Affaire de Coeur

by Stephanie O’Hanlon

  “Are you not busy enough with the Chevalier?” I asked, looking at my food.

  “Are you implying I cannot do two things at once? Oh please, Maddy. I could get myself two men and still have time to find one for you.”

  A servant walked up to Colette, bowing his head as he held out a silver tray with a letter on it. She wiped her mouth with her napkin delicately, took the letter, and waved her hand to dismiss the servant.

  “Who is it from?” I eyed the soup down the way, motioning for one of the servants behind me to get me a bowl. Colette scolded me in the past for trying to dish things out myself. I wished not to repeat it, again. That is what the servants are for.

  Colette smiled. “Vachel!” She began reading it over, her smile fading. “Ugh. Not again.”

  I looked up from my bowl as she read the letter over, her green eyes quickly scanning the page. “What?”

  “He wishes me to visit upon him this evening instead of the other way around. This is the third time he has wanted me to visit upon him at his estate this week when he promised to come see me here. He knows how much trouble maman makes when I want to go out without a chaperone.” She put the letter down. The servant who brought it ran up behind her and grabbed it, putting it back on the tray.

  “Why can he not come here?” I asked, dipping my spoon into the soup.

  She sighed angrily. “Because he does not feel like it. It is such a long way to come see me. It is just as far for me to travel to him!” She looked down to her plate, pushing it away. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  The handle of my spoon rested on the edge of the little porcelain bowl. “Are you going to go?”

  She sat back, crossing her arms, obviously annoyed. “Of course! I want to see him. One of us has to make the effort. It seems it will have to be me, again.” Her eyes went from the plate in front of her to me. “What will you do this evening?”

  I grabbed my spoon, bringing a piping hot spoonful of the soup to my lips. “Probably read. Maybe write to Pa-pa. I will be staying in my room. That is for sure. I do not wish to hear your parents squabbling.”

  Colette sighed, again. “I forgot that I would be leaving you here alone with them, again. This is why Vachel should come here! I could stay—”

  I shook my head. “No, no. You go ahead. I don’t mind catching up on my reading or perhaps going to bed early. After all, when you arrive back, you will wake me and want to tell me all about it.”

  She smiled lightly. “Yes.”

  I knew what went on when Colette had her visits with Vachel, though it was not always like that. She was not always as…promiscuous. Though, that never stopped her from gushing on about the various details of the encounters.

  She was a lot quieter when she first met Vachel. In fact, I was the one who used to cause all the scandal with our conversations—my mind wild and imaginative. Love, men, and sex were always my favorite topics, as well as the reaction of shock for such topics. I distinctly remember how she used to blush at one word of a sexual nature, though, that is what is expected of a young lady.

  She met Vachel when she was just sixteen. She invited me to stay with her at her home for a week. Her parents were away in the country on business, with only Colette’s older cousin Leopold as our chaperone. We decided that we were bored, venturing into town and walking about until we ran into Vachel—an apparent admirer of Colette’s who invited her to a play the following night. She was somewhat excited though hesitant; Vachel was not really her “type”. In reality, she didn’t have a type of gentleman she preferred. She liked different people for different reasons.

  That was the beginning of it. She was happy, seemingly content, and they had been a little bit of an item. She even lost her virginity to him—something she never regretted. They broke though. That one passionate evening woke Colette, stirred something inside of her which caused her to start on reckless behaviors. She began going to parties, drinking excessively, and entertaining a gentleman she had no interest in other than carnal pleasures.

  It was soon after that, through the influence of her mother, she decided to give Vachel another chance. They were quite steady for a while. This, of course, started rifts between Colette and I. I did not like the Chevalier.

  They broke another two or three times after that. Colette found other partners to itch that scratch she would inevitably have after not seeing Vachel for any amount of time. Though, they always found each other, again—one way or another. I was quite sure that she loved him, and she would always love him. Is that not how our first loves are? Difficult to release and even more difficult to forget? Not that I knew anything of first love, only what I heard and what seemed so painfully obvious to me about Colette and her situation.

  Recently, she was getting very tired of him and his antics. She was tired of trying and feeling as if he only used her for her body and stature.

  I could not wait for the day when the Chevalier was nothing but a distant memory, but I knew that it was something that would possibly never come. She loved him far too much.

  Chapter Two

  Colette left close to seven in the evening. Her mother caused an uproar at the thought of her daughter going out and visiting upon her gentleman, especially without a chaperone. Colette yelled and screamed back, turning her back on her mother and going out the door without another word.

  We are both nearly twenty. Perhaps the fact that we did not have husbands added to the pressure they felt, so they demanded propriety. Most girls were just fourteen when they were married off, switching quickly from being called “Mademoiselle” to “Madame”, with a title firmly in place and a man on their arm.

  I was not expected to marry at such a young age. Colette was, being an only child and daughter of an aristocrat. Having a favorable marriage added security.

  I stood at the doorway of the stateroom, which led out to the foyer, and watched as Colette slammed the door. Her mother groaned angrily. Turning and seeing me, she stopped in her tracks. “Can you not get her to listen to even one word of reason?”

  I swallowed hard, looking down to the floor.

  “I thought not,” she spat, stalking off.

  What a frightening woman.

  My gown swished as I turned back into the stateroom, standing in the middle of it and looking around. The stateroom was really only used for showing off what the Du Lorme’s owned and led off to the hallway and into the other half of the house. I couldn’t help but admire the Du Lorme home. My home was not nearly as beautiful.

  The Du Lorme estate was much like a palace—a large, sparkling castle that the great Marquis du Lorme had spent a hefty sum of money to restore and alter at the shrill request of his wife nearly twenty-five years ago.

  Lining the long path up to the estate were slim oaks that towered up but fanned out disappointingly. Their leaves were often strewn about on the ground, no matter if it was spring or fall. This did not change the fact that the view from the end of the path was quite beautiful, almost serene, like it was the gateway to another world. This long path led to the front garden of the home, an equally as beautiful area as the back garden, which of course led off to the hedge maze and forest.

  To say that the Marquise loves statues would be quite the understatement. She had them everywhere: inside the home, outside the home, on the grounds. Beside the front garden’s large circular fountain were ten eclectic Greek statues—the forms of gods and goddesses in tragic, romantic poses.

  The fountain itself had two glittering nymphs lounging and bathing themselves in the water as large, floppy lily pads floated on top of the water. The occasional petal from the blossoms that blew about from the orchard mixed in with them. Little, rectangular hedges zigged and zagged about in little designs and were only visible from one of the balconies. They were still lovely, nonetheless.

  When facing the front of the house, it was divided into three sections. The middle section was a large, two-story spectacle—which itself was divided into three sections—a triangular
pediment, and swirling filigree molding topping it off. Statues lined the flat, straight edges of the roof that had decorative railings also lining it. All the second floor windows had little balconies. There were seven in total, if you included the large one in the middle.

  The two other sections of the grand home on either side of the middle were only one story and lined with three windows each. To one’s left was the Du Lorme’s own Hall of Mirrors. It was an extremely wide and light room with mirrors in between each of the windows and lining the opposite wall, much like that of Louis XIV’s in Versailles. Of course, there were paintings, gilded trim, and little decorative statues of cherubs that all seemingly fluttered about.

  The Petit Galerie des Glaces—Little Hall of Mirrors, as we called it—led off to the ballroom, another attraction that was oval-shaped and really five smaller rooms combined. There was heavy gilding on the walls, the ceiling was painted with a mural of more gods and goddesses, as well as more mirrors and delicate armchairs lining the walls.

  The ground floor salon was attached to ballroom, both having separate doors leading out to the stone terrace with several steps down into the back garden. Of course, this was where the Marquis’s pride and joy resided; the stone fountain he had specially built for nearly 450,000 livres. He never missed an opportunity to show it off and “dazzle” people with his story of its construction. It was a tale that most agreed made you wish you could rip your own hair out from boredom. It would at least give you something to do.

  Moving east of the fountain brought you to the hedge maze, stables, and some forest, north to the larger forest surrounding the area, and west to the orchard.

  When one comes to the Du Lorme estate, they are not often quite so lucky to be out among the beauty of the gardens and the Marquise’s statues. Inside the home was just as marvelous and just as spectacular as the outside. Though, it was always where the Marquis and his wife were roomed, and they were the people you so wished to avoid more than anything.

  When one enters the spacious foyer, to the left was the stateroom. It was filled with priceless art and little ornaments—anything that would have a person gushing over and complimenting their hosts with envy. That led to the Petit Galerie des Glaces, ballroom, and salon.

  Off from the salon was the dining room, which led back out into the foyer. The music room was behind it and a large staircase.

  To the right of the foyer were the Marquis’s office and library and a little bedchamber that was sometimes used for guests. The Marquis also used it when he did not wish to venture upstairs to his wife, which was often.

  Beside that was the domed chapel, which the Abbé would visit three times a week and take confessions in as well as tutor Colette in history. The kitchen was on the other side of the chapel, as well as the servant’s quarters and servant’s entrance—a long tomb-like hallway that led out to the back garden, stables, and hedge maze.

  That was just the ground floor.

  When one went up the grand staircase, to the right was my own bedchamber for my stay. It was very large, almost the size of both my father’s and my own bedchamber combined in my own home. It had the best view of the fountain and back garden, which I enjoyed.

  To the right of my corner bedchamber was a little, private boudoir that was only accessible by my bedchamber and the room on the other side of it, which was Colette’s bedchamber. On the other side of Colette’s bedchamber was the water closet and a room meant for keeping all of her trousseau and mine for my stay.

  To the left of the staircase was a hallway that led to the Marquis’s bedroom, their rarely used private dining room, and the Marquise’s bedchamber and private sitting room. She preferred to call it a sitting room, though when she was a young lady, it was her boudoir.

  Straight ahead from the staircase was the parlor, the little mid-section of the house with three balconies—one large set with little ones on either side.

  On the right side of it was an extra bedchamber, on the left the games room, and directly across from the games room was another bedchamber, and yet another down the hall from that. They had all the room in the world for a large family, at least the one they had hoped for, but Colette was their only child.

  The home was a palace. A large, sparkling jewel box filled with priceless family heirlooms, antiques, paintings, and sculptures. Fresh flowers were always laid out, all the giant chandeliers throughout the house lit, as well as the thousands of other candles that were lit daily everywhere else in the home and only used once.

  My own home was not as glamorous…though, it was not unfortunate. Two stories, a square-shaped building that had a dining room, salon, and study for my father on the ground level and three bedchambers, including my bedchamber, on the upper level. It was not as lavish; it did not have any fountains or statues, any priceless paintings, or anything of that sort. It sat on farmland that my father paid some men to work and oversee while he was away doing his business, which was importing and exporting spices for his shop in town.

  The one thing that our little house had in common with the Du Lorme home was a little garden, which Colette’s grandmother often tended. She was usually the only person besides Colette who spent any time with me. Colette’s grandmother, her mother’s mother, was a funny little old lady from Austria who moved to France when she was a little girl. I was quite sure that she had a fortune piled somewhere, as she always had money to spend, especially when Colette came to visit.

  Her home was a little hameau house, though she lived on the next piece of land over from us. It was just a short mile or so walk that this little sixty-year-old woman journeyed nearly every day. I was quite sure that her little old mind was slipping away, but that didn’t detract from her being a pleasant, caring woman.

  I had to admit that it was quite a shock to be moved from such a quaint country life into the booming social circus that is Paris. In fact, I usually stayed with Colette’s grandmother when my father went out on his business. The length of his trip this time around—three months—was far too long for me to be left alone. So, I packed up my limited trousseau and what little effects I had and made my way to the Du Lorme estate, where I had been for around two weeks.

  Colette was ecstatic at the thought of a stay for such a length of time. Of course, that length could be shortened if my father made his fortune quickly or lengthened if business was not at its best. I, of course, understood this. Although I missed my father immensely, one must learn to stand on their own. Mustn’t they?

  Nearly as soon as I walked in the door, Colette quickly gave me her old gowns from her ever-growing trousseau. The gowns were not in style anymore, or she had worn on more than one occasion. I had been to a few of Colette’s parties before my arrival, usually balls or masques, which were the most fun, and even a gambling party. I had to admit though that I disliked everyone drinking so heavily and the waste of money.

  Soon, it was the talk of the town that wherever Colette Du Lorme went, Madeleine Dumont was sure to follow, as if I was a little dog that was led everywhere by her, complete with a diamond collar and lead.

  Sure to follow.

  Why did that bother me so much? I had to admit, it did bother me, and I did not like the sound of it.

  Those people who made such comments? All of them were Colette’s “friends” in society, of which I had only met a handful. They usually ignored me. I was a poor little country girl, not of the right station or even the right family. Why bother wasting thought on me?

  At least they could not complain of my appearance. I followed their little rules. A certain style was not to be worn on more than several occasions. Jewelry was an exception from this rule, as long as it matched whatever gown you were wearing.

  Ladies in their robe à la Française’s were not to walk—they glide. Many took rigorous lessons from dance teachers to master the technique. I, thankfully, was told I was already graceful and could glide amongst the best, much like Colette.

  An aristocratic lady was expected to follo
w fashion, have a carriage, and entertain in style, even if that meant going bankrupt in the process. You were to greet a person distractedly, ask questions while looking the other way and speak in a loud voice.

  All the rules seemed ridiculous to me, but I followed them and kept quiet, not drawing any attention to myself. That was what I was good at—being invisible. No one really noticed me. I was always in the shadows, always watching and observing, and the things I heard from just observing!

  Paris was a scandalous place, a place that I enjoyed visiting, nonetheless. Going to little gatherings, such as the l’Opéra, the symphony, or the Comedie Française. Though, I had never been to the court performances of such events. Those were reserved for the highest in favor with the King or with the most money, which, when one thinks about it, are really one in the same.

  My eyes swept around the stateroom, to the large painting of Colette’s great-grandfather above the mantle. He stood in his military uniform with one hand on his hip and sword drawn, holding it pointed down. He wore an older style wig on his head. Colette disliked this portrait; she always complained that he was staring into her for whatever reason.

  On the left of it was a portrait of her great-grandmother and to the right both her grandparents and their children. The gilded frames sat against the creamy ivory color of the walls, the decorative molding in little leaf and floral patterns stretching up to the fourteen-foot high ceiling, little silver and gold accents on each individual flower or leaf shimmering in the candlelight.

  Below the rest of the paintings was a little table with an eccentric, gilded clock. A figure of Venus lounged in her Roman robes, a plume sticking out of her hat as she leaned against the clock face. Two little cherubs rested on the other side, pointing to her and seeming to smile.

  The whole room was lit by dozens of candles, either in their filigree holders on the walls or candlesticks on the tables, warming the big pots of colored flowers beside them. It was then that I noticed the blue marble top on the little tables matched the large rug on the floor. It was a small detail I was surprised I had missed. Wasn’t I always so painfully observant?