Love and Honor

by Harry Samkange

  Despite her reluctance to be separated from Nicolas, Sérolène obliged the Comte de Marbéville, feeling that it was best to do so for the well-being of all. Nicolas was left in awkward company with Julienne, who he could tell was upset by something -- though what, exactly, he wasn’t sure.

  “Thank you, Mademoiselle, for putting yourself out so. I feel somewhat responsible that you’ve had to be so inconvenienced on my account,” Nicolas began.

  “It’s nothing, Monsieur le Chevalier, particularly after what you’ve done and suffered,” Julienne said rather dryly.

  “Please, call me Nicolas. After all, we’ll soon be brother and sister, though you needn’t feel so obligated if it embarrasses you,” Nicolas said plainly.

  “Why should it embarrass me?” Julienne said rather too defensively, though his observations had merely echoed the very thoughts in her head.

  “Come, Mademoiselle; I am not unaware of the things whispered of me and openly said about my mother,” Nicolas declared, his left hand on the hilt of his sword, his right leaning on the cane he had used to help him in the climb.

  “I fought my first duel over such things at the age of nine when I was sent to school in France, and my last only a day before I sailed for home,” Nicolas confessed.

  “You dueled at age nine, Monsieur?” Julienne said, staring at Nicolas in disbelief. Nicolas smiled impishly.

  “Three times that year, in fact, but I was big for my age. Four more times through age eleven. More regularly than that once I reached the age of twelve, mostly because I looked older than my years and so therefore had greater likelihood of having my challenges accepted,” Nicolas explained.

  “Forgive me, Monsieur, but I must say I find it hard to believe that you could have participated in so many affairs of honor at such a tender age,” Julienne said.

  “Really, Mademoiselle? Then you must perhaps never venture out into the society of the salons, for were you to frequent such company you would know of the vile things said of my mother, of the mockeries made of my father, and the stories many were so fond of telling that claimed I was prone to manifest all manner of vile characteristics from the beasts I am purportedly descended from -- naturally, through my mother’s side. Who would blame you if you were to look upon the prospect of having such a relation as an embarrassment…something perhaps to be suffered if necessary, but not at all willingly acknowledged. But I see that in your case you are of course not so afflicted,” he added, masking the sarcasm in his voice.

  Julienne’s face turned pink with embarrassment. Nicolas had highlighted all the litany of offenses she had been guilty of without ever once accusing her, presuming her character to have been firm enough to resist such calumnies, though in truth she had not been able to do so. In fact she had not only heard the vile things said about him, she had even passed them on, on one or two occasions when she thought them particularly amusing or picturesque. It only made her feel all the more culpable that she had in fact behaved no better than the common mob, accepting slander for fact, afraid more of what others thought than of what the truth might reveal. How much easier it had been to spread the poison of slander she reflected, when the chevalier had not been a real person of flesh and blood to her, but merely an abstract about whom anything could be said or thought.

  “Shall I tell you a secret, Mademoiselle?” he asked. She nodded her head apprehensively, though she felt too ashamed to look at him directly.

  “After we came to pay our call at your estate, my father had second thoughts about his choice. He went so far as to ask me if I thought you’d make a suitable bride for Francis; I assure you, more from my knowledge of my brother then any claim I might be able to make on having some degree of understanding of the gentler sex,” Nicolas explained. Julienne regarded Nicolas with intense curiosity.

  “And how, pray tell, did you answer him?” she asked hesitantly.

  “I told my father that I was convinced that no other would suit Francis as well as you. Of that I had no doubt,” Nicolas declared.

  “I don’t understand. How could you be so certain just from the brief time we spent in each other’s company?” Julienne asked. Nicolas chuckled softly.

  “I knew it from the moment I first met you and you offered me your hand to kiss, though your mother had not. Everything you knew of me up to that moment compelled you not to make such a gesture; to behave rather as Madame de Salvagnac had done. When you did not, I knew then that you had the judgment and selflessness to put your husband’s interests over your own, though you might not have understood or agreed with them. I also saw from your consideration toward me that your heart was generous enough to allow the possibility that even one of Satan’s purported imps might have some small degree of merit. Besides that, Mademoiselle, it was clear from the way Francis looked at you that he adored you entirely -- and that adoration only grows the longer he is in your company. Were he indifferent to you, he would not display his temper so readily. It is a ‘gift’ he truly exhibits only toward those he holds most dear. I assure you I have been on the receiving end of it many times. Go to him now and you will find him entirely compliant, remorseful, and determined to make it up to you,” Nicolas explained.

  “Nicolas! Come this way and see the view!” Sérolène called out with a laugh as she squealed in joy from her perch on the swing.

  “Forgive me, Mademoiselle de Salvagnac; I hope my candor has not offended you. If it pleases you, you may regard all I have said as the ramblings of a man and a mind still not yet fully recovered,” Nicolas said with a low bow, pointing to the wound above his forehead as he took his leave. Julienne watched him go, walking slowly with his cane as she stood speechless in the wake of their surprising encounter.

  “Dear brother, will you not wait and give your sister your arm?” she said at last, hoping to make her peace with him and with herself. Nicolas stopped, turning to regard Julienne with a wide grin.

  “I’d be delighted to,” he replied, escorting her the remaining way up the hill to where Francis was pushing Sérolène in the swing, the vicomtesse squealing with delight as she swung back and forth.

  “It feels as if I’m flying off into space!” Sérolène laughed, as Francis exchanged places with his brother, taking Julienne by the arm and showing her the full view of their lands while Nicolas began pushing Sérolène. She seemed to be enjoying herself so much that even though Nicolas soon felt almost exhausted from the effort of walking and pushing her, he carried on until she eventually noticed the strain on his face and made him stop to rest.

  “I’m sorry, my love. I suppose I still have some recuperating to do,” Nicolas said.

  “Oh, no -- it’s my fault; I forgot you’ve not quite recovered yet,” Sérolène said, letting her toes drag across the long grass beneath her feet to bring herself to a stop, pleased at his use of such a tender endearment to address her. She took a quick look to check the position of Julienne and Francis, then took Nicolas by the hand and pulled him behind the trunk of the large tree to which the swing was tied, concealing them momentarily from the view of the other couple.

  “What’s the matter, my dearest?” Nicolas began before his words were intercepted by a finger to his lips. Leaning forward, Sérolène kissed him softly and ardently on the lips.

  “I love you so,” she purred, before drawing back slightly to look up at him, her smile glowing with the gentle radiance of her affection. Nicolas glanced down at her in enraptured silence.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked softly, her eyes caressing him.

  “If I tell you, you’ll laugh at me,” Nicolas said.

  “Possibly; but I shall love you no less for it and perhaps I shall even love you more, so tell me you must,” she commanded gently, resting her head on his chest as he laughed softly at her unassailable reasoning.

  “Very well, then; I was thinking that I know the answer to the meaning of life, and how simple it proved to be,” Nicolas said.

  “Oh, do enlighten me, great philosopher,
” she said teasingly as he kissed her forehead gently.

  “We think to find meaning in our lives after we die, as if heaven were the answer for everything we suffer or experience here. But I know truly what heaven is. It’s right here in this moment, in those achingly beautiful blue-grey eyes, those soft sweet lips. There is no greater thing in life than the simple joy of loving you and receiving your love in return,” Nicolas declared with utmost certainty.

  Sérolène purred in delight. Nicolas made her feel so loved; she never knew she could feel as happy as she did when she was with him. She felt an uncontrollable urge to kiss Nicolas again, a compulsion to which she eagerly submitted. Whenever they were together the suffering induced melancholy of her early childhood, which had often weighed heavily and constantly on her emotions, was unable in any way to trouble her. For the first time in her life, she felt truly, joyously, unambiguously happy.

  “That’s the most beautiful thing I believe I’ve ever heard,” she whispered softly.

  “Not nearly as beautiful as the letter you wrote to me. Francis only gave it to me on that day in the Cap. It wasn’t a moment after I read it that the team of horses surged past me. I don’t know what compelled me to give chase when I did. Perhaps your spirit and your love obliged me to ride to your aid,” Nicolas said.

  “So that explains why you didn’t reply earlier! I had worried that perhaps my words did not please you, or that you had forgotten me,” she said.

  “My heart is yours -- my soul also, and anything else you will have of me. I have need for only you…” he whispered adoringly, quoting her own words before bending down to kiss her softly again, their lips lingering together for a sweet eternity before a cry of alarm interrupted their stolen moment of bliss.

  “Julie! Julie! Are you all right?” Sérolène called out, rushing toward the sound of her cousine’s distress, Nicolas keeping pace as best as he could.

  “What happened?” Sérolène asked, arriving out of breath to find Julienne sitting down in the grass, holding on to her foot in obvious pain.

  “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance, but it seems I’ve slipped and twisted my ankle,” Julienne explained.

  “Nicolas, will you wait here while I run back and fetch a light carriage to ferry her back down to the house?” Francis asked. Nicolas nodded.

  “Can you stand on it at all? Perhaps if we assisted you back to the swing you could at least wait there in some better degree of comfort,” Nicolas suggested.

  “I think I can make it that far,” Julienne declared.

  Francis and Nicolas helped Julienne to stand, then assisted her back to the swing so that she could sit and wait for help to arrive. Francis ran down the hill as quickly as he could to call for assistance which arrived nearly thirty minutes later in the form of a two person light carriage pulled by a single horse. Julienne was bundled into the calèche with Francis, the emergency conveyance setting off at once as Nicolas and Sérolène followed behind on foot. Above them, the sky had begun to fill ominously with clouds, a rainstorm threatening to catch them out if they did not hurry and find shelter.

  “Just our luck to be caught out in a squall. We’ll need to make a slight detour and take the path to the right that descends toward the fields; the way we came up will be impassable if the sky opens up as it looks to. We can look for shelter along the route,” Nicolas said.

  They took the right-hand path and descended toward the sugar refinery and fields, making it as far as one of the refinery tool sheds before the winds rose and the first thick drops of rain began to fall. Nicolas stood outside under the small overhang, coaxing Sérolène further inside the shed which was filled with tools and parts. There was a sizeable leak in the tin roof, prompting Nicolas to remove his jacket which he spread over the vicomtesse’s shoulders like a cloak, in order to keep her dry. He then returned to the doorway of the shed, turning to watch the arriving squall. Sérolène hugged him from behind, contentedly pressing herself against him as they watched the storm arrive.

  “You’d best go back inside, Séro. It’s going to come down…hard.” A clap of thunder added the exclamation point to his words.

  “Aren’t you going to come inside as well? You’ll be soaked if you stand there,” she said.

  “I can’t. It wouldn’t be proper,” he said. She looked at him as if he’d gone mad.

  “Have you lost your senses? You’ll be soaked to the bone out there. Have you also forgotten you’re still recovering from a serious injury? If you don’t come in, I’m coming outside,” she said, moving to join him as the rain came down in earnest. He put up his hand to bar her from coming out.

  “Please, Séro. I know you mean well, but you must take more care. Your honor might be questioned if we’re found inside together. I could not live with myself if that happened. If you love me, then do me the honor of allowing me to protect you. I beg you,” he said. The look in his eyes was so sincere and pleading that Sérolène was forced to yield.

  “All right. But you must come and kiss me first. And not those brotherly pecks you’ve been giving me. Show me how you really love me…and I’ll stay inside,” she said.

  “Séro…”

  “That’s my condition, Monsieur. Take it or leave it,” she said demurely, though her eyes conveyed an altogether different sentiment.

  He saw there was no arguing and so approached the door to the shed slowly, extending his arms so that he could caress her face gently in his hands, rivulets of water streaking down his brow from the first droplets of rain. He looked longingly at her as he drew her slowly closer until they were only inches apart, his eyes burning with the emotion that he felt for her. He kissed her, his lips light against hers, as soft as the touch of a butterfly’s wing. His tongue traced the pattern of her lips slowly, taking his time, as if they were the most delicious but delicate things he’d ever touched. Just when she felt she would go mad with sweet desire, his tongue plunged tenderly into her waiting mouth, finding its partner, caressing it, exploring her mouth as she explored his. Overwhelmed by exquisite sensation, her body arched toward him, her hips pushing themselves forward out of instinct to press against his own, her entire being yielding itself up to him like a pagan sacrifice. She moaned softly from deep in her throat, pressing herself more ardently against him. He responded with equal measure, drawn ever deeper into the whirlpool of their mutual desire until he abruptly pulled himself back from the brink, breaking contact with her lips as he struggled to regain control of himself.

  “That was sublime. I suppose you’ve convinced me,” she whispered breathlessly, beginning to laugh as she watched the steam rising from his head.

  “What’s so amusing?” he asked.

  “You’re steaming!” she said, pointing to the top of his head.

  “Is it any wonder? Now you see how I burn for you,” he replied earnestly.

  “Yours isn’t the only fire burning, my love,” she said longingly.

  He kissed her hand tenderly. A flash of lightning occurred nearby, splitting the air with a loud hiss and then a crackling, popping sound, followed almost at once by a great clap of thunder that seemed to rip the very air in two. Sérolène tensed in fear, prompting Nicolas to put his arms around her protectively.

  “It’s all right, my love. I won’t let anything harm you,” he assured her, before turning his head sharply, hearing the familiar sound of horses whinnying in the distance.

  “Perhaps they’ve sent the calèche back for us after all, despite the downpour. I had thought we might be stranded for some time due to the difficulty of making the climb, but it seems they have anticipated that we’d take the route down toward the refinery. Wait here and I’ll go and flag it down,” he said.

  “Must you leave me alone?” Sérolène pleaded.

  “I promise I shan’t be gone long,” he assured her, kissing her gently on the lips before running off toward the solitary vehicle as fast as he could, his boots making loud squishing sounds as he ran through the grass and mud.

/>   “Hollaaaa!” he screamed, doing his best to catch the attention of the driver, who seemed unable to hear his cries over the sound of the storm and the driving rain. He could tell even at a distance that the vehicle was not one that belonged to the estate by the very poor quality of the pair of horses that pulled it. He wondered, as he gave chase, who it might be that travelled so close to their lands. The coach made a slow turn, heading away from him, when a bolt of lightning struck a tree not far from where he stood with a loud crack, splitting the tree in half and setting fire to the trunk. He wavered between his pursuit of the coach and returning to Sérolène, deciding at last to give up the chase. He turned to begin walking back toward the shed when he heard a shout in the distance. Turning toward the sound, he saw that the coach had stopped; its driver, attracted by the bolt of lightning, had at last turned and seen him. The driver stood on the riding board waving broadly to Nicolas from several hundred yards away. Nicolas ran as fast as he could to close the distance, which was not much above a slow trot. He finally reached the coach thoroughly soaked, boots covered in mud, and out of breath; his chest, side, and head beginning to throb from over-exertion.