The Secret of the Glass
Page 39
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle de Chouard,” Olympe said, looking down her long, straight nose at the women before her.
“Is it true, what we have heard? Are you to wed Monsieur de Loisseau?”
“Oh, dearest Daphne, is he one of those who wishes my hand?” Olympe looked around. “There are so many, I cannot keep track.”
Jeanne blanched at her friend’s egotistical rejoinder and was astounded when the group laughed in response.
“With such a wit it is no wonder they are lining up at your door,” the young man said, taking Olympe’s hand and brushing his lips across her translucent skin.
Olympe bowed. “Monsieur La Porte, Mademoiselle La Vienne, Mademoiselle de Chouard, pray say hello to Lynette, whom you all know, and to Jeanne, whom I should hope you remember.”
Jeanne recognized Daphne de Chouard from chapel, having seen her pray with great vehemence on more than one occasion.
“Ah, Mademoiselle La Marechal, a pleasure as always to see you,” Daphne greeted Lynette; her companions nodded their enthusiastic agreement. “We were just speaking to your father. What a wonderful, kind man.”
“Many thanks, mademoiselle.” Lynette offered them a small curtsey, giving Jeanne a gentle push forward.
The courtiers’s eyes stabbed at Jeanne for a brief moment. Then the trio turned away.
“Keep us informed, Olympe,” Daphne called over her shoulder. “We wish to be the first to know of your betrothal.”
Olympe waved a limp hand at them, turning back to Jeanne. She watched with Lynette as anger and embarrassment colored their friend’s face.
“Do not bother with them.” Olympe twisted Jeanne away. “They are no one to be concerned with. You must learn to know the court. The plotting is constant on a grand scale, and whom to plot against is of most importance. From the Queen to the King’s many paramours, the ministers and the courtiers, they are all in it.”
Jeanne froze, aghast at Olympe’s words. Lynette twined her arm through Jeanne’s, pulling her forward toward the chateau.
“You must learn not to let the machinations of the courtiers affect you so, ma chère.” Lynette spoke softly, stroking her friend’s arm.
Jeanne smiled sadly, nodding her head.
“I know, I know, yet I have little tolerance for their hypocrisy. There is truth to the fashion of courtiers wearing masks, for some are indeed two-faced. They profess profound piety, yet their behavior speaks of anything but. They judge and belittle others they perceive as beneath them and hate any they deem as competition.”
Jeanne stopped, turning to her friends.
“I ask you, is this how God intends for his most righteous followers to behave?”
She held her heavy-heeled shoes in her hand as she tiptoed on stockinged feet down the long, empty corridor. On the floor above her rooms, Jeanne stealthily made her way to the farthest chamber. The oppressive heat of midafternoon pressed thick around her, and the sweat slid down her brow and between her breasts. She’d told Lynette and Olympe that she needed a nap, but instead she’d headed for this classroom, her refuge, as it had been almost every afternoon since her return.
Jeanne smiled gratefully as she reached the portal, thrilled to see it open, no doubt those within hoping for a stray breeze or two. She slipped into the room, gracefully dropping to her knees, sliding the rest of the way into a small cubbyhole as she did. From here she could hear everything taking place in the room and, when she dared peek out, could see those within as well. For the most part she kept herself utterly still, not wishing to expose her position, for to reveal herself would be to incur expulsion and more disgrace.
In her mind’s eye she pictured the room and all its details: a dozen or so young boys, aged from six to sixteen, wearing flamboyant clothing and bored expressions, lanky limbs draped across the scarred wooden chairs as they pretended to pay attention to the tutor. Bright light from the one wide-open window cast strange shadows across their faces, throwing their high cheekbones and long, straight noses into stark relief.
“The Romans believed in many gods, some of whom our own King pledges allegiance to, such as Apollo.” The tall young man perched on a chair at the front of the room spoke with elegance. His clothes showed signs of wear and overuse; the son of a lowborn baron, as were most tutors, the instructor was rich in knowledge but little else. Jeanne thrilled at his voice as well as the subject matter.
The study of history was one of Jeanne’s favorite subjects and one intentionally omitted from her own formal education. History was considered recreational study, and there was nothing recreational allowed at the convent. She’d received instruction in only the basics: reading, writing, arithmetic, and diction. She had gleaned her love of history at the convent, but not from the nuns.
Had she been twelve or perhaps thirteen? Jeanne couldn’t remember. She’d been assigned to clean the convent library; a library the priests from the adjacent monastery accessed as well. Dusting the shelves with a dirty, ragged cloth, she’d picked up Julius Caesar, by William Shakespeare. When she dropped the old tome on the floor, the pages had fallen open, revealing, like the freshly burst flower reveals its stamen, all of the magnificent secrets hidden within. By the second page, Jeanne was enraptured. The gladiators, the Senate, the law. Her mind whirled as the words spun her back through the ages.
Sister Marguerite allowed Jeanne to clean the library for many weeks, until the young girl was discovered sprawled beneath a heavy oak table, sound asleep, Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales as her pillow. Jeanne was forbidden to ever clean the library again, but the damage had been done: her love of history, books, and learning had become as much a part of her as her own soul.
“The intrigue among the senators was a many-layered briar patch.” The sarcasm lay heavy in Monsieur de Postel’s voice, the similarity of the times he spoke of to the present day apparent to him and Jeanne, if not to his pupils.
Jeanne smiled, silently congratulating this man for his insight. She admired teachers, thought teaching a noble profession, one she’d considered for herself, but only for a moment. A woman could only teach as an instructress at a convent, and the thought of ever again entering one of those dismal, depressing places was abhorrent.
He has accepted his position well, she thought, hearing no dissatisfaction, only enthusiasm, in his voice. His father had been a member of the lower cabinet, a much more esteemed position than the tutor held. But M. de Postel was a Huguenot.
Louis’ grandfather had passed the Edict of Nantes eighty-four years ago, giving Protestants protection to practice their faith in freedom. During the last few years, the relations between the Catholics and the Huguenots had once again grown strained, and the King had slowly, and as inconspicuously as possible, begun weeding the Protestants out of positions of authority at court. Once a lawmaker, Baron de Postel was now one of the many tutors situated at court charged with the early education of the nobility’s children.
Jeanne leaned in and risked a quick glance at the man pontificating with such exuberance. His long, bony arm stretched outward, an imagined sword held firmly in his hand.
Why can I not be as accepting of my fate as he? Jeanne wondered. Pulling herself back into her hiding place, she closed her eyes to the brimming tears and her mind to all such errant thoughts, allowing only the words of the past to enter.
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Copyright © 2010 by Donna Russo Morin
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*denotes historical character
*denotes historical character
*denotes historical character
*denotes historical character