❧
I love you, Gabrielle.
The first time Martin de Nevers said those words was on a Sunday afternoon in January. They had been walking through the garden of the Tuileries, bundled up against the cold. The trees were bare, the dirt paths hard and frozen, and the fountains dry and clogged with dead leaves.
She didn't believe him. She was only sixteen, but already she knew love didn't really exist. It wasn't fashionable.
"La!" she exclaimed, laughing, teasing. She brushed her fur muff against his pale, thin cheek. "I know how to play this game, monsieur. You protest your love and I protest my virtue. You protest your love again and I surrender my virtue."
He didn't laugh. He stood before her, with his narrow, earnest face and his wide-spaced hazel eyes looking hurt and a little sad. And she realized then that she did believe in love. She had to believe in it, for she loved him.
"I meant it, Gabrielle," he was saying, and the words condensed into vapor around his sensual lips. "If there was another way to say it, words that hadn't been used a thousand times before . . . but there isn't. All I can say is I love you." Suddenly he shocked her by kneeling at her feet. "Gabrielle . . . would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
"Jesu, Martin! What are you— For God's sake get up. People are starting to look at us."
He seized her hands. "Let them look. I want all of Paris to know that you are going to be my wife."
She pulled away from him, angry with him because she knew the only possible end to all of this was that she would be hurt. They lived in a society where the basest of immorality was condoned, but marrying beneath one's station was not.
"Don't be a silly fool, Martin. Monseigneur le Duc your father would never allow such a misalliance."
Martin stood, brushing bits of dirt and dead leaves off the knees of his satin breeches. "Why should he object? Your father was a Vauclair, your mother is a Servien. That's as good as a Nevers any day."
"My grandfather was a galley slave and my mother was an actress."
"And my great-grandmother was a scullery wench. Although we don't speak of it within the family." He tried to laugh, to gather her into his arms. "Gabrielle—"
"My mother takes lovers and I haven't got a dowry."
"And my father has had dozens of mistresses and he's got piles of money. Enough that he doesn't need a rich daughter-in-law. Once he sees you, once he meets you, he won't object to our marriage. I want you, Gabrielle, and my father has always given me what I want. Besides, I'm his only son. He doesn't have any choice." But in that Martin de Nevers was very wrong.
❧
The duc de Nevers sent his lawyer Louvois to the house in the Rue de Grenelle. Gabrielle received him in the blue and silver salon.
She received him alone. "If you insist on marrying this boy, cheri, Marie-Rose had said to her, "then you must play the role out by yourself. If you don't mind very much, I shall only lend you my support by applauding loudly from the gallery."
Gabrielle detested Louvois on sight.
She turned to face him as he entered, and it seemed at first that he was an insignificant man. Short and small-boned, he wore a plain coat and a short waistcoat and loose breeches. His shirt was without frills, his dark hair unpowdered and worn loose about his face. But as his protruding eyes stared unblinkingly at her from behind a pair of thick spectacles, her skin began to tingle as if a thousand ants nibbled at her flesh. She knew then that he was dangerous, and that she was afraid of him.
She lifted her chin. "Before you speak, monsieur, I should tell you that Martin de Nevers has asked me.to marry him, and I have accepted."
"So Monseigneur le Duc has been informed. It is unacceptable."
"To the duc perhaps, but not to me. And not to Martin. We love each other."
Louvois inclined his head. "Monsieur Martin needs his father's permission to marry. I am here to tell you that in your case it will not be forthcoming." A thin smile crossed his face. "Go fish in other waters, Mademoiselle de Vauclair."
Gabrielle said nothing.
Louvois sighed softly, assuming the look of a father exercising great patience with a trying offspring. "You fail to understand. If Monsieur Martin elopes with you, he will be disinherited. His support will be cut off. The duc has promised this. It is no idle threat."
"Then make it to Martin, not to me. I've managed to survive thus far without the goodwill of the duc de Nevers."
"Ah . . ." Again Louvois sighed. "But you have yet to try surviving with his enmity."
Gabrielle felt cold then, chilled with the premonition of the fear that was to come. She trembled slightly, and Louvois's watching eyes saw it.
"What will it take to convince you to look elsewhere for a husband?" he asked softly.
Gabrielle smiled. "Just what sort of incentives are you offering me?"
An expression of disappointment might have flashed across the lawyer's face as he stared at her. Then, looking away, he dipped two long, white fingers into the pocket of his waistcoat to withdraw a stiff, folded piece of paper. He handed it to Gabrielle.
It was a bank note.
Gabrielle had rarely seen one. They weren't used often, for the French had little faith in forms of currency whose worth couldn't be tested with the bite of a strong pair of teeth. The piece of paper Gabrielle held in her hands claimed to be worth one hundred livres.
"There are five hundred more bank notes where that came from," Louvois said. "Fifty thousand livres. Is that sufficient incentive, mademoiselle?"
"It is indeed a lot of money," Gabrielle said, and Louvois smiled.
But his smile began to fade as she ripped the paper in half, then in half again. Ripped until the pieces were the size of coins and then let them slip through her fingers onto the carpet like flakes of snow.
She looked up and met the lawyer's dark, angry eyes. "Tell your master, lackey, that I cannot be bought."
He took a step forward until he was right in front of her. Grasping her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he lifted her face, squeezing until tears started in her eyes. But she didn't pull away or make a sound.
"You're a haughty little aristocratic bitch, aren't you?" he said with a sneer. "But everyone has a price, Gabrielle de Vauclair. Someday I will discover yours. And when I do, I will use it to destroy you."
❧
They were married.
They took the stagecoach to a small village in the province of Lorraine, where a priest could be found who was removed enough from the Nevers's power not to be afraid of it. He married them in the church before God and before the law. And what God has joined, he said, let no man put asunder.
Until that moment Gabrielle had never believed it would really happen. She didn't think Martin had the strength of will to stand up to his father. When she saw that he had, when he placed his mother's sapphire ring on her finger as proof of it, she thought this must make her love him all the more.
That night, in a posting house, they made love for the first time.
Gabrielle sat fully clothed on the bed. Her hands were clenched into fists on her lap and she twisted the sapphire ring around and around her finger. Martin shut the door to their room and came to stand before her.
"Gabrielle . . . what is wrong? Are you sorry now—"
She laughed shakily, thrusting herself to her feet. "Dieu, what do you think? I'm nervous. I've never done this before." She looked up and saw her own fears reflected in his face.
Bright splashes of color appeared on his thin, pale cheeks. "I haven't done it before, either."
"You haven't?" She was surprised. He was eighteen, after all. That wasn't so young. For a man.
"I was going to before tonight," he said. "With a whore. So that I wouldn't make a complete fool of myself. But then it seemed, I don't know . . ." He shrugged. "Pointless. I don't want to make love to anyone but you."
"Well . . ." She stroked his cheek, forcing a smile. "We'll figure it out together. It surely can't be that compli
cated."
She turned around and lifted her hair off her back, bending her head. For a long moment he did nothing, and Gabrielle's false bravado began to crack. Deep inside herself she was worried she would be a failure at this, that she would displease him. She was married to this man now. Forever. Suddenly she was afraid she knew him not at all.
At last he pressed his lips on the protruding knob of bone at her bowed neck. But only for a moment before she heard him sigh raggedly and step away from her.
She kept her head bent, her back to him, unsure now of what to do. He's even more frightened than I am, she thought. She felt an odd sense of loss, as if she had suddenly discovered that what she thought was a diamond was really paste. She'd had to be so tough and self-reliant, so strong, all her young life. She wanted Martin to be someone she could lean on, who would be strong for her, and a part of her knew already he would never be that man.
But he was her husband, and she loved him, didn't she? I do love Martin, she told herself fiercely, trying to banish the unwelcome feelings of disappointment. I love him. I do, I do, I do . . .
"Martin ..." she said tentatively, still unable to look at him. "I think you begin by undressing me."
She had dressed very formally for her wedding, in a gown with stays built into the bodice and a heavily embroidered stomacher fastened to the front of it. It was stiff and heavy, like an armored breastplate. He laughed nervously, saying it seemed an impossible puzzle to get her out of it as he fumbled with the hooks and laces.
But finally the gown was gone, tossed over the end of the bed. Her petticoats followed, much easier, and the wire pannier hoop that stiffened her skirts. More armor, she thought with an inward smile. She reached down herself and pulled the chemise over her head, letting it fall to the floor from the outstretched tips of her fingers. She stood before him, naked but for her shoes and stockings.
His face became transformed; a strange light flared in his eyes and his breathing quickened. The way he now looked at her made her feel suddenly shy and embarrassed. She tried to cover herself with her hands, and the sapphire stone of the ring he had given her winked like a blue flame against her skin as it caught the candlelight.
"Oh, God." His voice cracked. "You are so beautiful."
He reached out and tentatively stroked one breast. Her skin began to quiver at his touch. The muscles in her belly tightened and she felt a strange ache deep inside her. "They're too small," she said, worried about this major flaw, worried that she would displease him.
"No . . ." He rubbed his palm over her nipple and she felt it tighten, harden, and the strange ache intensified until she had to clench her teeth to keep from moaning aloud. "They're not too small," he said as he cupped both her breasts now in his palms, although now she could barely hear him, for her blood was pumping so hard, pounding in her ears. "They're just right."
Instinctively she looked down and saw that he had hardened as well, for there was a prominent ridge at his groin outlined by his clinging satin breeches. A frisson of excitement, of anticipation, rippled through her.
"Martin ..." She swayed into him.
He gathered her into his arms, but gingerly as if he were trying to embrace a cloud, as if he were afraid suddenly of his own strength, afraid that he might hurt her. Unknowingly she rubbed her stomach against his, wanting something, needing something, but not sure what it was.
A kiss . . . She yearned for him to kiss her, and she turned her face up, putting her lips to his.
They had kissed before, but this was different. This time he ground his lips hard against hers and pushed his tongue between her teeth. Surprised, she stiffened, and he started to break the kiss and pull away. "No . . ." she protested, and pressed her palm to the back of his head, holding his mouth within reach of hers.
Tentatively she thrust her own tongue through his lips. The inside of his mouth was soft, slick. This is wonderful, she thought, as the kiss deepened and the sensations of sexual hunger and desire coursed through her. Absolutely wonderful.
Her hands moved restlessly over his arms, his shoulders, across his back, feeling, seeking. She pulled her mouth free of his. "Your coat," she whispered. "I want to touch you. Take off your coat.''
He almost ripped the seams in his hurry to get it off. Laughing, pleased with herself because she was exciting him, she helped him with his shirt, easing it slowly down over his shoulders, her hands tracing the contours of the muscles in his arms. She pressed her lips on his collarbone, ran her palms across his bare chest, his breasts. His nipples, too, were hard.
Her hands drifted lower, toward the straining bulge in his tight breeches. She touched it with the tips of her fingers.
He jerked back, as if her touch was a lick of fire.
She looked up at him, a question on her face. "Martin?"
A funny, strangling sound erupted from his throat. He crushed her hard against him, knocking the breath out of her. He covered her face and throat with kisses while she pushed against him, gasping, trying to suck air into her lungs. He kneaded her breasts roughly with his fingers, hurting her now. In her struggles to get free, to get air, she rubbed her pelvis against the hard bulge between his legs.
Groaning, he fell onto the bed, bringing her down with him, rolling her over onto her back. Frightened now, she pushed against his chest. But he had her pinned down with his shoulder, pressing into her lungs. "Please, Martin," she gasped. "I can't breathe ..."
He didn't seem to hear her. He wrenched at the buttons of his breeches, freeing himself, and heaved a shuddering sigh. She got a brief glimpse of his male member rising up out of the nest of hair between his legs. She felt a confusion of emotions. She was frightened yet drawn to what she saw, both at the same time. She wanted to touch it, to close her hand around its length and feel its hardness, but she didn't dare.
When he pressed his knees against her thighs, trying to spread her legs, she instinctively opened them for him. He jabbed at her several times with his erection, but he kept missing. So he explored her with his fingers until he found her opening. She gasped, almost screaming with the exquisite shock of his fingers pressing into her.
She shuddered and arched her back. "Oh, Martin ..."
"Gabrielle, I want you," he panted harshly against her face. "I have to—"
He thrust into her. She cried out as she felt something tear inside her, and her legs stiffened, scissoring together. He thrust into her once more, harder, and then he went suddenly limp.
He fell in a dead weight on top of her, his breath coming in harsh gasps. Dazed, she lay inert beneath him, and after a moment he rolled off her, sitting up.
She felt a wetness on her thighs. She pushed herself up on her elbows. There was blood between her legs and on the counterpane, and there was a strange, hollow feeling inside of her. She felt an odd and terrible loneliness, and out of nowhere tears rose up to fill her eyes.
Slowly she turned her head and looked at him. She saw shock on his face, and guilt. And then, to her surprise, his shoulders shook and he began to cry.
"I'm sorry," he said, muffling the words as he buried his head in his hands. "Oh, God, Gabrielle, I've hurt you."
"It's . . . it's all right, Martin," she said. And then she actually smiled, for she knew it probably would be all right. She would make it all right.
He shook his head wildly back and forth. "No. I hurt you."
"It's all right."
He took her hand; his own was trembling. When she didn't pull away, he brought her hand to his lips. He stretched out beside her, and after a moment she turned into him so that she was encircled by his arms.
"Oh, God, Gabrielle, I've hurt you." His voice caught. "I love you so much and I've hurt you." He stroked her hair. "Don't be afraid of me. I couldn't bear it if I thought you were afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid of you," she said. Although her body felt pummeled and she ached between her legs, she wasn't afraid of him. Her maman had warned her the first time could be painful and awkward. "He's
such a babe," Marie-Rose had said. "If he's had any experience at all, it's been with the wrong sort of woman. You must teach him to be gentle, ma petite."
"I'll never touch you again," Martin vowed fervently, and Gabrielle knew that he honestly believed in that moment that he wouldn't. But she also knew that in time his need would overcome his guilt and he would take her again, as was his right, for he was her husband. And she remembered how wonderful it had felt at the beginning, when he had touched her breasts and kissed her.
She brought his hand to her breast. "Touch me now, Martin. Gently."
❧
He died in the spring.
The doctor said it was a flux of the blood. The surgeon was summoned to bleed and purge him. The doctor prescribed a quinine treatment, but the treatment was expensive. Marie-Rose, looking at Gabrielle's white, pinched face, said she would take her ruby earrings to the jewelers on the Rue . Venddme to see what price she could get for them.
They had no money. No one, certainly not Martin, had fully anticipated the extent of the duc de Nevers's wrath. They lived with Marie-Rose in the hotel on the Rue de Gre-nelle, but no one came any longer to the salon, and the dunning shopkeepers were no longer so easily put off. The bourgeois businessman who owned the house delivered an eviction notice. The furniture, the china and crystal, the paintings began to disappear, first in dribbles and then in a steady stream, to the creditors and the pawnshops.
The servants and lackeys had been the first to go. "Rats deserting a sinking ship," Marie-Rose had said with a sneer. It was the same sneer Sebastien had often given to the man who patrolled the deck with his bullwhip.
The duc de Nevers entered petitions with the church in Rome and with the courts in Paris to have the marriage dissolved. But the Vatican and the courts were slow, and Martin died first.
Gabrielle sat in the twilight shadows afterward, holding his hand long after his flesh had cooled. Her face was white, her lips bloodless, her eyes gritty and dry. She hurt too deeply to cry.
She ignored the knock on the door. The house was empty; her mother had gone to sell the last of her jewelry to buy the quinine which was no longer needed. She didn't hear the step on the stairs until the man entered the room.
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