“Oh, but you must!” exclaimed Marie-Lise. “You do have so much to learn, don’t you! One does not refuse one’s patron, ma chère!”
Lucinda, embarrassed, stammered, “But…I don’t know what I would wear.”
“What do you mean?” said the countess. “A ball gown, of course!”
“That is, you see,” said Lucinda, “I am not equipped…”
“Ah! I understand! But that is no problem, my dear. I will send you my dressmaker. Leave it to me. He is the best couturier there is. He is a wizard! I shall instruct him to fashion you a gown that will make heads turn. You will be irresistible!”
And indeed, inspecting herself in the looking glass a fortnight later, swishing her billowing gown from side to side, she barely recognized herself. She did look magnificent. The soft blue silk was woven through with silver thread. When she moved, the skirts rippled like water. At the last minute the countess had sent over a set of satin sleeve-ribbons, a pair of fat pearl earrings, and an embroidered mask on an ivory wand. Nervously, she thought of the expense. If Arent were alive, he would have a fit! But as her coach swept up to the ambassador’s magnificent hôtel, she could not suppress a rush of triumph. If only her scornful cousins in Dorset could see her now!
A pair of liveried footmen bowed low as they helped her out of the carriage. As she climbed the staircase, her gown swept the treads behind her like a monarch’s train. She sensed, but was careful not to acknowledge, the approving stares.
At the top of the steps she hesitated, but the people pressing from behind pushed her forward, over the threshold and into the fray. The air inside the ballroom was humid, thick with candle smoke and perspiration. She almost gagged. There was no time to look around and admire the sumptuous, glittering décor, for she was immediately accosted by a masked stranger and swept up in the dance. Although her memory of Monsieur Piétain’s lessons was a little rusty, she managed to finesse her way through a Branlé, a Gavotte and a Minuet before breaking free, breathless. Burying her hands in her skirt to prevent them from being grabbed again, she backed away from the dancers, and sidled over to the tall windows at the far end of the room. Her palms were wet with her partners’ sweat. She wiped them on her gown and peered out into the dark.
Through the undulating glass, some rollicking figures swam into view. She recognized them with a shock. There was Liesbet, swinging her little brother around! And Bessie hovering behind them. And Thomas, and Arent. Behind them she spotted Zéfine, Blanchette and Karel Klek, bowing, stepping and twirling.
Nothing made sense anymore. What had she done to deserve this? What made her, suddenly, the center of attention? It was a nightmare! Already, reflected in the glass, she could make out a masked figure bearing down upon her. The Marquis de Quelquonque, no doubt (she recognized his unctuous gait), determined to lead her back to the dance. When all she wished for—the only thing she truly wanted—was to be out there in the dark with her ghosts, who shut her out in this dreadful light. And excluded her so ruthlessly, so heartlessly, from their ineffable secrets and unearthly delights.
When Superintendent Perrault arrived for his portrait sitting the following afternoon, he found her in a subdued mood.
“I understand,” he said, “that Madame created quite a stir last night, at the ambassador’s ball.”
“I did?” she asked as she adjusted the drape of the backdrop.
“Indeed. All Paris wants to know the identity of the pretty newcomer who made such a stir, and then left so abruptly. I am inclined to think that it was you. “
“I suppose it was. I left before the midnight banquet.”
“But why?”
“I was weary.” His eyebrows went up. “And not at all hungry,” she added.
“But everyone said you were the belle of the ball!” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “To leave before midnight—it is simply unheard of!”
She shrugged. “In that case I shan’t attend any more balls,” she said.
“Ah, but Madame! To be honored by society, to be hailed as a beauty, is that not what every lady of good family most desires?”
She gave a short laugh. “‘Of good family’? Moi?”
“My dear lady! But I understood that…your grandfather was an earl, was he not?”
“He was. But that does not mean that my family was good. At least, they were not good to me. There was a question about my birth. I was not considered worthy, in their eyes.”
“I see,” he said, embarrassed.
“I was shunned,” she went on, dabbing her brush on the palette more forcefully than necessary. “And, later, beaten. Put to work, you know, sweeping cinders, scrubbing floors, feeding hogs.”
“Madame!” he exclaimed.
She shook her head, appalled at having confessed to such a shameful past. She wished she could take it back. “Please—Let us talk no more of it.”
“As you wish.” There was a pause. It was Perrault who broke the silence. “For one so young,” he said, “Madame has certainly had her share of misfortune.”
“I suppose I was born under an unlucky star,” she said. “I was cursed at birth.”
“Ah, but not entirely…”
“Cursed at birth,” she said stubbornly. “A despised, unwanted orphan.”
“Perhaps, but not entirely unwanted. Not many orphans, after all, are blessed with such a devoted marraine to watch over them. Are they!”
Startled, she looked up. “A godmother? How do you mean?”
“That very pleasant person you have told me of, that good person who raised you—”
“Ah, you mean Bessie! But…”
“Indeed. Genuine, devoted love, such as you tell me la mère l’Oie, mother Goose, gave you, it is a precious gift! One might say that you were born under a lucky star!”
Lucinda felt the tears well up. “I never considered how precious it was—her love—when she was alive. I was always longing for something else. Something better. Something, I don’t know, grander. And now it’s too late.”
“Too late? But it is never too late!”
Swallowing hard, she said, “It is easier to have no expectations.”
“No, no, Madame must never give up hope! When God sends us trials, He is but testing our mettle and our virtue! The greater the misfortune we are made to bear, the more certain our reward!”
“Do you really think so?”
“Absolutely!” he shouted, flinging an arm in the air, which caused his wig to flop sideways, upsetting her carefully arranged composition. “These trials exist only to teach us a lesson. As long as we remain good and pure of heart, Madame, we must trust that our wishes will some day come true.”
Despite some skepticism, Lucinda could not dismiss Monsieur Perrault’s assurances out of hand. It was as if in teaching her the pleasures of grand (and often preposterous) generalization, he were showing her a way to sweep away her own, quite individual, pain.
If the glamour of the ballroom was not to her liking, Lucinda did find plenty to like in the more intimate, although no less glamorous, space of Madame de Galantine’s salon. It was the countess who had introduced her to this lively gathering of Parisian wives, widows and courtesans. Lucinda was immediately smitten. These women, who were dressed tastefully, if less expensively than the court ladies, were extremely outspoken. They reminded her of her friends from the baggage train, except that instead of French whores’ crude jokes, the conversation here was of a more genteel variety. At first she was content to just sit and listen, for the learned talk of poetry, politics and philosophy went quite over her head. But when she discovered that the ladies also enjoyed banter and gossip, she began to join in, timidly at first, but later more boldly, as she began to understand the underlying wit, especially as it pertained to men.
“Have you heard about that poulle, that chicken, who now declares that we are the equals of men?” demanded Marie Vaudage, the actress. “How did the poor creature ever get such a bizarre idea?”
“Ah, chère,
you mean François Poullain, that one?” said Thérèse Patromal, the buxom wife of a prominent lawyer. “One hears he is advised not to show his face in Paris.”
“Indeed, he had better lie low,” said Madame de Galantine. “He proposes that it makes no difference what sex one is. That a woman can be educated just like a man.” She gave a bitter laugh.
Madame Pernod sighed. “Ah, how many times must we hear that argument? I am sick of it! Let us talk of other things.” She started fanning herself energetically.
Marie Vaudage turned to Lucinda. “They mock us, dear Madame.”
“Who?” asked Lucinda, baffled.
“The men. Yes. The dramatists and poets and such.”
“But why do they mock us?” asked Lucinda.
“For having opinions, naturally!” pouted Madame Patromal.
“They think,” explained the countess, “that if they let us have our say, their entire little world will come tumbling down.”
“Ah yes. The sky will fall! Let us therefore prattle away, and let us have nothing more to do with men,” Madame de Galantine declared.
“Oh, but…” said Lucinda. She stopped. She wasn’t sure if Madame de Galantine was being serious. She was beginning to understand that in this company, you were supposed to say the opposite of what you meant.
“No, no, continue!” ordered her hostess. “We speak our minds here, Madame. You must not be shy.”
“Uh…I have no opinions on the matter, really,” said Lucinda lamely.
“But you do! You certainly do,” exclaimed Countess Bienmaline. “I have heard you opine on a number of matters, precious.” Turning to the others, she said, “And Madame has excellent taste in men.”
“Do tell, who?”
“The Marquis de Quelquonque…”
The ladies groaned.
“Oh, I really don’t…” Lucinda began.
“No, no, my dear, we are just teasing,” the countess explained. To the ladies, she said, “Monsieur Perrault is her friend.”
“Ah! Which one? The one who designed the colonnade of the Louvre, Claude?”
“No, the younger brother. The one who attends Minister Colbert.”
“Ah, Charles, that one! But he is a perfectly charming fellow! And a poet, too.”
“Poor man. His wife passed away but lately—“
“Yes, Marie Guichon. Pretty thing, so sad.”
“A man of means, they say; and a widower to boot!”
“I assure you,” said Lucinda quickly, “that I am not…I have no interest in…”
“Of course not, my dear!” laughed the countess. ‘“It is understood.” She turned to the others, and chided, “When I said friend, I did not mean friend.”
Lucinda was blushing. “A poet? It does not surprise me. Mr. Perrault possesses a fine spirit.”
“Indeed he does. We thought his Dialogue between Love and Friendship was exquisite, don’t you remember, Marie?”
“Ah yes, so precious!” said Mademoiselle Vaudage, “Let me see if I can recall the last verse.” She jumped to her feet, and, taking a theatrical stance, declaimed:
“…Adieu, my sister; for there is so much for me to do.
There are lovers to punish, and others to recompense;
and above all I must attend to Iris, who is about to depart for the ball,
where I must help her to conquer every honest person’s heart,
and oblige all assembled there to admit
she is both the most beautiful and most amiable lady in all the world.”
There was a smattering of applause. “Divine!” sighed Madame Pernod.
“Very good, very good,” said Madame de Galantine. “We must invite Monsieur Perrault to one of our gatherings. Although one hears that he is a very busy man.”
55
THE LABYRINTH
If you had to place a bet on who would win the race, the tortoise or the hare, you would be a fool to give the tortoise even the ghost of a chance. Do not be misled, however. The tortoise may be a patient plodder, and the hare surpassing fleet of foot; but you must not forget that haste is the enemy of perfection, perfect is the enemy of good, and in a just world, slow and steady wins the day.
Of all the people Lucinda had met in Paris, the Superintendent of Royal Buildings and Works was the only one to express a genuine interest in her personal history. Feigning a tactful reluctance to probe, he managed to draw most of it out of her in the end. With some restrictions, naturally. Monsieur Perrault was therefore left with the impression that although Lucinda’s virtue had oftentimes been assailed, it had not been surrendered until her wedding night.
She blushed, having just finished telling him about Uncle Edmund’s unwelcome advances. “It is not a pretty tale.”
“I am sorry, Madame, for your pain. The path of righteousness never runs straight.”
She bit her lip. “But why? I mean, if our intentions are good, why must we suffer?”
“That, Madame, is one of life’s great questions.” He scratched his moustache with a stubby finger. “Take, for instance, Peau-d’âne…’”
“Peau-d’âne?”
“Ah, but you must know that story! Did your marraine not tell it to you? It’s the one about the princess who is so beautiful that her father the king, a widower who wishes to remarry, can find no woman more suitable for his bed than his own flesh and blood! You do not know it, alors?”
Lucinda shook her head.
“But let me tell it to you then! Well. In order to prevent this unnatural marriage, which is, naturally, odious to her, the princess flees the palace in disguise—hiding her beauty beneath a magic donkey’s skin. This is the origin of the name, you see. Peau d’âne. Ass’s Skin. What hardships she suffers you cannot imagine! She ends up a lowly drudge, reviled by all.”
Lucinda stared at him. “But it wasn’t her fault!”
“Ah, you are too impatient! You must wait for the moral! Well, a prince happens by her hovel one day, and catches a glimpse of her lovely visage beneath the foul ass’s skin. The vision preys on his mind, but none will believe that the poor mad creature is actually a dazzling beauty. The prince falls ill, he is sick with love; in his delirium, he asks for a cake to be baked by the despised maidservant. As she is preparing the cake, her ring slips from her finger into the batter. When the prince eats the cake, he bites on the ring, and announces forthwith that he will take in marriage none but the hand that fits the ring…”
“Don’t tell me,” she interrupted. “The ring fits no one’s finger except…”
“Except Peau-d’âne’s,” he concluded. He sighed contentedly. “I have always liked that story. Don’t you?”
“Yes, but,” she protested, “I don’t see—I don’t see why he waited until he found the ring, I mean, if he loved her, why didn’t he just go to her? Why did she have to prove anything? Why does the heroine always have to prove herself?”
“It is the story, Madame,” he said, a little hurt.
“It’s a good story,” she granted. “But it is only a story.”
“A story with a moral,” he corrected her.
“Which is…?” she asked.
“But I am surprised that you don’t see it! The moral, Madame, is that virtue, and above all its female manifestation—patience—will be rewarded in the end.”
Lucinda started fanning herself. “If patience were all that’s…” she began.
He did not let her finish. “Permit me to remark, Madame, that the ladies at court are very fond of that story.”
“Well,” she said, “then it must be an excellent story.” She smiled at him, content to drop the subject. But she stored it in her mind as a topic she might bring up the next time she attended Madame de Galantine’s salon.
Upon taking his leave, Monsieur Perrault said that it would give him immense pleasure if she would accord him the honor of showing Madame and her son the Labyrinth of Versailles. “There you will see manifested,” he said, “what I mean when I speak of ‘mo
rals’.”
Five days later Lucinda’s carriage drew up to an ornate gate deep within the gardens of Versailles. Superintendent Perrault opened the door and, with a bow, assisted mother and son as they climbed out. “Welcome to the Labyrinth,” he said proudly. “Behold!”
They gazed up at the two statues Mr. Perrault was pointing to—two figures perched on pedestals outside the gate. He began addressing them in a loud voice a bit more pedantic than usual; Lucinda noticed that a huddle of perfumed courtiers was within earshot.
“The gentleman you see depicted here, with his writing scroll,” he said, waving at the right-hand statue, “is, of course, Aesop, the author of the Fables.”
Lucinda and Arentje turned to stare at Aesop, an ugly old man.
“And here, on the left, behold the lovely Cupid, with a spool of thread,” he said. “Can you tell me what it signifies?”
Lucinda raised her palms shoulder-high. Arentje lustily shook his head.
“It means that in order to thread one’s way through love’s labyrinth, one needs not only heart, but brains.”
They were aware of giggles and whispers coming from the courtiers. Stiffly ignoring them, Perrault took out a bundle of keys, and unlocked the gate with a sweeping gesture. “Come. Follow me.”
The Labyrinth was a network of allées cut through a maze of tall hedges. At each intersection stood a fountain depicting one of the fables. Brightly painted lead sculptures of animals arranged in pairs—serpents and foxes, roosters and porcupines, hares and tortoises—spewed water at one another in elegant arcs, setting off trickling water melodies. Never in her life had Lucinda seen anything like it. She felt she had stepped into a world of enchantment. Breathlessly she rushed after Arentje, who was galloping from one fountain to the next. Perrault came lumbering along behind.
“Now, now, children,” Perrault panted, “no need for such haste!”
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