“I will never agree to your proposal,” he said.
I expected this response, had indeed planned for it, holding my high card to my chest like a proper gambler. “And if I were to leave Sarah here,” I said. “What then?”
He brought his hand to his chin and began pulling at his mustache, his eyes fixed on me with resolute puzzlement. He could see it. He would have Sarah to himself and I would be gone. He mulled it over with the same expression he gave the menu on those rare occasions when we had dined at restaurants together; the prospect of making the wrong choice vexed him sorely. “You are my wife,” he declared at last.
“That is my misfortune,” I said.
He stood up, returning his attention to his pistols. “I don’t see that we can afford to keep your mother’s house,” he said. “I plan to have my lawyer seek out a buyer for it.”
My resolution failed me and my eyes filled with useless tears. “No,” I said. “I won’t consent to that.”
He smiled indulgently, turning his pistol over in his hands. “Well,” he said. “Don’t cry, Manon. We will discuss the matter. There’s plenty of time.”
“It’s my house,” I protested.
He didn’t bother to answer this assertion, thereby making me more conscious of how hollow it was. I dried my eyes against my sleeve.
“I suppose we should first see if we can get through this night without incident,” he said. “I want you and Sarah to stay in your room, but leave the door open. I plan to pass the night on the couch on the landing. I want to be able to hear you should you call for help.”
This struck me as an idiotic plan, but I felt too defeated to object. I finished off the port and stood up, not surprised that I was dizzy. My husband came to my side and tried to take my arm, but I pulled away brusquely. He followed me a few steps, then fell back. “I have work to finish here,” he said, as if I were interested in his plans. “I will come up when I have made sure the kitchen is locked.”
I dragged myself up the stairs. In my room I found Sarah spreading Mother’s shawl out on her mattress. The baby lay on its stomach near her feet, trying to crawl but getting nowhere. At least that one will be gone soon, I thought. I went to the window and looked out into the darkness. It was cool, clear. There was a damp breeze from the north that made me pull my own shawl tight over my chest. I should close the window before I go to bed, I thought, or put on another blanket. I considered this trivial question for a few moments as I leaned on my elbows looking out at the stars. There was a gibbous moon. How fine it would be to walk out under the trees, but that, of course, was unthinkable. “I don’t see any signs of an uprising out here,” I said to amuse myself.
I glanced back at Sarah, who was on her knees, looking up at me, her eyebrows knit as if I’d addressed her in a language she didn’t understand. I turned back to the night, chiding myself for having spoken facetiously. The truth was that at that moment I wanted nothing more than to pour out the tale of my unhappiness to someone who loved me, but there was no such person. He’s going to sell my house, I thought, and I’ll be trapped here until I die. I scanned the roots of the tree, recalling the night I’d seen a man there looking back at me. I’d told no one, partly from a wish that my silence might result in difficulty for my husband, partly from fear that he would seize on the information to increase his hysterical vigilance. My little circuit, I thought, from hope to fear and back again.
I heard a night bird cry and an answering call from near the kitchen. A dim light suffused the air in that direction; Delphine was awake, locked in there with Walter and Rose. He would turn the dogs loose outside before he came up. The quarter was under a strict curfew: no man, woman, or child would dare show his face until morning. All night the master would stride about his citadel, pointing his pistols at insects, breezes, and mice, and in the morning we would have breakfast as usual.
Another blanket, I decided. It was chilly and there were no mosquitoes. I would sleep without the bar. I turned to tell Sarah to take a blanket from the armoire. She was wrapping the baby tightly in her shawl. This struck me as curious. She passed a fold over its head so that it looked like an Indian baby such as I have seen in the market in town, attached to its mother’s back by a leather strap. A papoose. That was what they called them. My eye fell upon the welcome sight of the blue bottle containing my sleeping tincture and I took a few steps to the table. I detected a motion at the doorway and turned to see what it was.
High against the jamb, the upper part of a black face with only one eye showing peered in at me. In the same moment I saw it, it slipped away, leaving me unsure of my own eyes. My thoughts scattered in every direction, seeking some reasonable explanation: my husband had decided to take a trustworthy guard into the house after all, or this was a messenger with important news from town. My body had no such fatuous doubts. The blood that rushed to my brain left my knees weak and my head as clear as a street swept by a hurricane. The event we all feared most had begun and there was to be no escape from it. I slumped against the bed, opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Sarah got up, cradling the bundle she had made of her baby. She went to the window. When I looked back at the doorway, there was the single eye again, watching me.