He laughed unsteadily, a hoarse grunt that seemed not to come from his own tortured chest, closed his eyes and slept again. When next he woke, the stripes were still there, but now he knew them for what they were, the canopied roof of a military tent, a Royal tent. Louis! La Forêt! He struggled to rise. Jean-Auguste, Baron de Narbaux, he of the remarkable curls, rushed to help his friend, to press him gently back upon the bed.
“Come, come, mon ami, would you kill yourself? You have lain here long enough while I played nursemaid to your half-dead carcass! I would not see my effort wasted now!”
André rubbed his forehead and winced as his fingers came in contact with the tenderness of a freshly-healing wound.
“What took you so long?” he growled. “Had you come in good time, mayhap my head would not feel so swollen!”
“The Huguenots were more difficult than Richelieu had anticipated. We swept down the Rhône, and the towns fell easily, sometimes without a fight, but even capitulation takes time. Mon Dieu, André, you should have seen that army! Four thousand infantry, five thousand men on horseback, four of the finest Italian cannon that the Piedmont could provide!”
He stopped as a young page brought in a flagon of steaming broth, and beamed his approval as André sipped the healing liquid.
“He wept, you know. The Cardinal. When we met the remnants of your forces retreating from La Forêt. He wept. I’ve never known a man to cry like a woman the way that one does! And made his flowery speech to Louis, the way he always does, about the bravery of all those fine men, but I think he was furious about the Chevalier. The King was more mournful than usual, whether because of his poor judgment in choosing du Trémont for the campaign, or because he does not look forward to the wailing of his newly-widowed cousin, I could not tell! We knew you were alive. Several of your men saw your horse go down during the battle. Eh, bien! It did not take us long to avenge your defeat! A cannon has a loud voice! And Bonfleur seemed to have placed most of his musketeers on the western parapet. What are you grinning about, you big ape?” he exclaimed, as André began to chuckle.
“I am grinning at a fine jest, the way to twist the tail of a rattlesnake!” He fell silent, thinking. Gravillac. And remembering Gravillac made him recall more. An angel’s face, a ripe mouth and misty green eyes that looked at him with trust. Marielle! With a start, he sat upright and felt a thousand agonies in his chest and shoulder, ripping a cry of pain from his lips. Alarmed, Narbaux rushed to still his friend.
“And La Forêt!” gasped André through clenched teeth. “What happened to La Forêt? The town, the fortress!” His blue eyes burned urgently into Narbaux’s face.
“Why, we destroyed them!” said Narbaux, mystified. “Barrault, Tapié, the other nobles, came out and handed their swords to Louis. Vautier was killed. Gravillac fled. We did not find Bonfleur for days, until one of the guards discovered him wandering through the ruins, all reason gone. The fortress was reduced to rubble. The town—God forgive us all—the town was sacked, although Richelieu swore no orders were ever issued. It was a night, I can tell you! Butchering, raping; they set fire to the houses and trampled the crops and gardens, to make them unusable. They attacked the women, tied up the men and threw them in the river to drown. It was the kind of horror that you expect of mercenaries in Germany and Bohemia; but that French soldiers should visit such cruelty upon French families…” His face mirrored his disgust and revulsion. “The King gave Bonfleur a large pension for reparations, but the old fool hasn’t enough wit left to administer it, and his peasants will suffer. Louis exiled all the rest for a time, and cut their pensions. He and the Cardinal are off again, marching the army toward Nîmes and Alès. They left me here to patch you together and send you home, and restore as much order as I can to this town and its unfortunate people.”
“But what about the prisoners?” demanded André.
“Ah, Dieu, my friend. Whoever of your men were in the cell are gone now. We hardly saved a one. Bonfleur must have stored the gunpowder near the prison, and the whole thing exploded. You were lucky not to be in there. We found you in the courtyard, with a dead man across your body. He very likely saved your life. Then were enough fragments in his body to kill half the King’s men-at-arms. As it was, I’ll wager I dug a dozen pieces of cannonball out of your chest and arm!”
“But what about the dungeon?” André persisted, and Narbaux looked mystified. “There was a small prison within the château itself! What happened to the prisoners?”
“André! My friend! Calm yourself! Let me think…ah yes. There was a dungeon. Mostly women…whores, I remember. They would have been released before the castle was razed, but if they were young enough to satisfy a soldier’s lust, they would not have got far.” He laughed shortly. “Without a sou to show for a night’s work!”
André groaned, and clapped his hand over his eyes to hide the tears that threatened to unman him. Marielle! Marielle! If only he had got to the dungeon in time, he might have saved her! He had been overjoyed upon reaching the stable to hear the guard call the old jailer by name…Jacques! Of course! It was after noon—the old man had returned to his post. Hastily André had explained to him about Marielle, their marriage, everything. It was too late to release her now, Jacques had said. If they now treated her like a prisoner in the Great Hall, then she was a prisoner. André begged him then—for her sake, for the old doctor’s sake—to put him in the small dungeon with her, that they might at least be together. He remembered crossing the courtyard with Jacques, his heart light, his step jaunty; then chaos, and darkness. Oh, Marielle! The thought of her sweet innocence at the mercy of a ravaging army overwhelmed him. My poor Marielle! The bitter tears scalded his face; he wept unashamedly. Narbaux, shaken by his friend’s grief, could only turn away, helpless, until André recovered himself.
“Here,” he said gruffly, thrusting a cup of wine into André’s hand. “A woman?”
André nodded.
“Who was she?”
“My wife.”
“Mon Dieu! Wife? You? Who romped through half the bed-chambers of France, leaving a trail of broken hearts? She must be remarkable!”
“I want her found. Marielle Saint-Juste. The doctor’s daughter. They know her well in La Forêt. She must be here!”
“Ease yourself, my friend,” said Narbaux, settling André upon his pillows. “You have been close to death these past weeks, closer than you may know. I would not see the poor girl widowed before we have found her!”
André smiled gratefully at Narbaux. A great weariness overtook him. He was about to close his eyes, when a sudden thought struck him. “Jean-Auguste,” he said hoarsely, reluctant to say what was in his thoughts, “find the priest who married us. If Marielle were…if he had to say the words…over her…body, mayhap he would have recognized her…” He closed his eyes and slept.
Narbaux proved a diligent friend. For days he scoured La Forêt, sending out his men to question the townspeople, to inquire of the remnants of the King’s army who yet remained behind: had they seen Marielle Saint-Juste? Had they found a pretty girl with chestnut brown hair? He searched the hôtel de ville, which had been turned into an infirmary for the wounded and convalescent. It was useless. Marielle seemed to have vanished from La Forêt.
The priest was found. Yes, of course he remembered André and Marielle. No, he did not remember burying her, but there were so many who needed him in that long night of death and horror. He would say a prayer for her, and for Monsieur’s recovery, and should Comte du Crillon wish it, he could provide him with a copy of the marriage document that he had been careful to enter into the church’s registry.
Narbaux found a woman who knew Marielle and had been in the small donjon, and he brought her to André; he questioned her closely, his eyes burning with the fever of dread. She could not help him. She had been asleep until the soldiers came to free the prisoners, and thus she would not have seen when Marielle was brought in. Her eyes dark with the remembrance of the horror, she told him of the things th
e soldiers had done, how the women had screamed and struggled, how she was too fearful for her own safety to have noticed if Marielle were there or not. Her voice rose shrilly with the terrible recital of the night’s agonies, until André could bear no more, and dismissed her abruptly, motioning Narbaux to give her a few crowns.
Meanwhile, André ate and slept and felt his strength returning. He still found it difficult to lift his left arm, and the piece of steel that had passed through his lung had left a wound that still made his breath catch with too much exertion, but he was young and his body was strong. There came a morning that Jean-Auguste entered the tent and found him dressed, and puffed with satisfaction, although, in truth, he wobbled slightly as he swaggered back and forth. He was impatient to be out and, in spite of Narbaux’s protestations, insisted on being taken to the ruins of the château where, leaning heavily upon his friend, he examined the rubble of the dungeon, the gutted stable. Thoughts of Marielle crowded his mind; he felt suddenly exhausted. Narbaux led him gently back to his bed, wondering if the pain he saw in those blue eyes came from the body or the heart.
But the following day, he was up again and dressed. This time he wished to talk to Bonfleur who, after all, knew Marielle well and had been in the château that day. Perhaps he had seen her. No matter that the man had lost his reason; if he had but one lucid moment it might be enough for André to get answers. They found Bonfleur in a small cottage where he lived with one of his former tenants and his wife. The old man was sitting in the garden, idly plucking the petals from a rose he had picked. André had seen him a few times at Versailles, and then at La Forêt, but he was not prepared for the wreck of a man before him. Bonfleur’s hair had gone white, hanging loose and matted to his shoulders. The flesh sagged on his hollow cheeks, and one eye twitched; his fingers shook constantly as they worried the rose, and he muttered to himself. He had sustained a terrible blow to the head, explained Narbaux, but André, remembering the old man’s distraction at La Forêt even before the battle, wondered if his loss of reason were not God’s way of shielding him from unendurable pain.
André began to speak then of Languedoc, of the nobles, the quarrels with the King, trying to lead Bonfleur down a familiar path in which his memory might be suddenly awakened. The old man sat quietly, his eyes staring and vacant, his hands still trembling. As André described the battle that day, he began nervously to rub his palms together, clasping and unclasping his hands. Suddenly, with a sob, he burst out, half rising from his bench.
“Oh the deaths! All the bright young people! The waste…the waste…” His voice trailed off, and he sank again into his own world, lost and distant.
“Marielle!” said André. “Marielle Saint-Juste!” The old man’s eyes were blank, hidden behind a mist. André shook him roughly by the shoulders. “Do you not remember? The doctor! Marielle!”
Bonfleur smiled. “Yes! Marielle! Mark my words, she’ll be a great beauty some day. I vow I’m tempted to marry her myself when she grows up!”
André turned away impatiently. Narbaux put a restraining hand on his friend’s arm, then addressed Bonfleur.
“But she married. Remember? The day of the King’s attack. Can you remember?”
Bonfleur sighed deeply and frowned at Narbaux. He looked then at André, and the mist seemed suddenly to lift from his eyes.
“Crillon!” he exclaimed. “Is it you?”
With a cry of relief, André knelt quickly at the old man’s side. “Do you remember Marielle?” A nod of recognition. “Do you remember that we married?” Again the nod. “Now, think, man! Did you see her again that day?” The old man closed his eyes, pain written large across the face.
“Ah!” he groaned. “Alas! Alas!” He opened his eyes, and André could see, with rising panic, that reality was slipping away.
“Bonfleur—please!” he said desperately. “Marielle! Remember!”
“She is lost to you forever!”
“Is she dead?”
Once again the curtain dropped over the old man’s eyes.
“Is she dead?!!” shouted André, beside himself. “Speak, man!!” The breath caught in his throat as a sudden spasm gripped his chest. He began to cough violently, doubling over on the ground. With a cry, Narbaux sprang to his side, fearful lest he rupture his lung.
“Come away, André! Nom de Dieu!” With Narbaux’s help, André rose to his feet, still gasping. Bonfleur was rocking back and forth on his bench, wringing his hands in agitation, his eyes rolling wildly in his head. The farmer’s wife came rushing out of the cottage to stand near him and try to quiet his unhappy moaning. Narbaux pulled anxiously on André’s sleeve, leading him quickly out of the garden. As they passed through the gate, they could still hear the old man’s tortured cry.
“Forever! Lost forever!”
There seemed no longer any purpose for remaining at La Forêt. It was time to go home to Vilmorin. In spite of André’s protests, Jean-Auguste sent along half a dozen of his own men, to see to André’s needs on the long trip and, quietly, to restrain his friend from exerting himself beyond his still-limited strength. They traveled through countrysides sweet and rich with the sights and smells of June. Every breathtaking vista was an affront to André’s sensibilities: if Marielle were dead, such beauty ought not to exist. The warm sienna tones of the rich earth recalled for him the glory of her hair; the dew-sparkled rose at dawn reminded him of her sweet mouth, lips parted in welcome. He rode through the sunlight, her face ever before him, his heart black with despair, and envied Bonfleur his oblivion.
Chapter Ten
Clothilde Lancourt smiled at her reflection in the large Venetian mirror. She tugged at a curl half-hidden under her linen cap, pulling the golden tress out until it curled beguilingly in front of her ear. She pushed up the sleeves of her chemise until her dimpled elbows showed. She laced again the bodice of her jerkin, pulling her waistline in and pushing her full breasts upward until a rounded décolletage peeped above her neckline, then accented the line even more by loosening the drawstring and lowering the chemise almost to the tips of her breast. The snugness of the lacings made her catch her breath, and she wished she were a little more slender, but, by and large, she was satisfied with the effect.
The master was coming home. One of Baron Narbaux’s men had ridden in ahead last night to announce his arrival, and Vilmorin had been in a frenzy of activity all day as Clothilde directed the polishing of the marble stairs, the airing and dusting of the rooms, the scrubbing of floors and windows. The château was redolent with the scents of roasting meats and pastries bursting with ripe June cherries. In the little smokehouse behind the kitchens, the cook was busily preparing sausages from the freshly butchered hog, and Clothilde had sent Grisaille to the chalk caves to fetch a large keg of wine and store it in the cool cellar.
She herself had seen to the master’s room. The floor had been scrubbed until the tiles fairly sparkled and the heavy velvet bedhangings and coverlet had been shaken and beaten unmercifully, filling the kitchen courtyard with clouds of dust. She rubbed the fine oak furniture until it glistened, and filled the room with roses from the garden. Every garment in the armoire had been aired and brushed by her own hands; she handled the doublets lovingly and marveled at the shoulders that would fit such a span of fabric. They said he was handsome, Grisaille and the rest, and she felt a tingle of anticipation. Perhaps he was what she had been waiting for. They said he was no stranger to women. She flung herself down on the bed, clutching his doublet to her bosom, feeling the soft velvet coverlet beneath her, and, closing her eyes, gave herself up to her fantasies. She knew how to please a man, and if he was as attractive as they said, she would please herself in the bargain. Moreover, he was important at Court. They said he had distinguished himself at La Forêt, against great odds—and in spite of the Chevalier’s stupidity—and the King admired him very much. To appear at Versailles in his company would give importance to her at once. And, once at Court, who knew what liaisons she might form? She thoug
ht with bitterness of her father. How she would make him crawl then, when she was the toast of Paris! She would enter his shop, and call him “storekeeper” and make him beg for her trade! He would regret the way he had treated her, the sanctimonious old hypocrite! He was rich. He had made his money selling diamonds to the aristocracy, cheating them when he could, fawning on them for favors, hiding his profits from the tax assessors. He had even bought a title! Baron Lancourt he was now. And he called her whore!
She thought then of Perrot. Even now, after all these years, she could not regret what she had done. Her father had arranged a marriage with a threadbare viscount, who was attracted to her by her large dowry as much as anything else, but he came from good stock and had fine connections at Court. It would have been an advantageous match. And then…Perrot. She had not thought she could love anyone so deeply; she would have followed him anywhere. She even persuaded herself that he might eventually marry her; when he abandoned her, she wept, knowing herself barren and bereft even of the child she might have had to remember him by. And her father called her whore, and disowned her, and went to visit his mistress!
She was glad now for her barrenness. It had been easier to manage through the years not having to worry about bringing a brat into the world. She certainly would not have wanted a child by that silk merchant in Vouvray! He had been kind enough to her and she did not regret the years she had spent with him, but a child would have meant marriage, and the thought of spending her life as a shopkeeper’s wife revolted her. She was out for bigger game. She had been raised in the city; she could put on airs as well as the next one, and a man with a title was just the benefactor she needed. She had a few crowns and lengths of silk put aside, and twenty-five was not too old to catch a good title. She’d take marriage, or whatever she could get! When Grisaille, who was the silk merchant’s friend, had mentioned that the old housekeeper at Vilmorin had died, Clothilde persuaded him to install her in her place.
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