She was so charming, his little sister! Her babies were walking now, holding her skirts for support. They made a portrait, delicate as ivory with their pale silks and their heavy black silk hair. He could still remember Miriam in drab wool, cold and shivering in the stony kitchen on the Judenga.s.se. He supposed she had forgotten most of that, for she had been so young.

It saddened him that he had been away from her for so long. He felt that he hardly knew her. And he wished he could like her husband better. He wished he could be sure that Miriam was content with Eugene. He wondered whether he imagined sorrow in her face; sometimes it seemed as though a gray veil had been drawn across it. And it came to him suddenly that never, in all the quiet family evenings, at the dinner table, or with the children in the parlor, had he heard a word, or seen a touch, a glance, a laugh, between the husband and wife that reflected any tenderness, any bond. Perhaps it was only their way? And yet he began to wonder. The man was so unlike Miriam. He talked business; he talked money. Even when he didn't speak the word, money was what he was talking about. When he spoke of the war with Mexico and of high democratic principles, he was really speaking about more land for cotton culture.

David had learned not to dispute these things at anybody's table. It was important that he not be identified as a radical or "different." His manner of living was already different enough. He must not be a breaker of idols. Small eccentricities were permissible, perhaps even, to a degree, interesting. But in essence he must seem to fit into the society.

"Lucien," he called, "when you're finished in the kitchen, will you see that my suit's presentable?"

He was off to the St. Charles Theater with some colleagues that evening to see Edwin Booth. Get tickets for Joe Jefferson's performance the week after next, he reminded himself. You're a young doctor on the way up, you know, a trifle odd, but very pleasant. "Lives like a monk," he'd overheard someone say recently about him. It had been said without malice, only with a certain kindly amus.e.m.e.nt.

An instant's fear now darted in his chest. Had he said too much to Gabriel this afternoon? No, no, Gabriel was an honorable man, there was nothing to fear. He must be more discreet in the future, nevertheless.

Gabriel Carvalho was troubled. He tried, as he walked along the street, to recall the exact wording of his conversation with David. Had he pointed out that even the most peaceable discussion, the most peaceable meeting, was dangerous? But surely David must know that! One couldn't live here without having some understanding of the way things were. So then, knowing all that, David was determined to go ahead. In essence, of course, he was right; the end was right, but one had also to consider the means, the cost of reaching that end. You could say that a man like David was still a boy, high-minded but thoroughly impractical, whose efforts would prove futile, if not fatal. Or you could say that he was one of those who throughout history had moved the world forward, sacrificing themselves very often in the process.

And with a tinge of regret he thought, Perhaps I am one of the too cautious ones, seeing what is right but counting the cost of achieving it as too high and the way too difficult, while we wait for others to do it. David sees to the essence of things. I see the complexities.

He was half aware of the opinion people had of him: that he was prudent, "lawyerish," and deliberate; that, in a word, he lacked spark. Some, he was aware, even thought he was chilly or sn.o.bbish; these appellations hurt, since he knew he was neither. He was reserved and had been since childhood, holding his emotion in restraint because, once having let go, he knew he would display too much. His head must keep control of a wild heart, perhaps even a wilder heart than David's.

Abruptly his mind went back to the voyage of the Mirabelle, so long ago. He had been in Europe twice since then, once for a summer in Scotland and once for a trip down the Rhine, but that voyage of the Mirabelle was more vivid in his memory than either of those other times. For it was then that he had found and made the closest friend he had yet had. In spite of all differences of background, of temperament, and often of conviction, the admiration and the trust remained, so that each truly cared what happened to the other. It was a rare thing, this caring, not to be explained, he supposed, any more than one could explain the love between woman and man.

Again to the Mirabelle; to David, foundering, terrified, in the trough of the waves; to the dog's piteous bobbing head; to the crying, grateful child. He had quite forgotten that child, but now, however seldom he saw her on some social occasion, that picture kept recurring. The contrast between this recollection of her and what she now was had come to seem incredibly strange, which was actually foolish of him, since it was only natural, after all, that a child should become a woman, a married woman with children.

Biblical phrases came to his mind: cedars of Lebanon, the green bay tree. Supple as a young tree she stood, with her creamy shoulders and her waist emerging from the absurd concealing bell of her skirts so that one could only imagine the body beneath them.

He stopped himself. To linger over thoughts like these! She was another man's wife-his client's wife.

One respected Eugene Mendes. Intelligent and forceful, secure in his achievements, he commanded respect. Yet something in his gaze made it an effort to meet that gaze. Perhaps it was your feeling that he was taking your measure, calculating your deficits and strengths.

He seemed a strange choice for Miriam Raphael! It did not seem as if those two could be united. Were not a man and woman supposed to become as one? And he thought again of the wistfulness about her lips. Unlike other women at a dinner table, who were so avid of attention, she often sat removed in some gentle dream, as though she were expecting something, or even as though she were not there at all. And yet once, pa.s.sing the Mendes's garden wall, he had heard delightful laughter, gay as bells, and peering in, had been astonished to see that the laughter was hers. She had been playing with her children, throwing a ball. Her hair had come loose; her hat had come off and the little boy was wearing it, a huge white straw with blue ribbons.

An alligator killed the dog, he remembered suddenly. Why not replace it? And it seemed that the dog had been a link between them, as if his rescue of it had been a portent of-of what? A portent of nothing, he thought impatiently, becoming annoyed with himself. She's my friend's sister. A thoughtful gesture from me to her would be acceptable and pleasing. Had he not bought a doll a while ago for the child of a friend, to replace the one she had left out in the rain? So, he would order a puppy from New York; one of the men in the office where he had worked raised King Charles spaniels. He could have it sent safely by ship. And he imagined her face when he put the dog in her arms. She would blush pink with pleasure, he thought, recalling how easily she blushed, and how her smile bloomed.

It was perfectly proper, a simple gift to a friend.

Turning the corner into the Place d'Armes, Gabriel was jolted back to the present by the proud blare of a bra.s.s band. A crowd was gathering in the square, where among tents and flags, a regiment had formed into marching order. After a quick glance he pa.s.sed through the square. The Mexican War was popular, especially in the South. I have no stomach for it, Gabriel thought, as the band's blare faded from his ears, no stomach at all. Oh, probably it's not "manly" to think that way. Yet on the Sabbath one prays: Grant us peace, O Lord, thy most precious gift. Nothing is simple. There are so many sides to everything. As one turns the prism, the purest light reflects now from here, and then from there; as one turns, turns ... Anyway, I have responsibilities and couldn't volunteer even if I were wild to go.

Rosa was still tearful in black and jet beads. Always she had appeared to dominate Henry, but now that he was gone, it was plain that she had depended on him. He had not left a great deal of money, and understandably, she wanted to stay with her children in their comfortable house. So Gabriel must now contribute. Fortunately, his prospects were good. He had a new office in the Banks Arcade, a prime location. He had, for a start, a list of clients inherited from Henry, mostly prosperous up-and-coming men like Eugene Mendes.

I shouldn't like to be his enemy, he thought unexpectedly. And he hastened his steps to get ahead of the band, which had caught up with him.

Miriam, on her way home from the French Market with f.a.n.n.y, caught the last of the trooping flags and drums as they swept out of sight and hearing. Silence flowed back. The side streets were empty except for the milk wagon clattering its bra.s.s-bound cans and the old Negro with the ice cream freezer on his head crying: "Creme a la glace! Creme a la glace!"

"Look," said Miriam, "isn't that Mr. Mendes leaving that house?"

"I can't tell from here, Miss Miriam."

"But surely it is, in his new maroon coat."

The maroon coat hurried down the street and disappeared at the corner. A moment later a woman came out of the house and waited for a carriage that was just emerging from the carriage house in the alley.

Miriam and f.a.n.n.y came abreast as the carriage drew up to let the woman enter it. She was a magnificent quadroon. Strong daylight glittered on gold chains, twining in her hair, on pearl ta.s.sels and gold leather slippers. A coal-black servant followed her, carrying a basket like that which f.a.n.n.y was carrying for Miriam.

The young woman's frankly curious eyes met Miriam's for just an instant; then, lowering her eyes at once, she stepped into the carriage and drove away.

"Who was that, f.a.n.n.y?"

"Why, Miss Miriam, you know. One of those. I don't like to say," f.a.n.n.y said primly.

"Of course I know what she is. I meant, she recognized me."

"How could she ever know a lady like you, Miss Miriam?" Now f.a.n.n.y was shrill.

"But she did," Miriam insisted. "I even felt for a second that she was about to speak to me."

"She wouldn't dare! She wouldn't dare talk to a white lady. Queen's far too smart for that."

"Queen? Is that her name? And, f.a.n.n.y, that was Mr. Mendes. They came out of the house together. You saw it as well as I did."

"I don't know what I saw, Miss Miriam. Please don't ask me what I saw," f.a.n.n.y pleaded.

"You're trembling, for heaven's sake! Don't drop the basket or you'll have those berries all over the street. Now, f.a.n.n.y, tell me, what are you keeping back?"

"Nothing, Miss Miriam. I swear I'm not."

"I don't believe you. Listen here, f.a.n.n.y, did I save Blaise for you? We've grown up together. You owe me something in return."

"Miss Miriam," f.a.n.n.y said desperately. She panted, keeping up with Miriam's hurried steps. "Listen, if I do know anything, it's nothing that'll do you any good. Nothing you'll be happier knowing."

"Let's not talk about doing me good. I don't want to be made a fool of, that's all. I have a right to know what's happening."

f.a.n.n.y was silent and Miriam said gently, "I know you're scared to talk. So I'll talk and you'll just nod your head if I'm right and shake it if I'm wrong. Mr. Mendes and that-that Queen. He goes there all the time?"

f.a.n.n.y nodded. Her frightened eyes were wet.

"And he has been going there. He and she have been-together a long time?"

"I don't know how long, Miss Miriam, I swear I don't. I only know what I hear. I didn't tell you anything, did I? You aren't going to tell Mr. Eugene that I told you anything, are you? He'll beat me."

"He won't do that, f.a.n.n.y. He has never beaten anyone, you know that perfectly well. And I wouldn't let him even if he wanted to."

"But he'd send me away," f.a.n.n.y wailed.

"I wouldn't allow that, either."

"But you're not gonna tell him?"

"No. Go wash your face. Take the basket to the kitchen and wash your face. I'll just sit here in the garden awhile."

The fountain G.o.ddess, G.o.ddess of love, stood in her marble calm above the double cascade. On the wall plaque opposite the bench where Miriam sat, the name of the young wife who was buried there had been obscured by the droop of the trumpet vine.

Had the girl Aimee been sick with strife and doubting as I am? Or had she known from the beginning where she was going?

Miriam frowned. What was she really feeling at this moment? She tried to get outside herself, to see herself as an observer might Chiefly then, it was pride that she saw. But why should she mind? Why care? In fact, she ought even to be grateful to that woman for taking care of Eugene's needs. Rarely now, when he came in late to find her asleep, did he wake her as he had when they were away at Beau Jardin.

Liaisons of this sort were common. No girl, however sheltered, could have lived in this city without knowing about them. The weekly quadroon b.a.l.l.s at the Washington Ballroom were freely advertised. The girls were so beautiful that often the white b.a.l.l.s emptied out early and everyone knew that the young men were bound next for the Washington and its beautiful quadroons. Everyone knew, although no one talked except Rosa, blunt, chatty Rosa.

"Oh, those women are very well brought up," she had told Miriam. "You'd be surprised! A man never touches one before being accepted by her mother. Then he has to set the daughter and the mother up in a nice little house and take care of them. It's an expensive hobby. He has to promise to support the children, too, should there be any. But," she added soberly, "sometimes it really is a case of love and these girls are faithful. Lots of men keep right on seeing the mistress even after making a good marriage."

So that's what it was. f.a.n.n.y knew and had known. Without a doubt all the servants had. She wondered whether Rosa had. She didn't want to know whether Rosa had. She didn't want to be angry at Rosa.

Presently Eugene's rapid heavy steps sounded from the gallery. The front door opened and closed. A moment later voices came from the open windows upstairs. He had gone to the children's rooms, where they would just now be waking from their naps. He would go there first to toss the boy into the air, to make mock fists and pretend to pummel him; the boy would squeal, laughing with excitement over his father's lavish love; his round hot cheeks would go red and his eyes would flash. Then the father would clasp him, ruffling his hair. To Angelique, Eugene brought proper tribute; a white lace dress, a French bisque doll, or a chain with a gold heart; but to his boy he gave his own heart.

Now Eugene came down to the garden. He regarded Miriam curiously. "What are you doing here?"

"Thinking," she answered, flinging the word like a stone.

"Well," he said dryly, "that's always a worthy occupation. Of what are you thinking, may I ask?"

"Of why you pretended you didn't see me a little while ago."

"See you? Where should I have seen you?"

"You ran around the corner of Chartres Street. Please don't say you didn't. I can't abide a liar."

"I beg your pardon!" Eugene said furiously.

Miriam stood up. Her pulsebeat was loud in her ears. "I know why you were there. I know about Queen."

His eyebrows, those eyebrows that she hated, slid upward. Black caterpillars.

"Where did you hear that name?"

"Does it matter? I heard it."

"I can't stomach a liar, either, I'm warning you."

"I shan't lie. I simply don't intend to tell you."

"Was it f.a.n.n.y? It was f.a.n.n.y, wasn't it? No? Lucetta? Blaise? Some meddling snooper from your father's house? That miserable pair, Maxim and Chanute?"

"It makes no difference, I tell you. They all knew it. Everyone did except me."

Eugene had removed his gloves; she saw that his hands were trembling. He looked past her to the drowsing dove at the feet of the little G.o.ddess.

"Well," he said after a minute, "since you know what you know, you might as well hear the rest." He met Miriam's eyes. His own, so severe and sharp whenever he turned them to her, now had a tender shine. "I have-there is-a child. A son. My other son. He's seven years old."

She needed moments to comprehend the words. Seven years. So it had been going on that long. At the time of their marriage and long before that. Another child, another boy, not hers. Here was a bewilderment of possibilities. She was aware of them standing there like two people who had just met, who knew nothing about each other.

"Then why did you marry me?" she whispered. "Surely not for money or position. You have ten times more than I have of either one."

"I wanted a son who could be recognized as mine. A boy with my name who would be educated here and have a future in this city. That's what I wanted."

Now she began to feel. Tears stung in back of her eyes. She was furious with her stupid tears.

"Oh!" she cried. "I know I was ignorant when I married you, ignorant as no girl ought to be and as we all are, but now I think I was mad besides! To marry a man who didn't even want me, who wanted-a brood mare!"

"No, you're wrong. I wanted much more than that. I wouldn't have asked you if I hadn't intended to make it work. I wanted a refined and beautiful young wife to give me a son and make a family. What is unnatural about that? But you didn't give it a chance."

She could not deny it.

"At first I thought I understood. A modest young girl, I thought. It will take a little time. But the time never came. Of course a man doesn't expect his wife to be like-well, a wife is a lady, after all, and the man knows that. But you! You're ice. You're as cold as that statue. What is it? Am I dirty? I ask myself. No, I am not. What, then? Ugly? It's not generally thought so. Coa.r.s.e, then? I don't believe I am. Why do you despise me? Why do you find me disgusting? Because you do, and you can't deny it." He waited for her answer.

She could only answer miserably and with reluctance, "I don't know." How tell him: I can't bear your slightest touch, my teeth clench when you come near me.

"If there had been the least response from you, if you had-well, what's the use? I might have ended that other affair. I probably would have. But as it was ..."

Never could she have imagined Eugene Mendes as a supplicant; it was never his way to ask, only to require. Now he stood before her, this foremost citizen in his velvet waistcoat with his hands still trembling as they held his buckskin gloves.

"Why?" he repeated. "Tell me. What's wrong with me?"

She looked down at the gra.s.s, at Eugene's feet on the gra.s.s. His fine London shoes were covered in dust. There was something pathetic about them. Everything was very still. A locust drilled abruptly, and as abruptly cut itself off. She had not thought of Eugene before as a human being who could be hurt; it was always he who did the hurting. But of course he had been wounded in the very core of his manhood. To be rejected even by a woman one didn't love must make a man doubt himself, even when there was another woman waiting with wide-open arms. She remembered the flash of those black, startled eyes and all the golden glitter.

But it was n.o.body's fault. She saw that suddenly and clearly. It was only a fact that he repelled her, a thing that had happened, like having a taste for gooseberries or an aversion to milk.

"Why?" Eugene insisted.

Her mouth was dry with fear. It was like standing on a cliff; since one could not go forward and certainly not backward, there remained only to go to the right or the left, but where those ways led one didn't know.

She faltered, "I suppose it's just that some people don't suit each other. I tried. I did try."

"Perhaps," Eugene said, "someone else would suit you better, then? Gabriel Carvalho, perhaps? He can't take his eyes away from you. Would he suit you better, do you think?"

She slapped him. Without thought, without conscious will, her hand came up and stung his cheek. The scorn on his face changed to a furious astonishment. Terrified at what she had done, she stepped back. He grasped her wrists and they stood there staring, ready to strike.

"Because you have a trollop, you think that I must be doing what you-"

"I take it back. You haven't life enough in you!"

"My G.o.d, how I hate you!" she cried.

"Lower your voice. Keep your dignity if you can."

"Oh, you're the right one, aren't you, to speak of dignity!"

"I am. I have done nothing that other men in my position don't do. I told you, if you had been a proper wife to me, I would have done differently. But whether I did or not, a proper wife would know how to keep out of her husband's concerns."

"Then, I am not a proper wife!"

"You are not a wife at all."