He didn’t bother to pay me any of the extravagant compliments my father had told me about or make a speech. If the Marquis had any sort of honorable intention, if he wasn’t some deformed hunchback, why did he not come to meet and fetch me himself? Perhaps that was precisely the reason for all this bizarre mystification and for subjecting me to such an alarming proposal by proxy. Perhaps the Marquis was a cripple, or clubfooted, or hare-lipped; some physical deformity had made a recluse of him, so he had shut himself up in that remote hunting lodge with no company to relieve his loneliness. I wanted to ask M. du Herle if this was so, but the question died on my lips. I was fearful of offending M. du Herle or making an enemy of him right away. All I could do for now was place myself in the hands of Providence and hope M. du Herle’s respectful tone and quiet voice boded well. If it was nothing but a physical deformity to worry about, if the Marquis was a good man in an ugly body, then … perhaps all would yet be well. I had always prided myself on seeing beyond appearances, on not judging books by their covers, prizing wisdom, learning, and the beauty of the soul above jewels or wealth or material comforts.
I badly wanted to believe in this possibility; the thought comforted me. With his fine silver sword, M. du Herle easily severed the knotted cord that Pierre Joseph had used to tie up the barn door to prevent me from running away with the Marquis’s horse again. If M. du Herle knew of my attempted horse theft, he politely refrained from mentioning it.
He said very little as he saddled up the Marquis’s horse for me, apart from telling me my white steed’s name was Zéphyr and his own black mount was called Hadès.
Valentin and Aimée rushed out to say goodbye to me, Hortense trailing after them. Hortense had somehow explained things to them. Maman was going away on a brief journey, but it wouldn’t be long before she returned for a visit, and we would see each other again very soon. Aimée cried plentiful tears nonetheless. Valentin tried to act manly and to keep from crying, but hugged me tightly and kissed me on each cheek six times. A small smile played around M. du Herle’s mouth as he looked on. Then his face resumed its serious expression as I mounted Zéphyr. He didn’t flinch or protest when I explained that I preferred to ride astride rather than side-saddle, as I had little experience with horses and felt safer that way. I was allowed to bring nothing with me, not even the sack with the knife in it.
“We’re off then,” said M. du Herle. “We’ll send word when we’ve arrived safely.”
Why couldn’t my father accompany us? Why hadn’t he insisted upon it? These were questions I was too afraid to ask. I felt like a girl in a fairy tale, bewitched by a wizard’s spell. Would I turn into a swan at dusk? Had some magic stolen my voice so that I didn’t scream or shout protests? What power did this M. du Herle wield, that he had gotten his way despite his reserved manner, his deep but quiet voice, and his sparing words? As far as I understood it, not one of us had even laid eyes on this Marquis de Boisaulne, who for all we knew didn’t even really exist, though he must have put his signature to the contract with my father, and a lawyer must also have witnessed it.
At first, M. du Herle and I rode side by side on the lane as it climbed uphill.
“Let me know if you need to stop and rest,” he said. “Otherwise we’ll just stop in the village before we get to the manor.”
“There’s a village?”
“Not a large one, more of a hamlet. Part of the domain of Boisaulne. They call it Maisnie-la-Forêt.”
“But you’re not from there?”
“My estate is in Picardy. In the north of France.”
“Have you been in the Marquis’s employ a long time?”
“A long time, yes.”
“You know him well then, I suppose?”
“Fairly well.”
After a time the lane narrowed and we began a series of switchbacks, M. du Herle riding ahead of me. I didn’t mind; it made it less awkward to ride in silence, and he clearly meant to discourage me from asking questions. Perhaps I ought to have kept trying, but I felt too hopeless and wrung out from my tears, too exhausted from my sleepless night, to understand or to make conversation anyway. After another hour or two, M. du Herle led us onto a side path I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. It was more of a game trail than a proper horse path. Now and then I saw red deer leaping away from us down the hillside. Later we followed a small herd of chamois, the goat-antelopes whose skins makes the softest of leathers. The horses stepped over piles of their droppings along the way. I could only hope we’d see no signs of wolves, lynxes, bears, or wild boars.
After another hour I was forced to ask for a stop, because I needed to relieve myself. M. du Herle dismounted, stretched his limbs, and pointed toward a patch of the woods where rocks, thick trees, and bushes provided some cover. He turned and looked in the opposite direction, crossing his arms over his chest, as I made water behind the trees and came back. Then he took his turn going off into the trees, while I watched the horses and let them munch on leaves and grass.
As he climbed back into Hadès’s saddle, I noticed M. du Herle wore a signet ring turned inward on the fourth finger of his left hand, as noblemen did when they were married. I didn’t know whether to feel reassured by this or not. He still turned his silver-blue eyes on me from time to time in a way I didn’t find comforting. I doubted that a man who respected wedding vows would be acquiring me and bringing me to his master in this manner.
The shadows of the pines, elms, and alders we rode through grew thicker and longer with the approach of evening, and M. du Herle urged the horses to a canter until we came out of the forest. We forded a stream and met a lane wide enough for a buggy or a wagon to travel along. With a glance at me to see if I was all right, he kicked Hadès’s flank, and the horse broke into a gallop, Zéphyr matching his pace one length behind. We reached Maisnie-la-Forêt a little before sunset.
The village was a cluster of houses in a clearing above the stream our road had been following, with farms and pastures radiating out from it. There was a tiny chapel on a hill at one end, and in the center a wagoner’s shop, a communal oven and bakery, a tavern, a tanner and furrier, and a scattering of market stalls.
We dismounted and tied the horses to a post in front of the wagoner’s shop.
“I need to speak to the owner inside,” M. du Herle said. “Do you mind waiting here? If you’re hungry or thirsty you can go to the tavern and they’ll serve you. You only have to tell them you’re with me.”
I nodded and he went in. His tone was still polite, though we’d ridden in silence for much of the way. I should have been starving, for I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but I had no appetite. I wandered toward the tavern anyway. A young woman sat knitting in front of it, next to a few baskets of cherries.
“Good day, Madame,” the woman said. She had positioned her chair to catch the last of the day’s sun.
“Good day to you too. Are the cherries for sale?” I knew I ought to eat something, if only to keep up my strength, and they did look ripe and free of worms.
“I was just fixing to take them back inside, but I’ll let you have a pound for three sous.” She grinned at me.
“Oh no, I just wanted a few.”
“Ah well, that’s all right, have some. I saw you ride in with Monsieur du Herle. I take it he’s brought you with him.”
“Yes.” I put a cherry in my mouth, chewed, and spat the pit into my hand to throw on the ground. The fruit was juicy and sweet, and I felt a little of my appetite returning. I took a handful.
“Is the Marquis de Boisaulne’s hunting lodge far from here?” I asked after I’d chewed another cherry and spat out the pit.
“Not at all. Just another mile up the road and across the bridge. You can’t see it from here. The road curves up and around and it’s hidden back among the trees. Where’ve you come from?”
I told her a made-up name instead of the village I was from, and she squinted. “It must be on the other side of the mountain from us. We don’t usually go acros
s the river.”
“Why not?”
“No one wants to be mistaken for a poacher in the Marquis’s forest. He’s a great hunter.”
“Is he?”
“You’d think so. Monsieur Fréret, the wagoner, delivers letters and milk and eggs to the manor each day when anyone’s staying there, and a load of supplies each week. But they never need meat. He brings back animal carcasses all the time – they’re left for him in the courtyard. Sometimes with the meat still on them, sometimes just the skin and bones.”
“Oh,” I said, repulsed at the thought of bloody piles of dead animals and pelts.
“We’re allowed to hunt and cut wood and forage all we like this side of the river,” she said. “But with all that Monsieur Fréret brings back in his wagon from the manor we don’t need to that much.”
I shuddered. “What’s the Marquis like?”
She shrugged. “Oh, we never see him. He likes his privacy. We only deal with Monsieur du Herle. He comes once or twice a month to settle the balances and see if we need anything. Monsieur du Herle’s quite reasonable and good to us. It used to be we didn’t have a doctor, and you’d have to go down the mountain if you wanted to see one. Now Doctor Guillon comes every Wednesday from Thônes and stays overnight with us in the tavern. He does a good business here. The Marquis pays for his lodging and fees.”
“That sounds kind of him,” I said. We both fell silent for a few moments while I ate more cherries. She introduced herself as Madame Jacquenod, and I told her my family name of Bergeret. If no one from here ever went to the other side of the mountain, I supposed I didn’t need to fear for my family’s reputation.
She gave me a guarded look. “It’s a long time since I saw him bring a woman through here.”
I swallowed and felt the prick of tears at the corners of my eyes, and blinked quickly. Of course there had been others before me. “How long did the last one stay?”
“I never saw any of them leave,” she said seriously. “They must go out another way than they come in.”
“I’m nervous.” The words came out of me almost against my will.
She shook her head pityingly, and there was another long silence. Then she said, “In my grandmother’s day there were tales. Livestock or even children going missing. My brothers used to frighten me with stories of an ogre who lived in the forest across the bridge.” She chuckled. “They called him the alder-king, the roi des aulnes, and they said the Marquis’s lineage bore the ogre’s blood in its veins from many centuries earlier, when he took the local nobleman’s daughter to wife.”
I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I was struck with a sudden chill, and for a moment my teeth chattered.
Madame Jacquenod looked embarrassed. “But it’s nothing to trouble yourself over. I suppose there’s just another road that goes out from behind the manor that the Marquis and his guests use for privacy, that’s all.” She wrinkled her brow in concern. “But if they’re ever unkind to you there, we’re just a mile away.”
A little boy toddled out of the tavern, planted himself in her lap, and demanded supper. Madame Jacquenod fed him a cherry and smiled at me.
I smiled back. “Is there a regular market day here?”
“Tuesday morning and all day Thursday. I’m usually the last to leave when our trees are yielding. We have cherries, plums, and walnuts growing behind the tavern.”
“Then maybe I’ll see you there.”
“Yes, perhaps we’ll see you then,” she said, although her tone was noncommittal. “We’ll certainly have green walnuts by Saint John’s Day.”
M. du Herle came out of the wagoner’s shop and looked about until he caught sight of me. “Good evening, Madame Jacquenod,” he called. “Madame Bergeret, are you ready? We ought to be going. It will be dark soon.”
III
In summer, darkness fell on the mountain with surprising swiftness. The days were long and you’d be fooled into thinking you had an hour or two of light left to go out for a walk or do some chore. Then all at once the sun would slip down behind the jagged line of peaks and valleys, the trees would block out the stars and moon, and you could hardly see your own hand in front of your face.
By the time we reached the bridge over the stream beyond the village it was frighteningly dark. I could hear water rushing beneath our horses’ hooves, but couldn’t see it, and feared stumbling over the edge of the bridge and plunging into the rocks and water below. Why had M. du Herle not brought a lantern at least? Then up ahead of us, I saw a dot of twinkling light. The horses knew their way and headed toward it. It grew larger until we reached it, a lantern hanging from a hook set into the wall, next to a gate wide enough for a carriage to pass through.
M. du Herle dismounted and searched in his saddle bag, found a key, and unlocked the gate.
“We’re here,” he said. “Welcome to the Château de Boisaulne.” He lifted the lantern from its hook and took it with him. By its light, we entered through the gates and came into a broad drive and outer yard, with another pair of lanterns flanking the gate to the inner courtyard beyond. M. du Herle led us around to the side, where there was a stable. We took Hadès and Zéphyr inside. Several other stalls were occupied by horses breathing and snorting in the dark. There was also a buggy and a large carriage, plain and painted black, with only silver trim for decoration and no noble family crest.
We came back out into the yard and M. du Herle unlocked the gate to the inner courtyard.
“How old is the manor?” I ventured to ask.
“It’s difficult to say.” The gate creaked open. In the darkness I couldn’t gauge the height and length of the stone walls of the house within. “There’s been a building here for as long as anyone can remember,” he told me as we proceeded up a walk toward a large wooden entry door. “The oldest part of the château still standing is the great hall, where you’ll have your supper. When the lands of Boisaulne were given to the Marquis’s ancestors as a noble domain, that was all there was. More rooms were built on the first floor in the days of Duke Charles Emmanuel I, and the second floor was added then too. The Marquis’s grandfather built a third floor above them and the eastern wing. The Marquis has a chest with some of the old artifacts that have been found and passed down. Spearheads, Roman coins, amulets, bone carvings, and the like. All in all, I’d say the site goes back to ancient times.”
He turned another key, and we went in through the entry door. M. du Herle closed and locked it behind us. The house was as dark inside as outside, but M. du Herle’s lantern cast a circle of illumination around us, and I could see we were in a small antechamber with a staircase leading up. A few paintings hung on the walls, and there was a sofa, a table, and a couple of chairs. M. du Herle picked up a sealed letter from the table, unfolded it, and read it by the light of his lantern. He slipped it into his pocket and stepped forward down the hall.
The passage opened into a cavernous stone-walled room with a long dining table and a dozen chairs. At the far end was a great fireplace with a fire roaring in it and two upholstered armchairs facing it, with a small table between them. A candelabra illuminated the far end of the dining table, which was laid with a single covered serving dish. We moved to the end of the table, and M. du Herle took the cover off the dish. Steam wafted up, carrying the scent of roasted meat. My mouth watered. I was suddenly ravenous.
“Good,” M. du Herle said, “here’s your dinner, then. I hope you don’t mind venison. It’s served often here.”
“But there’s only one plate.”
“Yes. I’m afraid I have to leave you now. The Marquis has been detained, and I need to return to Annecy immediately tonight to take care of a matter there.”
“What, tonight? But we just got here. You’ll ride in the dark?”
“I’ll take a lantern, but I have to go. It’s urgent. I’m sorry to leave you alone on your first night here.”
“You’re leaving me alone?” I looked around the room as if the walls or corners m
ight reveal someone to help me, but all I saw were shadows and stark angles. My stomach twisted in fear.
“You’re not really alone, though you may not see anyone else for a few days.”
“A few days?”
“The Marquis should be back in a few days, and then you’ll make each other’s acquaintance.”
“But why … why wouldn’t he be here to meet me?”
“Might I suggest you use the time to your advantage, to settle in on your own and explore a little? You’ll find your way around, have no fear. The Marquis has trained his servants to be exceedingly discreet, well-nigh invisible. If you need anything, just leave a note on the table by the fire and you’ll find matters addressed quickly.”
He pulled out the chair by the table for me. “Now eat, before it gets cold. I really must go. Don’t be afraid, whatever you see. You’re perfectly safe here and until the Marquis returns, you’re the mistress of the manor. Consider the place your own and make yourself comfortable.”
I sat down in front of the plate of roast venison and vegetables. He bowed to me and turned to leave.
“Will I see you again?” I asked.
He nodded. “I’ll return. I don’t know when, but we’ll see each other again. Goodnight, Madame Bergeret. Until then.”
I watched him go, hating him for his enigmas and silences, his coldness, the effrontery of bringing me here only to leave me at once, the rudeness of not explaining why on earth I’d been brought here only to be ignored and abandoned. I was seized with terror. What was the meaning of it, this dark, empty, silent place? Though Hortense had mocked me for saying so, I felt more than ever now like a sacrificial victim, a tribute offering led down into a labyrinth and imprisoned there to be devoured by the Minotaur. Why would they leave me alone if I wasn’t about to be attacked and eaten by some cruel beast, the ogre of Madame Jacquenod’s fairy tales?
The Prisoner of the Castle of Enlightenment Page 3