it say, you monkey, you!”
He shrugged. “Wants to see her. He’ll break into the house if she doesn’t see him. Crazy about her. A la folie.’’’’
A flame of fear and hate flared in Kaka’s eyes. She pushed back her plate. She remembered the days when strange people had come into Rita Dulaine’s house, forcing their way into the room where she lay weeping after Nicolas was dead.
“We must leave here. It is no good for us here in New Orleans. It was good in Paris— triste but good.”
Cupide wiped his plate clean with a crust of crisp French bread and popped the morsel into his mouth. “Old prune sèche! What do you know! It’s fine here in America. Don’t you bother your addled head about little Clio. She knows her way about. Anyway, I like that big vacher from Texas. He knows about horses. Yesterday I heard he won a thousand dollars at the races. At night he gambles down on Royal Street and wins. At Number 18 they say he never loses.”
“Number 18, Number 18! What are you talking about!”
“That big marble building on the Rue Royal—the one that used to be the Merchants’ Exchange. Everybody knows it’s a gambling house now. You ought to see it! Mirrors and velvet, and supper spread out on tables—”
“So that’s where you’ve been at night! Leaving us here two women unprotected alone in the house.” A sudden thought struck her. “Has he seen you there? Have you been talking—”
“No, but I might if you don’t feed me better. You with your everlasting pineapple and strawberries with kirsch, you’re too lazy to prepare a real sweet— baba au rhum or a lovely crème brûlé.”
“Little One, I make you sweets— omelette soufflée—crêpe suzette —baba cake—pie Saint-Honoré—effen you not speak to her about letter.”
He strutted superior in his knowledge as a male. His answer fell into Gombo French. “Make no difference about letter, Old One. This going to be something. You see. You better go to voodoo woman get black devil’s powder. But if you do I tell. Anyway, I am sick of nothing but women in the house, here and in Paris. A man around suit me fine.”
Now Clio was definitely bored with her week of dignified seclusion. It was not for this that she had come to New Orleans—to sit alone in the dusk in a garden swooning sweet with jessamine and roses and magnolia. She dressed herself all in white and, with Kaka and Cupide keeping pace behind her, she walked to the Cathedral of St. Louis in the cool of the evening, prayer book in hand, eyes cast down, but not so far down that she failed to see him when he entered. For at last he was rewarded for his daily vigil at the corner of Rampart Street. He did not remain in the shadow of the dim cathedral columns but came swiftly to her and knelt beside her, wordlessly, his shoulder touching hers, and suddenly the candlelights swam before her eyes and there came a pounding in her ears. She did not glance up at him. She closed her eyes, she bowed her head, she thought, irreligiously, I must tell him not to use that sweetish hair pomade, it isn’t chic. When, finally, she rose, he rose. Together they moved up the aisle and, dreamlike, walked out into the tropical dusk. Kakaracou and Cupide fell in behind them.
“Send them away,” he said. It was the first word that had been uttered between them.
She turned and spoke to them in French. “Go home, you two, quickly. There will be two of us for supper. The cold daube glacé, soft-shell crabs—Cupide, fetch a block of ice from the épicier and get out a botde of the Grand Montrachet.”
They ate by candlelight with the French doors wide open into the garden. They ate the delicate food, they drank the cool dry wine, they talked a great deal at first and laughed and did not look at one another for longer than a flick of the eyelash; but then they talked less and less, their gaze dwelt the one on the other longer and more intently until finally, wordlessly, they rose and moved in
He shrugged. “Wants to see her. He’ll break into the house if she doesn’t see him. Crazy about her. A la folie.’’’’
A flame of fear and hate flared in Kaka’s eyes. She pushed back her plate. She remembered the days when strange people had come into Rita Dulaine’s house, forcing their way into the room where she lay weeping after Nicolas was dead.
“We must leave here. It is no good for us here in New Orleans. It was good in Paris— triste but good.”
Cupide wiped his plate clean with a crust of crisp French bread and popped the morsel into his mouth. “Old prune sèche! What do you know! It’s fine here in America. Don’t you bother your addled head about little Clio. She knows her way about. Anyway, I like that big vacher from Texas. He knows about horses. Yesterday I heard he won a thousand dollars at the races. At night he gambles down on Royal Street and wins. At Number 18 they say he never loses.”
“Number 18, Number 18! What are you talking about!”
“That big marble building on the Rue Royal—the one that used to be the Merchants’ Exchange. Everybody knows it’s a gambling house now. You ought to see it! Mirrors and velvet, and supper spread out on tables—”
“So that’s where you’ve been at night! Leaving us here two women unprotected alone in the house.” A sudden thought struck her. “Has he seen you there? Have you been talking—”
“No, but I might if you don’t feed me better. You with your everlasting pineapple and strawberries with kirsch, you’re too lazy to prepare a real sweet— baba au rhum or a lovely crème brûlé.”
“Little One, I make you sweets— omelette soufflée—crêpe suzette —baba cake—pie Saint-Honoré—effen you not speak to her about letter.”
He strutted superior in his knowledge as a male. His answer fell into Gombo French. “Make no difference about letter, Old One. This going to be something. You see. You better go to voodoo woman get black devil’s powder. But if you do I tell. Anyway, I am sick of nothing but women in the house, here and in Paris. A man around suit me fine.”
Now Clio was definitely bored with her week of dignified seclusion. It was not for this that she had come to New Orleans—to sit alone in the dusk in a garden swooning sweet with jessamine and roses and magnolia. She dressed herself all in white and, with Kaka and Cupide keeping pace behind her, she walked to the Cathedral of St. Louis in the cool of the evening, prayer book in hand, eyes cast down, but not so far down that she failed to see him when he entered. For at last he was rewarded for his daily vigil at the corner of Rampart Street. He did not remain in the shadow of the dim cathedral columns but came swiftly to her and knelt beside her, wordlessly, his shoulder touching hers, and suddenly the candlelights swam before her eyes and there came a pounding in her ears. She did not glance up at him. She closed her eyes, she bowed her head, she thought, irreligiously, I must tell him not to use that sweetish hair pomade, it isn’t chic. When, finally, she rose, he rose. Together they moved up the aisle and, dreamlike, walked out into the tropical dusk. Kakaracou and Cupide fell in behind them.
“Send them away,” he said. It was the first word that had been uttered between them.
She turned and spoke to them in French. “Go home, you two, quickly. There will be two of us for supper. The cold daube glacé, soft-shell crabs—Cupide, fetch a block of ice from the épicier and get out a botde of the Grand Montrachet.”
They ate by candlelight with the French doors wide open into the garden. They ate the delicate food, they drank the cool dry wine, they talked a great deal at first and laughed and did not look at one another for longer than a flick of the eyelash; but then they talked less and less, their gaze dwelt the one on the other longer and more intently until finally, wordlessly, they rose and moved in
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