It had been arranged that the hunt should terminate at a château some distance away, where the host, having been alerted to the Royal arrival, had prepared a repast. Passing through a particularly dense copse, André saw the opportunity he had been waiting for. He turned off through a thicket, indicating for her to follow, sure in the knowledge that they would hardly be missed now that the hunt was in full cry. He slowed his horse to a walk, and smiled conspiratorially at his lady; then, finding a soft patch of grass beneath a sweet-smelling tree, he dismounted and helped her from her horse, letting his hands linger on her yielding body in anticipation of the pleasures to follow.
By the time they straggled to the château, the wine was flowing and the party was in high spirits. No one, least of all her husband, enthusiastically describing the hunt to their host, seemed to notice their late arrival, nor the high color in her cheeks, nor the grass stains on her skirt that she was at some pains to hide.
It had been an unexpectedly pleasant morning. Feeling pleased with himself and at peace with the world, André called for some wine, aware that the serving wench dimpled prettily at his admiring glance. His blue eyes appraised her over the rim of his goblet, taking in the swelling breast, the milky shoulders, the softly rounded arms. Then he started, and the wine cup clattered to the floor. He seized her roughly by the arm, turning the knuckles of her hand upward to face him.
“Where did you get it?” he said, his voice harsh in his throat.
The laughter in the room had stopped. Terrified, she tried to pull away, to cover with her other hand the small gold ring, embossed with the lion and hound, the bunch of grapes.
“A man gave it to me,” she stammered, her voice trembling on the edge of tears.
“Where did he get it?”
“He said a fine lady gave it to him!” she wailed.
“What fine lady?”
“I don’t know, monsieur, truly I don’t!”
“Who was the man?”
“He did not steal it, my lord! She gave it him!”
“Who was the man?”
“Henri Molbert,” she said, her voice barely audible.
André groaned, and looked with stricken eyes at Narbaux, who had rushed to his friend’s side.
“Gravillac!” he breathed. “I should have known. I could have guessed…the way he looked at her…” He released the girl and jumped up. “I’m for Quiot!”
“Wait, André,” said Narbaux, quietly pulling his friend aside. “You cannot go alone. If we swing round through Vilmorin, you can pick up supplies, fresh horses, men and swords. You can hardly guess Gravillac’s mood since the Peace of Alès—better to travel prepared!”
“There is nothing to prepare,” said André bitterly. “I shall kill him, that is all.”
“And risk beheading? You know the Cardinal has forbidden dueling! Think, man! Remember Chapelles and Bouteville, executed for dueling, cut off in the prime of their years…and for what? That their pride be unscathed? Nom de Dieu! You know not if Marielle is there for certain, nor if Gravillac means to use her merely as a hostage, to regain his place at Court!”
Bowing to Narbaux’s wisdom, André hastily took his leave of Their Majesties, explaining only that he thought there might be a chance his wife was still alive, and begging their permission to leave Versailles with Narbaux as soon as they could gather their belongings. He brushed past his paramour of the morning, leaving her stricken and abandoned, and rode like a madman back to Versailles, Narbaux straining desperately to keep up with him. On the ride back to Vilmorin he was silent, his mood unfathomable, until Jean-Auguste, hoping for a response, handed him the ring he had redeemed from the serving girl. André murmured his thanks and slipped the ring on his finger; for the rest, they traveled in silence.
It was twilight by the time they reached Vilmorin; the moon had risen ere, changed and fed and mounted on fresh horses, half a dozen attendants armed and ready, they rode out of Vilmorin, Clothilde’s troubled eyes following them.
Chapter Eleven
They rode all night, André sunk in the blackness of his thoughts, Jean-Auguste dozing fitfully in the saddle. At dawn, only a few hours from Quiot, Narbaux persuaded a reluctant André to rest for a bit and have a bite of food. They turned off the road, seeking a place to tether the horses, and were startled by a terrible racket, a rattling and clatter that made the horses rear in fright. Before them stood a huge fellow brandishing a large cudgel, his eyes darting wildly from one to the other, taking in the fine nobles, the armed men, then steeling himself for a fight to the death.
Narbaux laughed. “Calm yourself, my good man! We mean you no harm! In God’s truth, it is we who have suffered this morrow! The sounds you unleashed have surely cost me a year of my life!”
The man relaxed and swung his staff upright, planting one end firmly in the ground and leaning his weight heavily upon it.
“Your pardons, my lords,” he said. “I am but a poor tinker, and these woods are full of bandits and the like who prey upon honest men. Thinking me to sleep for a few hours, I set up my pots and pans to warn me of any approach!” He indicated some dozen or so tin vessels now strewn about the glade, scattered by the horses’ hooves. The men dismounted.
“Know you Quiot?” asked André.
“Aye, my lord. It is but a few hours’ journey from here. I am newly come from there myself. Monsieur le Marquis had work for me in his kitchen. Fine large kettles he has, but sadly in need of repair!”
“Was there a woman there?” demanded André, his eyes burning.
The man gave a grunt and nodded. “That there was, my lord! A fine lusty one. Not so young anymore, but a good handful for any man. I was minded to catch her in the pantry if I could!”
“No, no, man!” said André impatiently. “A young woman!”
“Aye! The handsome one in the garden.”
“With chestnut hair?”
“Shining in the sunlight. A pretty thing she was. Far too grand for me. I’d as soon fill my arms with the wench in the kitchen!”
André turned away, relief flooding his heart. He strode headlong into the woods, unwilling to expose his precarious emotions to his men. Marielle…alive! Marielle at Quiot! Damn Gravillac! In all the years their paths had crossed, he had never understood the man’s animosity and hatred. He seemed always to be competing with André, vying for favors at the Court or wooing André’s women. It had never bothered André; until La Forêt he had felt no ill will toward the man, but in some strange way, Gravillac seemed always to consider them rivals. Perhaps it was Gravillac’s way—to see every man’s accomplishments as a challenge to his own. Though André had paid him little mind when they had been students at the Academy, he remembered the fierceness with which Gravillac had competed with everyone. Now, for reasons André could not fathom, he had abducted Marielle, made her his prisoner, hoping no doubt to force André to come after her and claim her. Perhaps he felt that the grief and humiliation he caused André was a victory over a hated rival; perhaps he wished to avenge La Forêt. No matter. It was only important that Marielle was alive and well. He saw her as she had been in prison, burnished hair falling softly around her lovely face, sweetness and purity shining in her innocent eyes. He wept for joy and thanked God for her life. He would bring his bride home to Vilmorin.
It was Molbert, glancing out the window on the landing, who first saw André’s entourage approaching. Their mantles flapped wildly as they galloped across the flat fields that fronted Quiot; they looked like avenging bats out of Hell. By the time the riders reined in and dismounted on the wide front lawn, their horses foaming and snorting and pawing the earth, Gravillac had been notified and was waiting to greet them on the stone steps leading up to the main door. Hatred smoldered in the depths of his eyes, but he smiled and bowed elaborately.
“Ah, Monsieur le Comte! What a surprise! We had heard, some weeks ago, that you had survived the destruction of La Forêt, but I hardly imagined that Quiot held any charms for you!”
/> André looked at him coldly. “You have, I believe, something which belongs to me. I would reclaim my property!”
Gravillac sighed wearily, but his eyes were guarded and wary.
“I have already given back half my pension to the King. Can there be more that you would take from me?”
“A woman.” Thrust.
“There are many women here. Would you care to make a choice?” asked Gravillac. Parry.
“There is a tinker in the woods. He saw a certain woman!” Blue eyes glared challengingly into dark ones. Gravillac wavered. His eyes took in the strength of André’s men, gauged the degree of André’s confidence. He hesitated. André lifted his fist and displayed the ring. Touché.
Bowing to the inevitable, Gravillac shrugged, remembering that Marielle had worn the ring, and wondering when he had first noticed it missing. With a sweeping gesture, he indicated the open door, while Molbert scampered out of their way. Narbaux took a step forward, but André motioned for him to remain. Jean-Auguste spoke quietly as André followed Gravillac into the château.
“We shall be here, ready at your call, mon ami!”
De Gravillac led André into a small drawing room bright with the morning sun, and moved easily to the fireplace, motioning Molbert to his side. André stood at the window, the sun streaming in behind him, where he could both see and be seen by Narbaux. De Gravillac spoke quietly. Molbert nodded and turned to leave.
“A moment,” said Renard. Molbert stopped. “Have her wear the lavender. She knows how I like her in it.”
The waiting seemed endless. André fidgeted at the window, trying to hide his impatience. Renard lolled near the hearth, one arm resting casually on the mantel, but his eyes glittered with malice. After an eternity, Marielle appeared. She did not see the figure in the window alcove, half-hidden by the heavy draperies. She stood poised on the threshold, waiting for a word from Gravillac. From where he stood André could not see the lifeless cast in her eyes, only the blooming cheeks, the robust good health that, brought on by her condition, made her positively glow. Her beautiful hair was bound up in a little silk cap on the top of her head, and the lavender dress clung to her sweet young curves. Around her neck was a string of creamy pearls that rivaled the clarity of her flawless complexion. She was more breathtaking, and far more disturbing, than André had remembered her.
“Ah, ma chère,” said Gravillac silkily. “Come and bid me good morrow!” She moved woodenly across the fine carpet and, at the silent command in Renard’s eyes, lifted her mouth for his kiss. With deliberate slowness he slipped his arms around her waist and pressed his lips firmly to hers in a long and lingering kiss; then, a mocking smile on his face, he indicated the figure by the window.
“Perhaps you would care to greet our guest!”
Surprised, she turned. The sun streamed brightly through the casement, making it difficult to see anything but the figure’s outline. She squinted slightly at André, then started toward him. She stopped and peered more closely. Another step. A look of disbelief and wonderment crossed her face, her bosom began to heave and she gave a little gasp. Half-running toward him, she uttered a small cry, her hand flying to cover her mouth. She laughed, tried to speak, but could not; she began to weep for joy, astonishment and relief flooding her face.
Gravillac watched from the fireplace, seeming languid and indifferent, but his eyes glittered with envy and malevolence. André’s face was like stone, cold and hard, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. Filled with joy and happiness, Marielle had not noticed his look. Finally, with a great effort, she managed to still her trembling enough to stumble out a few words, low and soft, her voice shaking and incredulous.
“I thought you dead!”
He glanced toward Renard. “So it would seem, Madame,” he said, his voice heavy with scorn. She saw his face now, and fell back, her hand at her bosom, a look of pain in her eyes. She shook her head in disbelief—the cruelty in his tone tore at her heart.
“Your bridal ring, Madame,” he said coldly, lingering mockingly on the word. He thrust it toward her; hands shaking, she slipped it onto her finger. “I can well understand your carelessness. It would seem that Monsieur le Marquis has been more than generous to you.” He indicated the pearls around her neck. Before she could collect herself to reply, to refute the terrible things he was saying, he continued. “He seems to have kept you well—you are absolutely blooming since last we met at La Forêt—is it the air of Quiot that does it?…Or the company?”
Her face had turned ashen now, all the joy drained out of it. She could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Every word of his stung like a lash, and she reeled as if struck, unable to answer.
“How soon can you gather your possessions together and ready yourself for the journey?”
“Journey?” she echoed, as one in a stupor, still stunned by his attitude.
“You may have conveniently forgotten, Madame, but as Comtesse du Crillon you have obligations and responsibilities of which I must needs remind you! We leave for Vilmorin as soon as you are ready. I await you outside.” He turned on his heel and strode from the room.
Gravillac laughed cruelly.
“I will miss you, ma chère,” he said with a mocking smile. “I had begun to hope that we were becoming good friends!”
She whirled on him, all the hatred and agony of the past weeks flashing in her eyes. She wanted to scream, to hurl curses at him, to see him lying dead at her feet. Then a wave of nausea swept over her, reminding her of the burden she carried beneath her heart, and wiping out her fury.
“Damn you,” she said bitterly. She tore the pearls from her neck and flung them into the fireplace, then turned and fled up the stairs. She threw herself into Louise’s arms.
“He lives,” she sobbed. “He lives, and he despises me!”
They set out for Vilmorin, a strange and brooding silence hanging over them all. They had brought extra horses for the journey, which provided not only for Marielle’s needs, but also for Louise, who had rushed out of the château and begged André that she might be allowed to accompany Madame. She would ask for no recompense, only to be able to serve her lady. Lost in his own dark mood, André shrugged his assent.
Pale and drawn, Marielle rode with her own thoughts. Even now, her brain whirled. The joy she felt at his being alive battled with the agonies she suffered at his greeting, until she thought her head would burst. She had begged Louise to say nothing of what had happened at Quiot—she could not bear for André to know. Moreover, knowing, he might try to kill Gravillac, and she could not have him risk his life.
Narbaux watched them both in bewilderment. He could not understand his friend. Here was André’s wife, the woman he had ached for, alive and far lovelier than he had described, and he ignored her. She seemed so pale, so fragile, and André so cold and distant, that Jean-Auguste rode close beside her, feeling responsible for her well-being. They stopped briefly for lunch, but Marielle was not hungry.
As the long afternoon wore on, André was filled with pangs of remorse. He had been so cruel to her, assuming the worst because of one kiss, because she looked so heartbreakingly beautiful, but so different. Because she had not looked like his own Marielle with her glorious hair hidden. Because she wore the lavender gown, though he was hard-pressed to know why that had disturbed him so. By evening he had softened enough so that when Louise rode up to him and said that Madame was weary, and begged that they be allowed to spend the night at an inn they had just passed, he reluctantly agreed. In truth, he had to admit that Marielle did not look well at all. Several times she seemed as though she were about to swoon and fall from her horse. A warm meal and a good night’s sleep would suit them all—he suddenly remembered he had not slept in two days.
At the inn, Marielle refused supper, begging instead to be shown immediately to her room. Insisting that Louise remain below to finish her meal, she followed the innkeeper’s wife and mounted the stairs heavily, intending to sleep without bothering even to undr
ess. As she crossed the threshold, a searing pain tore at her insides, and then another. She felt a warm rush of blood and doubled over in agony, half-crouching on the floor, and screamed for Louise. André burst into the room, aghast. As the full import of the terrible scene struck him, he stumbled from the room, defeated, his world crashing around him. Louise rushed to tend Marielle.
André sat in a corner, near the hearth, his brain reeling, until at length the innkeeper’s wife came to tell him that Madame would survive, God willing, but that she had lost the child. He laughed crazily, bitterly, until she fled in fear, then he stood up and addressed the empty room.
“Now she will have nothing to remember him by!” and threw his winecup into the empty fireplace.
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