To the accompaniment of a lute, a young man appeared in a glittering costume that identified him for the spectators as Mercury, the messenger of the gods. In a sweet voice he sang a long recitative explaining that the ballet would concern itself with the Trojan War, the battle between Greece and Troy, and would attempt to show the folly of men who warred against one another. Zeus, the king of the gods, was displeased at uprisings that pitted brother against brother, disturbing the countryside and angering all the gods on Mount Olympus. Only when peace was restored could mortals enjoy the benefits that were man’s reward for perfect obedience to the will of the gods. It was as much a celebration of the Peace of Alès and the end of the Huguenot uprising as it was a mythical allegory. There was scarcely a veteran of La Rochelle or the Languedoc campaign who did not nod in agreement as Mercury sang in praise of peace.
A chorus of voices now sang a spirited tune as some two dozen women, gorgeously costumed in the colors of the sea, representing water sprites, danced a flowing pattern of loops and spirals that seemed to imitate the movements of the waves. In their midst appeared suddenly a giant scallop shell that rolled silently forward from the backdrop, and upon which stood the Three Graces, holding high a length of shimmering silk that shielded the center of the shell from view. As the oboes played a gentle air, a voice sang of the Birth of Venus from the foam of the sea, and the Three Graces stepped back and allowed their silks to fall to the floor. André drew in his breath sharply, and a murmur went round the hall. There, in the center of the shell, stood Marielle as Venus. She had never looked more magnificent. Her gown, all sheer gauze and glowing silk, was the color of sea foam, a pale luminous green that enhanced the creaminess of her full young bosom, the soft arms beneath the gossamer sleeves. Her burnished hair was worn long and full, pearls and seashells entwined among the curls and ringlets. Gilded seashells decorated the long flowing skirt and low-cut bodice, snug against her breast. She wore a demure nosegay of roses at her bosom that tantalized as much by what it hid as the rest of her costume revealed.
André was entranced. She was glorious, awesome, the most breathtaking creature he had ever seen. He could not take his eyes from her. A sudden look of pain crossed his face. He dared not take his eyes from her! He would have to see the faces of other men, lust and hunger in their eyes. He cursed silently. Why must she wear her gowns so low? Damn them all! They had no right to look at her! His face softened again as she moved gracefully off the shell to a ripple of applause and danced a slow sarabande with the Graces. She carried herself like a princess, head held high, slender body stately and imperious. André felt as though he would burst with pride and longing and jealousy. Watching the emotions at war on his friend’s face, Jean-Auguste chuckled softly to himself.
Venus and the sea nymphs now retired behind the backdrop. The violins played a musical interlude, while workmen scurried about, changing the scenery for the next entrée, the Judgment of Paris. Against an elaborate background of leafy trees and grottos, Venus now returned in the company of the goddesses Juno and Minerva. A handsome courtier, richly costumed, and carrying a large golden apple, appeared as the Trojan youth Paris, whose task it was to choose the most beautiful among the three goddesses. Hands entwined, Marielle and the others paced majestically about the youth, turning and swaying in a graceful dance. In one of the grottos, announced by a sudden puff of smoke, now appeared a vision of the fair Helen—Paris’ reward for choosing Venus—the Greek queen whose abduction to Troy would provoke the war. The youth pantomimed his indecision with such exaggerated gestures, turning from one goddess to the next, that many in the audience began to laugh. Though the myth called for Venus to be chosen as the most beautiful, in truth Marielle was so exquisite, the other women so ordinary in comparison, that there was no contest, no matter what role she played. At length the young man knelt before Marielle, the apple in his hands, and the audience sighed with pleasure. Marielle reached out a slender hand to take the proffered fruit, but at that moment King Louis rose to his feet and strode into the tableau. Snatching up the golden apple, he himself presented it to Marielle, who sank low in a deep curtsy, proud and shy and flustered all at once. The audience rose to its feet, cheering and clapping, and a grinning Narbaux pounded André on the back, while other guests complimented the Comte du Crillon on his good fortune.
He wanted suddenly to have Marielle at his side, to tell her how lovely she was, to beg her pardon for the unkind things he had said. As the entrée ended and the dancers left the hall, he made for the staircase, minded to join her in the performers’ antechamber; then he halted abruptly, muttering to himself, his plan thwarted. The King had taken Marielle by the hand and was leading her to the dais, to sit among his guests and enjoy the rest of the performance with the Royal party. There was nothing André could do—she was lost to him until the ballet was finished. Restless, impatient, he wandered in and out of the hall, Narbaux at his side, and ate and drank and chatted idly with his friends. Occasionally he paused to look in at the ballet, as the Trojan War unfolded in song and dance and pantomime, but his glance strayed over to Marielle at the King’s side. Her face was radiant, eyes shining in pleasure and triumph, soft cheeks flushed with happiness.
The Trojan War had now advanced to scenes of battle, and the great hall was filled with men, gorgeously costumed in glittering armor, who brandished swords and feigned combat to the accompaniment of trumpets and cornets. Though the patterns of the battle had been worked out as carefully as the most elaborate dances, a few of the nobles—skilled in the arts of war—far outshone the others with their masterful handling of sword and shield, and elicited murmurs of praise from the audience. André and Narbaux watched with some interest, leaning over the balcony and nodding their heads in approval at the scene. Behind them, two gentlemen were discussing the merits of the various combatants.
“I fancy that soldier in the red plumes,” said one. “I should not mind meeting him in a contest of fencing! One can always take the measure of a man by a sword!”
“For myself,” announced the other, “I should prefer to take the measure of that voluptuous Venus!”
“With a sword?”
“Nay, my friend! With my own measuring rod, that which nature has so thoughtfully provided me!” and they laughed together at the ribald joke.
André choked and turned, his eyes murderous, his hand on the pommel of his sword, but Narbaux clutched at his arm and dragged him away from the balcony and into a small room where they might be alone until his friend’s fury had abated.
“Nom de Dieu, André! If you are going to be jealous of every man who looks at her, you will never have any peace! She is a beautiful woman, every man’s desire! Do not trouble yourself with what they may say or think—be grateful she is yours!”
André laughed bitterly. “Is she mine? Is she, my friend?”
Narbaux shook his head in amazement. “Are you such a fool you cannot see the love in her eyes?”
“And what about Quiot?” Narbaux frowned at the question, mystified. “You were at the inn,” André continued. “You know what happened!”
Narbaux began to stammer. “But I thought…you and she…at La Forêt…!”
“Not I, mon ami! I did not plant that seed!”
Jean-Auguste gaped in surprise and dismay. “Against her will, then,” he said gently. “Surely—”
“You did not see the way she kissed him at Quiot!” said André in agony.
Narbaux was silent, at a loss to ease the pain in his friend’s eyes. “Come!” he said at length. “I’m for a cup of wine!” He gripped André by the shoulder, his voice low and sincere. “You may never know what happened with Renard de Gravillac. She is yours now…she loves you. Be content!”
By the time they returned to the hall, the final entrée had begun. The war had ended in victory for the Greeks, and now the various gods and goddesses appeared, Marielle among them, to dance a stately pavane in celebration of peace. The dancers moved in a complicated pattern, in
terweaving in complex loops and circles until the dancing floor seemed a living thing, pulsating with life and color. From somewhere high above the dancers, lowered on a mechanical cloud, now appeared Louis, magnificently costumed as Zeus, the king of the gods. The chorus proclaimed his pleasure at the outcome of the war, and warned of his wrath if he were disobeyed. As Louis walked among them, the gods bowed to his supremacy, exalting his glory above all other rulers, while the goddesses strewed rose petals in his path. With a final triumphant blare of the horns, the ballet was ended.
In the milling crowd, they sought Marielle. It was odd. They expected to find her the center of attention, surrounded by admirers, but she was nowhere to be found, though they searched the antechambers as well as the hall. At length, one of the dancers, spying André in a doorway, touched his arm lightly.
“Ah! Monsieur le Comte!” she said. “Did your wife find you?”
“Find me, Madame? What do you mean?” His blue eyes glittered.
She smiled wanly. “Why…why your message! I thought she said that you…oh dear!” she exclaimed and bit her lip, suddenly afraid she might have revealed a confidence. “I am sure she will find you soon enough!” she added as brightly as she could.
“Do you know who brought the message?” asked Narbaux smoothly.
The woman hesitated, her eyes sweeping the room. “There,” she said doubtfully, pointing to one of the footmen. “I do hope I have not…oh dear!”
Narbaux smiled reassuringly, and he and André made their way to the servant. Yes, he said, he had given a message to La Comtesse du Crillon. No, it was not a written message, but he was not at liberty to tell the gentlemen what it was, since it was a personal message from the lady’s husband. His eyes widened in dismay as Narbaux murmured a few words to him, and he bowed obsequiously to André. He wished to beg Monsieur le Comte’s pardon, he had not at first recognized him, the message had been delivered exactly as he had instructed, and Madame la Comtesse had hurried off at once to the tapestry room in the west wing.
“And who gave you the message?” growled André through clenched teeth.
“The Duc de Saint-Denis, Monsieur!”
André whirled and set off for the tapestry room, Jean-Auguste at his side. “Damn! That one! He’s a devil hiding behind the face of an angel! Every woman wants to mother him, and ends up, if she is not careful, mothering his brat! Pray God we find that naive wife of mine before it is too late!”
Marielle hurried down the long corridor. It was brightly lit, blazing with the light of a hundred candles, but quite deserted. What an odd place to meet André! Whatever could he want that could not wait until they retired to their own apartments? She hoped he was not angry about her costume! Well, she would know soon enough. She turned a corner; the tapestry room was just at the end of this hall. A small door opened to her right.
“Madame!” She stopped, surprised. It was the Duc de Saint-Denis. Smiling, he stepped from the doorway and took her hand, pressing it softly to his lips. Reproachfully she tried to pull her hand away, but he sank to one knee, his eyes adoring her. “Nay! You cannot deny me tonight, for I would pay homage with my lips to the most exquisite creature in the world!”
Giggling, she allowed him to kiss her hand. What a sweet young man, she thought indulgently. He rose to his feet, still holding her fingers, and attempted to pull her gently into the small room from which he had emerged. “Come,” he said, “sit with me for a little, and let me tell you how I worship you!”
“I cannot! My husband is awaiting me!”
His brow darkened. “Let him wait!” he pouted. “I have not had a moment alone with you these past two weeks! And when you return to the hall everyone will crowd around and I shall not see you again tonight!” He smiled boyishly. “Can I not have but a moment or two of your time to tell you how lovely you are, and how I adore you and how sweetly you danced in the ballet?”
Marielle laughed. “But it would seem you have just told me!”
“How can you jest when my heart is aching with love for you? If you do not come and sit with me, I shall throw myself into the Seine!” His eyes held such misery, feigned though it might be, that she relented and allowed him to draw her into the room. “But only for a few moments,” she admonished, as he closed the door and sat on a large settee, pulling her down beside him. His eyes burning, he told her that he loved her, worshipped her, could not live without her. The smile faded from her face.
“Hush,” she said gently, seriously. “You must not speak to me in that fashion. It is not seemly.”
“Yes, I know.” He smiled at her. There was no trace of the boyish grin. His eyes dropped to the front of her gown, then back to her face. “You wore my favor.” He plucked the flowers from between her breasts and touched them gently to his lips. “They are still warm from your bosom!”
“I must go,” said Marielle, an edge of uneasiness creeping into her voice. “André will be waiting.”
“No.”
“What?”
“André will not be waiting!” He smiled, the look of one conspirator to another. Marielle frowned. Whatever was he talking about? “Come now!” he said, with a sly grin. “You must have guessed he did not send the message!”
Marielle gasped in surprise, her eyes wide. One hand flew to her bosom. She started to rise, but Saint-Denis grasped her arm and would not let her leave. He smiled again.
“Such charming innocence—you do it well! But my flowers at your breast gave me the answer I wanted!” He leaned toward her, his free hand reaching for her shoulder. She shuddered. How could she ever have thought him attractive or sweet? She strove to avoid his hands, but he grabbed her determinedly by the shoulders and forced her back upon the settee, leaning over her and pressing his chest against her heaving bosom, his lips seeking hers. She struggled fiercely and cried out. Impatiently he clapped one hand over her mouth.
“Have done!” he exclaimed angrily. “You have defended your virtue long enough to satisfy the rules of propriety! Save your innocence for your husband!” She twisted wildly against him, but the weight of his body held her down and she was trapped. He took his hand off her mouth and began to grope hurriedly at her skirts. She gasped as his hand slid under her petticoat, searching fingers exploring her bare flesh. Desperately she thrashed about under his grasp, shaking her head from side to side. She could hear the pearls dropping from her coiffure and rattling across the floor. His other hand still held her by the shoulder; she lifted her head slightly and closed her teeth about his wrist, clamping down with such ferocity that he howled loudly and leapt back, releasing her. Before she had the opportunity to move away, he was upon her again, straddling her body and pinning her wrists to the settee. His eyes blazed fire.
“Vixen!” he hissed. “I have waited long enough! I am weary of your games! It is time for you to keep your promises!”
“Let me go!” she panted. “I never gave you cause!”
He sneered. “Bees do not buzz around flowers with no honey! Every man who paid you court gave me cause!” He bent to kiss her, his hungry mouth seeking her bosom. She cringed and shrank away, wishing she could sink into the settee, and closed her eyes tightly as though she could make him vanish. Suddenly he was gone. Her eyes flew open. André stood above her, his face contorted with rage. One hand gripped Saint-Denis by the shoulder; as she watched, the other hand, knotted into a fist, exploded against the Duc’s chin with a terrible cracking sound. Saint-Denis crumpled to the floor, moaning, as a thin trickle of blood seeped from his sagging jaw. Narbaux rushed to his side and knelt down, effectively screening him from further violence, and stared fixedly at André’s face until some of the anger subsided.
“No need to kill him, my friend. From the look of this rakehell, it will be long before he can again sing his songs of love! Best find him a surgeon!” He helped Saint-Denis to his feet, supporting him with a shoulder, and led him, stumbling, from the room.
André glared down at Marielle. Grabbing her hands, he jer
ked her roughly to her feet. His eyes, dark with anger and disgust, took in her torn costume, her wild hair tangled about her face. She bit her lip and sniffled, her shaking fingers plucking at bodice and sleeve, assessing the damage.
“You little fool!” His eyes burned into her. “I warned you! Did you not know this would happen? Nom de Dieu! Did they keep you hidden in a box at La Forêt?” He stopped abruptly, as she began to tremble violently, her body shaking with great sobs. She turned away and buried her face in her hands, her shoulders drooping forlornly. Relenting, he turned her around in his arms, cradling her tear-stained face against his chest. He sighed deeply, resignedly.
“Tomorrow,” he said gruffly, “we return to Vilmorin. I think it is time to go home!”
Chapter Eighteen
The air was rich and heavy with the scent of grapes. André breathed deep. He could already smell the tang of fall, the heady mixture of smoke and crackling leaves and grapes so golden and ripe that the perfume of the wine seemed ready to burst from their hazy skins. He guided his horse through the fields, dismounting now and again to check the heavy clusters. If the weather held, they could begin harvesting tomorrow. It would be a good yield—the vines had been fruitful and the grapes were rich and sweet, promising a robust wine.
It felt good to be home again. There was a solidness, a reality about Vilmorin that fed his soul, brought substance to his days. He laughed ruefully to himself. In truth, there seemed less stability at the moment than he would have wished. While he and Marielle had been in Paris, Grisaille and Louise had spent a great deal of time together. Now, cow-eyed and distracted, Grisaille went about the estate in a daze, and Louise, as skittish as a blushing bride, had to be continually reminded of her chores. Clothilde’s behavior was even odder. He remembered how warm and friendly she had been, in those days before Paris when he and Marielle had been locked into silent rage against one another. Strange. He almost had the impression that she had expected Paris to produce the final rupture between them, and had been hurt and disappointed when he returned with Marielle. There was a new note in her behavior, a tense brittleness, almost a desperation to win him back that surprised and dismayed him. He did not think he had given her reason for renewed hope—despite the tangle of his relationship with Marielle—but he felt a pang of guilt and responsibility. He would have to ask her to leave after the harvest; it would be best for all of them.
Marielle Page 18