Delphine

by Sylvia Halliday

  Foulon, her steward, was now moving among the guests to announce supper. A large room had been set up off the grand salon with long trestle tables arranged in a U-shape and covered with snowy cloths and fine gold plates and delicate crystal goblets from Venice. Janequin had been lavish in his budget for the soirée (despite Braudel’s bleats of protest), and Delphine had planned a sumptuous repast.

  Watching her guests file into the dining room, Delphine massaged her earlobe absently, then winced in annoyance. Damn! Her earring had begun to pinch and chafe; there was a rough spur of metal that would have to be rasped smooth. Well, perhaps there was time to put on new earrings now—it would be several minutes before all the guests had found their seats. She hurried up the stairs to her own chamber on the floor above and exchanged her jewels, then sped back to her guests. As she passed the library, she glanced in and was surprised to see André standing before the cold fireplace and gazing morosely up at the Vouet portrait of her above the mantel.

  “La! André!” she laughed gaily, her voice a silver bell. “Will you not come to supper?” And turned to leave.

  But he crossed the room in several long strides, clutching her arm as she would have gone out the door, and pulling her savagely back into the room. He swung her around to face him, his hands tight on her shoulders, his blue eyes burning with fierce intensity.

  “Let me go,” she said coldly.

  “I cannot believe you would do this,” he said bitterly. “Nom de Dieu, Delphine, he is an old man!”

  “And a very dear one.”

  “And when he takes you to bed—can there be any joy for you?”

  “That’s scarcely your concern! Will you let me go?”

  He released her and turned away, running his fingers impatiently through his hair. “Don’t be a fool,” he said quietly. “I speak to you as a friend. There is passion in you—for all your banked fires. How long can an old man satisfy you?”

  “That remains to be seen. Are you so young and—virile—yourself, that you can speak ill of Bernard?”

  His face went white, as though she had struck him in the pit of his stomach. “You viper!” he spat at last, his chest heaving in anger. “I wonder if Bernard knows what a savage he is really marrying!” And turning, he strode from the room.

  In the dining salon he took a seat just where the main table turned a corner, and where he could stare at Delphine with a resentful frown. She stirred uncomfortably as the meal progressed, seeing the anger, the naked desire in his face. Several times she sent a servant to offer him a particularly succulent dish, but he waved it aside impatiently and called for more wine. He was drinking a great deal of wine, and though she guessed that as a soldier he was used to it, it still made her uneasy. She smiled and chatted with forced gaiety, but the strain taxed her nerves. Bernard was of little use to her. Louise de Trémont had insinuated herself next to him and was clinging to his arm, demanding every moment of his time. And Rannel, seated to her left, had already found a new love; even as Delphine watched, the young woman untied a bow of pink ribbon from her bodice and looped it shyly about René’s lovelock. Delphine sighed. So much for love. She had always known the shallowness of her admirers’ affections for her; she had been indifferent in the past, but now she felt an unexpected twinge of pain. Copain, Gunner, Michel. They had loved her honestly, truly, deeply. Now she had Bernard’s sense of decency that would not allow her honor to be stained, René’s fickle love—a thing of shadow with little substance, and André’s lust. It was an ill-matched exchange.

  As the evening wore on, the wine flowed and tongues were loosened; wit gave way to ribaldry and eventually to calumny, particularly in the case of Louise de Trémont. She took great delight in maligning courtiers who were not present, and passing on choice bits of malicious gossip, choosing as her victims those who seemed to be held in low esteem by the majority of the guests. After all, who would chide her and her wicked tongue who secretly agreed with her slanders?

  At last Janequin had had enough. Louise was talking about Madame de Chevreuse who was in exile in England. Since the woman had often been involved in treasonous activities against the crown, the company felt free to heap scorn upon her, attributing to her the most scandalous behavior, all to the accompaniment of great hilarity. Janequin set down his wineglass quietly. “There is much commendable in La Chevreuse,” he said.

  “Commendable?” Louise’s voice rose in a horrified shriek, her nose twitching in sanctimonious disapproval. “The woman encouraged the queen to write letters to her brother the king of Spain—in cipher, mon Dieu!—and in time of war! But for the queen’s warning to her confidante, your ‘commendable’ Chevreuse might have been arrested!”

  Janequin sighed. “She was misguided, perhaps, but she is a woman of great beauty and intelligence—and bravery. She scarce deserves your mockery.”

  “How so brave?” asked a guest.

  “With little aid from her friends, the woman escaped to Spain alone. And on horseback.”

  “On horseback? The entire journey?” There was an awed silence.

  “But my dears!” gushed a fat duchesse, popping a piece of marchpane into her mouth. “Do you not know the story? It is quite delicious! Chevreuse escaped dressed as a man!”

  “No! In breeches?”

  “Yes. And she rode astride!”

  “Mon Dieu,” giggled one of the women. “I would not spread my legs for a horse.”

  “A horse would not petition you, my love,” said her husband sourly.

  A thin-faced comtesse sniffed. “But to wear breeches! Only harlots wear breeches, and then only under their petticoats! Father Joseph, my confessor, often says that a woman of virtue should allow nothing between her legs.”

  “My dear, we are speaking of Chevreuse,” said Louise, “not a woman of virtue.” This was followed by much laughter and snickered asides by the men.

  “Well, I never heard of such a thing before,” said the thin comtesse primly. “A woman dressed as a man!”

  “Au contraire,” said André suddenly, draining the last of his wine. “I have a better story to tell.” Delphine froze, feeling her heart begin to thump in her breast. It was obvious from his slurred voice that he had drunk too much and was feeling reckless. “I knew a woman who not only dressed as a man, but played the part as well.”

  “I should think it a tedious story,” said Delphine tightly.

  “No, no! Let Monsieur le Comte tell it!”

  “It was on my journey home from New France. She was the daughter of the captain.”

  “Nom de Dieu,” said Rannel, fanning himself with delicate fingers. “A ship’s brat.”

  “Yes. But a ship’s brat who thought herself a lad, and could climb the rigging and handle a rapier with a skill that you might envy, mon ami. And swear—? Sweet Mother of God! Every curse I ever heard on the battlefield, and more besides, poured from her lips.”

  “How distasteful,” said a courtier with a sneer. “I should have ignored the brat.”

  André poured himself another glass of wine. His face was bland, his expression unreadable. His eyes might have given him away, but Delphine had not the courage to look him full in the face. “And so I thought to do,” he responded to the man. “But she was a devilish savage besides, with a fiery temper, always tormenting me with her foul ways.”

  “She sounds so—ill-bred,” said Rannel with contempt.

  “Come, René,” said Delphine sharply, finding her voice at last. “Merely because she was lowborn?”

  “My dear goddess, I wonder André can even speak of such a creature in your divine presence!” At these words, a small smile twitched at André’s lips.

  “It must have been a tiresome voyage,” said the duchesse.

  André stared at Delphine. “Say, rather, dangerous! This—boy-girl would rage and fight. I bore more than one bruise and scar on the voyage!”

  “Mon Dieu! I would have thrashed her soundly!”

  The smirk had become a grin, the
blue eyes twinkling wickedly at Delphine. “And so I did, with much satisfaction!” There was an outburst of laughter.

  Delphine’s face was stiff, and a pulse beat in her temple, but when she spoke her words were measured and controlled. “I had thought you a civilized man, Monsieur le Comte. Had you not the wit or the wisdom to deal with the woman without behaving like a savage yourself?”

  “Would you have me reason with a viper?” he asked. “No. One must pluck out the scorpion’s sting.”

  The duchesse giggled. “But a scorpion’s sting is in its tail!”

  “Indeed. You might say I—hit upon the seat of the problem!”

  “Bravo, André. Well done.” A compliment to his wit.

  “Tell me,” piped up another guest. “Do they call that a spanking breeze at sea?” Again there was laughter and murmurs of approval at the speaker’s cleverness. In a moment, everyone was laughing and talking, each trying to outdo his fellows with graphic imagery.

  As though Gosse was a faceless creature meant only for their amusement, thought Delphine bitterly. She had begun to tremble—in fury, in fear that André would reveal all. Nervously she jumped up from her chair. Her sleeve caught and overturned a large ewer of wine on the table, spilling the bright ruby liquid across the pristine cloth. Snatching up a napkin, she began to blot at the stain, but her hands were shaking so badly that her labors were wasted. “Forgive me,” she murmured, and turned to Bernard, her eyes almost pleading.

  “My dear,” he said softly, and rose to stand beside her, holding out a silencing hand to the guests. “Mesdames, messieurs. My poor Delphine is languishing with weariness. Had I noted before how tired she is, I should have most kindly asked you all to depart long since. I beg you now, for the love you hold for her, to take your leave.”

  Delphine smiled her gratitude as the guests, with many polite nods to her, rose from their chairs. She led them down the great staircase, standing on the landing to bid her farewells, while Janequin descended to the vestibule and moved about the milling throng who waited for torches to be lit outside to see them home.

  André was the last. He waited until the landing was empty, then came unsteadily down the stairs and took Delphine’s hand in his, smirking like a sly fox as he brought her fingers to his lips. “I had not realized what sport it was to bait you, ma chère. I must have learned the trick from that imp Gosse!”

  She drew herself up haughtily. “Fool! Drunken fool!” she sneered. “Even sober you’re scarce a match for me!” She swept past him and sailed down the steps to stand beside Janequin and her departing guests.

  André frowned. Bending down, he reached into his boot and pulled out his knife; aiming carefully he hurled it so it was impaled in the floor just to one side of Delphine’s skirts.

  Startled, she whirled to him, the flicker of sudden fear in her eyes turning to rage. “Damned bilge rat!” she shrieked. There was dead silence. Delphine saw the look of shock on the faces around her, and began to laugh. “Ma foi! My faith, did I fool you all?” she asked.

  Rannel exhaled slowly. “Nom de Dieu, goddess, your wit is so quick it takes my breath away! There is not another woman—no, not even the actresses of the Hôtel de Bourgogne—who could improvise so cleverly!”

  “Yes,” said Louise de Trémont, her eyes like glittering jets. “You did that so naturally one would almost think you could be the creature of whom André spoke!”

  “If I were she,” laughed Delphine, “I should have plucked forth the blade and slit his throat by now.” She looked down in mock horror at the knife still quivering at her feet. “André, you wicked man, come and take your knife away. I shall not soon forgive you for trying to frighten me!”

  Shamefaced, André retrieved his blade, while the guests chided him for tormenting poor, tired Delphine. It was only her fine breeding, they said, that had turned his deliberate rudeness into a moment of frivolity. A lesser woman would not have played a role for the amusement of her guests; a lesser woman would have banished him from her company forever.

  Finally they were gone, André at the last, looking as though he would beg her forgiveness for his behavior. Only Janequin remained to take her hand in his and wish her a good-night. “Stay abed in the morning, my dear,” he said. “You look so tired. If the day is fine, I shall send a message to you and we shall meet in the Palais Cardinal. There was an exquisite fan I saw in a shop there. I should like you to have it, if it pleases you.” He kissed her softly on the forehead and went out to his waiting carriage.

  The smile remained on Delphine’s face until the door had closed behind them. Then, snarling, she strode to a small table and picked up a porcelain bowl that rested there, holding it high above her head and dashing it to the floor so it smashed into a thousand pieces. She shrieked in outrage and kicked furiously at the legs of the table, then swirled about the room, tearing at her hair, her rage almost beyond containing.

  “Foulon!” she screamed at last. “Foulon, you lazy lout, where are you?”

  “Madame.” Her steward came hurrying into the vestibule. He bowed politely, but his eyes flicked to the smashed bowl and back to Delphine, astonished to see his mistress in such a state.

  Delphine took a steadying breath. “Foulon,” she said. “Do you know Monsieur le Comte de Crillon? He was a guest here tonight.”

  “Certainly, madame. I have seen the gentleman often in Paris.”

  “The—gentleman,” her voice heavy with contempt, “is staying at the Louvre Palace. He will have taken a barge to return there. Take as many men as you need, and go through the streets—you will arrive at the quai long before he does—and bring the blackguard to me!”

  “Madame? Do you—wish us to—invite the gentleman to accompany us?”

  “Damn his black heart! I wish you to bring him to me in a sack—bound and trussed like a chicken! I would have no swordplay. Take enough men so you may waylay him with impunity. But bring him back!”

  She stormed up the two flights of stairs to her bedchamber where Charlotte was waiting to help her out of her gown and into a silk nightdress and peignoir. She felt distracted, impatient, stopping her toilette every few moments to pace the chamber and curse softly under her breath. Charlotte’s solicitude only set her more on edge. “Go to bed, Charlotte!” she snapped at last. “Leave my hair. I shall unpin it myself.”

  The maid curtsied and fled. Delphine shook out her chignon and began to plait her hair into a long braid, then abandoned the task, feeling too restless to concentrate. Damn! What was keeping them? She poured herself a large goblet of wine from a sideboard, gulping the first few mouthfuls to feel the soothing warmth in her belly. At length she heard a noise on the stairs. There was a knock on her door. At her command, Foulon and several of her grooms and footmen entered, carrying with some difficulty a large burlap sack that writhed and twisted with a life of its own. From within came muffled sounds. At Delphine’s nod, the contents of the sack were dumped unceremoniously to the floor. André lay in a heap, his hands bound behind his back, mouth gagged, eyes covered. He struggled to his feet, swaying, his arms working furiously at the rope that bound them. Delphine saw that, in the skirmish, the locket with Marielle’s portrait had slipped from beneath his shirt and now rested on top of his doublet; the sight only sharpened her hatred toward him. She motioned Foulon to remove his gag; he was cursing before the steward had finished untying the knots.

  “Damn you!” he said. “Filthy coward, whoever you are! Let me see my adversary. Give me my sword! I shall run it through your craven heart! You dunghill! You son of Satan!” His voice was clear and harsh—fury had burned out the last traces of the wine. At Delphine’s signal, Foulon pulled the blindfold from his eyes; André shook his head and blinked, then gasped in astonishment as his eyes found Delphine. “You!” he said, scarcely believing his senses.

  She looked beyond him to Foulon and the other men. “Give me his sword,” she said coldly, “and then begone. I have no more need of you this night; I shall let the vill
ain go when I’m through with him. You have done your work well.” When the door had closed behind them, she unsheathed André’s sword and went to stand in front of him.

  “Delphine—” he began quietly, still mystified.

  She lifted the rapier point to his throat. “Hold your tongue,” she said through clenched teeth, “and heed me well! I have earned the right to a good life! I will not live in fear of your loose words. If ever you tell aught of what you know of Olympie and Gosse—I shall kill you!”

  His lip curled in contempt. “So that’s it. The brave Gosse has clothed herself in deception and now fears the light of day!”

  “Damn you, hold your tongue!”

  The blue eyes glittered angrily. “Will you run me through? Will you slit my throat whilst my hands are bound? Is La Déesse a coward as well as a sham? Mon Dieu! Give me Gosse!”

  The fury broke then. The hatred and bitterness and grief that had lain like a festering sore on her soul, poisoning her every waking moment, burst forth. “Gosse is dead!” she shrieked. “You killed her long since!” She threw down the sword and strode to him, fists upraised, striking savagely at him again and again—while he tried to duck the blows—until his face was red and a thin trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.

  He staggered back, panting, his tongue searching for the cut on his lip, his bound arms working furiously behind him. “Only Gosse’s goodness is dead,” he spat. “The vile child remains!” He stuck his chin out belligerently. “Will you strike me again? Come—have at me!”

  With a curse she leaped for him; this time he was ready for her. He sidestepped and thrust out a booted foot; she fell forward onto her face, her hands breaking the fall at the last minute. He threw himself on top of her, his weight pinning her to the floor, and hissed in her ear. “I beat you once before, you devil! This time you’ll feel the sting of a rope end!”