Marielle

by Sylvia Halliday

  He started at the sound of tapping on the paneled door. At his command, the door was opened and Clothilde came timidly into the room, carrying a small tray with a cup of wine. She smiled shyly as she handed him the cup, and he realized with a start that she was playing the same innocent maiden who had beguiled him into her bed. What new game was this? Fascinated, wary, he waited for her to speak.

  “Thank you for your kindness this afternoon, my lord. I do not know why Madame hates me so!” He did not reply. She edged closer to him, her eyes cast down, her voice so soft he could barely hear her. “I have missed you from my bed.” Mon Dieu! Was she going to manage to blush? He felt like a fool. What would they say in Paris? The great lover! After all the women he had known! And until this moment, he had thought Clothilde straightforward and honest! Emboldened by his silence, she leaned over suddenly and kissed him on the lips. He allowed himself a moment’s response, his lips remembering a simpler time when he had needed her comfort and nothing more. Clothilde, thinking only of his anger at Marielle, and desperate at the thought of losing him, read into his response that answer she was seeking. She smiled in triumph, careless in her victory.

  “As though she could ever really be mistress here!” she sneered.

  She did not see the coldness in his eyes, the subtle net he had begun to weave. “But she is—under God—my wife,” he said mildly.

  “Not even the Church could object to the dissolution of a marriage that never was.”

  “What makes you so sure of that?”

  She laughed. “Women know these things instinctively.”

  “Just as she…no doubt instinctively…knew what had transpired between you and me?” She smiled like a cat, but said nothing. “Or did you suggest as much at every opportunity?” His voice was sharp-edged. She stirred uneasily and would have kissed him again to placate him, but he pushed her roughly away and stood up, facing her. “What did you say to my wife this afternoon?” She stammered, then was silent. He went on, his voice deepening with anger until it rumbled in his chest. “Did you boast of our intimacy? Did you gloat over her unimportance in this household? Did you finally drive her to the edge of that abyss of despair that I have managed to create?”

  She began to blubber then, her voice shrill and ugly, reminding him of all that she had done for him, of how she had loved him, until he was filled with remorse at his own thoughtlessness.

  “I am most truly sorry, Clothilde, for what has happened,” he said gently. “But I never gave you cause to believe I was in love with you. And from the moment I brought my wife to Vilmorin, I gave you no reason to think that I would be unfaithful to her…nor have I. It would be best for you to leave. I’m sorry.”

  “Five hundred livres!”

  “What?”

  “Five hundred livres!” she repeated coldly. “A good year’s wage! That is what I want from you!”

  He laughed sardonically. “So much for love! Poor Clothilde. You must have thought I would be a perfect catch. How were you to know I had a wife?” He crossed the room and opened a large armoire, removing a small brassbound casket that he unlocked with a key from his pocket. “Here you are,” he said, handing her a small sack that clanked metallically. “Two hundred crowns. More than you asked for. More than you are worth. As a housekeeper, or…anything else! But perhaps you will find a nobleman more gullible or foolish than I! I expect you to leave Vilmorin at once.” And he turned his back on her until she had left the room.

  He was impatient suddenly to be with Marielle, to beg her forgiveness, to cover her with kisses. He took the stairs two at a time, remembering with shame the last time he had hurried to her room. Louise had said she had locked the doors, but that was over an hour ago. Perhaps by now she would not be so upset and he could speak to her softly through the sitting room door. He was surprised to find it unlocked and slightly ajar, and her bedchamber empty. He bellowed loudly for Louise and paced the floor until she came puffing up the stairs.

  “Where is she?”

  Louise shook her head. “I know not, Monsieur! I did not see her leave!” Louise prowled the bedchamber, poking into oaken chests, searching armoires. “Her riding cloak is gone. Nothing more.”

  André muttered an oath. “Tell Yves to saddle my horse, and then return to me here. I may have need of you.”

  He was in his bedchamber when she bustled back, flushed with news. Yves had saddled Madame’s horse and had seen her off less than an hour ago, heading east.

  Busy pulling on his riding boots, André stopped, wondering. “Narbaux?” Louise shrugged. André stripped off his linen doublet and replaced it with a warm velvet one; evening was coming on and it would be a chill ride. He opened a large chest and removed his sword and its broad leather harness, buckling it on and wondering as he did so what was amiss in the contents of the chest. Of course. The small black box, normally fastened with a silver latch, was lying on its side, its lid askew. He lifted it carefully and raised the lid. Where there was usually a brace of pistols, nestling in their velvet beds, there was now but one. Wordlessly he held it out to Louise. She gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, her eyes filled with apprehension.

  “What is it?” he asked, surprised.

  “Mon Dieu! She has gone to Quiot! I know it!”

  “To Quiot? Why?”

  “To kill him,” she said scarcely above a whisper. She began to weep, large tears coursing down her round cheeks. “She said it only this week. I should have known. ‘Louise,’ she said to me, ‘I shall never be at peace while that man lives.’ I thought it was only talk.”

  “What happened at Quiot?” he said quietly. She shook her head stubbornly. He repeated the question, his eyes boring into her.

  “No! She did not want you to know. She begged me not to tell. I think she hoped that you would see into her heart, and find the love there, and all the ugliness would be washed away.” She lashed at him in sudden anger. “As though a thick-headed clod could begin to understand a woman’s love!” The lash bit deep and he flinched.

  “What happened at Quiot?” he said, impatient now.

  Hesitantly at first, she began to tell him what she knew, of Gravillac’s cruelty, Marielle’s pain and grief and shame. She wept afresh, remembering the nights she had listened outside of Marielle’s locked door, hearing her sobbing, or crying out or begging Gravillac to leave her in peace. André groaned and turned away, unwilling to expose his own naked pain.

  “I know he hurt her often,” she said. “There were bruises sometimes…but the worst pain, I think, was in her heart. She thought that you were dead, you see. She spoke often of you…and her brother and her father. She had lost so much—mayhap her grief was so strong it blotted out the pain of his abuse.”

  “And could she not escape?” asked André, his voice hoarse and choked.

  “She tried once, but I think Molbert betrayed her. I do not know what she used to bribe him; that animal would do nothing without pay.”

  “Oh, God! The ring! And I called her careless for losing it!” His voice was filled with the agony of remorse, pity for Marielle.

  “It was worse when she knew about the baby. She was terrified that he would find out and kill her. And yet…sometimes…I would see it in her face…a kind of madness…and I was afraid. I think at times she wanted to goad him into a rage, hoping that he would kill her, and end her misery.”

  “Gravillac! With my bare hands…!” He choked on his own fury and could not finish.

  “I saw him grow from a child—he was cruel and spoiled and selfish. He whipped a stableboy once and nearly killed him—because the boy had beaten him in some child’s game! He could not bear to lose—he took cruel revenge on his rivals!”

  “What a blind fool I was! I knew him at the Academy—he was the same. I should have guessed he would not forgive La Forêt! Was I so stupidly jealous that I could not see the obvious—that she had no choice?” He covered his eyes and turned away, feeling suddenly unmanned by his grief and self-reproach. Loui
se clapped her large hand on his bent shoulders.

  “Go and find your wife!” she commanded. “There will be time later to weep over the past!” She helped him on with his heavy cloak while he pulled on a pair of soft leather gauntlets, feeling cheered by her earthy warmth.

  “It will be chilly tonight,” he said. “If she has no other clothes but what she was wearing, she will be cold. Make me up a packet of some of her things. And food. I would wager she did not think to bring that either.”

  “You are in charge here, Louise,” he said as he rode out. “If Clothilde is still about, see that she leaves at once.” And he galloped off into the twilight.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  He rode like a madman pursued by demons, afraid to slow his pace. She was a good horsewoman, and if indeed she meant to kill Gravillac, she would not spare her horse or herself. She was a good hour ahead of him, with the advantage of daylight, when the narrow road would have been visible and easy to follow. He shivered. The night was cold, with a crispness that warned of winter. From afar he heard the hoot of an owl, and once there was a loud rustling in the underbrush as the thundering hooves disturbed some small creature of the night. At length, and far off, he discerned a pinpoint of light that he soon saw to be a small fire, set at some distance from the road. Cautiously he guided his horse toward it, concerned lest the animal stumble in the dark, conscious as well of the danger of bandits. If these were simple travelers they might have seen Marielle; still, it did no harm to be careful. He sniffed, the smell of roasting meat filling his nostrils. Poachers. Honest folk did not feast in the woods—a rich man would want the comfort of his château, a poor man the benediction of his family. Quietly he dismounted, tying his horse to a small tree and drawing his sword. He dropped his cloak, that he might be free to maneuver, then crept slowly forward, muscles tense, ever the trained soldier.

  He saw Marielle first. She sat at some distance from the fire, her back against a tree, her arms stretched cruelly around its trunk and tied with a stout rope. Her jacket had been torn away at the neck, her shoulders bare, bosom covered only by her tattered chemise. She was too far from the fire to enjoy its warmth, and she shivered with cold, ignored by the three men who sat close to the blaze, feeding on what appeared to be the carcass of a small rabbit spitted and crackling over the flames. Two gray asses, burdened with large bundles of kindling, grazed nearby. André judged the men to be farmers or woodcutters, one of them no more than a lad of fifteen or so. It was impossible to guess the ages of the other two; their faces and bodies were so stooped and worn with work and hardship and disease that they might have been twenty-five or fifty. In his hand the boy held André’s two-shot pistol, and he began to argue with the men, brandishing the weapon all the while.

  “It is not fair!” he said petulantly. “Why can I not have her? What harm? All she had in her pocket was ten sous! Ten miserable sous! She is nobody! Nothing! Who will care?”

  “Shut up, Michel!” barked one of the men. “I will tell you yet again! She may be nobody, but she rode a horse with a crest on its saddle! Do you want to hang for raping a nobleman’s lady?”

  “I do not care! Who would know?” he asked sullenly. He turned to the other man. “Isn’t it all right, Charles? Isn’t it?”

  Charles looked at Marielle, and ran his tongue across his lips, his eyes glittering. “I never had such a pretty one myself!” Then he sighed in resignation. “No. Emile is right. Better just to hold her for ransom. Her horse won’t get far with that thrown shoe. In the morning we can find out whose crest is on the saddle—he’ll pay a pretty penny to get his lady back!”

  The boy Michel smiled and turned toward Marielle, pointing the pistol at her bosom. “Mayhap we do not have to wait till morning! Mayhap she will tell us who she is tonight!” André stiffened, measuring the distance between himself and the lad. But the man called Emile jumped up and snatched the pistol from the boy’s hand, giving him a cuff across the ear that sent him sprawling. Michel glared at him, but contented himself with rubbing the side of his head and wolfing down another piece of meat.

  Emile scratched at his groin and, handing the pistol to Charles, unfastened his breeches and headed for a dark patch of trees beyond the fire’s light. Carefully André circled around and came up behind him as he was straightening up, his breeches still drooping about his ankles. One powerful arm went swiftly around Emile’s neck, the hand clapped firmly against his mouth; with the other hand, André rested his sword lightly at the base of Emile’s throat, its edge just grazing the vulnerable flesh. Prodded by André’s knee in his back, the terrified farmer minced and hopped his way to the firelight, his feet hobbled by the encumbering breeches. Michel gaped and started to laugh at the sight of his friend, half-naked, his knees knocking in fright; then he saw the yellow-haired giant behind him, who stood a full head taller than Emile, and he gulped and kept still. André shifted his arm, that he might get a firmer grip on the man’s neck; Emile, his mouth freed, began to babble like a madman. Charles, realizing that he held a pistol against the stranger’s sword, lifted it in his shaking hands and pointed it toward André and Emile; the latter, fearful suddenly that he would lose his manhood to a pistol ball, screamed in terror and clutched his hands protectively against his groin.

  With a sudden movement André flung Emile away from him, propelling him with such force that he crashed into the other man, knocking the pistol in his hand so it discharged with a roar, sending the shot through Charles’ foot. The two men fell heavily to the ground, Charles moaning and writhing in pain. In one long stride André reached Emile and lifted him by the scruff of his neck. He turned his sword backward in his hand and, with the heavy pommel, gave the man a rap on the head that toppled him once again. Emile had had enough. Scrambling to his feet, he pulled his breeches about him as best he could and ran for one of the donkeys, mounting it in one leap; he fled toward the road, his feet furiously kicking the poor animal’s flanks, and was soon lost from view. André turned his attention to the other two. Charles, crying in pain, was slowly limping toward the other donkey, leaving a bloody path behind him. The boy Michel, with the foolhardy arrogance of youth, had retrieved the pistol, one shot still in it, and was now pointing it defiantly at André, who advanced on him, sword in hand, his eyes cold and hard. Under that withering stare, the pistol wavered, then swung to Marielle, then back again to André. Still the blue eyes held him, the inexorable figure advanced. With a sob Michel flung down the pistol and would have fled, but a strong arm grabbed him, held him fast. Bending the boy over one outthrust knee, André beat him soundly with the flat of his blade until Michel howled in pain. Then, with a kick, he sent him on his way after Charles who, already mounted, was crashing through the underbrush, whimpering in fear and distress.

  Swiftly André untied Marielle and led her to the warmth of the fire, noticing for the first time how tired she looked, her face drawn, shoulders drooping with exhaustion. He smiled gently. “I seem always to be rescuing you from evil men.” Embarrassed, unwilling to look at him, she concentrated on the fire, hugging her body for warmth. “Where is your cloak?” His eyes were filled with concern.

  “I…I lost it…I know not where…the horse stumbled, cast his shoe…I thought…they would help me…” Her voice trailed off and she bit her lip, trembling on the brink of tears. He had never loved her more, never felt such a need to shield her and protect her from harm, never been more aware of his own lack of courage to say what was in his heart.

  “Have you eaten at all?” She shook her head. Gingerly he plucked the remains of the rabbit from the fire, dropping it onto a flat rock in front of her until it should cool. He laughed ruefully. “I trust the Seigneur of this district will not look with the same disfavor upon scavengers as he does upon poachers.” He left her to her food and went to fetch his horse, leading the animal into the circle of firelight, and he unwrapped the packet Louise had given him. He retrieved the pistol and tucked it into his sash. Then he sat beside Marielle and watche
d her in silence, his eyes filled with tenderness, until she stirred uneasily, conscious suddenly of their isolation, the temptation of her torn garments.

  He hesitated, finding words difficult. “I…have been less than kind to you, I think. Crueler even than Gravillac.” She gasped, her eyes flying to his face, wondering and fearing at the same time. “Why could you not tell me?” he asked gently. Now the tears fell unchecked, great sparkling drops that welled up in her eyes and coursed softly down her cheeks.

  “I could not bear for you to know my shame,” she said, her voice so low he had to strain to hear. She turned away, as though even his glance brought a humiliation she could not endure.

  “Shame?” he said angrily, and turned her roughly to face him. “The shame is mine for ever having believed aught but good of you!” His breath caught. He was aware suddenly of her bare shoulders under his hands, the heaving bosom, the ripe mouth wet with her tears. He dropped his hands and rose unsteadily, putting some distance between them. “Louise sent along warm clothing.” His voice was gruff in his throat, and he indicated the packet with a jerk of his chin, his eyes reluctant to meet Marielle’s.