Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  Paralyzed with fear, on the edge of hysteria, Lysette began to laugh softly, her mind incapable of absorbing any more horror. It was really quite funny, when you stopped to think of it. What a fool Madame Gossault was! One had only to remember Monsieur Gossault’s flabby body and sweaty hands! That young soldier was robust and virile—Madame Gossault should welcome his attentions, not struggle against him! Yes. Robust and virile. And young. Not like Guy…Guy…

  Guy’s slippered feet padded softly across the tile floor, making a gentle slapping sound that was muffled as he crossed the Savonnerie carpet that Lysette’s aunt had given her for her last birthday. In the large bed, Lysette clamped her eyes shut tight and drew the coverlet up to her nose, filled suddenly with fear and regret. She was not unmindful, in a generalized way, of what was about to happen, for she had tormented her aunt often enough until the poor woman had explained the strange things that occurred between men and women; still, until this moment she had not ever thought about herself in such a situation. It was always other women. Other women. Even in the months that Guy had courted her he had been so deferential, barely touching her, that she had never thought of this. Or did not wish to. He was so handsome, his dark hair curling about his wide shoulders, so much like her father—ah Dieu! She had only wanted to be pampered and petted, to be cared for, as she had always been cared for by her father and brothers and uncle. Not to have a man touch her and do terrible things to her body!

  She bit her lip. How foolish. To be so upset! And all because of a doublet! They had sat at her uncle’s table, eating their wedding supper, while everyone smiled and wished them well. Then Guy had led her gently away, guiding her up the stairs to their rooms, his hand beneath her elbow, his head bent attentively to hers. It had been such a lovely moment, filled with romance and dreams come true, she had not wanted it to end, but sat in an alcove in the corridor, looking out over the gardens and the peaceful evening. Guy had smiled tolerantly at first, but as she lingered, he had begun to tap his foot in impatience and slowly to unbutton his doublet, suggesting that she too might be more comfortable out of her heavy velvets. And then he had removed his doublet—padded, quilted, brocaded, with loops and bows and ribbons, she had seen it a score of times—and oh! the thin and bony shoulders beneath that glorious exterior! She had been dazzled by the width of his doublet, never wondering what was beneath. She had looked at him, in the last fading light of the alcove window, and seen why he had reminded her of her father. He was nearly as old as her father. The shiny black hair curled unnaturally around his temples as though it did not belong there, and she had realized with a start that it was in all likelihood just a wig. She had fled to her room, while Guy, misunderstanding her haste, had preened himself and promised he would come to her room as quickly as he could.

  “Lysette!”

  She opened her eyes and lowered the coverlet to her neck, trying bravely to smile. Guy stood above her, his face lit by the small bedside candle, long dressing gown loose on his spare frame. It had been a wig. His hair was black, true enough, but it glinted with silver and hung sparse and stringy to his chin. “Ma chérie!” He slipped out of his dressing gown, and sat down, naked, on the edge of the bed; there was an arrogance to his bearing (she had not noticed that before, either) that suggested he considered himself irresistible to women. He leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth—his lips were dry and rough and faintly unpleasant; she had a sudden childhood vision of kissing her aging grandfather, and nearly giggled aloud. He prodded her gently until she made room for him in the bed, then slipped under the coverlet to lie beside her. He did not seem to mind the linen nightdress she wore—she had not had the courage to take it off before he entered the room—and for that at least she was grateful. Taking her by the shoulders, he pulled her on top of him, catching her mouth in another dry kiss. She was not uncomfortable—she was dainty and petite enough to rest easily on his relatively larger frame, but she found herself hard put to find a place to rest her hands, repelled by the dry raspiness of his naked shoulders and chest. His arms clasped her tightly, firm hands clutching and kneading her buttocks through the soft fabric, while he twitched and grunted beneath her. It was all so silly! Was this what love was all about? The desire to giggle rose strong within her—how she would laugh in the morning when she tried to tell her aunt what had happened!

  And then, so suddenly that the smile was still on her face, Guy rolled over with her and pushed up her nightdress, rough hands forcing her knees apart, his weight, heavy on her body, brought with it a sharp pain that subsided to a dull ache as he labored above her, face contorted with the effort. She fought back her tears, wishing she were dead, closing her eyes against the sight of him. Of his old face! Satisfied at last, he stood up, slipping on his dressing gown and patting her cavalierly on the top of her head. Then he was gone. As though she were a dog! As if she were his horse, back from a successful ride! She stumbled out of bed and vomited into the chamber pot.

  Madame Gossault began to whimper and sob. The toothless farmer had taken his turn with her, and a gawky lad of fourteen, so excited by his good fortune that he had barely had time to take his place between those fat legs before his passion was spent, squandered by the frenzy of youth. Most of the rabble had found fresh amusements on the far side of the square. Madame Gossault moaned and tried weakly to rise, then gave a helpless little squeal as yet another bumpkin, a big oafish fellow, pushed her down again and groped at his breeches, while two of his companions gathered around, joking coarsely as they awaited their turn.

  “No! Please…nom de Dieu!” she gasped. “In the carriage…a young one…a pretty one…ah, Dieu!”

  Lysette froze with fear as the three men turned to peer over at the coach. Perhaps they would not come looking for her! Perhaps they did not believe Madame Gossault! They hesitated, then turned their attention back to the corpulent form still sprawled across the turnip sacks. Lysette had just begun to breathe when one of the men glanced again at the carriage, shrugged his shoulders, and approached quickly, pulling open the heavy door and pawing among the velvets, while she struggled to extricate herself from the draperies that had suddenly become entangled in her arms and legs. With a triumphant shout, he dragged her forth, kicking and squirming, and slung her under one brawny arm, where she hung writhing and helpless as his fellows ran to join him. He set her down roughly and the three men linked arms, imprisoning her in the circle thus created; they laughed uproariously as she whirled about, seeking an escape, throwing herself violently against one steely arm and then another. She felt sick with panic and dread. Where were the nice people of this town? The smug merchants, safe behind their shuttered windows! Was there no one to care, to save her?

  “But it is Madame la Marquise de Ferrand, n’est-ce pas?” One of the men, a hairy fellow with a bushy black beard, was peering at her closely.

  She caught her breath and stared at him. Surely she must know him! “Yes, I am the Marquise de Ferrand.” A client of Guy’s. That was it! His name! Dear God, his name…She hesitated, then smiled regally, painfully aware that the three of them towered over her, that her gown was rumpled and her hair in disarray. “I remember you quite well, my good man…”

  “Baptiste.”

  “Yes. Of course. Baptiste. I had not forgot!” She smiled her most dazzling smile, then fluttered her eyelashes shyly.

  “How could you forget, Madame? Did I not come to your husband, Monsieur the notary, with twenty-five crowns and instructions to draw up a deed to a little piece of land beyond Soligne?” Lysette smiled uneasily, scouring her mind to remember if Guy had told her anything. Baptiste inclined his head to Lysette. “Can you read and write, Madame?” She nodded. “How fortunate you are, Madame, how privileged your life! If I could read…but alas! I must have someone to look at the papers and tell me why, after all this time, I have neither the land nor the twenty-five crowns!”

  Lysette looked away in consternation. Damn Guy! Curse her own foolishness in never caring or questionin
g his dealings! She did not even have twenty-five crowns left to her name, and the look on Baptiste’s face made it clear he meant to collect the debt in quite another way.

  “But what happened to your gold and your land?” growled one of the other men.

  “Can you not guess? Monsieur’s pretty little wife needed a new petticoat!” Baptiste’s large hands fumbled at Lysette’s skirts; she pulled free and backed away from him, only to be stopped by another pair of hands that grabbed her from behind and clamped her wrists to her sides.

  “When my wife needs a new petticoat, it does not cost me twenty-five ecus!”

  “Ah, but a Marquise is different from other women!” Baptiste leered at Lysette and stepped forward, his face so close she could smell the wine on his breath. He smiled and licked his lips, but hatred glowed in his eyes. “A Marquise is soft and delicate! You see?” He clawed at her bodice, wrenching the fabric away from her neck, tearing, groping for her bosom while she cursed and struggled vainly against those pinioning hands. She kicked and screamed, little caring that her breasts were exposed, her shoulders bare; the ultimate terror would be to share Madame Gossault’s fate, and she fought against the rough hands that pawed at her skirt and tore at her petticoats.

  Of a sudden, there was bedlam in the square—the crack of muskets, and screaming and the high-pitched whinny of horses; the market became a fearful storm of men and smoke and blood and death. There were soldiers with pikes, and mounted soldiers who swept through the mob like great scythes, harvesting destruction with their flailing swords. Women shrieked in terror, and gnarled farmers threw up their hands and pitched forward onto the ruined fruit stalls, their heads split open like so many melons.

  Baptiste fled, and one of his companions, but the other still held tightly to Lysette, who stood, rooted to the spot, without the sense to break free of him or take cover. Out of the whirl of smoke a mounted rider appeared, tall and regal, with eyes that blazed blue fire. The sight of Lysette, her bodice bare, her arms still imprisoned, seemed to infuriate him. With a growl, he leapt from his horse, one heavy knotted fist crashing into the farmer’s head and knocking him to the ground; the other hand, clutching a pistol, aimed straight for the man’s chest. He thought better of it, took a deep breath, and tucked the pistol into his wide sash, contenting himself with raising up the farmer by his neckerchief and driving his fist once again into the man’s face. Then he straightened up and turned to Lysette.

  The tumult in the square had ceased almost as abruptly as it had begun. In the sudden silence, Lysette could hear the blood pounding in her temples. The man took her breath away. Not even Guy, seen through the romantic haze of her childhood fantasies, had seemed so wonderful. He was tall, and blond, to judge by the golden curls that spilled out from beneath his casque; his skin, bronzed from the sun, only made his eyes seem more remarkable. Blue. The color of the sea, the color of sapphires, warm and rich and glowing. He was not a callow youth; neither was he old, as Guy had been. In his prime. She judged him to be in his middle thirties, old enough to know what he wanted from a woman, young enough not to have to seek it in a hundred beds, as Guy had done.

  She realized that he was staring at her naked bosom, and she blushed, though not without a certain sense of vanity. She had admired herself often enough in a mirror to know her breasts were beautiful, firm and rosy and tantalizing, and never more so than when her glossy black hair curled enticingly on her creamy flesh, as now it did. Did he notice, she wondered, how attractive she was?

  And then she began to shake, the hours of terror at last taking their toll, a trembling that shook her slight frame beyond her powers to control. He hesitated, frowning in consternation at her sudden weakness, uncertain how best to ease her distress. She felt gentle hands on her shoulders, a soft mantle covering her nakedness, strong arms that turned her about and cradled her quivering form. With a grateful moan, she gave way to her pent-up emotions, sobbing out her fear and grief; at length, quieting, she felt her head begin to spin, a giddy slide in and out of consciousness, fragments and images whirling in her brain. She was aware that he had walked away, that there were cries in the square, and barked orders, and Madame Gossault’s wailing; still the comforting arms held her, her only anchor in a sea of confusion. She felt herself being lifted, carried over a threshold and up a dim flight of stairs, then placed on a soft bed. Sighing, she curled up among the pillows, spent, exhausted, and let herself drift off into oblivion. For a fragment of a second, just as sleep overtook her, she opened her eyes to see the face that bent close, pale gray eyes filled with concern, a boyish face, an open, friendly face, crowned with a mass of bright orange curls.

  Chapter Three

  Lysette adjusted the soft leather gauntlets, stretching them carefully over her fingers and past her wrists, taking pains lest she damage the fine embroidery and beading. They contrasted strangely with the rest of her outfit: the coarse peasant skirt and chemise, the clumsy leather shoes, the sleeveless chamois jerkin, somewhat oversized on her petite frame, that one of the young soldiers, blushing shyly, had presented to her. Searching the ruined coach several days after the riots, she had come across the gauntlets wedged in between the seats, the only possessions of hers overlooked in the casual looting that had gone on sporadically that first night, committed as much by the troops who had come to quell the disturbance as by the peasants and the bourgeoisie. The rest of her clothing were cast-offs, what she had managed to wheedle from acquaintances.

  Order had at last been restored to Soligne; the Comte du Crillon, empowered to act as Magistrate by the Crown, had held the last of the trials this morning, condemning the leaders of the uprising to the galleys. The murderer of Duvalier had been hanged in the square; for the rest, Crillon had issued a general pardon, and the Governor of Angoumois, aware of the desperation that had driven his peasants to near rebellion, had petitioned Paris to rescind the tax on retail wine purchases. Madame Gossault, still in a state of shock, was being tended by the wife of the richest banker in town, whose solicitude was motivated at least as much by sympathy as by the knowledge that the bulk of Monsieur Gossault’s fortune still remained in the vaults of Soligne.

  Lysette smoothed her jerkin, wishing it clung more closely to her curves, and laid a gauntleted hand on André’s sleeve, her lips curved in a helpless smile. He turned brusquely, brows knit in preoccupation, and she felt her heart leap in her throat. Mon Dieu! How could it be that one frown on that handsome face had the power to move her more than a score of smiles on any other? His blue eyes softened at sight of her and she smiled more deeply, until little dimples appeared on her downy cheeks.

  “If you please, Monsieur le Comte”—she indicated the large mare—“would you be so kind…?”

  He put his hands about her tiny waist and lifted her into the saddle; she contrived to wobble precariously for a few seconds so that he clasped her more tightly, his firm hands steadying her. Violet eyes filled with consternation, she fidgeted in the saddle, as though she were not sure where to put her legs, until he was forced to take her knee in his hands and rest it in its proper niche on the sidesaddle. She smiled in gratitude, her eyes warmed by the fire his touch had set ablaze within her; he reddened and turned away, calling for his own horse and issuing last-minute commands to the column of men. Careful to see that he was not watching her, she adjusted herself comfortably in the saddle and picked up the reins with an easiness born of long years of familiarity. She was aware suddenly of eyes on her and turned about quickly. Monsieur le Vicomte de Narbaux, André’s friend. She did not like him at all! He was regarding her now with eyes that were cool and amused, pale gray orbs that seemed to peer right through her, while his mustache twitched in a crooked smile.

  How she hated him! If he had had his way, she would not be making this journey with Crillon and his men! André had paid off his troops and dismissed them, keeping only those three or four dozen who had been conscripted from his own estates in the Loire valley; now, his work at Soligne finished, he was
preparing to lead them home. Half a score were mounted, the rest on foot. It seemed the perfect opportunity for Lysette. Without money, her welcome in Soligne wearing thin, she would be sorely pressed were she forced to remain until a message could be sent to her brother in Chartres and money forwarded back to her. She had proposed to André that she travel with him, only as far as Tours or Vouvray, so as not to take him out of his way; somehow, she would get a message to her brother from there. He had hesitated, and then Narbaux had interrupted: it would be too tiring for her, it would take weeks since the soldiers were on foot, it would be better for her to wait in Soligne and he himself would see that she had enough crowns to live on until relief came from her brother. She had begun to weep then, her violet eyes like two soft blossoms veiled by the gentle rain: she would be no trouble, she did not need more than a crumb or two of bread, and how could she stay any longer in Soligne after the terror and humiliation she had suffered? Gruffly André had relented, promising that he would have his own men escort her from Tours to Chartres; he would even buy her a sidesaddle and pay for it out of his own pocket. Through her tears, she had smiled triumphantly at the Vicomte, then softened her victory by assuring him how genuinely anxious she was to return home. She hoped he would believe that was her only reason, though her heart sang out the truth: André!