“And where is my guarantee? I cannot send out my men to aid you armed only with promises—and nothing more.”
“Damn you, Ussé!” André, exasperated, strode angrily about the room. “Did that whore try to kill you over a sou or two? It would not astonish me in the least!”
“Please, André.” Ever the conciliator, Jean-Auguste had stepped forward to Ussé, to smooth the ruffled feelings on both sides. “There must be a way to win Monsieur Ussé’s cheerful cooperation! Perhaps a compromise. One thousand crowns now, ten thousand livres when the women are found, whether the ransom is recovered or no!”
Ussé smiled secretively. “Ten thousand—even if the women are not found!”
“Come, come, man!” cried Jean-Auguste. “That is the very purpose of our journey—not to refill your empty coffers!”
André had been prowling the chamber, impatient, keeping his temper in check by the strongest effort of will; now he snorted sarcastically and, stooping, swooped up something from the corner of the room. “You cry poor, mon ami,” he sneered, “but you are careless with your gold!”
Jean-Auguste glanced at André, then started, leaping for the bed and Ussé. He clapped a hand over Ussé’s mouth and drew his dagger, which he placed at the man’s throat. “One sound and I shall kill you,” he hissed. “André, lock the door!” Crillon moved swiftly, turning the key in the lock, but his eyes held a question. “It is Lysette’s necklace that you found!” explained Jean-Auguste. He looked down at Ussé, his eyes murderous. “I want answers. But if you raise your voice I will surely slit your throat! Do you understand?” A helpless Ussé nodded, then inhaled slowly as Jean-Auguste removed his muffling hand. “The women were here, n’est-ce pas?”
Ussé glowered, his eye glittering in anger and impotence. “She is a madwoman, your wife! She nearly killed me!”
“Then she was mad! Had I been here, you would not still be drawing breath! But where are the women now?”
“I know not!”
“Have a care, Ussé,” said Jean-Auguste, raising his dagger from the man’s throat to his one good eye. “If you lie to me, I shall take out your other eye!”
“They escaped—after she stabbed me! As God is my witness, I know not where they are!”
“When?”
“Two days ago.”
“And the brigands—they are your men?” Ussé nodded. “How many?”
“Half a hundred.”
“They are people of Trefontaine?”
“No. My people here know nothing.”
André leaned forward, his eyes burning. “Then why have the women not found succor among your people?”
“I gave it out that…”
“That they are harlots?”
“And thieves who tried to rob and kill me, and I promised a reward.”
“And you have heard nothing? Neither from your tenants nor your henchmen?”
“Not a word. I swear it!”
“Small wonder you were frightened to receive us,” muttered André darkly. He turned to Jean-Auguste. “We must hunt for Marielle and Lysette. They must be somewhere on the road to Touraine! We will take Ussé with us to guarantee us safe passage out of here.”
“Very well then,” said Jean-Auguste, putting a hand on Ussé’s shoulder. “Get up!”
Ussé’s face turned a shade paler than it had been. “Nom de Dieu! That knife almost pierced my heart! If I get up, I shall die!”
“It would be a small loss,” sneered André. “But I would not have your blood on my hands unless I run you through someday with my own sword! Tie him up instead!” This to Jean-Auguste. While Narbaux busied himself with binding Ussé’s hands and feet with a silk cord torn from the bed hangings, and gagging him with a handkerchief, André sat at Ussé’s writing desk and scribbled a hasty message. As casually as they could, the two men left the room, cautioning the guard outside the door that Monsieur was very tired from his wound and did not wish to be disturbed before morning, adding a threat of retaliation that seemed characteristic of Ussé. Nonchalant, they crossed the gravel to the gate, informing the gatekeeper that they would spend the night in Loudun and return at dawn. As soon as they and their men had ridden out of sight of Trefontaine, André called a halt and motioned to one of his lieutenants.
“Take this letter to Saumur,” he said. “It tells of Ussé’s treachery. Charge the Governor General, in my name, to put Ussé under arrest. Then ride at once for Paris, that a Royal Commissioner may be sent with troops to purge the district of Ussé’s brigands. See that Cardinal Richelieu himself gets my letter! And make haste, trusting no one along the way!” He thought for a moment, then laughed shortly. “There is no reason, mon ami,” he said to Jean-Auguste, “that we must lose the ransom money as well! Henri!” He signaled to another of his men. “Do you remember the courier that Grisaille was to delay until our departure?” Henri nodded. “He should reach Moncontour in a day or so. Apprehend him before he enters the town, and…relieve him of his packet. Then let him go free—he is of no further use. There should be a man from Vilmorin who is following him—find him and return home together.” Henri nodded again in understanding. André and Jean-Auguste watched as the two men rode off into the night, but when Crillon would have spurred his own horse, Narbaux stopped him.
“Let us not be too hasty to roam far from Trefontaine until morning. There are many smaller roads here. Who can tell…in the darkness…if we pass that path that may lead us to the women?”
“But I would find Marielle!” exclaimed André in impatience.
Jean-Auguste sighed heavily. “I suffer even as you do, my friend. But let us wait until daylight. And then…it is possible…that we may miss them entirely. Come, come,” he said, as André looked stricken, “I feel sure that, though we journey all the way to Vilmorin without finding them, our wives will contrive to get home unaided. Marielle is strong and resourceful, and Lysette”—he chuckled in surprise—“to think that she near killed Ussé!” He shook his head in disbelief. “And I yet think of her as a child!”
The thin rays of the afternoon sun, straining to peek out from between heavy clouds, touched Marielle’s pale face and the lavender crescents beneath her eyes. She shivered in the small puffs of wind that swept under the roots of the tree, as each gust penetrated her sweat-soaked jacket and chemise. All night, and all the morning as well, the fever had raged in her body; she had slept fitfully and awakened to find the sun low in the sky, her clothing drenched with perspiration, and Lysette bending over her, all smiles to find her free of delirium. She drank greedily of the water that Lysette put to her lips, then laughed softly, her voice an odd croak in her throat, to see that the cup Lysette held was her own heavy shoe, filled to the brim. At Lysette’s insistence, she swallowed a few crumbs of bread. How good it felt to eat—to want to eat! “But what of you?” she whispered, seeing that Lysette took no food for herself.
“I have eaten my fill long since,” said Lysette brightly. “And there are berries aplenty in the woods!” She gulped and turned away. How could she tell Marielle that there was but one crust remaining? In the morning she would give it to Marielle, pretending that there was more, and pray she could find more berries near the stream. But how long could they go on like this? Marielle was too weak to move, and without food how could she regain her strength? She must do something—or Marielle would die. “Listen,” she said. “There are several hours of daylight left. If I walk down the road for a while, and return before nightfall—mayhap there will be a town, even a farm or orchard. People. Food.” She bent down and tucked her skirt tightly about Marielle’s shoulders. “Will you forebear whilst I am gone?”
Marielle looked doubtful, then nodded her head. “I shall think of my children,” she said softly.
Lysette snorted and rose to her feet. “I shall think of food! That should hasten my steps!” She made her way to the road and turned eastward, away from the watery sun, trying to gauge the hour, to measure out her time so that she would not be cau
ght away from Marielle in darkness, and unable to find her way back. But despite her blithe words, she could not think of food, could only think of Marielle and the look of death in her eyes. She did not wish Marielle to die, of course, but the thought no longer held the terror for her that it had only a few hours before. It was odd. Like everyone else, she lived comfortably with the thought of death; it was everywhere—in wars and plagues and all manner of disasters. People died of starvation when a crop failed, and whole towns burned to the ground, their crumbling walls trapping hundreds within. If a man lived to be forty-five or fifty he was held to be an ancient, wise in years and experience. But for Lysette, childbirth was something else. Because of her mother, that sweet unknown creature who had been torn asunder giving her life, she had always seen a dark and frightening angel hovering over the very moment of creation. She had come to believe, in some secret recess of her mind, that she would die if ever she bore a child, gasping out her life as her mother surely had done. And last night she had known—or thought she knew—that if Marielle died it would confirm her fears. Now she was no longer so sure. It seemed suddenly a foolish notion, a child’s nightmare. Marielle would live, if she could find some food. As for herself, she thought of the babes she had cradled in the hospital at Luçon—how sweet they had been, how sweeter still had they come from her own womb. She was strong and young—why should she fear death? She felt suddenly steadfast and self-reliant—what a revelation was this journey!
She had been walking more than an hour, she judged by the angle of the pallid sun, and was about to turn around and go back to Marielle, disappointed that she had seen no sign of civilization. Then she sniffed, the scent of sun-warmed berries assailing her nostrils; before her, the road rose to a small hill, covered on each side by blackberry bushes. She hardly noticed the sharp thorns as she plunged her hands among the thick bushes, plucking the fragrant morsels and popping them into her mouth; only after she had satisfied her belly did she allow herself the pleasure of savoring their sweetness on her tongue. She glanced up. Her search for the berries had taken her to the very crest of the hill; below was an open stretch of road that led to a crossroad. At its juncture was an old wagon, overturned and abandoned, tilted against a rock, one wheel hanging crazily. But the crossroad was deserted, and the wagon looked as though it had lain thus for months. Discouraged, Lysette started to turn around and retrace her steps, meaning to pick a few berries for Marielle. Something about the crossroad jogged her memory, however, and she came closer. Ah, Dieu! There beyond the ruined wagon was a small shrine with a statue of the Virgin. Of course! The crossroads they had stopped at on their way from Angoumois! See! To her right was the road that had brought them from Soligne, and to the left…home! What was it Jean-Auguste had said—half a day’s ride to Chimère! Weeping in gratitude, she sank to her knees before the altar, sobbing out prayers of thanksgiving. This was Touraine—her own province. And the crossroads were well-traveled, busy with the traffic to and from Paris, Orleans, Normandy. She almost flew back down the road to Marielle, bursting with the glad news, her plans for the morrow. She would come again, very early, and stay all day at the crossroads. People would pass—if she could not beg food or help for Marielle, she could at least prevail upon some kindly stranger to take a message to Chimère or Vilmorin. Marielle smiled wanly, too ill to share Lysette’s enthusiasm, glad only that Lysette had returned before dark. Lying beside her, Lysette could hardly sleep, so heartened was she at the prospect of rescue. She scarcely noticed that her belly had begun to grumble again, and her feet were raw and sore.
An owl hooted in the distance, the sound hanging heavy in the damp night air.
“It will rain by morning,” sighed André tiredly.
Jean-Auguste grunted, his eyes straining into the blackness ahead. “Look!” he cried suddenly. “A light! Could that be Vilmorin?”
“Yes! Indeed yes!” The gladness in André’s voice died almost at once. “But to have come all this way…and no sign of Marielle or Lysette. I have never been sorry to see my home before, but now…damnation, man! How came we to miss our wives?”
“Come, mon ami! They may already be at Vilmorin!”
A sigh of pessimism. “And if not?”
“We shall rest for a day, gather fresh troops to comb the countryside, to seek out each hidden road.”
“No! Tomorrow!” snapped André.
“But tomorrow is Sunday! Men will be at prayer, with their families. They will need time to prepare, to provide for their fields to be tended whilst they are away. We can leave Monday, at dawn.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said André, running a gauntleted hand across his eyes. “I think I could sleep till Monday next! Look”—he pointed at Vilmorin’s dark turrets silhouetted against an even darker sky—“home! All will be well.”
“Yes,” agreed Jean-Auguste in reassurance. “The women are free of Ussé’s clutches—of that we can be certain. I feel sure that they are safe and well. And, after all, what difference can one day make?”
The cold rain woke them both, bouncing off the stones at their feet and splashing back at them as they lay. Only by leaning well back against the uprooted tree trunk could they escape the downpour, and even then the earth was damp and uncomfortable, and the mossy carpet beneath them spongy and sopping. Lysette sighed heavily, reluctant to venture forth. Welladay! As nearly as she could reckon it must be Sunday; if she vowed to say an extra prayer at the shrine, mayhap le bon Dieu would let the sun shine on her! She gave the last crust of bread to Marielle, who smiled gently and broke the piece in two, handing half to Lysette.
“No, Marielle. It is for you! I have eaten already!”
“When?”
“At dawn. I could not sleep.”
“You are a very skillful liar, Lysette, but I saw the size of the piece that remained yesterday! You could not have taken one single crumb!”
“Berries.” It was almost a question, begging Marielle to believe it.
Marielle shook her head. “Your jacket is dry! Come, sister, let us share as equals.”
“But you need your strength!” protested Lysette.
“And you must walk all that way in the rain. Please!” There was a sadness, a resignation in Marielle’s voice that Lysette had not heard before.
Lysette took the proffered bread, downing it in three gulps. “But you must not worry. I shall be gone all the day.” She stood up, pulling her jacket more closely about her, wishing its collar were wide enough to keep out the seeping rain. “Will you be all right?”
“Yes. I feel stronger already! I shall see you at nightfall.”
Lysette nodded, but her heart sank within her breast. In truth, Marielle looked ghastly. Without food, warmth, shelter, she would be dead long before nightfall.
The same thought must have been in Marielle’s mind. Eyes dark with despair, she clutched at Lysette’s hand and pressed it to her lips. “If…if…you do not return, you shall have everything you ever wanted!”
Lysette gaped and pulled her hand away, fleeing to the road as fast as she might, her brain whirling. Everything she ever wanted? André? That was what Marielle meant. She saw him again in her mind’s eye: strong, noble, gloriously handsome. His beauty would always make her heart catch. But did she want him? Had she ever truly wanted him—the man, the person—beyond what her eyes could hold? No! He was perfection, the echo of her father, the child’s dream—but she scarcely knew him! She thought of him with Marielle, with his children—that was reality! And they belonged together. Jean-Auguste had tried to tell her, warn her, protect her—from the very first. Jean-Auguste! She felt a sudden surge in her breast, an aching loneliness, a desperate longing. She wanted him. Ah, Dieu! She loved him! What a fool…what a blind child. It was not André whose kisses made her head spin, it was not André who made her laugh. It was not André whose praise warmed her heart and fed her self-esteem! And these last days of horror and despair—she had thought only of Jean-Auguste and how pleased he would be at her ne
w-found strength.
Strength. There were so many ways to be strong. Jean-Auguste had shown her that. His tolerance of her, his understanding of her child’s ways was a noble strength she had not appreciated before, preferring to see it as weakness. He had waited, patiently, kindly, for her to grow up.
I love him! Dear Mother of God, she thought, how I love him!
The rain began to fall harder, soaking her through, until even the torn rag that bound her chest felt damp against her skin. She could feel her chopped hair plastered against her forehead and cheeks, and her vanity reasserted itself. How ugly she must look! Even if she came home safe to Chimère, would Jean-Auguste want her? He had admired her beautiful hair—he had told her so on their wedding night. She flinched, remembering their wedding night—and all the times he had made love to her. Even when he pleased her, set her aflame, she had denied him the satisfaction of knowing it, pretending indifference, coldness, dreaming of André. O childish spite! Would he ever forgive her? And Dr. Landelle’s sponges, her deliberate subterfuge to keep from conceiving his child. How could he forgive that? She had suffered for her wickedness, would suffer in torment for the rest of her life, but what would take the hatred from Jean-Auguste’s eyes? She would carry a score of sons in her womb, if only he would forgive her. Surely without his absolution her heart would break from its heavy burden.
Plodding along the road, the chill rain beating down upon her bare head, she began to cry, the scalding tears blending on her cheeks with the cold raindrops.
Thanks be to God it had finally stopped raining. Perhaps in a while he would come out from beneath the shelter of the wagon and stretch his legs. They were beginning to cramp from all the hours he had sat hunched up, protected against the driving storm. He wondered if his horse was still comfortably grazing in the leafy dimness of the nearby woods.
Perhaps, as André said, he was a fool. It was he who had given all the arguments in favor of waiting until Monday; yet he had turned about at the very gates of Vilmorin and ridden back to this spot, stopping only long enough to get a fresh supply of food and wine from Louise.
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