She turned again to me. “En garde, please, mademoiselle.” I raised my blade for her demonstration. “Let us say I execute a prise de fer—you know what that means, in French?”
“It means ‘to take the blade,’” I said. “But we use the French term in American fencing, too: Prise de fer. It’s when you force your opponent’s weapon into a new line, away from their original intention.”
“Very good. And what are some of the ways that I might do that to you?”
“Ah, a beat?”
“Yes. Now, extend.” As I pointed my weapon at her chest, she rapped hard on my foil. I felt the shock down my arm; my blade moved aside. “What else?”
“A bind?”
“Yes. Make an attack.” I lunged, trying to be aggressive even though I knew what was coming, aiming my point for her torso. Her foil’s forte neatly swiveled along mine, almost too fast to see, though again I felt it, and my point found itself diagonal to where I’d been aiming, well away from the target—while her point moved in to touch my chest.
“Thank you.” She nodded, and I stepped back. “You see also how I held my opponent’s blade where I wanted it, so I could make my attack? Good. Before the summer is over, you will all be expert at the prise de fer, like my little Americaine, here.”
My roommate raised her hand. “If someone takes your blade like that, can you still recover?”
The maitresse nodded. “I will show you that, too. It has all been thought of, by the original swordmasters, and those who came after. In the end, it is a question of who controls the bout. Who controls the conversation of the steel?”
She looked around at all of us. “Of course, today our lives do not depend on our proficiency. But just as we study now in a school that was once a chateau, enjoying its beauty and history while we appreciate its modern function, so we respect the origins of our sport: the strategy, the aggression, the precision, and, yes, the honor of the duel, the foundation of the art of fencing.”
A tall blonde classmate declared, “Americans fight all their duels with guns!” and demonstrated with a cocked finger: “Pom! Pom-pom-pom!! Take zhat, you rahht!”
The other girls were laughing, poking at each other and imitating her.
“Silence!” Madame was stern. “What is your name?”
The blonde’s color was high, but she kept her chin up and looked our instructor full in the face. “Céleste de Puysange, madame.”
“When I speak of honor, Mlle de Puysange, I speak also of the way we comport ourselves as we study the sword. Respect for one’s opponent is the foundation of fencing. We do not interrupt one another, or mock, ever, another student. Is that clear?”
“Pom!” Céleste muttered at me, on the way out. “Pom-pom-pom!”
• • •
Of course, the lit teacher asked if I was German.
I stood up to address her, as students do in French schools. “No, madame. My father’s family came to America in the last century.”
“Amé-ri-caine,” Mme Gabin said, rolling the word in her mouth as though she were trying to decide whether it was a vintage she liked. “Splendid. We all admire so much your President Kennedy. A gallant man. Your father fought, perhaps, in France?” It was so obvious that she was trying to place me. Of course, she was thinking of the gum-chewing GIs, not of the French officers many of my classmates were descended from.
“No, madame.” Maybe she meant well, but I wasn’t going to let her patronize me. “My family is of the Blumberg department store in New York. We are not a military family.”
My response forced her into a new line of inquiry, but she wasn’t willing to be direct and ask, Was I a Jew? How did I gain entry to Saint-Hilaire? Flustered, she fell back on, “You speak French very well.”
“Thank you, madame.” I finally gave her what she wanted, by way of explanation: “My mother’s father was de Boieldieu.”
Mme Gabin said something nice about the distinguished military record of the de Boieldieu family. But I knew I’d made a huge tactical error. In France, you never, ever brag on your ancestry or your money—not overtly—and here I’d done it twice, just to assert control because my back was up. Mistake.
The girls let me know it. They didn’t titter; they coughed, which was a way of expressing opinion in class without being called on it by the teacher.
After class, they clustered around me in the hall. “So, this Blumberg store, it is like La Samaritaine in Paris? or Printemps? or Bon Marché?” Apparently, the French had invented not only fencing, but the department store as well.
“Or Galeries Lafayette?” Madeleine made sure her favorite was included in the list.
“A bit,” I replied. “It’s bigger.”
“No wonder your clothes are so chic!” Céleste said. A low blow, and inaccurate: Grand-mère had made sure all my clothes were bought in Paris, at just the sort of Right Bank establishments all their mothers favored.
Never mind. Not having a social life meant that I could devote myself to fencing—not just classes, but taking the time to drill seriously every day. The summer would not be a dead loss. I’d only discovered fencing a few years ago at my summer camp in the Berkshires, which was full of idiots of a different kind: sports-crazy East Coast girls who only cared how well you could hit some ball or other. Volleyball, softball, tennis . . . If I tried to stay in my bunk reading a book, the counselors would drag me out and lecture me about team spirit. The only sport offered there that did not involve a ball was fencing, and you were your own team of one. My spirit improved greatly from then on.
Back at the Norton School, I became a varsity fencer, but that means just what you’d think: no competition there. My dad was a nut about grades, especially math. He anxiously watched me for signs of frivolity, lest I take after my mother. So he wouldn’t let me study in a real fencing academy after school, though I did take lessons on those Saturdays when we weren’t out at the house on Long Island.
A year from now, though, I’d be headed to college—one of the Seven Sisters, if Dad had his way, and why not? Some of them have splendid fencing teams. I wanted—no, I needed to qualify. Four years of college would give me four years of serious competition. After that—Well, that was enough to aim for, for now.
And so every spare hour found me in the salle d’armes.
• • •
“Your faith in your ability to improve yourself is most inspiring.”
I heard the voice before I saw him behind me in the mirror.
“Don’t turn around,” he said. “Maintain your focus.”
“I’m not a performing monkey.”
“And yet you dress like one, in your little white breeches.”
He was one to talk about my fencing breeches! Today, his brocade suit was blue, and a rather girlish blue at that, with silver buttons down his coat that were clearly meant for show.
I said, “What are you doing here, anyway?”
He looked directly into my eyes in the mirror. His were strong blue, too, a striking contrast to his dark hair. He raised his hand to the ruffles at his neck, again displaying the ruby ring. “I trust I may come and go as I wish, in this house.”
I wanted to turn around so badly. But I refused to yield my stance. “I suppose you may, if no one stops you.”
“Let me see your attack,” he said. “I am concerned for your distance.” I hesitated—not, of course, from fear, but because to follow his command would be to give ground to the arrogant stranger. “Do you doubt,” he said, “that I know what I am talking about?”
I remembered his assessment of my weakness the other night. Good Lord, I suddenly thought; what if he’s a colleague of Mme Gaillac’s? Maybe I was getting coaching from an up-and-coming young Olympic athlete? That would explain why he had the run of the place.
All right, then; I’d show him what I could do. I backed away from the mir
ror, keeping an eye on my reflection-self, and lunged in Sixte—but a little short, in order to deceive my opponent as to my distance. I thought it was very elegantly done. But as I leaned in to make my perfect touch:
“Non, et non, et non!” So he was an idiot, after all. Damn. “You cannot risk these tricks, if your opponent has the longer reach!”
“I have right of way,” I said stiffly, holding my pose. It wouldn’t hurt to work on my stamina any. “Unless she—”
“Ohhhh, so you are in the right,” he interrupted, with sarcasm so brutal that, if he had been armed, I would have turned on him. “And that is all that matters. Yes, yes, we know that little game. But I tell you, mademoiselle, this is not the Middle Ages. God is not always on the side of the man who is in the right.” He laughed bitterly. “Which is, for some of us, a very good thing indeed.”
“You speak in riddles, sir.” (In French, that doesn’t sound nearly so much like a paperback romance.)
“As one must, mademoiselle, if one is not to be easily understood by fools.”
I lowered my weapon, but my back stiffened. “Do you call me a fool, sir?”
“Did you take my meaning thus?” He cocked his head, not denying it. “Alas! You are offended! Perhaps you wish to extend a challenge?”
“As you say, sir, this is not the Middle Ages.” I shrugged, more disappointed than hurt, but still annoyed enough. “I had thought you a swordmaster, but you are nothing but a riddling clown.”
“Is that so?” He seemed surprised, off-balance; but he quickly regained his hauteur. “If you will permit this riddling clown one small suggestion, then?” I waited. “When you make your mincing little attacks, aim for the head. The head, or the legs. It is harder to pierce the heart than you suppose.”
If he was flirting, he’d chosen a more appealing metaphor than most. But it wouldn’t do to let him know that.
“I seek to pierce no one’s heart,” I said.
“Then you are indeed the rarest of women.” He bowed and left the room.
• • •
Half the girls at Saint-Hilaire had brought their own horses, and spent time they could have been studying down at the chateau’s stables, taking extra dressage courses, or just riding around the countryside. A few of them had chosen fencing as well and joined Mme Gaillac’s students for our classes. The best and most athletic of them was the unpleasant Céleste de Puysange, a tall blonde with a terrific reach. Her best friend, Nicole Fleurie, a curvy one with wide hips, would clearly rather have stuck with the horses, but where Céleste led, Nicole followed.
“Mesdemoiselles,” Mme de Gaillac said today after warm-up, “please face the mirror for footwork.”
We advanced and retreated back and forth, a chorus line of clunky white nymphs in our canvas fencing costumes, hair pulled back in high ponytails, distinguished from one another only by hair color and height. My hair is thick and curly. Grand-mère had had it cut in Paris to an atrocious length that a single clip would hold only if I’d bother to set it with curlers to straighten it out at night. Which I hadn’t. It kept escaping and getting in my face; I had to stop to put it all back into place.
“Oh, la,” Céleste muttered across the line; “poor little Americaine, tired out already?” Nicole made a pitying noise. “You should climb the steps of all those big skyscrapers back home, to give you more stamina.”
“Oh,” I retorted, “but in New York, all our big buildings have elevators.”
“No talking, ladies,” Mme Gaillac said. “And now, get your masks, please, and partner up for work on the parry-riposte. Defense is not enough; you must know how to follow up your advantage to score a touch.”
Céleste and I looked at each other briefly, automatically. Of the room, we were the two serious fencers; at least, she’d had decent training. Partnered with anyone else, we each had to slow down.
Ostentatiously, Céleste turned from me and chose my roommate, pretty little Madeleine de Mailly. Nicole quickly tapped another girl, and no one chose me.
Which meant I got to practice parry-ripostes with La Gaillac. So there, Céleste!
The final minutes of each class were actual fencing bouts, with opponents assigned by our teacher.
“Mlles Fleurie and de Puysange to fence, and for judges, Blumberg and de Mailly.”
I’d once seen a beginner simply drop her foil and duck when Céleste lunged at her along the piste. It’s true that attitude can go a long way toward helping you dominate a match. A tilt to the head, a glare through the mask, can go farther than you’d think to establishing who controls the action. I stood to the side, diagonal to Céleste, to observe any touches Nicole might make on her front. Which weren’t likely. On the piste, as in the dormitory, Nicole was a natural follower. But her quick responses to Céleste’s lead stood her in surprisingly good stead here. The moment Céleste lunged at her, Nicole’s body, alert to her friend’s every move, automatically parried as it should, deflecting the attacking blade.
They both looked a bit startled. But Céleste recovered enough to continue her attack as if nothing had happened, while Nicole made the riposte she should have done first, the one we’d been drilling.
The two friends touched each other almost simultaneously. Nicole gave a little squeak of surprised delight at scoring a touch, then jumped back guiltily.
“Halt!” cried Madeleine. I nodded agreement.
“The blades are in conversation,” our instructor said formally. “The judges read the phrase. So, Mlle de Mailly first: What did you see?”
“Simultaneous touch?” Madeleine said nervously.
“Indeed?” Mme Gaillac asked. It sounded like a challenge. “Who had the right of way?”
“Céleste!” Madeleine was utterly flustered. Fencing wasn’t really her sport. She looked back and forth, from me to Céleste. I saw Céleste’s grip tighten on her hilt. Mlle de Puysange did not like to lose. “Céleste lunged first, and she hit Nicole, right on target!”
“Mlle Blumberg? What conversation did you read?”
“Attack from the right,” I said, which was Céleste. “Parry from the left, breaking the phrase. So the continued attack from the right was invalid, because she’d lost the right-of-way.” Céleste hissed behind her mask. “Riposte from the left,” I went on, “and touch to the left.”
“Mlle de Mailly, do you want to reconsider your call?”
Poor Madeleine was actually trembling. “I—I’m not sure—”
“It was an accident!” Nicole said.
“You did have right-of-way,” our teacher said cheerfully, as the bell rang for the end of class, “though you must work on a quicker riposte. Bout to Mlle Fleurie!” Under her eye, the opponents unmasked and shook hands. “Until Tuesday, ladies. Have a good weekend.”
Céleste walked past me, fluffing her hair with her fingers, her shoulder turned to me. But I distinctly heard it: “Go home to America.”
When the room had emptied, I went back to work on that effective little disengage-riposte. But I was not entirely surprised when I heard his voice behind me:
“Very nice. But why do you restrict your movement so?”
I did not stop. “What do you mean?”
“Your parry in Sixte is always too low, and to the exact same spot. If you do it thus—” And he executed a swift movement, like a dance, ending with his sword arm cocked up with the elbow near his ear, the tip of his imaginary blade pointed directly at his imaginary opponent’s eye. So? I thought. What’s the point of threatening someone’s mask? “If you desire a low blow, here’s one your teacher may not have taught you.” Another beautiful move, bending his body like a comma sideways, an arabesque ending with a wrist tilt that would have set the point neatly through an opponent’s knee.
“Wow,” I said. He was completely off-target—but what a move!
Today, he wore no jacket; his white shirtsle
eves were full, and ended at the cuff with a bit of a ruffle. He shook the ruffle back from his wrist and extended his beringed hand to me: an invitation to try it myself.
And so I did. Clumsily, at first, but with his coaching I finally got it to his satisfaction.
“Brava!” he cried.
“My teacher would never approve,” I added, just to be clear.
“Teachers can be jealous. They guard their secrets carefully. But I can assure you, yours will be impressed.” His smile was very charming. Disarming, one might say. “I like you, mademoiselle. You have guts.” (Well, in French it’s du coeur: You have heart. Like the baseball team in Damn Yankees.) He leaned against the wall, his arms folded over his long embroidered waistcoat. “Tell me: What makes you so devoted to the sword?”
I considered the question. Not that I haven’t been asked it before. I have a different answer for everyone, though, and I wasn’t sure which one was right for him.
“Is it the desire to show off your fine legs?” he mused salaciously. “No; I think you are not vain. Do you seek to set yourself apart from other ladies, with this delicious quirk? No; you are too serious.” He pushed a strand of hair back from his face. “Can it be that you wish to be able to defend yourself, and maintain your own honor thus?”
Somehow he was right behind me, practically breathing down my neck, though I could not feel his breath. He was the same height as I. I felt a little giddy.
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “You have the weapon. I am unarmed.”
“I think,” I said, “that you are not unarmed, sir. Not at all.”
The door to the salon opened with its usual racket of ancient latch and hinges.
“Yes, it is tiresome, Nicole, but I must practice some.”
It was the voice of Céleste de Puysange in the open doorway, speaking to someone in the hall. “Oh, I know. But it’s only a matter of time before La Gaillac pairs me with l’Americaine. She practices, you know. How would it look if I let her defeat me?”
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