Delphine

by Sylvia Halliday

  That was what André had done. She could almost forgive him the unhappiness of her marriage, his abandonment of her, even the death of her father. But when she searched her heart she could not find Gosse anywhere. Delphine had killed her, had plunged the knife into her heart, had let the vital spirit drain away. And wherefore? For blue eyes that had imprisoned her, strong arms that had beckoned to her, lips that had whispered a siren song. Now Gosse was dead, and Gilles was dying because of her, and André was gone. She had nothing.

  She shook the red cap skyward. “If it takes a lifetime, André,” she sobbed, her tears overwhelming her at last, “there will be a reckoning as will shake the pillars of God’s heaven!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Upon my word, André, but you have taught your boys to ride well!”

  André laughed and sat up, settling his back against the sun-warmed tree trunk on the bank of the Loire. He smiled and waved at the two boys who raced their horses in the open meadow that fronted the river—a blond lad about nine, a chestnut-haired boy perhaps two years younger. They shouted something and wheeled about, making for the far side of the meadow, their voices loud and boisterous in the soft spring air. His face twisted in a mock grimace, André turned to his companion, a man of about his own age with a pleasant face and a remarkable head of flowing red curls. “But I fear they will frighten the fish away with their noise, Jean-Auguste.” He poked lazily at the fishing pole propped against a small rock, stirring the line in the water.

  Jean-Auguste, Vicomte de Narbaux, grinned and popped a ripe strawberry into his mouth, then handed the basket of fruit to André. “On such a beautiful day, mon ami, one does not go fishing to catch fish. Only to find tranquility.”

  “Indeed? Then why has no one told that to my lads?”

  “It is happy noise, André, my friend. Be grateful!” Jean-Auguste tugged at the fishing pole that had jerked suddenly in his hand, then swore as the line went slack again.

  “Tranquility, Jean-Auguste. Tranquility!”

  Jean-Auguste gave him a withering stare and ate another strawberry. “Oh! By the by,” he said suddenly, “did I tell you I had a letter from my cousin Georges de Mersenne in Quebec?”

  “No. He is well?”

  Jean-Auguste laughed. “Well—Aunt Marguerite may say he has taken leave of his reason. It will be amusing to hear what she has to say about her grandson when she visits us this summer. She has never been at a loss for words. And it seems that Georges has married a savage! Some Huron woman he has been living with.”

  “I remember her,” said André. “A charming girl. And if he is happy—?” He shrugged.

  “But Georges is Marguerite’s only heir. When she dies, her estate in Poitou will fall to him. What will he do? Abandon his wife and come home?”

  “No,” said André, remembering. “I think New France is his home now. He would miss it grievously if he came here.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  André shook his head. “No. It was like a dream, a time of healing—no more.” He looked thoughtful. “Do you realize it is more than two years since I have been there? It was the middle of April—in ’39—when we sailed for home—and what is it today? The fourth of May?”

  “The fifth, I think.”

  André helped himself to another berry. “Thirty-nine. That was a year for battles! Do you remember the fighting in Salces in Jury?”

  “I remember we lost it again in December! That was why, when we took Arras last summer, I volunteered to stay on through the winter to hold it. And with the end of the war in sight—God willing!—and fewer battles being fought, my winter duty has discharged this summer’s obligation. I intend to fish and laze about until the snow falls!”

  André sighed. “I would volunteer if I could this summer, but Richelieu will not hear of it.”

  “And a wise decision it was,” said Jean-Auguste sharply. “That fever you came down with on the Italian front last year—Nom de Dieu! You know as well as I that your lung has never healed fully since your injuries at La Forêt! And you are far more valuable to the king as an adviser on New France, with your knowledge of the Huron ways and language.”

  “But how am I to fill my days, if I cannot go to war again?”

  Jean-Auguste laughed. “I don’t remember your being so enamored of battle in the past!”

  “That was when Marielle waited at home in Vilmorin.”

  “Oh, my friend. Is it so hard for you still?”

  “It is three years since—” he could not say the words. “I am forty-three, the years are passing, and I feel dead and old—empty and lonely—”

  “But what about Clémence de Vignon? Lysette was so sure you would enjoy her company. She is a sweet woman, widowed far too young—not yet thirty, I think. She seems much like Marielle—gracious, serene, quiet—”

  “I shall tell you, Jean-Auguste, but you must not breathe a word to that lovely wife of yours. Lysette is very kind to play matchmaker, to concern herself with my lonely days—and nights—but—I spent a week in Clémence’s company last fall when the court was at Fontainebleau.”

  “In her bed?”

  “No. She is very chaste and proper.”

  “As was Marielle, I think,” said Jean-Auguste defensively.

  “Yes, but—” André plucked absently at a blade of grass, his blue eyes deep with remembrance. “As I said,” he continued at last, “I spent a week with Clémence at Court, and a week with her at Chimère, with you and Lysette—and I shall tell you, my friend, the woman bores me to tears! God knows, if I wanted her I could have seduced her long since. But I would rather go to Paris and pay a call on Marion de Lorme. She’s expensive, but at least she does not put me to sleep!”

  “Ah Dieu! And since Marielle—no one to stir your heart?”

  André laughed sardonically, the sound barely hiding the pain in his voice. “The tavern wench in Vouvray is madly in love with me. She lifts her skirts before I come in the door.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly, the humor suddenly empty and flat. “There was a girl—two years ago—she haunts me still.” He leaned forward, arms around his knees, gazing into the rippling current of the river. “She was so young, so full of joy and life. Her sunshine filled my cold heart, awakened my soul. And even when she angered me—which was often, mon Dieu!—the anger made me feel alive. Is that foolish, mon ami?”

  Jean-Auguste shook his head in understanding. “No. How old was she?”

  “Very young, in more than years. A child-woman, but as much woman as child. Yet more fearless and brave than many a man. And her laughter—I hear it in my dreams still—rich and deep, caressing my senses even in memory—”

  “Merde! And you let her go?” Jean-Auguste’s gray eyes were wide with disbelief.

  “She was like a young bird, wild and free. Did you ever break a stallion and watch the light die in its eyes? I think it would be so with her.” He sighed. “But her flame warmed these old bones for a spell.”

  “You are a fool for not seeking her out!”

  “I am too old to play the panting swain.”

  “Pah! I don’t feel old! And I am scarce five years your junior!”

  “I think it is because Lysette keeps you young. She never ceases to surprise me. A changeable flower. That would keep a man young.”

  Jean-Auguste laughed ruefully, thinking of his wife. “And make him old at the same time! But—yes. Lysette tries me often, but her freshness is a joy. I would have her no other way.”

  “And so it was with her, though I did not know her worth until long after we were parted.”

  “Then seek her out!”

  “I did at last—as best I could—when I could no longer bear the emptiness of my days, the sound of her voice in my dreams. I sent a man to where I thought she might be, to where there might be those who knew her. Alas! He found a cottage burned to the ground, no word of her father, no trace of her. My bright bird had flown.”

  Jean-Auguste was silent for a long time. “Why not go
to Paris? The court is at the Louvre Palace, and Louis would be delighted to see you. He is growing tired at last of his favorite, Henri de Cinq-Mars.”

  “Yes. I’ve met him. Arrogant little popinjay. Too young to have found such favor as the king’s tender companion.”

  “I think he will not have that favor much longer. When the dog forces the master to bark—But Louis will be restless, and as a consequence the court will sparkle with gaiety, trying to amuse him. Why not go? There was a time when André, Comte du Crillon, could have any woman in Paris he wanted, married or unmarried! Are you too old for that anymore?” Jean-Auguste grinned wickedly, his baiting that of one old friend to another. “I give you a challenge, mon ami! Marion de Lorme. You have enjoyed her favors in the past?”

  “For a price. That particular courtesan comes dear. But I have found her worth it.”

  “Well then. They say she has attached herself to Cinq-Mars. With his position and prestige at court, he makes a worthy patron. It would take a—remarkable man to turn her head at this time. And with no remuneration, mind you! Are you—equal to the challenge?”

  André chuckled deep in his throat, contemplating the dare, half minded to take up the gauntlet. “Why not?” he said at last. “And I shall send you the lady’s garter as proof. I only pray that Clémence does not decide to come to Paris this month! She has invited me to her château several times, and I have declined on the pretense that I was too busy with my vineyards at Vilmorin. By my faith, I am feeling much bedeviled and pursued by that lady!”

  “I fear that Lysette has her heart set on Clémence as a neighbor! The moment my wife finds that you have gone to Paris, she will want to follow at once, and bring Clémence with her. Well, I shall try to forestall her plans. In the meantime, I should be starting for home.” Jean-Auguste stood up and stretched. “’Tis a pleasant hour’s ride, but Lysette will pout if I am late, and I shall be forced to forfeit a new fan or a mirror to coax a smile from her!”

  “Come back to Vilmorin, then,” said André, indicating the large golden-stoned château set at some distance from the river. “I shall fortify you with a cup of good Crillon wine whilst the grooms bring your horse around.”

  “Ha! That vinegar?” Jean-Auguste grinned and slapped André on the back. “Well, I shall drink it anyway. It will be a humbling experience, to know how fortunate I am that le bon Dieu has seen fit to make my wine so much finer than yours!” Laughing, the two men crossed the grassy meadow.

  Jean-Auguste raised himself up on his elbows to contemplate the woman who lay beneath him. In the light of the single candle Lysette’s eyes, heavy with sated passion, were as black as the raven curls that tumbled in disarray about her head. But he knew it was an illusion of the dark night; the color of those eyes—the rich purple of wood violets—was as familiar to him as the elfin face and the full mouth that smiled seductively at him. He leaned down and kissed her again. Five years, and still his heart swelled with love and joy for this woman who shared his bed, who gave him the sons he had wanted—and in full measure! He nearly laughed aloud, thinking of it, the wonder of it. He had wanted a son to name after his dead brother Gabriel; three years ago Lysette had presented him with two sons, as alike as two peas—Jean-Gabriel, Pierre-Gabriel. They had hair that flamed as red as his own, gray eyes—like his own—and the glint of the devil in their smiles that could only have come from their mother! Sighing contentedly, he eased his weight off Lysette’s form and lay back on his own pillow, beaming absently at the canopy above the bed. Lysette grumbled at being abandoned and snuggled into the warmth of his arm, idly tracing patterns on his chest with a delicate forefinger until he found himself beginning to want her again.

  “How handsome you are,” she murmured. “Do you know how proud I am to be seen with you when we go out?”

  His mouth twitched in a crooked smile. “Go out where?”

  “Oh, just out! To visit friends, to a party.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Why should I want anything? Dieu du ciel, Jean-Auguste, why should I want anything?”

  He sat up and frowned down at her. “I shall never understand why you must play your little games!” An edge of exasperation entered his voice. “I am not deceived, and you know it. Sometimes I think you do it for the joy of it, but it seems an unnecessary bother to me! Now, where are we going?”

  She looked shamefaced. “You remember—I told you. Wednesday next. Madame d’Hiver’s birthday.”

  “Ah. Yes. And what do you want? A new gown?”

  “Yes—no—I—”

  “Hum. You have bought it already, and now you are afraid to tell me.”

  “Oh, Jean-Auguste,” she said, smiling meekly. “It is a lovely gown, the yellow of primroses—”

  “I have no doubt you will look charming in it. Why could you not simply have told me of it to begin with?”

  “It cost so much—I did not think, when I ordered the fabric, of the new taxes—one sol per livre!—and the finished gown was far more than—I did not mean to spend so much—I promise you, the next time—”

  “Enough!” he said, laughing. “We can afford it this year.” His eyes twinkled. “When the grape harvest comes, I shall set you into the vat to tread the grapes—that way you may earn your keep!”

  “Pooh!” she said, pushing him down onto the pillow and leaning over him. “If I must earn my keep, I shall do it in my own way!” She kissed him resoundingly on the mouth and grinned in satisfaction.

  “Only assuming I find you more valuable in the bedchamber than in the vineyards!” He dodged aside as she pummeled him with her pillow. After a brief battle, during which he tickled her unmercifully and she battered him with the pillow, she settled once again into his arms.

  She sighed. “How did you find André?”

  “Well.”

  “He is so lonely, the poor man. And his motherless children—”

  “Louise is good to them.”

  “But Louise is a housekeeper, not a mother, and far too old. And André is so alone. Do you think he would come to Madame d’Hiver’s birthday next week? I’m sure I could persuade her to invite him. And Clémence will be there—”

  Jean-Auguste hesitated. “He—will be off to Paris in a day or two. The change will do him good.”

  “Paris? Nom de Dieu! Let me see if I can arrange it. I shall send our regrets to Madame d’Hiver, and notify Clémence at once—”

  “No.”

  “But Jean-Auguste—if André will be in Paris—”

  “We shall not go! And certainly not with Clémence de Vignon.”

  “But he needs someone like Clémence. The boys need her. She is so like Marielle—” Lysette’s voice was wistful. “She was such a dear friend, was she not? We had so little time. Do you remember how she visited me all that winter, as I grew large with the twins in my womb? How kind she was to me, easing my fears—”

  “Is it for André—or yourself—that you promote Clémence’s cause?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I grieve for André as well, ma chère, but you can no more bring Marielle back than André can. Leave him alone.”

  “Are you forbidding me?” she said petulantly.

  “I refuse to treat you like a child, with rules and commands.”

  She wriggled contentedly in his arms. “Then may I do as I please in this matter?”

  “No!” he exploded. “We shall not follow André to Paris, dragging Clémence with us! Name of God! Heaven alone knows why I do not beat you every single day of our lives together! Sometimes I think you are the same willful, stubborn, impossible—”

  “Yes?” she said, sitting up and folding her arms across her bare bosom.

  He shook his head, softening. “The same stubborn, willful, adorable woman that I loved when we married, that I love now.” He pulled her down into his embrace, filled with desire. “Not another word tonight, wench! Earn your keep!”

  “Not another word,” she murmured, and wrapped her arms
around his neck, abandoning herself to his passion.

  But a small voice still whispered in her ear. Perhaps in a week or two it would be time again to talk about going to Paris. She would see Clémence installed in Vilmorin yet! For André’s good, the foolish man!

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Come along, André, I have a barge waiting.”

  André nodded and followed his companion through the long corridor of the Louvre Palace, down a marble staircase, and into the May twilight. When they stood at last on the edge of the stone quai that kept the floodwaters of the Seine from inundating the city every spring, his companion, René, Duc de Rannel, waved his arm daintily in the air, signaling to a small boat waiting on the placid river. André threw on his cloak, adjusting it so it lay over one shoulder and swept diagonally across his back; it was a slightly more flamboyant style than he usually affected, but Rannel was such a peacock that he, André, felt positively plain in the man’s presence. In truth, he was not overly fond of Rannel, with his beribboned doublet and his plumes and lappets and fussy manners. One of the younger dandies, he had never learned that the measure of a man was in his sword and his wit, not in the skill of his tailor. Even his hair was carefully dressed in that seeming offhand manner adapted by many of the courtiers: the long flowing curls purposely tousled, except for one piece, longer than the rest, combed over one shoulder and tied with a ribbon bow. A lovelock, they called it, and it was to signify that the wearer burned with a secret love.

  But André had been feeling lonely, and it was too sweet a night to stay in his apartments in the Louvre and fret. There were to be no royal receptions this evening, as the queen was at Saint-Germain and Louis was dining privately with Cardinal Richelieu. André had seen the latest play in the Hôtel de Bourgogne, many of his friends were off fighting at the front, and he had never enjoyed the gambling houses of Le Marais. Moreover, Mademoiselle Marion de Lorme, whose garter had been sent to Jean-Auguste barely a week after André’s arrival in Paris, was entertaining Monsieur de Cinq-Mars tonight. And so when Rannel had invited him to accompany him, promising an enchanting evening, André had agreed.