“Because she resolves doubts. As I hope to resolve yours.” She bowed her head. “Examine me as you will. You shall not find me wanting.”
Père François snapped his fingers. At once a footman appeared, carrying two chairs, and followed by Hubert and Bonnefous. They seated themselves before Topaze. She remembered a painting she’d seen in the Hôtel de Ville in Bordeaux—Jeanne d’Arc kneeling before her English inquisitors. She felt a little like the Maid of Orléans with her captors. Père François cleared his throat to emphasize the gravity of the moment. “Véronique was somewhat wanting in her religious studies. Yet you show some familiarity with a saint. Explain that.”
“I’ve been living with a pious family in Bordeaux for four years. I was expected to go to catechism with their children. And church.”
“And confession?”
She remembered what Lucien had told her. She smiled at the priest. “I know I tried to avoid confession when I was a child. I beg your forgiveness for it now. But, yes. I went to confession in Bordeaux.”
“Will you let me confess you now?”
She hesitated. “I’ve confessed my past sins. It was the priest in Bordeaux who urged me to return home.”
“Now, by God,” growled Hubert. “Will you confess your damnable lies?”
Bonnefous restrained him. “That’s not the way to do it, Chalotais.” He fixed Topaze with a baleful glare. “Who are you?”
Her knees were beginning to hurt. “I’m Véronique de Chalotais. My mother is Adelaïde de Chalotais, born de Marcigny. I don’t remember my father’s name. Fleur married Monsieur de Chalotais when I was three years old. He adopted me.”
“What was the name of your nurse?”
“Nanine.”
“What is her real name?”
“Jeanne-Marie Flandre.” She looked at Bonnefous. His scowl had deepened. Hellfire! Perhaps she’d been too glib, reciting her facts like a schoolgirl.
“You have siblings?”
“A stepbrother. Léonard.”
Père François leaned forward in his chair. He smiled, a crafty light in his eyes. “Véronique was fond of nicknames. I understand you recalled Poucette. And Fleur, of course. What did you call Léonard?”
It seemed a good time to lessen the doubt in Bonnefous’s eyes. “I called him…‘Little Fly’? ‘Little Bumblebee’? I can’t remember.”
Bonnefous seemed relieved at her lapse of memory. It was quite natural, after all, for her to forget some things after six years. But Père François took it as a sign of her guilt. “Aha!” he crowed. “You can’t remember?”
“Ave Maria! I can’t remember what I had for supper last night! Can you?” She smirked. “But, by your leave, Père François, I remember I called you ‘The Wolf’.” She was pleased to see Bonnefous smother a laugh.
The questions seemed to go on for hours. Her knees ached from the floor, her back was stiff. But she refused to beg leave to stand. If they meant to break her, they’d have to do better than this. And still the questions continued. Did she leave Grismoulins with the footman? What was his name? What did he look like? Where did she go when he abandoned her? Why did she never try to return to her family? And why had she returned now? She gave them all the answers she’d rehearsed with Lucien and Martin.
It wasn’t difficult to make the story of the Givets touching. She wept as she told of the family suffering from the uncertainty of Monsieur Givet’s whereabouts. She made less of their poverty, however. Bonnefous might send to Bordeaux to question the Givets; it would be difficult to explain their sudden windfall if she’d already painted a terrible picture of their straitened circumstances.
Père François rubbed his fleshy hands together. “It was your conscience that brought you home? The knowledge of your wickedness, your sins?”
She covered her cheeks as though she were blushing. “I’m still not worthy to be here. I’ve sinned so greatly. But I had to ease the family’s sorrow, and put Fleur’s mind at rest. That’s why I came back. If you tell me to, I’ll leave again.”
“A touching story,” said Hubert. “But I think we can guess the real reason.”
Bonnefous turned to him. “Surely you can’t think the girl’s concern is feigned!”
“Not at all. I’m merely suggesting that beneath that innocent exterior beats a guileful heart. The girl’s reasons go far beyond putting our minds at rest.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, my dear Bonnefous, that she’s here for the same reason that I sent for you.”
“I’ve told you why I came back.” Topaze spoke boldly, but her heart sank. She guessed that Bonnefous was here in connection with the coming birthday and the disposition of the inheritance. It was clear by the look of surprise on the solicitor’s face that he really hadn’t doubted her until now. Until it had become a question of money. Now he looked at her with accusation, his brow darkening in anger. Damnation, she thought. She’d lost him. And probably for good. Well, she’d work on Hubert and Le Loup instead. If she could win them over, they might persuade Bonnefous.
At last her ordeal was over. With a sulky “I’m hungry,” and a promise to resume the interrogation in the morning, Hubert arose and swept out of the room, followed by the others. Topaze sagged back on her heels, lacking even the strength to pull herself to her feet.
Madame Revin hurried in with a tray of food. Frowning, she put it down and helped Topaze to a chair. “The villains,” she muttered. “To treat you so cruelly, mademoiselle. Well, I’ll take care of you, never fear. I’m to serve you while you’re here. And we’re not to talk of you, Gilles and I.”
“Why won’t they let me see Fleur?”
“Not ‘they’. He. Just to hurt her more, I suppose. Well, there’s nothing I can do about it. He’s the master.”
Topaze rubbed at her stiff leg muscles. “I was so young when I left. And so blind. I didn’t like him. But I don’t remember he was cruel.”
“Hmph.” Madame Revin put her fists on her ample hips. “There’s an old saying: A wicked man practices humility only when he must. When Monsieur Simon was alive, and all Monsieur Hubert had to live on was your mother’s income… But it’s different now. Now he can do as he wishes. And she, poor thing, is forced to obey.”
“Oh, Dieu. I wish I could see her. And Uncle Simon…he died peacefully?”
Madame Revin crossed herself. “No more troubled than he should have been, under the circumstances.”
“And Aunt Marie-Madeleine?”
“We don’t speak of her.”
“I don’t understand. Why did Beau-Père call her a harlot? And Cousin Lucien…is he dead? Is that why Beau-Père denied him?”
“Come, my dear. Eat your supper. And then I’ll comb and braid your hair for bed.”
There was no point in arousing Madame Revin’s suspicions by pursuing it further. She was exhausted, and there’d be another wearying day tomorrow. She allowed the woman her kind ministrations, ate her supper, and fell into a troubled sleep, her heart and body longing for Lucien.
Chapter Fourteen
In the morning Père Françoois and Bonnefous arrived to renew their examination. As stiff and sore as she was, Topaze eyed them with scorn. “Am I to be on my knees again this morning, messieurs?”
Père François’s face exuded piety. “A haughty tone, mademoiselle. Don’t forget the sin of Pride. Didn’t Daniel pray on his knees all night?”
“Name of God,” said Bonnefous. “I’m not a lion. Nor a monster. The girl may be a greedy charlatan, but she’ll suffer enough when we’ve caught her at her lies. Take a chair, girl.”
The questioning began again. Père François confined his questions to the family, the relatives, the minutiae of Véeronique’s life in the château. Because he’d begun to serve the family only after Véronique’s disappearance, Bonnefous concentrated on her life after she’d run away. Topaze didn’t know which set of answers came more easily to her: the one because it was her own life, the other because she�
��d been so well tutored. It all blended into a whole—very natural, very real.
She noted with dismay that Bonnefous was particularly sharp with her this morning. His manner suggested that, if money was involved, her guilt was sealed in his mind. She took care to interject an occasional “I don’t remember” into her responses. Forgetting was a human trait, after all. She’d been surprised at Lucien recalling so much of Véronique’s life; her own childhood memories were shrouded in mist.
Bonnefous scowled. “It was the inheritance that brought you to this scheme, n’est-ce pas? Come now, every village crone has whispered about it for years.”
“What inheritance? I don’t think anyone ever talked to me of it.” That seemed true enough. Lucien had thought Véronique hadn’t been told about the money.
Père François looked thoughtful. “I’d forgotten that. It was I who saw the wisdom of keeping the child in the dark. At least until she was older. To keep her humble.”
“I don’t know,” grumbled Bonnefous. “Anyone could have told this creature.”
The door opened. Hubert came in, escorting a beautiful woman. She was dressed in a magnificent rose satin sacque gown held out by large panniers. Her brown hair was carefully arranged in close curls powdered to a silvery gray; her face was well rouged and accented with a small black patch on one cheek. Nestled in her curls was a large jeweled clasp, and a fine string of pearls adorned her neck. Her obviously pampered existence and the way Hubert attended her might have led Topaze to think she was the mistress of the house, and to greet her as such. If she hadn’t seen the painting of Adelaïde. Fervently she thanked all the Saints for that. The two men rose in deference to Chalotais; Topaze noticed that they all but ignored the woman.
“Hubert,” she said, “is this the little gammoner?” Her voice was whining and unpleasant.
“The very one, Justine, my dear.” He kissed her hand and turned to the two men. “Have you trapped her with her own lies yet?”
“If she be false, she’s clever at her game.” Père François shook his head.
“I want to stay and listen.” Justine flounced to Topaze. “Get up, hussy, and give me your chair.”
Topaze stared at her. At closer inspection, it was apparent she was quite young under her powder and rouge. Perhaps eighteen, no more. And more common than she had at first seemed. Her whole attitude, her voice and manner, bespoke a woman of the streets. There was something about the jewel in her hair that seemed familiar. A teardrop pearl on a diamond clasp. Of course! It had belonged to Lucien’s mother. She remembered he’d described it in her portrait. And Hubert had given it to this creature? This painted trollop? She glared at Hubert. “You bring your whore under the same roof as your wife?”
“Be still,” he growled. “Justine is a guest in my house.”
She ignored that, and turned accusing eyes to Père François. “And you allow that? A man of God?”
He cleared his throat. “Mademoiselle Dubois is an honored guest in Monsieur le Comte’s house,” he said smoothly. “At Monsieur le Comte’s table.”
“And in Monsieur le Comte’s bed? Do you let him shame my mother to her face?” To preserve your own place at his table? she thought with contempt.
Père François appeared flustered. “She is a guest. Nothing more.”
“Mind your manners, girl,” snapped Bonnefous. “Your position here is precarious at best.”
Hubert laughed, an unpleasant sound. “This Véronique has more spirit than the last one.”
She shrugged. “We all change. And life has been a hard teacher.”
“And what has life taught you?” said Père François sternly. “While you seek to find sin in Monsieur le Comte’s entirely blameless conduct, you have been less than open about your own. I tell you, my child, you’d go a long way toward legitimizing your claim if you would confess your sins. You said you ran away with Narcisse Galande. Did you commit a mortal sin with him? Tell us in all honesty.”
Topaze pointed an accusing finger at Justine. “With her listening? By Sainte Étienne, even if I were an imposter, I should refuse to allow that whore at my hanging!” She tossed her head at Père François. “I swear by that saint because he’s the patron of fish sellers. And that’s where she belongs. In a stinking fish market!”
“By God…” Hubert made a move toward Topaze as Justine squealed in protest. But Père François seemed to have recovered his sense of propriety. Or his conscience. He put a restraining hand on Hubert’s arm. “If Mademoiselle Dubois is merely a guest, as you say, she doesn’t belong here, where matters of the most serious nature are being discussed. If you insisted that she stay, you’d have to explain it to your confessor. Do you understand?”
Hubert conceded with ill grace. “Justine, take a stroll in the park,” he muttered.
“Oh, but…”
“I said, go!” He turned her about and pushed her roughly toward the door. Topaze caught a flash of fear in her pale blue eyes as she scampered away. Hubert turned to Topaze with an evil smile. “Now let’s see what new lies you have for us today. Do you remember your favorite cat?”
A clumsy trick, Hubert! she thought. “I didn’t have a cat. I don’t like them. I only had dogs. Is my Routard still here?”
“Dead,” he said cruelly.
“Oh. Poor little thing. I remember how happy I was when I got him. Who gave him to me? Was it that odd-looking old man who used to visit? I don’t remember his name. But he used to dandle me on his lap. And he smelled sour. Like old cheese.” That last was an embellishment on the facts that Lucien had given her. But it personalized the cold details, made them seem more real. Far more convincing.
And surely Père François was becoming convinced. His stern expression had softened; he almost began to look on her with favor. He motioned to the other men and drew them to a corner of the room. They conferred for some minutes; by the sharp tones in Bonnefous’s voice, Topaze knew he was still the most skeptical. At last they came back to her. Père François smiled. “You must be weary of this room. Would you like to stretch your legs?”
“May I?”
“Monsieur le Comte has a few more questions, but he thought we might continue our conversation in his cabinet.” He gestured toward the door. “Would you care to lead the way?”
Another test, she thought. And a clever one. Though an impostor might learn names and facts from the villagers, only an intimate of the château could begin to know all the many rooms, and how to reach them. “You must show me the way out of this wing,” she said. “I don’t remember being in the servants’ quarters very often.”
“An honest answer,” said Père François.
“But you know your way in the main pavilion, of course.”
“Of course, Beau-Père. Wait. Do you still have the same appartement that you did when I was young? Or have you taken Uncle Simon’s rooms?”
“Simon’s. It is the master suite, after all.”
She could see by the look in Hubert’s eyes that he hoped to trap her. She blessed Lucien’s rigorous drills, seeing the plan of Grismoulins clear before her. She led them to the cabinet with a hesitancy that she thought would seem natural: twice she pretended to have momentary doubts, and once she truly took a wrong turn. But all the while she exclaimed in delight at the discovery of another and yet another familiar old painting. “And didn’t this used to hang in the galerie?” she’d ask, and watched Hubert’s eyes widen in surprise.
He wasn’t ready to concede to her yet, that was clear. When they reached the cabinet he tried a new trick. He pointed to his desk, a large rosewood piece with gilt-bronze mounts and tulipwood inlays. “Do you remember when I got this? That hot summer after Grandmère Chalotais died, and we had such trouble bringing it from her little house?”
She was almost beginning to enjoy playing with him. “Yes,” she said, and saw the gleam in his eyes. He was sure he had her. She gave him a moment to enjoy his triumph, and then she pounced. “Oh, no. It couldn’t have been the
summer, could it? Are you sure it wasn’t winter? I distinctly remember playing truant from church to look at her new grave in the snow.” She smiled wistfully at Père François, her eyes filling with tears. “I was so afraid she’d be cold.” Dear Lucien. She’d thought it a useless anecdote when he’d told it.
“My child.” Père François’s voice trembled. “I remember how you wept. Monsieur le Comte, I beg you. Embrace this girl. Welcome your sweet prodigal home.”
“Are you so easily swayed?” sneered Hubert. “When a fortune hangs in the balance?”
“Will you deny her then, despite all the proofs, merely because of the money?”
Hubert’s eyes narrowed. “Have you forgotten your loyalties? I’ll decide when—and if!—this creature is to be believed.”
Père François’s glance wavered. The voluptuary had clearly won out over the man of God. “Of course, monsieur.”
He’s not a wolf, thought Topaze. How could Véronique have thought him so? He was more like a pampered cat, vain and self-indulgent, willing to rub up against its master for a crumb or two.
The door crashed open. A heavyset young man stood on the threshold. He was large-boned and strong-looking, but carried his bulk clumsily, as though nature had given him the body but not the skill to live with it. His features were coarse: a prominent brow, a fleshy mouth that drooped at one corner, and ears that were too large. His wig was askew and he was coatless. His face was dirty; it was clear he’d been crying and had wiped at his cheeks with grimy hands. He seemed surprised to find people in the room, and started to back away.
“What do you want?” growled Hubert.
The young man hesitated, then pointed to a display of arms on the wall. “I came for a p-p-pistol.”
Hubert looked down at his clenched fists. “What sin did I commit, that God has punished me so?” He looked up at the young man. “The pistols don’t work. They’re very old. Didn’t I tell you that?”
“I know. I j-j-just want to scare the b-b-boys.”
“What boys?”
Louisa Rawlings Page 18