Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  “Where are you going, lad?”

  Lysette cleared her throat. “Hem! A few leagues on—to the next signpost!”

  “Where are you from?”

  “We have come from Nantes. My sister and I…are newly orphaned. Uncle…Charles has sent for us to help him on his farm. She”—jerking a finger to Marielle—“is not much use, but I will soon show him how a farm is run!” Lysette patted herself proudly on her chest, warming to the game.

  “Where is his farm?”

  “I do not know! We are to wait at the signpost—he will come for us.”

  “Have you heard aught of the excitement?”

  Lysette shrugged. “What excitement? We are newly here in Saumurois!”

  “Two fugitives—women—there is a reward!”

  “Reward?”

  “A thousand crowns! The women pretend to royalty, though I have heard they killed five men in Paris before attacking Monsieur le Comte d’Ussé!”

  “A thousand crowns!” Lysette whistled, grateful to her brothers for having taught her that most unladylike skill. “What I could not do with a thousand crowns! And you, sister—passage to New France and that sailor of yours, eh?” She elbowed Marielle in the ribs, enjoying every moment of her deception.

  They rode for a distance in silence, Lysette grinning at her own cleverness. In a while, however, she began to realize that the young farmer was staring at her, and she fidgeted nervously, aware that his eyes strayed repeatedly to her face and body. She plucked uneasily at her chopped curls.

  “How old are you?” he said at last.

  She gulped, feeling panic for a moment, then persuaded herself that he had not penetrated her disguise. (Had not Marielle sworn she looked like a young boy?) “Thirteen,” she said at length, wishing her voice was deeper.

  He smiled, looking pleased. Lysette allowed herself to relax a little; there was nothing suspicious in his eyes.

  And then he put his hand on her knee.

  Startled, she looked at him. Ah Dieu! she thought, seeing the expression on his handsome face. He does think I am a boy! And watched in terrified fascination as the farmer’s hand crept slowly upward toward her thigh. If he does not find what he is seeking, she thought in panic, we are undone! She tried to pull away, before his fingers should reach the telltale juncture, then breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving as her eye caught the signpost in the road ahead. “There!” she cried, jumping up. “There is where we are to meet Uncle Charles!”

  The farmer reined in his horse, clearly disappointed. “Shall I see you here again?”

  Lysette leaped down from the wagon and caught the bundles that Marielle threw to her. “But certainly!” she said, her cockiness returning.

  “Monday next? In the morning?”

  Lysette’s eyes narrowed. “Will you give me two crowns?”

  “One.”

  Lysette helped Marielle down, then shrugged indifferently at the farmer. “I do not know if I shall be here.”

  “Two crowns, then!”

  “Done! Au revoir, then. Until Monday!” And watched the farmer, pleased with his bargain, continue down the road.

  Marielle began to laugh. “What a liar you are, Lysette! I almost believed you myself!” She giggled. “And you wished to sit next to him to preserve my virtue!”

  Lysette smirked. “Mayhap I should remain a boy! When I was a lady, no man ever offered me two crowns!” Her brow wrinkled, suddenly seeing the signpost. “Saint-Justine,” it said, and “Dinet,” neither of which meant a thing to the two women. They chose the path to “Dinet,” since the young farmer had taken the other, and trudged off down the road. But the noonday sun beat down upon them and they began to flag, aware that they had scarcely slept since leaving Trefontaine the night before. When a large hay wagon appeared over a distant hill, they sought the safety of the trees, unwilling to risk a repetition of the morning. The wagon creaked slowly past, the old farmer fast asleep and snoring on his box. It was a simple matter to toss the bundles onto the back of the wagon and hop aboard as it made its slow progress through the gentle afternoon, then burrow under the hay so they would not be seen. But the hay was sweet-smelling and soft, and they were exhausted. Lulled by the rhythmic swaying of the wagon, the soothing creak of the wheels, Lysette and Marielle were soon fast asleep.

  She was on a ship, sailing across the sea to Chimère. But it was hot and stifling in the hold—and why did the ship smell of hay? The rocking had stopped, leaving her stranded in the middle of the ocean; she would never get home! She awoke with a start, feeling the scalding tears on her face.

  In the dimness of the hay she saw that the sudden stillness had awakened Marielle as well. Carefully, they peeped out of the mound of straw. It was twilight. The haywagon seemed to be in the middle of a farm, on a narrow, rutted path flanked by fields of wheat and corn; up ahead, and at some distance, was a barn and a small farmhouse. Just in front of the wagon was a large wooden fence; it was this that had brought them to a halt. Grumbling, the old farmer clambered down from his perch and unlatched the gate. While his back was turned, Lysette and Marielle, clutching their bundles, dropped to the ground and rolled into a grassy ditch that ran along the edge of the road, crouching there in the deepening light until the rattling sound of the wagon was heard no more. Then they turned about and followed the path through the fields, regaining the road as the last pink wisps of day vanished from the sky.

  They stopped to eat, rationing their dwindling food as best they could, then set off down the road by the thin light of the new moon. They walked for several hours, speaking little, unwilling to voice the fear that had begun to gnaw at them both, the awful thought that filled them with dread. They were lost. The haywagon had carried them for half the day, they knew not where, while they slept. Even now their weary steps could be leading them back to Ussé and prison—and worse.

  “I cannot—not another step!” said Marielle at last. “Please. Let us rest again until morning!”

  Lysette sighed. “Yes. And, God willing, the new day will show us where we are. Not that I am afraid,” she said brightly. “I feel sure that we are very near to Touraine!”

  “Of course! We shall laugh about this journey when we are safe at home again!”

  Reassuring one another with carefree words, they found a sheltering tree on the side of the road, embraced each other warmly, and quickly fell asleep.

  The morning brought with it a chill mist that seemed to sap Marielle’s strength. She shivered with cold and weariness, her face drawn and tired-looking despite the night’s sleep. She refused the dry crust of bread that was breakfast, wishing instead they could find a stream, for her throat was parched. She grew more and more melancholy as the day progressed, stopping often to rest, complaining bitterly of the cold, the lack of water, the unmarked road that was surely leading them to their doom. Nothing Lysette said could shake her black mood. In the late afternoon, however, the sun struggled out from behind the clouds, warming the air, and Marielle’s spirits began to revive.

  “Forgive me,” she said, smiling sheepishly at Lysette. “I am poor company today. But, the cold. And I am so very weary. I scarcely can imagine why it should be so!” She passed a hand across her eyes and Lysette was shocked to see how pale she was.

  Let her not be ill, she thought. “Come!” she said aloud, her smile bright and reassuring. “Rest you here for a bit. I shall go back into the woods—if le bon Dieu smiles upon us, there may be a stream nearby!” She pushed through the sparse underbrush, coarse grasses and patches of moss, and passed a great tree that lay uprooted, its base forming a kind of natural cavern with the soft earth as its floor. Here and there the grasses gave way to ferns and reeds, and she pressed on with renewed hope, confident that there must be a stream. A soft gurgling made her look down: the rivulet flowed just in front of her, almost hidden by the high marsh grass. She knelt and scooped a handful of sweet water to her mouth, then straightened and turned back to the road. How pleased Marielle would be! />
  Marielle was standing bent over, where Lysette had left her, but her body was twisted oddly, her face buried in her hands. Sobbing, she rocked back and forth, an agonized whisper—“No. No. No!”—coming from her quivering form.

  “Marielle! Mon Dieu! What is it?”

  For answer, Marielle lifted suffering eyes to Lysette and took a step backwards. Lysette gasped in horror. There on the ground was a great gout of blood.

  “Ah, Dieu! The child?”

  Marielle nodded, then cringed as another sharp pain tore through her body.

  “What shall we do?” cried Lysette, her eyes wide with fear.

  “I should…lie down,” gasped Marielle, “lest I swoon!”

  “In the woods…a tree…like a cavern…think you, with my help, you can reach it?”

  Shaking, Marielle leaned against Lysette and allowed her to guide them slowly to the uprooted tree. Only once did Lysette look back to see the trail of blood behind them: after that she kept her eyes firmly locked on the forest floor in front of her. When Marielle had settled herself well back under the tree, sheltered by the overhanging roots, she lifted her skirts with trembling fingers, tugging helplessly at her petticoat, too weak to tear a piece from the fabric. Instead, she pulled the scarf from her head, wadding it up and placing it between her thighs, then smoothed down her skirts and lay back, closing her eyes with exhaustion.

  “I shall fetch our things,” said Lysette, trying to sound brave for Marielle’s sake. She jumped up and retraced their steps, covering the splashes of blood with dirt and leaves; the trail must not lead unwelcome beasts—or men—to their refuge. When she returned with their bundles, she was appalled to see the gory stain had already spread on Marielle’s skirt. Ripping open the bundle of her clothing, she tore fresh pieces from her petticoat, replacing them again and again as they crimsoned—too soon. Marielle had begun to shiver violently, her face ashen; even with Lysette’s skirt wrapped around her like a cloak, her fingers and face were ice cold, and the spasms had not ceased.

  By nightfall, though Marielle had begun to mutter incoherently and her eyes were sunken and ringed with black, Lysette breathed a little more easily. The bleeding, at least, had almost stopped. Surely the worst was over. She ate a few mouthfuls of bread, forcing herself to save the rest (though her stomach growled in hunger) lest Marielle need food in the morning. She drank greedily at the small stream to fill her empty belly, then dug a hole in the soft earth and buried the bloody rags. Ah Dieu! she thought. If she had a flint she would light a fire, however risky it might be, for Marielle’s shivering near broke her heart.

  Marielle began to weep, her mumbling words filled with grief for the loss of the child. Lysette wept too, remembering her own selfishness—and Dr. Landelle, and her wickedness in seeking to destroy the child she had thought she carried. Creeping close to Marielle, she cradled her in her arms, willing the trembling to cease and the strength to flow from her own body to this piteous creature.

  “I shall die,” said Marielle, suddenly lucid. “I shall die!”

  “Nonsense! What would André do without you?”

  All night long she held Marielle tightly, rocking, comforting, soothing the frightened murmurs and stroking the clammy brow, aware that she had never before been responsible for a person’s life, never been needed and depended upon so. And never before so capable of doing what she must. It was an odd and strangely gratifying feeling.

  But a tiny voice cried out within her, louder and more insistent as the night wore on, opening the terrifying abyss at the bottom of her soul, the ultimate fear, the darkest secret. Let her not die! Let her not die! Death—that was what babies did. They killed you. “Maman!” she cried aloud to the black night. And the voices grew louder—her father, her aunt and uncle, her nursemaid—all of them filled with accusation. “Your mother,” they whispered. “Your mother,” they shouted. “But for you, she would have lived.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Loudun. The signpost read “Loudun.” Lifting a gauntleted finger, André pointed it out to Jean-Auguste, then signaled the half dozen riders behind them and spurred on his horse a little faster. Jean-Auguste nodded, his thoughts elsewhere. Ever since they had passed the crossroads the day before—his crossroads, Gabriel’s crossroads, with its shrine to the Virgin—he had been filled with melancholy, burdened with regrets for the past, forebodings of the future. Unlike André, who chafed with impatience, he wished he might hold back time, fearful of what the morrow might bring.

  But perhaps André was goaded by an uneasy conscience, for he had spoken of nothing but Marielle since they had begun their journey.

  “I have been offhanded to her of late,” he said morosely. “Before we left for the Netherlands…If I have lost her…” He sank again into silence, brooding. “Ah, my friend…marriage is a labyrinth—so many twists and turns, so many hurts and grievances until you find, one day, that you are far from where you started, and without Ariadne’s thread to lead you out!”

  Jean-Auguste clicked his tongue impatiently. “Unlike Theseus at Minos, you have built your own labyrinth—surely it is up to you to break it down again, stone by stone!”

  André laughed ruefully, accepting the rebuke, then fell again to musing. “I had forgot—until Paris—how beautiful she is.” He sighed.

  “Only a husband, after years of marriage, would cease to notice!”

  “What a witless fool I was! When she was plain, I ignored her. When she was beautiful, I could not see her for the jealousy that consumed me!”

  “You are a fool! You have but to look in her eyes to see ‘André’ writ large. Her beauty is only for you! But…when you allow…other women…to tempt you…” He smiled gently at André, the words unspoken between them, the scene in the gardens of Vilmorin recalled, and acknowledged, and forgiven in the silent understanding that passed between the two friends.

  They reached Trefontaine late that evening; despite the hour they knocked on the gate and asked to speak at once to Monsieur d’Ussé. It was out of the question, they were told. Monsieur d’Ussé was just now recovering from a grievous attack that had near killed him. A poxy harlot from Saumur. A madwoman!

  “Cheated out of her earnings, no doubt,” muttered André under his breath. He turned again to the gatekeeper. “Tell Monsieur d’Ussé that André, Comte du Crillon, General to the King, waits upon him on a matter of great urgency! I regret to disturb him, but I should not like to go to the Governor General of Saumur because Monsieur d’Ussé did not see his duty. Tell him that!”

  As the gatekeeper scurried away, Jean-Auguste gave a small laugh. “Such words may win us an audience with Ussé. But will they win his support?”

  André lifted a small pouch from his pocket and shook it so it clanked metallically. “From the first I have been of a mind that Ussé’s support would be won by bribery alone. I shall use this if I must, though it does not sit well with me!”

  After an eternity of waiting, the gatekeeper appeared with two armed guards. “You are to dismount and come with me,” he said to André. “The rest are to wait here.”

  “No. Monsieur le Vicomte de Narbaux will accompany me. The matter concerns him as well.”

  The gatekeeper shrugged and unlocked the iron gate, fastening it again when they had passed through, and handing them over to the guards. It was a short walk to the château itself, and they strode briskly forward, their heavy boots crunching on the gravel. The guards led them to Ussé’s chamber and followed them in, standing at the alert as they approached the figure in the large bed.

  Ussé leaned up against the pillows, his face so pale the black patch stood out upon it like a blot of ink on snowy paper. He took in shallow breaths, his chest fluttering lightly, as though he were fearful that a deep breath would kill him. His one good eye, glittering still with the fever of his injury, darted uneasily about the room as they entered, relieved to see there were only two of them, but narrowing suspiciously when he saw that it was Narbaux with André.


  “What is it,” he said, aggrieved, “that you would threaten and harry a man who has so lately looked at Death?”

  “It is our wives, Madame du Crillon and Madame de Narbaux. They have been captured by brigands in this district!”

  A look of mistrust. “What has this to do with me?”

  “They are being held for ransom. If you would put some of your men at our disposal…there has been entirely too much thievery and lawlessness in this district. With your help, we might be able to put a stop to it.”

  “And what is the matter with your own men?” grumbled Ussé, though he seemed to breathe more easily.

  “If we are to set a trap for these blackguards, it will not be sprung so long as unfamiliar faces dominate this region. But if your men help us surround Loudun…” Quickly André explained the plan they had in mind.

  Ussé sighed heavily, then winced as the movement caused him pain. “I have few enough men…and it costs money.” He looked distressed, then managed a thin smile as André patted the purse at his waist. “I wish to be alone with the gentlemen,” he said to the two guardsmen who still waited attentively at the door. “I shall be safe—return to your posts.” He settled more firmly against the pillows, grunting with the effort. “Now,” he said, when the guards had left, “you wish to negotiate?”

  “I have a purse of one thousand crowns.”

  “That is all?” whined Ussé.

  “Nom de Dieu! If we catch them, the King will no doubt be grateful!”

  “Gratitude does not pay debts,” Ussé said sourly. “And Richelieu does not treat me as friend or loyal servant to the Crown!”

  André gnashed his teeth in fury. “Narbaux and I,” he said evenly, “have sent a ransom of twenty thousand livres each—that is nearly seven thousand crowns apiece! If the plan works, and we recover the ransom, one fourth of it will be yours!”