Mistress of the Revolution: A Novel

by Delors, Catherine

  I undressed to my corset and chemise, which I tied in a knot around my thighs. I gingerly waded into the river, careful not to slip on the green rounded stones of the bottom. The iciness of the water took my breath away. I let the chill penetrate deep into my legs until I could feel the marrow of my bones. Refreshed, I skipped the pebbles I had gathered on the bank and watched the ripples on the glassy surface of the river. I took water into the cup of my hand and let the droplets run down my neck and between my breasts. I shivered with pleasure. It was delicious to feel my skin tingle with cold on that hot day. I was absorbed by the happiness of the moment, lost to any noise but the song of the river.

  After a while, I felt a prickling on the back of my neck. I turned around, still knee-deep in the water. A young man of colossal stature was watching me from the bank, smiling, his arms folded. He was dressed with informal elegance, in riding boots, deerskin breeches and a brown velvet waistcoat. His coat and hat were lying on the pebble bank next to my faded gown, moth-eaten stockings and worn-out shoes. His black hair was not powdered and tied like my brother’s, but fell straight on his shoulders. What was most noteworthy about the stranger, after his height, was the plainness of his face. The ridges of his jaw and eyebrows were more pronounced than in anyone I had seen before. His nose was long and curved, his skin swarthy, his cheekbones wide and prominent. I wondered how long he had been watching me and I felt colour rise into my cheeks. It was the first time I had seen an intruder in what I considered, now that Jacques shunned my company, my own private domain.

  I recovered from my surprise and asked sharply in the Roman language: “Who are you? And what are you doing here?”

  “Both pertinent questions, young lady, but I should be the one asking them. My eldest brother owns this land, and you are trespassing. Yet, as a token of my goodwill, I will tell you my name, which is Pierre-André Coffinhal. I came here to bathe in the river, as I like to do every fine day in the summer. However, since you have preceded me, it appears that I will have to forego this pleasure.”

  He did not look much older than twenty, but his voice was oddly deep for someone so young. He had responded in the Roman language, addressing me in the familiar thou. That seemed to indicate that he had taken me for a peasant girl, which suited me very well.

  “Are you related to Dr. Coffinhal?” I asked.

  “Pierre is one of my brothers, and also my godfather, hence the similarity in our names. In fact, I too am Dr. Coffinhal, for I just completed my medical studies.”

  I knew the other Dr. Coffinhal well. He lived in Vic, where he was the town physician. My mother fancied herself the prey of various ailments and often had him called to Fontfreyde. He knew how to listen to her. She had the highest opinion of him. He was soft-spoken and handsome, quite different from this brother and godson of his. Another Coffinhal, Jean-Baptiste, the eldest, was an attorney in Vic and handled legal matters for my family. I had seen him before in Fontfreyde and in town, although we could not have met as equals. I knew of still another brother, Joseph Coffinhal, who was a barrister in Paris and whom I had never met.

  I now remembered Joséphine mentioning that the youngest son of the family had returned to the high country and was now helping his brother in his medical practice. I did not think it a good idea to tell this new Dr. Coffinhal my real name. My family would not be pleased to learn that a man of lower rank had seen me half-dressed in the river. I vowed to avoid either of the Coffinhals whenever they came to Fontfreyde.

  “Please accept my apologies for my intrusion, Doctor,” I said. “I will leave the river to your sole enjoyment.”

  “I was only teasing you. Your presence does not bother me, quite the contrary in fact. You have not told me your name.”

  The first that came to mind was Gabrielle Labro.

  “Are you related to the Labros who live nearby?” he asked.

  “I am their daughter. Really, I must go. I was ready to leave when I saw you.”

  “I know of your family. They are tenants of my brother, and very good people, from what I hear.”

  He looked down with some curiosity at my clothes, which were lying at his feet. Mortified, I was impatient to leave. I waded towards the beach. The stranger walked to the edge of the water, offered me his hand to help me back to the bank and politely turned away while I dressed.

  “Stay for a moment,” he said when I was done. “Your mother can spare you for a bit longer.”

  We sat down a few feet from each other. He asked many questions about the Labros, which I had no trouble answering since I had known them since my infancy, and my life at the cottage. Lying so freely nevertheless made me uneasy. I wanted to put an end to our conversation.

  “My mother will become worried if I do not return,” I said.

  “I am sorry to have delayed you so. Please allow me to walk you back to the cottage. That will give me the opportunity to present my compliments to that excellent woman.” He frowned. “However, when I think of it, I suppose that your whole family will be out in the fields, taking advantage of this fine day to finish the hay harvest. How is it that you are not helping? How do you find the time to come here in this season?”

  Silently cursing my hasty choice of a false identity and his inquisitiveness, I made no response. The young man grinned.

  “Come,” he continued, “you must have a poor idea of my intelligence. Whoever you are, you are no peasant girl. Peasant girls do not wear silk dresses. And your hands, your wrists, and, may I add, your ankles, of which I had the good fortune to catch a glimpse, are far too delicate for farmwork. Your skin is also too fair for you to have spent much time out in the fields. But so far I do not know much about you, except that you are on my brother’s land without permission and a shameless liar. Will you please tell me your real name?”

  “No.”

  I was looking down at my feet. He sounded amused by the turn of our conversation, which he pursued, still addressing me familiarly, in French. He spoke it, like me, without any trace of Roman accent.

  “Now,” he said, “I did observe, over the past few weeks, a young person with your rather peculiar colouring riding through the streets of Vic. I was told that you were Gabrielle de Montserrat, the youngest sister of the Marquis de Castel. By the way, that giant black horse of yours would do very well for me, but it is unsuitable for a lady. Of course you did not pay attention to me. Someone like me would have been beneath your notice.” He paused. “I hope this teaches you that it is useless to lie, and wrong too.”

  He caught a loose ringlet on my nape and played with it, his fingertips brushing against the back of my neck, as if it had been the most natural of things.

  “A lovely shade of red,” he said, “between the colour of dark gold and that of autumn leaves. It suits those grey eyes of yours to perfection.”

  He had the insolence to address me as thou after admitting to knowing who I was. No one, except my brother, Mamé Labro and Joséphine, ever used the familiar form with me. It made me as angry as the liberties he was taking with my hair. I rose to run away from him and his bad manners. Before I had time to turn around, he seized me by the wrist and, without rising, made me sit down again.

  “One moment, please,” he said. “Would it not be imprudent to turn away so rudely without taking any leave of me? Think that I might tell your brother about this little escapade of yours, of which I do not believe he knows, or would approve if he did. All I am asking in exchange for my silence is that you meet me again here in a few days. If you do, I will be mute as a tomb. You will find me more trustworthy than you yourself have been with me.”

  There was no harm in agreeing to what he wanted since, in the meantime, I could always change my mind and breach a commitment so extorted. I promised to meet him three days later and, without looking back, ran straight to the cottage, where Jewel was waiting for me. I did not see anyone of the Labro household, nor did I wait for them to come home from the fields. Because of the hot, dry weather, they would be impat
ient to finish the hay harvest and would not return until after dark.

  It is said in French that the night brings counsel. When I undressed at bedtime, I reflected upon the events of that afternoon. I would have been at a loss to describe the impressions the encounter had left on me. The young physician had been rude, but I found this rather reassuring. Joséphine had warned about men who spoke in too friendly a manner. Such was certainly not his case.

  Moreover, my brother, if he learned of the meeting, would no doubt forbid any more unchaperoned rides to the river, or anywhere else for that matter. I was not sure that my new acquaintance would have carried out his threat, but I did not wish to take any chance of having my freedom curtailed on account of one incident, however innocent. I concluded that it would be prudent to keep my promise.

  The next day, I felt no further hesitation and even began to look forward to that second meeting. The young man was certainly very plain, but his conversation had entertained me and I felt a thrill in meeting someone in secret.

  I returned to the Cère River on the appointed day. I chose not to stop by the cottage. Mamé Labro might have become suspicious to see me so soon again. I saw a large, dappled grey horse in the wood and tied Jewel close by. The young physician was waiting for me on the little pebble bank. He greeted me in French with great politeness, this time calling me “Mademoiselle” and addressing me formally.

  “Thank you for coming back here,” he said. “I dared not hope that you would join me today. I must also admit that I am ashamed of the threat I used. You realized of course that, no matter what, I would never have been so wicked as to tell anyone about our last meeting.”

  “No indeed. How could I? I do not know you at all.”

  “I had entertained the hope that perhaps you would come back for the pleasure of my company, but I was apparently too presumptuous.”

  “I did not find your company very agreeable the other day. You were insolent, but not so much as to preclude the possibility of improvement.”

  “Thank you, both for your candor and for this chance you are giving me to redeem myself. I will try to make a better impression this time.”

  We walked along the river and shared our memories of it. He spoke about his own childhood. Like me, he had lost his father at an early age. His eldest brothers, Jean-Baptiste, the lawyer, and Pierre, the physician, of whom he spoke fondly, had replaced his late parent in every respect. Pierre-André had been away at school, first in Clermont, then in Paris, since the age of eleven. His mother had died the year before of a bilious fever.

  “Pierre attended her till her last moment,” said Pierre-André. “Unfortunately the progress of her illness was very rapid. I was away in Paris and could only return to Vic in time to see her in her coffin. It grieved me not to be able to say good-bye to her, though I know she forgave me. I was her favourite son.”

  He gazed into the distance. I remained silent.

  “Since completing my medical studies,” he continued, “I have joined Pierre’s practice. He attends to his patients in town while I call upon those in the countryside. It entails riding long distances in all weathers, but I do not mind it. On the contrary, there is nothing I like better than the country around Vic. When I was at school, I always came back here for Christmas and the summer holidays. Indeed I cannot think of a more beautiful place in the world.”

  “Neither can I. I was born in Lavigerie, but raised here, first by my nurse and then at the convent.”

  My hand brushed against the tall grass on the side of the lane.

  “I am happy to see that we share this opinion of Vic,” he said. “Although I prefer this town, I have thought of opening a surgery in Lavigerie, where there is no physician in residence. My late mother, like you, was born there.”

  “If you were to settle in Lavigerie, you could attend to my own mother. She would be delighted to have a physician at hand.”

  “My brother Pierre wishes to bring me along during his next visit to Fontfreyde.” He frowned. “I know the Marquis by sight only and never had the honour of meeting Her Ladyship. I suspect that I will not answer to her ideas of refinement. She will think that I am just good enough for townspeople and peasants.”

  “Why do you say this? She is fond of your brother and might like you as well. It is difficult to tell in advance whom she will fancy. What is sure is that she has not a high opinion of me. She finds me stupid.”

  “A deplorable lack of judgment.”

  “Unfortunately not. I was taken from the convent at the age of eleven and have not studied anything since. If you knew me better, you would be amazed at my ignorance.”

  He smiled. “At the very least, your humility should disarm criticism. I find you anything but stupid. If you were, you would not be aware of the deficiencies of your education. You seem very young and—”

  “I will turn fifteen in less than three weeks,” I interrupted, frowning.

  “I am sorry to have offended you. But even if you had already reached the ripe age of fifteen, I would still consider you very young. You will, no doubt, have many opportunities to improve your mind as you grow up. You will read, you will travel, you will mingle in society. I wish more attention were paid to the schooling of young ladies. My late mother, who was the daughter of a mere bourgeois, remained in a convent in Aurillac until she was married at the age of eighteen. It is a pity your family did not value your education more.”

  “I did not mean any reflection on them,” I said. “My brother has always been very kind to me.”

  “He obviously leaves you free to go wherever you want on your own. If I had a sister so young and delightful as you, I would be less kind and a bit more watchful.”

  I coloured at that criticism of the Marquis.

  “Yet,” Pierre-André added, “I should be the last person to complain about it. I might never have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance otherwise.”

  “Usually my brother rides with me, although we do not come here together. It is only lately that he has been away in Limousin.”

  “Does he know that, in his absence, you come here to bathe in front of strangers?”

  I stopped walking and looked straight at Pierre-André. “It is very rude of you to ask such a question.”

  “Please forgive me. I seem perversely determined to sink myself in your opinion. You should slap me for my insolence. I deserve it.”

  “You do, but I would never strike another. My mother often slaps me and I do not like it at all.”

  “My rudeness will then remain unpunished, which makes me feel my guilt still more. My sole excuse, if I may claim any, is that I do not like the idea of another man finding you here in your chemise.”

  I resumed walking. “You need not worry. I have come here for years without meeting anyone. That is why you startled me the other day. You reminded me of the poem ‘The Wolf and the Lamb,’ by La Fontaine. The nuns made me learn it by rote at the convent.”

  “Rather unflattering for me, and most unfair. If my memory serves me well, the wolf in that story, after finding the lamb drinking in the middle of the river, falsely accuses it of muddying the waters and devours the defenseless animal. I was less fierce and let you escape unscathed. I did not leave a single toothmark on you.”

  I laughed. “It was only when I first saw you that you reminded me of the wolf. I do not believe now that you would harm me.”

  “You are right, all the more so because you trust me, but you might have made a less fortunate encounter.”

  “I am afraid of no one.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I hesitated. “Well, maybe it was a silly thing to say.”

  “It simply reflects your lack of experience. May life never teach you otherwise.”

  “Has it taught you otherwise?”

  “In some ways. I learned much in medical school.”

  “How did you like it? Oh, I envy you. You are so fortunate to have lived in great cities. I know next to nothing of them. I am eage
r to see other places but have never been more than ten leagues from Fontfreyde. Please tell me all about Paris.”

  He obliged. He spoke well and I could picture unknown places and people as he described them. I had never been so well entertained in anyone’s company and did not like to rush home later that afternoon. I told him, truthfully that time, of my early years at the Labro cottage, of my milk brother Jacques, of our childhood friendship and his subsequent disdain for my company.

  “One day, five years ago, I told him how pretty I found the wild carnations that grow around here and he twined those flowers into my braids. When we returned to the cottage, very pleased with ourselves, Mamé, instead of complimenting us, as we had expected, reprimanded me for my vanity and gave Jacques a flogging.”

  “A well-deserved one,” said Pierre-André. “I agree with your nurse. No one except me should play with your hair.”

  I blushed at the thought of what he had done during our first encounter. “Pray what would make you an exception? You are in no position to speak in this manner. I kept my word by coming here again, as I hope you kept yours by being discreet. Now we are done. It is time for me to go home.”

  “Now I have upset you again. What a poor way of thanking you for your kindness in coming here. I have never spent a more pleasant hour than in your company. Yet I do not want to delay you, no matter how much it pains me to part with you. Now as to the fact that we are done, I disagree.” He turned to face me, a grave look on his face. “I, for one, am not done with you. Two days from now I will be waiting for you here. I will make no threats this time. You are free to come back or not, at your pleasure. Either way I will not tell a soul about meeting you. If you care at all for me, as I care for you, you will return. If not, I will remember you for the rest of my life as the prettiest, most unfeeling little liar in the country. I will curse your name, whatever it is. You will never be able to come here again for fear of seeing me, for I will haunt these banks forever, brokenhearted.”