The Prisoner of the
Castle of
Enlightenment
Therese Doucet
Copyright © 2019, Therese Doucet
Published by:
D. X. Varos, Ltd
7665 E. Eastman Ave. #B101
Denver, CO 80231
This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual figures past or present is purely coincidental.
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ISBN: 978-1-941072-63-9 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-941072-63-9 (ebook)
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Table of Contents
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
Author’s Note
I
I had found a measure of happiness, sitting on the edge of the well in the evening, watching the Alpenglow paint the peaks across the valley in shades of rose and marigold. Once I had wanted to drown myself in this same well. That was after my husband died and my father sold off all the books in the shop my husband and I had kept. I saw my path to freedom disappear then, just as the paths on our mountain sometimes vanish in the space of a few seconds from rock falls, or avalanches during the heavy snows.
The well water below was black-green in the shadows of the encircling stones, and cold air rose from it like the breath of spirits passing to and from the underworld. I could have weighted my pockets with rocks, could have plunged into the icy water and freed myself from worry and care, taking my body back for myself once and for all. People thought I grieved the death of my husband, Guillaume Bergeret, a lay pastor of our Vaudois faith who’d kept the bookshop in Annecy to support us; but it wasn’t true. The pastor’s soul and mine were always strangers to each other, and I could never bring myself to call him by his Christian name or use thee and thou with him, even after two children were born to us and grew into a pair of lovely, willful wood sprites.
Valentin’s shouts and Aimée’s giggles echoed from around the bend in the trail through the trees to Father’s house, where we’d lived since the pastor died in his bed in Annecy. The pastor would have expected me to scold them, for clearly they were building a fort instead of gathering sticks for kindling as I had asked them to do. But I, too, neglected my chores to savor the warm, clear early June evening, the cries of the hawks and doves through the fragrant rustling pines mingling with the children’s voices and the cattle bells clanging from the grassy slope beyond.
I caught a glimpse of our housekeeper, Edmée, hurrying up the path. She spoke to Valentin and Aimee and they fell silent, before scurrying back down the hill to the house. I stood up quickly to dust off my skirt, filled my buckets, and hooked them back onto the yoke. Then I set them down again as Edmée came into sight on the path, panting and out of breath, her face pink.
“Violaine! Your father’s returned. Here, I’ll take those buckets, you go.”
I left the buckets to her and set off at a run. I’d long since forgiven my father for selling the books. It simply never occurred to him that I would prefer taking over the bookshop to marrying again, or that I’d even be capable of running the shop on my own. Father had already sold everything and packed the stock off to the buyer before I had any chance to lay out my plans to him. He had no way of knowing about the poems I had hidden in the pages of the Book of the Rose, which he sold along with the rest, or that it was the book I loved more than any other.
Now perhaps he’d brought the Book of the Rose back to me – the one thing I had asked for when he’d left three months earlier, after the snows had melted. My older sister, Hortense, hadn’t been shy about asking for a pearl brooch and earrings like the fine Catholic ladies wore to church in Annecy, and for brocade fabric and lace to make a dress and collar that would be the envy of the other matrons in her village. Françoise-Angélique, my younger sister, would never think of such luxuries for herself, but since the midwife had told her she would give birth to twin girls in April, she had asked for linens and lace for the christening dresses and silver cups and spoons for the babies.
My Book of the Rose was an old, tattered volume, but the poems I had hidden in its pages were the tear-spattered outpourings of my heart. Its story of knights and roses and courtly love had kept me company through many a desolate night, when I lived through the sagas in my mind to forget the misery of my circumstances. My soul had come to inhabit that book, and more than two years had passed since I’d lost it. But Father was hopeful he could recover it, for he was going to stop in Annecy on the way home from his travels.
I reached the door of our house, out of breath, and found Father seated at the table with Aimée on his knee. His graying mouse-colored hair was windblown, and his face had grown thinner. Valentin stood next to them, his dark curls hanging over his eyes, tall enough at ten years old to reach his grandfather’s shoulder, looking on as his little sister chattered. When Father raised his eyes to meet mine, there was a terrible expression in them, a hollowed-out, haunted look. He didn’t return my smile but put Aimée off his knee and rose to accept my embrace and kisses on each cheek.
“Father, are you well?” I asked. He looked away instead of answering. I tried to fill the silence. “But you’re home at last. We missed you so much. How was the journey? Did you come all the way from Annecy today?”
He nodded and sat down again. Dust from the road had gathered in the folds of his stockings, and his fingers twitched nervously in his lap. “I had some business to finish in the city this morning, and then I came straight on.”
I hurried to fetch him water and the soup Edmée had made for our supper. Edmée returned from the well with the buckets I had left there, and I filled the kettle and set it on the fire to brew a tea of verbena and balm. “You must have made good time,” I said.
He frowned and prodded at the thin soup that was mostly vegetables. “Not bad. The roads were clear, and I had a fresh horse.”
Valentin’s eyes snapped wide open. “What about Claudette?” he asked. He and Father’s old mare Claudette had been great friends ever since Valentin could walk.
Father smiled, though his eyes were tired. “Never fear, she’s coming along with the buggy tomorrow. I stayed overnight with a gentleman who lent me a faster steed to speed me on my way.”
“That was kind of him.” I lit candles for the table from the fire. “Was it a friend of yours – another Vaudois?”
Father shook his head. “Not one of us, no, though I think he might become a friend.”
I wrinkled my brow and bustled arou
nd the table to make sure the children had taken their share of the soup from the pot before I served myself.
“Violaine,” Father said, “Sit down. Let Edmée do it.”
I couldn’t remember that he’d ever spoken to me like that before – telling me to sit and rest. Usually he expected the women around him to stay busy. Something awful must have happened. I hoped whatever it was had only to do with money and wasn’t something worse.
I took a seat and pushed the onions in the soup around with a slice of hard black bread while the children and Edmée ate theirs quickly. He spoke of the weather and of the places he had visited. He had journeyed south, to Chambéry, Grenoble, the Dauphiné valleys, Montpellier, and then back up northward, through Briançon and the province of Piemonte, to Genève, and at last Annecy before coming home. When the soup had all been eaten, Edmée took the children to put them to bed in the back room, and I washed up. Father still hadn’t found the nerve to tell me what was troubling him. My heart pounded a little. We sat with our tea, and I poured him a glass of génépi; perhaps this would loosen his tongue.
He took the liquor gratefully, drank it down in one swallow, and poured himself another. I blew on my tea to cool it.
“It was all a failure,” he admitted at last. “I haven’t made a single wise decision since your mother passed away. God is punishing me for my sins and foolishness.”
I thought by this talk of sins he meant Edmée. At first I hadn’t wanted to see that he’d taken up with her after our mother died. Edmée still had a husband, a worthless drunkard who lived near my sister Hortense in the hamlet of Nant-Pierre, a league away. But much of the reading I had done in the bookshop in Annecy had changed my thinking, and I no longer judged Father or her for finding comfort in one another.
“What happened?”
“I’d thought my investment in the trading company was lost. Then in Briançon I got word that the ships hadn’t been wrecked as we’d feared and were on their way into the harbor. So I extended myself further than I would have otherwise, with new letters of credit. I expected I’d be able to negotiate settlements on the old debts and pay off the new ones quickly, but when I arrived in Montpellier, my creditors had anticipated me. They’d devoured the lion’s share of the profits without my being able to negotiate anything. So now I owe more than when I started, with worse rates and shorter terms. At least, so I thought until I came to Annecy. I don’t know what to do. It could be our salvation, or it could be a disaster worse than all the others put together.”
“The gentleman in Annecy had some proposal?”
Father let out a long sigh, and tears welled in the corners of his eyes. “I knew I wouldn’t be able to bring Hortense her pearls, or Françoise her silver, but I thought I could still try to get your book back. I’d corresponded with the gentleman who’d bought up most of the stock from the pastor’s shop about the payments, so I had his name and address in Annecy. It was a Monsieur du Herle, and he’d bought the books on behalf of a marquis.”
“A marquis bought the books? All for himself alone?”
“The Marquis de Boisaulne, yes, for his private library.”
I propped my chin up on my hand and sighed. “Wouldn’t it be nice, to be so rich?”
“I’ll admit, I hoped asking about your book might give me an opening for a business proposal of some sort.” Father drummed the fingers of one hand on the table, frowning at the memory. “The Marquis wasn’t at home, but Monsieur du Herle received me and invited me to stay for supper. He remembered the shop of Pastor Bergeret very well, and buying up the stock for the Marquis’s library. He even remembered the Book of the Rose being among them.” Father looked me in the eyes. “I’m sorry to tell you, but it’s a far rarer and more valuable book than I think you realized. The most precious of the whole collection, in fact. He thought it quite a bargain at the time, as he might easily have paid as much for the one book alone as he had for the whole library.”
My mouth drooped in disappointment. I could readily believe my old book was a rare find after all, with its beautiful capitals and illustrations, and the antiquated spellings and obsolete words. “So you couldn’t afford to buy it back.”
“Well – I’m getting to that.” Father hesitated for a moment, and then continued more slowly, his mouth set like that of a man about to step barefoot into a pile of burning coals. “Monsieur du Herle also remembered you. Perhaps you’d know his face if you saw him again. It seems that for a time he was a frequent visitor at the shop.”
I nodded, feeling chilled. “I don’t remember the name, but the pastor used to hold gatherings in the evenings for gentlemen who’d come to talk about religion and political philosophy. Women weren’t allowed, of course, but I’d come in to serve drinks after the children were in bed, and sometimes” – I lowered my eyes to the table – “I’d linger in the room or listen at the door. Monsieur du Herle was probably among them.”
Father wrapped his hands around the still-warm cup of tea. “I suppose the pastor meant to do his part to spread tolerance. I’d expect no less. He was a brave man and courageous for our faith, even when it put him in danger.”
“It’s strange, though, to think any of his guests would have remembered me. That was so long ago.”
Father looked at me sternly, as if I’d told a lie, pretending to be unaware of the effect my face and figure might have on men. Perhaps I had. I felt sick to my stomach, for I thought I already knew where this conversation was going.
“Monsieur du Herle asked after you,” Father said. “He asked if you’d remarried. I told him you hadn’t. He paid me extravagant compliments about you, and said he well recalled how lovely and charming you were, how quiet and decorous in your manner.”
I searched my memory for some recollection of M. du Herle. Had any of the men at the pastor’s philosophical gatherings been handsome? I remembered being too shy to look them in the eyes. I only recalled dark coats and hats, perhaps a set of whiskers here, a pair of spectacles there, a dress sword buckled to one side if any of them were particularly elegant. There’d been the occasional colorful waistcoat and wigs of many shapes and sizes, some powdered, some plain. Had there been a pair of light gray-blue eyes that followed me around the table once or twice as I poured out coffee? Had that been M. du Herle? Most of all I remembered the gentlemen’s voices through the keyhole, and the ideas that tantalized me, hovering just at the edge of my understanding in fragments I tried to piece together, and how I’d longed to be seated at the table to hear all that was said, and to speak back with my own thoughts that were always brimming up in me. I had no one to confide them to otherwise, apart from the occasional sheet of paper in quiet moments.
“I was beginning to think he meant to ask me for your hand,” Father said, “but he didn’t. He said he thought you’d please his master, the Marquis. And not –” he added as I started up out of my chair in astonishment – “and not as a wife.”
He fell silent for a moment, and his words sank in. I felt as though someone had wafted a shovelful of manure in front of my nose and I sat back down. “But –”
Father pressed on. “He said his master, the Marquis, sought the companionship of a young woman. I said it seemed to me that there must be no shortage of young ladies of that sort in Annecy, and surely if he knew the pastor, he must know we’re God-fearing people. I said you would never consent to such a thing, and frankly I was deeply offended at the suggestion.”
I breathed out a sigh of relief. “Was he angry with you?”
Father shook his head. “He understood perfectly. Then he explained the Marquis’s circumstances. He’s been estranged from his wife for many years. He married young, not realizing her character. He’s not free to marry, as long as she still lives. But he wishes to make as honorable an arrangement with us as possible under the circumstances. You and the children would be provided for, even if you separated from him at some time in the future. There would be a signed contract. Monsieur du Herle visited the Marquis’s
lawyer this morning and had it drawn up, and I’ve brought it back with me.”
Heat rose along the sides of my neck with my growing sense of horror. “Father, what madness is this? You agreed that I’d become a … a prostituée?”
“Keep your voice down,” he said in a forceful whisper. “It’s nothing of the kind. You turned down every match Edmée or I tried to make for you. No suitor from our villages was good enough for you. You thought yourself above them all, because your husband let you learn Latin and Greek and read all the books in his shop. You’ve shown not a scrap of gratitude and treated them all with disdain.”
“But I – they weren’t …”
“How am I to find the money for an apprenticeship for Valentin, when I can barely even feed us? Do you know we’re in danger of losing the house and the livestock? If I can’t find a way to hold on until my investments pay off, we’ll lose everything. We’ll be beholden to the charity of your sisters, whose husbands can barely feed their own families.”
I gaped at him, blinking. “You’re seriously considering his filthy proposal then? You want me to agree to it? This Marquis, whoever he is, has never spoken one word to me, and you didn’t even meet him, did you? You have no idea of his character. Suppose he’s unkind to the children?”
He slumped back tiredly in his chair. “You wouldn’t take the children. He would provide for their upbringing and education, but they would have to go to live with Hortense, or Edmée could go on caring for them here. We could even send Valentin to school in town. The Marquis is proposing quite a large quarterly sum. Hortense would be happy to have the help, I know.”
I shook my head. This couldn’t be anything but a terrible dream. I was just becoming used to this life, where I could only read in secret, if at all. I had resigned myself to the loneliness of village society, of living among people who were good-hearted but unlettered, whose minds and speech were a foreign country to me. Now Father wanted to sell me like the pastor’s books, to abandon me to the mercy of some dissolute nobleman, probably thirty years older than I was, who was buying me sight unseen on the word of his agent who’d taken a vague liking to my face nearly three years ago. And Valentin and Aimée! I had never been apart from them for more than a few weeks after the pastor had become ill from his time in prison, when they went to stay with Hortense and their cousins. It was unthinkable.
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