Tentatively, because in the past Hortense had always been reticent on the subject of her late mistress, Chantal asked:
'Was she very lovely?'
'Lovely?' Hortense's expression dismissed the adjective as inadequate. 'She was the most beautiful, the most frivolous, the most extravagant, the most coquettish, the most outstanding of all her generation of Champagne Girls. Her father spoiled and adored her. Unlike Monsieur le Marquis, who is a cultured, highly intelligent grand seigneur, the Comtesse's father, who was a co-founder of firm La Roque à Remi, was more at home in his vineyards than in his office, loved the country much more than the town, and yet he managed to make a fortune large enough to provide his only daughter with a dot sufficiently large to attract a husband from the ranks of the titled aristocracy. Yes,' she nodded sagely, 'Monsieur le Comte d'Estrées must have counted himself a very fortunate man on his wedding day.'
'Do you mean,' Chantal almost choked on her indignation, 'that he married her only for gain? That had her dot not been large enough he would have passed her over in favour of a richer bride?'
'Mais certainement.' Hortense seemed puzzled by her fury. 'It is the custom in our country that every girl who desires to become a bride must have a dot. Not only must she be well provided for in the matter of outfits, clothes and linen, but if she cannot offer in addition a substantial sum of money according to the position of the man she wishes to marry she cannot hope to take him as a husband! I provided my own dot,' she concluded proudly, 'and as my parents were dead I had to work many extra hours in order to swell my savings.'
'How despicable!' Disgust was written all over Chantal's face. 'I couldn't stand being sized up, priced, then bargained for like cattle at a market! If a man couldn't love me for myself I'd say good riddance !'
Hortense smiled, pitying her ignorance. 'Frenchmen have little or nothing to say in the matter of: marriage, mademoiselle, whether it is their own or their son's. Negotiations are left entirely in the hands of the womenfolk, for as everyone knows, we are far more businesslike, more astute, keener in judgment than any man and we therefore manage to drive a harder bargain.'
'Doesn't anyone in your country ever marry for love?' asked Chantal, scandalised.
'As for today, I cannot say,' Hortense shrugged, 'but in the old days it was very seldom the case. But times have changed even in this quiet backwater. Nevertheless,' she added thoughtfully, 'I heard only recently of a man of ambition who, though attracted to another, chose as his wife the daughter of a vineyard owner in order to ensure that eventually he will acquire more land.'
Hortense rambled on, unaware that her stunned, incredulous listener had become deaf to her words.
'I heard only recently of a man of ambition who, though attracted to another, chose as his wife the daughter of a vineyard owner in order to ensure that eventually he will acquire more land.'
The words were pounding in Chantal's ears, hammering home a message of greed and cold, calculated deceit. Could Hortense have unknowingly supplied the answer to the riddle that had been puzzling her? Did the Champenois still cling with such tenacity and insistence to outdated marriage customs that even today the Marquis and Nicole were prepared to enter cold-bloodedly into a marriage without love if in exchange they gained a coveted piece of land? Dazedly, she shook her head, attempting to disperse the impossible thought. Surely not even the Marquis and his cousin—Champenois to the core though they might be—would go to such lengths to restore Trésor d'Hélène to the Etablissement La Roque à Remi!
Though her enthusiasm had waned, Chantal could not help but be impressed when Hortense delved into the last of the chests and emerged uttering a triumphant exclamation.
'Très magnifique! Look, mademoiselle, can you not picture yourself wearing this !'
Chantal looked up, her eyes still troubled, and caught her breath in a gasp of admiration when Hortense spread wide the skirt of a crinoline ball dress, layers and layers of crisp green net, ruffles, and rustling petticoats. It was a dress straight out of the archives of a romantic era, an echo from the age of horse-drawn carriages, candlelit dining-rooms and a rich, pampered society whose daughters had had all the time in the world to prepare the elaborate toilette such a dress demanded.
'Oh, I couldn't wear that, Hortense!' Her first reaction was one of panic. 'It's beautiful, but far too grand for me.'
Hortense tut-tutted. 'Every girl should wear a dress like this at least once in her lifetime, mademoiselle! We all need a little romance, something to dream about when we are older, but,' she sighed, allowing the dress to drop from her hands, 'perhaps it is a little old-fashioned.'
'Actually,' Chantal told her thoughtfully, 'it's anything but. According to the fashion magazine I was reading during my journey here, all the top fashion houses are tuning in to the current demand for dressier, more feminine clothes. One designer in particular, it was reported, chanced half a dozen crinolines in his last collection and was amazed when they easily outsold everything else in his range. So you see, it's not just the wearing of the dress that worries me, it's all the bits and pieces that go with it—expertly coiffured hair, immaculate nails, terrific make-up, gloves, the right jewellery ... Look at me, Hortense, and tell me truthfully, could I possibly do justice to such finery?'
She became slightly discomfited when Hortense took her at her word and began slowly and carefully to evaluate her assets. Casting over her the shrewd, experienced eyes of a woman who for years had dressed and attended a mistress whose chic elegance had been the envy of her contemporaries, she considered. Long, silent minutes passed before she proffered an opinion.
'You have all the attributes your grandmother possessed except one—the ability to flaunt them. She had the power to captivate men and did not hesitate to use it—if you did the same the result might surprise you.'
Chantal's response was a wry grimace. 'The fashion for wearing crinolines may have been revived, but the old-fashioned attitudes that went with them certainly have not. Today, women expect men to treat them as intelligent human beings, not just charming playthings.'
'So I have noticed,' Hortense snorted, 'and it is women who play down their femininity in order to be accepted into the fellowship of men who are the losers. Such women consider that to be called "feminine" is an insult and if they had their way they would eradicate the word "female" from every dictionary. But fortunately all women are not deceived by such nonsense, some are wise enough to cling to the aura of mystery that is woman's most powerful asset. The ability to entrance is nature's greatest gift to our sex. Tell me,' she demanded of Chantal, 'have you never wanted to be the centre of a man's universe? If you answer no to that question,' she went on quickly, 'then I pity you, for you have never been in love. If you wish to share in this wonderful, exciting experience that will never go out of fashion you must be prepared, as your grandmother always was, to make use of every magic quality, to be feminine, provocative, and above all, accessible !'
'Really, Hortense!' Chantal did not know whether to be amused or shocked by the old woman's vehemence. 'If I had to take your advice I'd feel little better than a huntress laying bait to trap an unwary male !'
'Precisely!' Hortense beamed. 'You are a quick pupil, mademoiselle. Men are lured by danger, they find it enormously fascinating—is it not fortunate that, where a woman lacks strength, she can compensate with the use of strategy?'
Strategy! Unknowingly, Hortense had chosen a word very appropriate to the circumstances—the art of war, the art of directing military movement so as to secure the most advantageous positions and combinations of forces. At the moment Chantal and Peter were placed in a most disadvantageous position, her brother was oblivious to danger, but she was very conscious of the fact that she was fighting with her back to the wall. If ever strategy was needed it was now. Her best ally, she mused, would be the element of surprise, a tactic the Marquis himself had used very successfully, therefore he could hardly complain if he was paid back in his own coin. The question was, did sh
e possess sufficient ability? What use were weapons, however sharp, if they could not be handled with expertise?
She was, however, a born fighter. But it was courage born of ignorance that prompted her decision. 'Three days is barely long enough to improve my neglected appearance, but I intend to try, Hortense, that is, if you think you can have the dress ready in time?'
'I'm positive I can, mademoiselle,' Hortense beamed her delight. 'If the style is to your liking, then what alterations are needed will be minor, for at the time this dress was made your grandmother was similar to yourself in size.' Gathering up the cloud of tulle, she assured Chantal, 'Your hair will pose no problem, it looks to be in superb condition, glossy and bright as a ripe chestnut.'
Ma belle châtaigne. The Marquis's favourite description impinged against her newly-donned armour of confidence. My beautiful chestnut ... ! Chantal winced from the reminder and forced herself to pay attention to Hortense's excited babble of words.
'It is a great pity that your grandmother's jewellery has been disposed of, but there is one very important accessory still available. Perfume,' Hortense supplied in response to Chantal's raised eyebrows. 'Your grandmother was a great believer in perfume as an aid to success in every imaginable situation. So fascinated was she by its history that she read every book she could find on the subject, becoming so expert on its effects that eventually she compiled a chart explaining the type of impact one could expect from each of the various essences. Her magic potions, she called them, and they certainly seemed to work magic for her ! Some women prefer to stick to one particular blend until it becomes as personal to them as their signature, but Madame la Comtesse preferred to experiment, choosing a different perfume to match each mood. Come,' she beckoned Chantal towards the stairs, 'let me show you.'
Doubtful whether a perfume had ever been created to match a mood of determined revenge, Chantal followed the housekeeper downstairs towards a small dressing-room where most of her grandmother's possessions were stored. Previously she had not been allowed entry, the door had remained locked, the jealously guarded key always in Hortense's possession, but as if in some way the short discourse about her grandmother had helped soften her attitude, Hortense unlocked the door, then stepped aside, indicating with a flourish that it was Chantal's right to enter first.
What furniture the room contained was shrouded in dustcovers. Throwing one of them aside to reveal a small cabinet, Hortense slid open a drawer and withdrew a lacquered box which she set down upon a table before lifting the lid. Inside the dark interior, fitted into individual slots, were many small phials of perfume, prominently labelled, their seals still intact.
'I threw out those bottles that had been opened; these that are left should have retained their original strength. See,' she pointed to the lid, 'there is the chart the Comtesse compiled !'
Curiously, Chantal lifted out several close-written pages of script and began to read.
'How can it be argued,' her grandmother questioned from the past, 'that scent is no more than an accessory when it is a well known fact that physical ills can be cured by massaging with essential oils and also that even primitive African tribes smear themselves with scent to protect themselves from evil spirits? I firmly believe that smells have the power to disarm an enemy, to weave spells, to annihilate opponents, and to create an aura of enchantment that is irresistible to men.'
Then, under a heading 'Aids to Seduction' were listed: Orange blossom—helpful in blunting the mind; used when wishing to slow down a man's reasoning faculties. Patchouli: useful whenever a stimulant is required. Jasmine : a nerve sedative to induce feelings of optimism and euphoria,
Many more essences were itemised under headings: To Sedate; to Comfort; to Uplift; to Stimulate; to Reassure, together with snippets of advice ranging from which essence to choose when wishing to project warmth and sympathy to those suitable for anyone needing to combat anger, irritability and downright rage.
'The most important thing to remember,' her forthright grandmother had concluded, 'is that man is a sentimentalist and anything that recalls fond memories will be instantly appreciated. Frenchmen, in particular, are especially susceptible to lily of the valley (fond memories of May 1st).'
Feeling she had been privileged to peep into the mind of a very humorous, very lovable lady, Chantal laid down the papers and enquired of Hortense :
'What's significant about the date May the first?'
When Hortense smiled she looked for an instant young again as her eyes reflected happy memories of long ago. 'On that day, in Paris, it is traditional that anyone who is handed a sprig of lily of the valley must give a kiss in return. The custom began many years ago when one day a young man walking through the woods near Paris picked a bouquet of lily of the valley to take to his sweetheart. He received a kiss in exchange. The day was the first of May, and so even to this very day, on May the first, anyone who is given this flower is expected to give a kiss in return. Even the authorities are kind, they have decreed that it is the one day of the year when lily of the valley can be sold from flower carts without a licence, so the streets are filled with its fragrance and with men and women, boys and girls, all exchanging kisses—also without licence. Have you not realised,' she questioned slyly, 'that May the first is also the date when the ball is due to be held at the Château? Perhaps there you will find a achieve neither, you will most certainly be called sweetheart—a husband, even—but if you should upon to forfeit many, many kisses !'
CHAPTER NINE
THE Château was floodlit. Set upon a gentle slope against a backcloth of dark trees the round towers, imposing chimneys and pyramid-topped pavilions seemed carved out of buttery stone. As they drove past a scalloped half-moat and entered a drive lined with ancient plane trees Chantal experienced panicky second thoughts. She had expected to be impressed by the Marquis's home, but not overwhelmed, this was no mere habitation, it was the establishment of a grand seigneur.
In other circumstances she would have stopped to admire the pair of elegant-necked swans majestically skimming the waters of a lake positioned directly opposite a flight of steps leading up to an entrance that had its doors thrown wide to welcome the stream of guests alighting with much laughter and excited conversation from cars lining nose to tail along the length of the drive.
They had not known that it was to be a bal masqué until the actual invitation arrived, a silver-scrolled request for their company together with, tucked inside the large envelope, two masks provided by their thoughtful host.
When Louis drove off, leaving them stranded at the foot of the steps, Chantal and Peter exchanged a nervous look. They both felt on edge, selfconscious in their unaccustomed finery, certain that within this gathering of aristocrats and local celebrities they would be bound to commit some horrible gaffe.
Suddenly reminded of his duties as an escort, Peter drew in a sharp breath and squared his shoulders. 'Come on, Sis,' he offered her an arm, 'there's no need for you to be nervous, you look terrific!'
She tried to smile at her young brother, who was looking unfamiliarly mature in an evening suit that made his figure look taller, his shoulders broader. His face was stern, his eyes, framed in a black silken mask, striving unsuccessfully to twinkle. Aware that he was sharing her feeling of nervous fright, she forced a frivolous reply.
'You're looking pretty devastating yourself, young sir.' She dropped a mocking curtsey. 'It does my morale no end of good to have such a presentable male as an escort.'
'Stop fishing for compliments,' he chided with brotherly candour. 'For the past hour I've been telling you at regular ten-minute intervals how stunning you look, and with equal regularity you've replied in kind. We'll get nowhere standing here exchanging compliments, so, as our egos have been sufficiently boosted, let's go inside.'
As slowly they ascended the steps towards a spill of laughter, lights and music Chantal felt confidence seeping at every step. Frantically, as the large open doorway drew nearer she tried to bolster her spi
rits by recalling the reactions of her companions when she had appeared downstairs to join them for an aperitif before setting off for the Château. She had known that she was looking her best, her own efforts of the past three days, together with the results achieved by Hortense's skilful needlework, had paid off, so much so that as she had stolen a last exultant peep in the mirror her spirits had soared. Even so, the response from the others had been gratifying.
'Ma belle enfant!' Hortense had cried. 'You look ravissante!' Laughingly, Chantal had twirled in front of Louis inviting comment. As the green froth of tulle, net and tiers of rustling petticoats had billowed around her ankles his doe-soft eyes had devoured burnished hair swept high to expose an exquisite cameo profile, a smooth brow, high cheekbones curving softly downwards to a small pointed chin, and a trembling mouth the colour of the wild carnations he often gathered from secret sunny places in the height of summer. Her misty eyes reminded him of green grapes veiled by fine bloom. Slowly his eyes had shifted downwards to rest upon creamy shoulders rising from a diaphanous green cloud, then quickly he had looked away, blushing, as his simple mind wrestled with the awesome problems that could confront a girl wearing à dress with no visible means of support. He had no way of knowing that expediency was forcing her to suffer the rigours inescapable from the vanity of yesteryear.
'Whalebone supports are essential to the dress,' Hortense had insisted firmly when Chantal had suggested they might be removed, 'how else is one to achieve the tiny waist, the provocative swell of bosom?'
'Well, Louis, what's your opinion?' Chantal had prompted, then had reacted with a catch of pleasure to his mumbled reply.
Champagne Spring by Margaret Rome Page 9