by Lisa Jensen
“The wine is foul!” the chevalier shouts to his companions. Then he rounds on Charlotte. “You, girl! Out! Off my property. Now!” He turns to the trembling Cook. “See to it!” Then he strides out again, his face like a sudden cloudburst.
Poor Charlotte can only stand there, ashen-faced, speechless for once, as the older women move in to carry out the chevalier’s order. I grieve at this injustice done to Charlotte, although she might be luckier than she knows to escape this place. But I know nothing was wrong with the wine. And I nurse one tiny pinprick of pleasure, amid my misery, to know there is something the chevalier fears.
Still his every glance, every smirk, hammers me raw anew and multiplies my shame. I can scarcely bear it, it smothers me so. I shall die of it. And please, God, soon.
I’ve kept out of his way since the incident with the deer, but today I dread hearing his voice and another’s above the tread of their boots as they come into one of my chambers. I grab up my scrub pail and brush and flee into the next room. I am well out of sight as the chevalier and one of his household gentlemen, his secretary, come into the room I’ve just left. It’s the secretary’s task to account for the chevalier’s fortune down to the last denier, and the burden of this task makes him perpetually earnest and wary.
The room they’ve just entered is furnished with a writing table and a chair, besides its grand display of chests and cabinetry. This is where the chevalier conducts his business, and he seats himself in the chair while the secretary lays down his burden of papers on the outer corner of the tabletop and stands respectfully to one side. I am trapped in the next room; the door between them is only partway closed, and I dare not retreat any farther, for fear of being seen by him. So I hold still, peering furtively at them through the crack between the door and the jamb.
“I’m in no mood to be bored with petty matters today, Treville,” the chevalier declares, lounging back in his chair and stretching out one long leg under the table.
“Of course not, monsieur le chevalier,” Monsieur Treville agrees. “It’s only a small item. I’ve received a petition from one of your tenants —”
“A written petition?” the chevalier interrupts. “That must have cost dearly.”
“The curé wrote it on his behalf,” the secretary explains. “The man is called, eh . . .” And he begins to consult his papers.
“Never mind what he’s called,” mutters the chevalier. “What does he want?”
“He’s a laborer from the wheat fields beyond Clairvallon,” the secretary goes on. “The rent he owes you is nearly due. He begs for an extension of one more year to pay it off.”
“A year?” echoes the chevalier. “I loaned him cash to pay his royal taxes against a higher yield. If that yield has not been forthcoming, he must bear the consequences.”
“With all respect, monsieur, consider that crops have failed everywhere,” the secretary points out. “The weather —”
“I am not responsible for the weather, Treville. The terms of our arrangement were very clear. If he can’t pay, he must forfeit his plot.”
“But where will he go? His family has worked that parcel of land for generations.”
“At the pleasure of my family. If he can’t raise a yield on it, I’ll rent it out to someone who can. These parasites can’t expect to take advantage of my good nature forever. My resources must produce if I’m to see to my own affairs.”
Treville clears his throat and shuffles his papers. “Yes. Your suit is proving to be a costly affair, indeed. There are lawyers’ bills, recorder’s fees, testimonies to be bought —”
The chevalier’s eyes narrow. “If you are suggesting my funds are in arrears, there is something very wrong with your accounting.”
“Your fortune is intact, monsieur,” says Treville. “I only wonder if there might be other . . . detrimental costs if you pursue it.”
“It’s the richest estate in Clamecy, well worth pursuing. The expense will be recovered once I have won it.”
“Until then, is it not wise to practice some . . . economies?”
The chevalier stares at Treville as if he has never before heard the word. Perhaps he has not — I’ll wager few enough have ever dared to utter it in his presence.
“Economies? I am the Chevalier de Beaumont. All that is mine must inspire respect. The Villeneuve estate will ornament the entire seigneurie. Its splendor shall be a source of pride through all of Burgundy. If my suit is too costly, I’ll raise my tenants’ rents, charge more at my mill.”
“But the weather has been foul and harvests poor throughout your lands. Your people may not be able to pay anymore.”
“Of course they will pay! They must share the expense, just as they’ll presume to share in my prosperity when the suit is won.”
“I’m afraid the expense may be twofold,” murmurs Treville. “Some of your people may resent your extravagant habits in this and other matters when they have so little.”
“Who dares to say so?” cries the chevalier, leaping to his feet. He rounds fiercely on his secretary. “I’ll have it known that I will not tolerate rebellion.”
“Of course not. There is no such talk abroad,” Treville assures him hastily. “But if you would maintain the goodwill of your people, might it not be advisable to limit your rents and dues to what they can pay? And your spending to what is most necessary?”
“And do you set a limit on what my honor is worth?” the chevalier demands. He paces angrily about the room. “The Villeneuve estate is mine by right, and I’ll not betray the memory of my father nor my grandfathers by letting it slip through my grasp, whatever the cost. What is the goodwill of a few peasants when the honor of my family name is at stake? I am the lord of Beaumont, and I shall conduct my business with all the resources Beaumont affords — including your salary, Treville, should occasion arise.”
He stalks back to his writing table and flings himself into the chair. He draws a fresh page of parchment out of the box, reaches for his pen, and dips its point in the inkwell. “Now,” he commands Treville, his pen hovering above the page, “who speaks against me in the town?”
“Monsieur, there is no such talk.”
“There must be, Treville, or you should not have heard it. Give me their names.”
Treville does not know how to respond. At last, the chevalier snorts in disgust, flicks away his pen, and shoves himself out of his seat. He marches to the outer doorway and calls for the captain of his guard. The call is raised among the spiderweb of servants and messengers always hovering within the range of the chevalier’s voice, and a moment later, the captain of the guard appears in the doorway opposite mine. He’s a big man trying not to pant with the exertions of his arrival, but his medals jangle on his chest, and his sword shivers against his boots.
“Your orders, monsieur le chevalier?”
“Monsieur le capitaine, I have heard a report that tongues are clacking against me in the town,” says the chevalier. “Monsieur Treville here will supply you with the names of persons whose seditious talk is to be silenced by a day in the public stocks. I choose the Feast Day of Saint Martin next week; it will give the people something to ponder while my bailiff is collecting their quarter rents. If no names are forthcoming,” he adds, glancing briefly at Treville, “you will put Monsieur Treville in the stocks on that day.”
“But . . . my lord —” The secretary gasps, then lowers his eyes and wisely says no more. The captain of the guard accepts his commission with a nod. His expectant gaze fastens onto Treville as the secretary collects his papers and goes meekly out of the room with his escort.
It’s unheard of, a gentleman in the stocks. Apart from the humiliation, he would be the target for offal and refuse, even stones, hurled by every malcontent with a grudge against the nobility — and there are many. Even poor folk are often stoned to death in the stocks by vagabonds and outcasts who have no better target for their rage. What poor man’s liberty and pride will Treville sacrifice to save his own? Wh
at a terrible choice to have to make.
I thought myself proof against any further shock at the chevalier’s cruelty, but I feel a sudden revulsion in my stomach. I turn and flee through this chamber and the next until I gain the kitchen and spill my breakfast into the slops pail.
How foolish I was to think I could bear no more. As if wishing alone could put a limit on my suffering. But there is always more to be borne; that’s what living is.
I can scarcely eat. The sight of food turns my stomach. Everything turns my stomach: the gurgle of onions boiling in a pot, the bitter stench of damp ashes swept from the hearth. When it finally comes to me, I don’t want to believe it. I struggle desperately not to believe it. But I’ve seen it often enough, in my own mother with every one of the little ones. First the sickness, then the belly. Then the child.
I can’t have his child inside me! I’ll go mad. I’ll claw it out with my bare hands! Now I am truly ruined. How long before my belly shows, before I am mocked and denounced and turned out? Without a coin to my name, with no hope of maintenance or support, growing bigger with his burden, my shame made visible for all to see. Sleeping under bushes, starving in the road. A part of me might almost welcome it, but I’ve seen starvation in the lean times in my village, and I know how slow and painful it can be.
If I were clever, I would find a way to end it more quickly. God’s punishments are severe for taking a life, even one’s own, but hell can be no worse than the endless torment I now suffer every day. Yet how is it to be done? I can’t throw myself from the château tower; I’d be chased off before I ever got upstairs. I should not be able to keep a poison in my stomach long enough for it to act, even if I knew which kind to take, and as to raising a weapon against myself — no, I can’t bear it. I’m too cowardly.
At last, I remember the river. I am river born, of river blood. As grey and muddy as it is, the river sustains the village I grew up in. It must flow green and clear near Château Beaumont; everything looks so beautiful here. I will give myself to the river, and the river must decide my fate. That way, it can’t be murder, can it?
They say God can see into your true heart and knows your deepest secrets despite the lies you tell, even to yourself. But if God can read what’s in my heart, He must see that I have no other choice. If God is truly just, He’ll forgive me for what I must do.
Château Beaumont is chiselled out of the crest of a hill overlooking acres of vineyards and wheat fields. A great forested park carpets the rear of the plateau, where the Beaumonts do their hunting, but the park gradually gives way to dense, dark wood as it slopes down into the river valley.
I finish my chores early but make my appearance at table for midday dinner so my absence will not be noticed. When the meal is done and all the others are bustling over the dining things, I return to my chamber. When I am certain no one is about, I dart across the grand entry hall and into the rear vestibule behind the staircase. Its door gives onto the little back bridge over the moat, which leads out to the stable yard and the park. I hurry over the bridge, sucking in the fresh air. It seems like centuries since I’ve tasted the freedom of outdoors. It makes me bold.
I once climbed this hill in a single morning, so long ago now it seems like a different lifetime. I was a different person then. It should not take me longer than an afternoon to find my way down the other way, into the wood. It doesn’t matter if they miss me at supper tonight. By then, I’ll be past caring.
It’s one of those chill, crisp, sunny days, the prime of autumn before cold winter rises from his frozen bed. Some of the park is planted in greenwood, some not, and the trees shimmer with leaves of gold and scarlet, chattering in the breeze. But it’s all greenwood deeper into the wood; the trunks grow closer together, and their foliage makes a canopy that shuts out the sun. It might be day or night in the wood, winter or spring. It’s all one in the heart of the wood.
How green the river runs here! When I finally glimpse the curving ribbon of it, down in the valley, I make my way toward it with more eagerness. Even in this dark wood where the sun can scarcely penetrate, it doesn’t look cold, as I had feared, but soft and inviting, like pale velvet the color of sage leaves. It flows so gently, hardly a ripple, even up close, as I scramble down at last to the bank.
I find a purchase on a flat corner of rock protruding from the bank and gaze into the green water, transfixed. It’s so soothing, so inviting. I’ll give myself to the river, and I’ll be clean and whole again. Such a small price to pay, a life.
“I hope you’re not thinking of fouling my river, girl.”
It’s as if the wood itself has spoken! I jump inside my skin at the words, and as I half turn, I see a figure standing on the bank beside me, only an arm span away, an old woman, bent under a grey hooded cloak. I jump again at the shock, and my foot slips on the mossy rock; the wood somersaults all around me, and then I plunge backside-first into the water, the surface closing over my head, sealing me up. It’s cold after all, and dark, and rushing so fast I can’t get my bearings. Water floods into my nose and ears, sharp edges of rock scrape my body and tear at the skin of my hands as they claw for any support, and I’m tumbled through rushing blackness in utter terror. The blackness covers my eyes and weighs on my chest, bearing me down. One of my grasping hands breaks the surface to feel the tingle of cold, dry air for the last time before the river sweeps me away.
But my hand closes suddenly on warm flesh. The river sucks mightily to keep me, but a greater force tugs at my hand. My arm, my shoulder, and my head emerge, and I gulp air into my lungs, choking on the water already there, hacking and rasping. My body is limp in my sodden clothing as I’m dragged up the bank, and I roll over at last onto solid earth, spitting and coughing.
When I have emptied my lungs of water and the world has stopped spinning, I look up. But no one is there, besides the old woman in the grey cloak peering at me, leaning on a stick that looks like an immense tree root upside down, her two hands clasped over the gnarled root ball at its top. From what I can see of them, her arms look as frail and withered as the limbs of a long-dead tree, and her sleeves are dry. Surely she cannot have pulled me from the river.
“Life is a stubborn thing,” she croaks at me. “Not so easy to throw away.”
And it comes flooding back to me, with the force of the river itself, the reason I am here. I have failed again. I had only to lie still and breathe deep under the water, and my ordeal would be over. Now I’m worse off than I was, and even more humiliated.
“Well, come inside and get warm,” clucks the old gnome. She turns on her stick and shuffles off into the gloom. Beyond her, just a few trees away, I see a small hut with a thatched roof. I’m certain it wasn’t there before, or I would have chosen a more solitary place.
But how did it get here?
A voice inside me urges me to roll back down the bank into the river and try again. Surely this time I’ll be too weak to resist. But I am cold now, and wet, chilled and shivering in the unfriendly dark. Discomfort and exhaustion cure me of my recklessness, and I rise from the carpet of twigs and needles and leaves and stumble after her, my wet woolen skirts tripping up my legs.
At the hut, she throws open a small wooden door carved with a sun and the phases of the moon and other characters I can’t begin to understand. My legs are still shaky, and it’s awkward for me to bend low enough to squeeze through the doorway that fits her so perfectly. But I find I can stand upright inside. Indeed, the interior is much more spacious than you’d think from looking at the outside. The floor beneath my feet is laid in dark green and ivory tiles. A cozy bed under a gauze canopy sits in one corner with a calico cat asleep among the pillows. A welcoming fire blazes in a fireplace of bricks, although I swear I never saw any plume of smoke rising out of the roof when I was outside.
Kitchen things are in the corner near the fire, and rustic carved cupboards are on the wall above a table laid with bowls and cups. Another larger table is half concealed in shadows, under a string h
ung with bunches of drying herbs. Two small armchairs are drawn up to the hearth. I smell chocolate steaming on the hob.
“Sit, girl,” instructs the old woman as she crosses the room, pointing to one of the armchairs with her stick. As I move toward it, I realize my frock and shoes are already dry, as if they had never been wet.
“What is this place?” My voice quavers. I’ve heard stories of the uncanny folk, but I’ve never seen one before.
The old woman leans her gnarled stick against the fireplace and turns toward me as she tosses back her hood. Her bearing is straighter, somehow, and her face, when it is revealed, looks less gnomish and wrinkled. It’s still a face older than time, full of experience, but she wears her age with serenity. She no longer seems frightful. She gazes at me, a thoughtful smile playing at her lips.
“This is my home. And you are my guest.” She nods again at the little chair, and I sit, surprised at its comfort. She lifts the beautiful china pot off the hob — the heat hasn’t cracked it, nor does it burn her fingers — and pours a cup of chocolate for me. The aroma is rich and beckoning; my first sip leads to a deeper draught as she sits in the other chair, facing me. “And now I must know why you’ve come to see me.”
I swallow another mouthful. “See you? I don’t even know who you are.”
“Folk call me Mère Sophie.”
“But I wasn’t looking for you,” I tell her.
“Ah, no.” She nods. “You came to throw yourself in the river.”
