Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  “Then you will need pattens, Madame, for it is muddy where they work.” He smiled kindly. “Such fine shoes…”

  “Thank you,” she said, touched by his solicitude. Perhaps he could be a friend after all. She smiled winningly at him; his pleased response told her he would be an easy conquest. She hesitated for a moment, then lowered her voice as though she were sharing a secret. “Bricole,” she said, “Monsieur is too kind to speak of it, but I do not think he is happy with the lateness of the dinner hour. When a man is hungry, it is difficult to wait. For his sake, I think we shall have supper at six—I shall contrive to change my habits to please him.”

  He nodded in deference, then waited politely as she slipped into the pattens that Dominique had fetched—red velvet scuffs with thick cork soles that fit over her shoes to keep them dry. “If I may be allowed,” he said. “Monsieur is indeed fortunate to have found a Lady with such a kind and generous nature. How I should like to see his face when you tell him you have deferred to his wishes! Monsieur le Vicomte is an amiable man, with few demands—your graciousness does honor to him and to Chimère. Rest assured, Madame, I shall see that supper is waiting at six of the clock.”

  As she strode along the river bank toward the billowing clouds of pale gray smoke, Lysette reflected on her interview with Bricole. It had not gone exactly as she would have wished. For though it was pleasant to discover that Bricole viewed her as a paragon of all that was virtuous in women, she was not at all pleased that he had somehow maneuvered her into the distasteful position of being the messenger to Jean-Auguste.

  The path along the bank dipped toward the Loire, and she picked her way carefully through the marsh grass; at this spot the river fell away steeply from the shore, and flowed swift and deep and dark. Ahead of her, she could see Jean-Auguste on a small rise just above the river, his doublet off, shirtsleeves rolled up to show his sinewy arms. Beyond him was a large open stretch of land, still smoldering from the fire that had been set to clear the underbrush. Vacher and some of his men were engaged in hauling from the earth the last few charred and blackened stumps, straining against the ropes looped about the remains of the trees; the rest of the men had formed a kind of chain, passing up large wooden buckets from the river to douse the remaining sparks. The embers hissed softly under the onslaught as the smoke turned from pale gray to silver, and then became steam.

  Jean-Auguste, a smudge of soot upon his cheek, had been helping to pass the buckets along; at the sight of Lysette he put down his pail and smiled warmly at her.

  “You are feeling better?”

  “Yes.” She went to stand beside him. “And this”—the sweep of her hand encompassing the open field—“will you plant grapes here?”

  “No. Wheat and rye. Bricole tells me the cook has been complaining of late because of the maslin. Too much barley, she says—it spoils the flour mixture.”

  “But she is fortunate—I had to buy my maslin in the markets of Soligne. It was often old and filled with weevils, and I could never be sure that it contained only wheat and rye flour—by my faith I think there were milled acorns in the blend last summer when the crops were bad!”

  “There are those who have nothing when the crops are bad,” he chided gently. “Did you ride over from Chimère?”

  “No. It seemed a pleasant day for a walk.”

  “Then perhaps we can return in a while to the château and ride out for an hour or two.”

  “But the time will be late!” she blurted.

  “And wherefore late?”

  There was no escaping it. “I…because…” She took a deep breath. “I have informed Bricole that we shall dine at six,” she said, with as much dignity as she could muster.

  “Hum. At six.”

  “Yes.”

  “For all time?”

  “Yes! I told him it was for your sake!”

  “Hum. For my sake.”

  “Must you echo my words?” she snapped. Damn him and his mocking eyes! She knew he must be laughing at her behind his bland expression, must be remembering (even as she was) how her noisy stomach had betrayed her hunger. “Go to the devil!” she shrilled. Whirling, she snatched up the bucket of water and hurled its contents full into his face. He sputtered with the unexpected shock of the dousing, then wiped his face with his hand, a small crease furrowing his brow.

  There was a sudden stillness. The servants, aghast at the humiliation visited upon their master, had put down their burdens and waited now to see how Monsieur le Vicomte would deal with a wife who dared to treat him thus. For a second, seeing the look in his gray eyes, Lysette regretted her rashness. Then, abruptly, he began to laugh heartily, a warm guffaw that invited her to share the absurdity of the moment Relieved, the servants joined in the laughter, timidly at first, then merrily at sight of his dripping red curls and drenched shirt.

  Lysette could not share their mirth; she burned with shame and anger. She had made a fool of herself—and Jean-Auguste had salvaged her pride by sacrificing his own. With a wail she sprang for him, her hand poised to strike his face. Still smiling, he parried the blow, pushing aside her upraised arm, then scooped her up in one swift movement and pitched her into the river. She shrieked as she hit the icy water, and flailed about with her arms; her skirts billowed wide on the surface of the river and left her bare hips and thighs unprotected from the cold current. She cursed him with every street oath she had heard in Soligne, then cursed him again in Spanish, using the words she had heard from soldiers newly returned from the front. Still laughing, he knelt by the bank.

  “By my faith, Madame, you have blistered my ears! But I fancied you enjoyed swimming!”

  “Villain!” she spat, struggling more violently as her skirts, soaking up the water, began to drag heavily against her movements.

  “Will you swim until six? Or seven?”

  “Oh!” she sputtered, then turned away from him, making small circles in the water with her hands. When she turned back again, he saw to his dismay that she had begun to weep. “It is very c-c-cold,” she sobbed, “and you are hateful to treat me so unkindly!” She swam closer to the shore. “Please,” she said in a small voice, “will you give me your hands?” She reached up one dainty hand and then the other, which he grasped in his own two. Captivated by her large violet eyes, so woeful behind their mist of tears, he did not realize she had braced her feet against the bank until a sudden jerk of her hands pulled him, head first, into the river. He plummeted into the depths, then righted himself and broke the surface of the water, coughing and choking and shaking his head from side to side, until the droplets flew out from his hair. As soon as he recovered his breath, he began to laugh again. Lysette, still glaring with righteous retribution, nevertheless could not deny the humor of the situation; relenting, she joined in the laughter, and soon the two of them were clinging to one another in helpless merriment. At last Jean-Auguste made for the shore and hauled himself up on the bank; he hesitated for a moment, still wary, before offering her his hands and pulling her up to stand beside him on dry land.

  “I have lost my pattens!” she said.

  “I shall buy you another pair.”

  Lifting her sopping skirts, she began to giggle again. “I fear me they did not keep my feet dry!”

  “Useless things!” he laughed. “But you are cold,” he said, as she began to shiver. He retrieved his cloak from the ground and wrapped it tightly about her, then pulled his doublet over his wet shirt and lifted Lysette in his arms, marching resolutely in the direction of the château. The steady squish of his boots sent them both into peals of laughter again; by the time they reached Chimère they were thoroughly chilled and positively giddy. Once inside the door, Jean-Auguste set her on her feet.

  “There is a small antechamber next to my apartments,” he said, “very warm and cozy. Come there when you have changed your clothes. We can have supper.”

  She grinned wickedly up at him. “But…is it six of the clock, my lord?”

  “It is supper
by my stomach, Madame!” His eyes glinted in amusement. “What says your stomach?”

  “It speaks in a very loud voice!”

  “Yes. So I have heard! And it says…?”

  “It says, be it six or seven or five, let us eat when we are hungry!”

  “A wise stomach, Madame,” he said, suddenly gentle. “Now, be off with you before you catch the ague!”

  She changed quickly into dry chemise and petticoat, and covered it with a fur-trimmed dressing gown; toweling her wet hair, she pocketed a large comb and padded down the passageway to the antechamber he had indicated, her soft slippers whispering on the tiles. The room was indeed cozy: heavy draperies at the windows, walls hung with tapestries to keep out stray drafts, and a large rug of red fox on the floor before the blazing fireplace. Jean-Auguste was already there, a sleeveless leather jerkin thrown carelessly over fresh breeches and shirt; he had not even bothered to put on a falling band, but wore his shirt collarless and open at the neck. He was standing at a small table in the center of the room that was filled with platters of fruit and meats; when Lysette entered, he poured out a mug of hot cider from a large pitcher and handed it to her. She thanked him, then plunked herself down on the fur rug, kicking off her slippers and wriggling her bare toes gratefully in the direction of the fire. She gulped her cider quickly, enjoying the warmth that flowed through her body. Setting down her mug, she began to comb her hair, fluffing out the tresses to speed its drying; when she was satisfied, she plaited it into one long braid, pulling it over one shoulder as she worked. Slowly sipping his cider, Jean-Auguste watched in fascination, surprised as always by the contradiction of innocence and vanity in her behavior. She seemed so comfortable before the fire he was reluctant to disturb her for dinner, instead he took the platters from the table and put them upon the hearth, then sat down beside her on the rug. It was a fine meal the cook had prepared: roasted capon and a large bowl of sauce for dipping, redolent with apricots and ginger and saffron; thin strips of ham with a spicy mustard, braised carrots, and, for dessert, fresh grapes and milk curds with sugar. The cider that washed it all down was rich and spicy, heavy with the scent of cloves and cinnamon.

  Lysette licked the last of the sauce from her fingers, then wiped her hands on her napkin and held out her empty mug to Jean-Auguste. He refilled her cup and his own, then sighed contentedly and pushed the platters out of their way.

  Lysette began to laugh. They were really quite ridiculous, sitting cross-legged in front of the fire like a couple of children. “This is the strangest feast I have ever had!”

  He chuckled. “No. I shall tell you of a stranger one! My mother—she was a droll creature—presided once at a most unusual feast.”

  “Were you there?”

  “Oh, yes. I was almost grown, and Gabriel was already the master of Chimère. You must understand, firstly, that my mother had a very large fortune of her own. And then—and she herself was forthright about it—she was a plain woman.”

  “Nay! I have seen her portrait! Hardly plain!”

  He laughed gently. “The artist caught her spirit—and her spirit was beautiful—but it is not a true likeness.”

  “Eh bien. She was plain and she was rich. Now you must tell me of the feast!”

  “She had a suitor, a very important man at Court. He had pursued her for more than a year, and claimed to be burning with unrequited love. She was fond of him, I think, but something in his manner gave her pause. As for Gabriel, he was dazzled by the man’s title and position.”

  “And you?”

  “I am my mother’s sprig! Never as somber as Gabriel, nor as sensible or conventional, I found it easy to dislike the man because”—he shrugged—“because his sword was rusty, because he smiled too much at my mother, because he patted me on the head!”

  “Pah! What a fool!”

  “Undoubtedly! I plead my youth. However…the time came when this gentleman announced to my mother that he wished to come to dine at Chimère. It was quite apparent that he meant to propose marriage. On the assumption that to invite him was tantamount to accepting his proposal, my mother was disinclined to bid him come. She had begun to suspect that her fortune was the allurement that drew him to her. Gabriel, with all the stiff-necked propriety of the young…”

  “How old was he?” she said, suddenly belligerent.

  He tweaked her nose, his mouth twitching. “Rest assured, ma petite, you are far older than he was in wisdom and experience.” He poured out another cup of cider for her. “At any rate, Gabriel was horrified that she should refuse such a fine man. He had lands and holdings of his own—what need had he for her wealth? My mother was adamant. He hungered only for her gold, and would do anything, endure anything, to win her hand…and her fortune. She would prove it to Gabriel. She sent word to her suitor that she looked upon him with favor, and was happy to invite him to come to supper. However, for the sake of discretion, she told him, she thought it wise to invite other guests, some of whom were equally fond of her. He must not mind, she said, if she treated them with the same deference she showed to him; it was in her nature to be generous. The night of the feast came; the honored guest arrived, puffed with his own importance and the certainty of his victory. Gabriel and I were burning with curiosity; my mother had been secretive for days. She ushered us all into the salon—the large room next to the library—a long table had been set up, and at each place, save the spaces that had been reserved for us, was…” He laughed suddenly at the wide-eyed anticipation on Lysette’s face, and popped a grape into her gaping mouth.

  “Nom de Dieu!” she sputtered, swallowing as fast as she could. “What?”

  “An animal! Cats, dogs, a rabbit, I think…and even a mummer’s trained goat, brought from Vouvray, that stood upon its hind legs and tapped insistently on the table with one foreleg, as though it were impatient for dinner. My mother had even gone so far as to dress them gorgeously in silks and brocades, with stiff neck ruffs and lace cuffs; the goat was wearing upon its head an exact replica of the kind of melon-shaped hat favored by our nobleman. Very seriously, my mother introduced them all, giving them the most outlandish names, while she clutched at the rabbit to keep it from scampering the length of the table. Once recovered from our surprise, Gabriel and I joined most readily into the game, bowing politely and greeting each guest in turn. The nobleman did likewise, whether out of fear of her displeasure, or because he thought her mad, I cannot say. And the more he fawned upon her, the more outrageous became her behavior. She seated herself between him and the goat, and smiled equally at one as the other, feeding sweetmeats to them both, and then insisting he feed the goat himself. Her guest was most partial to lace cuffs, she said, would Monsieur be so kind as to oblige? I thought that Gabriel would fall under the table when the man actually untied his cuffs and fed them to the animal. But mother had not finished with him yet. He must sing the praises of all her guests, she said. Did not Monsieur le Chat have fine eyes? And the pink ears of Monsieur le Lapin—without equal! Monsieur praised them all lavishly, though his face had turned red with apoplexy, and at the end of the evening my mother insisted that he kiss each of the guests on both cheeks. I can still see him stooped down with the goat’s forelegs on both his shoulders; as he leaned forward to deliver his kiss, the animal took an enormous bite out of his hat!”

  “Stop!” said Lysette, who had begun to laugh so hard the tears were pouring down her cheeks. Jean-Auguste arose and put another log on the fire, then stood looking down at her as she wiped her eyes. Recovering her composure, she took another drink of cider. “But what happened to the suitor?”

  “Before he left, my mother asked him if he still wished to marry her. He assured her that his feelings for her had not changed, and he would be honored to make her his bride. She demurred, saying she would have to search her soul for the answer; within a week, she wrote to him, refusing his kind offer on the grounds that she still clung to the memory of her dead husband. If, in consequence, he was wounded by her decisio
n, she begged him not to speak ill of her in the Court circles; in return she promised to keep silent about her supper party and his extraordinary behavior therein.”

  They laughed together at that. Then Lysette began to tell him of some foolishness of Guy’s, of how he had been drunk, and hunting for a missing band string. She was a good mimic; getting up on all fours, she crawled around the rug, pretending to search frantically, mumbling incoherently, poking at an imaginary wig that kept falling into her eyes. When they had both laughed until they could laugh no more, she rolled over onto her back, exhausted.

  “Help me up,” she said at last, lifting her arms to him.

  He started to give her his hands, then thought better of it and shook his head. “Ah, no,” he chuckled, dropping down beside her, “for surely I should find my nose crushed against the hearth! By my faith, those eyes of yours cozened me at the river…you are a veritable devil!”

  She smirked with pleasure, then frowned in mock dismay. “But then I never dreamed that you would toss me into the water—so we are quits!”

  “Agreed!” he said, and smiled warmly down at her, his eyes searching hers. He reached out a gentle hand and stroked her face, his slim fingers tracing the line of her cheek and jaw. “Mon Dieu,” he said softly, “my mother would have envied that face. If the angels themselves mixed the pigments, they could not match the color of your eyes.” He bent over and covered her mouth with his own. Lysette wriggled comfortably on the fur rug, luxuriating in the softness of his kisses, the warm fire, the glow of the cider that lingered still within her. His lips caressed her face and neck, and his arms circled her body where she lay; with a languid sigh, she slipped her hands about his neck. Half drowsing, she was content to let him go on kissing her while she drifted in and out of sleep, delighting in the pleasures of her senses—the feel of his strong arms, the downy curls at the nape of his neck, so silky against her fingertips, the sweetness of his mouth. Would André’s kiss be like this? she wondered idly. Ah, André! Mon amour! She opened her eyes and smiled hazily at Jean-Auguste. Odd. For a moment, nodding, she thought she had spoken André’s name aloud. But how could that be so? Surely she would see it in Jean-Auguste’s eyes, and even now he was smiling as he rose to his feet and helped her up.