Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  Now, laughing softly, Jean-Auguste swung his horse into place beside Lysette’s. Why did he always look at her as though he could read her thoughts?

  “You play a dangerous game, Madame la Marquise!” he chuckled, the seriousness of his eyes contradicting his laughter.

  She tossed her black ringlets with contempt. “What need have I for games? Monsieur le Comte has been very kind to me! Would you condemn me for the sin of gratitude?”

  “Take care that your gratitude goes not beyond the bounds of propriety!”

  She smiled coquettishly. “And if it does? Would you be jealous?”

  A light flickered for an instant behind his eyes, but he smiled. “Be warned for your own sake,” he said gently.

  Her eyes flashed. “For my sake? Pooh! You are jealous! He is handsomer than you, and braver, and kinder, and…and better in every way!”

  He gazed at her steadily, the edge of exasperation in his voice. “And what if there should be a Comtesse du Crillon?”

  Her face fell. “No! It is not so! It cannot be so! You are lying!” She bit her lip, her soft chin trembling. “At any rate, I care not a whit! He is my friend…and nothing more!” She prodded her horse skillfully with her knee, and made for the head of the column and André.

  Laughing, he called after her. “Have a care that your ‘friend’ does not find out how well you ride! He might not enjoy being gulled!”

  She contrived to avoid him for the whole of the day, hating him all the more because his frank and honest face attested to his inability to lie, and she knew it must be so, that André had a wife. Sullen, her jaw set in a stubborn line, she rode apart from the others, until a young junior officer, captivated by her pouting lips and smoldering eyes, took it upon himself to cheer her and coax a smile to that tempting mouth. By late afternoon, as the shadows lengthened in the forest glade, she had acquired two more admirers, and her silvery laugh trilled in the leafy gloom and was answered by a distant thrush. More than once André had turned, smiling, and she thought she saw a flicker of interest in those deep blue eyes. By the time they stopped for the evening at a small inn on the edge of the woods, she was confident that she could attract him—and even win him—wife or no wife! She had taken no lovers, nor even encouraged her admirers, since Guy had died, and had been a faithful wife while he was alive, despite his inclination to wander. But her aversion had had very little to do with scruples: she had simply not wished to be close to any man. André was different. She had but to look at him to know that she could be happy even as his mistress, comforting him when his fat and ugly wife played the shrew (for she had long since conjured up a most unflattering mental picture of the Comtesse du Crillon).

  The evening was a pleasant one, the sky glowing with the luminosity of midsummer though the sun had set hours ago; it was still light, as though the day were reluctant to give way to the darkness. The horses had been fed and bedded for the night in the small stable next to the inn; the men likewise, stuffed with bread and cheese and good ale, had found comfortable corners in the enclosed courtyard and lay snoring contentedly. Lysette had been given a tiny room in the eaves, but she lingered at the inn door, unwilling yet to go to bed.

  There was a small bench around the side of the inn, facing into the dark woods; after supper André and Jean-Auguste had taken a stroll in that direction. Lysette hesitated, then marched to the edge of the inn from where, leaning into the rough stone wall, she could see them. Narbaux, plumed hat held carelessly in his hand, lolled against a dark oak tree while André stood with one foot leaning on the bench; they seemed to be engaged in that kind of amiable conversation that is only possible between old friends. Lysette frowned. That hateful Narbaux! As though he were protecting André from her, never leaving his side for a moment! Well, she would show him!

  She was glad she had taken off that shapeless jerkin; though coarse homespun, her chemise clung to her breasts in a most attractive manner, accenting each swell and curve, and the full long sleeves served to point up the daintiness of her hands. Reaching up, she pulled the pins from the back of her hair and shook out the tight chignon, letting the curls cascade down her back. She gloried in her hair—glossy and black as the wings of a raven, with that peculiar iridescence that seemed to glint with highlights of midnight blue and deep ruby and amber.

  As though she had not a care in the world, she sauntered to the line of trees, then turned back to the two men, her face registering surprise at finding them there. She smiled demurely at them both, then perched on the edge of the bench and began to play with a soft curl beneath one ear.

  “I begin to regret the journey already,” she said with a sigh. “I fear me I shall never remove all the burrs from my hair!” Saying thus, she began to comb her tresses with slim fingers, stretching out her curls and sweeping them forward to lie alongside her breasts.

  “With such lovely hair, Madame la Marquise need have no fear,” said André gallantly. “There is not a burr in all this wide forest that would dare to despoil such beauty!”

  “More especially if the briars do not reach above the horse’s withers,” said Jean-Auguste dryly.

  Ignoring Narbaux, Lysette dimpled up at André, noticing with pleasure that he seemed unable to drag his eyes from her dainty white fingers stroking the jet-black curls. “How kind you are, Monsieur le Comte! How fortunate your wife must be, to have a husband who takes such an interest in a woman’s looks. I fear me my late husband would not have noticed had he been married to a toothless hag!” And here she smiled dazzlingly, seemingly unaware that the even whiteness of her teeth made it clear what a blind fool her husband must have been. With deft hands she parted the hair at the back of her head, then frowned and ran one slim finger down the line of the part. She inclined her nape at André. “Monsieur, have I done it aright?” André harrumphed and shifted one uneven tress, while Lysette raised her eyes and beamed at Jean-Auguste, the violet depths glittering wickedly despite her innocent smile. Quickly she braided her hair into two thick ropes that hung down over her bosom, then jumped up and twirled about for their inspection. “Well, messieurs?”

  André smiled indulgently. She looked like a sweet little child, her face framed in stray wisps and tendrils. “Enchanting!” he complimented. “What think you, Jean-Auguste?”

  Narbaux looked skeptical. He made Lysette nervous—those gray eyes of his that saw too much—she was not sure she wanted his opinion.

  “Pooh!” she said quickly. “How could Monsieur le Vicomte have the slightest idea of what is attractive—or even fashionable? With that great red monster growing on his face!” She pointed with contempt at Narbaux’s flowing mustaches while André roared with laughter.

  “You see, mon ami?” he gasped. “What have I been telling you? I have been minded more than once to shave off that growth of yours whilst you slept; now comes this charming creature to reaffirm what I have been saying all along! What say you? Will you finally let us see that bare face of yours? I vow it has been so many years, I have quite forgot what you look like!”

  Narbaux flamed scarlet, his face as bright as his riotous curls, while André cackled and Lysette smiled maliciously, the victor of the battle, prepared to plant her flag on conquered territory.

  Jean-Auguste fingered his thick mustaches and managed a laugh. “Very well,” he said. “Agreed! But only on condition that you write that letter to Marielle you have been promising for weeks! And the one every second day after that!” He grinned as André looked shame-faced. “Well, my friend?”

  “It is not necessary for you to lose your mustaches to remind me of my duty. I have been more than a little neglectful of Marielle. Keep your face’s pride!”

  Narbaux shook his head. “Nevertheless, I shall shave it off. I have given my word, and here’s my hand on it!” The two shook hands warmly, and André bid them good night, striding jauntily off to the inn and his writing case. How like Narbaux, thought Lysette bitterly, to remind André of his wife, just when he had begun to notice her! />
  In the dimming light, Jean-Auguste turned to Lysette, his gray eyes serious. “It will soon cease to be a joke, you know, this pursuit of André.”

  Stung, her banners tattered from the final skirmish, Lysette jutted out her chin in stubborn defiance. She tossed her head angrily, and the two thick plaits swayed back and forth on her bosom. “I shall do as I please!”

  He shrugged, then smiled crookedly. “I think, upon reflection, that that coiffure suits you. It strips away the pretense of womanhood and shows you for what you are—a selfish, wilful…child!”

  Violet eyes widening in fury, she lashed out at him, her outstretched palm catching the side of his face with such force that he staggered back a step. She thought, for one fearful moment, that he would strike her back, but instead his eyebrows shot up quizzically in a look of such mild surprise—his face still glowing red from her fingers—that it was almost a condemnation. She fled to her room, burning with shame and humiliation, there to let the scalding tears flow and to untwist her braids with trembling hands.

  The morning dawned gray and gloomy. Thick, ominous clouds roiled in the sky and scudded across the heavens, propelled by a strong wind. Pooh! thought Lysette, peering through the small dormer window. It will blow away in an hour or two. With determination she rolled up the ugly jerkin and tucked it away in the small packet that held her few belongings: a fresh pair of stockings, an extra petticoat, her comb and two or three spare hairpins. Not a woman indeed! She loosened the drawstring of her chemise and pulled it wide so it rested on the edge of her shoulders and bared the first voluptuous swell of her breasts. Let him call her a child now!

  She skipped downstairs to the common room, pleased that the young officers around the table rose quickly to greet her, making a game of who should proffer her a mug of sweetened wine and some bread and cheese. André in particular smiled warmly, his blue eyes filled with frank admiration, setting butterflies to dancing deep within her. She dimpled prettily at them all, disappointed only that Narbaux was not around to see her conquests. She glimpsed him at last through the open door; that bright orange hair was unmistakable. Quickly, but with seeming nonchalance, she finished off her breakfast and sauntered out into the courtyard. He was surrounded by the foot soldiers, the center of much joking and raucous laughter. At her appearance, the men fell back in deference and Narbaux turned about. Lysette almost gasped aloud, the change was so remarkable.

  His face was now quite bare. Shorn of his large red mustaches, his appearance was astonishingly altered. The odd contrast of that bushy growth set against his open countenance had made him seem very young, boyish even, like a lad who wears his father’s hat and appears all the more callow and tender. With the mustache gone, those thoughtful gray eyes dominated his face, diminishing the intrusiveness of the bright red hair that curled almost to his shoulders. With a start, Lysette realized he must be nearly André’s age, a good ten years her senior. She had meant to show him that she was a woman; the mere application of his razor had defeated her, making her feel green and immature. He looked at her steadily, his eyes not once straying to her bosom.

  “There is hardly an improvement!” she said caustically. “Perhaps if you could contrive to shave off your hair…!” And waited to see him flinch. Instead, he threw back his head and roared with laughter, while she stewed with embarrassment and anger. How dare he laugh at her! She aimed a ferocious kick at his leg, and smiled in triumph as her heavy shoe connected with a thud and he yelped in pain. Tossing her dark curls, she swept disdainfully from the courtyard, while he sat down on a bench and rubbed his shin, his body still shaking with merriment.

  Glancing uneasily at the lowering sky, André gave the signal for them to mount up. Lysette was still so upset at Narbaux she hardly bothered to reward the gallant lieutenant who had helped her into the saddle; he contented himself with the thought that the touch of her dainty waistline beneath his hands was nearly as gratifying as one of her charming smiles. The innkeeper, his pocket fattened by the seigneur’s gold, tugged at his cap respectfully as they rode out onto the road; his wife, her swollen body great with child, attempted to curtsy, swayed a little, thought better of it, and waved one work-roughened hand.

  Lysette shuddered. How ugly she looked! How awful it must be to watch your body grow large and lumpish, to see disgust in a man’s eyes, to know that all that could come of it was pain and suffering and a squalling creature who depended on you for everything! She had hated it, when Guy came to her bed, not only because his old and creaking body disgusted her, but because she lived in fear of conceiving a child. She had used all the tricks at her command—sulking, and tears, and vague ailments and malaise—to hold him at bay; surprisingly, he did not often seem to mind, bothering her only occasionally out of restless boredom. She submitted with indifference, but each time, when he had left her chamber, she would slip out of bed and fall to her knees, praying to le bon Dieu to keep her childless. She had almost been glad to discover that Guy was unfaithful, wishing only for her pride’s sake that he was more discreet. If he seemed about to remind her of her wifely duty, she had but to pick a quarrel with him, chiding him for his latest indiscretion, then vanish into her room in a flood of angry tears. She had begun to suspect that he was barren—not one of his mistresses ever bore him a child; nevertheless she continued to use guile and tantrums to forestall his advances. It was a kind of revenge: if her lack of financial knowledge and control of the purse kept her a virtual prisoner in her own home, her difficult behavior guaranteed that she was mistress of that home, with Guy being forced to dance to her tune.

  Lysette began to shiver. They had been riding for several hours now and the morning was well advanced; still the clouds had not broken and the cold wind blew with a cutting edge that seemed to bore into her. She fingered the top of her chemise and wished she had not pulled it quite so low; even the ugly jerkin seemed welcome now. But she had been so brazen about exposing her shoulders and breasts; how could she cover herself now without appearing more than a little foolish for her earlier immodesty?

  Well, perhaps if she hung back a bit and let the column pass, as though she intended to retire a little way into the woods to relieve herself, she could tighten the drawstring on her chemise and raise the neckline a few unobtrusive inches, thereby gaining a modicum of warmth. She stopped her horse and dismounted, half minded to unpack the jerkin, ugly or no, then changed her mind and vanished into the woods. When she emerged, grateful for the small warmth the readjustment afforded her, she was surprised to see Jean-Auguste standing by her horse. She smiled regally at him, determined this time to have the upper hand, and took hold of the reins, waiting imperiously for him to help her into the saddle. His eyes flickered for a moment, taking in her now demure neckline, then came to rest again on her face with such an open blandness she was sure he was laughing at her. Mon Dieu! Why did he always make her blood boil? She nodded brusquely toward her horse, impatient for his assistance.

  “Wait.” He turned toward his own mount, searching in the saddlebag until he had withdrawn a heavy woolen cloak. “The day has turned chill. Wear this.” He was laughing at her! She could see it behind those cool gray eyes.

  Her own eyes flashed, sending out violet sparks, and she lifted her chin stubbornly, her full lips pouting in anger. “I hardly need your cloak, Monsieur! The day is quite pleasant!”

  “Nonsense! Don’t be such a vain little fool! Your shoulders can hardly be attractive if they are blue with the cold! Take the cloak.”

  Vain fool, was she? She would show him she did not need his interference! Fingers shaking in anger, she loosened the drawstring once again, this time dragging down the chemise below the curve of her shoulders until her back was half bare and her bosom exposed almost beyond the bounds of propriety.

  He shrugged in disgust. “As you wish.”

  How he infuriated her! “Get out of my way!” she shrieked, and swept him away with elbow and forearm and tight-clenched fist, catching him just below the ribs
so he gasped with surprise and exhaled quickly. Turning to her horse, she mounted with ease and galloped off to join the others, not daring to look back—lest his eyes should still be ridiculing her.

  For the rest of the day she stayed close to André, laughing coquettishly as they shared the midday meal, smiling seductively at him when they rode side by side. He did not seem to mind her immodest chemise! At times during the day he would frown into the distance, his mind a thousand miles away: she had but to touch his arm with her soft fingers and the frown would melt, replaced by a friendly grin that did not hesitate to appraise her bosom as well. Her heart ached. How she longed to kiss that smiling mouth!

  The sun had managed finally to struggle through the clouds, warming the day somewhat; nevertheless, by the time evening was approaching Lysette was numb with the cold. They had not found an inn or farmyard nearby, and André decided that they would make camp in a small clearing near a flowing stream, trusting to providence to sweep the sky clean and forestall the rain.