “You’ve been away too long. Get out of my bedroom.” She turned her head to one side.
“Don’t get rough, Dolly,” Christophe said, backing silently toward the door. “It’s only white men now who can throw me down the stairs.”
She laughed again, her eyelids fluttering.
“How many white women did you have over there, Christophe?” she asked, smiling up at him again. “Come now, how many did you have? They told me you danced with the Queen.”
“Not so many, Dolly,” he said. “Just the Queen.”
Her head rolled on the pillow as she
laughed again. Richard all this while was mortified. He was emptying the contents of various glasses into the pitcher, shoving shoes and slippers beneath the skirts of the bed. But it was beyond him, this chaos, and she was moaning and snuggling down into the pillows, her face altered in one of those complete shifts which drunkenness makes possible, “Maman, Maman,” coming like a moan from her parted lips. The tone was so helpless, so piteous that it made him breathless to hear it and to see her moist and quivering face.
But she began to breathe deeply, silently. And the face became smooth. He opened the high blinds to let in a little air and made his way to the door.
Only two of the women were there to meet him, older women, old as Dolly’s mother had been before she died. Their inquiries were cold, perfunctory and hearing that she was sleeping now, they hurriedly took their leave.
Christophe meantime had rested his weight easily on the frame of the door opposite, and a warmth shone in his eyes as he glanced at Richard and gave him a weary smile. Richard was ashamed now for having been so shaken, ashamed for having depended so on this man who for all his fame was a stranger to Richard still.
“And Madame Rose, her mother?” Christophe asked.
“She died last year, Monsieur, a stroke.” It had never been his habit to gossip about the bereaved, but his cheeks were still burning from the rawness of Dolly’s language, and he found himself struggling now to make some guarded explanation for the woman who was so alone in the next room. “She was devoted to her mother, Monsieur. And devoted to the little girl. Now they are both gone and…?” he let the words hang there as he made a subtle heavy shrug.
Christophe’s eyes held him intently for a moment. Then he removed a thin cigar from his inside pocket and glanced toward the distant door which stood open to the yard.
“A stroke, was it?” said the monotone voice. “I thought that woman was made of iron.” And his eyes moved eloquently over the walls as if probing some childhood memory and there was faint mystery in his smile. “You should have seen her face the day I threw Dolly in the river,” he said. “But then you should have seen my face the day Dolly threw me down the stairs.”
