Still, to be practical, she was glad at least that there was little chance of her conceiving a child from this encounter. She had learned enough from questioning of Aunt Marguerite to guess that she was in the infertile portion of her cycle. And if Jean-Auguste should invade her bechamber again, she would keep her wits about her, distracting and charming him long enough so that she could use one of Dr. Landelle’s miracle devices. She laughed softly. After all, she had gulled him on that account! How often had she used the sponges, and he never the wiser! Perhaps he was not so strong or all-seeing, despite last night! She had been very sleepy, too tired to use her wiles, to be on her guard against him. That was why he had frightened her, overpowered her—no reason other than that! Smiling confidently to herself, she picked up the bell on her bedside table and rang for Dominique.
Jean-Auguste’s behavior all that day seemed to bear her out. Very quiet he hardly looked at her, a cloud of embarrassment, almost shyness, seeming to envelop him. Lysette, on the other hand, made good use of her advantage, playing the gracious lady, all-forgiving, as though she understood his momentary lapse.
In the late afternoon she invited him to stroll with her in the gardens. It was a beautiful day, did he not agree? Would he take the spring air with her? As they walked, she chattered gaily, pretending not to notice his unease, absently twisting a ring on her finger—a ring she had taken great care to put on before inviting him for their walk. As they passed a small pond, afloat with lilies, she contrived to let the ring slip off her finger and sink into the water. With an unhappy “Oh!” she sank to her knees to retrieve it, rolling up her sleeves before plunging her arms into the pond. When she stood up, triumphant the rescued ring in her hand, she was delighted to see that his unhappy eyes were drawn to the purple welts on her forearms and wrists. She smiled gently at him, all soft forgiveness, but she allowed her chin to tremble bravely as she dabbed at her arms with a handkerchief and rolled down her sleeves.
For the next few days she gloried in his contrition, taking every opportunity to make it apparent that his abasement of her was a humiliation she did not intend to allow again. She lingered on the stairs, almost defying him to intrude upon her modesty, then sailed to her room in a sanctimonious aura. She managed even to wheedle a new saddle from him, though he had refused her request several times in the past, calling it a needless extravagance.
She was glad, however, when Aunt Marguerite announced one day over lunch that she intended to return to her home in Poitou in a few days. Madame de Mersenne had shrewd eyes; surely she had noticed Jean-Auguste’s new humility, and was already priming herself with a barrage of probing and unwelcome questions. But with April almost over, there was much to be done on her estate, and, besides, she did not wish to feel she had overstayed her welcome.
“Will you come to see me, Jean-Auguste?” she asked. “And bring this charming thing with you! I must confess I have grown quite fond of your wife! Though the day will come, ma chère,” she said, not unkindly, to Lysette, “when you will regret that you have not troubled to become the true mistress of Chimère. In my day, a woman raised her children and ran the estate while her husband was at war, and if she was slow at learning her lessons, her husband taught her with a switch cut from a birch tree!” She shrugged to Jean-Auguste. “Eh bien! Bricole does well enough. And Lysette is too fragile and tender to treat roughly.”
Jean-Auguste smiled stiffly, a muscle working in his jaw; he almost seemed to blush as he rose from the table and went to stand at the window, as though he regretted afresh his rough assault.
Lysette scarcely noticed, so stung was she by Marguerite’s implied criticism of her as wife. She turned a bright smile to the elder woman. “But how perceptive you are, Aunt Marguerite! How I have longed for Bricole to instruct me in the management of Chimère—long before my illness even!—but he has been reluctant to relinquish what has been his for so many years. I have not the heart to bring him pain! And I cannot do it without his help. My dear aunt was like a mother to me—in all save those instructions that would help me to be a better wife!” She sighed deeply. “But I shall learn. Jean-Auguste has been the soul of patience—I would crave your sympathy a little longer as well! As for children”—she crossed herself quickly, her face shining with perfect piety—“may le bon Dieu…”
“Merde!” At the window, Jean-Auguste’s face had turned white. He raced for the door and flung it open; they heard his boots clicking rapidly on the stone floor of the Great Hall, the sound of the main door crashing wide, and then silence.
“Jean-Auguste! Nom de Dieu!” cried Lysette. She hurried to the casement where he had stood and peered out at the bright day. The river was calm, the sky a pure and limpid blue, and far off, over the edge of the trees that hugged the shore, was a pillar of thick black smoke. She frowned for a moment, then gasped in comprehension. “Ah, Dieu! The glasshouse!” She hurried into the Hall, calling for Bricole to send for her horse, and paced restlessly, ignoring Marguerite, until one of the grooms brought her mare around.
Jean-Auguste had not bothered even to wait for his horse, but had gone on foot; nevertheless, by the time Lysette arrived in the clearing he was already there, doublet off, sleeves rolled up, barking commands to the men. The glasshouse was a mass of flames, crackling and roaring, and the air was acrid with thick smoke. Lysette dismounted and stood helpless, as men shouted and ran back and forth, seeking in vain to douse the flames with hastily fetched pails of water, beating out the sparks that threatened to catch the kiln shed and the drying stacks of wood.
Lysette caught sight of the boy Honoré, barefoot, watching in wide-eyed terror, and went to kneel beside him, her heart unexpectedly softened at his distress. “Are you hurt, lad?” His face crumpled and he began to sob; she folded him into her embrace, unfamiliar words of comfort issuing from her lips.
He sobbed afresh, tried to speak and could not.
“But how did it happen?”
He wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve. “We…Monsieur Guglielmo…the men…were s-s-setting a new crucible in the furnace. It did not spill, I think—it must have burst. There was a snap, a loud crack…I know not…and then the sparks were shooting up through the vent at the top, and the roof, and the roof…!” He stared at Lysette, gaping in horror. “It was all on fire and I looked at the stoke hole and the hot glass was pouring out and the bench was burning, and Monsieur Guglielmo grabbed me round and pushed me out the door, and I lost my shoes and my mother will whip me and…” He stopped to catch his breath, a great gasping intake.
Lysette looked up. Giacopo Rondini, wild-eyed, stood before them. He snatched Honoré from Lysette’s arms, taking him roughly by the shoulders and shaking him until the boy wailed in terror.
“Where is Guglielmo? Where is my son? You were inside with him…where is he?”
A high squeak. “Please, Monsieur! He pushed all of us out—Charles and Michel and the rest—I have not seen him since!”
Rondini blanched, his eyes darting to the flaming glasshouse. “My son!” he screamed. “My son!” Like a madman, he hurtled toward the burning building, and the large doorway that was now a wall of fire. Some of the men caught him and held him back, while he struggled and fought and cursed them, his strength the strength of desperation. Simon Vacher, busily directing the human chain of water buckets, paused for a moment and came nearer to the doorway, holding up an arm to shield himself from the intense heat. Beyond the flaming entrance, there still seemed a portion of the interior that had not caught fire. Vacher turned to one of the glassworkers and snatched off the man’s protective leather cape, draping it about his own head and shoulders. Then he picked up a bucket of water and poured it over his face and arms. Taking a deep breath—and before a horrified Jean-Auguste could reach his side and stop him—he plunged into the inferno.
Lysette rose to her feet, her hand clutched to her mouth. Poor Dominique! It seemed an eternity of waiting. Honoré’s mother, the widow, who had run from the Rondini house, fell to
her knees, hands clasped, lips moving in silent prayer. Someone coughed and retched as a fresh puff of thick smoke rolled over the clearing. There was a shout of relief that turned to a groan as Vacher appeared in the doorway, carrying the charred and lifeless body of Guglielmo. He stumbled into the clearing; his face went white and pasty, a pallor that tinged his bronzed skin a ghastly shade of green. Dropping his grisly burden, he pitched over onto his face. Jean-Auguste and several of the men leapt to him and turned him over, pounding on his chest to force out the smoke and let in the healing air. In a little, his color returned and his eyelids fluttered weakly. Sighing in relief, Jean-Auguste gave orders that he should be taken to his cottage; it was Lysette who thought to commandeer one of the men and send him to the château to fetch Dominique to tend her husband.
It was clear that nothing could save the glasshouse; the men worked frantically to keep the fire from spreading to the other buildings or the surrounding woods. And for all the hours they toiled, Rondini sat like a dead man; the moment he had seen Guglielmo’s body he had sunk to the ground, all the life draining out of him, his dark eyes tearless and unseeing. At last, the widow came to him, and raised him up, and forced a jug of strong wine into his hands, leading him to his house and the blessed forgetfulness that wine would bring.
The sun hung low in the sky, glowing in brilliant counterpoint to the last smoldering embers. Most of the glasshouse was gone; the furnace itself had cracked and caved in—only the cooling oven remained, filled with bottles fused together now by the intense heat.
Lysette rubbed her eyes tiredly, feeling a certain pride that eased her grief at Guglielmo’s death. When it had become apparent that she could do nothing at the clearing, neither to ease Giacopo’s pain nor to be of any help, she had ridden back to Chimère and called for Bricole. They would need food and drink at the glasshouse, a steady supply while they worked, and all the night, if need be. She did not care if it would leave the larders short-stocked; there would be time enough to deal with that problem. For now it was important that the workers be fed—and why had Bricole not thought of it? Must every burden be hers? She grew positively righteous while Aunt Marguerite gaped in wonder, and Bricole, filled with new respect, invited her into the kitchens to supervise the work firsthand. Now she sighed as she surveyed the devastation in the clearing. The workers at least were fed, and she had instructed Bricole at the last to send down several hogsheads of wine. Jean-Auguste was nowhere about—someone told her that Monsieur le Vicomte had returned to the château.
She found him in the small salon. His shirt was torn and smudged; his orange hair speckled with soot and ashes. He sat sprawled in his chair, facing the cold fireplace—and the portrait of Gabriel. Her heart sank at the haunted look he turned to her. She had come seeking his strength for her grief, his praise for what she had done; he could not ease his own pain, let alone give her comfort.
“Gabriel would have succeeded,” he said, the words hardly meant for her, his eyes looking past her to some dark recess in his own soul.
“Jean-Auguste,” she said softly. “Come and sup with me in my sitting room.”
“Leave me!” he growled, shaking her off. “I cannot eat!”
Sighing, she went to her rooms, to be greeted by a young maid who curtsied and begged Madame to accept her service this evening while Dominique nursed her husband. Lysette nodded. Mon Dieu! She did not even know the girl’s name. She had been mistress here for eight months—and she did not even know her name, though she had seen the girl every day at Chimère!
“What is your name?” she asked, shame-faced.
“Claude, my lady.”
“Well then, Claude. Please go and tell Bricole that I shall sup in my room. And ask Madame de Mersenne if she will do me the honor of joining me. But first, you may help me into my dressing gown—I cannot bear the smell of smoke another moment!” With Claude’s help, she stripped down quickly, putting on fresh chemise and petticoat which she covered with a blue velvet peignoir, and splashing her arms and bosom lavishly with perfume to drive out the last traces of smokiness.
She and Marguerite dined together, but the tragedy had drained them both, and they found they had little to say to one another. At last Madame de Mersenne, begging weariness, went to her own rooms. About to change into her nightclothes, Lysette hesitated. It was very quiet. Surely if Jean-Auguste had retired to his apartments she would have heard the sound of servants moving about in the passageway. She went out into the corridor. It was still lit, as was the staircase. Descending, she found one or two footmen nodding in the Great Hall, waiting for Monsieur to go to bed that they might extinguish the torches and candles and seek rest themselves. Crossing to the small salon, she peered in and saw that Jean-Auguste was still where she had left him hours before, staring morosely up at Gabriel’s picture.
She put a soft hand on his sleeve. “Jean-Auguste. For the love of God. Have something to eat and go to bed. Please.”
“I cannot. Leave me be.” But his voice was more gentle than it had been earlier. He breathed deeply, catching a whiff of her perfume, and uttered a sad laugh. “I did not think my nostrils would ever again smell anything save smoke!” He sighed. “Go to bed.”
“Good night, then,” she said. “May le bon Dieu be with you.” With heavy heart, she crossed to the staircase.
“Wait!” He called to her and strode quickly to where she stood, hand poised on the balustrade. “Send your maid away tonight.” His face was haggard, the gray eyes almost pleading.
“Mon Dieu, Jean-Auguste! It has been such a terrible day! Do not importune me tonight, when I desire only the solace of my bed—and my solitude!”
His eyes narrowed as though he had not heard her aright; grabbing her fiercely by the elbow he steered her up the stairs to her chambers, ignoring her protesting squeals. Brushing past the maid Claude, waiting outside her door, he stormed into the room and flung Lysette away, slamming the door on the gaping servant. He glared at Lysette, his eyes filled with cold fury.
“Did I not make it clear to you that I would bed you when I wish it? I much regretted my brutishness of last week, but that does not gainsay the fact that I meant my words to be heeded!”
This time she had her wits about her. “And will you force me…against my wishes?” Her lip curled in scorn. “Will you threaten to beat me if I do not please you?” And was glad to see him flinch at her words.
His eyes scanned her face with a look that was almost hatred. “No, my dear wife,” he said at last his voice thick with sarcasm. “Mayhap there should be a contract, that your conjugal duties should wait upon my predilections! Would you care to amend it with particulars of your own choosing? A new brooch for your favors? A lace handkerchief for a smile or kiss?”
“How crass you are! How disgusting!”
“To the contrary! I think it a capital idea. If it is writ down on paper, I may tally the ledger from time to time to see if you are worth the expense!” He moved toward her sitting room. “Let me fetch pen and ink—it would be amusing to learn how high you value yourself!”
She seethed in fury at his tone, tapping a petulant foot on the tiles as she waited for him to reemerge. She could hear him rummaging at her writing desk, seeking paper and ink, and cast about in her brain for ugly words of scorn that would put an end to this ridiculous charade. By le bon Dieu, he would not have his way tonight! His voice called out to her from her sitting room.
“Mayhap I shall title it ‘Permission to Share My Wife’s Bed.’ Think you that…” His voice broke off abruptly. After a long moment, he moved unsteadily into her bedchamber, his face as ashen as his shirt. He held out his hand to her, uncurling his long fingers to reveal her sponges on his broad palm.
She felt her mouth go dry, but managed to open her eyes wide in feigned innocence. “Whatever is that?”
“God save me from your games tonight!” he choked. “You know well what these are—and so do I! Every harlot in Paris has a box of sponges next to her rouge pot! Have
I married a harlot then? Did you earn your living in the streets of Soligne after Guy died?”
“How dare you!” she raged. “That you could imagine that I…Oh!” Her eyes blazed, deep amethyst fires throwing off sparks.
“For André, then,” he said, his voice soft and deadly.
She laughed contemptuously. “Pah! What nonsense!” But her pulse had begun to throb with the beginnings of fear.
“Think you I did not guess that André was the attraction and the reason for Paris?” He looked at the sponges in his hand, and closed his fist tightly about them. “Have you lain with André?” he asked, not looking at her.
“No,” she said icily. “I have known no man save Guy and you!”
A hollow laugh. “And one may hope that Guy was rewarded more often than I!” His eyes bored into her, a sudden sharpness in his voice. “Did you use the sponges when you lay with me?” She hesitated, suddenly afraid to reply. “Answer me!” he barked. “I would not regret wringing your neck tonight if you keep silent! By le bon Dieu, I am sick unto death of your lies and deceptions!” With an angry growl, he threw down the sponges. “Did you use them?”
She started to cry, genuinely upset at her own perfidy. “Only a few times, Jean-Auguste. Truly.”
“And you swear it, no doubt, by the reality of those tears that do your bidding, and spring to your eyes when you stand in need of them!”
Lashed by his words, her body began to shake with sobs. “Stop, Jean-Auguste. No m-m-more. I beg you.”
Lysette Page 27