Love and Honor

by Harry Samkange

  “Oh, when do you suppose it will arrive? And to whom did you entrust the surety of its delivery?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Only to my valet Julius, of course. And I instructed him to deliver the letter to your uncle first, as had been agreed upon with my father,” Nicolas explained.

  “Does that mean it will be lacking in the many sweet phrases and little tendresses that I’ve grown so accustomed to in your speech?” Sérolène pouted.

  “It is decidedly more circumspect than I should wish to be, but that is by necessity, not by choice. Were I to write to you all that is in my heart, I should be excommunicated at once by your uncle, and so I must avail myself of moments such as these to proclaim to you again, and in person, how deeply, truly and ardently I adore you,” he whispered.

  “What about me?” Éléonore chimed in.

  “Oh, yes -- how could I have neglected you, my dear sister? But you will of course keep our secrets, won’t you?” Nicolas asked. Éléonore vigorously nodded her consent.

  “How dearly I love thee my angel,” Nicolas whispered into Sérolène’s ear, eliciting a pleasant blush and an even more pleasant smile from his beloved.

  They made several turns through the garden before Nicolas became aware of the scrutiny of Madame de Salvagnac and her guest, who observed them closely through the open doors of the salon de compagnie, which led directly out into the area of their promenade. Not wishing to overstay his initial welcome, Nicolas decided it prudent to take his leave after only a short stay, escorting both Éléonore and Sérolène up the main pathway to the salon de compagnie so that he could take proper leave of his hosts.

  “Thank you for your hospitality, Madame, but I must be on my way now,” Nicolas said, bowing his excuses to the baronne.

  “Maman, can my brother Nicolas come back and visit us again tomorrow?” Éléonore asked in disappointment.

  “That is entirely up to him, my dear. But it is a long way from his estate, and you mustn’t exhaust him too much with such a request,” the baronne said.

  “Please, Nicolas, can you come visit us tomorrow? If you do, we can play cards together and you can listen to me sing,” Éléonore pleaded.

  “I shall do my best, Mademoiselle,” Nicolas said with a gallant bow.

  “Madame de Salvagnac, Madame de Talonge, Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire, Mademoiselle Éléonore,” he said, kissing the hand of each in turn, except for Éléonore whom he kissed on the cheek to her delight.

  Both Sérolène and Éléonore went to the foyer to watch Nicolas depart, waving eagerly as his horse was brought up, and he mounted and rode off. The baronne remained in the salon de compagnie with Madame de Talonge, who had not allowed the obvious attraction between Nicolas and Sérolène to escape her notice, despite Éléonore’s childish attachment.

  “She does seem very well taken with the him,” Madame de Talonge said, looking fondly at Éléonore.

  “She is only a child with a new plaything, Charlotte,” the baronne assured her.

  “It was not of your daughter that I spoke, dear Agnès. How fortunate you are that in light of the chevalier’s recent actions and my work on your behalf, an attachment with your niece will now be looked on with general envy. You are aware, I trust, that Madame de Blaise and I are now on very cordial terms?” Madame de Talonge purred.

  “I had heard that she had attended your salon,” the baronne replied.

  “Have you also heard that the Marquis de Blaise plans to add the seigneuries of Cerneaux and Blinfey to the chevalier’s domains? His income will now surpass half a million livres a year. Or so I’m told, and by a very reliable source,” the comtesse said.

  “Half a million livres! It’s an enormous sum, but how can you be certain?” the baronne asked.

  “You know that reptile Noirmince-Vauginon, Baron de Ginestas?” the comtesse inquired, taking a sip from her glass of sherry, a treat she always allowed herself in the early afternoon.

  “Only by reputation, though I believe my husband has had dealings with him in relation to my late brother’s will,” the baronne said. How interesting, the comtesse mused, filing away that piece of information for later use.

  “He has very high-level contacts in the office of the Keeper of the Seals. I managed to pry the information out of him when he last visited my salon,” the comtesse said.

  “In exchange for what?” the baronne asked, knowing that there was always a quid pro quo in such matters.

  “He asked me about the true size of the Comtesse de Marbéville’s dowry and if dowries of comparable natures would be provided to the other eligible ladies of your household,” the comtesse replied without guile or hesitation.

  “And what did you say?” the baronne asked.

  “That I could not speak for you or Monsieur de Salvagnac, but I supposed Julienne’s dowry was gargantuan and saw no reason to presume that the eventual dowries of your daughter and niece would be otherwise. But enough talk of him and all the many others like him. I detest them all! Corrupt dried up old men with expensive tastes and grand titles, but not nearly enough money to support their manner of living. You however, are rather fortunate to have a suitor who brings a considerable fortune of his own to any alliance, so much so that I wager he wouldn’t care if his bride came with a dowry at all,” the comtesse said.

  Do you think it’s safe for him to attempt the journey back to his estate so late in the day? Perhaps I should send men along with him to ensure his safety,” the baronne suggested, considering all that her friend had said.

  “Concerned about your investment are you?” the comtesse laughed. “You needn’t worry I think, in light of what he did to Petitfleur and his men, I doubt many would dare to challenge him.”

  “What do you mean?” the baronne asked.

  “Have you not heard? That drunken beast took a party of his slave hunters in pursuit of some runaways. There were five of them in all-- his eldest son Michel, an overseer and two trackers. Apparently they made the mistake of riding across the marquis’ lands. Michel almost collided with the chevalier who was out riding with the marquis. He was thrown from his horse and badly injured. I’m told his arm is now hideously deformed as a result and he can no longer use it,” the comtesse said, delighted that she possessed prior knowledge of import that the baronne and others did not.

  “My word! How unfortunate for him,” the baronne said sympathetically.

  “That my dear, is the least of his misfortunes. Petitfleur always had a knack for compounding his troubles. Rumor has it that it was he and his men who committed the abomination upon the blacks that were found last month not far from the Blaise estate. Mayhap his arrogance in escaping the justice he deserved made him careless. This time, however, he went too far. He made the grave error of insulting the chevalier to his face, accusing him of causing the fall and the injury to his son. Of course the chevalier answered back most hotly, trading insult for insult,” the comtesse said.

  “Did Petitfleur not realize by the comportment and dress of the chevalier that he had erred most grievously in speaking in such a manner?” the baronne asked.

  “Apparently not. Instead, he became incensed. Then he made the fatal mistake of ordering his men to attack the chevalier. To his unfortunate chagrin however, Petitfleur was about to discover that Monsieur d’Argentolle was not the shackled, half-starved human prey he was used to hunting,” the comtesse said.

  “What happened then? The boy doesn’t seem to have been perturbed in the least!” the baronne said.

  “Apparently the chevalier dispatched the first tracker who was about to fire upon him, with ease, then he wheeled and separated Monsieur Petitfleur from his head. While this was happening, the first overseer attempted to shoot at him with a musket. He received the chevalier’s blade through his skull in reply. The remaining tracker was so stunned by the swiftness of the massacre that he didn’t know what to do. By that time, the marquis had arrived at the gallop and he decided it was best to surrender himself in order to p
rotect young Michel, who was still unconscious from the fall. It was from this last fellow, a curious looking half-savage by the name of Tibohio, that my sources received the account that I have just related to you,” the comtesse explained.

  “Dear God! And to think he did all that and has not a scratch upon him. But is there to be no official inquiry into what occurred?” the baronne asked.

  “Petitfleur was vermin and a roundly detested nuisance. I imagine only his family will mourn him and they only briefly, since as a result of his actions they are effectively bankrupt. Besides, who would contest the word of the marquis, or of the chevalier for that matter? This latest incident will only add to the luster of the chevalier’s glory, particularly among the women victimized by Petitfleur’s foul habits, and the slaves who had grown to fear the ruthlessness of his men. I thought you already knew of all I have related to you when you received him earlier. If I were you, I should encourage his attachment to your niece, particularly given the size of his fortune and the fact that he completely adores her,” the comtesse observed.

  “Do you really think so?” the baronne asked.

  “I do. In fact, I consider myself something of an expert when it comes to adoration. Now give me your kisses, my kitten; I fear I must take my leave as well. I wish to be sure that all is ready to receive you,” Madame de Talonge whispered, smiling provocatively as Madame de Salvagnac obliged her with several delicate kisses upon on each cheek.

  “Until tomorrow, my sweet,” Madame de Salvagnac said in farewell, watching the comtesse go with regret. Once she was alone, she rang a bell to summon her maid to her side.

  “I shall be taking a trip tomorrow and shall be away at least a week. You may start preparing my things for the journey,” the baronne explained. “I shall need only a few dresses, but double the number of nightgowns. With all this humid weather as of late I shall wish to sleep as comfortably as I can.”

  ***

  Having ridden as quickly as he could from the Salvagnac plantation, Nicolas reached the outskirts of his father’s lands with only a few hours of daylight still remaining, slowing his mount as he rode across the slight rise at the top of the long meadow not far from where the incident with Petitfleur and his men had occurred. An equerry was putting a new horse through its paces in the field to his left. Off to the right, he spied a coach along the road in the distance that looked to have broken a wheel in a rut. Bringing Scipio to a halt, he withdrew his spyglass, observing through it the driver and footman attempting to repair the carriage, a lady passenger standing to the side of the road as they worked. Nicolas waved to the equerry to attract his attention. The lackey recognized the great black horse at once and knew its sole rider, spurring his mount to reach Nicolas’ side with haste.

  “Monseigneur, how may I be of service?” the horseman inquired dutifully, removing his hat in a low bow.

  “Go bring some men and help them repair the coach there, and then fetch my carriage to pick up the lady who has been stranded. We’ll take her back to the estate until the repairs are completed. I suppose the men will be hungry from their labors, so see to some food and drink for them as well,” Nicolas ordered. The equerry bowed again, re-donning his hat and setting off to fulfill his task. Nicolas urged Scipio toward the coach, trotting leisurely the remaining distance to the stranded passenger and crew.

  “Good day, Monsieur,” the driver intoned pleasantly, removing his hat at the sight of Nicolas’ sword, finery, and superb mount; judging him correctly to be a gentleman of stature.

  “Good day to you as well,” Nicolas offered back pleasantly. “A broken wheel, I take it?”

  “Yes, Monsieur. These old eyes aren’t what they once were, I suppose,” the driver said with a nod.

  “Help will be along soon enough; I’ve sent for some men to come and speed your repair. I also took the liberty of sending for my carriage. Any passengers you have are welcome to wait at my family’s estate until you should be ready to resume your journey,” Nicolas said. The driver bowed very low in appreciation of all that had been offered.

  “I thank you again, Monsieur. May I ask how I am to address you?” the driver asked courteously.

  “You may address me as Monsieur le Chevalier d’Argentolle,” Nicolas said.

  “Albert Agouti at your service, Monsieur le Chevalier. How fortuitous our small calamity has turned out to be,” the driver said.

  “How so?” Nicolas asked.

  “We carry but one passenger, and she was on the way to visit a gentleman of the same appellation you lay claim to. We were not quite sure of the road to follow to your estate and decided on this one. If our wheel had not come off we’d have likely passed it by,” the driver said. Nicolas nodded, wondering whom it was that had come to visit him, not having recognized the lady he had seen through his spyglass.

  “How curious. Where pray tell is your guest, might I ask?” Nicolas said. The driver pointed to a large tree about a hundred yards away.

  “Madame walked over there to conceal herself from the sun and the heat while we work,” the driver said. Nicolas nodded, shifting in the saddle as he heard the sound of his carriage and drivers approaching.

  “They’ll have brought water for you and some cakes as well in case you are hungry. I’ll bid you good day now. I shall go and see about our guest,” Nicolas said. Both the driver and the coachman bowed low as Nicolas rode back to give instructions to the driver of his carriage to follow after him.

  “Now there goes a proper gentleman. If all the seigneurs were as considerate as that, France wouldn’t be as deep in the shit as we are now,” the driver proclaimed to the coachman, who nodded, resting his back against the broken wheel.

  Further down the road, Nicolas approached the large shade tree, dismounting as the coach’s sole passenger emerged from partial concealment on the other side of the trunk, attracted by the sound of his approach. Nicolas studied the lady’s face as he moved forward to introduce himself, finding it vaguely familiar but knowing with certainty that he had not met her before. She was somewhat overdressed for the heat and the season, her style of fashion noticeably antiquated to a practiced eye, as if she had reached deep into her wardrobe to select the finest dress that she had, regardless of its lack of currency or style. He saw also as he approached her more closely that some of the fabric of her dress was indeed worn with age. Her eyes watched him carefully and he sensed, with some trepidation, her pale skin already reddening from the heat as she fought the stray wisps of reddish hair which kept falling out of place from underneath her hat and onto her forehead. He dismounted to pay his proper respects.

  “Madame. Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Nicolas de Montferraud, Chevalier d’Argentolle,” he said, removing his hat and bowing low with practiced elegance, his left hand on the hilt of his sword to prevent it from dragging on the ground as he performed the ritual of courtesy.

  “I understand from your driver that your coach became stranded while you were on your way to see me. Will you allow me to offer you a ride to our estate in my carriage? It’s not far off and you may wait there in comfort for your coach to be repaired,” Nicolas said. The lady returned his bow with a graceful curtsey, a touch of sadness clouding her smile. Nicolas knew then where he had seen the face before, and guessed at once who she was.

  “Thank you, Monsieur. That is very kind of you,” she said, hesitating a moment before accepting his proffered arm. He escorted her to his carriage, helping her aboard himself. At a nod of his head, one of the footmen approached to receive his master’s instructions.

  “Take Scipio back to the château and see to it the men have all they need to finish their repairs,” Nicolas said. The man nodded, leading the great black horse away. It swiped its head at Nicolas, annoyed at having been so readily abandoned. Nicolas ducked the blow, laughing as he moved forward to stroke the horse’s neck and ears, kissing it upon the nose in apology.

  “All right; I know that you are cross with me, and I shall make it up to you
. Your gentle Aemilia waits to welcome you home. Go and spend the remaining energy you have with her,” he said smiling, patting Scipio on the shoulder.

  The lady studied Nicolas carefully, amused at how tenderly he treated his horse, catching herself looking at the top of his head -- for his horns, she supposed. She chided herself for such a silly thought, but she had not expected to find him so handsome, so young, and with such free and easy manners. She had expected, perhaps even hoped, to find him proud and surly so that her prejudices against him might have been reinforced, but there was nothing haughty at all about him. He seemed, on the contrary, comfortable with everyone and everything, treating all with an equanimity of association which put those who came into his society quickly at ease. Nicolas mounted the carriage, sitting opposite his guest so that he was closer to the driver and would ride backward as the carriage moved forward.

  “To the château, if you please,” he commanded softly to the driver. A moment later they were on their way, the scenery rolling gently by them. Nicolas nodded to the footman who rode on the footboard at the back of the open carriage, to shade the face of his guest as best as he could from the fading light of the sun.