She hesitated, filled with guilt. Had he seen her with André? “Yes, I told Dominique—but it was only a jest.”
“Merde!” he cursed under his breath. “Did she know you were jesting?”
“Nom de Dieu! What is amiss that you must torment me so?”
“Did she know?” His voice rasped like the edge of a sword.
“Oh what nonsense! No!” she said waspishly, her eyes narrowing in annoyance. “I told her so because I wanted her to tell you! That you should return and think me lost! You did not mind absenting yourself from me all these many weeks!”
He frowned in disgust and swung himself into the saddle. “Do you care that half the men of Chimère have been searching the caves for you all afternoon?”
She bristled defensively, her small chin jutting out. “You may ride out and and tell them that I have been found!”
“Well, Pasquier has not,” he said tightly. “He was the first man into the caves, looking for you. He has not been seen since. Pray God he is alive and safe.” He swung his horse about and made for the bluffs, his bright orange hair glowing in the late afternoon sun.
Pasquier. Lysette gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Pasquier. So young and robust and bright-cheeked. So obviously devoted to her. Pasquier—lost. Consumed by remorse, she stumbled into the château. Bricole’s delight at seeing her safe and well only added to her misery. She crept into the small chapel and sank to her knees, her fervent prayers as much for forgiveness for her thoughtlessness as for Pasquier’s safe return.
The last rays of the sun were streaming through the stained-glass windows, vibrant reds and blues and greens shimmering against the pale stone walls, when she heard the sound of a horse outside and Jean-Auguste’s voice shouting for a groom. She rose from her knees and hurried out to meet him in the great hall. How tired he looked, his face drawn and haggard.
“Well?”
He stripped off his gauntlets and rubbed his eyes wearily. “Pasquier has been found. He must have slipped. The barrels fell on him…”
“Ah Dieu! But is he alive?”
“His foot was crushed. If it festers, we must send for a surgeon to…remove it. In any event, he will be crippled for all time.”
Lysette began to weep softly. “I had not meant…I only wanted…what may I do to make amends?”
“You cannot give him back his limb. But you might go to him…to his wife…and beg forgiveness that your reckless words brought him to grief.”
Stricken, her tears forgotten, Lysette began to shake her head. “No! I cannot! To abase myself…and after all, it was his carelessness, not mine…I should die of shame! I did not ask him to go into the caves!” she finished belligerently.
He sighed heavily. “As you wish.”
“‘As you wish! As you wish!’” she mimicked, her voice rising shrilly. “Always ‘as you wish’! Must the burden forever be mine? What do you wish?”
He turned his cool gray eyes to her. “I wish…” Then he shrugged and was still. The unspoken words, heavy with accusation, hung in the air. With a shriek, Lysette leaped forward and slapped him across the mouth. Without a word he turned about and strode into the deepening night, while Lysette, already regretting her words and actions, longed to have the courage to call him back.
She wept bitter tears into her pillow all the night, refusing supper or the comfort that a distressed Dominique begged to give. In the morning, though it hurt to admit it to herself, she knew that Jean-Auguste had been right—she could scarcely make amends to Pasquier, but she owed him at least the mortification of her humbled pride.
The day was cool and damp, and a heavy mist lay low upon the ground as she made her way to the cliffs and the small cavern in which Pasquier made his home. A rough-hewn door had been fitted into the cave opening, and though the limestone had been chipped away to accommodate it, it still hung at a peculiar angle. A small window had been carved out next to it, and covered with oil-soaked parchment that let in a maximum of light while keeping out the chill air. The door was opened by a thin young woman who bobbed politely at Lysette and ushered her in, shooing a cat off a long bench that was almost the only seating in the dim room. Lysette sat gingerly, her face frozen in a gracious smile, and looked about her. Despite the window, the cave was dim; an unlit candle sat on the table, meant only for nighttime use. The walls of the cave had been roughly squared away and covered with a thin coating of whitewash, and a small niche, badly vented, had been cut out as a fireplace; nevertheless, the single room was nearly as cold and damp as the wine caves. Besides the bench and table, there was a small cupboard and a large leather chest, studded with brass tacks; a cradle, a three-legged stool before the fire, and the straw pallet upon which Pasquier lay completed the meager furnishings.
The two women smiled shyly at one another, then Lysette arose and went to stand beside Pasquier. His handsome face was drawn, the once rosy cheeks as ashen as the stone walls; his closed eyes were sunken and tinged with blue. Carefully she lifted the bottom edge of the coverlet and gulped, the gorge rising in her throat. His left foot, a shapeless mass, was bound in soiled linen from which, here and there, fresh blood still seeped. She dropped the coverlet and turned quickly to the young girl.
“I shall light a candle for him every day whilst he lies here.”
“Thank you, Madame de Narbaux. Surely le bon Dieu will heed the prayers of such a fine lady!”
Lysette hesitated, the words of apology still stuck in her throat. What a fool she was! Had she been less stubborn with Jean-Auguste, she might have been able to persuade him to accompany her and ease her painful embarrassment. Suddenly a baby’s wail came from the cradle, hesitantly at first, then swelling to a loud cry that filled the small room and caused Pasquier to stir restlessly upon his pallet. Pasquier’s wife knelt quickly and lifted the infant in her arms; with an apologetic smile to Lysette she seated herself upon the stool, loosed the drawstring of her chemise, and put the babe to her naked breast. The child sucked hungrily, seeming to drain the mother of every drop of strength. How thin she is, thought Lysette, noting the pinched face, the angular shoulders, the rawboned ankles bare above the wooden clogs. How could she nurse her child when it was plain she had scarce enough food to sustain herself? And now, with Pasquier crippled, there would be even less. An unfamiliar wave of compassion swept over Lysette.
“How old are you?”
“One and twenty, my lady.”
One and twenty. Younger than Lysette. And already there were streaks of gray in the girl’s hair, lines of care on her face.
“You must know,” blurted Lysette, close to tears, “how sorry I am for what has happened to Pasquier. It grieves me to think that he has suffered because of me!”
“Yes. Monsieur le Vicomte has told me how troubled you were. But you must not grieve, Madame.” She smiled timidly and indicated Pasquier with her chin. “He has told me much about you. He admires you greatly, Madame. And he does not give his allegiance without cause. He would give his life for you, I think.”
Lysette choked back a sob, remembering the insouciance with which she had charmed Pasquier. “I must go,” she said, jumping to her feet and making for the door.
“Madame. A moment, please.”
Reluctantly, Lysette turned about. The young woman had put the infant back into his cradle and was straightening her chemise; without a word she crossed the room and took Lysette’s hand in her own two, pressing it fervently to her lips, her soft eyes filled with gratitude. “We should be forced to go begging but for you, Madame. Monsieur de Narbaux has told me of your wish to provide Pasquier with a pension. May le bon Dieu bless you all the days of your life!”
Lysette pulled her hand away and fled into the misty morning.
Jean-Auguste was there, seated on his horse, just outside the cave. At sight of Lysette his eyebrows shot up in surprise, but a small smile of satisfaction twitched at the corners of his mouth. Silently he reached his hand down to her; she hesitated for a moment, then allo
wed him to swing her up in front of him on the saddle. She sat stiffly, biting her lip to keep it from trembling, while he guided his horse down from the cliffs and into the sheltered gardens of Chimère. He dismounted then, and lifted her down, but when she would have turned away to hide her agitation he held her firmly by the shoulders, his eyes searching her face. With a small cry she burst into tears and threw herself into his arms, sobbing out her grief and dismay.
“I…I had never known…the meanness…ah Dieu! They have nothing…I did not care until now…she kissed my h-h-hand…and I have brought them naught but m-m-misery.”
Jean-Auguste held her tightly until her racking sobs subsided, then he wiped her tear-stained face and handed her his handerchief. She sniffled and blew her nose, gazing up at him with violet eyes that were filled with genuine contrition.
“I am so very sorry. It was foolish and cruel of me.” She began to weep again. “And now he will be crippled.”
“You must not blame yourself overmuch. It was an accident, after all. Pasquier works in the caves every day. It might have happened at any time…”
“I thank you for speaking in my behalf—and for the pension in my name—did you promise them a great deal?”
“Enough so that they will not starve until Pasquier learns to get about on a crutch. There will still be work for him in the caves, but he may find it difficult to tend the vines in the field.”
“How kind you are. I struck you yester eve…and still you went to them on my behalf.”
He laughed wryly. “I have almost become used to your wayward hands—though they please me little! As for the pension—do not overburden yourself with reproach. I intended to sell your pearl necklace to pay for it!”
“Oh, no!” she gasped in shock and shook her head. “You cannot!”
He smiled sardonically. “For a moment I feared you had been transformed! But rest content, my vain little peahen. Since you went to Pasquier of your own accord, I have changed my mind. There will be gold enough from the harvest to manage a pension.”
All was well. She smiled triumphantly at him. “And were you not proud of me?”
“It was your place to go.” Then, seeing how her face fell, he went on more kindly. “I am pleased that you saw your duty. It bodes well that in the struggle for your soul, the woman may yet win out over the child!”
For a moment she bristled, then laughed at his frankness and drew herself up in mock disdain. “Then you owe the woman an apology, for you had no faith in her, else you would not have gone to Pasquier yourself!”
He ducked his head sheepishly. “If the woman will allow it, I shall apologize this evening at supper.”
She giggled. “At six?”
“At six, Madame!” He turned to mount his horse, then thought better of it and swept Lysette into his arms, crushing her mouth in an exuberant kiss. Releasing her, he grinned broadly and swung himself into the saddle, galloping off in the direction of the woods.
She told herself it was absurd to stand there in the garden like a silly fool, smiling at the autumn flowers and the pale yellow leaves of the willow—simply because he was home, because he had let her know that he was proud of her, because he had kissed her like a rowdy schoolboy. Still, her step was jaunty as she entered the château. Meeting Bricole, she greeted him effusively, filled with a well-being she could scarcely fathom. She headed for the staircase then stopped and turned.
“Bricole, have we enough beef for the winter?”
“Beef, Madame?”
“I mind that when the pigs were slaughtered I saw no cows! Are we to subsist on pork and mutton alone?”
“No, Madame,” stammered Bricole, surprised. “Last year Monsieur le Vicomte was away…The Court, and then the fighting on the front, and before that, Lorraine, where he won his honors and was grievously wounded. Chimère has seen no fêtes or winter entertainments for some time now. There is still more than enough beef in the salting tubs to last through this winter.”
“Oh,” she said, deflated.
“Would Madame care to see the ledgers? It would be my pleasure to show them to you and explain how Chimère is run.”
She bridled at that, suddenly defensive. “Manage it as you wish. It is scarcely worth my trouble!” And she sailed up the stairs, head held high.
Supper in the small salon was a jolly affair: Jean-Auguste was happy to be home, while Lysette, delighted to have company at last, teased and joked with him, oddly pleased when he saw through her games. She had never seen him so enthusiastic, describing for her his trips to Paris to secure a license and loans, then the chore of scouring the countryside for a master glassmaker who would be willing to enter into a contract with him. She could scarcely understand the details, following the complex business arrangements as best she could. Having lived with Guy’s profligacy, however, she knew something of loans, and she frowned as Jean-Auguste told of the sums he had borrowed to finance the enterprise.
“But what did you use as collateral?” she asked, thinking of her jewels, safe in their cabinet.
“Next year’s harvest.”
“And what will you do for money next year when you must pay off the loan?”
“To begin with, if the harvest is good, our expenses will be considerably less than heretofore, since there will be no need to buy bottles for the wine we sell. And then, the money I have borrowed is simply a loan to Rondini—as he sells his glassware, he will repay the loan, with interest.” He grinned wickedly. “And I am a usurious landlord! He has agreed to pay an exorbitant rent for the use of Chimère’s woods and sand and water.”
“And who is this Rondini?”
“A master glassmaker from Nevers. His family came from Venice centuries ago—they still pass the craft down from father to son. Rondini has promised to bring his son with him.”
“Pooh!” she said. “How much is to be earned from making bottles? It is a foolish enterprise!”
He laughed then rose from the table and took a large, irregular packet from the marble console, carrying it carefully and setting it down before her. When she would have reached for it with eager fingers, he cautioned her away.
“Nom de Dieu! It was trial enough to carry it safely from Nevers. Allow me. A present from Rondini.” He stripped back the wrappings and pulled away an inner covering of straw to reveal a clear and delicate wine goblet, a transparent cone set upon three separate stems that intertwined and ended in a base of shining crystal in which one perfect bubble had been imprisoned. Lysette’s sparkling eyes reflected the lustrous glass as she turned it this way and that, admiring its fragile artistry. “You see,” continued Jean-Auguste, “Rondini is skilled at much more than bottles! And a gift from me”—he took a small packet from within his doublet—“in recompense for my neglect of you these past weeks.” He unwrapped the packet and pulled out a string of the largest pearls Lysette had ever seen.
She gaped in astonishment. “Mon Dieu! They are as big as grapes! What creature of the sea spawned such things?”
“No creature of the sea. I bought them from Rondini.”
“They are exquisite! But where did Rondini get them?”
He laughed and put the string of pearls into her hand Lysette was surprised at their lack of weight, the feeling that she was holding a handful of empty eggshells. “Rondini made them. They are glass!” he explained.
She shook her head in amazement, examining them more closely. “What makes them shine so…like real pearls?”
“Fish scales, I think, blown into the interior of each tiny glass bead.”
Lysette put the string about her neck and danced around the room. “How may I thank you?” she bubbled happily.
His eyes traveled her body, then came to rest on her face with a look of such unabashed desire that she felt herself go red. His mouth twitched at her discomfiture, but his voice, when he spoke, was gentle, not mocking. “You might give me a proper welcome.”
She lowered her eyes and looked away. “Of course. Come to my chamb
ers when you see Dominique leave.”
A soft knock announced his arrival, but when he had entered her room he closed the door and leaned against the panels, laughing aloud at the sight before him. As was her wont, Lysette stood in the center of the room, her nightclothes about her ankles, but the large string of pearls still hung around her neck, incongruous against her naked bosom.
“If I must bed you with those beads between us,” he chuckled, “I fear me we shall both suffer from glass shards!”
She pouted in dismay. “They are too beautiful to take off!”
He crossed swiftly to her, his face suddenly serious, and lifted the beads from about her neck. “You are too beautiful, ma chère, to need their glow.” He kissed her almost roughly and lifted her in his arms, and when he made love to her it was with an urgency, a passionate intensity that was new to her. She felt herself swept along by his ardor as she had not been before; it was only when he lay still above her and she felt the fires slowly die within her breast, that she remembered the possible consequences of their encounter. In her mind’s eye, she saw Pasquier’s wife, old before her time, drained of joy and youth and beauty, robbed by the creature that sucked at her breast and stole her life from her. Terror welled up within her and she began to weep.
Alarmed, Jean-Auguste withdrew from her and sat up. “Mon Dieu, Lysette, what is it?”
She clutched at him, needing his arms around her, and sobbed out her fears. “Will you still bring me gifts when I am dry and old…when I have lost my beauty?”
He kissed the stricken look from her eyes, cradling her and murmuring soothing words until at last her trembling ceased and her eyelids grew heavy with sleep. She burrowed more closely into his embrace, sighing contentedly, lulled by his hand that still stroked her hair, the warmth of his body next to hers.
“Where did you ride yesterday?” he asked suddenly.
“Vilmorin,” she murmured, half asleep.
For a moment, the rhythm of his stroking fingers was disturbed; then his gentle hand caressed her as before. “And Marielle and André…they are well?” he asked more softly.
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