The Devil’s Laughter

by Frank Yerby

  Nicole found it so once, he thought. Pray God she still does. . . .

  At the Château Gravereau, he found, somewhat to his relief, that Gervais la Moyte was at Versailles. The fact should not have surprised him. Most of the nobles of any importance continued to ruin themselves to stay in the swim of the gay life of Louis XVI’s artificial paradise. Nor was he surprised to find that Thérèse had been left behind. At Versailles any wife was an inconvenience; a baseborn one doubly so.

  But seeing his sister coming towards him, her two thin hands outstretched, rage and grief rose in Jean Paul. Thérèse was shocking to look at. She was pitiful. Her black eyes were enormous in her thin face. The great blue circles of pain and grief that ringed them made them look even larger. Even from the end of the hall he could see her collar-bones, the sinews of her neck. When she was close, something in her face caught him.

  A moment later, he knew what it was. Death. This woman, this stranger who had been his beloved sister, was dying.

  And the same malady, Jean thought, that killed my father. Dear God! I’ll make him pay for this!

  Five feet away from him, Thérèse stopped. Jean could see her chin tremble.

  “Your face!” she breathed; “oh, Jean, your face!”

  Then she hurled herself forward, straight into his arms.

  “Oh, Jean, Jean, Jean,” she sobbed; “oh my poor darling, what have they done to you?”

  “Beyond my face, nothing,” he said gently; “and that is of no importance. The question, little sister, is: What has happened to you?”

  Seated in the petit salon, she told him. Slowly—with a great many pauses and much searching for words.

  “It is not that Gervais is cruel—not physically cruel at least. You must believe me, Jean. He—he has never struck me, or treated me with aught but great courtesy. That—that is perhaps it. Courtesy so great as to amount to ceremony. Oh, Jean, Jean—I’m a stranger to my own husband—not the wife of his bosom!”

  Jean waited while she mastered her tears.

  “I—I want children. Don’t think me shameless, Jean, when I say these things. You are my brother and a man of the world. To—to have children—one—”

  “Must do certain things,” Jean supplied gently. “Things which between married lovers are right and wonderful and beautiful in the sight of God . . . and Gervais—doesn’t?”

  “Not—not with me, at least! I see him at intervals of three months, six, lately a year. When on rare occasions, out of lack of a more interesting partner, he deigns to consummate our marriage, I believe he practises certain arts to prevent the conception of a child. He is never unkind. He is simply and honestly astonished when I rail at him about his actresses, dancers—that Lucienne, Jean—he still sees her! After all these years she more than anyone else keeps a grip upon his heart. I think she must be very intelligent, really. No one else has lasted so long. . . .”

  “She is,” Jean said grimly. “Go on.”

  “The trouble is, I—I love him, Jean. He is still gay and charming and beautiful to me, Jean. I think that we have no child because he doesn’t want an heir of half-base blood. Then there is the question of money . . . he ran through my dowry in a year, and after that all that he could borrow or squeeze out of Father and Bertrand.

  “I put a stop to that finally. I went to them secretly and told them to let him have no more. That was after I found out that his promises to have you freed were just that—promises and no more. We are crushed under a mountain of debt, Jean. I can’t go shopping any more because I can’t bear the sullen looks and the occasional downright insolence I get from the tradespeople. If I didn’t occasionally use the money that Bertrand sends me in secret to pay a few bills, I’d be both naked and starving.”

  “Leave him!” Jean growled. “Come home with us to the villa. This tale of yours would win an annulment from the Pope himself. Then you could marry some fine lad, who’d—”

  “No, Jean,” she whispered; “no, my brother. I shall never leave my husband, except upon my bier.”

  “The sweet blue eyes of God!” Jean swore.

  “Don’t swear, Jean,” Thérèse said gently; “you know I don’t like it. Besides, you haven’t yet asked me—about Nicole. . . .”

  Jean’s breath caught somewhere down at the base of his throat.

  “You—you knew about that?” he got out finally.

  “She told me. I thought I knew you. That was obvious since you are my brother. But over and over again, listening to her, I found myself wondering: What manner of man or devil is this to inspire such love?”

  “Where is she?” Jean whispered; “I’ll go—”

  “No, Jean. No, my darling. You mustn’t go to her. You see, my poor brother, she is married. And to a good man, a fine man who respects and loves her. They—they have two children, Jean. A boy and a girl. . . . Jean! Don’t look at me like that! Oh, Jean—Jean—”

  But already he had put his head back and loosed peal after peal of demonic laughter.

  She stared at him.

  “You—can laugh—at this?”

  “At this,” he murmured. “At myself—at the world. ‘What manner of man or devil is this,’ he mimicked, ‘to inspire such love?’ ”

  “But she does love you,” Thérèse said. “She is like me in that. She will go on loving you till the day she dies. That’s why I ask you not to see her. Don’t make it any harder for her than it is.”

  “Hard?” Jean mocked; “to be married to a good man, a fine man, who loves and respects her? To whom she has borne two children?”

  “Oh, Jean, why are you men so dense? She was forced into that marriage. If Gervais had even given her the choice of marriage or the sisterhoods, I know she would have chosen the veil first. But he gave her no such choice. All he would allow her to do was to make the final choice between her various suitors.”

  “And whom did she choose?” Jean whispered.

  “A distant cousin, Julien Lamont, Marquis de Saint Gravert.”

  “My God!” Jean breathed, “my double!”

  “You knew that, too? The first time I saw him I knew why she had chosen him. It’s astonishing how much he looks like you. The children, the boy especially, could be yours. I—I like Julien immensely. I pray God he never learns why she insisted upon naming her firstborn—Jean.”

  Jean stood up.

  “I must see her,” he said. “I don’t want to trouble her, or force her to renounce her vows—however they were made. But I love her, little sister—with all my heart. More than I love life itself. You should understand that. It may be that I’ll never see her again after this. But I’m going to see her, Thérèse. I have to.”

  “I knew you’d say that,” Thérèse sighed. “They live not far from here. Nicole begged Julien to buy a house close by, so that she could visit me. She is the best, and the only real friend I have. We—we comfort each other. . . .”

  She paused, looking at him.

  “Go to her. Julien is away—at Versailles. He didn’t want to go. I think she sends him away at intervals that she might have time to dream of you in peace. Jean, Jean, I wonder if you’re worth it?”

  “I wonder, too,” Jean said. “Tell me how to get there. . . .”

  An hour later, when he waited in that second hallway, he could not hear his thoughts for the beating of his heart. He heard the prattle of the children and died inside himself a thousand tortured deaths at the thought of their begetting, then her clear, sweet voice was saying:

  “Sleep now, my loves. Mama will be back directly, as soon as she has seen the strange gentleman. . . .”

  Then she stepped out into the hall. She stopped. One hand rose to her throat, froze there. All the colour went out of her face. Even her lips were white.

  Dear God, don’t let her faint, Jean thought; then very slowly he smiled.

  “Now that you have seen the strange gentleman,” he mocked, “you may go back, Madame la Marquise, to your little loves.”

  “Jeannot!�
�� she got out; “Oh, Jeannot, Jeannot, Jeannot—they told me you were dead!”

  Then she was flying through the hall, into his arms.

  In all my life, Jean realised, I have never been kissed like this. Nor will I ever be again though I live a thousand years.

  He stiffened his arms gently, pushing her away from him.

  She hung there in his grip, her face whiter than death, the tears flooding her cheeks so that her whole face was wet, and the great droplets spilled like diamonds in the light from her chin, making rivulets down her throat. He could feel her trembling. So great was his strength that he did not realise that he was holding her up. For when he released her, she crumpled soundlessly to the floor, and lay there, shaking all over with great, racking sobs.

  He picked her up, and walked with her up the stairs to her bedroom. He laid her down upon the bed and sat down beside her.

  She put up her hand, slowly, and traced the outlines of his face as though to reassure herself, as if to make certain he was real. Her touch was as light as air, but it tore his heart apart.

  In another moment I shall weep, too, he groaned; and that would be bad, oh, very bad.

  “I didn’t tell Thérèse,” she whispered; “I thought she had trouble enough. Gervais told me six months ago. That’s why I sent Julien away, so that I could grieve my heart out in peace. If it weren’t for the children, I should be mad by now—or dead, too—as Gervais said you were.”

  “Would God that I were!” Jean burst out.

  “No, Jeannot—no, my love—my only love. ‘Tis good even to be alive and in the same world with you. But to know I cannot go away with you as I want to—and I do want to, Jeannot—so much, so much!—because of the children, you understand that, my Jean—that is the hard part—”

  She stared at him, and her eyes were very bright.

  “But once I was yours,” she whispered; “and I can be again—now, tonight. Julien is away. . . .”

  “No!” Jean said hoarsely; “by God’s love, no!”

  Her hands were very tender upon his face.

  “Why not, my Jean?” she whispered.

  “Thérèse says he’s a good man, who loves you—that he’s kind. I have had enough of betrayals in this life, little Nicole. I cannot explain it,” he whispered: “but what there is between us cannot be dirtied—thus. . . .”

  She smiled at him.

  “But I love you,” she said, “not him. I—I cannot rid myself of the feeling that my children are bastards—because they are not yours!”

  He stood up suddenly. The motion was abrupt, jerky.

  “That was a long time ago, Nicole,” he said. “What happens if we refresh that memory? You want to send me away branded with you—aching with love of you every waking hour? The other is dim now—though unforgotten. But this now—Nicole, Nicole, would you have my mind and heart blasted to match my face?”

  She closed her eyes, and shook her head so that the tears under her shut lids were jetted out in a spray from the motion.

  “I don’t understand you!” she wept, “I only know that if you leave me now, I shall die.”

  He came to her then, cradling her in his great arms like a child. He kissed her very slowly and tenderly and without passion. He could feel her breathing quiet. She brought her hands up against his chest and pushed him away, gently.

  “You’re right, my Jeannot,” she whispered. “Now go—go quickly while I can still bear it!”

  Four hours later, in Marseilles, Jean Paul Marin was already as drunk as any noble lord. He downed formidable quantities of wine, trying to stun his senses, trying to ease what never in this life could be eased, the death in his heart. Finally, towards morning, he staggered away from the last auberge and made his way towards the livery stable.

  He was meandering across the square, when a bedraggled daughter of joy accosted him. She touched him on the shoulder, whispering:

  “A night of love, my lord? You seem lonely. . . .”

  Lonely? Jean thought: I am dead of loneliness; I am slain by it. But not such loneliness as such as you could ease. . . . Mine, poor poule, is beyond price, and surcease from it cannot be bought by all the gold ever mined from the earth.

  Then he turned towards her with drunken kindliness, meaning to give her a franc or two, and she saw his face.

  She stood there a long moment, staring at him. Her tired, bloodshot eyes softened.

  “Come,” she said gently. “With your poor, battered face, you must always have to purchase love—and this once it will be good to have it freely given. . . . Come, mon pauvre—dear Saints, how they must have hurt you!”

  Jean swayed there, looking at her.

  “Thank you,” he said. “You are kind. But tonight, love is the very least of my needs.”

  “Another time, then,” she murmured; “I am always here—and if . . .”

  “No,” Jean said, and turned away. He moved off, down the dim-lighted street, thinking to himself: Behold your fate, Jean Paul Marin! To have lost the only girl on earth capable of loving you—and to be possessed of such a face as arouses the pity even of whores.

  He lurched on, in the direction of the stable. He was surprised at how blurred the street lamps had become all of a sudden. When he put his hands to his eyes to clear them, his fingers came away wet.

  “Dear God!” he whispered. “Dear, kind, sweet God. . . .”

  He leaned against the door of a house, and hung there, crying. And the morning crept in on the soft feet of a million small grey cats.

  6

  HE was free now. He could go. The trouble was he was so utterly weary. He could work all day under a broiling sun; but the work that he did between the fifteenth and the twenty-fifth of February, 1789, drained the last reserves of his strength. Sitting in the council chambers of Monsieur l’Avocat du Roi of the town of Saint Jule for eleven or twelve hours each day listening to an endless stream of peasants telling their complaints was not too tiring, physically; but it had a way of getting inside a man’s heart and nerves that brought a stunning, stupefying fatigue one degree short of being insupportable.

  When he got home at night, blind with weariness, his head splitting, he could not sleep. Lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, he kept hearing their words:

  “I pay my dues to the Seigneur. I pay to grind wheat at his mill. I pay to transport the produce across parish lines, across bridges, not once, but a hundred times! And the bailiffs come to search my house for salt. . . .

  “Then the winter comes. After even a mild one, we go hungry. Last year, ‘tis said, the Seine was frozen from Paris to le Havre. My wife lost the new baby, and ‘twas a mercy. One more child whimpering with hunger, and I would have gone mad!

  “Killed the oxen for food. When spring came, my wife and my son had to draw the plough. The other children? Dead, your honour. In March last we had only soaked bran to give them. It swelled their little bellies until they passed blood. . . . Then they died, in convulsions, your worship, of eating roots and bark and bran. . . .

  “I had a little gold put by. But the land swarms with hungry, desperate men—led by escaped convicts, by bandits from Italy. They came into the house. They held my wife’s feet into the fire. When she started to scream, I gave them the gold. . . .”

  “My daughter sells herself upon the streets of Marseilles. My Son has become a robber, hiding in the hills. He brought me a few ounces of refined salt, instead of that grey ordure which is all we can buy. Someone informed upon me. A friend, perhaps, whom I had let break bread with me. The bailiffs fined me all the money I had saved in five long years. I am too old, your worship, to try again. . . .”

  “We left the house, the furniture, the land—everything, and took to the road. Let them take it all! The taxes eat us up. With nothing, we can’t be taxed. . . .”

  “Dear God!” Jean Paul groaned, thinking of it.

  But he had finished it at last: all the complaints and grievances of the Parish of Saint Jule. He had set down the dema
nds of the people: that privilege be abolished, that all men be taxed equally, according to their wealth; that they be allowed to shoot the game which laid waste their fields, cut the wood in the forest without paying a Seigneur for it, themselves own the mills which ground their grain, press their own grapes for wine, without paying a banvin; assemble and make known their own desires to their elected representatives; have done for ever with forced labour upon the roads, pay no tithe to the clergy, take back unto themselves the vast lands of the Church, buy and use all the salt they pleased without paying a tax upon it, elect the officials, especially those having to do with taxation, and remove them, if need be, when they proved corrupt. . . .

  These, and hundreds of others, Jean Paul Marin had set down in his cool, forceful style, making a document that would stand out even among the thousands of cahiers presently to be brought before the States-General. There was nothing left now but to take the coach for Paris; for on January twenty-fourth the King had announced that the first meetings would take place in May.

  He had had made the neat black garments that had been prescribed for the members of the Third Estate. He had converted his entire inheritance into gold, for he meant never to return to the Côte d’Azur. But he lingered still. Weariness, he told himself; but it was more.

  A few leagues away, beyond Marseilles, a woman sat—crying perhaps, after she had put to sleep the children who should have been his, but were not. A woman he dreamed about, waking or asleep. A woman whom he wanted with a feeling that was close to actual, physical pain.

  “Nicole, Nicole,” he murmured into the darkness; “there are other starvations besides the lack of bread. And if a man dies of them more slowly, they kill him none the less.”

  I should ride to her and say good-bye, he thought, holding Pierre du Pain’s letter in his hand. This removes my last excuse. .

  He read it once more, by the light of the candles: