Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  “Madame de Ferrand no longer. Madame la Vicomtesse de Narbaux!”

  He laughed conspiratorially. “Ah! Our red-haired friend! I would have thought that Crillon had caught your eye! But perhaps, on such a long journey…both…? You can hardly blame me for wishing to”—he gave a small shrug—“join the game?”

  “I am pleased to see you do not reproach my behavior that night, Monsieur,” she smirked.

  “Ah, Madame. I was very drunk—and most ungallant. Shall I then chide you for spurning my attentions?”

  “How gracious you are.”

  “How tempting you are!” And he slipped his arm about her waist, smiling ruefully down at her. “However, it was but a kiss—albeit taken without your leave. You used me ill in return!”

  Her eyes widened in feigned innocence. “Oh, Monsieur! And would you not have used me?”

  “Aye! As a woman is used…for pleasure!”

  “But then I would have been sore tried!”

  “Had I used you well, then surely you would have been sore!” He grinned at his own lewd humor.

  She pouted at his bawdiness, but made no move to dislodge his encircling arm. “Then you would bring me to grief.”

  “Only to bed, Madame, only to bed.”

  She dimpled prettily at him, enjoying their banter, and shook her head. “Then grief would follow—in a nine-month!”

  He allowed his hand to slip down a bit from her waistline to the first rounded curve of her buttocks. “Why assault the front portal of the fortress and bring grief, when one may enter harmlessly from the back entrance?”

  She gasped and pushed him away, too surprised to hide the look of shock on her face. He laughed at her discomfiture and she flamed scarlet, feeling like an innocent fool.

  “You have lived too long in the Provinces, Madame. It is a practice favored by many women of the Court!”

  Indeed. She recalled a bit of gossip she had heard only the day before, that had mystified her. The women had been speaking of a lady of the Court.

  “She has so many lovers, she sleeps with her rump facing heavenwards,” a fat Duchesse had simpered.

  “A fine way to pray, if one wishes no ‘complications’!” said another.

  “But do her prayers bring her lovers?”

  The Duchesse cackled in malicious delight. “They say her great moons outshine the orb of heaven itself!” Perplexed, Lysette had turned away.

  Now, with Ussé’s single eye watching her closely, she felt the blush still staining her cheeks and bosom. She was relieved to see Jean-Auguste coming across the parquet floor toward them; then she saw the scornful smile upon his face and blushed again, knowing he had seen her flirting with Ussé.

  “Ah, Ussé!” said Jean-Auguste with an elaborate bow. “I heard that you were in Paris—the brothels and gambling halls of the Quartier du Marais have found a steady patron, if one is to believe the rumors in Court!”

  “Monsieur de Narbaux,” responded Ussé, equally polite. “And you have found a charming wife!” Deliberately, he lifted Lysette’s hand to his lips and kissed it fervently, while his eye glittered in malice. “I regret that I was not more insistent that evening in the woods! This lovely creature might now be mine!”

  Jean-Auguste smiled benignly. “It was your folly. However…” He shrugged with indifference. “They say you gamble heavily. Trefontaine must be thriving! How fortunate you are in these troubled times!”

  “I have found new sources of income. I could no longer depend upon the meager pensions of the Crown!”

  “Then you should take a wife, while you have the riches to keep her in petticoats!”

  Ussé laughed shortly. “I have taken more than a few wives here at Court—without petticoats—and it has cost me nothing!” He smiled goatishly at Lysette. “Mayhap my good fortune will continue!”

  “I wish you well, Monsieur,” said Jean-Auguste pleasantly.

  Lysette seethed at his nonchalance—it was lovely to have Ussé lusting after her, but only half a victory if that lust did not touch a spark of jealousy within her husband’s breast. Damn him! “Monsieur Ussé!” she said brightly, placing a hand on his velvet sleeve, “I am longing to dance a pavane with you! Will you forgive my presumption and oblige me?” She moved off to the dance floor with Ussé, her head held high. To her utter frustration, she saw that Jean-Auguste, smiling cheerfully, had already crossed the floor to return to the card room.

  On the Rue Saint-Honoré, near the Louvre, was the Palais Cardinal, built by Richelieu but a few years before. An elegant and imposing structure, it was the object of much curiosity and gossip, centered largely on the source of the riches that had gone into its building. But even wagging tongues could not prevent it from becoming the focal point of all the elegant society of Paris: a portion of the palace grounds consisted of a large sheltered garden surrounded by more than a hundred public shops, tiny stalls filled with the latest books and trinkets. It was fashionable to shop, to stroll about the garden, to meet and gossip with half the Court. Lysette loved to come to the Palais—it was not unusual to find an unescorted woman in these surroundings—and Jean-Auguste, bored with trifles and gewgaws, was only too glad to give her a purse of coins and arrange to meet her later in the garden when her whims had been satisfied.

  She was delighted one day to come upon André, leaning against the counter of a small book shop, riffling the pages of a leather-bound volume. At the sight of her, he swept off his large beaver hat and bowed, his sapphire eyes crinkling in pleasure, his teeth dazzling against the bronzed skin. How her pulse raced, the blood coursing through her veins like rivers of fire! How she ached to tell him of her longings, the fantasies that put her in his arms, lips pressed to lips in a fervent kiss!

  “Are you alone, then?” he asked. “Has Jean-Auguste abandoned you?”

  She nodded her head, contriving to look forlorn. “And you?”

  “I thought I might get a small volume of verses for Marielle. She is partial to Voiture’s poems.”

  “They say that reading is harmful to the eyes!”

  “Indeed?”

  “Can you doubt it?” She smiled beguilingly. “I read as little as possible. And do not my eyes sparkle?”

  He laughed at that, his blue eyes sweeping her face appreciatively. “They are beautiful eyes. I think they will always shine…when you smile just so!”

  She sighed. “Ah. Alas. But will they speak for me? Come.” And she held out her hand to him. Intrigued, he let her lead him to a mercer’s stall, quite forgetting Marielle’s book. “You must help me choose a fan,” she said, “so my eyes may speak as eloquently as ever did Voiture’s verses!” She motioned to the shopkeeper to hand her down a delicate fan fashioned of carved ivory and painted with a charming country scene. “Now,” she said, unfurling it before her face so that only her violet eyes peeped above its lace edge, “will the man I love know—from my eyes alone—that I adore him?” She gazed at him ardently, her voice soft with longing, her very soul peering out from beneath her black-fringed lids.

  He cleared his throat gruffly, uncomfortable at the depth of her feelings, too personal, too private to share with a friend. “He would be a blind fool not to know—if you look at him thus,” he said gently.

  No! She wanted to cry out. It is you! It is only you! “André,” she breathed, putting down the fan and laying her hand on his sleeve. And looked up to see that Marielle watched from just beyond André’s shoulder, her green eyes as icy as the wintry sea. “La!” she said brightly. “Here is your wife, André!” She smiled tightly at Marielle, barely managing to hide her pique at the untimely interruption. “André was helping me to choose a fan!”

  “How gallant of him! But I wonder you need his advice. One would have guessed you know exactly what you want!” There was unexpected steel in Marielle’s voice.

  “André!” cried Lysette, in sudden surprise. “You have forgot Marielle’s book! He wished to buy you a book of poems, my dear, though I should find it a rathe
r tedious gift myself. So plain and uninteresting. A lace falling band…a pair of ear drops would be so much more flattering to a woman, n’est-ce pas?”

  “My father used to say a woman is but an empty mask without books to fill her. He would have me study whatever my brother did. And so I have always heeded the words of Saint Augustine: ‘Tolle lege, tolle lege.’ Do you not agree?” The green eyes held a hostile challenge.

  Lysette squirmed uncomfortably, recalling her indifference to her lessons, wishing suddenly that her attentions to her Latin master had been concerned with his words, rather than the peculiar way his nose wrinkled each time he uttered a sibilant sound. Then she brightened as a sudden thought struck her. What was it Dominique had said—that Marielle’s father had been only a doctor? “Ah, Madame du Crillon,” she said helplessly, “when one has been raised an aristocrat, there is so little time for books!”

  “I had no time for luxury—nor patience for indolence! I helped my father as he moved among the poor and infirm—mayhap a nobler calling than courting a Venetian glass all the day.”

  “André, how fortunate you are!” cooed Lysette. “They say that the sight of too much suffering ages a person, brings ugly lines to the face, and yet behold your beautiful wife!”

  Oblivious of the battle that had been raging between the two women, André smiled warmly at Marielle. “Indeed. She is beautiful. Still,” he turned to the mercer’s stall, fingering a delicate cambric falling band, “there is wisdom in Lysette’s words, ma chère. A pretty trifle to brighten your eyes would not be amiss!”

  “You find me plain, then?” she demanded, all pretense stripped away.

  “No! Of course not!” he stammered, surprised by her sudden anger, “I only thought…”

  “Make my excuses to Madame de Rambouillet this afternoon, if you will. I can scarce keep my eyes open from weariness!” She stalked away, her frozen smile barely disguising the fury that raged in her heart.

  Triumphant, Lysette turned to André, meaning to claim her prize, then stopped at the sight of Jean-Auguste’s approach. Nom de Dieu! Was she never to have a moment alone with André? Her angry frown turned to embarrassment, however, at the look of accusation in Jean-Auguste’s cool gray eyes, and she averted her gaze.

  “André! Mon ami! What good fortune to find you!” said Jean-Auguste jovially. “I have not had one good fencing match since we came to Paris! Is your rapier as skillful as ever?”

  “Better! I am prepared to lay a small wager on the outcome!”

  “Ha! Did I not best you when last we met?”

  “And before that? You ate the dust at my feet!”

  “I do not choose to remember!” said Jean-Auguste grandly, then motioned for André to follow.

  “A moment!” pouted Lysette. “Will you abandon me yet again?”

  Jean-Auguste turned to her, one eyebrow raised in mockery. “I am sure you can find fresh amusements to keep yourself occupied.” His arm swept the stalls, then the gardens where men and women strolled in warm intimacy. “If you ‘shop’ long enough, you will find something—or someone—to please you.” And clapped his hand on André’s shoulder and led him away, leaving Lysette gaping in stunned anger.

  Across the garden she spied Ussé and almost called out to him, then thought better of it and turned away. The gardens were not a good place to be alone with him. Too many high hedges, too many secluded nooks wherein she might be trapped. As charming as it was to flirt with him, as flattering to her vanity as were his attentions, she was not entirely sure she was as worldly-wise as she thought. There was a wantonness, a sense of hidden evil in him that made her uneasy. She would play at love with him, because it pleased her—and in the hope she might arouse a flicker of jealousy in Jean-Auguste—but only in the salons, surrounded by the Court, where he could ravish her with words and glances, and nothing more! Hurrying past the stalls, she fled to the safety of her own apartments.

  “Ah, Dieu, André, you must hold me very tightly until the room ceases to spin!” Lysette leaned against André’s chest and closed her eyes, hearing the pounding of his heart a few inches from her ear. To her delight, she had found him alone this evening—Marielle had not appeared since the afternoon, and somehow the women in the Grand Salon had missed their opportunity. She had commandeered him for every dance (having long since deserted Jean-Auguste), and now clung tightly to him, breathless from the lively galliard they had just danced. Let Marielle sulk forever, locked away in her room! She was glad she had worn her new white brocade dress; it made her look soft and young, helpless and fragile. Small wonder André had stayed at her side, as though he were answerable for her well-being!

  They had just begun a stately saraband, pacing majestically about the floor, when there was a commotion at one of the large doorways to the salon. Women twittered excitedly and men hurried forward. Absently following the steps of the dance, Lysette craned her neck to see what was amiss.

  It was Marielle. But a Marielle she scarcely recognized. The plain velvet had been replaced by a gorgeous taffeta gown the color of ripe apricots, clinging silk accenting the fineness of her figure, the stateliness of her carriage; the bodice, cut shamelessly low, was edged with snowy lace that failed to conceal the beguiling curve of her bosom. Her chestnut hair was piled high atop her head, save for one tantalizing curl that hung over her shoulder, and her cheeks glowed with a rosiness that owed its luster as much to her rouge pot as her own fresh complexion. She was the most magnificent woman Lysette had ever seen, and the murmurs that accompanied her progress through the salon made it clear that half the Court shared that opinion. André had stopped dancing, frozen to the spot at sight of her, but as she smiled and sparkled to each man she passed, he turned back to Lysette and resumed the dance, bending more attentively to her, though a small pulse had begun to beat in his temple.

  Marielle nodded carelessly to André, barely acknowledging his presence, and took the arm of a thin young man, beaming at him with such warmth that he blushed and almost tripped over his own booted feet. By the time they went in to supper, she was surrounded by half a score of breathless courtiers, each anxious to prove his devotion—to toast her in his wine, to help her to a sweetmeat, to bring a smile to her rosy lips. Lysette sat André next to her, but at each trill of laughter from Marielle his head snapped up indignantly and his nostrils flared in anger.

  Mon Dieu! It was enough to make Lysette scream—from frustration at André’s divided attention; from discomfort because Jean-Auguste watched coolly from across the room, mocking her helplessness with his gray eyes; from jealousy in the presence of a woman so much more beautiful—and witty and capable and admired—than she could ever hope to be. When the dancing began again and Marielle was besieged afresh by supplicants, Lysette dragged André to a small drawing room where half a dozen courtiers and their ladies were engaged in a lively game of charades. Though he entered into the game with seeming enthusiasm, the distracted look in André’s eyes made it clear to Lysette that his thoughts were still in the Grand Salon, seeing Marielle with her admirers. She was glad when the game was over and someone suggested Blind Man’s Buff. With a kiss for a prize, it might prove an amusing divertissement.

  A young Marquise was chosen to begin, and a silk handkerchief was tied over her eyes. The women of the company stepped back while the men made a circle about the girl. Sightless, she turned about, groping in the air—to the accompaniment of many giggles and innuendos from the women—until her hands touched a fat Duke and she laughed, naming him at once, his girth the unmistakable clue. She whipped off the blindfold and he collected his kiss; then the handkerchief was tied about his eyes and the men stepped out of the circle while the women took their place. Lysette smiled to herself: a delicious thought had just struck her. As the Duke passed close to her, his hands sawing the air, she contrived to suppress a sneeze, managing a small squeak that stopped him in his tracks. He grinned beneath the blindfold and turned back to her, inching forward until his fingers touched her shoulder.
She smiled stiffly as his hands roamed her body—breasts and hips and thighs—while he pretended not to know who she was; at length, unable to bear another minute of his pawing, she laughed gaily and pulled off his blindfold.

  “Come, Monsieur! Collect your kiss! If I allow you to continue, you shall soon know me better than my own husband!”

  For all his immodest hands, his kiss was surprisingly gentle and timid (or perhaps her words had shamed him), and in a moment he was tying the handkerchief about her face. She thanked le bon Dieu once again for her small stature: it was a simple matter to duck her head a fraction of an inch, without anyone being the wiser, until she could just see below the silk folds. She had taken the care to notice the precise color and cut of André’s shoes—fawn-colored leather with gold shoe ribbons—and she sought them out while she simpered helplessly and waved the air. To be sure, she did not overreach herself, lest she touch some other man before she had found André. At last she spied his shoes; she touched him, allowed herself the pleasure of stroking his face, putting her hands on his wide shoulders before announcing to the company that this could be no other save Monsieur du Crillon. She would have removed the blindfold, but his arms went about her and caught her in a fierce embrace, his mouth finding hers in a kiss so passionate it took her breath away. She swayed against him, trembling at the fervor in his kiss, and when he released her, her hand shook as she slowly pulled the handkerchief from her eyes.

  “André,” she whispered, near tears, and looked up to see he was glaring at something over her shoulder, his eyes filled with malevolent fury. She turned to follow his glance. Marielle, her green eyes throwing sparks, was glaring back at him from the doorway. Lysette tried to laugh lightly, found she could not, was saved from humiliation by Jean-Auguste’s jovial voice, dispelling the tension in the room, bringing a sense of normalcy back to the company.