Feast of All Saints

by Anne Rice

  “Bonsoir, Monsieur,” Marcel gave him a short bow.

  The man laughed. “Brandy, brandy, where’s Lisette?” he demanded. “I am of the opinion that all young men are infinitely improved by a little brandy, here, mon fils, sit down.” And laughing at his own magnanimity, he lifted his own drink.

  Marcel eyed him warily. Where was the anger he’d been expecting? If Cecile had handled this, why was she afraid?

  “Now tell me, where have you been!” Monsieur Philippe demanded. It was almost a mockery of a parent’s solicitude.

  “Walking, Monsieur,” Marcel murmured.

  Leaning over the nearby candle, Monsieur Philippe lit another cigar. He sat back, drawing in the smoke. His cheeks were ruddy, and he had about him the smell of leather and horses which always mingled distinctly with his pomade, his cologne.

  “Walking on a night like this, hmmmm,” he breathed, the air suddenly smelling like wine. Lisette had filled Marcel’s glass. And without waiting to be told, Marcel took a stiff drink. The brandy burned his throat, and stung his eyes.

  “Another, another,” Monsieur Philippe motioned to Lisette. “Your mother tells me you went to the opera tonight, don’t tell me you enjoyed it,” he laughed, but with head wagging slightly, added, “But then you would!” His mouth turned down at the ends as he appeared to roll his wine on his tongue. “I expect one of these days I’ll be getting a little bill for a pair of those delicate spectacles,” he said pinching his fingers, “octagonal with gold rims. That would suit you,” he nodded, laughter cracking in his throat. “Such a boy, such a boy. What do people know of the world, I wonder, but then again what was that song?” He cocked his head as though listening to music, and suddenly began to sing. Marcel did not know the song, except it was an aria, and Monsieur Philippe seemed to handle it right on key. If anyone else in the world had been singing it, at any other time, Marcel would have liked it a great deal.

  But he was numb as he listened. There was water in his boots and his shirt clung to his chest. He drank the brandy and motioned this time himself for Lisette to give him some more. On and on Monsieur Philippe was singing, his eyes moving over the ceiling, mossy blond brows gleaming in the firelight, his voice becoming high and thin with the words which were Italian, most likely, Marcel could not be sure. But the melody descended so that he became louder, clearer, and more poignant until at last he brought his fist down in time with the rhythm and shook all the china in the room.

  Cecile laughed and clapped her hands.

  “Come here,” Monsieur Philippe said, opening his arms. He hugged her tight and then set her down in the chair beside him, opposite Marcel.

  “I have a book for you, my little scholar, where’s that book?” Lisette handed it to him from the buffet, and he thrust it at Marcel. It was a handsome volume, old, with gold letters fading in the leather cover. And opening it Marcel discovered it was a history of ancient Rome, complete with the most splendid engravings, each covered with its own thin tissue which he touched reverently.

  “Thank you, Monsieur,” he whispered.

  “And I’ll tell you a little secret,” Monsieur Philippe said, “you’ll be the first person to read it, though it’s fifty years old. I always think of you when I see books,” he winked his eye. He said the word, books, with a special emphasis, continuing, “I saw some book the other day, what was it, ah, some splendid nonsense, The Anatomy of Melancholy, yes, that’s exactly what it was. Found it with some others in an old trunk, should have brought it to you. But, well, next time!”

  “You’re very generous,” Marcel said.

  “You know he’s studying now with Christophe Mercier, the novelist from Paris, you remember?” Cecile whispered. She poured some wine into Monsieur Philippe’s glass.

  “Oh, yes, yes, that fellow came back on the same boat with my brother-in-law, did very well for himself in Paris,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “How’s that mother of his, still playing the mad Ophelia with all that…all that hair?” he made a wandering gesture about the head, and then laughed as though this were a capital joke.

  “She’s better,” Cecile said with a slight air of condescension. “He’s a good teacher for the boys, Monsieur, a very good teacher, everyone sings his praises.”

  Monsieur Philippe nodded and shrugged. He sat back, crossing his boots on the seat of the chair in front of him.

  “And he tells you all about Paris, hmmmm? The Sorbonne!” he said exaggerating his voice. “The university, hmmmm? Well, tell me this, if this is such a dreadful place for them, why do they always come home?”

  Marcel smiled and shook his head, muttering something respectful.

  “And you, I suppose you’re anxious as ever to get on that boat, hmmm, to leave your poor mother all alone?”

  “Oh, it’s my fault, Monsieur, I’ve talked so much about it,” said Cecile. “All the boys dream of it, but perhaps if I didn’t make such a fuss.”

  Again came that magnanimous smile. He was eyeing Marcel up and down and Marcel could feel his wet shirt cold against his back and the sting of the cut on his chin. But in this smoky light, well, he tried to keep calm.

  “Even soaking wet you’re all right,” Monsieur Philippe nodded approvingly. “You’re all right. Now go on to bed, take that book with you, and oh, and here…” He reached into his pocket withdrawing a wad of bills in a clip. “If you’re so crazy about this opera, here, then, this ought to get you a good seat.” Marcel was a little stunned at the amount.

  “You’re generous, Monsieur,” he said again.

  “You are pleased,” his mother said anxiously, “about this new school?”

  “But, of course, why not?” said Monsieur Philippe. “Though I don’t see what was the matter with the old one. This young Mercier, he’s sensible, not giving them airs.”

  “Oh, never,” she said. “Why, Lermontant, the undertaker, he’s sending his son.” she said, watching his face.

  Monsieur Philippe was looking at Marcel with the most dreamy smile. Suddenly he laughed. “A scholar of all things,” he said. “You know, Marcel, once when I was fourteen I actually read a book all the way through.” Laughter erupted again. “Can’t even remember what it was. That was the first and only time I ever fell off a horse, and I’d broken my foot. One of these days you have to tell me what you think of this English fellow, Dickens, I have an old aunt from Baltimore, more American you know, she brought this fellow Dickens down with her in her portmanteau, and she started to read him and she cried!”

  Marcel couldn’t help laughing for the first time. He had to make himself stop, and even then he couldn’t keep his face straight and had to look away.

  “I know that Lermontant,” said the father, his mind wandering, “he does his job well, all right.” He nodded, glancing at Cecile. “And that son of his, a fine looking young boy…”

  “Forgive me just a moment, Monsieur,” Cecile said following Marcel out of the room.

  Marcel was trying hard not to laugh. He felt lightheaded, miserable, and was elated at the same time. As soon as he had reached the back door, he covered his mouth and began to shake with laughter.

  “What’s the matter with you!” Cecile hissed, drawing up to him. “Stop it, stop it.”

  “But he doesn’t remember!” Marcel said, trying to keep his voice down. He doubled over with laughter. “He doesn’t even remember the note!”

  It was a full minute before he realized his mother was standing very still except that she was wringing her hands.

  “Well, he must not,” he whispered. “Either that or he never got it.”

  “He did get it, you told me that man…that notary said that he did,” she said.

  “Maman, it’s too perfect!” he bent to kiss her.

  “It is not perfect!” she burst out, then turned afraid that Monsieur Philippe might have heard.

  “O my God, why not?” Marcel sighed wearily. A reprieve after all this time. He kissed Cecile. “Maybe he’ll think of it in the morning.”r />
  “No,” she shook her head. “He’s forgotten it, if it ever made any difference to him at all.”

  “Ah, now don’t worry,” he said.

  “Cecee?” Monsieur Philippe called from the dining room. Putting his cape over his head, Marcel ran for the garçonnière.

  Only a few hours later, when Lisette stood over him shaking him, he awoke quite cross.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “Haven’t you enough to do in the cottage? I only just fell asleep.”

  “Well, get up and on your feet,” she whispered. “And look down there right now.”

  “At what?” he demanded, pulling on his robe. “Light the fire, for God’s sakes, this is a tomb.”

  “Look down there!” she said, pushing him.

  And wrapping the robe quickly around him, he followed her angrily to the open door.

  The rain had stopped, the morning was gray and cold. He stuffed his hands in his pockets as he went to the rail.

  Anna Bella was staring up at him from the wet flags below.

  V

  HIS VERY FIRST IMPRESSION was that her face was not her own. She was over near the cistern, an utterly unlikely figure standing still beneath the wet banana leaves, her dark blue merino dress and cape blending, it seemed, with the mist that enveloped the yard. And the expression with which she looked up at him was simply not that of the Anna Bella he knew.

  Only once before had Marcel seen the expression of a human being alter in that way. It had been on the morning that Richard’s sister, Françoise, had died. He had met Richard at Mass, and the change in Richard was so complete that it was terrifying. It seemed a supernatural being walked in Richard’s shape and clothing, and Marcel had never forgotten it. The memory swept over him now, palpably, as he looked down at this young woman whose black-gloved hands were clasped on the knob of her umbrella, and he felt this besides: enormous love for her, protective love. He had to know the reason for this at once.

  “Tell her I’m coming, go on…I’ll be right down.” he said to Lisette as he hurried back into the room.

  “Down! Where am I going to put her if you go down!” Lisette demanded. “Get your clothes on so she can come up here! What’s she doing here, anyway, at this hour? Michie Philippe’s asleep down there! What’s your mother going to think if she sees her out there!”

  “All right, all right,” he stammered as he dressed hurriedly and Lisette bent to make the fire.

  Anna Bella slipped off her cape as soon as she entered, not waiting for anyone to help her, and laid it neatly over the back of the chair. She sat down, in front of the desk, though he offered her the more comfortable armchair by the grate, and when he asked her to have coffee she merely shook her head.

  Lisette, returning with a full pot and hot milk, urged it on her anyway, and set the cup by her side.

  “Would you leave me alone with him, please?” Anna Bella asked. Lisette studied her for a moment, obviously surprised, and then went away.

  The room was warming. Anna Bella, removing her gloves carefully as though they were a peeling, stretched her small dimpled hand toward the hearth.

  “What is it, what’s happened?” Marcel said.

  Her face had relaxed only slightly.

  “I thought you were my friend, Marcel,” she said. Her voice was calm, devoid of drama. “I thought we would be friends all of our lives.”

  He felt an odd catch in his throat, had the sensation that if he tried to speak nothing would come out. “We are friends,” the voice was weak. “We will always be friends,” he said.

  “That’s foolishness and you know it!” she said.

  “Anna Bella, have you forgotten what happened last night when I stepped into the box?”

  “Don’t you give me that foolishness, Marcel!” She glared at him, her teeth biting into her lip. “This has got nothing to do with Madame Elsie, you aren’t scared of Madame Elsie, there’re a hundred times you could have come to see me, when she’s at supper, when she’s asleep…”

  “Asleep, asleep!” he could feel his face growing hot, his voice still maddeningly unsteady. “And have what happened that night in Christophe’s house happen again…”

  She meant to answer, but it seemed her voice broke. She turned away from him struggling violently, her chin quivering, her hand shielding her eyes.

  “Anna Bella, I can’t see you anymore,” he said desperately. “It’s past between us, don’t you understand? It’s just the way it happened, Anna Bella!” he said. If she began to cry, he was afraid that he would cry too. “What do you want of me, Anna Bella!” he demanded. “What can I do!”

  “Talk to me, Marcel!” she burst out, the tears clinging to her lashes. “You can care about me, what happens to me, I’m your friend!”

  “I do care,” he said. “But what can I do? You don’t know what you’re asking of me…You’re a young woman now, you shouldn’t even be here with me alone in this room! You’re to be chaperoned, guarded…”

  “No!” she shook her head. Her lashes were matted with the tears that were coursing down her cheeks. “Don’t you tell me all that, I don’t believe it, I won’t believe that what we had, you and me, what we had between us is just gone like that! Marcel, look at me. We cared about each other, it was like we were kin. And now you’re trying to tell…tell me…” she stammered, her hands out, her eyes glancing helplessly at her own breasts, her skirts…“You’re trying to tell me that because we’re grown-up, all that’s gone? I don’t believe that! If that’s what growing up is, I don’t ever want to grow up, I just want to be a child all my life!” Again her hand went to shield her eyes. Her head rested in her hand, and she shook with her choked sobs. Her voice came again, weak, pleading, “Don’t you remember how it was between you and me?” She looked up at him, her head bent, limp on her neck. “You were with me the night Jean Jacques died, don’t you remember? We were always together…” the voice just died away.

  He was looking at her through a film of tears. It was terrible to watch her cry, to hear it, to see it, the way that she gave herself to it so completely, so defenselessly. He had seen it before, but never had it been so important, and never had it been over something that they could not share. She exaggerated nothing in what she’d said. If anything, she had not touched the heart of it, that they had understood each other, known each other as very few people in this world ever did. There was no way he could tell her how he had missed all of it, how he had missed not only her but the person he had been when he was with her.

  “Don’t you tell me that growing up can destroy that!” she whispered now through her tears. “It’s just not true, it’s just not fair.” She was dabbing at the flow from her eyes. “What happened that night in Michie Christophe’s house…that was my fault…” she whimpered. “I did it!”

  “Don’t say that!” he burst out. “Don’t ever say that!” He put his hands out, wanting to take her by the arms, but then he let his hands drop.

  “But how can that count for so much?” she pleaded, her head inclining to the right as she looked up at him. “So much that it can just destroy everything else?”

  “It’s not that,” he whispered. “You didn’t do it, don’t you understand? It would have happened sooner or later, sometime, anytime that we were alone. I did it! I could do it again. I can’t be alone with you without wanting to do it! I want to kiss you, take you in my arms now!” he said.

  She was amazed. She was staring at him, the fingers of her right hand just touching her lips. “But why…” she started.

  “Anna Bella, don’t you see? It can’t be between us!” he said. The tears were flowing for him now, too, he couldn’t stop them, but as he swallowed thickly, he began to speak to her in a man’s voice. “All this has happened too soon, it’s happened at the wrong time. I haven’t come into my own! I can’t court you, I can’t even tell you how I feel. And yet I am a man, a man with nothing, nothing but his dreams. You know what those dreams are, you’ve always known.
Anna Bella, that is all I have.”

  She did not understand, he could see that. She did not really see the point of this, but sensed only that he cared for her, he could see the warmth, the passion in her eyes.

  “I’d wait for you,” she whispered, her voice heartbreaking, “if only, if only you would…”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying!” he stepped back, his hands forming into fists. “Wait for me how long, ten years? Twenty? Anna Bella, it may be three years before I even leave for France, and God only knows when and if I’ll come back!” He shook his head. “What would you wait for!”

  A calm settled over her when he spoke these words. She was crying, but quietly, her face unspeakably sad. It was the old truth, she couldn’t claim surprise. But no real relief had come to her, she was merely defeated, and turning in the chair it was as if she were turning her crying inward, her sobs silent, her hands limp in her lap.

  He was desperate watching her, and the solitary figure that she made amid her blue skirts, her shoulders heaving softly and those silent sobs. And then a wild thought came to him, that nothing mattered as long as they were alone in this room. To hell with everyone and everything outside of it, even the passage of time. He moved toward her, knowing that he would not hurt her, never hurt her, he wouldn’t leave her “ruined merchandise” for the fine white men of Madame Elsie’s or the husband she might ultimately love. But he would have her, somehow have her, at least just to kiss her, to abandon himself just for this little while to her arms. Improper, reckless, he did not care. Last night, perhaps it would have been impossible when maddened and aching he had broken Juliet’s door. But this was the quiet of the morning, she was here in the room with him, the gray mist nudging on the windows beyond. He would hold her close to his chest. They were entitled to this, were they not? Why in hell had he ever let anyone take it away?

  But she did not see him move. She didn’t see him coming silently across the floor. And just as he reached for her, she said, alone in her thoughts and in a heavy voice, “There is this man.”