Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  “By my faith, it is time I had a dance with my wife! Come, ma chère, you have begged me for a dance all the night, and I have been a neglectful husband. Let me prove the constancy of my devotion!” He took Lysette by the arm and led her gently away; she was still so agitated by André’s kiss that it was not until they were alone in a long corridor that she realized he was leading her not to the Salon for dancing but in the direction of their apartments. She murmured a word of protest and would have broken away, but he held tight to her arm, and his voice, when he spoke, was edged with steel. “You have done enough mischief this night.” He did not speak again, but when they had reached their sitting room she turned upon him in cold fury, demanding to know what he had meant, why she was to be denied the evening’s pleasures.

  “Must I tell you yet again?” he said wearily. “Leave Marielle and André alone!”

  “Pooh! What have I to do with them?”

  “Did you see the way she dressed tonight? Her behavior? That was because of you!”

  She tossed her head. “What nonsense!”

  “She did it to make André jealous. To hurt him.”

  “Why should André be jealous?” she said sarcastically. “You are not jealous! Mon Dieu! I could kiss every man in this Court and you would not forbid it!”

  His mouth twitched in a sardonic smile, but his eyes—cool, accusing—bored into her. “Why should I treat you as a child? Shall I prohibit that behavior which your own conscience should forbid? And your own willfulness would direct, whether I will it or no?”

  She stamped her tiny foot, stung by his indifference. “And what if I take Ussé as a lover? He does not seem to find me a child!”

  He threw back his head and laughed heartily. “Poor Ussé! How soon would he weary of headaches and dyspepsia, and all the little ills that keep you safely alone in your bed!”

  She gasped at that, humiliated in the knowledge that all her weeks of games had not been lost on him, furious at being found out, a simple child that he merely tolerated. She raised her hand to slap him, but he caught her wrist and pulled her toward him.

  “I have endured the tyranny of your hands long enough,” he said softly. “You shall not strike me again.” The coldness in his gray eyes propelled her, trembling, to the safety of her bedchamber and a securely locked door.

  Marielle moved slowly down the passageway to her apartments, her restless fingers worrying the pale apricot silk skirt. She paused absently at a large mirror in the corridor, dismayed to see that her eyelids were still puffy from weeping, though she had sat for hours, it seemed, in the darkness of a small chamber, seeking to regain her composure before venturing out. Oh, André! she thought, feeling again the sharp pain in her heart that sprung as much from bewilderment as unhappiness. What has happened to us? We tear at each other like angry dogs—wounding, hurting, even when no hurt is intended. Where is the love, the joy that we shared? Is it so very long ago, that we have lost it forever? Is such a love meant to flame and burn—and then die, remembered only by poets and dreamers? She sighed deeply, willing herself to think of more mundane matters. The note from Louise, handed her only this evening by a footman. A simple note, printed painstakingly and laboriously; one of many she had received since coming to Paris. Louise had just learned to read and write, and took advantage of her newly acquired skills by keeping Marielle apprised of each small happening at Vilmorin. This time it was young François, who had fallen from a tree and split his lip and wrenched his knee; he would recover soon enough, but in the meantime he was sulking in his bed, filled with self-pity. Dear François. How like André he was. Not only the blond hair. But the little boy who needed comforting and love. She felt the tears begin to prickle behind her eyes again. Ah, Dieu! It had been a long time since André had needed her comfort! The King’s General, she thought bitterly. There was always another battle to be fought, another helpless maiden to be rescued! And always adoring women to praise him when the battles were through!

  Heavy-hearted, she opened the door to their sitting room. He was there, leaning against the mantel, the scowl on his face scarcely hiding the pain in his eyes.

  “Have you danced your fill, then?” he asked, a ragged edge in his voice. “I fancied the young magistrate was quite taken by you!” And managed a melancholy smile.

  She swept past him, too spent for a quarrel, and headed for her bedchamber, but he crossed the room in two long strides and spun her around, his hands pulling at the pins in her hair until the chestnut curls tumbled down about her shoulders. He tangled his fingers in her locks and pinioned her in a savage embrace, his mouth hard and bruising upon hers. Then—proud, vulnerable—he turned away and made for his own chamber. She stood for a minute, hand clasped to her mouth, crystal tears sparkling in her lashes; a whisper of silk and she was at his side, smiling shyly up at him, her fingers reaching for his hand. With an answering smile, filled with love and need and longing, he led her into the shadowy darkness of his room.

  Marielle stirred uneasily in André’s arms, uncomfortable with the silence that hung between them. Locked in passionate embrace they felt as one, thought as one—one heartbeat, one soul, one love. But when the passion died, the silence returned to cleave them in two, the hurts and misunderstandings building a barrier that seemed insurmountable. She sighed. Best to talk of trifles, to fill the emptiness.

  “I had another letter from Louise tonight.”

  “All is well at Vilmorin?”

  “Yes. Well…” She hesitated. “François has hurt his leg. He will be abed for a week or so.”

  André sat up beside her, his fine features silhouetted in the light from the fireplace. “But surely it is not serious!”

  “Oh, no. Still, I thought perhaps I should like to return sooner than we had intended.”

  “Mon Dieu, Marielle! The lad is only five! The scrapes and bruises are just beginning! If you run to him for every wound, you shall never leave Vilmorin!”

  Bristling, she sat up in her turn. “I shall always be there when my children need me!”

  “Marielle,” he said gently, putting a conciliatory hand on her arm. But she pulled away and flounced out of bed, sweeping his discarded cloak off the floor and wrapping it about her nakedness. “Have you forgot we came to Paris to see Monsieur Corneille’s play?” he added.

  “Then stay in Paris without me, and see the play. Try to understand, André,” she said, her voice soft and pleading. “I truly think I should see to poor François.”

  “By all means!” he said, his tone of a sudden sarcastic and filled with bitterness. “One would think you were married to Vilmorin!”

  “Far better than pretending one is not married at all!” she snapped. “Will you enjoy yourself in Paris, without your wife as chaperon?”

  “Indeed, Madame, I will!” he growled.

  She stormed to the door, then turned, seeing her clothing strewn about the floor. “I shall send my maid for my things in the morning. I expect to be in Vilmorin by tomorrow evening!”

  His eyes glowed with anger, and swept the cloud of apricot silk on the floor. “Have your seamstress raise the bodice of that gown, or by my faith, Madame…” He glared at her, the threat unspoken.

  Chin held high, she sailed out of the room, slamming the door loudly behind her. When she had gone, he got out of bed, pulling the coverlet about his shoulders, and paced the floor, a deep frown creasing his brow. He picked up her silk dress and rubbed its softness against his cheek; then, with an angry grunt, he tossed it to the floor again, and sank onto a small bench near the fire, dropping his head in his hands.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The small carriage creaked its way laboriously up the cobbled street to the top of the hill. In the frosty air the breath from the pair of horses hung suspended for a moment before swirling away on a passing gust. Within the drafty coach, Lysette shivered and pulled her fur-lined cloak more tightly about her body; Dominique, huddled in a corner, smiled in reassurance, tucking the woolen lap robe ab
out her mistress’s knees.

  Mon Dieu, thought Lysette. She had never known a January so cold. Even here in Vouvray, where the cliffs and gabled houses managed to block off a portion of the wintry wind. Paris had been no better. The Louvre was chilly, for all its many fireplaces, and she had suffered unhappily. Besides, after Marielle had returned to Vilmorin (le bon Dieu knew her reasons!), André had become sullen and distracted. She had dutifully seen Monsieur Corneille’s play Le Cid, but found herself bored with it and the storm it had aroused: Madame de Rambouillet’s Salon had questioned its form and structure, and there was talk that Richelieu wished the Académie Française to censure the playwright for violating the prescribed rules of the Theatre—the Three Unities. Nom de Dieu! What did it matter to her that time and place and action were not unified in some foolish play, when André was distant and Jean-Auguste was cool! And when she knew—as she had known as early as Paris, in that corner of her brain that could not deny it—that she carried a child in her womb.

  The coach reached the top of the hill and stopped. They were in a small plaza ringed by tiny shops and centered with a fountain and trough long since frozen over. The coachman leaped from his box and held the door for Lysette.

  “Go and warm yourself with a mug of cider,” she said, pressing a coin into his wind-raw hands. “But be sure to have the coach waiting for me here in an hour. If I am delayed too long, I shall send Dominique to tell you.”

  The coachman hopped back onto his seat and directed the horses toward a side street and the boisterous sounds that attested to a nearby tavern. Lysette watched him out of sight, then nodded to Dominique, who indicated a narrow lane, bumpy with cobbles. As they made their way down the lane Lysette could feel the sweat oozing from her pores, running down the center of her back and between her breasts in tiny rivulets, despite the chill of the day. She could not bear a child. Babies meant pain and blood and death. Always before there had been someone to look after her, to care for her, to shield her from harm—but no surrogate could save her from the inevitability of the creature in her womb. The pain would be hers alone, and the burden, and the loss of her youth and beauty. And who would save her from his neglect, when the child supplanted the mother—to be petted and spoiled and indulged in her stead?

  Dominique stopped at an iron gate centered in a high stone fence, and turned sympathetic eyes to Lysette.

  “This is the place, Dominique?”

  “Yes, Madame de Narbaux.”

  “And he is very discreet?”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  Lysette tugged at a brass bell that hung beside the gate, and walked through to a small garden fronting an ancient brick house. The sound of the bell hung in the frosty silence, loud as a tocsin, and Lysette stirred nervously, fearful she would have to ring it again to get a response. At length the door to the house opened, and a coarse woman, her face red and puffy, beckoned to Lysette.

  “Wait here,” Lysette said to Dominique, motioning her to a small bench in the frozen garden. “If it becomes too cold, ask them to let you into the kitchen. Here”—handing her fur cloak to the maid—“I shall not need this for a while.”

  The frowsy housekeeper led her through a dim corridor to a small, wood-paneled room, damp and cold despite the fire that roared on the hearth, then bobbed politely and left her alone. She removed her gloves, rubbing her hands nervously together while her eyes swept the chamber. There was a long table covered with a patterned tapestry, two or three chairs and small stands, and a much used oaken cabinet, its drawer fronts curved and worn from years of service.

  The door opened and a cheery little man bustled into the room, his balding pate ringed with a crown of snowy hair, his face wreathed in a benign smile. His doublet strained against his paunch as though the buttons would give way at any moment.

  “Madame,” he said, then put a pudgy finger to his lips. “I do not wish to know more.” He smiled again and indicated a chair for Lysette, then seated himself beside her and took her hand. “How cold your fingers are! Well, we shall put you to rights soon enough!” And patted her hand reassuringly.

  “And I may…depend upon your…discretion?”

  “But certainly, Madame!” He cleared his throat delicately. “Discretion—alas—is expensive. You have brought the fee?”

  She nodded and drew a small pouch of coins from the silk purse that hung at her waist. What a deal of trouble it had been to wheedle it out of Jean-Auguste, livre by livre! He had scolded her for her profligacy and suggested once again that she learn, with Bricole’s help, to keep the household accounts. Mon Dieu! As though she did not have enough troubles already!

  The little man took the pouch from her and carried it to the oak cabinet, depositing it in a small drawer, then walked to the long table and motioned for Lysette to come to him. “Shall we begin?”

  She hesitated, chewing on her knuckles. “But…Dr. Landelle…how can I be sure it will not happen again? It must be unhealthy and unnatural…to take as many baths as I did, and still…!” She wrung her hands in anguish.

  He laughed gently. “My dear Madame, once the stone begins to roll down the hill, it is not so easy to stop it! Not with baths, nor purges, nor physics of any kind. No, nor by eating the pip of an apple by the first rays of the sun, nor casting a magic amulet into the Loire! There are ways, of course, but it is far simpler to keep the stone from beginning its journey! A lovely lady such as yourself…surely a gallant gentleman can be persuaded to…” He smiled in cherubic innocence, but his eyes twinkled knowingly.

  She frowned at that, his assumption that she had a lover, then thought better of her anger and turned away with a pang of guilt. Surely to take a lover was far less shameful than to deceive a husband, more especially one so kind as Jean-Auguste. Foolish Lysette! This was no time for high principles! With a winning smile, she turned again to Dr. Landelle. “But Monsieur, there are times when one does not…wish the gentleman to know! You understand.” She dimpled prettily at him. “Is there nothing to be done?”

  “Well, there are women in Vouvray and Tours”—he harrumphed uncomfortably—“who are…generous with their favors. For them, a ‘complication’ is…ahem!…a matter of poor business. But a noblewoman such as yourself…” He shook his head. “No. It would be a dishonor to you, Madame, for me even to consider…”

  “Of course. How kind you are. How sensible of my repute.” But she looked so crestfallen that he hurried to the cabinet and returned with a small velvet pouch.

  “Ah, Madame, you move me in spite of myself!” He dropped the sack delicately into Lysette’s lap; opening it quickly, she saw that it contained three or four sponges each about the size of a large plum. “Should you be so inclined, Madame…the matter is entirely at your discretion, of course! But a sponge, placed deep enough to go unnoticed, n’est-ce pas? It is important that it remain in place for several hours…afterwards.” Lysette nodded in understanding and put the pouch into her purse. “Now,” he said cheerily, and began to bustle about the room, carrying several candle stands to one end of the long table. “I would suggest you remove your skirt. The room is chilly, however…the skirt should be sufficient.”

  She turned her back to him and unhooked the heavy woolen skirt, stepping out of it and placing it on the chair along with her gloves. An edge of fear had begun to gnaw at her insides. When she turned about again, she saw that he had draped several linen cloths over the tapestry on the table; the cloths seemed washed and clean enough, but they were spotted with large ugly stains that made her stomach churn. Ah, Dieu! What am I doing here? she thought.

  “If you please.” He helped her onto the table and settled her comfortably on her back, slipping a small pillow beneath her head. She could feel the blood drain out of her face, and her breath catch in her throat, but he did not seem to notice as he went from cabinet to table and back again, fetching basins and rags and instruments, moving the candle stands closer in, all the while chattering away about the weather, the war with Spain, the possibil
ity of the King taking Louise de La Fayette as his mistress. He paused for a moment to call in his housekeeper, and she came and stood above Lysette, grinning down at her with a wide smile that wanted several teeth. At a nod from Dr. Landelle, she unceremoniously reached down and stripped back Lysette’s petticoats. With a gasp, Lysette clamped shut her eyes, feeling the shame burn her cheeks. I must be mad! she thought. She could feel him manipulating her legs into position—poking, probing—the panic rising in her breast. Her eyes flew open, but she could see only the shiny top of his head beyond the barrier of her petticoats. She felt a sudden sharp twinge and tried to sit up.

  “No! You cannot!” The start of a scream—stifled by a fat hand clamped across her mouth, an angry curse, a strong arm pushing her shoulders back against the table. She struggled fiercely against the hands that held her down, her eyes wide with terror. But it was too late. There was another sharp twinge, a searing pain that seemed to tear her very insides, and then a warm flow. She sagged back against the table, her strength gone, aware suddenly that the rough hands that still muffled her mouth reeked of onions.

  The doctor looked up in annoyance. “Why did you move, Madame?” Then, seeing the look on her face, he relented and fetched her a small glass of wine, raising her up by the shoulders and holding the glass to her trembling lips.

  “Curse you!” she cried, fighting back tears. “Why does it hurt so?”

  “You have brought it on yourself,” he chided. “There was no child.”

  “But there must have been!”

  “No, Madame. No child. I felt only a cyst—a sac of fluid pressing on your womb. I should have merely sent you home to rest and you would soon be well. But your foolish struggles caused it to rupture; now there will be much bleeding and distress.” He patted her cheek and lowered her back onto the pillow. “Well,” he said kindly, “it cannot be helped.”

  She closed her eyes against the sharp pain within her body, the sharper pain in her soul. Had it been a child, it would be gone now—and she the cause of its destruction.