Love and Honor

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Love and Honor Page 7

by Harry Samkange


  “Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire?” someone called out to her as she passed one of the sitting rooms for guests. She turned around abruptly, startled by the unfamiliar voice.

  “Monsieur de Marbéville!” Sérolène exclaimed, curtseying deeply in surprise at the sight of Julienne’s intended.

  “I’m sorry to have come upon you unawares, Mademoiselle. I came to pay a call on Julienne and was shown into the parlor to wait for her. I saw you pass along the hallway and decided to say hello. I hope you don’t mind? Now that I’m to marry your dear cousine I should hope you would consider me as a brother to you. Might I escort you to the salon de compagnie? I should very much enjoy your company while I wait for dear Julienne,” Francis said, offering Sérolène his arm.

  “Thank you, Monsieur,” Sérolène replied readily, intent upon devising a means to put the surprise visit of the comte to good use. When they reached the salon, he guided her to a seat, but to his surprise she remained standing, quickly turning away from him and reaching into the folds of her gown. When she turned back toward him, she held a small envelope in her hands.

  “Please, Monsieur, I beg of you. Would you give this letter in confidence to Nicolas? I know it’s dreadfully forward of me to ask, but he assured me he trusts no one more than you, and I fear you are my only hope to get a message to him,” she said breathlessly, holding out the letter plaintively toward Francis. The sound of approaching footsteps rendered her plight, and the need of Francis to decide, ever more urgent.

  “Please Monsieur, I beseech you as a brother. You are my only hope!” she whispered desperately, reminding him of his earlier pronouncement.

  “I shall do it. But we shall speak later of this matter,” he agreed, trapped by his own words. Reaching out to secure the letter, he tucked it safely inside his waistcoat just as Julienne entered the room.

  “My dear Francis, what a pleasant surprise!” Julienne said warmly, her eyes guardedly measuring the proximity of her cousine to her betrothed before she strode eagerly forward to receive the comte’s warm greeting.

  “How radiant you look, my dearest. I’m sorry to have disturbed you, but I wished to inform you of the arrangements being made surrounding the signing of the wedding contract and other matters pertinent to us,” Francis explained. Julienne looked across at Sérolène, who remained standing near the two of them, signaling with her eyes that her cousine needn’t stay with them.

  “Oh! I’m sorry I should go and practice my lessons on the piano…or harp. Good day, Monsieur de Marbéville,” Sérolène said nervously, casting a last hopeful glance toward Francis before scampering out of the room.

  “Well, I wonder what’s gotten into her? Her behavior seemed most curious,” Julienne said, taking Francis by the hand and leading him to a comfortable marquise, where she coaxed him to sit with her.

  “I suppose the fault must be mine. I take it she is not often in the company of gentlemen,” Francis said.

  “Lena? Why, of course not. She is not yet fifteen and the greater part of her experience and education has been acquired behind the walls of the convent. It’s only in the last year that Papa has allowed her to be out more in general society,” Julienne replied.

  “Have any plans been made for her as of yet?” Francis asked.

  “I think she is still rather young for such considerations, though I suppose they are not far off. But as of now she is decidedly unattached,” Julienne said, wondering why so much attention was being paid to her cousine. Francis could tell from Julienne’s particular manner of scrutiny that he had perhaps already spoken too much of the vicomtesse to suit his future bride. Time to put the hounds off the scent, he cautioned himself.

  “Well, my dear sweet Julienne. When last I was here some days ago, you begged the favor of a kiss as the first of many gifts to be shared between us. Might I be so bold, Mademoiselle, as to request of you the reciprocal favor, for since we last parted from each other my mind has been wholly and unendingly filled with tender reflections of you,” Francis said sweetly. Julienne was delighted by his boldness, though she knew that to accede to his request bordered on the improper, despite their engagement.

  “You have missed me, Monsieur? Truly?” she said coquettishly, lowering both her voice and the direction of her glance.

  “I have indeed, Mademoiselle. In time I shall give you more suitable proofs of the true size of my esteem,” he replied, adjusting his legs to emphasize the point of his double entendre, which caused her to laugh, a sound he found delightful. He leaned in toward her, running his fingers lightly across the top of her gown to gently caress her neck and cheek.

  “But for now, a single kiss must suffice. If you should find it meet to indulge me…” The rest of his words were swallowed up by her mouth upon his, their lips and then their tongues finding each other in a delicate sweet ballet that both were eager to begin.

  “Oh, sweet Francis. How long must it be until we are married?” Julienne said, at last coming up for air.

  “Ah. Thank you for reminding me of the purpose of my call, though it pales in comparison to the receipt of such sweet favors,” Francis said. Julienne took his hand, leaning her head on his shoulder, content to remain close to him in silence.

  “It is the preference of my family that the principal ceremony of the wedding be held in Paris to ensure the attendance of the important members of the court that my father wishes to be present. The actual signing of the marriage contract, however, shall take place here and no later than the end of the year,” Francis said.

  “But that’s almost three months away!” Julienne pouted.

  “I know, my dearest, but I assure you the time will pass quickly enough,” Francis said.

  “I don’t know if I can wait that long, dear Francis. I know I must remain chaste until we are married, but when you kiss me so sweetly, I feel rather less inclined to be so resolved,” she confessed.

  “I promise I shall do all that I can to hurry things along, all right?” he asked. Julienne nodded.

  “Francis, may I ask you something?” she began hesitantly.

  “Of course my dearest. You are to be my wife. We must confide in each other in all things,” he said. She nodded, taking courage from his declaration.

  “Is it true, the terrible things Maman says about Madame de Blaise and your brother?” Julienne blurted out. Francis bristled at once and she sat up defensively to explain herself.

  “It’s not that I think the same as she, I assure you. I just -- well, I’ve been told only one side of things. If I’m to be your wife I must know the truth, so that I may properly defend your interests as my own,” she declared, hoping that he understood. He sighed deeply.

  “I suppose your question is a fair one, and in truth, the best answer is to visit our estate and become better acquainted with them both, so that you may come to your own conclusions, though I have no doubt you will in the end see things as I do. I do not know what Madame de Salvagnac had or has to say of Madame de Blaise and Nicolas. All I can tell you is what I know and what I have experienced and felt,” he said. She nodded her understanding, kissing the back of his hand to coax him to continue.

  “With regard to Nicolas, the answer is quite simple. He is the best of brothers and the best of men. The more you come to know him, the more you shall see the truth of my words yourself. If he has a fault, it is that his sense of honor runs so deeply and so strong, that at times it blinds him to anything else,” Francis said.

  “As for Madame de Blaise, I was eight years old when I lost my mother to yellow fever. For two years following her death I was the most miserable and introspective of souls. When my father met my future step-mother, I of course resented it deeply at first, but from the beginning she was unwavering in her determination to be a mother to me despite my resolve to resist her,” Francis explained, sweeping the cobwebs of time from his memory layer by layer as he began to recall the often bitter days of his youth.

  “Did you know that my brother was born in the middl
e of a hurricane?” he asked. Julienne shook her head.

  “The Devil’s Storm of 1765. He almost died and so did Madame de Blaise, and it was my fault. My father was away at the time on Martinique and Madame de Blaise wanted to send me further inland from the Cap to avoid the worst of the storm. I refused to go, and ordered my valet to have the carriage take me to our house in town where I was determined to ride the tempest out on my own. The storm came and struck the Cap directly with such force that the shutters were blown off and the whole place shook to its roots. I cowered in a closet, certain that the entire house would collapse in upon me,” Francis said.

  “You must have been so frightened!” Julienne exclaimed, seeing the truth of it in his eyes as he recalled what had occurred.

  “I was both terrified and appalled at my own stupidity. Too young to know what a force a real hurricane was, too stubborn to leave and seek help. But when things were darkest, when even the light of the sun was blotted out by the hellish black clouds and all I could hear was the roar of the wind like the sound of some great terrible beast, I heard the cries of Madame de Blaise calling my name -- calling out for me. I got up from where I was hiding and ran out to her. It was the first and only time I called her Maman,” Francis said softly.

  “I’ll never forget the sight of her, her clothes torn from braving the tempest, her arms bleeding from the many cuts she had taken from branches and other debris tossed up by the powerful gusts, her belly full to bursting with the child she carried. She had everything to gain from letting me die in that place, but instead of leaving me to my fate, she risked her own life and that of her unborn child to rescue me from my own foolishness. She gave birth to Nicolas not five minutes later than she found me, squatting in the wine cellar to which refuge we fled as the storm passed directly over us. I remember his first cries as he entered the world, helped swaddle him as we all lay huddled together, a single lamp providing the only light we had. I felt so ashamed at what I’d done, knew how angry my father would be with me when he found out, but she pulled me close to her, even as she held my newborn brother in her other arm, calling me her dear Francis and smothering me with kisses more precious to my heart than gold. It was then that I remembered the true meaning of a mother’s love: of beauty, of honor, of truth,” Francis said, his eyes moist with emotion.

  “Was Monsieur de Blaise very cross with you?” Julienne asked softly. Francis shook his head.

  “He would have been if he had found out, but she never told my father the actuality of what occurred that day, only that she had gone out to check on her father and the carriage had gotten stranded in the storm and she had been forced to take refuge in the Cap. Her own father was killed that same day as my brother came into the world; his house collapsed on him less than a league from where we had taken shelter. I always feared that perhaps she would hold me in some way responsible, but she merely turned it round and said I’d saved her and my brother from sharing the same fate. There’s much more, of course -- but that, Mademoiselle, is all you really need know of the character of Madame la Marquise de Blaise,” Francis said with finality. Julienne put her arms around him, embracing him tightly.

  “I promise you, Francis, that I will learn to love her as dearly as you do -- and Nicolas too,” she said earnestly, deeply touched at how much of his true heart he had revealed to her.

  “I thank you for your assurances, my dear friend. I promise you will not regret it,” he assured her. Oh, how I do hope you are right, Julienne said to herself, praying that her growing admiration for Francis would give her the courage to stay faithful to her promise.

  **

  “What about this one? Do you like the pink ribbon or the yellow one?” Éléonore asked, delightedly trying on hat after hat as she amused herself in the most fashionable dress shop in Cap François.

  “Yellow. It suits you better, Elli,” Sérolène replied, not enjoying their outing nearly as much as her young cousine. Though the prospect of coming into town to shop would normally have been something Sérolène eagerly looked forward to, she was on this occasion, in an unusually reserved mood, despite Éléonore’s attempts to draw her into their usual games of dress-up and play, using the many spools of expensive fabric as their props.

  “What’s the matter, Lena? Don’t you want to try anything on?” Éléonore asked.

  “No, Elli, but you go ahead. I’ll watch you, how’s that?” Sérolène said, putting on her best smile as she watched Éléonore occupy at least three shop attendants who were eager, because of the rank and buying power of their young shoppers, to cater to their every whim. Their governess, Madame Tarnaut, watched over them both from her perch in the corner of the shop.

  “Come sit with me, Mademoiselle. You can well observe young Éléonore from this vantage point,” Madame Tarnaut prompted. Sérolène nodded obediently, crossing the room to sit next to her governess, giving Madame Tarnaut a half smile as she tried her best to appear more cheerful than she felt. Madame Tarnaut, however, was not fooled, knowing from long association that something was amiss with her charge.

  Nearly forty years old with no children of her own, Adorée Hélène Tarnaut had spent more than half her life in the convent, first as a pupil and then as a lay sister before deciding that she preferred to make the education of young girls outside, rather than inside the walls of the convent, her life’s work. She had known Sérolène since shortly after her birth, when she had been engaged by the late Vicomte and Vicomtesse de La Bouhaire to care for their only child. She had shared much laughter and sadness with the vicomtesse, particularly following the tragic early death of Sérolène’s parents. As she watched Sérolène and Éléonore amuse themselves, Madame Tarnaut reflected wistfully that these two young girls were the closest experience to children of her own that she would ever have.

  “What ails you, my dear child? That long face is hardly the visage of the happy girl I’ve been accustomed to seeing,” Madame Tarnaut prompted.

  “It’s nothing, Madame, nothing at all really,” Sérolène replied unconvincingly.

  “Well, it must be a very big nothing to have such a melancholy effect upon you. Might I ask if it had anything to do with Madame de Salvagnac’s inquisition of you some days ago following the visit of Monsieur de Marbéville?” Madame Tarnaut asked.

  “You heard the conversation with my aunt, Madame?” Sérolène asked in surprise.

  “When one has spent as much time as I have in the quietude of the convent, one develops very good habits of hearing. Yes, my dear, I overheard,” Madame Tarnaut said with a bemused smile.

  “I don’t understand why my aunt displayed such choler with me, Madame. After all, wasn’t it she who said we should be on our best behavior for our guests? What did she observe of my conduct with Monsieur d’Argentolle to merit such stern pronouncements as she took against me?” Sérolène asked, her eyes pleading for a sympathetic hearing.

  “Perhaps it was not your comportment she was concerned with, but that of Monsieur d’Argentolle?” Madame Tarnaut suggested

  “But why, Madame? He seemed the perfect gentleman to me, both in his manners and his actions. I don’t understand why my aunt should adopt such a fervent dislike for him, particularly when he is soon to be her own nephew by marriage,” Sérolène reasoned.

  Madame Tarnaut noted the heat with which Sérolène had responded in defense of the chevalier, behavior not at all in usual character for the vicomtesse. For the first time, she began to consider if perhaps Madame de Salvagnac had been right in cautioning her niece against the company of the handsome but tainted young man.

  “May I ask what you know of Monsieur d’Argentolle’s background?” Madame Tarnaut asked as Éléonore had another roll of fabric brought to her so that she could inspect it.

  “I know that he is the son of the Marquis de Blaise…and Madame de Blaise,” Sérolène said.

  “And what do you know of Madame de Blaise?” Madame Tarnaut asked.

  “Do we speak now of truth, Madame, or sla
nder and innuendo? For of the former I know but very little, and of the latter much more than I believe I should care to know,” Sérolène replied.

  “We speak of a mixture of both, Mademoiselle, for that is the nature and the fact of reputation. Regardless of whatever fine qualities Madame de Blaise might possess, the single most important one from the point of view of decent society is the one that she does not,” Madame Tarnaut lectured her young pupil.

  “And what is that, Madame?” Sérolène said, straining to keep her annoyance in check.

  “A white mother,” Madame Tarnaut said with finality.

  “Her father was from a noble Norwegian house…” Sérolène began.

  “But who was her mother? From what noble tree did her ancestors descend? Perhaps she cannot or will not say, but despite her silence, the purity or corruption in one’s blood comes through in appearance, no matter how subtle,” Madame Tarnaut pressed on, noting that Sérolène apparently knew more about the marquise than she had originally admitted. Her stern regard challenged Sérolène to contradict her. The vicomtesse, however, remained dutifully silent.

 

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