Love and Honor

by Harry Samkange

  “I thank you for stopping,” Nicolas said politely, addressing the driver first as he noticed the coach carried a female passenger.

  “I’m Nicolas de Montferraud, Chevalier d’Argentolle. I became stranded in the storm with my cousine, Mademoiselle la Vicomtesse de La Bouhaire. She’s up the hill sheltering in a shed to avoid the storm. Would your mistress be so kind as to convey the vicomtesse back to our estate in your carriage?” Nicolas asked.

  The black driver dismounted, walking around to the other side of the carriage to explain the situation to his mistress. Nicolas bowed to her in greeting. She stared at him curiously as if she knew him, though his salutation was not in any way returned or even acknowledged. So much for my vaunted celebrity, Nicolas mused to himself.

  “Mount up, Monsieur,” the driver motioned to Nicolas as he returned from speaking with his mistress. Nicolas noted to himself that she had refused to offer him a seat inside the coach despite his explanation of who he was and the sword hanging from his left hip which denoted his rank as a gentleman. He filed the slight away, focusing for the moment on the welfare of the vicomtesse, which trumped all other concerns. Hauling himself up with help from the driver, he pointed to the direction from which he had come as the driver turned the pair of old and shabby horses around, driving off in the direction of the shed. Though Nicolas tried his best to remain calm, he still felt a pang of agitation at having left Sérolène alone, knowing that his honor made him completely responsible for her safety. They rode slowly past the lightning strike, the tree still burning despite the rain.

  “Lucky for that, otherwise I wouldn’t have seen you,” the driver said. Nicolas nodded, trying to look undisturbed, but the weather and his exertions were beginning to take a visible toll on him.

  “May I ask the name of your mistress?” Nicolas inquired politely.

  “Madame Dupluie,” the driver said.

  “How fitting that she fears not the element whose name she takes,” Nicolas quipped. The driver laughed.

  “Straight up the hill,” Nicolas directed, noting that Madame Dupluie travelled without a footman or any other type of escort.

  “You see that slight rise over there; the shed is just behind it. Please hurry. My cousine has only me for her protection,” Nicolas said. The driver nodded, taking visual stock of Nicolas.

  “You the one that saved them ladies back in town?” the driver asked.

  “Yes,” Nicolas said matter of factly.

  “I was there. Damnedest thing I ever saw. Beg pardon, Monsieur,” the driver said, tipping his hat to excuse his swearing.

  “Helped ’em lift the wagon off you. So much blood. Thought you was dead for sure,” the driver declared. Nicolas looked at the man, trying in vain to jog loose a memory.

  “Sorry, I don’t remember much about it, but fortunately most of the blood belonged to the horses. Thank you though, for coming to my aid,” Nicolas said. The driver nodded, applying the whip in earnest; eager to hurry his nags as best as he could. They pulled up as near to the shed as they could safely manage, the coach remaining at a suitable distance to allow for the slope of the hill.

  “Have you any cloak or shawl I might use to shield the vicomtesse?” Nicolas asked. The man sadly shook his head, drawing attention to the soaked-through nature of his own threadbare clothes.

  “Very well, then. I shall go and bring her out,” Nicolas said. The driver nodded as Nicolas dismounted and began to walk up the slope toward the shed.

  “Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire! It’s Nicolas. I’ve returned with help!” he shouted, moving past the flimsy half-open door of the shed to find Sérolène standing in the back corner to avoid the leaking roof and puddles.

  “It’s all right now, my darling. I’m back and I’ve brought help,” Nicolas said. He hurried to her side, kissing her hands and forehead, the shed concealing them from outside eyes.

  “I was so frightened. I saw the fire and thought something might have happened to you. Oh, dear -- just look at you, Nicolas; you’re soaked through and through,” she admonished him worriedly.

  “I’ll be all right. We need to go out now and get you into the carriage. Your hostess is a Madame Dupluie. Come, I shall keep you dry as best as I can,” Nicolas said. He took his jacket from her shoulders, shielding her with it as she followed him into the driving rain. Holding onto his waist so as not to lose her footing, she walked carefully in his footsteps as he led her around to the door of the coach. Taking her hand, he helped her into the dry and comfortable, though very bare confines of the third-rate vehicle.

  “Mademoiselle la Vicomtesse de La Bouhaire, may I present to you Madame Dupluie,” Nicolas said, bowing to both ladies before closing the coach door, re-donning his now thoroughly wet coat and rejoining the driver once more. Only Sérolène returned the courtesy of his bow, surprised and annoyed that he would not be joining them.

  “Thank you for your generosity in sharing your coach, Madame. I do believe you have saved us from drowning!” Sérolène said. Madame Dupluie nodded courteously to Sérolène, pleased to be in the company of her social betters.

  “It does appear fortunate for you that we were also caught out in this dreadful storm. How pleased I am to be able to render you a service,” Madame Dupluie said, tapping twice against the side of the coach to signal the driver that they were ready to move off.

  “Have you no other company than that person? I trust that you have not ventured this way alone, with no other to rely on for your surety?” Madame Dupluie asked, eyeing Sérolène up and down. Sérolène thought the question both impertinent and insulting.

  “My cousine Mademoiselle de Salvagnac, and Monsieur le Comte de Marbéville were also with us, but were forced by an accident to return by calèche to the house. The Chevalier d’Argentolle and I were surprised by the storm, which prevented another calèche from reaching us and forced us to descend from our walk by this alternate route. The chevalier fortunately spied the shed in which I was able to take refuge from the rain while he attempted -- happily, with success -- to find someone to come to our aid,” Sérolène explained, now grateful to Nicolas for his insistence that he remain outside the shelter, seeing at once how her companion was sniffing the air for any hint of scandal.

  “I’m sure the steward has sent riders to look for us, but it is likely that they may have been delayed in setting out in such weather,” Sérolène said. Madame Dupluie looked somewhat mollified by Sérolène’s explanation, though true busybody that she was and in the accidental company of her social superiors, she was not to be satisfied until she had either uncovered or made all the mischief she could.

  “You would do well to better mark your society, Mademoiselle. The malicious are inclined to talk, you know. How fortunate you were that it was I who came upon you and not someone who perhaps might wish you ill,” Madame Dupluie said, her false profession of friendship readily apparent to Sérolène, who felt her stomach turn in disgust.

  “Tell me, Madame, do you not find it inconvenient to travel with so small a retinue of attendants and in such a small coach? Are the rest of your servants ill, perhaps? I hear there is a terrible fever going around,” Sérolène said, with feigned concern, seeing her adversary flush. There, take that! You’re obviously too poor to afford more than this, but you can look down your nose at others? Nicolas is worth a hundred of you and your kind, she thought to herself.

  “Monsieur le Chevalier!” Sérolène called out loudly, hoping to drive the stake a little further through Madame Dupluie’s provincial heart.

  “What is your pleasure, Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire?” Nicolas answered back.

  “I know you love to journey in the open, but wouldn’t you prefer to join us here instead? Madame Dupluie is such a delightful and charming hostess!” Sérolène said sweetly, delighting in the look of abhorrence that flashed across Madame Dupluie’s face.

  “You are so very kind, Madame. I shall have to tell my uncle Baron Salvagnac all about you,” Sérolène purred. The eager
ness on Madame Dupluie’s face to be recommended to her betters, disgusted Sérolène.

  “Thank you, Mademoiselle, but we are almost there. I believe the rain and I have already inconvenienced Madame Dupluie enough for today, though I am thankful for her consideration and yours. Please convey, as only you can, the heartfelt nature of my gratitude,” Nicolas said, his voice ringing out over the sounds of the rain and the slowly plodding coach.

  “He is such a gallant gentleman, isn’t he? Would that there were more like him, don’t you agree?” Sérolène said emphatically, expecting no reply from Madame Dupluie and receiving none, both content to complete the remainder of their journey in silence. At last they passed through the outer hedge that led up to the main house, Sérolène thankful that she would soon be relieved of the very disagreeable company of her hostess.

  “Ah! We’ve arrived at last,” Sérolène said with unfeigned happiness.

  The coach pulled up to the front of the house, the servants running anxiously to greet the carriage, bringing parasols to shield the passengers, aghast at the fact that Nicolas was riding on the outside with the driver and had been soaked through to the skin. Nicolas, however, paid little attention to his own condition, insisting on escorting Sérolène from the carriage himself and into the dry confines of the house, where he saw her to a comfortable chair and ordered a fire to both warm and dry her. Satisfied that she was well looked after, he then returned to the carriage to speak to Madame Dupluie who now was forced to acknowledge not only his presence but his obvious rank as well.

  “Madame,” Nicolas said gravely, standing out in the rain bareheaded, having waved away the servant who had tried to shield him from the downpour with a parasol. “I regret my family is not presently prepared to receive you properly. Rest assured you have my deepest gratitude for your kindness toward the vicomtesse, whose delicate constitution was not meant to be exposed to such trials. I know that you acted out of the goodness of your heart alone, but permit me to offer this small sum to your driver in recompense for the inconvenience we have caused you,” Nicolas said, withdrawing a large silk purse from his waistcoat.

  Madame Dupluie nodded her head, her eyes fixed greedily on the purse, still refusing to actually speak to him, as if she were the Hapsburg Queen and he the Du Barry. He handed the purse to the driver, who accepted it humbly. Then out of his left pocket he handed the driver another two louis d’or.

  “Those, my good man, are for you. One for your assistance in the Cap, the other for your aid today,” Nicolas said quietly. The driver removed his hat and thanked Nicolas with a deep bow as Nicolas again returned to speak to the coach’s sole passenger.

  “Should you ever find it convenient to pay us another visit, Madame, you may rest assured that your actions today will not have been forgotten,” Nicolas said, staring pointedly at her until she was at last forced to acknowledge him with a slight nod of the head. Nicolas then turned abruptly on his heel and headed inside. Oh yes, Madame. You may be certain that I shall not forget your conduct, Nicolas said to himself, gritting his teeth to hold back his rising bile.

  “A warm fire, a change of clothes, and a cup of tea, if you please,” Nicolas ordered crisply to one of the several house lackeys who stood waiting to attend his orders. “Send my regrets to all, but I do believe I’ve exhausted myself today.”

  The servant hurried off to accomplish his task. Nicolas, finding Sérolène had already gone to change her clothes, and reluctant to intrude into the general company who were still tending to Julienne, headed up to his quarters as quickly as he could, not wanting to let on how weak and exhausted he felt. He managed, but only just, to get his clothes off and don his nightshirt before he collapsed in exhaustion onto his bed, having completely purged all thoughts of the insufferable Madame Dupluie from his mind.

  Madame Dupluie, however, was a very hardy and persistent weed and not the type to be so easily uprooted. She belonged to a threadbare and inconsequential line of petty nobles from Auvergne and lived with her mother and three daughters on a small plantation just north of Port-au-Prince. They lived little better than the three slaves that they owned, all of whom shared a rather ramshackle house that was the small plantation’s centerpiece. Her husband was an absentee drunkard and gambler, known for the regularity of his losses and the vileness of his debauches. On the rare occasions when luck was with him, he was usually picked up the next day by the local gendarmerie, having squandered the greater part of his winnings carousing with the cheapest of the prostitutes in the Cap. The last of his revelries had ended in the savage deflowering and beating of a young enslaved black girl, who was so badly injured by his mistreatment that she died the next morning of her wounds. As punishment for the destruction of such valuable property, he had been shipped off for several months to toil as an indentured laborer aboard a French warship, and Madame Dupluie had thankfully been rid of a persistent cause of embarrassment and an inconsistent source of income, for her family.

  Madame Dupluie was, as a result of her husband’s excesses and shortcomings, the matriarchal rock upon which her impoverished family maintained its fragile existence. Her character was rough but strong and many a time she had worked the plough and cut cane herself alongside those she enslaved. Her prejudices, however, were many, their number outdone only by her opinions, which she was not shy in communicating gracefully to anyone who listened willingly and forcefully to anyone who would not. She was pious, proud, and strict, both with herself and with her children, and a complete believer in the superiority of whites over non-whites, convinced that it was God’s will that blacks be enslaved -- and pious woman that she was, who was she to try and thwart the will of God?

  Perhaps her absentee husband and her fierce struggle to maintain what social status she could for her daughters and herself necessitated her beliefs. Perhaps they were truly heartfelt. Whatever the case may have been, she firmly believed that she lived and acted justly, that she and her family were in fact loved and needed by those they enslaved, and that hers was the only correct path possible. She was the type of person no one called a friend, but no one wanted as an enemy. An unintended consequence of this fact was that she was both invited and dreaded everywhere, the salon her favored mechanism of propagating her particular form of slow-seeping social poison.

  “Let’s be off!” Madame Dupluie ordered her driver, having waited to carefully count each of the coins in the purse Nicolas had given her before departing. Glancing behind her in envy at the magnificence of the marquis’ estate, she caught a glimpse of a very striking woman at the front window. She immediately knew that the face could only belong to the seemingly “rehabilitated” Creole marquise, whose beauty was so great that the Marquis de Blaise had sacrificed much of his prestige and his influence at court to marry her. The splendor and elegance of the marquise pricked her resentment and hatred to the core.

  “So Montferraud thinks himself too good for us, but willingly mixes so freely with Nègres! Well, I’ll teach them all a proper lesson and do that young girl a service she will one day thank me for!” Madame Dupluie said with vehemence. Her eyes locked for the briefest moment on those of Madame de Blaise, and it was as if a bolt of dark electricity flew between them.

  “What is it, Madame?” the old house steward asked of his mistress as she stood by the window. “It seems you took a chill.”

  Madame de Blaise gave a slight shudder, feeling the extent of the passing malice course through her. She turned from the window, narrowing her eyes.

  “That was trouble that just drove away. I feel it in my bones,” she said. The old steward had learned through long experience not to take lightly his mistress’s premonitions.

  “Let it come then, Madame. This house no stranger to it. Whatever it is, we be ready for it,” he assured her.

  “Best be ready then, Solomon,” Madame de Blaise sighed. “I’ve a feeling it will come quickly.”

  *

  “Are you feeling better now, Julie? You do look decidedly better,”
Sérolène inquired sweetly, brushing Julienne’s hair in the large guestroom they shared as they both prepared for bed.

  “Much better now. My foot doesn’t seem to hurt so much anymore, though it is still somewhat tender. How nice it is to have you brush my hair. It reminds me of when we were very young,” Julienne replied warmly.

  “It has been nice being here. I haven’t seen all that much of you since the announcement of your engagement,” Sérolène agreed.

  “Are Maman’s ‘good intentions’ too much to bear now that she has only you and Éléonore to look after?” Julienne teased.

  “I suppose. May I ask you a rather personal question, dear Julie?” Sérolène replied, momentarily halting her long brush strokes.

  “Of course you can. What secrets could I possibly withhold from you, Lena?” Julienne replied.

  “How do you find your new husband to be? Do you love him yet?” Sérolène asked timidly. Julienne shrugged her shoulders as Sérolène returned to her brushing.