Life & Other Passing Moments. Victor J. Banis
a tearful glance in his direction, but there was nothing they could do for him, and she set out with her husband, and her baby in her arms.
They had not gone far before he stopped and took off his long heavy coat, heavier than hers because he spent more time out of doors than she did, and put it about her shoulders.
“Tom, you’ll freeze to death,” she said.
“Oh, it will take more than this little bit of a chill to do me in,” he said, and would not take the coat back
It was hard going. The wind beat at them and spat snow in their faces. The cold was bitter, and she thought surely there had never been a night so black outside of hell. The snow had drifted waist high in places, so that they could not step out of it but must push their way through, and Janet was tired in no time. She stumbled, and would have fallen more than once were it not for his strong arm about her shoulders. Even through the coats, hers and his, the cold was bitter, and she could not imagine what he must be suffering.
“Just lift one foot, and put it down,” Tom said, “That’s how the journey’s done, my darling.”
Which she did. The hill up from the ravine was long and, in places, steep, and that took the breath out of you. It was little easier walking when the ground leveled off, but here the trees were thinner, and the wind got at you more fiercely.
“Almost home,” Tom said, and then, finally, they came out of the trees, and there was the clearing, and in the distance, the light of the cabin.
Here, though, she did fall, buried over her head in the smothering snow, and she thought she could go no further, and said, “I’m done for, Tom, take the baby and go.”
He would not hear of it. “I said I’d see you safely home,” he said. He got her somehow to her feet, and said, “We’ll run now, it’ll get the blood moving,” and run they did, staggering, reeling, her chest afire and her feet beyond feeling, and they got to the steps up to the door, and she fell again, and this time, she hadn’t the strength to rise.
The boys had been waiting anxiously for them, though, and they heard her and ran to the door, and Bill, the oldest, took the baby and rushed her to her crib, and Abe got Janet to the rocker in front of the fire.
She had no sooner dropped into the chair, though, than she cried aloud, “Oh, you wicked boys, you’ve left your father to freeze on the steps.”
The boys looked puzzled at one another, and went to the door and opened it. “There’s no one here, Ma,” Bill said after a moment.
She got up and came herself to look, standing in the mocking wind. There, where the snow was crushed down, was where she had lain on the steps a moment before, and in the distance, just before the trees, the dark stain where she had fallen and Tom had had to lift her up, and between there and here, the staggering footsteps—but only the one set of them. Just hers.
“We’ll go and look for him,” Bill said, and they went to fetch their coats, but she sat down heavily in the chair again, and studied the shivering flames, and said, “No, let it be. Morning will do.”
The boys did not argue. They brought her hot broth, and when she had drunk it, she nursed little Rachel, letting her have her fill this time. The cabin trembled in the wind, and whimpered, and little tufts of snow wept on the sills.
* * * *
The storm was over by morning, a petulant sun glowering down on the devastation that had been done.
The boys bundled themselves up and took the sleds, and followed the trail she had left, her footsteps mostly filled in by now, but enough of them still to show the way, and once they had entered the trees, the trail was clearer.
They traveled the woods, and down the long hill to the ravine, and they found him there, his head bent grotesquely, his neck broken where Gray had fallen upon him, man and horse both frozen solid.
“What I don’t understand,” Abe would say whenever they told the story, and Bill would always click his tongue and shake his head, “What I don’t understand, is how he got his coat out from under, and put it about her, as she would surely have frozen without it, that night was so cold.”
ANNE’S WEDDING NIGHT
Author’s Note: This is France between the revolutions. Anne has been jilted by her lover and, to save her family from financial ruin, married to the wealthy Baron de Brussac, whom she despises. It is her wedding night.
It was not likely that Anne would remain morose for very long.
She was young and high-spirited, used to laughing a great deal and enjoying life. Moreover, it was a warm summer night and a ball was in progress; this was the native land, in a manner of speaking, of her soul, and she trod it with the expertise of one born to the realm.
She danced with her papa and after him with a gentleman as old as him who regarded her with the frankest lust in his eyes.
And she danced with the soldier who had kissed her hand.
His name was Guy, and he came from Provence. When he smiled, he smiled with the languor and indolence of the hot southern coast, as Italian as it was French. He told her she was as beautiful as the banks of flowers that bloomed above the sea there. She laughed delightedly and sipped the champagne he brought her when the dance was ended.
Already she was enjoying the party more; after all, what had changed? She was married, that was all. And she was rich. She did not have much grasp of money matters and so had only the vaguest idea of how rich she was, but she was sure her new husband’s wealth was vast.
If she wanted, she could have balls such as this every week—even every day. Of course, they would not be wedding balls, but this was Paris; one needed no excuse to throw a party.
With her husband’s wealth and her own beauty and charm, she would become the most famous hostess in Paris. Perhaps she would have a salon, like Mademoiselle Rivière. People—men—would vie with one another for invitations, and she would lead them in glittering conversation; She did not know exactly what was talked about at such salons, but she had never been at a loss for words. She would have the most famous, the most interesting people—and, of course, the handsomest men.
She suddenly imagined Émile standing at the door of her home (they would need something grander than this townhouse, something more suited to the entertainments she had in mind), pleading for entrance. At last she would let him come in. He would be without Louise, of course. Should she let him dance with her or not? Perhaps she would let him suffer while she flirted with all the handsome men flocking around her, courting her, courting her favor.
Her husband was conspicuously absent from these fancies.
She sipped more champagne. She danced with the minister of fine arts. She danced with a young man who said he had been to America.
And she danced with the young soldier again.
The third time she danced with him, he held her very close and whispered in her ear, “Aren’t you warm from all this dancing?”
“A little.”
“Let’s go outside for a breath of air.”
“I....”
“No one will notice. Look, here we are.”
She saw that while they danced he had steered her deftly to the doors that opened onto the terrace at the side of the house, away from the gawking crowd in front. Now, taking her hesitation for assent, he led her out onto the darkened terrace.
She would have objected, but the fresh air did feel so good. She had not realized how warm and flushed she was from the champagne, the dancing. She felt giddy and breathless. Was this what it felt like to be tipsy?
“Why are you so sad?” he asked.
“Does it show?”
“Yes—to me, at least.”
She did not answer. She had stopped in