Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  His shoulders sagged with weariness and disgust. “How well you do it. How often I find myself believing your words. And where did you get the sponges?”

  A frightened whisper. “In Vouvray.”

  “Where?”

  “She swallowed hard, fear driving out her tears. “Dr. Landelle.” Barely audible.

  He reeled back as though she had struck him. “Landelle? But he is the doctor all the women attend when they wish…did you? Mon Dieu! When you were ill…was that the reason? Was it?!” His voice had risen to a roar, his face purpling in fury. She had never known he could grow so angry. She backed away, terrified. “Was it?”

  “No…No…Jean-Auguste…I only…”

  “Curse you!” he said, and strode to her, his gray eyes black in his face; he raised up his hand and struck her down to the floor, so violently that the hairpins were dislodged from her coif and flew clattering onto the tiles. Her face stinging from the force of his blow, she sobbed in pain and grief as he stormed to the door. About to quit her room, he stopped and turned, seeming to reconsider, then marched back to where she still lay huddled on the floor.

  She looked up at him through the curtain of her hair. “What would you?” And raised a shaking arm to ward off another blow.

  “I would have a son!” His hand closed about her upraised arm and he jerked her roughly to her feet.

  “No!” She shook off his grasp and turned to flee.

  He grabbed at her, his fingers tangling in her raven hair, pulling her back by the tight-clasped curls until she cried out in pain. Swinging her around, he bent her back over his arm and glowered down at her face, his eyes like burning coals. His free hand tore at her bodice, rending the blue velvet and the chemise beneath. Paralyzed with fear, she could not even struggle, could only beg him with piteous eyes and soft voice. “Please, Jean-Auguste, please…please…”

  He seemed not to notice or care. “By God,” he said through clenched teeth, “if I must tie you to your bed—I shall plant my seed this night! Once for all, there will be a child of this union!” He lifted her in his arms and flung her onto the large bed as though she were a toy discarded in disgust. There was a sickening thud, the hollow wooden thunk of the carved headboard.

  “Lysette!”

  He rushed to her side. She lay very still, her hair across her face; when he parted the silken tresses he saw that her eyes were closed, her face (save for the glowing red mark of his fingers across her cheek) deathly white. “Lysette!” He ran gentle fingers over her skull, feeling the lump that was already beginning to swell behind one ear, grateful at least that when he took his hand away there was no sign of blood. He wrung his handkerchief in a small pitcher of water near her bed and dabbed at her face until she began to moan softly and her skin regained a bit of its normal color. Shaking, he rubbed a hand across his eyes, then hurried to the door and summoned the waiting Claude.

  “Attend your mistress,” he said, his voice unsteady, and strode away down the passage.

  The moon, rising late in the sky, illuminated the last wisps of smoke lingering in the ruined glasshouse, swirling like ghostly fingers around the man who staggered through the debris, a pitcher of wine clutched in one hand. The boy Honoré crouched behind an upturned wheelbarrow, his eyes never leaving the stumbling man, his small hands clutched together as if in supplication. At length Giacopo Rondini (for it was he in the ruins) drained the last of the wine and flung the pitcher from him. Drunkenly he stooped and picked up a pontil, fingering it aimlessly and poking at the crumbling remains of the furnace. He turned to the cooling oven, still intact, his eye caught by the bottles within. While Honoré watched, trembling in his hiding place, Rondini shook the pontil skyward, as though cursing the gods, then swung it violently against the bottles, smashing and destroying in a shower of glass, seeking out every fragment and shard that could be pulverized. And all the while, from his wide-gaping mouth, came forth feral howls of pain and rage.

  The persistent moon crept through the stained-glass windows and into the tiny chapel of Chimère. It touched the small votive candle on the altar and caressed the white shirt and orange hair of the figure who knelt in prayer, bespotting all with the night-muted colors of the patterned glass. Jean-Auguste rose to his feet and paced the floor, wringing his hands in anguish, his steps carrying him in and out of the impersonal moonbeam.

  Suddenly he fell to his knees again, his hand clawing at the carved stone upon the floor that marked the entrance to the burial crypt below; feeling no movement, he groaned, and his fist pounded rhythmically against the unyielding stone.

  “Gabriel!” A haunted, hollow whisper.

  With a tormented cry, he threw himself face down upon the floor, his shoulders shaking violently, and gave himself over to his grief.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Shall I bring you your breakfast now, Madame?”

  Lysette looked up from the chaise in her sitting room, where she had lain for the last half hour after dragging herself painfully from her bed, and absently watched Dominique bustling about, parting curtains, opening windows to the bright day. Her head throbbed, and there was a numbness where her heart should have been. She could not think of food when Jean-Auguste’s stricken look haunted her, filled every corner of her brain. She sighed and peered more closely at the maid.

  “How pale you are, Dominique. Pale and dark-eyed! I’ll wager you have not slept all the night!”

  “It matters not, Madame. I am so grateful to le bon Dieu that Simon will be well. They said his throat was seared and he will not talk for a week or two, but with a bit of rest he will be himself again in no time!”

  “And you must rest! Go to your bed for a little.”

  “Nay, Madame. I would not leave you. You do not seem well today!”

  “Nonsense! It is merely weariness and grief from the fire. I shall lie here until my spirits revive—if I am in need, I shall send for Claude. She does not please me near as well as you, of course”—a proud smile fleeted across Dominique’s tired features—“but I shall be happier knowing you are resting. Now, off with you, and not a word of protest!”

  She was grateful to be alone; she could not bear to talk to anyone. Trembling, she rubbed her hand against her cheek where he had struck her, seeing again the hatred in his eyes. Ah, Dieu! Where was her heart, that day at Dr. Landelle’s, that she had not thought for a moment of Jean-Auguste, of the grief she might be visiting upon him? Had she been so fearful, so selfish—to think only of herself? She had meant to be a good wife to him, despite her abiding love for André, if only to repay him for his kindness. And what a mess she had made of it all! It had never occurred to her—until last night—that the life she had wished to destroy so wantonly belonged as much to Jean-Auguste as to her. Or that it was her husband’s pride, not merely his loyalty to a friend, that suffered from her courting of André. She leaned back on her pillows and closed her dry eyes, wishing she could weep, knowing herself too wicked for the simple relief that tears would bring.

  There was a soft rustle in the doorway; opening her eyes she saw that Jean-Auguste had entered unannounced and stood looking down at her, his usually open countenance dark and unfathomable.

  “Aunt Marguerite is leaving tomorrow,” he said—cool, detached. “Her coachman arrived this morning at her summons. When the horses are rested and she can pack her things, she will return to her estate. There have been reports of brigands in the Poitou region. I shall send several of my men to accompany the coach—you shall be safe enough.”

  “I?”

  ‘“You will accompany her.”

  “But—” Lysette struggled to sit upright.

  “A few weeks…months…the separation would be wise.” Without another word, he turned about to leave her.

  Dismayed, she called out to him. “Wait! Please!” She could hardly bear to look into his eyes, so filled with remorse was she. “Jean-Auguste…I…can you forgive…I was foolish, and fearful. But there was no child, I swear to you! Go and se
e Dr. Landelle. There was no child…”

  His eyes were cold. “And what of the child that might have been—but for the sponges?”

  “Please, forgive me. I cannot bear…” She stumbled over the words and could not go on.

  His face twitched, a cynical smile twisting his mouth. He scanned her face, shaking his head in disbelief. “And without tears? Remarkable!” A hard edge of bitterness in his tone. “Monsieur Corneille should invite you to be the leading player in his theatre!” He rubbed his hand across his face, suddenly tired and played out, and when he looked at her, his gray eyes were dark with weariness, not anger. “I might have killed you last night,” he said raggedly. “It is best that you go.”

  “Yes!” she burst out, stung by the finality of his rebuff. “I shall be glad to be quit of you for a little—I scarce can bear the torment of your accusing eyes for another day! I shall not take Dominique with me—Simon needs her; but I shall be far too busy packing to give you one small measure of my time or company until my departure!”

  He nodded brusquely and strode from her chambers. She hated him! She was not sorry to be going—she would be free to indulge her fantasies of André without Jean-Auguste’s intrusion!

  But the tears, the healing tears that had eluded her for so long, burst suddenly forth—scalding, burning—a great river of grief that flowed from her heartbroken sobs—yet brought no relief for her pain.

  The days that followed were like a dark dream, a mist-shrouded nightmare through which she moved, wraith-like, numb with unhappiness. All unknowing, she had come to depend on his praise, his warmth, the joy he brought to her days. Without them, she felt starved, empty, useless. She tried to see Giacopo Rondini, to comfort him for the loss of his son—and perhaps to return to herself a measure of worth—but the glassmaker sat in a drunken stupor, unreachable, fortifying himself with fresh wine each time reality threatened to intrude. She had Dominique put away all her lovely gowns in the armoire, packing only one or two simple outfits and her riding clothes, and keeping out the sturdy jacket and skirt and heavy shoes she would travel in. Except for the tiny gold cross and chain that she now wore constantly, all her jewels would be left behind for safety’s sake. And, after all, why would she need beautiful things in Poitou? In exile? For the last time she released the secret catch of her wondrous cabinet and put away her pearls and gems. Ah, Dieu! How she would miss her little writing table! Jean-Auguste sent her a small purse of coins through Bricole, but made no attempt to see her, and her pride would not allow her to go to him.

  The journey was interminable: although it was only a few days with stops overnight at pleasant country inns in Touraine and Saumurois, Madame de Mersenne’s cheerful chatter soon made it unbearable. Lysette breathed a sigh of relief when the coachman, having stopped in a high meadow to let the women stretch their legs, and to bid adieu to Narbaux’s men who had accompanied them, pointed out the city of Luçon in the distance. Just beyond this town, where Cardinal Richelieu had started his career as a Bishop, lay Marguerite de Mersenne’s estate.

  It was a small château, nestled in the midst of lush and verdant farmland, but the Marquise governed it like an admiral piloting a great ship of war. All her overseers and farmers and vignerons paraded before her in the days that followed, reporting on the fields and crops, the disposition of the estate, the condition of the grounds and livestock and workers. Madame de Mersenne nodded her approval or snapped out sharp commands—a change of crops here, a reshuffling of men there—with the precision and confidence of an officer in battle.

  Filled with envy, and bored with riding and gossip and playing the lute (how could she ever have found such empty foolishness satisfying?), Lysette ached to return to Chimère. She had wasted her opportunities, spurned the help that Bricole offered, fled from her responsibilities as mistress of the château. And all because of her stupid pride. But Bricole would have proven a friend, and Jean-Auguste would have praised and encouraged every attempt, no matter how often she stumbled. Was it too late now? Would he ever send for her—or was she meant to spend the rest of her days in unhappy idleness, dreaming of the might have been?

  April drifted into May; May blossomed prettily and gave way to June, warm and sunny and charged with sudden showers that darkened the sky for a moment and then rolled away, leaving the sky fresh-washed and bluer than ever. Lysette seldom noticed, her heart was so heavy with confusion and pain. She ached for André with a sharpness that cut her like a knife, but her dreams were filled with Chimère. And every time a gurgling brook sang to her, or a stand of trees silhouetted against the twilight held her in unexpected awe, she longed to have Jean-Auguste by her side to share her wonder, to laugh with her in simple delight at being alive. She had never laughed so freely and genuinely as she had with him; now her days were long and cheerless.

  Aunt Marguerite must have seen her unhappiness, for the older woman was surprisingly gentle and full of tact, accosting Lysette seldom with her blunt questions or advice. But one evening, when the rain had persisted all day, a cold gray drizzle that had kept the two women indoors, spending the hours in glum silence, Marguerite could hold her tongue no longer.

  “Nom de Dieu, child, go home to Chimère!”

  Swallowing her surprise, Lysette smiled stiffly, willing her chin to cease its trembling. “I do not wish to, Aunt Marguerite. I am quite content here, if you will have me for a little longer.”

  “Nonsense! I may be a meddlesome old woman, but I am not a fool! It has been plain from the moment we arrived that you are filled with misery. The cure for your distress lies not here, but at Chimère, I’ll wager. Go home!”

  Lysette rose from her chair and went to stand at the window, gazing out of the rain-streaked panes at the black night. “I…I cannot,” she said at last.

  “Ah, Dieu. He has sent you away?” An answering nod from the desolate figure at the window. Marguerite sighed. “I saw, even at Chimère, that there was a discontent, though I knew not why. But mayhap time will soften his heart, and you shall once again take your rightful place at his side. ’Tis a pity you have not borne him a child. It would do much to bring him peace—to have a son…Gabriel.”

  Surprised, Lysette turned from the window. “Gabriel?”

  “Aye. He will name his son Gabriel, I think.”

  “But wherefore Gabriel?”

  “For his brother, naturellement. He has spoken of it often through the years. It is the dream most dear to him.”

  Lysette frowned, mystified. “The naming of a child? Why?”

  “My dear, did you not know? Has he never told you? Gabriel died because of Jean-Auguste!”

  Lysette gasped. “But Gabriel died of the smallpox!”

  “Yes. Jean-Auguste had been ill of it. Their mother was not well. Gabriel insisted on nursing Jean-Auguste himself. Jean-Auguste recovered without a scar, but Gabriel, sweet, gentle Gabriel…” She sighed heavily, remembering. “I think that Jean-Auguste has never forgiven himself—for being master of Chimère, and inheriting the title—though he has brought more honor and glory to the name than ever Gabriel did.”

  Lysette closed her eyes, feeling the hot tears begin to burn behind her lids. “A son named Gabriel.”

  “And Chimère will return someday to its rightful owner. It is a foolish conceit, this wish of Jean-Auguste’s, but…” The older woman shrugged.

  No. No, not foolish, thought Lysette. Good, and kind, and noble. And it explained so much. His grief and fury the night of the fire. His loyalty to André, who had been Gabriel’s friend, and was become the elder brother he had lost. And Lysette had thought it was his long-ago love for Marielle that made him so protective of them. There was something more, an odd thought that nagged at her brain. In her mind’s eye, she saw the portrait of Gabriel in the small salon at Chimère. “Tell me, Aunt Marguerite, when did Jean-Auguste grow his mustache?”

  “Let me see. Gabriel died in the summer of ’24, and my sister-in-law soon after. Was it that fall? Yes!” She nodded her he
ad with assurance. “That fall. When Jean-Auguste became master of Chimère. I remember with what merriment we greeted his changed looks. That innocent face, as though he wished to appear older. It did not suit him! I scarce could fathom why he did it!”

  With a sob, Lysette buried her face in her hands. “It was his penance,” she whispered. Ah, Dieu, she thought, what will be mine?

  By the end of June she was almost beside herself. It had been two long months—and no word from Jean-Auguste. In desperation, she wrote a humble letter, begging to be forgiven, to be welcomed back to Chimère—then destroyed it, too proud to send it, too fearful he would refuse her plea. She had exchanged several letters with her two brothers, telling them something of her unhappiness, but not the reason for it nor the truth of her exile, and was dismayed to discover that they still viewed her as their pampered little sister. She had always pouted when she did not get her way, and made a great to-do over trifles that displeased her—was it not so? Surely her distress now was hardly worth the fuss and bother; it would pass like a gentle spring rain.

  She went at last to a church in Luçon and sought out a priest with kindly eyes, soft with forgiveness and an understanding of human frailty. In the darkened confessional, she poured out her soul to him, sparing herself nothing in her condemnation and self-loathing, more honest than she had ever been before. Afterward, emerging into the bright sunshine, she felt as though a heavy burden had been lifted from her heart, wishing only for Jean-Auguste’s forgiveness to make her absolution complete.

  As part of her penance, the priest had insisted that she give some of her time to helping the Sisters in the parish hospital, caring for the old and needy, tending the orphans and foundlings that appeared from nowhere—left on the church steps, wailing and mewling, the surplus from a family too destitute to feed another mouth, or the unhappy mistake of some desperate peasant girl. Lysette was surprised at her own patience and competence: all her charm and bewitching ways that, heretofore, had been employed in her own service became instruments of comfort and joy to the sick and helpless. The frail old crones, bent with age, their painful joints swollen from disease, brightened at her approach, a ray of sunshine in the gloom of their last years; the infants gurgled at the sound of her voice when she cradled them in gentle arms, until she began to seek out the most colicky and difficult one each day just for the pleasure of working her magic.