Fleur-de-Lis

by Isolde Martyn

  Regrettably, the older lady was not in the least enthused. "There's no convincing you, is there, child? What do donkeys do but go out into the middle of the field when there's a storm coming and—"

  "—and any horses in the meadow always follow it," finished Fleur, hoping that Blanchette was happy with Guillaume. "So I'm the donkey, am I?"

  "And I'm the foolish nag. Now do stop bouncing and sit like a lady."

  But Fleur was exuberant, staring at everything like a shortsighted child with her first pair of spectacles. Chickens scattered and hawkers bawled at their conveyance as it trundled along, flourishing their wares: tricolore ribbons, handkerchiefs commemorating the fall of the Bastille, and cockades in button to saucer sizes. The long street they turned up was much like those in Caen, lined with shops. Above them rose several-storey stone dwellings with plain casements embellished by painted shutters and tasteful little balconies. There was no pavement; the street was pockmarked with puddles and the passers-by nimbly sprang back as the coach bowled past. No wonder most of the men wore black stockings with their breeches. But suddenly there was something wrong. People started running in the same direction, some with barrows, others with panniers. Women snatched up babies in one hand, their skirts in the other, and further down the street a press of people were almost fighting their way inside a shop.

  "What's happening?" Fleur unlatched the window and called out to the driver who had slowed his horses.

  "A new supply of soap, citizeness. Better if it was bread, eh?"

  "I never observed the Parisians were that bothered about washing," muttered her aunt as the coach gathered pace again, but Fleur did not answer; her spirits were sinking. Beggars were everywhere, hardly able to cover their shoulders against the cold March wind, holding out their hands piteously. It did not auger well. Had she and Tante Estelle survived a cruel winter to face a summer of starvation? Paris did seem to have less food than Caen. Turning a corner, the fiacre rattled past closed shops. Outside a baker's stretched a queue of women, half the street long, their faces pinched. Sullen eyes watched their vehicle pass. Fleur leaned her head back against the seat. A creature of the street sisterhood thumped on the side of the fiacre hoping that it carried potential customers and, seeing only two ladies inside, spat. Was the woman a desperate mother forced to sell her body for food for her children? Oh God, thought Fleur, would she be reduced to that if M. Bosanquet proved a liar?

  Tante Estelle's contemptuous mutterings continued. Paris had indeed been taken over by the masses, but at what cost? Proud walls that had glimpsed the Sun King, Louis XIV, ride past were daubed with slogans; posters gushed patriotism and worse. "Vive Marat!" and "I love Danton!" were mild sentiments compared to the broadsheet that been discarded on the coach seat beside Fleur. It informed her that Brissot, the leader of the ruling deputies, had been intimate with his maman, and a crude cartoon implied that the minister of the interior, Roland, was a contortionist. Was that physically possible? Her cheeks heating, Fleur began to acquire a new vocabulary.

  "Give me that!" Tante Estelle snatched the paper. "I have never seen so much scurrilous—"

  "Sshh." Fleur shot her a warning look.

  "I was going to say the streets look filthier than ever." The aristocrat lowered her voice with dignity. "Look at that creature relieving himself."

  "I am trying not to. Have you noticed how few horses there are?"

  "Requisitioned to pull gun carriages instead of curricles," said her aunt. "Is there nothing that has not been ruined?" They were passing a low wall studded with ugly iron stumps. No doubt the railings had been wrenched off to melt down for guns or else to use as—Fleur shivered—crude bayonets.

  Her aunt must have been thinking the same. "Oh, child, when I think of your poor father and sister being slaughtered like beasts."

  "Please, Tante," snapped Fleur, terrified lest the driver could hear. "I thought we agreed never to mention that." Nom de ciel, did her aunt think she had forgotten? "This... this looks a quieter neighbourhood." She pretended to admire a medieval, half-timbered dwelling, determined to keep her fear safely lidded.

  Tante Estelle shrugged, unimpressed. "Do not raise your hopes. Bosanquet had more hot air than a furnace. Mark my words, you have inherited nothing more than an attic room in some stinking tenement. Look at that! Worse than jackdaws. No privacy! And what if these boarders he told us about refuse to let us in?"

  Fleur sat back, disdaining to stare at the laundry hanging from every window. Inside, she tried to disengage from the rising panic. I will manage, she vowed and grabbed at the strap as the fiacre swung round a corner.

  "Forty-seven Rue des Bonnes Soeurs, hein?"

  The hired vehicle reined in outside a smallish seventeenth-century building flanking a courtyard on three sides. Their arrival was observed by a man lounging against the outside wall, seemingly doing nothing but watching the world pass. Fleur sighed; there seemed to be a lot of idlers in the streets. Probably an out-of-work servant. Equality was all very well but the great houses of the noblesse had at least provided employment. The sluggard stopped picking his teeth and slouched off, whistling a summons to someone. No doubt their arrival would fuel neighbourhood gossip.

  Fleur carried her modest bag into the courtyard, her stomach growling. The smell of ground coffee hung in the air above her, competing with the clean aroma of freshly sawn wood. This old house, like most along the street, had three storeys—apartments, judging by the irregularity of the window fittings. The upper casements were neatly curtained with long drapes, while on the ground floor, cloths tucked over strings sufficed and half the shutters were missing. A dog with a torn ear bounded out to yap at Fleur's skirts, and from an upper iron balcony festooned with foliage a violin rasped haltingly. Several barefooted children left their play among the muddy potholes and came to gape at the newcomers. One whistled away the dog. A woman sitting on a doorstep suckling her baby in the sunlight gaped at Fleur as though she had eight legs and a sinister pair of spinnerets, and then, becoming aware of the newcomer's bereavement, crossed herself and turned the infant to her other breast. In the shade a joiner humming Mozart set down his hammer.

  "Bosanquet?" Fleur called out. The artisan wiped his hands on the seat of his trousers and pointed to the door at the back of the courtyard.

  The wing edging the rear of the yard presented a more uniform appearance. The lion doorknocker gleamed, the step was unsullied, the boot-scraper clean. A thin gentleman in breeches and silk stockings opened the door, but before Fleur could speak, he burst into tears at the sight of her mourning clothes. He introduced himself between sobs as M. Bosanquet's friend and boarder. "André B-B-Beugneux" showed them into what passed for a modest dining room, and withdrew with a wail of anguish, promising that they would be brought coffee.

  "Well, better than I expected," admitted Tante Estelle grudgingly, inspecting the silver candelabra and the other ornaments upon the mahogany sideboard as though she was walking down a line of soldiers, "if one can stomach the neighbourhood—and the boarders! Beugneux! He pretends to refinement but..." she shrugged. "I cannot wait to meet the foreigner, Signor Machiavelli. I wonder if he is dripping with emotion as well."

  Fleur ignored the sarcasm. What was the role of a widow? Should she be taking charge? Wearily she sat down at the table and hoped that the bewigged, wailing creature who had greeted them would be solicitous enough to hurry the refreshments.

  "I am the one supposed to be doing the weeping," she observed. "Isn't his reaction rather excessive?"

  "Yes, indeed," answered her aunt. "I begin to suspect that the late Monsieur Bosanquet had—shall we say—hidden depths."

  It was not kind to mimic the poor man's stammer but Fleur could not resist. "Well, my l-late husband has a w-w-watering p-pot of a l-l-lodger."

  "Fleur! Desist! You are a grown woman and a widow."

  Just as well, for a rather more composed M. Beugneux shortly reappeared, bearing a tray set with a coffee service. Clearly grateful whe
n Fleur indicated that he should join them, he set his coat-tails aside and sat down upon the dining chair opposite her. "I am sorry that I welcomed you so poorly, mesdames, b-but..." His voice choked and a lace-cuffed hand gestured apologetically.

  "Be at ease, monsieur," Fleur reassured him, then annoyed her aunt by reaching out a gloved hand to touch his sleeve. "I am glad my husband has good friends who mourn his passing." She waited while he blew his nose with genteel grace. The whiff of lavender filled the air.

  Clearly in the autumn of his life, thought Fleur, discreetly studying the crannies of M. Beugneux's face, and was not in the least surprised that he still preferred the dress of the ancient regime: heeled morocco shoes, satin breeches, embroidered coat and waistcoat, silk jabot and powdered wig. But the added colouring and beauty spot were unattractive. Strange to think that until three years ago most of the nobility, including her papa, had rouged their cheeks and looked so. And this gentleman's eyes reminded her of a lizard in one of Mama's picture books—sleepy-wise, watching her from beneath the layers of crinkled skin. It was she who felt under the glass now, but there was no lechery in his study: no hostility, either, only a wariness, for she could order him from what was now her house.

  "I apologise for my distress, m-madame. Monsieur B-B-Bosanquet and I have been together for a long time. He was in such good spirits, so well when he left here. B-but—" He moistened his lips as if that would erase the difficulty of what he felt compelled to say. "I-I am devastated to find that Matthieu never told me of your existence, madame."

  Swampy ground, this. Fleur was tempted to explain the circumstances of her marriage but it was too early for trust. He might have already allied himself with Monsieur's obnoxious nephew.

  "I am happy to acquaint you in due course with how Monsieur Bosanquet and I came to know one another, monsieur." She drew breath—a lie, for she still had to iron the wrinkles out of her story—and added truthfully, "but I am sure you understand that it is painful to talk of these things at the moment. Monsieur... my husband spoke of you at the last. 'Tell André that I bear him the deepest affection.' He wished you to have this, monsieur." She drew out the silver watch and chain from her purse and set it before him upon the cloth.

  For an instant M. Beugneux could not bear to touch it, and then he gathered it up with reverence as though it were a holy relic. Fingering the dial glass lovingly, he swallowed and asked, "W-was it very painful, his dying?"

  "He was brave but gradually he slipped in and out of unconsciousness until finally his spirit was overwhelmed." She saw that genuine tears filled the crevices of the man's face and she reached out a sympathetic hand. "Monsieur Beugneux, you and I have a great deal to talk about, but these things can wait."

  "Your p-pardon." The silence between the three of them was embarrassing and then M. Beugneux shook his head as if trying to reassemble his thoughts. "I-I have taken the liberty of arranging a gathering the day after tomorrow at... at one of the temples of reason to bid poor Matthieu adieu. If you do not feel up to attending..."

  It was something she must endure. And M. Bosanquet did deserve a memorial service. Aloud she said, "Of course. I rely on you to be my support, monsieur."

  "I am your servant in that, madame." He leaned forward across the cloth and carried her hand to his lips. A sad gesture, like the last line of a tragedy. "You are very gracious, Madame B-Bosanquet. I had b-braced myself to find you neither charming nor so generous. I-I would like to feel we are almost family."

  Tante Estelle gave one of her disapproving coughs, but he appeared not to notice as he rose and went to the sideboard. "I should give you these." He took out a bunch of keys. "M-Matthieu usually carried them with him. They are yours now." A gesture of confidence, thought Fleur. He could have bided his time to hand them over. "Now what else? Ah yes, Monsieur Mansart, your husband's business agent, will be at the church—p-pardon, t-temple of reason—and he will arrange to call and acquaint you with how your finances stand."

  "My husband, God rest his soul, spoke little business with me. Is there anything I should know straightaway?"

  M. Beugneux shook his head. "I think you should save any questions for M. Mansart, madame. I expect you wish to sell 2 Venelle Sorel."

  Fleur swallowed. Another property! "Is it far?"

  "Off the Rue de Sévigné, madame."

  A censorious intake of breath from Tante Estelle prompted Fleur to say swiftly, "Well, I shall save all my questions for Monsieur Mansart." She ignored her aunt's fingers tugging like a small child's at the back of her skirt. Venelle Sorel! Was that where the filles de nuit roamed looking for customers?

  "Would you care to show us over the house, Monsieur Beugneux?"

  His mortification showed on his face. "P-pardon, I am at fault here. You will wish to rest and bestow your things. Come."

  "Venelle Sorel! A gaming house, you may be sure!" Tante Estelle exclaimed behind her hand, delaying Fleur from leaving the room. "Or else a house of ill repute! You had better let me deal with this Monsieur Mansart. A young woman like you must not concern herself with these matters."

  Fleur's curiosity was piqued. Had M. Bosanquet owned a brothel?

  "Is something amiss?" M. Beugneux stood anxiously at the door.

  "No, it is—it is just that Monsieur Bosanquet requested me to permit Signor Machiavelli to remain as part of the household. An Italian, I suppose. His chef?"

  Jaw slack, M. Bosanquet's friend was staring at Fleur as though she had suggested they invite his Holiness the Pope to stay the night. He recovered his astonishment and sucked in his rouged cheeks. "I will introduce you presently, madame. This way, if you p-please." The stammer was less obvious now. Or maybe she was becoming used to it.

  What had she said that was so astounding? she wondered, as she followed him up the stairs, but enlightenment did not follow. He began with the attic. Nothing remarkable. The discarded bric-a-brac that inhabited such places, and a dusty travelling trunk. One day she would explore the contents. The two rooms on the uppermost landing were furnished with narrow beds and washstands but unoccupied. The first room on the next floor boasted paintings and mirrors but the bed and dressing chair were draped with dustcovers. M. Beugneux did not open the second door at the end of the landing. "This is my room. You wish to see it?"

  "Thank you. Not just now," murmured Fleur, anxious to see if the rest of the house displayed any enlightenment about the man she had married.

  "In here is M-Matthieu's chambre." The room was in darkness, necessitating M. Beugneux draw back the faded purply-red brocade which curtained the high west-facing window.

  Lit by daylight, the room revealed a bed against the far wall with a canopy of mulberry taffeta falling gracefully either side of the bolster and a surfeit of squab cushions. A feather bed, Fleur guessed and said a little prayer of thanks as she stared about her. A Persian carpet lay in front of the hearth. She could imagine the luxury of taking a bath before a glowing fire but those days were probably gone. Two ornately framed mirrors hinted that "cher Matthieu" had set store on his appearance, or perhaps it was to increase the light. What moved Fleur most was a copy of Molière's Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme on the small table beside the bed. She stroked appreciative fingers across the leather cover.

  She began to ask, "Did monsieur have a libr—?"

  "Uugh! W-what is—?" Tante Estelle had run out of words. She could only point a shaking finger. Glittering eyes were watching them from beneath the slowly moving cushions on the bed.

  "Ohhh!" exclaimed Fleur.

  "Oh, the naughty creature! That," explained M. Beugneux, with a mixture of apology and mischief as he turned from securing the curtains with tasselled cords, "is Machiavelli! The wicked fellow has escaped from his box again. Not Italian at all, and no culinary skills except in catching larder pests."

  "A snake!" shrieked Tante Estelle.

  "A p-p-python and as good a p-protector as any watchdog, madame. M-Machiavelli frightened the Commune guard when they searched the house. No
thing was taken from this chamber, nothing!"

  Fleur came cautiously forward and peered at the creature's fat coils. Its skin was a multitude of coffee-coloured islands floating against dark waterways. Sinister but beautiful.

  "Why should the Commune guard search here?" she asked, frowning. The last thing she needed was to have married a man under suspicion.

  "A random inspection—'d-domiciliary visit'—to make c-cowards of us all." M. Beugneux flicked at a nonexistent speck of dust on the back of his friend's dressing chair without meeting her eyes. So it was not the whole truth.

  "How tame is this creature?" Her aunt stared at the reptile from across the carpet. It stared back.

  "Not in the least venomous, I assure you, nor dangerous unless you are a mouse or rat. Fortunately we have a good supply of those. Matthieu let him have a rabbit once a year on his b-birthday." His shudder was delicate. "He does not need to be fed often. Warmth is of the essence. Now you have been introduced, I shall put him back in his b-box."

  Fleur had the feeling she had just passed some sort of test. "Will he let me touch him?"

  "Of course, madame," he beamed. "He is yours now. Spread your arms out so." He arranged her arms like a scarecrow's, then lifted Machiavelli off the coverlet and draped him about her shoulders. She let the python slither slowly along her arms. He was heavy but his skin was smooth and not unpleasant against hers. The originality thrilled her. It was love at first sight.

  "You shall have to instruct me how to look after him, monsieur."

  "Fleur, no!" protested Tante Estelle. "Mice! We are talking about things with... with whiskers that can run up under your petticoats."

  "I fear there are a great many creatures with whiskers in Paris that may do that." M. Beugneux's face beyond her aunt's back belied the gravity of his tone. He rolled his gaze heavenwards and gave Fleur such a kind, funny, conspiratorial smile that she turned away, unable, snake-laden, to put a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter. "I shall naturally take responsibility for stocking Machiavelli's larder, Madame Bosanquet."