Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  In the one corner of her mind that was not lost in reverie, she was aware suddenly that Jean-Auguste had ceased his labors above her and had withdrawn. With a start, she opened her eyes and found him peering down at her, his penetrating gaze searching her face. Consumed with guilt, after all his kindness, she managed to smile coquettishly at him, then sighed meltingly, as though his lovemaking had left her breathless and satisfied. His eyebrow shot up in surprise, one bright red peak that angled into the smoothness of his forehead, and his lips twitched in a sardonic smile. Without a word he arose from the bed, shrugged into his dressing gown, and left her room.

  She could scarcely apologize to him, of course. And, after all, what was there to apologize for? She had not meant for her thoughts to wander last night; it was habit, nothing more, because of Guy. Still, she resolved to be especially sweet to him today, if only to show her appreciation for his generosity. She dressed carefully in her most becoming gown, her skin still tingling from the scalding bath she had had Dominique pour.

  Encountering Bricole in the passageway, she was dismayed to find that Monsieur le Vicomte had ridden out a good hour ago. It was a busy day at Chimère; he might be anywhere on the estate. She had her writing desk brought upstairs and placed in her small sitting room, spending the better part of an hour releasing the intricate catch and going through the drawers once again. But her joy was hollow; without Jean-Auguste to share her delight, the jewels lost a bit of their luster, the complex mechanism seemed less clever.

  Seating herself at the desk, she drew out paper and ink, and penned a long letter to her brother in Chartres. It was filled with glowing descriptions of Chimère and the beautiful countryside, and detailed lists of the gowns she had bought and the gifts from Jean-Auguste, whom she set forth in the most flattering of terms: his handsomeness, his character, his noble bearing. That should give her sister-in-law the colic for a week! Her brother in Rouen was a different matter—he was a priest as well as a brother—it did not seem right to indulge in as much effusive exaggeration. As simply as she could, she told him of her marriage, of Jean-Auguste’s goodness, of the wisdom of her choice, of her wish to be worthy of him. She put down her quill and stared into the distance; idly pulling open a drawer in the cabinet, she fingered the jeweled button within. Sighing, she picked up her pen again.

  “…oh my dearest brother,” she wrote. “Teach me what I must do to be a better person in God’s sight. There is much wickedness in me that I had not seen before. I am assailed by black humors, and yet am powerless to change. Give me your guidance as I may call you friend, brother, Father.

  “Chimère is large. I could wish I had attended more to our good aunt. I fear me the skills of husbandry and good management will never be mine! Welladay! I shall learn, or learn instead how I may charm my husband into blindness toward my failings!

  “God keep you until we meet again.

  Your dearest sister, Lysette.”

  She sealed the letters, then called for Dominique and changed into her riding clothes. Instructing the maid to see that her horse was saddled, she sought out Bricole.

  “I shall go riding now. Where may I post these letters?”

  “There is a postal office in Vouvray, Madame. But you would be better served taking the carriage, and Dominique. She knows the town and can be helpful.”

  “But I wish to ride!”

  “Vouvray is a long way on horseback, Madame, and perhaps not so safe for a woman riding alone. Besides, the stagecoach will not come for the mail for another two days. If you will leave your letters on the marble table in the small salon, I will see that one of the grooms posts them in Vouvray in good time.”

  “Very well,” she said sourly, knowing he had bested her once again.

  He bowed politely. “Madame, forgive me, but…do you wish to dine at seven again tonight?”

  She hesitated, feeling foolish and trapped. If she changed her mind so soon, surely Jean-Auguste (and Bricole even!) would mock her. “Yes!” she snapped.

  She spent a good part of the afternoon riding through the fields and vineyards, hoping to meet Jean-Auguste, if only because she found his company amusing; but travel where she might she could not find him. She was too proud to stop and inquire after him; besides, the farmers and vignerons that she passed seemed unusually busy, though they took the time to bow and doff their caps to Madame la Vicomtesse as she rode by. She was in an ill humor by the time she returned to Chimère, half convinced that he had deliberately avoided her all the day. She was in the small salon pacing restlessly when at last he came bounding in, his face wreathed in smiles. How she hated him! Playing the gallant, he swept off his hat and bowed low, taking her hand and planting a kiss on her fingertips. Was that the only greeting she could expect from her bridegroom? she thought bitterly. Already he begins to tire of the charade!

  “Are we to wait supper again tonight?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said curtly. “It was my habit at Soligne.”

  “Indeed?”

  Her chin jutted belligerently. “Guy always dined at seven!” she lied, then turned away so he might not read the lie in her eyes.

  “As you wish.” As before, he picked up his book and seated himself comfortably, this time facing the fireplace and the portrait of Gabriel. Lysette was too restive even to play the lute, and she prowled the room, crossing first in front of him and then behind, annoyed at his indifference. Ah, Dieu! The long ride had made her hungrier than she realized; in the silence of the room her stomach began to growl angrily and audibly. Startled, Jean-Auguste looked up from his book, then discreetly lowered his eyes. Lysette felt her face go red and she whirled quickly about, willing the offending organ to be still. It was no use. Her stomach meant to protest the long wait until the hour of seven—and protest it for all the world to hear. In defense she snatched up the lute, playing it steadily until the long hour had passed; but Jean-Auguste, his face still buried in his book, could hardly suppress the grin that twitched at the corners of his mouth.

  At long last, supper was brought in and laid out in the center of the room. Immediately Jean-Auguste arose and went to the table, motioning Lysette to join him. The aroma of the food was maddening, but she forced herself to finish the tune she had been strumming before crossing the room nonchalantly to join him. Hateful man! Always laughing at her! As she passed the marble console beneath his mother’s portrait, her eye was caught by the two letters she had placed there earlier. She stopped and fingered the missive to her brother in Rouen. What moment of weakness had overtaken her—to write such a sniveling letter? With an impatient movement, she snatched it up and tore it in two before moving to the fireplace and tossing it into the flames.

  Jean-Auguste was warm and friendly throughout supper, filled with stories of his busy day, explaining that the grapes would be harvested upon the morrow and that there would be a merry fête in celebration. He did not ask her how she had spent her time; indeed, though his manner was far from cool, there was a certain distance, an inclination to keep his conversation light and impersonal that she found maddening. Annoyed, she even inveigled him into a compliment or two; he responded willingly enough, but there was disinterest in his tone.

  She found herself growing more and more angry with him as the meal progressed—for his indifference, for laughing at her, for his comfortable self-esteem. Just let him invite himself into her bedchamber this evening! Just let him dare to ask! She would blister him with her refusal; she would make a scene that would scorch the very walls of Chimère! He had ignored her all the day—now let him pay for his neglect!

  Supper finished, she tarried at the table for a short time, then bid him good night. Though she lingered overlong on the staircase, he did not hurry to her side; when at length she tiptoed across the hall and stole a peek into the small salon, she saw that he had resumed reading, his chair drawn up to the fireplace, his booted feet propped comfortably on a small stool before the hearth, as though he intended to stay there all night.


  How glad I am, she thought, to be relieved of a wife’s burden, if even for one night.

  Then why did her chamber seem cold and lonely, and sleep, when it finally overtook her, fitful and filled with uneasy dreams?

  Chapter Thirteen

  The first thin light of day was streaking through the casement windows when Dominique hurried in and woke her.

  She sat up grumbling, yawning and wiping the sleep from her eyes. “Nom de Dieu, Dominique, it is still the middle of the night!”

  “Monsieur has requested it, Madame!”

  “Devil take Monsieur!” She eased herself back onto the pillows and pulled the coverlet more firmly about her shoulders. “Go away,” she mumbled.

  “But Madame!”

  Annoyed, fully awake at last, she sat up in bed and glared at the girl. “I do not wish to rise so early,” she said evenly, her violet eyes flashing.

  Dominique glanced nervously at the closed door and began to whimper. “But Madame! Monsieur is waiting!”

  “Out, out, out!” she shrilled, and hurled a pillow at the maid’s departing form. She had just settled herself once again when the door burst open and Jean-Auguste entered, in high good humor. He strode across the room and whipped the coverlet from her bed. She scarcely had time to recover from that indignity before he grasped her about the waist, swung her out of bed, and set her firmly upon her bare feet.

  “Come!” he boomed. “It is the harvest today! There is much to be done and much to see! Save sleeping for a cold winter’s morning! Put on your handsomest riding things and come with me!”

  She frowned and pouted, suddenly remembering his indifference of the day before. “I am still tired,” she sulked.

  He put his hands on her shoulders. “Lysette, come,” he cajoled. “There will be feasting and dancing when the grapes are in.”

  “Pooh! What care I?”

  “As mistress of Chimère you should be there.”

  “Are you ordering me to go with you?”

  “Nom de Dieu!” he said impatiently. “Will you ever cease to be a child?”

  Stung, she shook her shoulders free of his grasp. “Why did you come to my room this morning, when I forbade it?”

  “Forbade?” His gray eyes flickered with a hard light; she fidgeted nervously and softened her tone.

  “I…asked you most kindly not to…invade my chamber in the morning,” she said in an aggrieved voice. “Are my words of such little moment to you that you can have forgot so soon?”

  “I could not wait on such a busy day. Now, will you come with me or no?”

  With careful deliberation she turned her back to him and yawned extravagantly. “No.”

  He shrugged in disgust. “As you wish.” At the door, however, he paused and turned. “Lysette,” he said gently, “come later to the harvest then. When you have had your fill of sleep. I beg you. Do not spend a lonely day at Chimère merely for the sake of your pride—and your violated bedchamber!”

  She hesitated, then jutted out her chin in defiance. “No!”

  When he had gone, closing the door quietly behind him, she stood for a long time, shivering, in the center of the room, warring with her pride; at length, rousing herself, she crept back to the warmth and comfort of her bed. She found she could no longer sleep, but she stayed in bed all the morning, picking at the tray of food Dominique had brought, pretending to herself that she was too weary to rise. When at last even her bed had become vexatious, she rose and dressed carelessly, annoyed that Dominique seemed clumsy and distracted.

  “By all that is holy, Dominique,” she snapped at last, “what has beset you today? You have pulled at my hair, and torn my band string—in faith, I would be better served by a palsied half-wit!”

  “Forgive me, Madame, but it is the harvest!” she burst out. “One of the vignerons has promised to let me tread the grapes.”

  “And you wish to leave now?”

  “If he does not see me there, he will find another!”

  “What nonsense!”

  “Oh, Madame!” she wailed. “I never missed the harvest at Vilmorin! Not ever!”

  Lysette sighed in resignation. In her present mood, the maid would be of no use to her anyhow. “And is he handsome, your vigneron?” Dominique smiled and blushed. “Then go. I shall have no more need of you.” She shrugged off the girl’s effusive thanks, and wandered to the casement window, leaning against the leaded panes and watching the serene river below. If Jean-Auguste does not see me at the harvest will he find another? she wondered. How foolish to have been so stubborn and proud! But he would surely think her a child if she changed her mind now. No! she thought. I said I would not come, and I shall not!

  She had never spent such a long and tedious day in all her life. Even as Guy’s wife, hated and ignored by half of Soligne, she had always managed to find someone to chat with, someone with whom to share the delicious gossip of a small town. But Chimère was almost empty save for the frenzied activity in the large kitchens, as food was prepared and shuttled out to the workers in the vineyards.

  Pooh! she thought. What matter? Better to sup alone…when she wished, where she wished! Surely at the fête she would be expected to dine with the servants, smile at them, even (Mon Dieu!) dance with them!

  She dined in the small salon at seven (still stubborn, though Bricole was out in the fields supervising the feast), then sat and played the lute until boredom and the lateness of the hour overtook her and she nodded over the strings. A draft from the door woke her, she opened her eyes to see Jean-Auguste smiling above her, his sparkling eyes belying the weariness in his face.

  “It was a good harvest,” he said. “I did not think we would pick all the grapes before dark! The fermenting vats are full to bursting—I cannot remember them so full ere now! And sweet! Here!” He held out a cluster of grapes, pale green tinged with pink, and watched pridefully, like a mother with an exceptional child, as Lysette tasted the grapes and nodded her approval. “There is dancing still—will you come?”

  She hesitated, torn by his humble persistence—hating him for his unfailing kindness, despising herself for the spitefulness that had blighted her whole day. “No,” she said at last, very softly.

  He smiled warmly, still enveloped by an aura of satisfaction. “Then come to my bed tonight.”

  “Alas,” she murmured, her face suddenly sad and woebegone, “my head troubles me…a slight malaise. You will find no pleasure with me this night.” She cast down her eyes meekly. “Will you forgive the weakness of this woman’s body?”

  He bowed stiffly, all the joy drained out of his face. “As you wish, Madame. I shall bid you good night. There is still dancing…and wine…at the fête to beguile away the evening.” He turned on his heel and was gone.

  In the morning, she was assailed anew by her conscience. She had not meant to hurt him, but how could she welcome his lovemaking with any great enthusiasm when her fear of conceiving a child was never far from her mind? She resolved at least to blunt her cruelty by prolonging the charade: despite her growing weariness with her chamber, she stayed in her bed and sent word through Dominique that she was still too ill to get up.

  To amuse herself, she insisted that Dominique tell her all about the harvest and the fête, easing her envy by persuading herself that she would not have enjoyed a moment of it. The servant girl dwelt at length upon her handsome young vigneron, Etienne: how he had stolen a kiss or two, and would have danced with her all the night—holding her more tightly than he ought—but for that fool of a forester, Simon Vacher. Half drunk, he had capered about like a madman, dancing with all the women, snatching her from the arms of her vigneron each time it seemed that Etienne would pull her into the shadows beyond the glow of the bonfire. Despite Lysette’s persistent questioning, she could not recall if Monsieur le Vicomte had danced with any one particular woman.

  A gentle knock on the door announced Jean-Auguste, waiting to be received; Dominique ushered him into the room and then vanished. He bowed low
, as though he were in the presence of a queen, but the coolness in his gray eyes put the lie to the pleasant smile on his face. He hoped she was feeling better, that her illness was not due to ennui; with the harvest in, there would be more time to dispel her languor in trips to Vouvray and visits to Paris and Vilmorin. There was work for him this morning, he said, but if she were so inclined, and her spirits somewhat revived by the afternoon, he would be pleased to ride with her.

  She smiled weakly at him, contriving to look ill, regretting the healthy glow on her cheeks that still lingered from the long journey through Poitou and Touraine. She could not promise, she said, that she would be fit to ride but…she lowered her eyelids and turned her face into the pillows. The game was becoming too difficult with his piercing glance on her! Mercifully he chose to leave, whether because of his pressing duties, or out of pity for her discomfort, she could not say.

  By mid-afternoon her lethargic body cried out for movement, activity; even to sit a horse seemed too sedentary. The day was sunny and pleasant, with that peculiar autumnal tang in the air—a sharpness, for all the warm sunshine—that promised a cool evening. On such a day, a long brisk walk was what she needed. She dressed in a soft woolen skirt and snug jacket, and two pairs of red silk stockings to keep her feet warm under her soft Moroccan leather shoes. She sent for Bricole to enquire as to the whereabouts of Monsieur de Narbaux.

  “He is downriver, Madame, less than half a league. Vacher and his men are clearing a field near the bank. You will see the smoke as you go out of doors.”

  “Thank you, Bricole.”

  His eyes took in her costume, the fragile leather shoes. “Will Madame la Vicomtesse ride?”

  “No. I prefer to walk today.”