She smiled down at his sleeping form. How young he looked in repose, like a lad, his face sweet and innocent. Like Robert. How alike they were. She sighed. Robert. It had been weeks since she had seen him. Anne-Marie said that he was walking now—so many changes every day in a sixteen-month-old child, and she not there to see them. She had meant to visit while Janequin was away, and now, with the trip to Fontainebleau, it might be weeks more until she could see Robert. Watching the sleeping André, her heart swelled with unexpected tenderness. She was almost tempted to wake him, tell him of Robert, share with him the joy of their son. She shook her head. No! She could not afford weakness or sentiment. It must be her secret forever. It would be best for Robert, best for Bernard.
She slipped quietly from the bed and threw her peignoir around her, enjoying the slide of the silk on her bare flesh. She padded to the window and looked out onto the square below, where the early-morning peddlers were beginning to set up their carts and tables. A flower seller arranged several baskets of bright blue and lavender flowers, the colors rich and glowing. She must remember to send Charlotte down this morning to fetch up an armful of the blossoms. She inhaled the sweet scents of June, then turned back into the room. André’s clothes were strewn about where he had cast them off last night. She picked them up and smoothed them out before laying them carefully across the back of the armchair. Like a good little wife, she thought resentfully. Had his Marielle laid out his clothing for him? Her eye was caught by the locket. She picked it up, fingering the ribbon that had grown frayed from constant wearing. She felt her hands trembling. Dared she look at the portrait within, and see the woman whose presence she had felt so often? She hesitated, then flicked open the hinged lid. How strange. On Olympie she had looked at the picture and seen a queen, a woman beyond compare, matchless in her perfection. Now she saw merely the painting of a beautiful woman, the pigments fading, the gown and coiffure out of date—a sad and musty echo of the past. She sighed and closed the locket, meaning to set it on the table, then frowned, turning it over in her hand. She had not noticed it at first, but there seemed to be a leaf added at the back, the new piece so skillfully blended in with the old that only the worn patina of the older metal showed the difference. She swung out the leaf and gasped, then sank to the chair, her eyes filling with tears.
She was gazing upon her own face. Someone had copied the portrait of her by Vouet—the same smile, the same look in the eyes, but in miniature. Only where Vouet had painted her hair in golden swirls about her face, in this picture her hair was short and straight, as Gosse’s had been. She began to cry, muffling her sobs in her hands.
“Delphine.” André was before her, kneeling at her feet. “What is it?”
She looked up, holding out the locket with shaking fingers. “But—why?” she whispered.
He cleared his throat and stood up, turning away to pull on his breeches and slip his shirt over his head. When at last he spoke, his back still toward her, his voice was muffled. “Because I love you.”
She stood up, unsure of what to say, then sat down again, wiping nervously at her tears. She looked at the locket again. “Don’t you like my curls? My long hair?”
He turned to her and smiled. “Your hair is beautiful.”
“But—then—the picture—”
“I had Monsieur Vouet paint it from his sketches when I first met you again. I wanted the hair short—as a remembrance—because I thought that my dear Gosse had vanished.”
“And now? Am I Gosse or Delphine?”
“A little of both, I think. And everything I love.” He pulled her up into his arms and held her close, covering her face with kisses.
She threw her arms around his neck, clinging to him, her heart bursting with the wonder of it. He loved her! She was as dear to him as his Marielle, that woman whose memory she had never dared hope to supplant.
“Delphine. My love,” he said. “Forget Janequin, forget the past—only be my wife and fill my days with your sunshine.” She smiled lovingly at him, her eyes still sparkling with tears. He kissed the tears away and grinned. “I have two sons, you know. Will you mind being mother to two boys?”
She laughed softly, enjoying her secret. Not two. Three. “I shall not mind,” she said, filled with joy that her sweet Robert would grow up knowing his own father. She danced away from him, wondering how she was to tell him of the child who had been conceived on that magical night aboard Olympie. Then she felt the memory of pain tug at her heart. No. Not yet. She would not tell him yet. There was something she had to know first, the canker that had gnawed at her for two long years. “André,” she said softly, “why did you leave Olympie that morning with no word to me?”
He frowned, searching his memory, as though it were of so little importance that he had long since forgotten it. “I was—impatient to see my home and children—” (Yes, she thought, almost relieved, she had expected that was so.) “And then, fool that I was, I did not prize Gosse until long after I had lost her.” Delphine began to breathe more freely. It was as she had guessed. Why had she feared to ask the question? André laughed ruefully. “And then, of course, I knew that it meant little to you, that night. And a man’s pride is fragile.”
“What do you mean—it meant little to me?”
“I was not unmindful of the men you lived with aboard Olympie! As I recall, you compared my body with theirs—thanks be to God you did not compare my abilities!—it was very disconcerting, my love!”
“Are you mad?” Her voice rose to a shriek. “I was a virgin!”
“Delphine, ma chère,” he said soothingly, pulling her into his arms. “What matter now? I love you. Let it be.”
“No!” She pushed him away savagely. “You pig! You whoreson! I was a virgin!”
“Oh, come now!” he said, his voice sharp with annoyance. “The woman who came to my bed that night was a woman of experience!”
“Curse you! She was a child! Eager to learn what had been shared—in words, damn you, in words!—with her shipmates for years! Damn your eyes! You thought me a whore?”
“Not a whore, surely, but—”
“But a ‘woman of experience?’” she said bitterly. “And now? What of now? Do you think that Madame Despreaux, La Déesse, has bestowed her favors on half of Paris?”
“I know not. I care not. It is not for me to judge.”
“But you think it, don’t you? Don’t you?”
He thrust out a belligerent chin. “Why does Janequin pay for all your needs? Your clothes, your jewels, this house? I am scarcely deaf to the rumors!”
“And you think I am his mistress?”
“Are you?”
She drew herself up coldly. “I have known but two men in my life. And one of them—Despreaux—had a right to me! And you, you villain, how many women have you had?” Her voice grew more strident as her fury mounted. She snatched up the rest of his belongings—cloak and sword and hat—and threw them savagely in his direction. “Get out of my house and don’t ever come back! I would not marry you now if the king commanded me on pain of death! You pig—that think so vile of me!” She stormed about the room while he finished dressing, stifling the urge to shriek her outrage to the heavens.
He buckled on his sword, then caught at her, shaking her violently by the shoulders. “Delphine! Please! Will you be reasonable?”
Her lip curled with contempt. “Was she a virgin, your sweet Marielle, when you took her?”
He recoiled, his face going pale. “She was a lady.”
“And she was a fool to go down for the likes of you!”
He glared at her as though he would strike her, then, whirling, strode to the door.
“Wait!” she cried. “Mark me well. Do you love me? Do you desire me? Well, mark me! Bernard would marry me without the rewards of the bedchamber. But now, to spite you, I shall take him to my bed as often as he is able! I shall dance naked to stir his blood, and tease his poor prickle into a hardness. And for every night that he makes love to me
, I shall send you a thorn from a yew tree! For each thorn that I send—may it pierce your flesh!—you will know that I have let my husband pierce me! And so I will be revenged!”
His eyes burning in anger, André stormed from the room. Delphine watched him go, her fists clamped tight to her sides, her body shaking with fury. But when he had gone, her face crumpled in anguish. With a mournful cry, she threw herself onto her bed and gave way to her grief.
Chapter Twenty-one
The Palace of Fontainebleau was located some ten leagues to the south of Paris, in a small town of the same name, and surrounded by a magnificent forest. The palace, built of local sandstone in the Italian manner—severe and classical and unadorned—had been constructed near an older château by King Francis I a century before, when Italian craftsmen and artists (not the least of whom was the great Leonardo) had been welcomed in the French court. It was a grand and sprawling palace, with great open courtyards: the Cour du Cheval Blanc, with its statue of a prancing white horse, the Cour de la Fontaine—the splashing fountain—from which, some said, the town and palace had first derived its name. The main door was reached by a sweeping, horseshoe-shaped staircase that the present king had built, and the whole of the palace was surrounded by formal gardens and artificial lakes. Beyond the front gate was a long avenue which stretched into the vast forest of Fontainbleau, with its picturesque mounds of antediluvian rocks and its lush vegetation.
The courtiers, in that summer of 1641, had come to enjoy a respite from the heat of Paris, and to escape the wearying talk of the war with Spain. Dragging on for some six years now, the war had begun to stir up bitter resentment, not only among the overtaxed peasants and bourgeoisie, but among the nobility as well. To forget their cares, they amused themselves with riding and hunting through the woods, leisurely boating on the lakes and the river Seine which flowed nearby, and bowls and court tennis on the vast lawns of the palace.
But only this morning, reality had intruded on their pleasures. The king had received word that the Comte de Soissons, a prince of the blood, had joined forces with Spain to bring the war to an end. Soissons had crossed the French frontier from the Spanish Netherlands, leading his army of revolt. There were even rumors—according to Richelieu’s spies—that Cinq-Mars had been involved in the treasonous plot. Louis had left Fontainebleau at once to lead an army already in the field; those who remained in this bucolic retreat enjoyed their last few weeks of pleasure before they, too, might be called upon to mobilize their own forces.
Delphine had managed to shun André since they had been at Fontainebleau, throwing herself into the whirl of activities with false gaiety; with the king away there would be few divertissements to keep them from the confrontation she wished to avoid. She even considered renewing her flirtation with René de Rannel; Bernard had not been jealous of it before, and since their marriage plans proceeded apace, where was the harm in it?
Still, Janequin seemed strangely quiet and distracted, a morose companion these last few days. Perhaps it was because of Louise de Trémont, who had continued to pursue him despite the announcement of his betrothal to Delphine.
With a sigh Janequin limped to a stone bench beneath a tree, sitting in the cool shadows and mopping at his brow with a lace-edged handkerchief. “I cannot take another step, my dear,” he said, smiling sheepishly up at Delphine. “I shall enjoy the beauty of the day from this bench, and leave the strenuous activities to the young.”
“Of course,” she said, sitting beside him.
He frowned, and sighed again. “To the young—” he murmured.
“Is something troubling you, Bernard?”
He hesitated. “Will you be happy married to an old man? I cannot dance with this leg of mine, I tire of long walks—”
“What has that to do with age? Many a young limb has been rendered useless because of war. We have always enjoyed one another’s company—the theater, the books we share—why are you troubled now?”
He looked down at his hands, nervously twisting the signet ring on his finger. “Forgive me, but—I have heard rumors—whilst I was in Auvergne, and you in Paris—they did not say the—gentleman’s name—but—”
She stood up and turned away from him. “I give you my oath, Bernard, I—shall be a chaste and virtuous wife—you shall have no cause to doubt my fidelity—”
“I understand,” he said quietly, wondering if she had deliberately avoided the answering of his question. “I have arranged everything with the mayor of Bellerive. We shall sign the marriage contract and exchange the forms of consent on the same day. The nuptial mass will be celebrated on the following day. I had thought we would stay here at Fontainebleau for another week or so, then travel to my château together. The marriage has been planned for the twenty-fifth of July. Does that suit you?”
Delphine looked up. André had just alit from a small boat on the nearby canal, and was now walking toward them. Dieu! she thought, feeling herself trembling. “Bernard!” The name shot out so forcefully that Janequin stared at her in surprise. “Can we not go to Paris this week?”
“Dieu du ciel. Whatever for? You know Paris is stifling in July! If there are things you need from your hôtel, I shall have them brought to Auvergne by carriage.”
“But must we stay here?” She felt the panic rising within her.
“My château is not prepared properly as yet, ma chère. I would not have you see your new home dusty with plaster and ringing with the sound of hammers! Let the sound of wedding bells be your welcome.”
She sighed in resignation. “Of course.” André was now striding purposefully down the garden path in their direction. Would he dare to make a scene in front of Bernard? “Do you mind,” she said, turning to Janequin, “if I escape this warm day for a little? The palace is so cool. I shall join you later on the lawn for a game of bowls.”
He laughed. “I find the day pleasant. And you wished to return to the heat of Paris?”
She stood up quickly, poised for flight. “You must forgive a woman her inconstancy!” she said brightly. “Now, here comes Monsieur de Crillon. He looks bored. You must be a dear, Bernard, and speak to the man. I shall see you anon.” She hurried to the palace, slipping inside the first door she came upon. She had made her way through two narrow corridors and a small sitting room before she realized she had lost her way. Opening a door that looked promising, she found herself at last in the long Galerie François I, and breathed a sigh of relief. At the far end, she knew, was the door and the staircase that led to her apartments. She hurried down the long room, past alcoves crowded with marble statues and paintings that lined the walls, pausing ever so briefly to admire her favorite: the portrait of the Italian woman, La Joconde, the madonna Lisa, that King Francis had bought of Leonardo. At the last alcove at the end of the gallery she stopped, peering through the window to see if she could observe Bernard and André in the garden, but the tree blocked her view. She turned around. André was standing there, between her and the door, between her and escape.
“I thought you might come this way,” he said quietly.
“Get out of my way.”
“You have sent back every one of my notes unanswered—”
“Unread!” she spat.
“Please, Delphine! Hear me out. I beg your forgiveness; I hurt you grievously with my words. I had not meant to be cruel, I swear it to you. They were foolish words and foolish thoughts. I should have guessed you were a virgin, seeing the innocent Gosse who hid behind manly trappings and show. I suppose I—was jealous, thinking it so—that my dear Gosse—”
“Sweet Jesu!” she swore. “I am sick unto death to hear you talk of Gosse as though she were some sainted memory! She is gone! I am Delphine now, no more able to man a ship now than you yourself! You treated Gosse vilely then! And now that she is gone—never to return—you mock Delphine and yearn for Gosse! And yet I mark that two long years have passed since those days on Olympie! And never a word from you. A-a-h!” With an impatient cry, she turned her
back on him.
He was silent for a long time. And then, “I looked for you,” he said softly.
She felt the tears spring to her eyes. “Did you?” she whispered, her lips trembling.
“Yes,” he said, turning her into his embrace. “But when I sent to find you, there was only a burned-out cottage, and the sailors in port who said that Gunner was master of Olympie. It near broke my heart. Delphine. I love you more than life itself. I cannot have us parted because of a foolish quarrel.”
Ah Dieu, she thought her brain whirling with confusion, what am I to do? “No!” she cried, pushing him away. “You thought me a whore. How am I to forgive that? Do you think I have no pride?” She fought back her tears. “Leave me alone! Let me marry Bernard. It is so much easier, so much—” She took a deep shuddering breath.
“So much—what?” he growled.
She drew herself up, pulling the cloak of ice around her heart. So much safer, she thought. “It is over between us. I should be pleased if you did not trouble me again.” Stepping past him, she hurried to the door and from there to the gardens and the safety, the heart’s tranquility of Bernard.
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