Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  They entered the glasshouse and Lysette gasped and blinked her eyes, struck by the fierce heat, the blinding glare of the fires that burst forth from the openings in the large furnace. Jean-Auguste held her back, but in truth she could not advance had she wanted to, so intense was the heat. The men within seemed hardly to notice it; save for an occasional worker stripped to the waist, or a head bound up in a damp cloth, or an extra pair of hose and a protective cape or tunic, no one seemed to mind. Jean-Auguste explained that Guglielmo Rondini, the son, was a gaffer, or chief blower; Giacopo, as the master glassmaker, was expected only to supervise. But since the furnace had been fashioned with room for two crucibles of melted glass, two teams were at work, father and son both acting as gaffers.

  Each team worked with a rhythm that was as formalized as a dance, their movements quick without being overhasty; while Lysette watched, Giacopo’s chief assistant, his gatherer, thrust a heated iron pipe, some five feet in length, into a crucible of molten glass and withdrew a large gob that glowed a brilliant orange. He rolled it for a second on a slab of marble to retain its roundness, while it cooled to a bright red, then returned it to the crucible for another coating. Taking a prodigious breath, he blew into the pipe once, twice, until a pear-shaped bubble was formed; when he stopped to catch his breath, he thrust the rod into one of the “glory holes,” those small openings in the side of the furnace designed for rapid reheating. In the meantime, Giacopo had seated himself at his blower’s bench with its disproportionately long arms and was marshaling his strength for the most difficult part of the work. Working rapidly, so that the piece of glass barely had time to cool from a brilliant red to a deep ruby, he took the blowpipe from his assistant and began to blow, stopping to rest the pipe on the arms of his chair and roll it back and forth to keep its symmetry. A deep breath, a mighty puff, a twirl of the rod—Lysette looked on in amazement as a bottle was formed before her eyes. A small paddle to flatten the bottom of the bottle, pincers to form the neck—and at the precise moment his job was completed his assistant took a small gather of glass on an iron rod, called a pontil, and touched it to the bottom of the bottle where it attached at once. While his helper held the bottle thus, Rondini deftly cracked off the blowing pipe from the top; the bottle being once more thrust into the glory hole to reheat, Rondini took a shears and cut and smoothed the neck, then added a small lip of hot glass to finish it. The bottle was then taken on a fresh rod thrust into it, and the pontil was tapped lightly to release the finished bottle. The whole process had taken no more than two or three minutes; the finished bottle was placed in the large annealing oven next to the furnace where it would temper and cool for several days. It seemed so simple that Lysette was surprised when Rondini exhaled heavily and wiped his brow with one sinewy arm, seeming to droop before her eyes. He stopped a moment and splashed his face and arms with water from a nearby bucket, then nodded to his gatherer, who, blowpipe in hand, was preparing to collect another gob of molten glass.

  Jean-Auguste laughed at the look of awe on Lysette’s face. “Rondini says it is a simple task, and monotonous, but I suspect his experience renders it so! For, look you, he must shape his bottle to hold the exact measure each time, and teach his gatherer to take only the correct amount of ‘metal’—that is what they call the hot glass. Guglielmo, on the other hand”—he indicated Rondini’s son—“is more modern in his ways. The bottles he is making are smaller, but he prefers to use a mold for accuracy.”

  Lysette turned her attention to Guglielmo Rondini, who was busily instructing the young boy Honoré to gather the glass. The lad lifted the heavy pipe to his mouth and attempted to blow the initial bubble, but the weight of the rod was too much for him; he balanced it precariously, his thin muscles straining, while the glass cooled from bright orange to deep red and lost its glow. At length the pipe sagged to the floor and the cooled glass shattered, sending shards in every direction. Giacopo growled angrily and Honoré handed back the pipe to Guglielmo’s gatherer, and scurried to retrieve his stoker’s rake. Ignoring his father’s scowl, Guglielmo patted the boy on the head.

  “There will come a time when you can heft it, my lad!” Honoré smiled in gratitude and poked up the fires at the bottom of the furnace, while another apprentice swept up the broken bits and put them into the barrel of cullet.

  In the meantime, Guglielmo’s gatherer had prepared the gob of glass much as before, but this time when the gaffer took the blowpipe with its bubble he lowered it into a hinged applewood mold; the mold was closed and Guglielmo continued blowing for a moment or two, while the glass expanded within and filled every crevice. When the mold was opened, the bottle was attached to a pontil and the neck was finished much as Giacopo’s bottles had been. Honoré put down his rake and ladled a bit of water over the mold to cool it for the next bottle.

  Lysette was fascinated by it all. The colors were dazzling, reverberating before her eyes until she must blink and turn away: the brilliant orange of the fire in the stokehole, the whitehot openings of the glory holes, the vibrant red balls of glass, and, beyond the windows, the blue of the sky that seemed to shimmer with the same intensity.

  The heat had begun to bother her; she turned to leave with Jean-Auguste, noticing as she did so several shelves of fine goblets and beakers, a commission no doubt from some wealthy bourgeois in Tours or Vouvray.

  Outside the glasshouse she was both pleased and dismayed to find Pasquier, the young vigneron who had been crippled. His damaged foot still seemed a shapeless mass beneath its bindings, and his leg was drawn up, with a small wooden peg strapped to his knee, so that he might hobble about without the aid of crutches, and without putting his weight on what remained of his foot. But his spirits were bright and he greeted Lysette with such warmth that she smiled uneasily, wishing she possessed the same kind of courage. Pasquier was busy sorting the finished and cooled bottles, supervising their loading into large wheelbarrows lined with straw that would be trundled up to the caves and filled with wine. The bottles were a pale gray-green, and clouded with tiny air bubbles, the result of imperfections in the sand, but more than adequate, as Jean-Auguste explained, for the shipping of wine.

  The Rondini, having taken a moment to rest from their labors, came out to greet her more properly, their soft eyes almost black against faces still flushed from the heat. But their pleasant conversation soon drifted into a near quarrel over Honoré—whether he was worth training, and if so who was to train him. A fine thing, Lysette chided them, to welcome her back to health with a foolish quarrel—it was plain they could not behave like grown men when she was not around!

  Chastened, they returned to the glasshouse. Lysette allowed Jean-Auguste to help her into her saddle, ignoring the wide grin on his face. They rode slowly back to the château, while he explained that the filled bottles of wine would be put into boats and shipped down river to Tours. He was very pleased with himself; because of the glassworks, the vineyards would return a far greater profit.

  “Gabriel would have found it to his liking,” he said, an edge of regret in his voice. “He always wished that Chimère might grow and thrive.” He sighed heavily. “I would give a king’s ransom to have him here to see what we have accomplished.” The sadness of that thought seemed to cast a pall on his pleasure and pride for the rest of the day, when he stopped Lysette on the staircase that night with his gentle question (“Do you wish to sleep tonight?”), she had not the heart to refuse him.

  He was a solicitous and tender lover this evening, not nearly as impatient as the night before—she found herself swept along on a tide of feeling and sensation that suffused her body with a warm glow. But still—why did her thoughts always turn to André? Even as Jean-Auguste took her mouth she recalled André’s kiss in Paris, half convincing herself that he meant more by it than just making Marielle jealous. And when Jean-Auguste possessed her body and she found herself responding to his ardor, her hands clasped about him, her whole being opening to receive him, it was André in her thoughts, And
ré who owned her heart and her mind.

  Afterward, feeling mellow, contented, she burrowed into his arms, enjoying his warmth, the pleasure of being held, the sweetness of his kisses, devoid now of passion. But her conscience, that foreign part within her that no longer gave her any peace, had begun its gnawing. What a wicked person she was—to think of another man in her husband’s arms. And the sponge—that he did not even suspect. And that frightful day in Dr. Landelle’s house. Ah, Dieu! Surely she would burn in hell for all eternity!

  Jean-Auguste, kissing her, put his hands on either side of her face and gave a start, his fingers touching the tears that had begun to flow. Confused, miserable, she pulled away, curling up in a corner of the large bed, feeling suddenly unworthy of his kindness. For a long time they were silent, she weeping quiet tears into the pillow, he staring into the darkness above his head. At last, with a heavy sigh, he arose from the bed and left her room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I scarce can fathom what ails you, Jean-Auguste!” Aunt Marguerite’s hearty voice boomed across the supper table in the salon until the wineglasses seemed to shake. Lysette, busy rinsing her fingers in the small basin held by the footman, looked up in alarm at Marguerite’s words. That tone of voice was always a prelude to something outrageous. She dried her hands on the snowy linen towel and hastily dismissed the servant. Sure enough, Marguerite pressed forward like a great cannon primed for battle. “You have a perfectly charming wife, and you have been married for more than a six-month—and still her belly is flat!” Lysette gasped; she had almost become used to Madame de Mersenne’s frankness by now, but this was touching a nerve too raw for comfort. Marguerite went on cheerily, ignoring the look on Jean-Auguste’s face. “It can hardly be a lack on your part, my dear nephew! Did you not beget a bastard or two in your time?”

  Jean-Auguste threw down his napkin and jumped up from the table; behind him, his chair teetered precariously, seemed about to topple, then righted itself at the last moment. He snatched up his wineglass and strode to the window, left open to the mild evening, and gazed sightlessly at the river below, a small muscle working in his jaw. But Marguerite’s battle wagon, once set in motion, could not be stopped. She turned blithely to Lysette. “Do you suppose, ma chère, it would be wise for you to see a doctor in Tours or Paris?”

  Lysette turned scarlet, but managed to keep her composure. “Would that not be—mayhap—premature, Aunt Marguerite?” she said softly. Then, unwilling to endure Marguerite’s stare, unable to bear the sight of Jean-Auguste’s back, stiff with hurt pride, she too rose from the table, and began to pace the small room, her thoughts in a turmoil. They had almost reached an impasse these past weeks since her recovery. More and more she had been consumed with guilt at her use of the sponges, torn with fears that they might not prove effective, unable to rid her mind of thoughts of André whenever Jean-Auguste touched her. She found herself sliding back into the old pattern (“Will you take it amiss? I am feeling poorly this evening.”), her violet eyes helpless and begging his indulgence. He still stopped her on the stair from time to time, but she had refused him so often that he almost never asked anymore.

  Even Marguerite could no longer fail to see their distress. “Ah well,” she said, “there is a time for everything. You must forgive my thoughtless chatter—I should not wish to die without knowing that there are sons and grandsons to carry on the proud name of Narbaux.” She stopped Lysette in her pacing and took her gently by the arm. “Have you seen what a fine figure of a man was my brother?” She led Lysette into the great hall and pointed proudly at the painting of Jean-Auguste’s father, noble in his gleaming armor.

  Lysette nodded in acknowledgment. “But I wonder that Jean-Auguste does not keep the portrait in the small salon, with his mother’s picture!”

  “Because Gabriel was as much father as brother to Jean-Auguste. The lad was barely five when his father died. Gabriel was near sixteen.”

  “He seems a gentle sort,” mused Lysette, drifting back into the salon to stare thoughtfully up at the painting of Gabriel—warm dark eyes, fine mouth curved in a sweet smile beneath his large mustache.

  “Indeed he was. Is it not so, Jean-Auguste?” asked Marguerite.

  Still at the window, Jean-Auguste nodded his head, and when he turned back to the table to refill his wine cup, his face was again composed. Lysette had already swung around to contemplate the picture of Jean-Auguste’s mother. She fingered the pearls at her ears, a legacy from the woman in the portrait, then peered more closely, examining the painted jewels, recognizing some of the treasures that were cached in her writing cabinet. Her eye was caught by a delicate gold chain that she had scarce noticed before: hanging from it was a tiny golden cross, no more than an inch or so, she judged, and centered with a finely carved lily in remarkably high relief for its diminutive size.

  “Oh! What a lovely necklace! I have passed this painting a score of times and never seen it!” She turned, smiling, to Jean-Auguste, attempting to keep the eagerness out of her voice. “And was it as beautiful as the artist has painted it—when your mother wore it?”

  Her guile was wasted. His mouth twitched at her words, as though her covetousness had been spoken aloud. “It was. Alas, it is lost now. She was very devout, my mother, and always wore it. I thought she would be buried with it. But on her deathbed she…placed it about my neck.” He sighed, his voice heavy with regret. “I lost it fighting in Italy, in the attack on Casale. Eh bien”—he shook off his somber mood—“many a good man lost more than a gold necklace in the Piedmont!”

  There was a solid knock on the door. At Jean-Auguste’s command the door was opened and Simon Vacher strode in, his face still as brown and weather-beaten at winter’s end as it had been in the fall. Dominique, passive, compliant, trailed humbly in his wake. Lysette nearly laughed aloud, remembering the maid’s words that first day at Vilmorin—the smug pride that would bend to no man, the belligerent avowal of her independence. Lysette had learned the lesson, but Dominique—Mon Dieu! There was no rebellion in the cow-eyes she turned upon Vacher, indeed, she hung on his words with more attention than she gave to her mistress.

  “My lord,” began Vacher, bobbing briskly to Jean-Auguste, “I should like to have your permission to marry this girl. I fear me she will be a trial, but it is fitting that a man should take a wife, and I have been single far too long. I have some money put aside, and Monsieur Rondini has offered me a small stipend to see that the furnace is kept burning—we shall not be a burden upon you or Chimère unless there is some great calamity.”

  “But your cottage is deep in the woods—how can you tend the glasshouse at such a distance?”

  “Ah, Monsieur. It would be a hardship for Dominique so far away from the château. With your permission, I shall build a small house near to the Rondini.”

  Jean-Auguste smiled. “I see no reason then for me to withhold my approval!”

  Lysette pursed her lips in annoyance. No one had asked her approval, and Dominique was her maid! “Is this agreeable to you, Dominique?” she asked sharply.

  A shy glance at Vacher, a soft sigh. “Oh, yes, Madame!”

  “You are not…forced to marry?”

  “Oh no, Madame! Simon has shown me naught save respect! I am untouched, and shall remain so until the day we marry!”

  There was a loud guffaw from Aunt Marguerite. “But if one may judge by the look in a man’s face,” she said, indicating Vacher, “you will do well to speed the day, else you will not be a virgin bride!”

  Dominique smiled shyly and turned away, while Vacher blushed so deeply that the rosy suffusion could be seen even beneath his browned skin. Lysette flinched at the warm glance that passed between them; it was obvious they were deeply in love, she thought with a pang. How different from her own marriage. She loved André. And Jean-Auguste merely tolerated her, that was apparent. Trapped into the marriage, he only wished the delights of the bedchamber, and—God forgive her—she denied him even that. She could scarc
ely join in the merriment when Jean-Auguste called for more wine and toasted the health and happiness of the young couple.

  The weeks drifted by while spring peeped forth in the first crocuses, the meadows clothed in fresh green, the pink haze of trees swelling with new buds. Simon and Dominique had exchanged their marriage vows in a lively ceremony held in the gardens of Chimère on the first balmy Sunday in March. As a wedding present, Jean-Auguste had contributed much of the food, and all of the wine—by mid-afternoon, most of the farmers and vignerons of Chimère were happily drunk, and dancing to the tunes of a skirling bagpipe, all cares put aside for the day. Even Pasquier managed to hobble about on his peg leg, stomping out the rhythms, and Etienne, long reconciled to the loss of Dominique, was attempting to seduce the daughter of one of the tenant farmers.

  Lysette was surprised at Dominique’s behavior in the weeks that followed—cheerful, contented, her belligerence subdued, a new note of responsibility in the carrying out of her duties, as though her marriage had been an invisible threshold between the child and the woman. Lysette felt a certain envy at the ease of the transition—and the girl’s acceptance of the burdens of maturity. Not for me, she thought. By le bon Dieu, never for me! She would never accept the loss of her freedom to do exactly as she wished, to please no one save herself!

  In the beginning of April, she was to celebrate her birthday. Jean-Auguste had mentioned it to André one day when they rode together, and the next afternoon brought a note from Marielle begging that she might be allowed to give a small party at Vilmorin in honor of the occasion. Lysette was delighted, of course, at the opportunity to see André again, for though Marielle had visited her once or twice during her illness, she had not seen André since Paris. They were to stay for three days; Marielle had invited many guests and was planning a number of gay entertainments.