Crescent City (44 page)

“Oh, he’s very well known! Lately, he’s represented Lincoln in Richmond, trying to negotiate a peace. Spoke with Benjamin and others in the Cabinet. Lincoln was pleased, but nothing came of it. The Cabinet in Washington would have none of it. The radicals in the North want to destroy the South first before they make peace. At least, so goes the talk in Washington.”

“How do you know so much about what’s going on in Washington?” asked Rosa. “I thought it was almost impossible to get through the lines. Except for spies,” she added sardonically.

André shrugged. “One picks up information of all sorts, here and there.”

“I wish,” Miriam said, “someone could pick up information about my brother.” This was the first time she had spoken directly to André all evening. “We haven’t heard from him since Dr. Zacharie brought us word.”

“I shouldn’t wish to hear about him if he were my brother,” Emma said, sounding, to everyone’s abrupt astonishment, more like her daughter Eulalie than like herself.

Nerves at this point in the long war could be expected to fray, and Miriam controlled herself enough to respond with nothing more than a cold question. “And why so, Aunt Emma?”

André interrupted to prevent Emma’s reply. He spoke gently.

“The saddest thing about this war, ma’am, is the way it has split families apart. Do you know that three of Henry Clay’s grandsons are fighting for us, while another three of them are in the Union army? And Mrs. Lincoln’s brothers have been killed, fighting for the South.”

At that Emma fell silent and Ferdinand—poor man,
always in the middle, thought Miriam—addressed André.

“I hope you’ll stay and rest with us, for a few days at least.”

“I thank you, but I must leave before noon tomorrow. I’m on the Texas route. The cotton comes down from Vicksburg, that’s how I happen to be here. Then over to Brownsville and across the Rio Grande to Matamoros. We ship overseas from there.”

“Then you’ve a long road, and you’ll want to rest. Come.” At Ferdinand’s signal everyone stood up. “It’s time to sleep, anyway.”

“I’m not tired.” André glanced at Miriam. “Or rather, I suppose, I’m too tired to sleep just yet. I think I’ll take a walk or sit outside for a while to admire the warm night.”

It was nine o’clock. In another half hour they would surely all be asleep. She felt the leap of her blood as she went upstairs, following her shadow, which shook on the wall as the candle shook in her hand.

Fanny was in Miriam’s room, where she had unpacked the boxes André had brought. Piles of cloth and clothing lay on the bed.

“There wasn’t room in here for that whole wagonload. I put the men’s things in Mr. Ferdinand’s room. Maybe this is for Master Eugene.” Fanny displayed a brown sack coat bearing a British label, a silk cravat, and a red velvet waistcoat.

“They will be fine for him if we ever get New Orleans back so we can go home.”

“And what a beautiful hat!” Fanny said of a shallow plate heaped with lilies of the valley.

“A Watteau hat. I seem to remember seeing it in a fashion magazine”—Miriam was about to say, “a hundred years ago,” but said instead, “It will be quite a change from our palmetto hats, don’t you think?” She
giggled, thinking, I am being hysterically silly. “Shall I wear it on my next visit to the stables?”

“All these clothes! Look at this blue broadcloth, it would make a fine coat for you, Miss Miriam! And this yellow taffeta! Wait till you see what’s in the pantry, too. Meats and wines and brandy, just like old times. He’s a grand gentleman, that Mr. Perrin.”

“In the morning we will go over everything and find some clothes for you, Fanny.”

A pair of kid gloves slipped through Miriam’s hands like satin. However had he managed to find all these fine things? The newness, the richness, the freshness of them seemed suddenly unnatural, as if she were not entitled to them at all; they were now so out of place, out of another world and another life. And at the same time she was perplexed by this feeling.

Fanny was looking closely at her with a strange, enigmatic smile, that twist of the lips that she sometimes wore when she was hiding her true thoughts.

Why is she smiling? Does she know about me and André? Sudden anger surged in Miriam.

“You can go to bed, Fanny. I don’t need you,” she said sharply.

She knows, she knows.

When the house was quiet Miriam went down the stairs and outside. He would be waiting in the summer house, on the bench behind the wooden-lace grille. Her feet danced over the lawn. Light as her footsteps were, he had heard her; dim as the night was, he had seen her. She had gone only half the distance when he met her, caught her, lifting her light feet from the ground, kissing her, over and over, sweetly, over and over.

She told herself: I have come home. “I had to see you. I’ve ridden ninety miles out of my way, but I had to.”

“You didn’t know Eugene was dead and you came anyway!”

He laughed. “I took a chance. I thought if I came with my hands full, he would admit me. Greeks bearing gifts … Tell me, was he in the maddest rage about us? He was that morning when he sent me away.”

“Not mad. Rather more reasonable than I expected.”

And she was still, recalled to the shameful sting of Eugene’s scorn, and sorrowing now over the abrupt intrusion of such a memory into this moment which should have been perfect.

There were no sounds except the soft thud of ripe walnuts dropping from the old tree. Then she spoke.

“It was a terrible death, André.”

“It’s all terrible, all the devastation. When I sat in there tonight and saw what had been done to this house and the torn shoes on your poor feet—but I’ll be back, and I’m going to see that you have what you need, or as much of it as I can.”

She heard nothing except the words “I’ll be back.”

“When will you be back?”

He led her to the summer house. The quarter moon came out from behind the clouds, so that she could see him in delicate detail, the thick blond lashes, the amber skin, and the crisp molding of the beautiful lips.

“When will you be back?”

“It’s hard to say. I’ve got a partner, an Englishman. We bought a ship in his name. British registry, neutral, so they won’t stop us at sea.”

She didn’t want to hear about affairs and ships, she wanted only his promise to return.

“It’s a small boat with shallow draft; we can operate where the Union’s deepwater ships can’t go. But you don’t want to hear about that, do you?”

“No, I want to hear about you.”

“Let’s go to your room, then.”

She hesitated.

“I want to, but …”

“But what?”

Pressed together from shoulder to knee, it was unbearable not to go farther.

“I want to,” she repeated.

“Can’t we? What is it?”

“My daughter’s room is next to mine. My father’s and Emma’s is across the hall.”

Fanny’s shrewd eyes, the innocence of Angelique, my son’s respect, my father’s dismay and Rosa’s disdain, all flashed into her vision.

André groaned. “When, then? This is cruel.”

“I don’t know.”

She put her head on his shoulder and thought of the room in the Pontalba, that high white room with the damp breeze flowing, the smells of heat, and voices calling in the square below. She gave a little sob of longing and disappointment.

“Ah, don’t cry. If it can’t be, it can’t. It is possible,” he began slowly, “it is possible that Marie Claire will get a divorce .…”

Against her ears she heard the slow beat of his heart.

“It is not as scandalous in Europe as it would be here, you see. And so then we, you and I—”

“And you want that, André? You’re sure you do?”

“My dearest, how can you ask? You know I do.”

“Oh!” she cried. “You don’t know, all this time, so much time! And I felt there was nothing more to expect in my life. My children, yes, God knows they come first, long before myself, but one is human, too, one wants something for oneself, and I’ve been thinking there would never be anything, that you and I
would never—and now, now you give me everything to hope for!”

He turned her face up into the light, now almost vanished as clouds rolled back over the sky.

“Lovely, lovely. Such eyes! Never, never such eyes!” He kissed her eyelids.

“Seeing you like this and not having you is worse than not seeing you at all,” he said.

They turned back to the house. The bayou shone like dark glass, and last year’s dried stalks stood stiffly on the lily pads. Beneath the cedars lay a spongy carpet, a century’s wealth of needles. Suddenly she felt like talking, like confiding.

“Cedars. Did you know the Negroes won’t ever cut them because they say each represents a human life? I often think of that when I walk past here.”

“You think too much.”

“Are you impatient with me?”

“No, of course not. But for your own good you shouldn’t be so serious.”

“When the war’s over, when the killing’s over, I shall laugh. I shall be very, very happy and blissful, I promise you.”

“And so you should be.”

“Right now I can’t help thinking of all the young fives, of your life, André.”

“Don’t I always tell you I’ll be all right? I know what I’m doing. I lead a charmed existence, don’t you know that?”

“I hope so. When I’m with you, I believe whatever you say. You make me feel safe, you always have.”

“Happy is what I want to make you feel. Life’s too short. The first time I saw you … you were so beautiful and so sad, That’s what lured me, I think, your sadness. I wanted to do away with it. I brought you that yellow silk; have it made up right away. I want to
think of you in yellow, the color of sunshine and laughter.”

A sudden gust of wind shook the trees, chilling the air; a gray mist rose and colored the night as if to say, The time of sunshine and laughter is not yet.

But he wanted sunshine, so she smiled.

“We’ll say good-bye now, shall we? It’s easier than it would be tomorrow with everyone standing around.”

“Not good-bye. Try again.”

“Au revoir?
Is that better?”

“Much better.
Au revoir,
my Miriam.”

Just past Vicksburg Plaisance had stood by the river in its pristine grandeur, a white wooden Parthenon on a green rise, sloping up from its private dock at which servants bearing torches had brightened the way for guests arriving by steamboat Between the house and the wide curve of the woods at its back, topiary trees, shaped by the skillful hands of a French landscape gardener, still skirted the long parterre. In the octagonal conservatory, pineapples flourished. Peacocks fanned their tails and paraded on the lawns, pausing to startle the afternoon with their raucous cries. And on the pond a pair of swans drowsed, floating through a paradise of summer.

“As long as we hold Vicksburg,” André had said, “well be all right.”

But Vicksburg fell and the refugees arrived. Two carriages drawn by weary horses held the family, Pelagie with her two youngest children, Eulalie, and Mr. Lambert Labouisse. Two wagons held the household servants, along with a sorry load of random salvaged household goods. After six days on the road they were all equally exhausted, hungry, and despairing.

“They’ve burned our house to the ground!” These were the old man’s first words as, almost toppling, he was helped down from the carriage.

Pelagie wore a black alpaca mourning dress, grimy and stained with sweat.

“You didn’t know .… Our letters never reached you .… Yes, my Alexandre’s gone! They killed him at Yazoo Pass.”

Emma shrieked and clasped her daughter.

“Thank God my Felicité is married in San Francisco, that one’s safe at least.”

Pelagie was more visibly distraught than she had been at the time of Sylvain’s death. “Now I have to worry about Lambert and Louis: Where are they? I don’t know. Off fighting somewhere … dead, too, maybe. And these two young ones safe at home with me. I thought—this boy, child of my heart, who never knew his father, and now his home is gone .…”

Miriam led her upstairs to a bedroom, and knowing how fastidious she was, at once called Fanny to bring hot water.

“And a cold drink, too, please, Fanny. Water, if there’s nothing else. Now tell me, tell me, talk it out,” she urged Pelagie.

Pelagie lay back on the
lit de repos
and took a long breath.

“To be under a roof again! You can’t imagine. Well, after Vicksburg fell—we had friends there, you know, and they fled to us, one of them even brought her piano with her, it was all she could save. Well, then, the Federal gunboats went down the river firing at the houses along the bank, but we were fortunate—they didn’t come as far as Plaisance. So we thought we were going to escape. But last week, last week they came! The shells landed on the roof! It caught fire! Oh, it was horrible! The wind seemed to be pulling the flames up toward the sky with all its force, they must have been visible for miles, like a volcano, the way they said Vicksburg looked when it blew up.” Pelagie
put her bands over her face. “And the most awful thing. When the gunboats came to destroy us, our field hands went running down to the levee. They had their hoes in their hands, they were waving and singing. I sometimes think it’s just as well Sylvain didn’t live to see all this. He loved that place, it was his home, he was born there.”

Pelagie gave a queer, sad laugh. “That very morning my father-in-law had made out a new will. He was discussing with me who in the family might want this slave or that one. And he actually went about telling each of them who was to inherit him! And to think that very afternoon it all came to an end.”

Certainly she has no love for that old tyrant, Miriam said to herself. But he had been a symbol of a stable world. Now, after this blatant failure of his judgment and his perception of things, who was Pelagie to rely upon? For she had to have a man to rely upon.

“No home, no home,” Pelagie lamented.

“You have a home here. Somehow, someday, I don’t know how or when, we’ll all get back to normal. We will.” And Miriam gave banal comfort, all there was to give.

At the same time she was worrying: What are we to do with all these people? We have almost nothing for ourselves. Not enough seed for the planting, no repairs for the broken-down machinery. The slaves are unwilling to work. Why should they? The handwriting is on the wall. Actually, it’s astonishing that as many of them are willing to work as much as they do. Maybe they think their masters will yet win the war?