Marielle

by Sylvia Halliday

  And now Comte du Crillon was coming home to recuperate. He would need nursing, tender care and a fine soft bosom to rest his weary head upon. Catching sight of herself again in the mirror, she laughed aloud. Perhaps he would find her restless hips more to his liking! She laughed again. He would be her passe-partout to Versailles!

  The days grew warm and drowsy. The grapes flowered, dense clusters of fragrant green blossoms, and the hum of a thousand bees filled the air. André spent his days in the fields, wandering up and down the long rows of staked vines, examining the leaves, watching the sky for signs of bad weather, agonizing when it did not rain and suffering when it rained too much. His wounds troubled him less and less, and he forgot he was a soldier and settled comfortably into the life of farmer and landowner. It felt good at the end of a long day to fall into bed, too tired and bone-weary to think of Marielle, except briefly in those few moments before sleep overtook him. Then the memory of her sweetness and purity flooded his soul and pierced his heart, and he welcomed sleep gladly. In the daytime, he would stand on the rise of a hill and look out over his lands that rose in gently undulating fields, long rows of vines rolling away softly from the river valley. He had described this very scene to Marielle in prison, and he could no longer gaze upon it without the pain of remembrance. Then it was that he would bend to his tasks with more diligence, eager to drive out her memory and be at peace. Clothilde was a great help and comfort to him. He had commended Grisaille on his wise selection of the housekeeper. She seemed always to know when he came from the fields, his throat dry, his spirits low. She would be waiting with a cool draught of ale or a pitcher of his own sweet wine, and a smile and a cheerful word to refresh his soul. Sometimes she came out to him as he labored, bearing fresh sweet fruits, or a dampened cloth to mop his sweat-stained brow. He began to notice her more carefully: a comely girl, a little plump perhaps, with pale blond curls that caught the sunlight. She seemed not to notice his perusal, but bore his eyes unselfconsciously. He found it charming. In the evening, there was always fresh clothing waiting in his room, and Clothilde always scampered shyly away as he started to strip off his dirt-stained garments, which made him laugh aloud and tease her about it. She reminded him of Marielle in her innocence.

  One afternoon, the grooms had trouble with a gray mare, and André rushed to help, quite forgetting his injuries. It took him and Grisaille together to wrestle the mare to the ground, but the exertion wrenched André’s shoulder, and he took to his bed early that night, well-fortified with a mug of spiced wine that Clothilde had thoughtfully provided. It was a long and agonized night; sleep eluded him and his shoulder throbbed unmercifully. His thoughts turned continually to Marielle, while he tasted her kisses in remembrance and his loins ached with a longing he had not known in many weeks. By morning he was short-tempered and testy, filled with self-pity and vague hungers. When Clothilde bustled in carrying his breakfast and a pitcher of water for shaving, he snapped at her and called for a hot tub to soak in. She looked at him oddly, as though gauging his mood, but said nothing and hurried from the room. When she returned with servants carrying the tub, he was already standing at his shaving mirror, the collar of his nightshirt thrown wide, the fine gold hairs on his chest shimmering in the light. She dismissed the servants, but remained herself, watching him shave. Curse the wench! he thought. He was feeling foul-tempered enough, his shoulder twinging painfully, without the added discomfort of her eyes on him. He reached up with his left hand, meaning to hold the skin taut as he shaved his right cheek; a stab of pain shot through his left shoulder and he winced, jerking his head and nicking his cheek with the sharp razor. Damn! He swung round to read the look on her face; her pale eyes were inscrutable. She smiled gently.

  “You are in pain this morning, Monsieur. Let me help you.” Was she laughing at him? Her mood was so strange. She led him gently to an armchair and sat him down, wrapping a fine cloth around his shoulders and spreading fresh lather on his face. Her hands as she wielded the razor were deft and sure; he relaxed in the chair and allowed himself to enjoy this unexpected luxury. He had never noticed the scent she wore; now the sweetness of roses filled his nostrils and made his breath catch. She had rolled up her sleeves, and he saw the soft roundness of her arms, the little hollows at her elbows. He had never realized before how low she wore her chemise, nor how full and inviting her breasts were. As she bent to her task, the closeness of her body filled his heart with a throbbing that quite outweighed the ache in his shoulder. He found the excitement rising within him. Surely she knew the effect she had on him! He glanced quickly at her face. She seemed still to be concentrating on her work, unaware of his eyes on her, the way his pulse had begun to race. He did not doubt her innocence, yet he could not shake the vague feeling that she was laughing at him.

  The shave finished, she stepped back, pulling the cloth from his shoulders. He stood up and strode to the tub, kicking off his slippers, then giving her time to leave before stripping off his nightshirt. She did not move. He thought perhaps she did not understand. He put his hands on his shoulders and began to gather up the fabric of his garment, as though he would slip it over his head; still she did not move. He frowned. The pale gray eyes that stared into his were cool and steady. Damn her! So much the worse for her! He whipped off his nightshirt and stood naked before her, expecting now the blush, the shy gasp, the fleeing footsteps. She could hardly mistake his intentions, the intensity of his desire. She stood her ground, and now the gray eyes held an answer that was unmistakable. With a groan that bespoke his longing, his great need, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed, pouring into his lovemaking all the hungers and frustrations and griefs of the past months. It was clear from her response that she was no innocent, but it hardly mattered. She was here and he needed her. If only his beloved Marielle could speak to the deepest recesses of his soul, Clothilde at least could soothe the hungers of his body.

  Toward the end of June, Narbaux returned from La Forêt. He was filled with news. The King was about to sign a treaty with the Huguenots at Alès, the hostilities were at an end and it was fervently hoped that henceforth all the nobility would bend to the common goal: the strengthening of France among the family of nations, and the concomitant weakening of Spain’s hold on Europe. Louis would shortly return to Paris, after the signing of the treaty; Richelieu would stay on until August, to see that the religious and civil rights of both Catholics and Protestants were respected. Bonfleur had died without ever regaining his reason again. There was no news of Marielle. Narbaux was pleased to see André looking so well—one look at the fond glance Clothilde turned on her master gave him the cause. When she had gone, he chuckled aloud, his bright orange mustaches bobbing with merriment.

  “It would seem, my friend, that you have found a cure that never crossed my mind! I’ll wager that rounded wench is a nice handful!”

  “There are some things a man finds hard to do without, Jean-Auguste, though I must confess I should have preferred not to involve myself with Clothilde.”

  Narbaux snickered at this, but André shook his head, his face serious.

  “I speak truly, Jean-Auguste. You should know me by now. I have always avoided, if I could, bedding a woman from my own estates. It becomes difficult and tiresome. What is to happen when finally we tire of one another?”

  “It would seem, André, from the look on her face, that she might desire something more permanent!”

  André’s blue eyes flashed. “Marriage? Ridiculous! She cannot think such a thing! I have not pretended feelings to her that do not exist! She fills my needs, that is all.”

  “And what are you to her?” asked Narbaux.

  “She was no virgin when she came to my bed. I feel no obligation nor loyalty to her. And frankly, mon ami, she leaves my bed satisfied. Perhaps I fill her needs as well!”

  “Arrogant dog!” laughed Narbaux, cuffing the side of André’s head. His voice dropped. “And what of Marielle, my friend? Do you still think of her?” />
  André turned away, and when he spoke, his voice was muffled.

  “Constantly. She haunts my every moment. I feel the pain of her loss more sharply now than I ever did. Sometimes, in bed with Clothilde, I try to imagine that she is Marielle.” He laughed bitterly. “Then she whispers something coarse and vulgar, and I remember how Marielle blushed at my slightest glance…Oh my friend! Give not your heart away lightly in love, lest you live with a ghost as I do!”

  “Still,” said Narbaux, “it is in this world that you must dwell. If I were you, I would proceed cautiously with Clothilde. A woman is a peculiar creature, more especially if she has determined to catch a husband!”

  “Then I shall tell her what I tell you. As long as there is a shadow of hope that Marielle may be alive, there will be no other Comtesse du Crillon!”

  “I wish you well, my friend. I’m bound for my château. I only hope my vines are as robust as yours! Come and visit me, if you can tear yourself away from Mademoiselle la Docteur!”

  In mid-July a messenger rode in from Paris. His Majesty Louis XIII, King of France, sent his compliments and trusted that Monsieur le Comte was quite recovered from his wounds. His Majesty wished to thank his loyal subject for numerous services to the realm, and Monsieur le Comte was forthwith invited to come to Versailles, in the company of his great and good friend and comrade-in-arms Jean-Auguste, Baron de Narbaux. It would please His Majesty greatly to enjoy their companionship for a week or two. Furthermore, it had come to His Majesty’s attention that Comte du Crillon had been recently bereaved, and it was His Majesty’s fervent hope that the good fellowship of the Court, and the many charming ladies therein, would provide surcease to his sorrows.

  It seemed a good enough idea. The vineyards were thriving, and their soundness in the next few weeks would be as much in the hands of le Bon Dieu as any vignerons in the district. He had begun to weary of Clothilde; having dropped her mask of innocence, she had become simply another conquest—and a bawdy one at that. He laughed at her coarse jokes and romped unrestrainedly in her bed, but the contrast to his memory of Marielle disturbed him vaguely. And there was something more. Despite his attempts to be frank with her regarding his intentions, she had begun to be possessive, jealous of the time he was not with her and imperious with the rest of the servants, as though she already fancied herself mistress of Vilmorin instead of just housekeeper. He regretted ever having taken her to bed, and then, recalling her cool gray eyes that first day, laughed ruefully and wondered which of them had been the seducer. Still, it was clear that she cared for him a great deal more than he fancied her; his conscience chafed him, knowing that she might in all innocence have mistaken his great need for love. A week or two at Versailles would give him an opportunity to sort out his thoughts; when he returned it would be soon enough to tell her gently that the affair was at an end.

  The long ride to Versailles was a pleasant one. Narbaux was in high spirits. He had not been at Court since January, having accompanied the King on his Italian campaign, and there were several lovely acquaintances he was anxious to see again. André laughed and reminded him that since Versailles had no more than two or three dozen rooms, the company would be small and the only sport he could expect would be a rousing hunt or two. The most charming ladies of the Court would scarcely choose to ruin their complexions in a day of falconry out in the open, and unless Narbaux favored some buxom Amazon, the pickings at Versailles would be slim. Of course he, André, would manage to ferret out the gold among such dross, and if he were so inclined, he might deign to share his find with Jean-Auguste. So, laughing, they rode through the flat marshy landscape to Versailles-au-Val-de-Galie. It was one of the King’s favorite retreats. He had hawked there as a boy when his father was still King; at length, tiring of the long ride back to Paris after the hunt, he had built a small lodge there. It was a pretty little château, all red brick and white stone, the roof tiled with blue slate. It was neither large nor elegant, but it served the King’s purposes well, when life at the Louvre, or Fontainebleau or even Blois became too formal and demanding. Here he could hunt and ride, and indulge his passion for cooking, happy in the simplicity and isolation of a country squire’s life. Here a man wore his sword for fencing matches, not for parading around like a peacock, and a large hat was for keeping the sun out of his eyes, not for elaborate bowing and scraping, plumes dragging on the ground.

  Louis received them in the main gallery, holding out his hand in welcome to André after the latter’s formal bow.

  “Ah, Crillon! Mon vieux! I am glad to see you up and about,” he said, a warm smile lighting up his usually morose countenance. “I should have taken it amiss if my precipitous choice of the Chevalier had cost the realm your services. I should perhaps have trusted in Richelieu’s judgment, but never mind. That is none of your concern.” He laughed ruefully. “He will remind me of it often enough, of that I have no doubt! I have heard many accounts of your bravery at the walls of La Forêt; thanks be to God, we were able to turn your defeat into victory, though I understand that Bonfleur’s unpreparedness for our attack was in part your doing.”

  André rubbed his chest in remembrance, and laughed. “I had not thought de Gravillac would be so gullible, though I can hardly regret he was so easily satisfied!”

  “You have served us well, Crillon, and will, we are sure, proffer your sword once again should France have need of your services. I have already rewarded Narbaux here for his help in the campaign, but I preferred to see you in good health before announcing my decision.” He sighed deeply, his thin shoulders heaving. “I must confess to a pang of jealousy. No man should be so newly risen from his sickbed and look as robust as you do! And no man should be as bedeviled by doctors as I am!”

  In truth, though Louis was three years André’s junior, his constant bouts of ill health had left him thin and sickly, his bony nose and jaw jutting out from a pallid face, making him seem far older than the two young men before him.

  “May le Bon Dieu smile upon Your Majesty,” said André graciously. “All France will welcome the return of your good health!”

  Louis beamed with pleasure. “I have asked Cardinal Richelieu to issue letters patent conferring upon you the title of Baron de Verger, together with a pension of three hundred thousand livres a year.”

  Surprised, André dropped to one knee, bowing low before the King, too overwhelmed to do much but murmur his thanks and gratitude. Narbaux’s smiling approval added to the King’s well-being, and he helped André to his feet, embracing him warmly.

  The door burst open, and Anne of Austria swept in. Surprised to see her husband, she stopped, then curtsied quickly to him, her blond curls bobbing.

  “Ah, Louis!” she said, a wicked gleam in her blue eyes. “Surely you do not intend to steal André away from the ladies of the Court!”

  The shaft hit its mark. Stammering, the King released André and turned away, absorbed suddenly in some vista beyond the high windows. The Queen turned her dazzling smile upon André, who bowed low, surprised again at the innocent young face that masked such animosity. It was no secret in the Court that the royal couple were estranged. Since the plot against the King’s life in ’26, a plot in which rumors held that the Queen, once widowed, would marry the King’s brother Gaston, they had few dealings with one another. Though the Queen had always denied any complicity in the plot, Louis remained suspicious, his pride as a husband wounded more severely than his sense of outrage as the monarch. Anne did nothing to allay his fears, surrounding herself with friends and courtiers who were openly rude and hostile to the King. André found himself hard-pressed to strike a balance between the two camps, but his heartfelt respect for the King’s innate decency inclined him towards Louis.

  The Queen nodded to Narbaux, who bowed, then turned her attention back to André.

  “My dear,” she said in her shrill voice. “I hear you have lost a wife! How careless of you! And before anyone had a chance to see her, to make comparisons with all your
other choices!” She stopped, seeing the look of pain on André’s face. “Ah, forgive me,” she said gently. “I did not mean to cause you grief.” She glanced venomously at Louis, who still stared out the window. “I forget that, to some, marriage is a pure and holy state!” She swept imperiously from the room, leaving a red-faced Louis to recover himself as best he might.

  Still stammering, he excused himself quickly, and hurried away.

  Narbaux shook his head. “If I had to bed that viper, that she-wolf,” he said in a low voice, “I too might prefer the company of young boys! But come, my dear Comte du Crillon, Baron de Verger! If your fencing arm is not impaired, let us see if I can win some of that pension of yours! One thousand livres for a hit. Agreed?”

  “Done!” exclaimed André, and the two friends went to fetch weapons, boasting elaborately to one another about their skills.

  The weather was fine and warm, and the days passed quickly, filled with fencing exhibitions and wrestling matches and long rides through the beautiful countryside. In the evening, the company would assemble informally to hear the King play upon his lute or sing one of his own compositions, or the Queen would show the latest dance steps from Paris. André rediscovered one of his former loves, a charming little thing whose husband preferred riding the hounds to his wife, and they dallied away many a warm afternoon in some leafy bower, André playing love ballads to her on his guitar while she plied him with sweetmeats and kisses. It was the kind of indolent life he had always led when away from war or Vilmorin, an artificial existence that catered to his senses but left his soul untouched. It had always satisfied him before. Now he played at love while his heart cried out to Marielle.

  The King had arranged a hunt for the entire company. Though André would have preferred a romp on the shores of Love to a gallop through the woods, his absence would have been noted. He contented himself with riding as close as possible to his lady love, on the chance that some opportune moment might present itself, and they could slip away into the woods. It was a lovely morning, the bright sun outshining the glittering assemblage. The Queen, clad in emerald velvet and a magnificent plumed hat, sat her mount regally. She was surrounded by her ladies, many of whom were masked to protect their delicate complexions. The King, in snowy lace and rich embroidery, rode out at the head of the company. He was followed closely by the Grand Falconer, the huntsmen and the bearers, supporting on their padded gauntlets the chained and hooded falcons. Most of the company was mounted on horseback, but a few of the women had chosen to ride in heavy gilded coaches that careened dangerously through the woods as the pace quickened. On they dashed through the trees, the dogs barking and straining at their leashes, the horses’ hooves crushing the tender blossoms underfoot. In the distance, a deer would start up, disturbed in his forest glade, and vanish deep into the woods. The bugle sounded and the dogs bayed loudly as the whole company raced headlong through the woods, breaking out from time to time into a sun-dappled glade, dashing back and forth through sunlit paths and shadowed groves.