第 40 页

stopped. She thought of the man in the quarry. She thought, in clear, formed

words, that the man in the quarry wanted her. She had known it before; she had

known it with his first glance at her. But she had never stated the knowledge to

herself.

She laughed. She looked about her, at the silent splendor of her house. The

house made the words preposterous. She knew that would never happen to her. And

she knew the kind of suffering she could impose on him.

For days she walked with satisfaction through the rooms of her house. It was her

defense. She heard the explosions of blasting from the quarry and smiled.

But she felt too certain and the house was too safe. She felt a desire to

underscore the safety by challenging it.

She chose the marble slab in front of the fireplace in her bedroom. She wanted

it broken. She knelt, hammer in hand, and tried to smash the marble. She pounded

it, her thin arm sweeping high over her head, crashing down with ferocious

helplessness. She felt the pain in the bones of her arms, in her shoulder

sockets. She succeeded in making a long scratch across the marble.

She went to the quarry. She saw him from a distance and walked straight to him.

"Hello," she said casually.

He stopped the drill. He leaned against a stone shelf. He answered:

"Hello."

"I have been thinking of you," she said softly, and stopped, then added, her

voice flowing on in the same tone of compelling invitation, "because there’s a

bit of a dirty job to be done at my house. Would you like to make some extra

money?"

"Certainly, Miss Francon."

"Will you come to my house tonight? The way to the servants’ entrance is off

Ridgewood Road. There’s a marble piece at a fireplace that’s broken and has to

be replaced. I want you to take it out and order a new one made for me."

She expected anger and refusal. He asked:

"What time shall I come?"

"At seven o’clock. What are you paid here?"

"Sixty-two cents an hour."

"I’m sure you’re worth that. I’m quite willing to pay you at the same rate. Do

you know how to find my house?"

"No, Miss Francon."

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"Just ask anyone in the village to direct you."

"Yes, Miss Francon."

She walked away, disappointed. She felt that their secret understanding was

lost; he had spoken as if it were a simple job which she could have offered to

any other workman. Then she felt the sinking gasp inside, that feeling of shame

and pleasure which he always gave her: she realized that their understanding had

been more intimate and flagrant than ever--in his natural acceptance of an

unnatural offer; he had shown her how much he knew--by his lack of astonishment.

She asked her old caretaker and his wife to remain in the house that evening.

Their diffident presence completed the picture of a feudal mansion. She heard

the bell of the servants’ entrance at seven o’clock. The old woman escorted him

to the great front hall where Dominique stood on the landing of a broad

stairway.

She watched him approaching, looking up at her. She held the pose long enough to

let him suspect that it was a deliberate pose deliberately planned; she broke it

at the exact moment before he could become certain of it. She said: "Good

evening." Her voice was austerely quiet.

He did not answer, but inclined his head and walked on up the stairs toward her.

He wore his work clothes and he carried a bag of tools. His movements had a

swift, relaxed kind of energy that did not belong here, in her house, on the

polished steps, between the delicate, rigid banisters. She had expected him to

seem incongruous in her house; but it was the house that seemed incongruous

around him.

She moved one hand, indicating the door of her bedroom. He followed obediently.

He did not seem to notice the room when he entered. He entered it as if it were

a workshop. He walked straight to the fireplace.

"There it is," she said, one finger pointing to the marble slab.

He said nothing. He knelt, took a thin metal wedge from his bag, held its point

against the scratch on the slab, took a hammer and struck one blow. The marble

split in a long, deep cut.

He glanced up at her. It was the look she dreaded, a look of laughter that could

not be answered, because the laughter could not be seen, only felt. He said:

"Now it’s broken and has to be replaced."

She asked calmly:

"Would you know what kind of marble this is and where to order another piece

like it?"

"Yes, Miss Francon."

"Go ahead, then. Take it out."

"Yes, Miss Francon."

She stood watching him. It was strange to feel a senseless necessity to watch

the mechanical process of the work as if her eyes were helping it. Then she knew

that she was afraid to look at the room around them. She made herself raise her

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head.

She saw the shelf of her dressing table, its glass edge like a narrow green

satin ribbon in the semidarkness, and the crystal containers; she saw a pair of

white bedroom slippers, a pale blue towel on the floor by a mirror, a pair of

stockings thrown over the arm of a chair; she saw the white satin cover of her

bed. His shirt had damp stains and gray patches of stone dust; the dust made

streaks on the skin of his arms. She felt as if each object in the room had been

touched by him, as if the air were a heavy pool of water into which they had

been plunged together, and the water that touched him carried the touch to her,

to every object in the room. She wanted him to look up. He worked, without

raising his head.

She approached him and stood silently over him. She had never stood so close to

him before. She looked down at the smooth skin on the back of his neck; she

could distinguish single threads of his hair. She glanced down at the tip of her

sandal. It was there, on the floor, an inch away from his body; she needed but

one movement, a very slight movement of her foot, to touch him. She made a step

back.

He moved his head, but not to look up, only to pick another tool from the bag,

and bent over his work again.

She laughed aloud. He stopped and glanced at her.

"Yes?" he asked.

Her face was grave, her voice gentle when she answered:

"Oh, I’m sorry. You might have thought that I was laughing at you. But I wasn’t,

of course."

She added:

"I didn’t want to disturb you. I’m sure you’re anxious to finish and get out of

here. I mean, of course, because you must be tired. But then, on the other hand,

I’m paying you by the hour, so it’s quite all right if you stretch your time a

little, if you want to make more out of it. There must be things you’d like to

talk about."

"Oh, yes, Miss Francon."

"Well?"

"I think this is an atrocious fireplace."

"Really? This house was designed by my father."

"Yes, of course, Miss Francon."

"There’s no point in your discussing the work of an architect."

"None at all."

"Surely we could choose some other subject."

"Yes, Miss Francon."

She moved away from him. She sat down on the bed, leaning back on straight arms,

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her legs crossed and pressed close together in a long, straight line. Her body,

sagging limply from her shoulders, contradicted the inflexible precision of the

legs; the cold austerity of her face contradicted the pose of her body.

He glanced at her occasionally, as he worked. He was speaking obediently. He was

saying:

"I shall make certain to get a piece of marble of precisely the same quality,

Miss Francon. It is very important to distinguish between the various kinds of

marble. Generally speaking, there are three kinds. The white marbles, which are

derived from the recrystallization of limestone, the onyx marbles which are

chemical deposits of calcium carbonate, and the green marbles which consist

mainly of hydrous magnesium silicate or serpentine. This last must not be

considered as true marble. True marble is a metamorphic form of limestone,

produced by heat and pressure. Pressure is a powerful factor. It leads to

consequences which, once started, cannot be controlled."

"What consequences?" she asked, leaning forward.

"The recrystallization of the particles of limestone and the infiltration of

foreign elements from the surrounding soil. These constitute the colored streaks

which are to be found in most marbles. Pink marble is caused by the presence of

manganese oxides, gray marble is due to carbonaceous matter, yellow marble is

attributed to a hydrous oxide of iron. This piece here is, of course, white

marble. There are a great many varieties of white marble. You should be very

careful, Miss Francon..."

She sat leaning forward, gathered into a dim black huddle; the lamp light fell

on one hand she had dropped limply on her knees, palm up, the fingers

half-closed, a thin edge of fire outlining each finger, the dark cloth of her

dress making the hand too naked and brilliant.

"...to make certain that I order a new piece of precisely the same quality. It

would not be advisable, for instance, to substitute a piece of white Georgia

marble which is not as fine-grained as the white marble of Alabama. This is

Alabama marble. Very high grade. Very expensive."

He saw her hand close and drop down, out of the light. He continued his work in

silence.

When he had finished, he rose, asking:

"Where shall I put the stone?"

"Leave it there. I’ll have it removed."

"I’ll order a new piece cut to measure and delivered to you C.O.D. Do you wish

me to set it?"

"Yes, certainly. I’ll let you know when it comes. How much do I owe you?" She

glanced at a clock on her bedside table. "Let me see, you’ve been here three

quarters of an hour. That’s forty-eight cents." She reached for her bag, she

took out the dollar bill, she handed it to him. "Keep the change," she said.

She hoped he would throw it back in her face. He slipped the bill into his

pocket. He said:

"Thank you, Miss Francon."

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He saw the edge of her long black sleeve trembling over her closed fingers.

"Good night," she said, her voice hollow in anger.

He bowed: "Good night, Miss Francon."

He turned and walked down the stairs, out of the house.

She stopped thinking of him. She thought of the piece of marble he had ordered.

She waited for it to come, with the feverish intensity of a sudden mania; she

counted the days; she watched the rare trucks on the road beyond the lawn.

She told herself fiercely that she merely wanted the marble to come; just that;

nothing else, no hidden reasons; no reasons at all. It was a last, hysterical

aftermath; she was free of everything else. The stone would come and that would

be the end.

When the stone came, she barely glanced at it. The delivery truck had not left

the grounds, when she was at her desk, writing a note on a piece of exquisite

stationery. She wrote:

#

"The marble is here. I want it set tonight."

#

She sent her caretaker with the note to the quarry. She ordered it delivered to:

"I don’t know his name. The redheaded workman who was here."

The caretaker came back and brought her a scrap torn from a brown paper bag,

bearing in pencil:

#

"You’ll have it set tonight."

#

She waited, in the suffocating emptiness of impatience, at the window of her

bedroom. The servants’ entrance bell rang at seven o’clock. There was a knock at

her door. "Come in," she snapped--to hide the strange sound of her own voice.

The door opened and the caretaker’s wife entered, motioning for someone to

follow. The person who followed was a short, squat, middle-aged Italian with bow

legs, a gold hoop in one ear and a frayed hat held respectfully in both hands.

"The man sent from the quarry, Miss Francon," said the caretaker’s wife.

Dominique asked, her voice not a scream and not a question:

"Who are you?"

"Pasquale Orsini," the man answered obediently, bewildered.

"What do you want?"

"Well, I...Well, Red down at the quarry said fireplace gotta be fixed, he said

you wanta I fix her."

"Yes. Yes, of course," she said, rising. "I forgot. Go ahead."

She had to get out of the room. She had to run, not to be seen by anyone, not to

be seen by herself if she could escape it.

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She stopped somewhere in the garden and stood trembling, pressing her fists

against her eyes. It was anger. It was a pure, single emotion that swept

everything clean; everything but the terror under the anger; terror, because she

knew that she could not go near the quarry now and that she would go.

It was early evening, many days later, when she went to the quarry. She returned

on horseback from a long ride through the country, and she saw the shadows

lengthening on the lawn; she knew that she could not live through another night.

She had to get there before the workers left. She wheeled about. She rode to the

quarry, flying, the wind cutting her cheeks.

He was not there when she reached the quarry. She knew at once that he was not

there, even though the workers were just leaving and a great many of them were

filing down the paths from the stone bowl. She stood, her lips tight, and she

looked for him. But she knew that he had left.

She rode into the woods. She flew at random between walls of leaves that melted

ahead in the gathering twilight. She stopped, broke a long, thin branch off a

tree, tore the leaves off, and went on, using the flexible stick as a whip,

lashing her horse to fly faster. She felt as if the speed would hasten the

evening on, force the hours ahead to pass more quickly, let her leap across time