The Prisoner of the Castle of Enlightenment

by Therese Doucet

  For a long moment I hesitated over my dinner, torn between hunger, anger, and fear. I thought of Perséphone, tricked into eating six pomegranate seeds in Hadès’s realm and never able to leave again. Finally hunger won out and I ate, cleaning my plate, sopping up the gravy with the marvelous soft white bread, nothing like the hard black country bread I was used to. There was a carafe and goblet on the table, also – had they been there before? Was it my imagination, or had they been placed there by some unseen hand while my attention was turned to my food? I was thirsty, so I poured myself wine from the carafe and drank.

  “I’d have preferred water,” I said aloud. Wine made my mind dull and my body leaden. When I drank it I would fall asleep too quickly and then wake too early with an aching head. Ordinarily, I drank it only on festival days. With a start, I turned and saw that a pitcher of water now stood where the wine carafe had been a moment before. In amazement, I poured from the pitcher into my cup and drank. The water was cool and sweet, as if drawn from a mountain spring.

  “What place is this? Am I really under an enchantment?” Talking to myself out loud made me felt less alone. There was no answer, not even an echo. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw that the high walls were hung with massive tapestries that depicted hunting scenes and absorbed the sound. “Or more likely I’m just going mad. That’s what you’ve driven me to, Marquis. Are you happy with yourself? But I suppose I’m to be eaten soon, so you hardly care about my sanity.”

  My eyes were drawn to the fire, searching as if I could find the Marquis’s face in it. Could I discern an ogre’s visage in the leaping flames, laughing at me?

  I looked down and my dinner plate had been replaced by a smaller plate of fine porcelain, laden with pretty sugary bonbons in pink icing. “Are you trying to fatten me up?” I asked. I brought a bonbon to my lips and my teeth pierced its coating with a delicate crunch. It was delicious. “My compliments to the chef. If this was my last meal, at least it’s been a good one.” I looked at the fire again and imagined its flames nodding to me.

  When I was done, I licked the sugary crumbs from my lips and wiped my fingers on my napkin.

  “I don’t even know where I’m sleeping tonight,” I complained to the fire. “Monsieur du Herle was in such a hurry to get away from me, he didn’t so much as show me to my room. I suppose he didn’t want to witness me being torn limb from limb and eaten by his friend, the ogre-marquis. I imagine he wanted to be well away, in case a mere widow wasn’t enough to satisfy the monster’s appetite.”

  The fire laughed back at me, its boughs snapping and sending up sparks.

  “I feel a draft.” I shivered. “Can you make it warmer for me?” Was it my imagination, or did the fire rear up and begin to glow brighter? I began to feel warmer. And for better or for worse, I didn’t feel alone. I stood up from my chair and approached the fireplace. “You must have known Monsieur du Herle wasn’t staying, or he must have known, or else there would have been a place set for him too.”

  I turned around slowly several times in front of the fire. When I was thoroughly warm, front and back, I seated myself in one of the upholstered chairs. Idly my gaze drifted to the little table between the two chairs, and I sat bolt upright in surprise. There was my Book of the Rose.

  I pulled it off the table and hugged it close to me before setting it down on my lap. It was just as I remembered. I opened it to the middle and leafed through the pages. My poems were still there, each one exactly where I had hidden it. I read a few of them again, going back and forth as usual between feeling pleased with what I’d written and ashamed of its triteness, the awkward turns of phrase, the ink blots and misspellings and the places where I’d crossed things out. I ought to recopy some of them, I thought, and burn more than a few. I turned to the first page and found a folded, sealed letter addressed to me from the Marquis de Boisaulne.

  I broke the seal and opened it. It was written in a rather ordinary, legible hand. A beast with claws couldn’t have managed this handwriting, I thought to myself absurdly.

  “My dear Madame Bergeret,” the letter said, “please forgive my not being here to welcome you. I can only imagine that the manner in which I arranged for you to come here must have seemed strange, if not alarming. Please know that my aim in bringing you here was not what you might have assumed, but only to provide you with greater freedom, rather than depriving you of the least amount of it. This is true to such an extent that I did not even wish to impose my presence upon you, until you should expressly state a desire for it.

  “You must wonder why you have been singled out for such admittedly peculiar treatment. I will confess that on a stroll through Annecy some years ago, your late husband’s shop caught my eye. I’ve long prided myself on collecting a tolerably extensive library for this retreat of mine here in the woods. I entered the shop and you were there, shelving books and helping customers. You answered several of my questions, displaying familiarity with the books I was looking for and expressing intelligent opinions about them. You will no doubt not remember this, for my face is a most forgettable one and it must have been the most ordinary experience in the world for you, one repeated many times a day. However, your beauty and wit made an indelible impression on me.

  “When M. du Herle was next in Annecy to manage some of my affairs, I asked him to look in on your shop for more of the books I wanted. M. du Herle learned that your husband hosted occasional philosophical evenings in the shop and he attended several of them. I then had to send M. du Herle to Paris for some months, but when he came back to Annecy he looked in on your shop for me again. He found that it had closed its doors because of your husband’s passing, and learned that your father had advertised the sale of its stock. M. du Herle wrote to me and asked whether I wished to buy out the stock, and I authorized him to do so.

  “Glad as I was to acquire such an array of books for my library at an excellent price, I was gladder still to think that by doing so I might also provide assistance to the pretty and clever widow who had made such an impression on me. Then when the books arrived here at the manor, to my joy and astonishment I discovered among them this valuable antique illuminated copy of the Book of the Rose.

  “I found your poems among its pages, each one signed with your name. I read and reread them many times over and imagined them in your voice. Of course I had no thought or hope of ever seeing you again. Circumstances have made it such that I almost never go into society anymore, so even if we moved in the same circles, we’d never encounter one another. It struck me as an extraordinary, nigh miraculous turn of events that your father should come to the door of my house in Annecy years later, seeking to arrange a meeting with M. du Herle to recover the Book of the Rose. It seemed to be the hand of destiny intervening to bring me into the path of your orbit yet again.

  “From your poems I dared imagine your marriage had not been a happy one, and that you had longed above all for freedom and self-determination, rather than a husband to obey and serve. For this reason, I also dared hope your father might be persuaded to accept a contract that obligated only my support of you and your companionship, rather than matrimony, which I am not free to offer in any case. However, the extent and tenor of this companionship is entirely a matter of your free choosing.

  “Until such time as you might wish to meet me, I remain, at a distance, ever your humble servant and friend.”

  In place of a signature there was the imprint of a signet ring, with a B for Boisaulne set into the antlers of a stag’s head.

  I set the letter down. My first impulse was to say aloud to the fire, “I want to meet you.” Of course I wanted to meet him. Wasn’t that why I’d come? But now that I understood there was the possibility of not meeting him, I hesitated. I had thought I had no real choice in the matter, with few alternatives other than running away to live in a cave on a mountaintop. Now it seemed I had a choice after all, the choice of solitude. Apart from the Marquis’s silent and invisible servants here in the manor in the wood
s, that was. Suppose I never wanted to meet the Marquis, my would-be benefactor, as his letter claimed? In that case, would he banish himself from his own hunting manor for good and give it over to a near stranger? Suppose I wished to leave? Could I simply walk out the front door at sunrise and wander where I pleased in his woods, or return to Maisnie-la-Forêt and throw myself on the mercy of Madame Jacquenod and the other villagers?

  I read the letter several more times, searching for clues as to the type of man who would have authored it. A lonely man, estranged from his wife for some years. A man who didn’t expect to be desired by women. An idealist and a romantic, perhaps. An imprudent, reckless man, who cared little for society’s conventions. A kind of misanthrope who shunned ordinary company. A man with some degree of madness. A hunter who left piles of animal carcasses and skins for the village wagoner to take in exchange for milk and eggs. A man who believed himself kind, but behaved with cruelty.

  My late husband fit the last description. He was devoted to God but ruthless in his piety. He had let me teach myself Greek and Latin so I could study scripture and books of devotion, but he was livid when he discovered I’d gone on to read secular works as well – novels, philosophical discourses, the books of La Mettrie, Helvétius, and the Baron d’Holbach, and even some of the “bad books” such as Thérèse Philosophe and L’Académie des Femmes. When he found the cache of books I’d hidden in the back of a cabinet, he had surprised me with a flurry of slaps and blows, and had left black marks on my upper arms, so tightly had he gripped them before shoving me away in disgust. He had never entered a room without my heartbeat quickening in fear. Though he seldom struck me, he was forever instructing me about my faults, my idleness and frivolity, my rebellious temperament, my covetousness, immodesty, and unchaste desires. On Sabbath evenings there was never any pleasure for me in his embraces under the blanket, and when I admitted to him that his attentions were painful after Valentin’s birth, he still wouldn’t let me alone, but instead quoted the verse of scripture about the curses the Lord laid upon Eve. Yet everyone had called him a kind and good man, and he had always thought of himself as generous, patient, long-suffering, and good.

  The Marquis, too, seemed to see himself as a generous man, and believed what he had done to me was for my own good, spying on me and obsessing over me, disrupting my life and taking me from my children, putting my family’s reputation at risk and making a whore of me, at least in the eyes of the world. He surely thought it would only be a matter of time before I called him to me and submitted out of gratitude. No, I was not at all sure I wished to meet him – ever. I couldn’t help but be curious, of course, about what sort of person this madman was who had inserted himself into my life and dragged me into his, but in equal measure I was afraid to know.

  “I need to think,” I said to the fire. “I need to rest. I need to go to bed. Where am I to sleep tonight?”

  From the periphery of my vision, watching the slowly diminishing fire, I sensed the room grow suddenly brighter behind me. I turned and saw that lights had been lit in the anteroom from which M. du Herle and I had entered. I stood and went out to the entry hall, where many candles flickered in a candelabra. The stairs, too, were now lit by candles in silver sconces affixed to the wall at intervals, in the shape of hands holding torches, leading me upward. But opposite the stairs, where I had expected to see the heavy wooden door through which we had entered, there was now only a wall. No wonder the Marquis de Boisaulne had gone mad. I soon would too from the strangeness of this place, if this wasn’t already a sign that I had lost my grip on reality. I ran my hands along the wall where the door should have been and rapped on it with my knuckles. My fingers discovered no hidden latch or false surfaces, and my knocking revealed no hollow places.

  Even if the door had been there, I wouldn’t have gone out into the cold and dark of the forest, where wild beasts must be roaming and hunting in the night, wolves, bears, boars with sharp tusks, and perhaps an ogre too, the roi des aulnes. I would just have liked to know the door was still there. But I would think more about all this in the morning. For now, my task remained finding a bed to sleep in. I followed the lights up the stairs, passing a dark hallway that led off from a landing. I went up another flight of steps to the floor above, where more candles in sconces led me down a wide corridor to a door slightly ajar, with light coming from within. I went through the door and found a chamber, warm from the coals and embers glowing in its fireplace. It held a large curtained bed piled with plump cushions and pillows and covered with a silk coverlet, with a clean white lace-trimmed chemise laid out on it for me. Next to the bed on a little table was a candelabra, a vase of fresh white flowers, a carafe of water, and a goblet. I undressed, wondering if the fire or some invisible servant was watching me. I laid my clothes over a chair, pulled the chemise over my head, and unpinned my hair, letting it fall down over my shoulders. I left my hair pins on a vanity table that had no mirror, sparing me the sight of my worn and haggard face. I blew out the candle and crawled into the warm and comfortable bed, where I fell fast asleep.

  IV

  It was morning, and I was awake and hungry again. I drained the carafe of water on my bedside table and lay back on the pillows, fingering the soft bedspread and taking stock of my surroundings. Sunlight streamed in through the large window. It was a spacious, charming room, furnished in the style of illustrations I’d seen depicting modern rooms in Paris, with nearly everything one could wish for, self-contained like a little cottage. A brocade sofa squatted next to the fireplace, a kettle already over the fire. There was a little tea table with two upholstered chairs and a tablecloth, and shelves on the wall above it with china and tins. A large wardrobe stood beside the vanity table, and there was a screen in one corner next to a chest of drawers. Getting up to investigate, I found the screen concealed a passage to a small bathing room with its own fireplace, a long oval tin bathtub, and a pretty ceramic basin and ewer glazed with a design of flowers, as well as a closestool and bidet, of which I availed myself. When I came back to the main room, a dressing gown lay on the bed, and slippers had been set out on the floor. I put them on.

  The only things missing were books and a writing desk. There must be a library, since M. du Herle and the Marquis had both spoken of it. Today’s mission would be finding it.

  My window overlooked a walled garden, and beyond that the forested mountainside, without a village or hut in sight. The scent of hot bread made me turn around. In the time I’d been gazing out of the window, the fire had been built up and a tray of bread and conserves and a pot of tea set out on the table. My stomach growled, and I sat down and took generous helpings.

  How strange this all felt to me, the life of a lady, full of comforts and luxuries, with everything pretty, clean, soft, and right to hand. To sleep in, with no cows or goats to milk or feed by lantern-light before dawn, no meals to prepare for anyone, no pots to scrub or dishes to wash, no sweeping or dusting, no chores like carrying water, fetching wood, or washing clothes. Not even a bookshop to clean and open and keep accounts for. One could get used to this life. Except that I missed the sweet faces of Valentin and Aimée, their warm bodies cuddled up to me in the bed, having someone to exchange morning greetings with, and describing what we’d dreamt.

  I’ve heard that wealthy ladies in the city wear a dressing gown most of the day, and only dress in the late afternoon or evening, before they dine with guests or go out to concerts, balls, or operas. But apart from the first month or two after giving birth to each of my children, I had always been accustomed to getting dressed as soon as I woke, to be ready for the day’s work. So when I had finished my breakfast I went to the wardrobe. My clothes from the night before had vanished. The chemises, petticoats, and stays I found in the wardrobe pleased me with their delicate lace trims. I put on underclothes, wishing for a mirror now in which to admire myself.

  “I could use a little help with the lacing,” I said out loud. To my astonishment, I felt tugging at the laces, a
nd when I felt behind my back, they had been tightened and tied.

  It was more difficult to find a gown. The fabrics were all too rich and delicate, and I was afraid I would ruin them. I had to remind myself repeatedly that so far I had been asked to do no work here that would make me dirty them. Still, I picked out the simplest of them to put on, one that looked like it was meant to be a day dress, cut in a flyaway style, loose and pleated in back and open in the front, with a matching stomacher to cover my stays.

  When I was ready, I took a deep breath and opened the door to my room. The passage into which I stepped was dim, the only light coming from a few open doors along it. I went down the hall, looking into the rooms. A few of the doors were locked, but this floor appeared to be mostly private apartments with furnishings and windows like mine. Including my room, I counted ten doors. The stairs went up and ended at the locked door of what seemed to be a garret.

  Downstairs I found the landing that had been dark the night before, still forbiddingly shadowed. I ventured forward into the dark corridor and passed two facing pairs of locked double doors, but the next set of doors opened when I pushed down on the handles. I caught my breath.

  Here was the library, a room twice as big as the spacious chamber in which I had slept, with every inch of the walls covered in cases and shelves of books except for the great fireplace and mantle, over which hung a large tapestry of a stag surrounded by greenery and flowers. Scattered sets of chaises, tables, chairs, candelabras, and lamps took up the room’s interior. The windows were curtained with drapes drawn back to reveal shades of translucent muslin.

  “Well done, Marquis,” I said aloud. “You’ve arranged the décor here well. You knew you needed the drapes to protect the books from sun damage.”