Part 21 (1/2)

”It's lovely,” she said. And something, some sense of pity or fairness, compelled her to give this perception to her husband. ”Pierre is talented, Eugene. Professional.”

He did not reply. His face was flushed.

”Where did you learn to do that?” asked Angelique.

”I have art lessons.”

”You can't go to school,” the little girl said.

Miriam could only wince at the cruelty of the remark. For, at seven, what could a child know? Only enough to know that color was status, to know without being told who was one of the Others, who was a servant in his proper place, which did not include school.

”Blaise can draw,” said little Eugene. ”Blaise belongs to my father and mother. Who do you belong to?”

”To Mr. Mendes,” Pierre replied. The statement was flat, conveying no more than the fact. For an instant his hand brushed Eugene's shoulder, then was removed, as though he had quickly recalled the fitness of things.

Conceived, most probably, by accident, thought Miriam. And probably unwanted; at least, it was doubtful that Eugene had wanted this superfluous boy .... She felt oppressed, saddened, angry, and bewildered.

”I insist you come home now!” Her voice was so sharp that the children turned to her in surprise.

Abruptly Eugene stood up, seizing his cane.

”You will find Maxim at the carriage,” he directed Pierre. ”Tell him that I have walked home.”

Miriam asked Eugene, ”Are you sure you can walk so far?” Her anxiety was affected, the question merely a thing of words to fill air and time as she guided him out of the square.

”It's my sight that I've lost, not my legs.”

The children had once more run ahead. The incident in the square, which for them had been without significance, now lay behind them; they were having an argument over the owners.h.i.+p of a white cat that had recently strayed into the yard.

After a minute or two Eugene spoke again. ”Go on. Say what you have to say. Get it over with.”

”I'd rather not.” Confusion was still in her. She wasn't even sure how she felt, or ought to feel.

”Well, it happened this way. I quite thoughtlessly accepted the boy's suggestion that we go for a walk.” He spoke sternly, covering his own embarra.s.sment over a situation in which a gentleman should not have allowed himself to be caught. ”Quite thoughtlessly ... a public place ... It will not happen again.”

No reply was needed. And Miriam concentrated her thoughts on her two, who were by now far ahead. It was lucky they weren't both boys, or both girls. There would have been much more rivalry. This way they really got on quite well, considering how young they were. So she consoled herself for her other lacks with her satisfaction in her children.

At the same time the image of that other child floated through her head and steadied itself there; his narrow hands on the drawing board, his lowered lashes, and when he raised them, the unanswerable question in his eyes.

14.

”So life goes on,” Emma said brightly, opening another invitation as she read her mail at the breakfast table. She had at last accepted her position in the Mendes household with remarkable grace. A valiant lady, Miriam reflected. It took real courage to learn the art of receiving when one had always been a dispenser of gifts.

”Do you suppose, Miriam my dear,” Emma inquired now, ”that you could persuade your cook to make biere douce sometime? My Serafina used to do it for your father. He loves it and it's quite simple, really, just a few pineapple peelings, brown sugar, cloves, and rice.”

”I'll tell her, Aunt Emma.”

”Thank you, my dear. Oh, my, listen to this! My cousin Grace writes about that awful Tremont business. The old lady was a cousin of Grace's on the other side, you remember. Murdered in her bed! By a crowd of savages whom she'd raised and fed from childhood!”

”It's said, though, that her son was a cruel man. He sold them away without heart and they were badly fed,” Miriam began, but was stopped by a snort from Eugene.

”Rubbis.h.!.+ That's what they always say. Abolitionist rubbis.h.!.+”

”Oh, see,” Emma said, ”here's a letter from Marie Claire. My goodness, she's given a lieder recital. Had a fine reception. Her teacher predicts increasing success. Isn't that amazing! I always knew she could sing, but I really never thought she would ... oh, they have made some fine contacts in Paris .... The Baroness Pontalba ... you knew she's from New Orleans, didn't you, Miriam? Yes, it was her father who built the cathedral, the cabildo, and the presbytere. They married her off to Pontalba when he came here from France, and it never worked out. It's just all wrong, I always say, forcing or coaxing a marriage-they're both the same when you come down to it-it doesn't work out.”

”No,” Miriam a.s.sented faintly. It was hard to believe what she was hearing from the same Emma who had-well, no matter now.

”There was such a scandal. Quarrels over money, you know. Her father-in-law, the old baron, tried to kill her, then shot himself. My word, Marie Claire writes that the baroness is coming back here to build on her property in the Place d'Armes. The Perrins may eventually buy an apartment there when they're finished. Goodness! They're planning to sell their house!”

”Who is? What house?” Miriam asked in the same faint voice.

”Why, the new house that they've never lived in. How strange!”

”Do they say when they're coming back?”

”Let's see. No. They are planning to stay abroad a while longer because of her progress .... Oh, but Andre must be disappointed .... To think he planned that wonderful house himself .... Well, if they move to the Place d'Armes, I know Pelagie will be pleased. They'll be around the corner. Pelagie was always rather fond of Marie Claire, odd as she is. And Andre is so agreeable, don't you think so, Miriam?”

”Oh, yes, most agreeable.”

”The whole thing's disgraceful,” Eugene said contemptuously. ”Singing. I don't know why he puts up with it.”

Eulalie nodded agreement, and then remembering that Eugene could not see the nod, repeated, ”Disgraceful.”

Eulalie, who had been staying in her sister's town house, had been spending most of her days with Eugene, reading aloud to him and waiting on him, moving his chair from sun to shade. A curious relations.h.i.+p had developed. Eugene is a Jew, but she overlooks that, Miriam thought, because he allows her to serve him. He accepts her and no other man ever has. They made an odd contrast, he with his lavish beard and she with her scanty hair, too thin even to hold her combs.

”Where's my son?” the father asked now. ”I haven't seen him since this morning.”

Eulalie stood up. ”I'll fetch him for you.”

The children, especially the boy-or could it, Miriam thought bitterly, perhaps be ”boys,” to include that other one?-were all Eugene still cared about. Except for them he had removed himself from everything that had once filled his life. He was a crumbling castle, falling into ruin. His long silences were almost more disturbing than his tempers had been. She tried to comfort him, to reach out to him in his disaster, to tell him he was not alone.

”Don't,” he would say. ”You don't mean it. We don't mean it.”

She protested. ”I do mean it, Eugene. What kind of a human being do you think I am?” She had suggested a club, the Pelican Club, where doctors and lawyers, bankers and brokers, met to play brag and eat dinners prepared by a superb French chef.

”The finest people in the city belong,” she said, appealing to his sn.o.bbishness.

And he had retorted, ”I already know the finest people in the city. Clubs are all right for Anglo-Saxons. I'm a Creole and we don't need clubs.”

You're a Jew, she thought, not a Creole, but of course a Jew could align himself with whatever forces he wished. Very well, Eugene had chosen to consider himself a Creole.

She had suggested that he be driven to the office every morning. Someone there could read reports to him and he would make decisions as before.

He had refused that, too. ”No, Scofield is a good enough manager. I'll leave things in his hands.”

Miriam wasn't so sure. Last month Scofield had brought a note to be signed.