Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  Now she and Jean-Auguste were on their way home to Chimère. Home. Her own home. Not to be dwelt in at the whim of her brother and his cheeseparing wife, but her very own! She smiled happily, content with her lot, the lovely day, the comfortable silence she shared with Jean-Auguste. They rode slowly along the narrow path strewn with the first reds and yellows of autumn, their horses’ hooves crunching on pine needles and dried twigs and grasses. After the warmth of the last weeks, the weather had turned cool, the tang of fall sharp in the air.

  The sun had already set, though the sky still glowed pink and pale green, when they left the path and crossed a wide highroad, entering a broad avenue overarched with ancient trees. Under this green canopy it was already night, dark and leafy; the luminous sky beyond shone like a distant light at the end of a deep cavern. When at length they emerged, Lysette blinked, as much for the sight that greeted her eyes as the sudden brightness after the gloom.

  In the deepening twilight, Chimère glowed like a jewel. It had been built directly on the Loire, on a small inlet where the placid river bent toward the shore. Surrounded thus on three sides by water, it cast its graceful reflection on the gentle current; the pale golden stones, tinged still with pink from the sky, found echo in the rippling waters. The château was large and square, but at each corner was a round tower surmounted by a high, conical roof, the whole in such pleasing proportions that, in spite of the heavy stone, it seemed almost to float on the serene river. Through the trees Lysette caught a glimpse of a large park and gardens, as well as outbuildings and stables and servants’ quarters, but Chimère had been designed to appear isolated, alone and perfect, carefully screened from the plainness of workaday living.

  She had never seen anything so lovely in all her life.

  When they rode up to the wide front door servants appeared, as if by magic, to bow low and welcome Monsieur and Madame, to help her from the saddle, to lead away the horses. Beyond the door was a corridor, tiled and stone-arched, that traversed the length of the château, a hall so wide and handsomely appointed that Lysette reckoned it had been used on many occasions for large fêtes and receptions. Jean-Auguste ushered her into a small room off the corridor, then excused himself to instruct the servants. It was a cheery room, with a warm fire blazing on the hearth to ward off the early autumn chill; Lysette strolled about for a moment, noting the leather wall coverings, gilded and tooled, the comfortable velvet armchairs, the fine Savonnerie carpet. She crossed to the large windows and stared out at the river below, royal blue now as the sky beyond, and reflecting back the first twinkling star. She was filled with peace and happiness and gratitude; her heart, overburdened with joy, betrayed her and she began to weep, large tears that welled up in her eyes and coursed down her soft cheeks. She had always taken what was given her—or what she could maneuver for—as her right, without question or hesitation; now she thought of the empty meanness of her life with Guy, the cold loneliness that would have been her lot at Chartres, and was overwhelmed by her indebtedness to Jean-Auguste. She would be a good wife to him! She swore it on her father’s grave!

  “I have arranged for a small supper to be served to us here.” Jean-Auguste strode jauntily into the room. Startled, Lysette drew back into the shadow of the window draperies, surreptitiously wiping away her tears with the heel of her hand. “Does that please you?” She nodded, unsure of the steadiness of her voice, then turned and smiled brightly at him as though nothing were amiss. If he noticed the tears that still clung to her dark lashes, he chose not to acknowledge them. “Tomorrow, if you wish, I shall show you Chimère.”

  “Yes. Thank you,” she said stiffly.

  “The ride was not too tiring for you? After all the dancing?”

  “Indeed, no. But I thank you for your concern.”

  “You dance well. It pleased me to watch you.”

  “Thank you.” She almost whispered the words. While the servants brought in a small table and set out supper, she paced the room nervously, filled with a sense of unworthiness in the face of his solicitude.

  She laughed suddenly, unexpectedly, as her eye was caught by a portrait hanging on the wall above a small marble console. It was a painting of a woman, fresh-scrubbed and buxom, the cool elegance of her old-fashioned gown and glittering jewels an odd contrast to the merry openness of her face. She was not beautiful, but her warm smile illuminated her plain features with a glow that made her appear so. Her hair, a riotous shade of scarlet, was piled formally atop her head and anchored with a small silken cap in a style heretofore popular in the Court, but several wayward tresses, like leaping tongues of orange flame, had sprung loose from the orderly coiffure to curl in charming anarchy about her forehead and ears. In truth, it seemed as though the artist had caught her likeness at a felicitous moment, at any second the whole mass would surely come cascading down and she would dissolve into helpless laughter.

  “This can be none other but your mother!” exclaimed Lysette. “That perverse hair…that ungodly color…!”

  Jean-Auguste smiled crookedly. “There are those who say her son’s perversity is a matter of the spirit! Think you so?” He threw back his head and laughed when Lysette nodded emphatically. “As for the color—you made known your sentiments the day you tried to uproot it!” He shrugged. “However, there is nothing to be done for it…unless I wear a wig!”

  “Ugh! Guy wore a wig. When he had spent the night in some hay rick with a trollop from Soligne, it was my task to air his wig and shake it free of whatever…creatures…had taken up residence therein!” She shuddered in disgust at the memory, then frowned at Jean-Auguste, her flashing violet eyes making it plain she would not welcome his pity.

  “Very well, then. I shall not wear a wig! And you must reconcile yourself to the sight of this…ungodly color! For my part, I shall pray to le bon Dieu that our children favor their mother rather than their grandmother.”

  Lysette’s mouth formed a thin uneasy smile and she turned quickly from the painting, whirling about to indicate the portrait hanging above the fireplace, a young man in hunting garb with dark brown hair and a large, bushy mustache. “And is that your father?”

  “No. Gabriel.”

  “Your brother.”

  “Yes. There is a portrait of my father in the Great Hall. I shall show you in the morning.”

  “And they are all dead?”

  “Yes. I scarcely knew my father. And Gabriel died when I was still just a young man.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Soon after Gabriel. The loss…she had buried three children in infancy…it was too much…”

  “But you were fortunate. I never knew my mother at all.”

  Jean-Auguste smiled indulgently. “But your father spoiled you outrageously, that is plain enough! No, do not pout. Though your ‘moue’ is charming, it does not gainsay the truth. I have no doubt your brothers—as well as your father—indulged your whims!” He seated her at the small table, taking his place opposite; when the servants had laid out the last of the food and poured the wine he dismissed them. Raising his glass to his lips, he saluted her.

  She sipped at her wine, her violet eyes soft over the rim of her goblet. “And will you spoil me, Monsieur?”

  He frowned and started to shake his head, then thought better of it and laughed ruefully. “Not willingly.” She noted how his steady gaze wavered, as though he doubted his own resistance to her charms.

  “Then beware, my lord, for I mean to have my way!” She smiled warmly at him, her gentle teasing meant to hide the smug triumph that filled her heart.

  They supped quietly, picking at their food, for neither was hungry after the large dinner that they had had at Vilmorin. At length Jean-Auguste arose and helped Lysette from her chair, leading her across the wide corridor to an enclosed stairwell on the opposite side of the château. The staircase, all carved marble tracery, spiraled upward to the second and third floors. Though one side of the enclosure was made up of large windows that looked out onto the rive
r, it was now quite dark outside and the only light within came from a large torchère set on the first landing.

  “Dominique should be waiting for you in the passageway upstairs,” said Jean-Auguste. “She will show you to your bedchamber.”

  “Thank you,” she said, feeling suddenly uncomfortable again, half tempted to yawn noticeably. She took several steps up the stairs, then stopped and turned, contriving to look weary, though her brain whirled with stratagems. Perhaps if she hurried, she could be in bed and feigning sleep before he came to her room.

  “Will you sleep directly?” His eyes, deep gray in the torchlight, gazed steadily into hers, telling her nothing. Damn him, she thought. If the words had not been spoken, she might have managed to avoid his attentions this night; but his question hung in the air, forcing her to make a decision. And how, after all his kindness, could she refuse him to his face? Reluctantly, she shook her head.

  “You are not too tired?” he persisted.

  “No,” she said, almost sharply.

  “Then I shall come to your chamber in a little while.” He left her to make her way up the staircase alone.

  The hallway above was not nearly so wide as the one below it; as she stepped through the archway leading from the stairwell, Dominique hurried across the tiled floor to greet her. A polite smile. A discreet curtsy. “Madame la Vicomtesse!” But the expression on Dominique’s pinched features made it clear she considered Lysette’s elevated station an extraordinary stroke of fortune.

  “Ah, Madame! Wait until you see your rooms! They are the best in the château. Not even Monsieur has such fine appointments!” She led Lysette to the end of the passage; the last door on the right led into a large corner room, its two window walls draped and swagged in soft rose velvet. Raised on a carpet-covered platform, an imposing bed was tucked into the inner corner of the room, its carved mahogany frame softened by hangings of the same velvet. There was a massive armoire and a small cabinet, and several comfortable chairs covered in pink and deep blue brocade. The walls of the room had been paneled in the same brocade, and hung with fine paintings and a large Venetian mirror. A small dressing table sat under one of the windows, and a prie-dieu was next to the bed; one or two small gilded tables completed the furnishings. A cozy fire burned on the hearth, and someone had taken the care to place a large vase of fresh flowers on the mantelpiece. Lysette exclaimed in delight at everything: it was a splendid room, far more beautiful than anything she had expected. Dominique smiled happily and picked up a candle, motioning Madame to follow her.

  “There is more, Madame. Look! Ah, what joy it will be to serve you here at Chimère!” She led Lysette to an open archway at the juncture of the two window walls: this was the corner of the château and the small round room beyond the arch was one of the turrets that Lysette had seen from outside. It was a kind of sitting room, with comfortable upholstered settees and chairs; the small-paned windows, undraped save for sheer gauze curtains, traversed the curve of the wall, a fine vantage point for viewing the river in all directions. “Is it not lovely, Madame? Is it not grand?” Dominique danced excitedly about the room, while Lysette, overwhelmed again by gratitude and conscience, returned silently to the bedroom.

  She stood quietly and frowned as Dominique peeled off the layers of her clothing: jacket and riding skirt, chemise and petticoats; she sat while Dominique removed her soft riding boots and stockings. With a heavy sigh, she stood up, now quite naked, and waited for the maid to fetch her nightdress and peignoir.

  “It is almost too grand for me,” she murmured, half to herself.

  “Too grand? Nay, Madame! Wherefore too grand?”

  “Monsieur le Vicomte is a great and kind gentleman, whilst I…”

  “Madame, you are a lady of exceeding beauty!” exclaimed Dominique, suddenly defensive. “Monsieur is very fortunate! Is it not your right to take the gifts he offers?” She snorted in contempt. “He will take what he wishes, as all men do!” She slipped the nightdress over Lysette’s head and helped her on with a flowing silk peignoir, nodding her approval. “They say that when Madame du Crillon married Monsieur le Comte she was but the daughter of a doctor, and now she reigns like a princess at Vilmorin! Why then should Chimère be too grand for you, my lady?”

  Yes, thought Lysette. Why indeed should she feel beholden to Jean-Auguste? She was a nobleman’s daughter, an asset to him in society, his equal, not his inferior! She was tired of thanking him for every kindness! As Dominique said, she was entitled to his gifts and his deference. He had not got a bad bargain in her! She would give him her favors—albeit grudgingly—she did not owe him humbleness! Seating herself at the dressing table, she allowed Dominique to unpin her chignon and comb out her hair.

  There was a gentle knock at the door. At Lysette’s response, Jean-Auguste entered, bearing a golden ewer and two embossed goblets. He was clad in a long brocaded dressing gown that served to accentuate his broad shoulders and rangy frame. Dominique turned as if to leave, but Lysette held fast to her hand, indicating she was to continue her combing.

  “I thought you might care to try one of our Chimère wines. This is ten years old. It was a good harvest that year.” He poured out a pale stream of wine, faintly tinged with pink, and handed the cup to Lysette.

  “Ten years? And it is fit still to drink?”

  He laughed softly. “It is the caves. All the Vouvray wines are long-lived…the coolness of the caves, the peculiar quality of the grapes in the region…” He shrugged. “Whatever the causes, you will not taste wine like this elsewhere!”

  She sipped at the wine. Despite its pale color, it was rich and full-bodied, fruity and slightly sweet, with a pleasing effervescence that lingered on her tongue. She smiled in satisfaction. “And this is your own?”

  “It is yours as well, now. If we sell enough casks and hogsheads, I have no doubt the silk merchants and jewelers of Vouvray will enjoy your trade!” He refilled her goblet and sat in a large armchair near her dressing table, watching with great interest as Dominique combed out the raven tresses and curled the ringlets over her fingers. Much to Lysette’s surprise, he seemed in no hurry to see Dominique leave, but lolled in his chair enjoying the wine and the details of her toilette. She felt a sudden pang of annoyance—was he as reluctant to take her to bed as he had been about marrying her?

  “You may leave now, Dominique,” she said, a sharp edge in her voice. “I shall finish myself.” She took the comb from the girl and continued to groom her hair, conscious of the silence in the room after Dominique had gone. She stole a look at Jean-Auguste in her mirror, there was not a clue in his calm expression. A few moments before she had wondered how she might evade her wifely duty; now she frowned to herself at his seeming lack of interest.

  “You have lovely hair,” he said suddenly.

  She turned about to him, instantly the coquette. “Oh, think you so?” And smiled beguilingly, her eyes wide and innocent.

  “Indeed I do.” His mouth twitched, cool, amused, cynical. “As do you, else you would not seek out every opportunity to make a show of it.” She gaped, then pressed her lips together in a hard line, annoyed at being caught once again in a game. The smile faded from his face, his gray eyes thoughtful. “Your vanity can be charming,” he said, “but I dislike coyness…and deceit.”

  Sulking, her mouth set in a sullen pout, she turned her back to him. If she had hated him for his piercing eyes, she hated him even more now for the frankness that gave her no refuge. Her shoulders sagged unhappily; she did not like to be scolded.

  Standing up without a word, he lifted the comb from her drooping fingers and began to pull it gently through her locks. There was something almost sensual in the softness of his touch, a delicacy in his wielding of the comb that touched a chord deep within her. She closed her eyes, enjoying the unexpected pleasure, the luxury of feeling pampered once again.

  “It is beautiful hair,” he said. “You have every right to flaunt it. I mark I was struck by its glory the first momen
t I saw you at Soligne.”

  Her eyes shot open in surprise. “In the midst of the battle and the turmoil?”

  He grinned, his eyes twinkling at her reflection in the mirror. “Though he faces death upon the instant, a man always notices a comely woman!”

  Disarmed, she touched her curls self-consciously. “But…the disarray…”

  “No matter. Its beauty caught my eye at once.”

  She smiled in pleasure, basking in his compliments. He could be so agreeable…when he chose to be. “But you did not like it that day at the inn!” she said, petulant again. “You were quite insulting!”

  “To the contrary…”

  “You said I looked like a child!”

  “And so you did. But a very lovely and charming child!”

  “You did not say so!”

  “I was more than a little angry at you, as I recall.”

  She frowned. Why did their conversations always drift into this—his unspoken disapproval of her behavior, her feeling that she was a naughty child and he the parent who expected better of her? Not even Guy had dared to chide her openly, though she had tormented him often enough. Until Jean-Auguste, she had never had a second thought, a single twinge of conscience, about what she said or did.

  “If you please,” she said hastily, raising her empty wine goblet. When he had refilled it, she moved quickly away from him, going to stand at the window, avoiding the condemnation she felt sure would be in his gray eyes. For had she not deliberately tried to tempt André, that evening at the inn—combing her hair, plaiting the black tresses seductively? She stared out at the night, the silver crescent of the moon rising over the river.