Delphine

by Sylvia Halliday

  “The honor is mine, madame, to have such a charming guest. Now, you will wish me to notify your husband. Yes?”

  She hesitated for a moment, a shadow crossing her face. “Yes. Monsieur Gilles Despreaux. The upholsterer’s shop on the Rue des Saintes.”

  “Ah, Madame Despreaux. May one venture to suggest that Monsieur Gilles is a bit of a fool for allowing his lovely wife to be abroad on such a dismal evening?”

  “He—he did not—allow it. He does not know I went out.”

  A gentle smile. “Your troubled eyes tell me it was not an assignation in the rain.”

  “No. I—I wished to be alone for a little.”

  “A lovers’ quarrel, n’est-ce pas?”

  There was no need to feign the hurt in her eyes. “Lovers quarrel, but husbands and wives bring grief to one another.”

  “My wife and I were supremely happy. There were few quarrels and no infidelities, though the temptation was strong at times! But she was a blessing to me until the day she died.”

  “Then you are most fortunate, Monsieur de Janequin,” she sighed.

  “Come! Let me bring a smile to your face, madame. We shall sup together here in your room, and I shall tell you amusing little stories until your gloom is quite dispelled! Fortunately my house guest Monsieur Braudel is dining elsewhere tonight. He is a dour and suspicious man, but perhaps that is the nature of lawyers. Finish your clairet while I arrange our supper and send a message to your husband. If you have quarreled”—and here his eyes twinkled warmly—“mayhap this enforced separation will make him more appreciative of your virtues!”

  They dined on partridges and goose pâté and fresh strawberries, while Monsieur de Janequin regaled her with stories of life at court and Delphine laughed gaily, forgetting for awhile the ugly part she must play. But after the dishes were cleared away, a cozy fire lit in the fireplace, and two chairs drawn up in front of the hearth (Monsieur de Janequin, despite his own limp, helped her hobble out of bed and into a chair), the mood turned pensive and somber. They sat, side by side, sipping the last of their wine and gazing into the flames. He told her of his wife, his two daughters, his son—all dead, wiped out by the plague four years before, while he was away fighting at Corbie.

  “I left them safe at home,” he said softly, “while I marched off into the jaws of hell. I returned with naught but this shattered leg—to an empty château. Death’s great jest—a bitter irony.”

  “Ah Dieu. How lonely you must be.”

  “I have my memories. Ours was a great and wondrous love, my wife’s and mine. It is the children I mourn, cut off in their prime. My daughter Laure would be almost your age now. You are—what? Seventeen? Eighteen?”

  “Nineteen for a month now.”

  “Laure would have been sixteen.” He sighed. “She might have been a wife, even as you.” Delphine turned her head away, seeming to fight back tears. The gesture was not lost on Janequin. He put a gentle hand on hers. “Are you so unhappy, my child?”

  “My father warned me. But I was headstrong and would not listen. His was a fine family of the nobility, with titles and honors. But he was the fourth son, and there was never enough money as I was growing up. And though I was raised in the traditions of our class, I could never forget that my mother—of equally fine lineage—was always ashamed of my father’s slender means. Gilles was rich, and he seemed devoted to me. I thought my father’s warnings were mere snobbery, the aristocrat’s disdain of the bourgeoisie. Alas! It did not take me long to understand his misgivings. Gilles is—” She shook her head. “No. It is not your concern. You have been more than kind to me. Why should I burden you with my unhappiness?”

  He took her hand in his own two. “It is a sweet burden for a lonely man. I can pretend for a little that—you are my daughter. Please go on.”

  “What can I say of Gilles? He is so far from being a gentleman, so—What can I say? Yet it is he who seems ashamed of me. I am kept almost a prisoner, denied the right to be châtelaine of my own household. The housekeeper holds the keys and only gives them to me when he instructs her to do so. If I am thrifty, I can manage to save a coin or two from the household accounts, but if I spend them in an indulgence he curses me for an extravagant aristocrat and reduces my allowance accordingly. And he keeps me only that he may flaunt me before his friends, while he gives his attentions to other women.” She stopped, overcome with emotion. It was not difficult to persuade him of her misery with Gilles, but she did not want her feelings to carry her away to the point where she might forget to keep her wits about her. She took a deep breath, and waited until she felt more in control of herself.

  “And your parents?”

  “My mother died, long before I met Gilles. My father spurned me after my marriage and went away to America to seek his fortune.”

  “And now you are quite alone, poor child.” Janequin’s words were full of understanding, but he frowned slightly to himself, wondering if the girl intended to take advantage of his sympathy and ask for money. He would probably give it to her—God knows he had more than enough for himself, and no heirs—but he fervently prayed she would not do so. He would not like to be disappointed in her.

  She laughed softly. “I am drowning in gloom tonight, and there is no need for it! See? I have made you unhappy as well. And yet my heart is filled with hope. I have had a letter from my father. He has a plantation in Guadeloupe and has met with great success. He is coming home. He forgives me.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I shall settle my accounts with Gilles and leave him.”

  “Are there children?”

  She hesitated. Gilles had given her free rein in the telling of her tale—at least in the details that did not matter—but she wished Robert to remain untouched by the corrupting poison of her lies. “No,” she said.

  She spent nearly a week with Monsieur le Duc de Janequin, deliberately grimacing each time she tried to stand, so that he waggled his finger like a knowing father and insisted she must stay another day, and then another. She met his lawyer Monsieur Braudel, and though the man treated her with suspicion at first, she managed at length to charm him with an ease that surprised even herself. Janequin dutifully sent letters to Gilles keeping him apprised of his wife’s health, and secretly wondered that the man never bothered to visit her. And though Delphine missed her sweet Robert, she took great joy in Janequin’s company, feeling again a pang of guilt that he must be deceived. They read Descartes together, and Corneille and Ronsard; they played cards and trictrac, though Delphine was hard pressed to hold her tongue each time a sea oath sprang to her lips. When she left, Janequin presented her with a small volume of poetry as a memento of her visit.

  It was a week later that a note arrived from Monsieur le Duc, begging her to take supper with him. Gilles was delighted, and accepted for her, urging her to advance the scheme as quickly as possible. She ignored his malicious parting shot (“Has the old fool asked you to go down for him yet?”), and went forth into the sweet spring night.

  This time they dined with Monsieur Braudel. Delphine cursed silently. It would be far more difficult to set the plan in motion with him present! Then she reconsidered. Perhaps in the long run it would be better. If he believed her, surely Janequin would, and it would prove to them both that she had nothing to hide.

  She sighed and put down her soup spoon. “I should not have come tonight. I fear I am poor company.” The men hastened to reassure her.

  “What troubles you, madame?” Janequin reached across the table and patted her hand.

  “I am sick with worry. My father still has not returned, and I fear I shall need money soon. For—someone else.”

  Braudel’s face was hard, but a light of triumph glowed in his eyes. Had he not warned Janequin to be on his guard? “For a lover?” he asked harshly.

  Janequin banged down his fist loudly. “Nom de Dieu, Braudel! You shall not insult my guests at my table!” He looked kindly to Delphine, now sitting shamefaced, as tho
ugh Braudel’s words might have hit the mark. “If you need a loan until your father comes home, I shall be happy to oblige. Not a word, monsieur,” he warned Braudel, who had begun to huff and sputter. “I know you are my adviser. But it is my money, and if I choose to loan it—or give it even—I will do so. For whatever reason madame needs the money.”

  “No!” she said with asperity. “I have my pride, monsieur! I shall not presume on your kindness so much as to take a single sou from you! You may rest easy, Monsieur Braudel,” she said, drawing herself up with dignity, “I am not a common mountebank who would defraud your client!” Braudel blushed furiously and mumbled an apology, and no more was said of the matter for the rest of the evening.

  But three days later she composed a careful message to Janequin. She wished to see him on an important matter. Her mind was made up, but she wished to talk to him, simply as a friend. It would be helpful if Monsieur Braudel would attend the interview as well, though she knew he would not be happy with what he might hear. Still, she welcomed his advice.

  When they were settled comfortably in a cozy salon in Janequin’s house, she turned first to the lawyer.

  “Do not scold me, Monsieur Braudel,” she began. “I know that what I propose is contrary to the law, but it is only a small thing, and where’s the harm? I beg your understanding. To begin: I found, among my mother’s papers, deeds to some properties in Brittany. They were part of my dowry to Gilles, and quite properly belong to him now. I know that I must, by law, turn them over to my husband, and I may not sell them. But I can use two or three of them as collateral on a loan, to be repaid when my father returns.”

  Braudel frowned and shook his head. “Not if they belong to your husband!”

  “But they are in my mother’s name—Madame la Vicomtesse de Fresnel.”

  “But if your mother is dead—?”

  “Yes, child,” said Janequin gently. “The deeds belong to your husband.”

  Delphine took a deep breath. “Not if the moneylender thinks that I am the Vicomtesse de Fresnel.”

  “Mon Dieu! You cannot!”

  “I told you, my mind is made up. But oh, messieurs,” the amber eyes filled with tears, “is it such a dreadful thing I would do? When my father returns, the money will be paid back, the deeds will be returned to Gilles—though he will never have missed them—and I shall be free. It is only a little amount, two thousand livres.”

  “A-a-ah!” Monsieur Braudel leaped from his chair in exasperation, pacing the room like a man who knows he is beaten.

  Janequin laughed softly. “There are times, Braudel, when the heart is worth more than the head. But tell me, my child, if you were minded to do it—willy-nilly—why did you come here?”

  “For your blessing, mayhap,” she whispered.

  “You have that—hush, Braudel!—and I shall accompany you to the moneylender if it will give you courage.”

  She thought for a moment. “Yes—perhaps. He is so suspicious. As though he thought the deeds were stolen or counterfeit. I must do everything I can to persuade him that I am Madame la Vicomtesse. I shall wear my best gown. Ah Dieu!”—she put a delicate hand to her bosom—“had I a jewel or two, to appear rich and important—”

  “My late wife’s jewels are in the bank in Paris, but I have here in Dieppe a necklace which belonged to my sister the Marquise de Courtan. You shall wear it.”

  “Nom de Dieu!” Braudel was beside himself.

  “I cannot, monsieur. No.”

  “I insist upon it.”

  “How can I?” she asked, “when Monsieur Braudel looks at me as if he were seeing a thief!”

  Janequin smiled. “But I shall be with you—and the necklace. Will that not suffice?”

  Her lip trembled with injured pride. “No. I shall not wear the necklace unless Monsieur Braudel accompanies us as well, and never lets the necklace out of his sight!”

  Janequin nodded. “Agreed. Braudel?” Reluctantly the lawyer assented.

  Delphine wrung her hands. “I’m afraid. It is in a vile part of town, and I have agreed to meet the man at night. Could we not have one or two armed men as well, to guard the necklace?”

  “I shall see that they guard you, for you are far more precious than cold stones.”

  “God bless you, Monsieur,” she whispered.

  Gilles was overjoyed to hear the plan was proceeding so well, that Delphine had so easily led Janequin into offering the necklace. They arranged for the “loan” to take place the following night, in a small warehouse, dimly lit but reached through a wide lane that would allay Monsieur Braudel’s fears of cutpurses lying in wait. Gilles, in a long black wig, with heavy spectacles on his nose, his voice deliberately lowered and guttural, played the moneylender. He growled suspiciously at Delphine, even after she had nonchalantly thrown back her cloak to reveal the sparkling necklace at her throat. But Monsieur Braudel harrumphed angrily, and Monsieur de Janequin folded his arms across his chest and insisted that the moneylender honor his promise. Still grumbling, Gilles examined the “deeds” and counted out two thousand livres for Delphine.

  As soon as they had regained the Duc de Janequin’s coach, Delphine pulled the jewels from her neck and thrust the piece into Braudel’s hand. “There, monsieur! Not for another moment would I wear them, feeling your eyes on me!”

  “Forgive me, Madame Despreaux, I—” Braudel looked shamefaced, though more than a little pleased. The jewels were safe, and this ridiculous scheme of the deeds had not, after all, been a plot to defraud the duc. He was growing quite fond of the girl; how nice to be reassured of her basic goodness.

  Glad to have the whole matter done, Janequin laughed aloud. “It is I who merit your apology, Braudel! That you should think me a fool who must be governed in all my affairs! But come. Wine. Supper. And then we shall bring madame to her home before her errant husband returns from his wanderings!”

  It was several days later that Monsieur de Janequin appeared at Gilles’s workshop. Delphine was in a panic that the duc would recognize her husband, but Despreaux bowed low and chatted pleasantly with the man, thanking him in person for all the kindnesses he had extended to his wife. When at last the duc had departed, promising to send an invitation soon to Monsieur Despreaux and his charming wife, Gilles laughed uproariously at the look of anxiety on Delphine’s face. “Are you sure you have not let him bed you, my sweet? The man can scarcely be parted from you for a day or so!”

  “Damn your black soul,” she said. “He is a dear man who looks upon me as a daughter. It breaks my heart to see how he trusts in me.”

  An ugly laugh. “But then he does not know you as well as I! Let us make an end to this charade as soon as possible. The sheep is waiting to be sheared. Thursday next, I think. Can it be managed?”

  She nodded, hating him, hating herself.

  On Thursday morning she went again to Monsieur de Janequin. She found him in the garden, admiring the first of his Holland tulips—pink-streaked and feather-edged—that danced in the gentle spring breeze. He smiled. “I have not known May to shine so sweetly for me in a long time. Is it the flowers? Or your presence in my garden that warms my old heart?”

  She gave a heavy sigh. “You will not be so glad to see me when I tell you why I have come. I have—debts—I do not wish Gilles to know. There is one more deed, and the moneylender has agreed to loan me another five hundred livres. But I am afraid. If you and Monsieur Braudel—Ah, I have no right to ask it of you again!”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. I was ashamed to come and tell you before this.”

  “Dommage! Braudel has returned to Paris for a day or two. How he will howl to find I have gone on this venture without him!”

  Delphine hesitated. She had counted on Braudel’s presence. He was skeptical and shrewd—if he could be fooled they had nothing to fear. But when Braudel returned, might he not be suspicious of a meeting that had taken place without him? Now she was forced to play a reckless game and hope that Monsieur le Duc would
respond as she wished him to. “If Monsieur Braudel is not here, I shall not take the necklace,” she announced firmly.

  “Nonsense! Of course you shall.”

  She shook her head. “No. I cannot.”

  “Nom de Dieu! Do you agree with Monsieur Braudel that I am a fool?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then listen to me. I shall give you the necklace in the carriage and watch it carefully until the transaction is done and you have handed it back to me. If Braudel asks me, I shall tell him with perfect truth that the necklace never left my sight.” He smiled, his eyes twinkling. “If he doubts me still, I shall toss the rascal on his ear! What say you to that?”

  Delphine buried her face in her hands, overcome with remorse. Then the thought of losing Robert to Gilles crowded out everything else, and she lifted her head and smiled, wiping away her tears. “I think—I think you are the kindest man I have ever known.”

  It was almost too easy. This time Delphine asked that Janequin’s two men at arms stand inside the door of the warehouse rather than waiting at the coach as they had before. It was too dim for them truly to see anything, but they would help to maintain the illusion in Janequin’s eyes (and later in Braudel’s, when he heard of it) that the necklace was never in any danger. Delphine and Janequin sat facing Gilles across the rickety table, the single large candle sputtering in front of them. Again Gilles grumbled about the transaction, questioning the authenticity of the deed, the genuineness of the signature, the honesty of the lady herself.

  “How am I to know,” he burst out, “that you are Madame de Fresnel? You look like a great lady, with your jewels and all, but how am I to know you did not steal the deed, that your sparkling diamonds are not false?”

  She drew herself up haughtily. “How dare you! Look!” She snatched the necklace from her throat. “See for yourself!” She dropped it into Gilles’s hand; he held it to the light of the candle, squinting at it through his thick glasses, then turned his hand over and dropped it back into her palm. It had been done so smoothly, so quickly, that she almost thought he had not made the exchange; it was only when she put the necklace on again and had to keep from flinching at the cold metal against her skin that she knew he had shaken the imitation necklace out of his sleeve in that moment when he had put it in her hand.