But July turned hot, the air close and suffocating. Even the dogs in the streets of Luçon had ceased their barking and lay, panting, in whatever shadowy corner they could find. The infants in the hospital became cranky with the heat, and no amount of comforting could still their cries; and Sisters and patients alike grew testy, snapping at one another, until Lysette thought she could not bear another moment. She was tired of the heat, of the stench of sickness and poverty, and the danger of plague and diseases that hung in the hot and crowded town. It did not take much urging from Marguerite for her to return to the safety of the estate, although it was hardly cooler at the château, despite the green countryside. She found herself growing more and more angry. It was cooler at Chimère, of that she had no doubt! And here she was forced to suffer in Poitou, because of Jean-Auguste’s stubbornness and unforgiving nature! She had been wicked, but not so wicked that God would not forgive her! She had done penance; she had been truly sorry—what more did her husband want of her? Did he not need her? The comfort of the bedchamber? But Guy had been unfaithful! Mayhap Jean-Auguste? Ah, Dieu! That was why he had not sent for her! How she hated him, lying with some other woman, cursing his wife (no doubt!) to his paramour! Her blood boiled, thinking of the months she had curdled with remorse. And he in some brothel, enjoying his pleasures! Well, she would spite him! She would go to Paris and flirt with every courtier until the gossip reached even the walls of Vouvray! Or…home to Chimère, defying him, daring him to send her away again. And then…André. Once and for all, she would win his love. She would stalk him, pursue him, until the spark she had seen more than once in his eyes flamed into love. He had kissed her. He had meant to kiss her, and seduce her. It was no accident, no attempt to make Marielle jealous; he was attracted to her for her own sake, and she would turn that attraction to passion and then to love. How Jean-Auguste would suffer then, curse him! He would regret his abandonment of her!
By the end of July the weather had cooled, with pleasant breezes that rolled in from the coast, but Lysette’s anger was still as hot as ever. Another week—no more—and then she would return home. She told herself it was her new-found patience, not cowardice, that delayed her going.
It was a pleasant summer evening, the sky still glowing with a pale green luminosity, when she and Aunt Marguerite, strolling in the garden, looked up to see a handsome coach approaching down the long avenue. It was a rarity to have company, and the two women stood, impatient, at the front portal of the château until the coach had drawn up to the door and the coachman had leapt down from his box. With a flourish he saluted them, then swept open the door of the carriage.
“Mon Dieu! Madame du Crillon!”
“Marielle!” Lysette smiled brightly, though her heart sank, thinking—praying—it had been Jean-Auguste.
“Good evening!” Marielle kissed them warmly on both cheeks. “Have you a bed for a weary traveler?” Aunt Marguerite led them into the château, giving orders for Marielle’s bags to be carried in, exclaiming at the single small packet that Madame la Comtesse had brought. “I can only stay a day or two. There was no need to bring more,” explained Marielle. While she supped on the food that Marguerite had ordered, Marielle conveyed the latest gossip and news from Paris. Louise de La Fayette had chosen not to become the Royal mistress, but had entered a convent with the King’s blessing. He had obtained permission to visit her whenever he chose, and their love, unspoiled, pure, would remain so. Richelieu was delighted—Madame de La Fayette had far too many friends who had been opposed to the war with Spain; her retirement from society eliminated an unwanted influence. There had been more peasant uprisings in Perigord, and the town of Bergerac had been subdued; fresh operations had begun in Alsace against the enemy, and the Duc de la Valette had occupied Landrecies in the Spanish Netherlands. The weather was fine in Touraine—with God’s help, the harvest would be good. Marielle paused, smiling diplomatically, until Marguerite de Mersenne became aware that her presence had become superfluous, and excused herself to go to bed.
Marielle smiled stiffly at Lysette, her green eyes recalling their rivalry, but her words were those of a friend. “I came to fetch you home again. You have been away far too long.”
Lysette shrugged, trying to appear uninterested. “If Jean-Auguste wishes me to come to him at Chimère, he will send for me, of that I have no doubt.”
“Jean-Auguste is not at Chimère! I thought you knew!” exclaimed Marielle as Lysette gaped in astonishment. “Following swift upon your departure, he was summoned by the King to take his men into the field. He and André have been fighting in the Netherlands with the Duc de la Valette!”
“Ah, Dieu! They were not hurt, either of them…?”
Marielle’s eyes flickered at the word “they.” “No,” she said softly, “your husband is well…as is mine. I saw André in Paris less than a month ago. He had come with dispaches for the Cardinal and wrote to me asking me to meet him there. He and Jean-Auguste expect to be released from their obligation within the week. Would it not be a delightful surprise for Jean-Auguste to return to Chimère and find you waiting?”
Lysette jutted out her chin in belligerence. “And wherefore? He has not written to me all these long months, not even from the front. He does not need me!”
“Chimère needs you.”
“Chimère has endured without me ere now!”
“André says because of the fire and the loss of the glassworks there will be hard times ahead for Jean-Auguste. Chimère is rich in land and income, but there will not be a spare livre or crown until the debts are paid. The estate must be managed thriftily; who is to do it, save you, while Jean-Auguste serves his King or negotiates small loans?”
Lysette shook her head, panic clutching at her throat. “Not I! Mon Dieu, not I!”
“Bricole is getting old. He has become forgetful and careless these past months. And Giacopo Rondini cannot begin to repay even a small portion of the loan from Jean-Auguste—he has not been sober a single day since he lost his son! I have been heartsick each time I visited your château, seeing its decline.”
“Why should you care? To come all this way to plead for Chimère?”
Marielle smiled gently. “I have known Jean-Auguste almost as long as I have known André. Each time they have gone off to war, I have charged Jean-Auguste with my husband’s safekeeping. He has been a loyal caretaker. Can I do less for him? I know not what quarrel sent you, in anger, from his side—he has not confided in André—but I beg you to forgive him and return.”
How like Jean-Auguste, thought Lysette, to spare her the humiliation—despite his own hurt and bitterness—and to bear the blame upon his own shoulders. “I shall pack my things tonight,” she said humbly. “If Marguerite can supply us with fresh horses, would you be agreeable to returning upon the morrow?”
Marielle’s coach was large and well-appointed: comfortable red velvet cushions and embroidered draperies, large windows that let in the sweet smells of midsummer. By the second day of their journey, as they traveled into Saumurois, some of the stiffness had eased between the two women. Despite herself, and her feelings for André, Lysette found her affection and admiration for Marielle growing. If I did not want her husband, she thought ruefully, I should be pleased to call this woman friend, for she has been a friend to me all these months, however much I betrayed her kindness. She turned from the window and the shadowy woods the coach had entered, and smiled warmly at Marielle. “Your eyes are far away, Madame,” she said.
“I am thinking of my boys. I do not like to be parted from them.”
“They are very handsome children.”
“I see André in their faces—and all his past devotion.” She sighed. “’Tis a pity the very permanence that comes with marriage quenches the thirst that brought it about!”
“Pooh! Surely you cannot believe that!”
“Indeed I do,” said Marielle sadly.
Lysette frowned impatiently. “You should have spent less time with your Latin, and a
pplied yourself to the study of men! Even a fool can see that André does not like to share you with Vilmorin!”
Marielle gaped, eyes wide, one hand going to her astonished mouth. “Then I have been more than a fool,” she said at last, “hiding behind the children while I dwelt on his…weakness…for charming ladies.”
“But surely he has not been unfaithful!” Lysette felt a pang of unexpected jealousy. If she had not yet captured André, she could not bear to think of him with another woman.
“No…I think not, and yet…there were so many women before I met him. You are fortunate in Jean-Auguste.”
Lysette shrugged. “I hardly think he cares enough one way or the other.”
Marielle’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “But Jean-Auguste is far more likely than André to be constant and dependable.”
“It is his nature…or merely habit…no more.”
A soft laugh, full of doubt. But before Marielle could say a word, a sudden loud report from the road made the horses whinny in fear.
“Nom de Dieu!” cried Lysette, peering out through the window to the road ahead. “What is amiss?” And gasped at the sight of the half dozen men who now surrounded the carriage and were ordering the coachman to stop. They were a scruffy lot, rough-clothed, rougher of tongue, with a desperate look in their eyes that did not need the lethal pistols they brandished to make them fearsome.
“Brigands!” hissed Marielle. “What a fool I was not to travel with swordsmen! André will have a fit when he finds out! Be of good cheer, my dear,” she said, seeing the stricken look on Lysette’s face, “they mean to have our purses and nothing more. Paris was buzzing with gossip about the number of highwaymen in these troubled times. It will be a nuisance but…” She shrugged in nonconcern.
“But what shall we do for food and lodging for the rest of the journey?” Lysette found it difficult to be calm.
“There are many towns nearby and petty officials who would be delighted to show their hospitality. We are not so far from Touraine that the names of Crillon and Narbaux are unknown.” Marielle smiled reassuringly.
“Mesdames, if you please.” The door of the coach was thrown open; a burly fellow with grizzled hair and a square jaw covered with gray stubble ushered the women into the dappled sunlight at the side of the road. He held his pistol casually in one hand, almost apologetic, but his manner made it clear he would not hesitate to use it. Several of his fellows gathered around. “Your purses, ladies,” he said, indicating the small pouches hanging from the two women’s waistbands. When they were handed to him, he shook them appreciatively, feeling the weight of the coins. He smiled at them both, revealing large and yellowed teeth, then pointed his pistol at Marielle. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but your earbobs…”
Marielle drew herself up proudly, her lip curled with contempt, as she unfastened her gold eardrops and handed them to the man. Lysette was astonished at Marielle’s composure; she herself could barely keep her body from trembling, grateful at least that she had taken no earrings on her journey, and fearful lest the robbers search her person and discover the gold cross hidden beneath her jacket.
“’Tis slim enough pickings, Dandin,” grumbled one of the men to grizzle-face. “Have they no more jewels on them?”
The man called Dandin jerked his head in the direction of the carriage, where the coachman still sat in angry silence, kept to obedience by the pistol pointed at his breast. “Search the ladies’ luggage, and look behind the cushions as well. Whoever has kept these lovelies in silks must have bought a favor or two with trinkets and trifles.”
“You will find nothing there,” said Marielle haughtily. “You would do well to allow us to continue our journey!”
“But mayhap a ring or two? Please, Mesdames, your gloves.”
The women removed their embroidered gauntlets. Lysette’s fingers were bare; Marielle’s hand held a small gold circlet, old and worn. Silently, the man called Dandin held out his hand for it.
“No!” exclaimed Marielle, her green eyes flashing. “You shall not have this ring! If you wish it, you must cut it off my dead hand!”
Dandin scratched his head and eyed the ring, wondering whether it would be worth the trouble of a struggle. He was saved by a long low whistle that came from the nearby woods. Directing his men to repack the women’s things, he disappeared into the leafy gloom. Marielle and Lysette watched in annoyance as their gowns were piled carelessly into their baggage. Dandin now reappeared, his face wreathed in a triumphant smile, and bowed low before the two women.
“Madame la Comtesse du Crillon. Madame de Narbaux. How fortunate we are that you chose this very day to travel through these woods! We shall have the pleasure of your company for a little! Such distinguished—and wealthy—gentlemen as your noble husbands should be delighted to pay for the return of their charming wives!” He called to his companions. “The ladies are to be taken to the old farmhouse. See that there is food and supplies sufficient to their comfort!”
“No!” The coachman, his loyalty to André aroused by the thought of his mistress in captivity, stood up on his box and waved his arms in wild protest. Dandin whirled, his pistol held in outstretched arm; a sharp crack, and the coachman cried out and pitched into the dust of the road, his body twitching for a second or two before it collapsed into awful stillness. Lysette gasped and clapped her hand to her mouth; Marielle crossed herself, a soft prayer on her lips. Quickly the women were bundled into the coach, accompanied by a foul-smelling oaf who closed the draperies against the day, then sat opposite them, grinning like a jackal, while stray beams of light glinted off the barrel of his pistol. Lysette was frozen with fear; Marielle, lips pressed tightly together, glared at the man in fury, her eyes dark with anger and scorn. They rode thus for an hour or so, jostling and bumping as the carriage careened wildly, seeming to take innumerable twists and turns in the road. At last it slowed to a stop, and they stepped out into a small clearing hemmed in by large and leafy trees. A small house stood before them, its pale amber stones and stucco beginning to crumble. They entered and passed through a large room, bare save for a rough table and chairs pulled close to the hearth; beyond was a smaller chamber, completely empty, that gave over to the loft above. Prodded by the deadly pistol, Lysette and Marielle climbed to the loft, then watched in dismay as the ladder, their only avenue of escape, was removed from its place and laid flat on the earthen floor of the small room.
The brigands leered up at them and laughed. “It is not the Louvre, Mesdames, but ’twill serve!” The men turned to leave.
“Wait!” cried Marielle. “What are we to do for light when the daylight goes?”
“Wherefore do you need light?”
“Fool!” spat Marielle. “What shall you tell Dandin if one of us should fall from the loft in the darkness?” She glared down at them.
There was muttering and some consultation among the men; at last one of them looked up at the women. “I shall leave a candle here below. It will be enough for you to see by.” Then they were gone.
Lysette could contain her fear no longer. With a mournful wail she burst into tears and fell into Marielle’s arms, grateful for the other woman’s strength.
“Come, come,” said Marielle soothingly. “All shall be well. A few days…no more. They will send a ransom note to André and Jean-Auguste, the money will be paid. We shall be safely home within the week!” She laughed ruefully. “And I to face the wrath of a husband for traveling unescorted!” The two women clung to one another while Lysette’s trembling subsided. Over her head, Marielle’s eyes swept their dreary prison: a broad-planked floor covered with straw, rough-hewn walls, and a small window high up in the gable. There was a heavy bucket in one corner to serve their sanitary needs, and a rickety table that held a pitcher of water and a large crust of bread. The loft was dim, airless, cheerless. Behind Marielle’s calm words and placid exterior, an edge of fear had begun to flicker in the depths of her eyes.
“Nom de Dieu, André, will you
cease your pacing?” Jean-Auguste refilled his wine cup and helped himself to another piece of cheese. “I came from Chimère to keep you company, and with the dust of the campaign still on my boots, but if I must watch you marching back and forth, I shall soon wish myself at home—or with the troops in the field!”
André strode to the window, watching the twilight shadows stretch over the lawns of Vilmorin. “But Marielle should have been here by now! If she meant to stay only a day or two with your aunt, as Louise has said, where is she? She knew I was returning home! Why did she choose this very time to visit with Lysette? And you, mon ami,” he growled at Jean-Auguste, “what ever possessed you to allow your wife to go wandering over half of France?”
“Yes,” said Jean-Auguste thoughtfully, more to himself than André, “it is time Lysette came home again.”
There was a soft knock at the door. At André’s barked command, a footman entered, bobbing politely to his master. “There is a peasant here, Monsieur, who says he must speak only to you! He is very stubborn, my lord, though I threatened to box his ears for his insolence. But still he says his message is for you alone!”
André frowned. “Show him in, then.”
A young man entered, casting his eyes warily about him. At André’s scowl, he scraped his hat off his head and gave a half-hearted bow. “Monsieur le Comte du Crillon?” André nodded. The young man glanced at Jean-Auguste. “I must speak to Monsieur le Comte alone, if it please you.”
“I have no secrets from Monsieur de Narbaux,” said André coldly.
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