"'Twill please madame my mother, will it not?"
"Bien sûr, mademoiselle. And M. le baron as well, and all of mademoiselle's friends."
"Will it please you, this marriage?"
My heart beat high. With pride? With fear? I know I felt my power over her; I pray I meant to use it only for her greater happiness. Meeting her eyes in the mirror, I said, "Yes, mademoiselle."
She smiled at me; her breast rose and fell in a quivering sigh. "Bon. Then I'll try to love him."
To make promises at night is as easy as brushing hair; to keep them in the morning is more like creating a coiffure à jamais vue. Mademoiselle demonstrated her good intentions by weighing ad nauseam the rival merits of white and blue, gauze and silk, coral beads and pearls. I was reminded of nothing so much as Mme Dumesnil dressing for a new play: "These ribbons are hideous, Berthe. I'll have the pink ones after all," and, "Is that a freckle, Berthe? Will the rice powder cover it?" and, "Do you think the cream gauze makes me sallow, Berthe?" I vow 'twas a miracle I didn't pin her garter in her hair.
Yet the thing was done at last, and Mlle Adèle stood up in a sacque of heavy silk brocaded with peacock feathers of pink and apple green, an apron of white drawn-work, and a fichu of the same. Her hair was curled in tiny ringlets à la dragonne, heavily powdered, and garnished with a fetching pompon of lace and pink feathers. With her white skin and her black eyes, she was perfect—like a porcelain figure animated and smelling delightfully of roses. I was just buckling one dainty brocade shoe when a double knock thudded on the front door. She tore her foot from my hand and flew to the window with me behind. We peeked around the curtain in time to see a gentleman in a sad burgundy coat step out of a smart town carriage—the duc de Malvoeux, beyond doubt.
Briskly he ascended the steps of the hôtel and disappeared within, leaving me with a fleeting impression of fashion, height, and extreme thinness. A pie-faced boy in silver-gray livery followed more slowly, bearing a cane and a chapeau-bras and a large flat leather case.
Mlle Adèle clasped shaking hands to her breast. "Oh, Berthe," she faltered. "Is he not . . . distingué?"
Well, I confess I'd thought him skeletal and rather sharp looking, but after my speeches of the night before, could hardly say so. Therefore, "Yes, mademoiselle," I answered her brightly. "Very distinguished, mademoiselle," and knelt to secure her shoe.
Dinner lasted from two until four, at which time Mme and M. du Fourchet took the betrothed couple to promenade in the Tuileries, then to a performance of Artis at the Opéra followed by supper at Switzer's. All in all, my mistress was out of my sight for nine hours or more. Words cannot describe how I suffered through those hours, how I wondered whether she'd turn sullen or flighty, whether madame her mother would scold, whether the entertainment would please, whether the duc should prove unbearable after all. By the time my mistress came under my hands again, I was half-frantic and she—she was flushed and animated and most annoyingly coy.
Oh, the opéra had been well enough, though monstrous long and hard to follow; and the supper had been most modishly ill-served. As for the duc, why, he was not such an ill man. For all that his title was four centuries old, he was himself only twenty-five, a veritable infant among ducs. His eyes were very handsome, very bright. To be sure, he had a monstrous long nose. And yet, she vowed, she loved him. During their walk in the Tuileries, he'd pressed her hand most tenderly while declaring that her brow was white as a dove's wing and her bearing more graceful than a demoiselle crane's.
"He told me all about his birds, Berthe. They're not larks or canaries or common swans or peacocks like the ones at Versailles, but birds from strange lands—from the Dark Continent and the Indies. And he's given me this fine parure"—she opened the leather case on a blinding display of diamonds—"Much finer than Hortense's pearls, don't you think?"
The next morning, M. de Malvoeux sent Mlle du Fourchet two lovebirds in a silver cage. Providentially, they arrived at the same moment as the mantua-maker, and their quaint chirpings helped amuse my mistress while the woman measured her for her bride-clothes. Over the next weeks, we had the lingère in as well (not my tante Duvet, I need hardly say) and the stay-maker, the milliner, the shoemaker, and the modiste. We also had a number of mademoiselle's old school friends, bearing silver saltcellars, kisses, good wishes, and an endless commentary on the habits of husbands.
"Six months of bliss, my love, and then, pouf! He's off with his mistress, and you might as well be mademoiselle again, except that you have license to do whatever you please." Thus the comtesse de Fleuru, who had been Mlle des Anges. Very worldly she sounded, and very wise. At the convent, I remembered, she'd been thrashed for failing to brush her teeth. Could it have been her foul breath that drove M. de Fleuru so quickly into a mistress' arms?
The présidente de Hautebriande threw her hands aloft. "Lord love you, Nathalie, you'll give poor Adèle the most curious notion of married life, 'pon my soul you will. I assure you, M. de Hautebriande continues most attentive. Why, he's so exigent that I hardly have time for my darling Clémence—you know Clémence de Lys, a bewitching little creature. She puts me much in mind of you, Adèle, all deerlike and breathless. I quite dote on her."
The young matrons exchanged wise looks and smiles, the comtesse de Fleuru making such an exaggerated moue I feared she'd lose her patch. "A lady friend is a comfort, to be sure," she said, "but I hope, Stéphanie-Germaine, that you don't intend to trust her with your heart. She'll leave you for some handsome youth by and by, or worse, attach your husband's interest. No. Give me a handsome chevalier, or a second son, or even an abbé—someone safe, you understand—and I will undertake to survive any amount of marital neglect."
The marquise d'Orcy, very demure and nunnish in a gray Brunswick gown, laid down her netting and cried shame upon them all. " 'Tis not neglect if the demands of duty call a husband from his wife's side," she scolded them. "Would you expect a man upon whose word the lives of a thousand Frenchmen depend to spend his time sitting with his wife while she talks of bonnets?"
"Indeed, I would not," laughed Mme de Berline—who not a year since had been locked in the crypt for having rouged and patched old Mme Saint-Antoine as she slept, so that saintly dame attended Matins bedizened like a strumpet. "Depend on it, Adèle. Husbands are a necessary evil, an inn upon the road between virginity and true love. Be presented at court, sit with him at the theater, give him an heir, and then, as Nathalie says, enjoy yourself. It ought to be easy enough. I hear that M. de Malvoeux is forever off to the ends of the earth looking for birds."
Innumerable variations on this theme were played over the four weeks it took for the banns to be called and the trousseau to be made up, and I assure you I grew heartily sick of it. All those silly children—most of them my juniors by a year or more—flounced and beribboned until there was more silk to them than flesh, laying down the law on marriage à la mode! And while they chattered, mademoiselle sat or stood among them mumchance, pretty as a wax doll and no more conversable, turning docilely this way and that to be kissed or pinned or laced up or trimmed.
"I am very happy," she would answer to all inquiries. "M. de Malvoeux is all any woman would desire in a husband." But often at night I would hear her weeping and creep from my pallet to comfort her.
"Doucement, chérie, ma petite colombe, agneau blanc," I'd murmur, and taking up her silver-backed brush, I'd remove her lace nightcap and unbind her black hair. "Hush thee, now, enfant, and thy Berthe will tell thee a story. Dost wish to hear 'La Belle aux Bois Dormant'?" From girlhood, that had been my mistress' favorite story, though the prince's kiss enticed her more often to sleep than waking.
A watery sniff, a small white hand pulling one black tress from the storm-cloud mass and winding it through trembling fingers. "Tell me about my wedding, Berthe."
"Oh, 'twill be very splendid, enfant! Three hundred are invited to the church and two hundred to the wedding supper. A countess will hold thy train, and no fewer than three marquises will
support thee at the altar. Why, princesses have gone to their bridals less nobly attended."
"Go on," my mistress would say. "Will I be very grand?"
"More grand than La Pompadour in the days of her beauty, ma colombe. White brocade—no whiter than thy neck, bien sûr—embroidered with pearls and small silk flowers, Alençon lace at bosom and elbow, a train three ells long, and thy diamond parure blinding all who look upon it. I vow and declare, enfant, there will be green hearts among thy schoolmates then."
"Dost think so, Berthe? Dost truly think so?"
I'd set down the brush and cradle her against my shoulder. "But yes, chérie, I truly think so. Thou shalt move down the aisle of the Church of Sainte-Catherine with lace floating behind thee like cloud, and the tapers—six hundred of them, enfant, only think!—will make of thy diamonds a river of light. Thou shalt be a queen, my love, like La Belle and Princesse Rosette, and thy little dog Doucette shall eat no worse meat than partridge wings all the days of her life."
By this time, my mistress would be asleep in my arm, her face calm upon my bosom, her breathing soft and even, her cheeks and eyelids touched with rose. This is something I have always envied her: that her beauty does not diminish when she weeps (which she does as easily as a stay-lace snaps) but only softens, so that even when she'd most enraged me, her tears could always make me love her again.
On the twentieth of May, in the year of Our Lord 1763, Mlle Adèle Hermione Catherine du Fourchet was wedded to M. François Marie Baptiste Armand Maindur, vicomte de Montplaisir, seigneur de Beauxprés, duc de Malvoeux. She looked much as I'd foretold—paler, perhaps, than the Princesse Rosette, but much more à la mode. She moved down the aisle with due attention to the weight of her three ells of train, and from my place up in the balcony of the east transept, all I could see of her as she mounted the steps to the altar was white brocade and lace and the false black curls hanging to her waist behind.
Waiting for her at the altar was a rosary of clerics with the bridegroom in their midst like a gaunt, bright crucifix. His coat was pearl-colored silk with gold buttons, his waistcoat clear green, and his stockings bright primrose yellow. I distinctly remember thinking of birds when he bowed to his bride—a nervous, pecking dip of the head; and when he took her hand, I vow I half-expected him to fly up with her into the dim, high vault. For all the attention the wedding guests were paying, he might as well have done so.
As the priest began his invocation, the guests murmured, rustled, flirted, and moved about the nave of the church. Directly below me, someone sneezed violently: the comte de Poix, his face heavily painted and his coat of peacock satin so embroidered and beribboned, trimmed in crimson and laced in gold that I wondered how he had contrived to lift the snuff to his nose. Beside him, Mme Pauline fussed and fidgeted with her panniers. They were uncommonly wide and supported a court gown in the new shade that dyers call "merde d'oie." Mme du Fourchet, when she had first seen it, declared the color well-named. In the golden light of the tapers it took on a sheen like old bronze, very flattering to a creamy skin. I thought my mistress might look well in it.
The night was warm; what with the crowd and the tapers, the church grew stifling hot. I saw a woman gape behind her fan and another dab at her upper lip with a lace kerchief already stained with rouge and lamp-black. A choir boy nodding in his stall squeaked aloud when the sacristan poked him awake for the Kyrie, and the marquise de Bonsecours, who was near her confinement, fainted heavily into her twisted husband's arms. Under cover of the chanting she was conveyed to the vestry, and, her own maid not being present, I was called upon to attend her.
When I entered, Mme de Bonsecours lay groaning upon a bench. Her face was whiter than her sister's gown, the circles of rouge showed like a fever-flush upon her cheeks, and I feared her time was upon her. She assured me 'twas more likely wind, brought on by haricots and champagne at dinner, and she'd do very well if I'd loosen her stays and bathe her face with eau de cologne.
I'd tucked lavender-water in my pocket against my mistress' need, and 'twas the work of a moment to uncork it, dampen a linen kerchief, and lay it to the marquise's brow. She moved restlessly on the bench and put away my hand. "I think I must sit up, Berthe," said she. " 'Tis impossible for me to breathe when I lie flat. You're undoubtedly thinking me a great fool to show my face abroad so close to my accouchement, and you're undoubtedly right. Poor Adèle! How could I not come to see her wed?"
By this time, she'd struggled upright with my help, panting slightly, her belly like a great rock under her satins and laces. As I loosened her corset, I felt a pang of sympathy for her maid Louison, who'd thrown herself so wholeheartedly into the transformation of the lubberly Mlle Hortense into the elegant marquise de Bonsecours only to lose the greater part of her efforts to the bloating and dishevelment of pregnancy.
"That's the Credo, or I'm much mistaken," said the marquise presently. "The deed is done, and I not there to see it. Nor you. Poor Berthe."
As we sat listening to the choir's muted whining, tears welled in my eyes. I recall I was puzzled by them. I was no sentimentalist, me, to weep at weddings.
Mme de Bonsecours took the cologne-soaked kerchief from my lax fingers and applied it to her throat. "I know, Berthe, I know. I myself am of two minds about this marriage, as I would be of any match of monsieur my father's making. 'Tis not so bleak, even so. M. le duc de Malvoeux looks to have all the parts of a man. Why, I've even heard him discourse sensibly on art and science." She sighed and stirred uncomfortably. "All M. de Bonsecours knows is taxes. Why, to him, the divine Voltaire is no more than a godless fool who got himself banished from court."
I did not feel comforted. "I pray this duc will make my mistress happy."
"Happy? What fool has told you that happiness is the object of marriage, hein? To most husbands, a wife is a purse to spend from and a womb to spend in. Wealth, position, power, sons: those are the objects of Christian marriage, Berthe."
This, I thought, was a most unsuitable discussion for a servant to be having with a marquise. "La, madame, such things as you say! I am all out of countenance."
She laughed, not unkindly. "I cry you pardon, Berthe: you're quite right. Will you fetch me that cushion, yes, the kneeler from the prie-dieu, and put it here, in the small of my back? Ah, just so. And a little more cologne on the kerchief, if you'd be so good? Thank you, Berthe." She smiled into my eyes. "You're as deft as Louison, and very much prettier. Cleverer, too, I've always thought."
I felt myself flushing. "La, madame," I said.
"Pray don't flutter—it don't become you. We're of an age, are we not?"
I looked at her in some surprise. A servant's precise age is not generally a matter of interest to the nobly born; she is either young and strong or old and useless. But Hortense du Fourchet de Bonsecours had always been an unaccountable creature. "I'm eighteen, madame."
"I thought so. I, too, am eighteen. Listen, ma chère." She leaned forward with difficulty and took my hand in hers. "My sister Adèle, as we both know, has more hair than wit, although 'tis such pretty hair that her lack of wit hardly matters." I began to protest; she pressed my hand and laughed. "Oh, don't deny it: you cannot. Let us be candid, you and I. Here in this vestry, with no one to hear us, we may surely speak as equals."
Well, I knew of a certainty that we could never speak as equals. Wherever we were and whoever heard us, we were forever and always a marquise and her sister's femme de chambre. And, since Mme de Bonsecours was not a fool, she knew it too. Because she was a marquise, however, I could hardly contradict her, so I shrugged—As you will, madame—and knelt at her feet.
"Candidly, then. I don't like this duc de Malvoeux. He fixes me with his sharp, black eye, and I feel like a beetle or a large grub—too large, thankfully, for him to snap up comfortably. He seems to me like . . . oh, I don't know, like a famine or a plague perhaps, that creeps up silently and consumes utterly."
I shivered. "Madame is enceinte," I said uncomfortably, "and very near h
er time."
"And these are the sick fancies of pregnancy? No, Berthe, I think not. Truly, I fear for Adèle." She took my chin in her hand and searched my eyes. "Madame my mother chose you for Adèle for no better reason than your youth and your pretty face. Nevertheless, she chose well. You've a fine wit, Berthe, and a good and faithful heart."
At this, I blushed and looked away, murmuring that madame was too kind. She released my chin. "Now I've embarrassed you. But 'tis true. I hardly need ask it, I know. Yet I fear he may try to drive you away and put some creature of his own in charge of her. Whatever he does, swear to me you'll stay with her."
Her words were high tragedy; her face and figure low comedy. And yet I never doubted that the lady was in earnest. You may imagine how I stared at her, alarmed no less by her vehemence than by her dark forebodings. My oath, when at last I collected my wits to swear it, was drowned by a consort of horns blaring the news that M. le duc de Malvoeux and his new-made duchesse were leaving the church. If I didn't hurry, they'd be away. I started to my feet, then looked down into Mme de Bonsecours's sweat-streaked face. How could I leave her alone? Whether her pangs were wind or labor, she was clearly unwell. And yet, who'd see to my mistress' train if I were not by? Who'd help her into her carriage?
Mme de Bonsecours laughed. "I am well answered, Berthe. Such a look of dismay! Bien sûr, you must go to your mistress. But first desire Mme de Luce to step inside—I think I saw her standing near. She's a kindly old biddy-hen, and delights in births and deaths." Stricken, I goggled at her; she sighed impatiently. " 'Tis only wind, silly goose. Fetch Mme de Luce and then be off with you."
Gratefully, I curtsied and went in search of Mme de Luce, who was plump breasted, bright eyed, and given to coquelicot ribbons on her caps. I urged her, clucking, into the vestry, then made off down the side aisle for the church porch.
What a throng was there! 'Tis hard to believe, at this remove of miles and centuries, that there were ever so many people in the world, much less in a single Paris street. How can I hope to describe the wonder and the terror of such a scene? In a world populated by seven, four make a crowd; four hundred is inconceivable. And there were upwards of four hundred guests in the church of Sainte-Catherine, and le bon Dieu only knows how many common folk in the street outside. The noise they made was deafening, like a flock of hungry crows cawing, pecking, treading on one another's feet and backs, battering one another with their wings, all eager to be the first to the fresh carrion, to peck out the tender eyes, the soft tongue.
The Porcelain Dove Page 5