Monsieur Sancerre perched on the gilt chair recently vacated by the Comte. “Let me put to you a hypothetical case. Purely hypothetical. There is this elderly nobleman. Like all the nobility, he regards a large dowry as important. Yet he betroths himself to a penniless but exquisite girl—shall we say his ward? She, alas, has one minor anatomical deficiency. The noble feels that a man of his exalted position should take only a virgin to wife. He’s disappointed. But he makes her his mistress. Then he turns around and betroths himself to one of the greatest heiresses in France, distant cousin to King Louis. Our hypothetical noble, on his wedding night, leaves his bride’s bed to spend the night with his lovely young mistress. A dangerous swap. For he risks his position as friend and financial adviser to the King. He also risks his bride’s huge dowry. Mademoiselle d’Epinay, I’ve never hidden my sexual preferences from you, but that doesn’t mean I cannot love, or that I don’t know what love is about. And I tell you the Comte is a man sick with love. No. He’s mad with love.”
“Oh, stop it! You aren’t flattering me.”
“Tell me how you came to faint at Notre Dame?”
“How did you know?”
“It’s the talk of Paris.”
“And now I suppose it’ll be the talk of Paris where the Comte de Créqui spent his wedding night!” I snapped.
The overly handsome face tensed with hurt.
“I’m sorry.” I patted his rose velvet sleeve. “You might as well know the worst. The reason I fainted is the same as why this gown must be made with very wide seams.”
“How delicious! I imagine the Comte is delighted.”
“So delighted he’s not going to continue with me.” I leaned toward the couturier. “Monsieur Sancerre, I don’t even like to ask this of you. But would it endanger you to buy back my gowns?”
“Even if it does, I’ll do it. But why? Has your brother been gambling again?”
“The Comte pays—or has paid. And he’s letting us keep our clothes. I’ll need to sell them. I’m sure once I begin to show, he won’t want me.”
“Want you—”
“He’s never hinted that he cares for more than the pleasure of my body. And he left so furious I doubt if he’ll even come back for that—while it’s still pleasurable.”
“Coming back? Continuing wtih you? He’ll dote on you the more. He has no children, and they say a child from a beloved mother is especially dear.” Monsieur Sancerre paused delicately. “It’s my belief he hasn’t told you he loves you because then he’d have to admit that on a certain night he made a mistake. He’s too proud to admit mistakes. But at this point, the Comte de Créqui would happily trade the Valois bride, huge dowry and all, for you and the child.”
“Hah!” Gloomily I picked up one of his designs. “Oh, what’s the point? He won’t pay for more gowns.”
“I’m not worried.” Monsieur Sancerre laughed.
After the couturier left, I combed my hair slowly, thinking of what he’d said. How could the Comte be in love with me? First of all, he was too old, experienced, and worldly wise to fall in love. Besides, I irritated him, disobeyed him, and there’d been that one raging, brutal night.
On the other hand, I didn’t understand him.
His expression could change from that amused hauteur to open, if dignified, laughter. He was at once a cynical observer who, after a soirée, would dissect the guests, then pat my hand, telling me to ignore him and keep my naïveté. He’d been furious at me for attending his wedding, still he’d come here to discover why I’d fainted. He could talk heartlessly about Izette in front of her, and would have condemned her to prison for stealing food, yet I’d seen him drop a lordly fistful of coins into an armless beggar’s lap. He would add up the butcher, baker, and vintner accounts, fuming at an extra sou, yet he’d bought me the lynx cloak when a cheaper fur would have made me happy. Though once he’d exposed that small, brave boy he’d been, he kept a barrier of faint mockery between us. He insisted my salon be formal, and it took two footmen to pour his chocolate, yet I could have sworn he was happy at this morning’s cozy and connubial breakfast.
How could I understand him? He was one of the great nobles of France. Four thousand of them gathered at Versailles, another race, proud and high as gods. They ruled, immutable and unquestioned, over us. They didn’t fall in love with us.
I stopped combing my hair and stared in the mirror. Delicate shadows lay under my green eyes. There was only one truth. A glittering, loud-voiced noble had voiced this truth in Notre Dame Cathedral.
I was the Comte de Créqui’s whore.
A knock on my door. “That unfortunate girl is waiting for you in the kitchen,” said Aunt Thérèse. “Manon, give her a few sous, a whole franc if you must. Then send her on her way. You mustn’t condone her style of life.”
Chapter Ten
One wall of the low-ceilinged, stone-floored kitchen was a fireplace. A kettle and two huge iron pots hung simmering, giving off a savory steam. In the nook, on the fire stool, sat Old Lucien. His gnarled left hand held the well-oiled whetstone, while his right hand rhythmically sharpened a long-bladed knife. Sparks flew as that long, glittering blade went up and down, up and down.
Izette, watching as if mesmerized, rose from her seat at the deal table.
“I’m ready to do the ironing, ma’am,” she said, her voice low and frightened, her eyes on the knife blade.
“Old Lucien,” I said, “why don’t you take the knife to your gatehouse? You can sharpen it there.”
“She be a bad ’un. She needs watching.”
I glanced at the scrawny child. She no longer had on the ugly heap of artificial flowers. Her shawled head ducked, as she sank back down.
“I asked you to go, Old Lucien,” I said.
Old Lucien shouted, “But the Comte—”
“Please go,” I interrupted firmly.
With a murderous glance at Izette, holding the knife and whetstone in front of him, he stamped through the scullery and slammed the back door.
Izette hadn’t moved.
I sat at the table opposite her. “Did your brother like the food?”
She looked up. Her pale blue eyes shone. “Oh, ma’am! Of course we saved most of it. But he ain’t never had jam, or white bread. And with his bad legs, he never gets out, and we ain’t got a real window, so he never sees nobody. I tells him about people and he makes up stories about them. I told him you looks like a queen and acts like an angel.”
“You make up stories, too,” I said, smiling.
She gave me that quick, broad smile. Her tightly-clenched fists relaxed. “You’re prettier than a queen,” she said. “I know. Once I saw Queen Marie Antoinette in her carriage.”
“I saw her last night. The first time.”
We smiled at each other, admitting on both sides that to see the Queen was a major event.
“Izette, how old are you?”
“Almost thirteen, ma’am.”
“Who taught you to iron?”
“My mother. When I was little, she taught me to sprinkle, and to help her hang out to dry, and to fold. When I got older, she had me heat the sadiron and fluting iron. When she was took sick three months ago, she taught me ironing. She said I done as good as her. I got a light but firm touch, she said, and you needs a light, firm touch to iron. But when she was took dead, the housekeeper where she worked wouldn’t even let me do the bed linen. She said I’d burn it. And I’d been doing all the ironing for two months already. I told her so, but she still wouldn’t give me the position.…” The pale blue eyes filled with tears.
“So you went out on the streets?”
“What else can a girl do, ma’am? And there’s my brother. I … I ain’t pretty, but some men, they likes young girls. They thinks there’s less chance of catching the English disease.” She paused. “What that gentleman said upstairs, it ain’t true. I never had a disease.”
“Izette, I hate and despise the way he spoke about you, and I told him so.” I got up
and went into the pantry, pouring two foamy cream-rich mugs of milk. I returned, setting them on the table. “I don’t have a laundress.”
The freckled face tilted. Hopeful.
“The chambermaid does the wash, and she’s got enough work. She complains. My aunt complains, too. She says the linens are never white.”
“I always boils until things is like snow.”
“There’s one problem.” I stopped, embarrassed. “I don’t have money.”
She stared at me, her mouth open. It was, of course, a ridiculous remark to make to a child who’d never had jam or white bread.
“What I mean is, I can’t pay you. But I’ve got a room with a big window, and there’s plenty of food.”
The freckles showed more against the white of her disappointed face.
“I couldn’t, ma’am,” she whispered. “It’s the money I need. For the lodgings and food for my brother.”
“But I meant the two of you. That’s why I mentioned the window. Wouldn’t he like living here?”
“Joseph’d think he’d died and gone to paradise. But, ma’am, do you really mean it? The gentleman—”
“—is fond of me.” A lie? The truth?
“I should think so! He being old and ugly and all, and you so beautiful. Ma’am, my brother, he can eat all he wants?”
I nodded. She reached for my hand to kiss.
I pulled it away, saying, “Come on. Let’s drink our milk.”
After our mugs were drained, Izette went to fetch her brother.
I started upstairs, carrying my brother some honeyed pears for his cough. I was furious with myself. You’re pregnant, and you’ve just taken on two more responsibilities, you maniac, I thought angrily. Yet what could I have done? Let Izette with her plain, honest freckled face and quick gamine smile freeze or starve to death? Let her lame brother stay shut up in his windowless room and starve, too? Well, I thought grimly, let the worst come to the worst and I’ll go out and get the laundry so Izette can do it. Somehow the thought was funny and cheering. I smiled.
Wooden clogs clattered behind me.
Old Lucien panted, “You sent her packing?”
“I’ve hired her as laundress.”
His toothless lips sank disapprovingly into his brown wrinkled face. “You’ll be sorry.”
“Old Lucien, this is my business, not yours.”
“She be a thief as well as a bad ’un.”
I wondered why he’d been so set against Izette from the moment we’d found her, leaning against the wall, snow on her hat and shawl. “She’s twelve, a child. What makes you hate her?”
“She be a bad ’un.”
“Will you stop repeating that! She’s been forced into it by starvation. She looks after her younger brother. She’s brave, and serious, and hardworking.”
“I had a wife once.…” Old Lucien’s brown sunken jaw trembled as if a spasm of unwanted memory had washed over him. “My wife, she run off with a soldier, and after that she came back to Rheims and went on the street. Sauntering up and down, smirking at all the men. She be a disgrace to me in front of all Rheims. And after that I moved to the village.”
I’d never heard this story. All my life I’d known and cared for Old Lucien, yet I’d never thought of him as having a life apart from us. Once, he’d been young, shamed by a faithless wife into moving from his home. Taking a step down, I touched his arm. “I’m sorry, Old Lucien, really sorry.”
“Then you be telling that bad ’un to go?”
“I understand too well what forced her to it.” I looked down at the honeyed pears. “We’d all be starving if I didn’t understand her.”
Old Lucien’s puckered lips drew together as if he were going to spit at me, or curse me. That night of the robbery he’d known he might die if I didn’t give in to the highwayman, yet the old man had begged me not to let André near me. I knew he’d rather we starved than my truth be the same as Izette’s truth. In that long minute while rheumy old eyes gazed scornfully at me, I’d joined Old Lucien’s legion of bad ’uns. My legs turned watery, as they had at Notre Dame. With my free hand I gripped the red-plush-covered banister. Old Lucien turned. His shoes clattered down the narrow staircase.
The next three days, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, wind howled, blowing flurries of snow. Izette settled into the front room of the third-floor servants’ quarters. Her brother Joseph, eight, a malnourished wisp of a child, crawled from place to place after her, his useless withered legs dragging behind him. He had Izette’s quick face-splitting smile, and never seemed to have the least self-pity about having to crawl. I remembered seeing a pair of old crutches either in the stables or the icy tool-shed. Old Lucien refused to look, so I went myself, finding them in the toolshed. Izette and I helped the boy balance himself on the whittled pine sticks. The sound of crutches tapped in the stone-floored laundry. Jean-Pierre’s cough was gone, but the weather was too foul for a convalescent, so he stayed home, learning some rippling new pianoforte tunes by Herr Mozart. He invited the crippled lad to the music room. The boy gazed at my brother and me, his translucently pale face shining as if he were seeing a vision of saints. The whole thing was so pathetic I found myself wanting to weep.
The Comte didn’t come. I told the others his absence was due to the snow, his bride. Secretly, however, I feared he’d discovered I’d employed Izette. Or was it my pregnancy? More likely the pregnancy, I decided. I kept telling myself not to worry, we would be all right. I found myself constantly at my armoire, holding up my gowns, attempting to put a price on them. I asked Izette to iron the three cotton morning dresses. She used her irons as a musician does his instrument, her expression passionately serious, her hands light. The gowns, to me, looked brand new.
I questioned Aunt Thérèse about food prices until she patted my cheek, saying, “Don’t worry, child. We’ll manage.” I forced myself to smile cheerfully and deny my worry.
I pondered cheaper lodgings, remembering signs in windows of the raffish area near Palais Royale.
Friday afternoon neither the Comte’s footmen nor his second chef arrived. Jean-Pierre raised his shoulders in a shrug and gave my forehead a gentle kiss. Inwardly I blessed his silent sympathy. Anything more would have had me in hysteria.
No matter the Comte’s servants didn’t come. Our fat cook prepared two bubbling hot compotes and a great platter of thin-sliced pink beef, and most of this went begging. For Friday wind and sleet turned into a blizzard. Our soiree drew only a few actors and two actresses—and as everyone knows, that starving profession will show up anyplace there’s a free meal to be had. Their talk was all of the weather, and theatrical attendance. Oh, how I missed the Comte’s sharp wit to cut through the boredom.
By ten only one elderly actor remained. He and Jean-Pierre hunched over a game of dominoes.
Telling the yawning maidservants to go up to bed, I myself started up the stairs, planning to once more go through my armoire.
The door knocker sounded. Too late for a guest, I thought. Must be the night watch.
I went down to answer.
In the dark, snow-swept courtyard was the Comte’s equipage. The three lackeys behind shivered in their scarlet livery. The front horses pawed icy slush, and the coachman held tight to the reins. The second coachman had been knocking at my door. As I opened it, the Comte rapped, and one of the lackeys ran to help him descend. The blizzard whipped at his cloak, and he grasped his three-cornered hat as he came up the front steps. In the shelter of the entry he gestured that the carriage should leave. The four horses, their nostrils steaming, moved along the path to the stables.
My hand protected the candle flame and this small wavering light reflected in the Comte’s gaze.
Nervous, I determined to get unpleasantness over with. “Izette’s here,” I said. “She’s my laundress.”
He raised a black quizzical eyebrow.
“She’s excellent,” I said.
He nodded.
“And healthy. She has no
disease. Of any kind.”
He bowed slightly, as if congratulating me.
“Her brother’s here, too.”
“My dear, is it necessary for us both to freeze while we discuss your household arrangements?”
A gust of snow howled. The candle went out. He moved inside, closing the door behind him. Around the gameroom door light showed, and there was an occasional muted click of dominoes, or a muffled word. Otherwise we were in dark silence.
His voice came out of the night. “I’m not here to gossip about servants.”
I replied pertly, “Then let us go up to bed.”
Wind hurled branches against a shuttered window. When the Comte spoke again, his voice was low. “I’ve spent the time since Monday morning ordering myself not to come here.”
“Because I’m pregnant?”
“Wasn’t I kind about that? Under the ambiguous circumstances?”
“You were. Very,” I admitted. “Then you didn’t care to interrupt your honeymoon?”
I felt his snort of angry laughter. “Honeymoon? The important man in the Comtesse’s life is her pastry chef.” He paused. “No, I needed to prove something to myself.”
“Did you?”
“Beyond doubt,” he said.
“What, Comte?”
“I’m forty-seven years old, my dear, and in that time beliefs become deeply ingrained. I’ve always believed, cynically of course, that in this nasty world we invent conventions to protect ourselves from reality. In particular the reality that surrounds the sexual act. We make up pretty stories to cover our animal lusts. Being worldly, I’ve never accepted the pretty stories. I’ve never believed in love. So how could I accept my falling in love?”
“Love?” I echoed. Monsieur Sancerre and Aunt Thérèse both had said the Comte loved me. I hadn’t believed them. And, obviously, neither had the Comte.
“Oh, I’ve been telling myself it’s just the pleasures of that exquisite little body of yours. But the past few days, my winter’s honeymoon, I’ve been thinking.”
“Me?”
“You,” he said. “Thinking about when you told me you’d already been had. I couldn’t have you for my wife, and that hurt me more than I could remember being hurt. And when you ran from the house—well, let’s say it wasn’t pleasant. And even more unpleasant when you returned. My dear, I’ve been in battles, I’ve seen much gallantry. But no man I ever saw was as gallant as you, returning to save your brother, your chin a trifle too high, limping, and in that mended gown. It was Monsieur Sancerre who mended it?”
French Passion Page 8