As I knew myself mortal clay, I knew that my mistress was dead. She lay among the pillows just as Pompey had left her, her face calm and young, with no furrows of pain to age it untimely. Her cracked lips were parted, their low muttering stilled, and her breast no longer heaved with labored breathing. Was she with the children now, I wondered, comforting them? I'd pray for them too, when I offered my prayers for her soul.
A strand of hair that had escaped the nightcap lay lank across madame's sunken cheek. I smoothed it back gently; she sighed and turned her head into my hand.
Tears welled in my eyes. I looked up at my master, who threw back his head and laughed. "Alive, by damn! No thanks to our fine M. Berthelemy, who cannot distinguish a sleeping woman from a corpse. I'm minded to pay him half his fee, and let the other half be forfeit to his unseemly haste. But then he would stay to argue, and I've no time for arguments. No time, no time at all, if I'm to find the Porcelain Dove."
And out he went.
Pompey popped his head around the dressing-screen and said, " 'Either the patient will turn up her toes or she'll return your love. I'll stake my reputation as a doctor on it.' " Then he flourished me a bow and began to caper about the room.
I gaped at him. Here I'd been weeping for a tragedy. Had the play been a farce all along? Hastily I stooped to my mistress' mouth to assure myself she breathed. A faint warmth touched my cheek. I stood upright.
"What did you give her?" I asked.
At the open window, Pompey halted his dance in mid-spin to pull the casement shut. "The fresh air smells sweet, but enough's enough: no need to freeze the poor lady's blood."
"Nom de Dieu!" I whispered furiously. "I asked you what you gave her, Pompey."
"Oh, nothing out of the way. Just a glass of red wine laced with three drops of blood from the left ear of a black cat."
"Nothing out of the way! And why did you not bleed this cat before and save madame the torment she's been suffering? Did her coughing amuse you, hein? Was it revenge for wearing a silver collar like a dog and being called ape and baboon? Madame the mother of my mistress was right: you belong in the stables!"
By this time I was trembling in every limb as though madame's fever had leapt from her veins into mine. Sobered, Pompey answered me gently. "I learned of the physick only yesterday, from an old man I met in the Forêt des Enfans."
"Another sorcerer, no doubt," I snapped. "You're a kind of wizard too, aren't you? Tell me, M. le sorcier, what do I smell of now, eh?"
Pompey shrugged. "Grief and peppermint. You are very tired, Berthe. Go to bed, or lie down in the dressing-room. I will watch by madame."
All at once I was on the edge of tears. "I don't understand what's happened here. I'm not even sure I know what's happened. Beggars, doves, black cats, curses, ghosts: 'tis more than I can bear, Pompey. By Saint Colette and all the angels, 'tis more than I can bear."
To my great astonishment, the boy put his arms around me. To my greater astonishment, I laid my head against his shoulder and wept there as comfortably as if he'd been my own son. He said nothing, did not hum or rock or pat my back, just stood and held me until my sobs grew less. Then he released me and went to madame's bedside.
How present and near that scene is: as present as the books and tables of this library, as near as the cramp in my hand, or as Colette, reading with her dark head inclined towards the page and her dark eyes blind with concentration. Watching her, 'tis hard to credit that she was one of those same ghostly children I have just described.
What does she recall of that scene, I wonder? Did she take comfort from madame's blessing? Did she rejoice at monsieur's ravings? Did madame's return to life enrage her vengeful soul? Did she observe these things to remember them, or was she insensible to all save her own animating pain? I feel it is indecorous to ask her outright. Yet I long to know what memories we share; if among them is this vision of Adèle asleep, her wasted hands and face bone-white against her pillows, and my lost Pompey watching tenderly over her, still and precious as an ebony statue.
I slept for a day and a night. When I woke the second morning, much restored, I sent for Peronel to help me change my garments from the skin outwards and brush out my lank hair with flour. She was agog to talk over M. Berthelemy's sudden departure and madame's no less sudden return from the foothills of death. I fear she had no joy of me, for I had as little to say as I had much to think on.
In the sober light of a new day, I found I could not believe in magic. I know better now, bien sûr—I know many things I didn't know when I was young and pig-headed and reasonable. Then, I discovered twenty explanations for my vision of the ghostly children —lack of sleep, fear for madame, the close, fetid air of the sickroom —all of them very, very reasonable. As for Pompey's tincture of cat's blood, madame's fever had run its course, and 'twas surely chance that caused it to break just when he gave her to drink.
And the beggar? Well, the beggar remained. Pig-headed as I may have been, I could believe in one sorcerer, particularly when I'd seen him twice.
Of a surety monsieur believed in him. Like St. Paul upon the road to Damascus, his eyes had been dazzled by faith, and he lived by the beggar's gospel from that day forth. Oh, he called it scientific curiosity and common prudence, but you may trust me 'twas nothing of the kind. Is it prudence to send a groom posthaste to Marseilles in the middle of February when the roads are deep in snow over treacherous ice? Is it prudence to offer a reward of ten thousand livres for the capture of a single bird? Of course not. Nor is it any kind of science to consult a pie of prophesying birds and a homunculus in a glass jar about where that bird might be found. Yet while he waited for Jean to fetch his most favored bird-hunters from Marseilles, monsieur did both. I can't remember whether I was surprised or not when Artide told me that the birds had refused to prophesy. As for the homunculus, although monsieur fed it the bloody heart of a black hen, all it did was laugh and laugh until he shut up its jar again.
A week passed, then another. Madame grew a very little stronger. Monsieur sent lackeys scuttling upstairs and down to gather this thing and that from the collections of Maindurs long turned to dust: sextants, celestial globes, an orrery, obscure charts of the seven seas, books of natural philosophy and travel and venery—anything, in short, that might help find a Porcelain Dove. He arranged these things in the library in orderly rows and waited impatiently for the bird-hunters.
There were three of them, the best that money could buy, celebrated throughout France and Spain for their tight nets and their clever traps. Guided by Jean, they arrived in the teeth of a storm, cloaked in snow and shod in ice and mud. Monsieur embraced them in greeting like brothers and drew them into the library before they'd even had time to put off their soaked garments. And in the library they remained, mysterious as wizards, while those of us who had no call to wait upon them took turns squinting at them through the keyhole.
I was among the squinters, I do confess it, and remember thinking the bird-hunters monstrous villainous types. Pompey told me they smelled of sea wind and pride, which made me laugh and answer that I imagined them more likely to smell of horse dung and tobacco. Yet I understood what he meant. Monsieur's bird-hunters cared not a pinch of snuff for M. le duc de Malvoeux and his sixteen quarterings. They didn't even really care for birds, only for hunting them. They spat upon the Aubusson and cocked their mucky boots upon the inlaid tables. They emptied their pipes into their half-eaten food and their bladders into a Sèvres vase. They had only contempt for science, philosophy, beauty, and wealth.
Artide was fascinated by them. "You'd think them princes," he said once, "the way they call for blood pudding and tripes and declare monsieur's green Jura wine poor, thin stuff. And when all's said and done, they're nothing more than rogues in cheap wigs." He shook his head admiringly. "They can't even sign their own names."
For two days, monsieur (still in his nightcap and gown), Noël Songis, and the three adventurers sat arguing over old tales and poring over old maps, plumbi
ng legend and history and rumor for news of the Fortunate Isles. 'Twas Artide's jest that they should be called the Elusive, or perhaps even the Illusive, Isles for not one of those far-traveled men had the least idea where they lay. What they'd more than enough of, however, was theories.
The oldest of the bird-hunters argued that, most northern birds being white, the Porcelain Dove was likely from one of the tiny uncharted islands under the Arctic Circle. Another had hopes of the abundant archipelagoes of the Southern Seas. A third, more mystical, spoke of the fabled lands of the West: Hy Brasil and Avalon.
Noël Songis took no active part in this grand parliament. According to Artide, he was the only one of the lot who behaved like a sane man, quietly studying maps in a corner, leaving the library to take his meals, to make water, and to sleep. When monsieur appealed to him for his opinion, Songis replied simply that he would journey east.
For two days, the bird-hunters shouted and belched and fouled the air with their heavy tobacco. On the third day, the library stood empty—except for a monstrous litter of ash and mud and fragments of bread and meat—and the bird-hunters, their pockets heavy with de Malvoeux gold, were scattered to the north, south, and west. A day later, with no fanfare, Noël Songis rode east, accompanied by Jean Coquelet.
All the household was astonished that Jean went to Cathay. Jean, who before he went to Marseilles, had never ventured further afield than Besançon, and that only seldom. Oh, the fairy tales he told when anyone questioned him about it! He'd dreamed of a beautiful Eastern princess; Noël Songis had enchanted him; he'd eaten opium in Marseilles. Such tales were amusing, and served their purpose, which was to confound the curious. To me, who has known him longer than any living soul, to me, Jean has told the truth.
He asked Marie to marry him and Marie accepted. This was just before the beggar's curse, you understand, when madame was at her worst—not at all an auspicious time for a betrothal, but what would you? That's when Jean made up his mind to marry, and that's when he went with Marie to ask permission of Jacques Ministre, who sent them to Menée, who sent them to monsieur, who looked down the length of his nose and said they were welcome to do as they pleased. Their marriage had nothing whatever to do with him. He'd keep no married servants in his house.
Jean vows upon his mother's soul that he was prepared to risk the world outside, set himself up as a carter perhaps, move to Besançon or even Dijon. 'Twas Marie, he says, who demurred, who argued that her savings were too small and the city too cruel a place for country folk—for that, I fear her trips to Paris were to blame. She might have given over in the end, married him in monsieur's nose and died a carter's wife. But before she could screw up her courage for the change, Jean, heart-sore and angry, had ridden east with Noël Songis. He was gone for seven years, braving hardships and dangers among men who were yellow as jaundice and chirped when they spoke. At least that's what he says. Not having been there myself, I can't call him a liar.
After the bird-hunters had left, monsieur's first act was to visit madame. Fortunately, I was there to prevent him. Fortunately, I say, for after three sleepless days and nights, the duc was a wild man. His cheeks were dark with stubble, his eyes red-rimmed and wild, his nightcap smeared with some foul-smelling liquor, the cream gown cream no longer, and the shirt under it might have been used to wipe up after the sacrifice of the black hen. In short, his appearance alone was enough to throw a more robust woman than my mistress into strong convulsions. As soon as I set eyes on him, I closed the door of the bedchamber and barred it with my body. Monsieur, hands twitching impatiently, came inexorably on.
"Stand aside, girl." Monsieur's voice was low and harsh.
I shook my head stubbornly; in truth, I doubt I could have moved, my belly and legs were quaking so. "Madame is still very weak," I said. "She must not be alarmed."
Monsieur glared at me with a bloodshot eye. "Bien sûr, she's weak—that's why I've come, to strengthen her. Beware how you presume on my good nature."
Monsieur's good nature! As well presume on a wolf's lack of appetite or a hawk's short sight. He stepped very close to me, so close that I could smell the blood and stale perfume upon him.
Heaven alone knows what indignity he might have visited upon me had not Dentelle appeared just then at the door and whimpered, "Oh dear, oh dear. Will m'sieur not let me shave him? Or put on his wig? May I bring m'sieur fresh linen, at least? Please, m'sieur?"
Monsieur turned to stare at him, then rasped his long nails over his cheeks and chin, said, "The razors, and swiftly," and stalked from the room with the little valet wringing his hands at his heels.
A good three hours later, the duc de Malvoeux presented himself a second time at his wife's chamber. He was bathed and shaved and smelled of lilies, resplendent in a freshly curled wig and an azure satin coat over a peach-colored waistcoat embroidered with bluebirds. His breeches were a shade deeper blue than his coat and his stockings were primrose yellow. At his elbow a lackey bore a covered basket and a heavily gilded folio volume, which he carried into the bedchamber and arranged on a table by the bed before bowing himself out. I withdrew to madame's dressing-room where I could be out of sight and yet within call should madame need me. Out of monsieur's sight, that is: I made sure I had a clear view of the bed.
The covered basket contained a bunch of grapes that monsieur peeled one by one and popped into my mistress' mouth. More magic, I thought, to command grapes in February. But this was the magic of wealth, a magic easy to understand; after all the mysteries of the past week, I found it oddly comforting. I was comforted, too, by the mildness of monsieur's voice inquiring after my mistress' health, begging that she would forgive his late neglect and explaining that he'd been preoccupied with fitting an expedition for a particularly rare specimen.
"The search will, I fear, be costly, for I am not sure of the bird's range and must therefore mount several excursions. In truth, until two weeks ago, I'd thought it a chimera, no more susceptible to trapping and caging than a gryphon or a cockatrice. Now that I'm sure it exists, I shall spare no effort to procure a specimen. 'Tis quite a lovely thing. Look—I've brought a painting of it."
He laid a pillow upon my mistress' lap, opened the folio, and propped it there. She glanced at the picture and said languidly, " 'Tis indeed enchanting. I do not wonder, husband, that you thought it a traveler's tale. 'Tis almost too beautiful to be real."
Monsieur's voice sharpened. "The bird is not yet caught. It will be long and far to seek; we must not expect to see it this year, or even two years hence." He clapped the folio shut and madame started nervously. Ready to do battle, I half rose; but he himself was rising to leave.
"When you are a little stronger, Adèle," he said, "you must go to Switzerland, to Lausanne. I've already written to Réverdil to engage a house and servants. You've always said the air of Lausanne agrees with you, and I've every confidence that the Swiss physicians will soon make you strong and rosy again. You must spend the summer there, and the children as well. 'Tis time they saw something of the world outside Beauxprés."
This news so pleased madame that she began to cough again, sending me to her side and monsieur from the room. By the mercy of God, the relapse was brief, and by April she was well enough to sit on her chaise longue for an hour or two at a stretch and take an interest in her embroidery.
The journey to Lausanne was planned for the beginning of May, which left me little time to prepare. Madame's wardrobe was a shambles. Bodices that had once fit snug and smooth hung loose upon her wasted frame. When she put on her court gown—apricot silk taffeta, trimmed with painted bands and boasting a décolleté that barely covered her nipples—she resembled a little beggar-girl en masquerade. How could she hold up her head before Eveline Réverdil and the fashionable ladies of Lausanne? How could I hold up my head before their maids?
Accordingly, a letter was dispatched to Mme du Fourchet, who responded with a dozen fashion plates, twenty ells each of lustring, Lyon silk, and calamanco, lengths of point
d'Espagne and Brussels lace, twenty-five ells of silver galloon and three hundred violet silk tassels for trimming. With these I was able to make do, along with dimity, ribbons, and ordinary blond bought from the peddler. Peronel and Marie assisting me, I remade the court gown and two robes à la française, cut, boned, stitched and trimmed a new polonaise, a petticoat and a caraco, and made a robe chemise for Linotte and a suit of clothes apiece for M. Justin and the vicomte de Montplaisir.
M. Léon was now twelve years and nine months old, a handsome lad very much in the mold of the Maindurs, which is to say that his face was long, his hair black and unruly, his nose fine-drawn, and his lips thin. His eyes were of an older stamp: deep-set, pale, lambent as moons among his dark lashes. If the portraits were to be believed, such wolf's eyes hadn't appeared in the family since Jorre Maindur himself. A handsome lad, as I said, and twice as wicked as the Devil.
M. LeSueur had not been replaced, and the boy was let to run as wild as he would, which by all accounts was as wild as the wolf he resembled. Tales of disemboweled hares and headless cats traveled among the grooms and gardeners, and all within-doors went in fear of his rages and his malice. Poor Justin was his chief victim, and was forever being fished out of the ornamental pond, helped down from trees, rescued from roofs, released from cellars, or untied from wherever his brother had dragged and forgotten him in the course of one of his elaborate games. Me, I saw M. Léon only when he visited his mother, upon which occasions he conducted himself as prettily as anyone could wish. 'Twas otherwise, however, when I measured him for his new suit.
Stripped to shirt and breeches, he stood in madame's dressing-room on a stool and held out his arm for me to take its length, contriving as he did so to brush the back of his hand down my breast. I was startled and a little annoyed, but thinking it a piece of childish mischief, snipped marks at elbow and wrist without remark.
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