Beauty

by Sadie Johnston

  Chapter Thirteen

  29 May 1767

  In the morning, Gregoire announced that he had a caller. It turned out to be Comte Moncan, much to Tristan’s surprise. They greeted each other and Tristan invited him to the sitting room, where they could talk about whatever was on the comte’s mind, although Tristan couldn’t begin to guess what it might be, other than the standard social call. But as he had not really received any of those (without Morangis’ intervention) since being in the province, he hadn’t expected one.

  “I have learned that your host was called away to Paris last night,” Moncan began and Tristan nodded. “I know that we do not share the same family affiliations, but I would like to invite you to stay with us for the next two weeks. As a guest in the province, I cannot imagine it will be enjoyable to pass the time alone in a strange house.”

  Actually, it had sounded pretty good to Tristan, but this sounded better. He restrained any show of surprise or pleasure. “That is a very kind offer, monsieur,” he said, picking his words carefully because he didn’t wish to show his inner thoughts. The idea of being so close to Constance and having the opportunities to speak far more easily was one that thrilled him. “I shall take you up on that. The idea of being without company during my time in Gévaudan wasn’t one I was relishing.” A small lie wouldn’t hurt anyone.

  Moncan smiled. “I am glad,” he said. “Please send you valet with your things and follow whenever you are ready. We will have a guest room prepared for you.”

  The men stood and shook hands.

  Tristan smiled after the comte had left. This was too good to be true. Two weeks without Morangis, and he would be able to speak more frequently with the lovely Constance. He knew it would come with plenty of visiting time with the comte and comtesse, but he did not mind. It was only their insistence on marrying Constance to Morangis that bothered him. Otherwise they seemed like decent people, if typical of the upper class, bearing the same vexing traits that sometimes tired Tristan in his peers.

  Of course, this didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of the uncertainties as well. He knew that he would have to be very cautious and not allow any action on his part to present even the appearance of impropriety. He didn’t want anything he said or did to reflect poorly on her, which would by necessity temper his eagerness and his interest. Still, the chance was too much to pass up.

  He didn’t waste any time making arrangements. Besides, there wasn’t that much to do since he was already traveling light. He tried to contain his excitement as he worked, thinking about the opportunity of being able to see her more, even if it wouldn’t be easy.

  By early evening, he was a guest of the Comte and Comtesse Moncan.

  When her aunt had told her they would be having a guest, Constance wasn’t surprised but neither was she pleased. Her uncle had a habit of playing host to visiting nobles who needed a room. As they were usually people she had little interest in associating with, she had spent most of the day in her room. She considered trying to get to the library, but couldn’t be sure where in the house this guest might be and if she didn’t want to run into anyone, her own space was safest.

  She had little choice but to come down to eat dinner, however, and when she did, she was in for a great shock.

  There, sitting at the table, was Tristan. He politely got to his feet upon seeing her and she managed, barely, to avoid losing her footing entirely. “Marquis du Lyon,” she greeted with a feeble smile. Once she had taken her seat, he sat down again. “It is agreeable to see you.” It was the blandest, most formally polite thing she could think of. “When I was told that we would be having a guest, I had not expected it to be you.” She wondered if her aunt would think that was rude, so she added, “Since we would not seek to deprive the comte of his guest.”

  “Naturally,” Tristan said with a smooth smile. “But my host is in Paris for the next two weeks and your uncle kindly extended an invitation.” His eyes held hers for a long moment, but not long enough to draw anyone’s attention.

  She didn’t know whether she wanted to thank her uncle or sink under the table with anxiety. It wasn’t that she worried about what might happen, in truth. She trusted Tristan, amazingly enough, to not say anything that would get her in trouble, but she couldn’t help but feel anxious all the same. Constance managed to smile. “Indeed,” she said before sliding into the background of the conversation as her uncle picked up the thread and the courses began coming. She had no appetite, but didn’t want anyone to call her on it so she paid much interest to the food.

  “It is a shame that we have seen yet another hunt turn up without success,” the comte said. It was a common enough phrase to be said and heard in their province these days. Everyone felt it now.

  “It is,” Tristan agreed. “I cannot imagine that many people in the province are too pleased about it either, particularly the farmers. They are the ones who are doing the dying, after all.”

  Everyone nodded somberly. Constance wondered how many of the upper class actually worried about the lower class, but everyone worried about the Beast. It had been so long that it just lingered in the back of the mind now. The fear was always there, but people held it less in the forefront of their mind with each passing day.

  Her aunt was speaking. Even women in positions like theirs knew about the Beast and conversed on the topic. “I wonder what is so different about this creature that makes it so hard to capture.”

  “It is my theory that it isn’t a truly wild animal,” Tristan said.

  Constance looked up from her plate. That was a very curious statement, she thought, and she couldn’t help but be lured into the conversation by it. “What else would it be then? The attacks are vicious and like the attack of a wild beast, so what else could it be?”

  “I did not say I thought it wasn’t an animal,” Tristan pointed out. “It is a beast. Some kind of dog, whether a wolf or something else, but I do not believe it is wild.”

  “How could it be anything else?” Moncan countered.

  “I think that the Beast works with a human master,” Tristan finally made his point clear.

  The silence was long and shocked. “What makes you believe that?” Constance asked. The idea was terrifying, but from everything that had been said of the monster, it wasn’t an idea that could too easily be dismissed.

  Of course, the Crown thought that the Beast had already been caught after Antoine’s parading of that massive wolf through Paris, but the attacks started again just a month after he had left the province and there was no way around it: the attacks were the same. The range had shrunk and the Beast was perhaps more cautious, but everything else was the same. Entertaining the notion that there were two Beasts of that nature was too much of a stretch. It had to be the same creature.

  Tristan shook his head. “It’s hard to explain because I have no proof, but the Beast is too smart. It doesn’t act like any other truly wild creature. It acts with intelligence. For example, it rarely attacks men, but mostly women and children who are more easily killed. It avoids most farm animals, like cattle where a bull could possibly maim it. It manages to elude every hunter, even when they are in massive groups. Have you ever heard of the average wolf doing that?”

  “No,” her uncle had to concede. “But why would someone do this?”

  “Why does anyone kill anyone?” Tristan shrugged. “I don’t have all the answers, but it seems likely.”

  Suddenly losing what little appetite she had found, Constance pushed her plate away and sat back in her seat. It was a frightening thought that she wouldn’t now be able to get away from.

  “What does Comte Morangis think of your theory?” Moncan asked. Neither his nor her aunt’s appetite seemed affected by the idea, but perhaps it was more intrigue than anything. If she hadn’t been so upset by it, Constance would be intrigued too.

  “I haven’t brought it up with him.” Tristan sipped his wine thoughtfully. “It’s really only something that has occurred to me recently, but Mora
ngis is as convinced by the Beast’s intelligence as I am, so I’m sure he would consider it possible.”

  Constance looked around the table and then turned her gaze to Tristan. She lingered there before glancing down. “I wonder what sort of person would do that. It’s bad enough that anyone would hurt someone else, or kill them, but to send a monster after women and children to tear them apart?”

  No one seemed to know precisely what to say to that, at first. It was Tristan who finally replied, and his voice was gentle. “It’s beyond the comprehension of those who wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing,” he agreed, “but there is evil in the world. Unfortunately, it seems some of it has come to Gévaudan.”

  She looked into his eyes, but looked away again quickly. He might see too much. “I know,” she said, but didn’t think it was loud enough for anyone to hear.

  Conversation drifted naturally to other areas and Constance let herself drift out of it all together, except for the occasional glances at Tristan when she thought that she could get away with it. He was self-assured as he spoke, which wouldn’t be a surprise from a man of his rank and breeding, but something terrible must have occurred to make him wear that mask. And such terrible things would make a lesser person fall into the background of life. Like Constance.

  After dinner, the men retired to the sitting room while Constance and her aunt went their separate ways.

  Jeanne wasn’t there when Constance returned to her chambers, but everything had been laid out for the evening. She ignored the bed and her night clothes, and even the book she usually read or the stitchwork she didn’t care for. Another idea entirely had seized her thoughts and she went to her desk, sitting down and pulling out everything she would need to write a letter.

  Constance wished she could have talked more to Tristan at dinner, but time to speak as she wished would be limited, even with him staying there. Perhaps more so because of his staying there. Images would need to be upheld. But she could write a letter, which is what she did. And the words came more easily on paper than they did when she spoke, so she wrote and spilled her thoughts onto the page.

  When she was done, she rang for Jeanne, who appeared with her usual promptness.

  “I need you to get this to our new guest,” Constance told her maid, placing the sealed letter in the other woman’s hands. “Don’t be seen. Slide it under his door. You can manage it better than I can.”

  “Are you certain what you’re doing?” Jeanne asked solemnly.

  Constance nodded. “I am.”

  “Then I will see it done.” Jeanne smiled.

  Smiling back, Constance kissed Jeanne’s cheek. “Thank you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tristan,

  I was so surprised to see you at dinner tonight. I had no idea my uncle planned on inviting you, but I am glad he did. Not that I know this will improve our chances of speaking. My uncle is likely to keep your attention for much of your time, but perhaps we can find ways. Like this letter.

  My aunt talks much about the wedding. I don’t add much, because I don’t want to, but she seems content to plan things herself. Jeanne, my maid, encourages me to speak with them again and try to talk them out of it. It’s difficult. I don’t really know what to say, or what I can say that will convince them at all.

  Yesterday, I went out for a ride. This time, I did not go into the forest because I did not intend to be out long. It was close to dinner. When I came back, my uncle admonished me for going out alone. He cares about me, but I feel like they are trying to make every decision in my life, when I would like to make some for myself. Is it scandalous for a well-bred woman to think so? Perhaps.

  I imagine you must tire of me speaking of such things. Tell me of yourself. I feel like I have dominated our conversations, and I don’t mean to. Please, I’d like to know more about you. Write back to me and hand the letter to Jeanne. She will get it to me.

  Constance

  Constance,

  This is a rather ingenious idea. I am glad that Jeanne is on our side. I know you would not have included her unless you trusted her implicitly, and I trust your instincts.

  I do not find myself that interesting a person, however.

  I am the youngest of three boys. It was never expected that I would be in line for the title, but one can rarely predict life. Both of my brothers served in the military. My eldest served under Morangis at Menorca, which is how my family came to know him. Albert, my eldest brother, died in the war. My second eldest brother,Gabriel, created something of a family scandal and was disinherited. So I, quite unexpectedly, became the imperfect choice to inherit. Since my father still lives, my duties are slim and I am able to indulge myself.

  One of my indulgences is traveling in order to hunt. These small expeditions have kept me primarily in France, although I traveled once to Africa. That was a fascinating experience and one I have not yet had the chance to repeat.

  So you see, I can understand your wanderlust. I am sorry that it is more difficult for a woman to indulge than a man, though even I cannot do as much as I might like. In truth, however, I don’t think my parents mind. They love me, but I’m certainly not the perfect image that my brothers were. It pains them, I think, to look on me. You see, I was not always as I am now. The mask has made it easier, but even that is always a reminder that I am not the beautiful child I once was.

  Jeanne is right, however. You should try again to convince your family. They perhaps have your best interests at heart and simply do not understand the magnitude of your feelings on the matter. If they think that you are indifferent, then they will proceed as they have been. It is worth your happiness to try again.

  Tristan

  Tristan,

  I saw you this morning in the gardens and I wanted so greatly to come out and speak with you, but my uncle reached you first. I hope you will forgive that I stayed inside and watched from my window. My uncle seems to think very well of you, although I’ve hardly talked to him on the matter. Or any other matter, though I take your opinion and Jeanne’s well under advisement, of course. I know you are both right, but knowing you should do something and doing it are two very different things.

  Moments like these makes me wish my parents were still alive. Well, I never knew my mother. She died while giving birth to me, but I feel like I knew her. I remember the stories my father told me as a child, although they are harder to remember the older I become. I was seven when my father died, so there are only a few years I can recall. He died in a hunting accident at our home in La Besseyre. My uncle is my father’s brother, and after Father died, they took me in. I suppose my uncle and aunt have spent more time as my parents than my parents did, but I remember my father so clearly.

  I don’t know why I am writing this. I try not to talk about it with my uncle, because I know he misses his brother. Does he see my father when he looks at me? I think that’s why he wants to see me married so badly. He wants to make certain that my future is secured and he thinks that my father would want that, so he has become so single-focused now as I’ve aged and haven’t chosen a husband of my own. He loves me, I know, but my father would have been easier to talk to, I think. He would not bear the guilt and heavy responsibility of me.

  Enough about me, though.

  May I ask you a personal question? What is it that happened to you? I mean to say, why is it that you wear that mask? I have been very curious about it since I first saw you, but I haven’t thought it polite to ask. Now it seems like it may be all right. I hope that it is and that you will not be offended.

  Constance

  Constance,

  Typically, I don’t like people asking. They always do, but I politely refuse to tell the story. For you, however, I will. I suppose there is no reason to keep it a secret, except that I simply don’t like to talk about it.

  I was sixteen and was out hunting. As you can see, this has been a lifelong pursuit of mine. I like the wilderness, and the challenge. And it is an acceptable pastime for one s
uch as myself.

  While I camped over night in the woods, I was attacked. If my statement seems abrupt, it was because so was the attack. I did not hear the creature coming and neither did my dog, and he was very well trained. The beast was on me before I had the chance to blink. I wrestled with it as it mauled me. It went for my face, but I turned my head and took the brunt of it on only one side.

  My dog leaped onto its back and between the two of us, we got it off, but before I could kill it, it ran into the darkness. My dog pursued, but came back with no sign of having killed the creature. At least, though, he still lived. I was in great pain and bleeding considerably, but still able to walk and think. So, I packed up what I needed from camp and made my way home.

  A surgeon was called for immediately and they were, in part, able to piece my face back together, but nothing would make it right again. It healed in a mass of scars. I’ve been told they look like burns. I might have touched the flames of my campfire trying to get away. I can’t remember every detail of what happened. I remember the basic occurrence, but the finer points get lost in a haze of fear and pain.

  So, they took care of me. I don’t remember everything they did. They worried about how it would heal. They worried about infection. They worried about even more things that I don’t remember.

  I eventually did heal, but my face would never be the same. It took years for me to look in the mirror again, after that first glance. I never wanted to leave the house, and my parents didn’t discourage me from my wallowing. I’m not too proud to admit it now. But in the years to follow, both of my brothers would be gone, for each of their reasons, and I would be the only one left. I had to crawl out into the world again.