Words from the Dark Inkwell of the Heart

by Arinn Dembo

  At the end of the day, I would brush her hair until it shone like a cataract of yellow silk, and plait it into a long smooth rope. She closed her eyes, rested her head on the pillow, and I took whatever lay upon her bedside table to read aloud until she was ready to snuff the lamp and sleep.

  It was there, seated on the edge of Madame de Maurier’s bed, that I first encountered the love of my life. I had just read a sheet of hand-written verses, two sonnets so scandalously funny that I laughed aloud—and at the bottom of the page, I saw his name: C. Edmund DeRoste.

  * * *

  “Cousin Edmund”, as she called him, had been a fixture in the life of Madame de Maurier since she was a small child. He was her second cousin; the two of them had played together on the family estate in the Dordogne. They had always moved in the same social circles, and when he joined the musketeers, the two remained close. He had been a good friend to her husband, in years past. After Monsieur de Maurier was killed in the war, DeRoste remained one of the very few intimates with whom Madame could discuss her husband—and the only one before whom she would openly weep.

  The fact that he was one of the most celebrated litterateurs in Paris was an afterthought, to her; Madame was aware of his fame, but she never seemed to understand it. To Cecile de Maurier, DeRoste was only “funny old Cousin Edmund”, and she could not regard him in any other light. He always passed along his latest efforts to her, long before they were published; she received his poems and plays with a gracious smile, but she was careless about reading them. Celebrated as he was, his cousin found his work…uninspiring.

  Naturally, I had heard of DeRoste before. It was impossible to haunt the bookstalls in any marketplace without hearing of his latest escapade. He was the sort of man that people love to talk about, and his latest writing was always avidly sought—so much so that I had never been able to read more than a few discarded leaves which fell when another customer had taken the last copy.

  When I first came to work for Madame de Maurier, he was away from the city for a number of months, on holiday in Italy. Thus I had nearly half a year to find every page he had written and read them all—once or twice aloud, at her direction, but more often secretly, in my room. It became a delicious treat to search the voluminous sheaves written by her other friends, when Madame was away, seeking these little treasures…always written in that vigorous, back-slanting hand which I came to recognize at a glance.

  By the time I was nineteen, I knew a page written by DeRoste anywhere, not only by sight but by sound. Every line was spoken by the same wonderful Voice. To me, these were the outpourings of a great soul: wry, sad, irreverent and wicked, world-weary and wise, sweetly romantic, and often given to rage—this last always on behalf of those weaker than himself, who were wronged by the strong. His pen had a Voice, and when that Voice spoke, I burned. I could give no name to the passion that had come over me. I took his unpublished poems and hid them under my mattress, as if they were written for me.

  His letters came more frequently as he planned his return to Paris. Day after day I sat at Madame’s desk, writing her calm and courteous replies. I was unbearably excited that he was coming back—that he would soon be as common a visitor in Madame’s parlor as any other friend. But how would I recognize him? None of his published books carried an engraving of his face, and much as I searched, I could find no portrait of her cousin among Madame de Maurier’s things.

  The reason for this became clear soon enough. He sent word that he would call on her, on the fifth of September. On the day of his arrival, Madame took me aside.

  “My cousin Edmund is coming this afternoon. Since you have never met him, I must warn you that he is a man of great sensitivity. Please be very careful not to stare at him. He is very tender about his looks, and quick to take offense.”

  I nodded and lowered my eyes. DeRoste—was he ugly? Could such wonderful words be written by an ugly man? I allowed it could be so. I understood ugliness well enough, having borne its curse all of my life. I had certainly heard the tales of DeRoste’s quick temper. The notion that I could offend or insult him in some way terrified me. But part of me marveled at Madame’s tone—did she really think her Cousin hideous? She seemed to have a very tender affection for him; she always began her letters to him “Dearest Friend”…could it be that she was as kindly solicitous of his deformity as she was of mine?

  I sat in my accustomed chair by the window when his carriage arrived. From this vantage point, DeRoste was nothing but the crown of a broad-brimmed hat, its band sporting three long spotted plumes. When I heard his thunderous knock, heard the thud of his boots on the wooden floor, the rumble of his approach in the hall, I thought he must be a giant.

  The door opened; the valet spoke his name. He exploded into the room like a flock of pigeons, sweeping off his hat with a bow. Before Madame de Maurier could more than half rise from her chair, he had clapped his arms around her and kissed both her pale cheeks.

  “Cecile, ma chere cousine! I am home.” And with that he collapsed on her divan, as if he had run the whole way from Italy on foot. Before Madame could speak again, he launched into the story of his travails on the road from Tuscany. Anxious, I waited to be introduced, but it was impossible; he stayed for two hours, and in that time poor Madame could not get in a word.

  I contented myself by studying the man from the corner of my eye, stealing longer glances when I thought I could go unnoticed. Vainly I searched for ugliness, beginning with his face. It seemed a good face to me. A firm Gallic nose, perhaps a bit larger than usual, which served him as a ship is served by a strong prow. An old dueling scar across the bridge was more romantic than disfiguring. A generous mouth, filled with strong white teeth. A lavish moustache, lustrous black, and a neatly pointed tuft of beard upon his stubborn chin. He wore his hair long, in glossy, coal-black curls—another man might have paid handsomely to wear them as a wig. Large, soulful brown eyes, surrounded by lines of laughter and pain. Thick lashes and brows—these as mobile and mercurial as a summer sky, portending joy or thunder with his many swiftly passing moods.

  Finding no ugliness above the neck, I continued my search below. DeRoste was not a tall man; he wore a high-heeled boot that came to his knee, but when Madame stood to greet him, she had to bend to kiss his cheek. His shoulders were broad and powerful beneath his cotton chemise, the sleeves rolled up over a sun-blackened forearm. His hands had seen both hard work and violence. He had the thighs of a horseman, and a prosperous middle—but these did not seem to me unattractive.

  Despite myself, I found myself caught up in the story of his roadside adventures, which he told with such passion that the voyage seemed as marvelous as a trip to Arabia. I found myself riding upon the waves of his voice, having lost all sense of time or self—smiling and often almost chuckling as he talked, as if he were speaking to me directly. But at last, concluding his narrative, he leaned forward; Madame de Maurier smiled as he took her tiny hand.

  “And so I return to Paris, not much the worse for wear. Sweet cousin…” He kissed her fingers. “You are looking well.”

  She squeezed his hand, smiling tenderly. “I am well, cher Edmund. I am glad to see you again.” She met his eyes. “You are, indeed, not much the worse for wear.”

  He smiled broadly. “Fortune did Her worst the day that I was born.” He stood to go. “But tell me, before I leave—who is this little person sitting in the corner? She has been staring at me ever since I arrived in the rudest, most reprehensible manner!”

  With that he turned to me, full face, and gave me a broad comedian’s wink. Caught! My mouth dropped open, aghast. I jumped to my feet. The blood soared to my face in a ferocious hot blush.

  “This is my new companion, Mademoiselle Bertrand. I took her into my service several months ago—she is quite precious to me.” There was a note of chiding in Madame’s voice. “And I’m quite sure that she was not staring at you, Edmund. Do not be diabolical. Poor Claudette has never stared at anyone in her life.”
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br />   DeRoste, grinning, made a florid bow in my direction. “Enchante, Mademoiselle. I am delighted to make your acquaintance. She who is precious to Cecile, is precious to me.”

  I could not speak; instead I made a sharp, sudden bend of knees as a curtsey, and took an abrupt interest in my shoes.

  “And now I am off.” He clapped his flamboyant chapeau back onto his head. “Good day, fair cousin. I may call on you again next week, if you will have me.”

  Madame laughed and stood to see him out. “But of course I will. You know you are always welcome.”

  His last gesture was an odd one, repeated countless times in the ensuing years. Madame waited for him at the door, and DeRoste turned toward the mantle. There above the fireplace was a painting of Monsieur de Maurier, before he went away to war; DeRoste squared his shoulders and heels and gave his old friend’s portrait a quick, jaunty military salute. Then, without another word, he left the room.

  * * *

  I continued in Madame’s service for another four years without incident. Her cousin Edmund was a regular visitor and a constant companion to her. She could call on him any time; DeRoste attended her at the opera, escorted her to concerts and plays, joined her for luncheon and rides in the park. As I grew older, and saw more of the world—or rather, that small part of it which passed through Madame’s drawing room—I understood more and more how she depended on her cousin to shield her from other men.

  It was both Madame’s joy and her grave misfortune that she had given her heart to only one man in her life. This was the gentleman whose portrait hung above her mantle. She did not intend to re-marry, and could not bear even to be courted—whether for her beauty or for her fortune made no difference. Even to hear the suit of another man was an insult to the memory of her beloved Lucien, and she would not allow the subject to be broached. Twice I saw her cut off all contact with a man who dared to make an improper suggestion—all letters returned and all visits refused from the hapless fellow thereafter.

  When she thought she was alone, Madame often mourned for Monsieur de Maurier. More than once I saw her reach behind that portrait and take out a packet of letters, still bound by a faded ribbon. Many of them remained unopened, even years later—but in one of the old linen envelopes, there was still a single lock of his chestnut hair. On her darker days, she would open that envelope and breathe in the smell of her beloved, hold the silken loop of hair against her cheek, and weep.

  From time to time I studied the portrait of Monsieur de Maurier myself. It was impossible to do otherwise, when he was the object of so much love. He was a handsome young man, in many ways the masculine counterpart to Madame’s own luminous beauty: tall, lean, with piercing gray eyes and features so lovely they might have been a girl’s. His face did not seem unkind, and he looked well in his uniform. But whatever quality he possessed that could inspire Madame’s lifetime of devotion, I could not see.

  There is little else to say about those years, save that I was happy. My hunger for words had never been so gluttonously surfeited: I drowned in books, papers, letters and writs. Soon, emboldened by my daily service to Madame, I began to write little things of my own, in my private hours. My salary was more than sufficient to afford my own quills and a bound diary; in the pages of those blank books I began to explore my inner country.

  I burned those diaries this evening; I could not allow them to be found. Someone might have seen in them a contradiction with tomorrow’s confession. In any case, all those little thoughts had no great value; in all the years I sat writing, I arrived at only three great truths.

  One, that I was desperately and hopelessly in love with the great writer, Edmund DeRoste.

  Two, that Edmund Deroste was just as hopelessly in love with my mistress, Cecile de Maurier.

  Three, that Cecile de Maurier had given her heart away years ago, to a dead man, and would not ever return her cousin’s love, no matter how great their mutual affection. Her love for him was of another nature entirely.

  I suppose that in my simple way, I had assumed that these great truths were equally evident to all three of us. I thought we had agreed, by silent mutual consent, to continue as we were; we knew there was no need to trouble one another with painful subjects, or to speak of loves which can never be returned.

  As it happened, I was mistaken. The three great truths were known only to me, and neither Madame nor DeRoste understood and accepted them as I had. Apparently, there are some matters in which a crippled serving girl has the advantage over a great beauty or a great talent, and the acceptance of pain—both for myself and others—was one of these.

  * * *

  The change in DeRoste came slowly. It was obvious to me that he was restless, gnawed from within by a pang that grew stronger with the passage of time. Unless he found some relief, it would eventually become unbearable.

  Last November, he announced that he was writing a new play. “It will be my greatest work to date. The one for which I am remembered.”

  “Really?” Madame lowered her knitting. “And what will be the subject?”

  “Love.” He fixed her with his eyes. “It will be a comedy.”

  “Excellent! I shall look forward to reading it.”

  DeRoste began the same evening. The writing was the work of three months; he did not call upon Madame during that time, although she sent letters to inquire after his health. When I delivered the last of these to his door, following Madame’s own instructions, Jean-Patrice would not let me in.

  “He is working,” the old man said simply. “He is not to be disturbed.”

  The play arrived on a stormy February evening, carried by Jean-Patrice in an oiled leather sachet. I brought it to Madame still dripping from the rain. When she bade me open it, I found the play itself prefaced by a terse note: “Cecile—please read. I will call on you tomorrow to see what you think of it.” Unusually, he had signed it with his first name: “Anxiously yours, Charles.”

  “Well!” Madame took the heavy parcel from my hands, hefting the weight of the five acts within. “He sounds very urgent, n’est ce pas? We shall have to begin reading this at bedtime, Claudette—it won’t do to be rude.”

  “No, Madame.” I was outwardly calm—but I could barely contain myself. What on earth had DeRoste written in this play, so urgently, so passionately, for three long months without rest? What was so important that he could not wait a single day longer for Madame to read it?

  The answer was slow in coming. Madame’s guests lingered over their coffee; Madame herself dawdled on her way to bed. Even as I braided her hair I could see how tired she was, her neck bowed like the stem of a wilting flower. She lay in bed ready to listen—but by the second page of the first act, she was sound asleep.

  Quietly I snuffed the lamp, took up my cane, and retired to my own room. I still held DeRoste’s play under my arm. Cecile de Maurier might be too tired to receive his words, but I was born for nothing else. There was not the slightest possibility that I could sleep before I had finished reading that play. The sun might sooner fall from the sky like a lemon.

  And so I sat, first with laughter, then with tears, and finally in cold, sickening dread, as I turned page after page. It was, indeed, DeRoste’s masterpiece—a magnificent play about a magnificent man and a magnificent, tragic, and beautiful love. It sparkled with fine repartee, with humane understanding, with affection and tolerance for all the pretty foibles of humankind—moreover, with an abiding faith in the deeper truth which lies beneath the face we all must show to the world.

  At last I read the final words, so hastily written that the ink had not been properly blotted. He had finished it that very evening, I was certain, only hours ago. Even now he was pacing, sleepless, waiting for the hour when he could come to Madame, and demand her answer.

  Silently, I took up my candle and went to the parlor. For the first time I dared to touch the portrait of Monsieur de Maurier, drawing aside the picture frame to find the packet of letters. Looking constantly over my s
houlder, I took them to my room, and opened the ribbon with a trembling hand.

  No. No, even from the very first letter, there could be no doubt. Even had the Voice not spoken so clearly, the occasional backslant of the hand would have given it away. Shaking, weeping, I opened one after the other—even daring to profane those which Madame had left sealed and unread, all those years ago.

  When at last I was finished, my heart was cold; foreboding hung over me like an axe. Only a few hours remained until dawn. I worked as fast as I could; I had an ample supply of Madame’s best paper at my disposal, and I knew her epistolary style very well. I referred often to my own diaries, scanning page after page for all the things I had longed to say, but had never dared. I knew it must all be voiced now…every precious word. There could be no holding back.

  * * *

  He arrived the following afternoon. Madame could not conceal her delight; of the three of us, only she was not ragged for want of sleep. Seeing the hollow, feverish gleam in his eyes, I trembled. Nonetheless, he greeted her with a smile. “Cecile.”

  “Bon jour, Edmund. It is so good to see you again—congratulations. You finished your play!”

  He took her hand and sat upon the divan, drawing her down into the chair beside him. “Yes, cherie.” He looked into her eyes, searching. “And did you read it?”

  Madame looked away. “Of course.” She was ashamed, naturally, but so eager to spare his feelings that she couldn’t bear to tell him she had fallen asleep. “It was good—very good! You should be quite proud.”

  A smile broke out, bright as the sun piercing the clouds. “Do you think so? I had hoped…hoped that it would speak to you.”

  “Oh yes.” She nodded. “Very much so.”

  “Ah Cecile.” For a moment, overcome, he bent and pressed his forehead to the back of her hand, as if in supplication. “I should have written it years ago. When I think of all the time I wasted…!” His voice was heavy with emotion.