Love and Honor

by Harry Samkange

  “As I explained, dear Aunt, I had an awful time with my shoes and then I came across Monsieur d’Argentolle on my way to the salon. He had somehow gotten lost and was wandering in the garden,” Sérolène fibbed, flushing pink with embarrassment. She turned imploringly to Nicolas in an effort to enlist his aid in deflecting her aunt’s ire.

  “Yes. Ah... I had returned from performing a small convenience and somehow got turned around on my way back and lost my bearings. I was fortunate enough to come across the vicomtesse, who was kind enough to assist me. We tried a shortcut through the garden...at my urging...of course, but it apparently added to the length of our sojourn rather than decreasing it as we had hoped. I couldn’t resist the temptation to admire the delightful plantings, you see,” Nicolas improvised. The fabrication was politely accepted as truth, only Francis giving his brother a look that said he didn’t believe a word of it.

  “Well, I’m happy you’ve had the chance to see them, Monsieur. We do take more than a little pride in our gardens,” the baron said.

  “Perhaps we might venture out for a walk amongst them after the meal, provided it’s not too dark or unfavorable to the comfort of the ladies to do so?” Francis interjected, availing himself of the opportunity to come to his brother’s aid.

  “A splendid idea! I shall let the ladies decide upon the latter and as for the former, I assure you we’ll take care of that!” the baron replied without hesitation.

  Nicolas glanced briefly at Sérolène, both sharing a secret smile that they had made good their apparent escape from trouble. The baronne watched them both carefully, noting with sharp interest the apparent attraction between the two. It would have been better, she reflected, to have had Sérolène sit next to her and to put Éléonore in between her niece and the young chevalier. I must take care to watch that one carefully. He’s not at all what I had expected to find, the baronne admitted to herself.

  Her daughter Éléonore was right. Nicolas was handsome, very much so, with the natural grace and charm that one would expect of a scion of the Montferraud, but also with an unbridled physicality that his elder brother decidedly lacked. What extraordinary eyes. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the like…such a deep and penetrating green, she thought as she looked inquisitively at Nicolas, trying to hold his gaze but finding it too disconcerting to bear for long, the intensity of his regard making her feel as if he were looking straight through her. It’s a pity your mother is less than nothing; otherwise you’d be a splendid catch in your own right, she mused. But her shame is yours as well, and no matter your rank and title, or your fine appearance, no family of quality will have you – least of all this one, she reflected.

  The meal continued to unfold at leisure, keeping pace with the conversation. Knowing what they had already shared between them, Nicolas and Sérolène were content merely to sit next to each other in silence as the hours slipped slowly by. Their economy of conversation paid them the unintended dividend of diminishing scrutiny from the ever watchful baronne, who was happy to mistake their quietness for indifference. By the time the sweets were served, Sérolène was emboldened enough by the lack of general surveillance to slip her foot far enough underneath the table to caress the ankle of her beloved, for that was how she had already come to regard him. Nicolas was so surprised at the unexpected contact that he flinched, almost knocking over his glass of water.

  “You’re as jumpy as a young colt tonight, brother. You sure you aren’t drinking from the wrong glass?” Francis teased.

  “I assure you, Francis, it’s the pleasant effect of the company and not the eau-de-vie,” Nicolas replied, raising his glass of water in salute to Julienne, who accepted his compliment with a graceful nod.

  Sérolène chatted playfully with a yawning Éléonore to distract any further scrutiny, all the while happily stroking Nicolas’ foot with her toes. Dinner was finally adjourned as the hour struck ten. Éléonore, who had been virtually asleep on her feet, was sent up to bed. The rest of the gathering moved on to its next diversion, the baron happily leading everyone out into the garden where a path of torches had been marked out to illuminate the painstakingly laid greenery and plantings.

  “How happy I am to see your gardens at last,” Nicolas whispered to Sérolène as they walked together slightly behind the main party.

  “I am sorry for putting you on the spot like that, Monsieur; but I was quite at a loss as to what to say. Your rescue however, was indeed perfectly timed and very well improvised,” she said, hiding her smile behind her fan.

  “A clumsier escape than I should have liked. And a very narrow one indeed, but I suppose it was sufficient. Now, my dearest Mademoiselle, how are you going to repay me?” he whispered, his dimples glinting playfully in the torchlight.

  “Come, everyone; let’s not let such a splendid night end so early! Shall we have a bit of music to cheer us?” the baron suggested with enthusiasm. There was a general murmur of approval as they re-entered the château through the open doors of the music room which had already been arranged to receive them.

  “Who volunteers to be the first to sing?” the baron called out, looking pointedly at Julienne, who needed no prompting to take the stage. She beckoned toward Sérolène to accompany her at the piano. They sang a wonderful airy duet, Sérolène’s accompaniment no less refined than Julienne’s singing. After a succession of encores, the baron asked Sérolène to play for them on the harp. Sérolène complied willingly, opening with a very difficult piece that displayed her supple virtuosity. After a well-earned round of applause, she played a single encore in which she sang while strumming a haunting melody. She threw all of the pent-up emotions of the night into the plaintive words of the song, not daring to look at Nicolas for fear of revealing her true feelings to all. Everyone listened in rapt silence as she performed the final chorus, her voice soft and piercingly clear with emotion.

  “Bravo! Bravo! I daresay the joy of tonight’s happy occasion has affected you as well. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you in as fine a voice!” the baron declared proudly.

  “Yes I am very joyful indeed, Uncle,” Sérolène agreed, bowing her head modestly as she looked pointedly at Julienne. But not for the reasons you suppose, she said to herself, glancing briefly toward Nicolas.

  “What a wonderful night it has been for all of us. But I fear we have inconvenienced you long enough. The hour is quite late; we should be on our way home,” the marquis said appreciatively.

  “Home?” the baron inquired, as if the thought had not occurred to him that his guests must eventually depart.

  “At this late hour? I won’t hear of it. We have plenty of room here. Now that you are all to be family, you must stay the night as our guests. Tomorrow you may of course depart at your convenience,” the baron offered.

  “That is a splendid suggestion, my dear...but I fear that with the renovations to so many of the rooms…we don’t have enough space for all our guests…” the baronne said, her eyes flashing at Nicolas, who understood immediately that it was his presence that she objected to.

  There must be at least a dozen rooms on the first floor alone. Surely no one would believe that they were all unsuitable for guests, Nicolas thought to himself. Julienne and Sérolène both lowered their heads and gazes awkwardly, knowing the baronne’s assertions to be completely untrue.

  “No room? Really my dear? Have we all this space and no quarters suitable for so few guests?” the baron said doubtfully.

  How disappointed Francis seems. Everyone was getting on so well – I should hate to be the cause of Francis’ unhappiness, Nicolas reflected, seeing his brother’s downcast expression. The baronne began to dissemble awkwardly in response to her husband when Nicolas, as was his nature, decided to take matters into his own hands.

  “Monsieur de Salvagnac, might I trouble someone to show me the way back to the stables? We’d sent instructions for our horses to be prepared for travel some time ago but I’d like to check on them myself,” Nicolas said.


  The baron nodded his head at this request, though he still did not like the idea that his guests would depart at such a late hour. The roads from Cap François to the interior were not altogether safe at night, with brigands and escaped slaves often prowling in search of victims of opportunity. To be prudent, a sizeable escort of men would need to be sent along to accompany the departing guests, which as host, he would bear the responsibility for.

  “Certainly, Monsieur, if you feel it necessary. I’ll have someone accompany you at once,” the baron said.

  “It has been an honor Monsieur, Madame, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle,” Nicolas declared, bowing his thanks to the baron, his wife, Julienne, and Sérolène in turn before taking his leave of his father and brother. The baron rang a small bell, which summoned an attendant who appeared almost instantly.

  “François, see the Chevalier d’Argentolle to his horses,” the baron commanded. The enslaved servant nodded, turning to lead the way. Nicolas followed closely behind, unable to resist casting a final parting glance toward Sérolène, who watched him depart with great reluctance. Frantic that Nicolas should leave so soon, and on such terms, she too decided to seize her chance.

  “Uncle, Aunt. I’m afraid I’m very tired. Might I also be excused?” Sérolène asked. The baron smiled benevolently, offering his ruddy cheeks for her to kiss.

  “Of course, my dear niece. How thoughtless of me to have kept you up so late. You may take your leave of our guests and retire for the evening,” the baron said indulgently.

  Sérolène performed her courtesies to the party as quickly as she could; departing by a separate entrance from the one that Nicolas had taken. As soon as she was out of the room, she removed her shoes and ran headlong down the hallway in an attempt to head off Nicolas before he exited the main house on his way to the stables. She used the back corridors to her advantage, skidding several times as she raced across the polished hardwood floors, arriving breathlessly at the end of the hallway that opened into the back courtyard, across from which lay the path to the outer courtyard and stables. She waited in silence under the stairs, concealed by the darkness of the rising stairway, her heart beating rapidly, every nerve on edge as she listened for voices and footsteps. At last she saw François coming down the hall toward her, Nicolas trailing closely behind him. She hoped fate would be kind and François would stop far enough back from the doorway that he would not detect her presence.

  “Through that door?” Nicolas inquired, pointing ahead to the doorway that led out to the courtyard.

  “Yes, Maître,” the enslaved servant replied.

  “Monsieur will do well enough. I’ve no need to be the master of any other man,” Nicolas corrected him, his nostrils detecting the vague hint of lilacs. François bowed his understanding and his respect.

  “Will you convey a message to the Marquis de Blaise on my behalf?” Nicolas asked.

  “Of course…Monseigneur,” François said.

  “Tell my father that I have decided to return home on my own with the horses, that they needed a good run-out and I couldn’t resist such a splendid moon,” Nicolas said.

  “Understood, Monseigneur,” François replied.

  “Oh, and do me the favor of taking your time on your way back, if you please,” Nicolas added, pressing a single coin -- a gold louis d’or -- into François’ palm.

  “It shall be as you wish, Monseigneur. I shall have the horses prepared at once,” François said, bowing low in respectful gratitude.

  “Thank you. I believe I can see myself out from here,” Nicolas assured him. François nodded and in an instant was gone, as if he had disappeared into the very walls. Nicolas continued his walk down the hallway, veering to the left as he approached the darkened stairwell; the soft tapping of his heels against the dark hardwood floor the only audible sound.

  “It’s all right. He’s gone,” he whispered. In an instant, Sérolène came out of her place of concealment and into his arms. He quickly led her back toward the rear of the corridor where they wouldn’t be observed.

  “Your scent gave you away. How I’d hoped you would follow me, that I might say a proper farewell. Dear sweet Mademoiselle, it may sound like madness to say it, but how deeply I adore thee,” Nicolas said ardently, pressing Sérolène’s hands to his lips and bathing them in soft kisses in the semi-darkness.

  “Then how happy I am that you should be so afflicted. Now Monsieur, about your reward…”

  She pressed her lips gently against his, raising herself up on her toes, her tongue gently tracing the contours of his lips, drawing forth his own, which plunged tenderly forward in search of its mate; probing, twisting, entwining with hers in the most ancient of dances. Her head tilted back as her body arched against him, sweet oblivion on the tips of their tongues. It was Nicolas who at last severed the connection between them with his last ounce of resolve.

  “Sérolène…my darling…I must go…while I am still able. I’ll not spoil the night for Francis. Please. You must come and visit us at Caracol as soon as you can,” Nicolas implored her.

  “I shall try...I promise,” she whispered, her head against his chest, feeling the tautness of his muscles beneath her hands like bands of iron. Nicolas kissed her a final time, once on the forehead, then gently on the nose, the left and then the right eye – making the sign of the cross with his kisses, the final one reserved for her full sweet lips.

  “You are forever my love. Do not forget me,” he whispered, reluctantly relinquishing her hand. Still cloaked in the darkness of the stairwell, she watched him go through the outer doors and into the night, knowing that her heart and her world would never again be the same.

  *

  After a suitable interval of long-practiced procrastination, François returned to the music room where the guests were enjoying the last refreshments of coffee and sweets. Disregarding the inquisitive look from the baron, he walked directly to the marquis to deliver to him the message from Nicolas. The marquis listened in stoic silence before nodding his head slightly in understanding.

  “Well now, where’s the young chevalier? Don’t tell me you’ve lost him?” the baron inquired of his enslaved servant.

  “Not at all. I’m afraid, in fact, it’s the other way round. Nicolas has rather lost all of us,” the marquis replied for François.

  “Oh?” the baron inquired, his eyebrows raised inquisitively.

  “He has decided to return home on his own. Apparently he was unable to resist both the lure of riding under a full moon and the duty he felt he owed to his mother to tend to her in her time of illness,” the marquis said, knowing that there was much more to Nicolas’ flight than that. He knew that his son had sacrificed himself for the benefit of the family’s interests.

  “So it would appear, Monsieur le Baron, that as he has taken all our horses, we are indeed marooned here until tomorrow; come what may,” the marquis said, a somber quality in the tone of his voice. Though he had cast no blame on anyone, everyone felt the guilt of knowing that they had let someone so young embark alone on such a hazardous journey. Throats had been cut for far less than the bounty of three fine horses.

  “Perhaps we should send men after him?” the baron asked hopefully in an attempt to retrieve something of his family’s honor.

  “Thank you, but I assure you it would be pointless. The boy prefers to gallop like the devil himself when he rides. With the start he’s already achieved, I’m afraid your men won’t catch him now,” the marquis said with a rueful smile, regretting the sacrifice his son had found it necessary to make and the part they had all played in bringing it about.

  “Why must young men be so rash?” the baronne asked in an attempt to recover her position, fearing that blame would attach solely to her if any calamity befell the youngest son of the marquis.

  “Why, I’ve spoken to the steward and he’s put everything in order for everyone. I had only been misinformed about the state of the new renovations,” the baronne said. Julienne hung her head, ashamed of
her mother’s prevarications. The baron stood up, the gaiety of the evening suddenly diminished by the manner of its ending.

  “How very convenient. Well, let’s all to bed safely, those of us that may. I bid you good night Monsieur de Blaise, Monsieur de Marbéville. François will show you to your quarters in the east wing,” the baron said, nodding his head with the real contrition that he felt. Julienne embraced Francis before turning to join her mother and father as the marquis and Francis were shown deferentially out of the room and to their quarters.

  “There’s no use in stewing over it, Father. You know how Nico gets when he feels his honor has been pricked. I for one commend him that he acted out of selflessness rather than self-interest,” Francis said, noting the tight-set line of his father’s jaw.

  “One day, Monsieur, you will not be there to defend him. Then what will become of him?” the marquis replied.

  “He doesn’t need me to defend him, Father. I do so willingly. Besides, we both know he’d ride through hell and back for either of us,” Francis declared.