Love and Honor

by Harry Samkange

  “Well, Madame Petitfleur, to what do I owe the honor of your visit? I must confess it is a surprise…though I assure you it is not unwelcome,” Nicolas said, hoping to establish a basis of civility between them.

  “You know who I am, Monsieur?” she said with surprise.

  “There is much of you in your son’s face, Madame. I confess I have thought of him often since that terrible day,” Nicolas admitted truthfully.

  “Oh, Monsieur, you do not know how much I am gratified to hear you say that. I had feared to introduce myself to you back there out of concern that you might not receive me if you knew who I was. I see now that my worries on that account were completely unwarranted,” Madame Petitfleur said with relief.

  “May I ask, Madame, how you and your family have been faring? I wish you to know that it was not my desire to…to take anyone’s life that day, and I have much regretted that things came to pass the way they did,” Nicolas said. Madame Petitfleur fought to keep her emotions in check but was unable to prevent the falling of a solitary tear, which rolled slowly down her cheek. Nicolas quickly took out his kerchief, relinquishing it to her as she gratefully wiped the tear away.

  “Thank you, Monsieur, for this and your kind words,” she said, taking a moment to gather up her strength before resuming their conversation.

  “My husband was never a temperate man, Monsieur, neither in speech nor manners. He was rough and often hard, like the land he toiled, I suppose. I always worried that it would bring him to grief one day… and so it has at last,” she said, attempting a brave smile as Nicolas listened in respectful silence.

  “You asked about my family, Monsieur. That, I confess, is the reason for my visit today. I come to you on bended knee, a complete and utter supplicant; for by my husband’s hard and impulsive life and his untimely death, we have now been completely ruined,” she said.

  “Please, Madame, you must tell me all that has happened,” he implored her, the concern clear and sincere upon his face. Believing herself assured of at least a sympathetic hearing, Madame Petitfleur’s tears began in earnest as she recounted all the misfortunes that had befallen her family.

  “We left Martinique last year somewhat hurriedly after selling our plantation on that island. It was revealed to me only after my husband’s death that the reason for our haste was that he still owed enormous sums to many creditors for taxes and seeds, which he had not paid. Upon his death, they confiscated the plantation here to pay those debts, along with all the other assets of our household they could lay claim to. In the end we were left with little more than the clothes on our backs and some few personal belongings. After we were forced from our home, we found temporary shelter with the nuns in Cap François. I had thought perhaps to return to France and start anew, but we don’t even have enough money for food, let alone passage back to France,” she explained.

  “Is that what you wish to do, Madame? To return to France?” Nicolas asked. Madame Petitfleur sighed.

  “What else can we do, Monsieur? I have three young daughters and a son just seventeen who has now been crippled as a result of his fall, and cannot work. I had some talent in my youth as a seamstress, but gave it up when I married my husband. If I had enough to open a small shop I should at least be able to support my family. My parents are long dead, you see…and so are my husband’s,” Madame Petitfleur said.

  The carriage at last arrived at the stately entrance to the Montferraud estate. Madame Petitfleur marveled at the size and splendor of the Blaise château, beginning to understand just how vast the gulf was between her and her hoped-for benefactor.

  “I see, Madame. Rest assured I shall do what I can to assist you,” Nicolas said. Madame Petitfleur lifted her eyes toward Nicolas, the light of hope shining in them for the first time since her husband had been killed.

  “Bless you, Monsieur!” she said, as he helped her to dismount, escorting her into the receiving salon, which was larger and more luxurious than anything she had ever experienced.

  “Will you excuse me for a few moments, Madame? I need to make some arrangements with regard to your situation. If you need anything, just ring that bell and someone will attend to you immediately,” he said, motioning for one of the two grooms to pour her a glass of lemonade and to bring her something to eat, as he bowed his way out of the room.

  Madame Petitfleur accepted the refreshment eagerly. Too excited and nervous to sit, she walked around the large receiving room, admiring both the quality and the taste of the furnishings. If the chevalier should prove generous enough to give her a few thousand francs, she would at least be able to take her family back to France and start over again. At her age it wouldn’t be easy, but at least she’d not have to starve, or sell her daughters into servitude. As she considered her hopefully expanding list of options, Nicolas returned bearing a sealed letter in one hand and a large purse in the other.

  “This purse, Madame, should take care of any pressing needs you might have, including a return to France if that is what you wish, and this letter should see to the longer-term needs of your family,” he said, turning over to her an envelope which was addressed to a Monsieur Valduringe.

  “Monsieur Valduringe handles some of our banking affairs. He has an office in Port-au-Prince and I shall speak to him before I leave for Martinique. I shall tell him to expect you and the letter that you carry. Please ensure that it remains sealed, lest he think it tampered with and refuse to accept its contents as genuine. I regret to burden you with these details, but it is the custom of our transactions together,” he explained. Madame Petitfleur fell to her knees and kissed his hands, thanking him effusively for his kindness.

  “Rise Madame, I do only what I must. What honor and justice compel me to do,” Nicolas declared. At that moment his valet Julius entered, whispering a message in his ear.

  “How fortuitous, Madame. Your repaired coach awaits you. Remember to see Monsieur Valduringe as soon as you can,” he reminded her.

  “We are forever in your debt, Monsieur,” she said, curtseying low before departing.

  “There are two things I must ask of you, Madame; you must give me your word that you will not use any of the money I have given you to purchase or enslave another human being…and I ask you not tell your children what I have done on your behalf. I do not wish them to feel indebted in any way to me after the loss that I have caused them,” he said, looking at her earnestly.

  “You have my solemn oath, Monsieur, on behalf of all of my family,” she assured him.

  Nicolas nodded, escorting her to the carriage and watching it depart, feeling at last as if part of the burden of the lives he had taken had finally been lifted from him. As soon as she was inside the coach, Madame Petitfleur opened the pouch she had been given, frantically inspecting it to gauge the true extent of the Nicolas’ largesse. She clapped her hand over her mouth in elation as she counted the gold coins. There were at least five thousand livres in the pouch alone, enough for her to buy passage to France and to start a seamstress shop of her own and perhaps open a small inn or tavern as well. She felt relieved beyond imagining. Relieved that she could begin again and on her own terms, and that her son would have a living and her daughters would have dowries.

  “God bless you, Monsieur. You have helped those who had the least right to expect it of you. May God always keep you safe and secure,” she said, kissing the letter that bore Nicolas’ signature and mouthing a quick prayer of thanks, still in disbelief at the generosity of her most unexpected benefactor.

  *

  The baronne’s departure for her rendezvous of pleasure proved an unexpected boon for Nicolas, who kept his promise to Éléonore, rising very early to take breakfast before setting out to cover the almost twenty miles to the Salvagnac plantation on horseback, again happy to exchange the comfort of a coach for the speed and pleasure of riding. In the absence of Madame de Salvagnac, it was Sérolène herself who came to greet him when he arrived in the late morning at the Salvagnac estate, accompanied this
time by her governess.

  His parole having been given to vouchsafe his conduct, Nicolas was allowed considerable liberty to freely associate with the vicomtesse, who was in turn also freed from the strict scrutiny that normally governed the relationships of post-pubescent and unmarried young ladies. Understanding that the baronne’s absence might extend for some days, and with the willing consent of the baron, Nicolas took as much advantage of his time with Sérolène as he could, repeating his visits for three consecutive days despite the length of the ride. On the 8th of January, he came particularly early in order to spend as much time with Sérolène as possible. Making good use of their autonomy, they spent almost the entire day together: playing at cards, singing in the music room, acting out plays or walking through the garden, invariably in the company of Éléonore, or of Madame Tarnaut, who regulated them loosely from a distance. As late afternoon approached, Nicolas strolled arm in arm with Sérolène in the garden, regretting that he must finally break the news to his beloved that he’d been withholding as long as he could.

  “I’m to depart for Martinique tomorrow. I’m not sure when I shall return, my love. My father’s sending me away to begin my preparations for the EM. I regret to say that today will be my last visit for some time,” Nicolas explained. The look in Sérolène’s eyes made his regret at leaving all the more poignant.

  “I’m sorry, my dearest. I thought I would have more time here with you before I must depart, but one of our ships has arrived in port earlier than expected and my father wishes me to embark upon it. You must know how desperately I shall miss you. Perhaps I should have told you earlier, but I didn’t have the heart to mention it and spoil our time together,” he explained.

  Sérolène paused, resting her head briefly upon his shoulder. How unfortunate that he must leave now. Everyone has become so used to his presence that not even Madame Tarnaut deems it necessary to accompany us wherever we go, she thought to herself.

  “Will you promise to write to me often?” she asked softly.

  “Every day, my love,” Nicolas promised.

  “But how will you be able to deliver your letters? My uncle will hardly allow so many to reach me,” she pointed out.

  “François has promised that he will be my go-between,” Nicolas explained.

  “Truly?” Sérolène asked with delight.

  “Yes, dearest. Apparently I’m well trusted enough by your servants to merit such consideration. There is a daily mail ship between the islands; Julius will carry my private letters to the port and deliver them to François when he undertakes his daily errands for Monsieur de Salvagnac. He is willing to transmit my private letters to you, as well as receive your private letters for me. I shall continue to write to you by the normal means so that suspicions aren’t aroused, but we shall also have our secret post, in which we may speak more openly to each other,” he explained.

  “That at least is some consolation,” Sérolène replied, before their tête-a-tête was interrupted by the approach of Madame Tarnaut.

  “Mademoiselle, your music teacher has arrived. You must come along shortly to begin your lessons,” she said, eyeing Nicolas with sympathy.

  “I shall be on my way as soon as I see the chevalier off,” Sérolène declared, rising to take Nicolas’ arm.

  “Oh, why must my lessons be today of all days, when I’m to have my last glimpse of you for who knows how long? I shall accompany you to the stables myself to see you safely to your mount,” Sérolène declared. They walked along in silence, each too distressed to speak, though Nicolas felt as if he should at least say something to occupy the empty space of their regret.

  “Are you sure you desire to proceed that far? The many inconveniences of a stable are not at all meant for a lady,” Nicolas said.

  “Perhaps you are right, but nothing will dissuade me from staying with you until the last possible moment,” Sérolène declared. The determined look in her eyes dissuaded Nicolas from any further attempts to discourage her. They proceeded apace to the vicinity of the stables, the grooms and equerries raising their eyes in surprise and their hats in respect, to the vicomtesse.

  “In which stall is Monsieur d’Argentolle’s horse being kept? I wish to inspect the suitability of its accommodations for myself,” Sérolène said, ignoring the curiosity of the equerries.

  “This way, Mademoiselle, Monseigneur,” one of the grooms replied, bowing as he led the way into the stone horse barn. Sérolène held her nose at the smell, walking behind Nicolas, who did his best to clear a path for her that was free of fresh manure and other unwelcome encumbrances.

  “How awful it smells!” Sérolène giggled, beginning to doubt the wisdom of daring to be so adventurous; the reek of dung, horse and human sweat almost overpowering her. They reached the end stall where the stallion Scipio had been placed, the great black horse prancing and pawing, happy to scent his master and be on his way.

  “Go and bring my equipage. I’ll walk him out and saddle him myself. He’s touchy around strangers. I wouldn’t want you to get a kick in the head,” Nicolas said to the trailing groom. The groom knew well enough what Scipio was capable of, having barely escaped the stallion’s hooves earlier in the day when he had strayed too close to his enclosure. He bowed in compliance, happy to run and fetch the equipment and be away from the devil horse. Nicolas opened the door to the stall, entering with caution, his senses alert until he was satisfied that Scipio was not angry with him. He took the horse’s bridle slowly, gently stroking him on the nose as he prepared to lead him out. The stallion snorted and sniffed, turning his head to the side to get a better look at Sérolène.

  “Come, my dearest, I think he wants to say hello to you,” Nicolas said. Sérolène, who was intimidated both by the stallion’s size and his fearsome reputation, held back, unsure as to whether it was prudent to accept the proffered invitation.

  “It’s all right, I promise you,” Nicolas said softly, extending his hand to her. She reached out, grasping it firmly and joining him in the stall.

  “Go ahead, pet him on the nose, like this,” he said, showing her how to do it. She reached out tentatively, stroking Scipio lightly on the nose.

  “A little firmer, he needs to feel the surety of your touch,” Nicolas advised. Sérolène pressed more firmly, the stallion rewarding her by lifting his head to lick her hand, which made her laugh with delight.

  “You see, he likes you. He’s a clever horse and quite particular, but it seems he’s taken a fancy to you already. Perhaps he’ll even let you ride him one day,” Nicolas said, smiling at her.

  “Do you really think he might?” Sérolène asked excitedly.

  “It’s very possible; he’s not usually so free with his kisses,” Nicolas said.

  “Neither am I, Monsieur,” Sérolène replied, reminded of her true purpose in venturing into the stables in the first place.

  “But I do make exceptions,” she said, pressing herself close to him, their intimacy hidden by the walls of the stall and the height of the large stallion.

  “Séro…the grooms,” Nicolas pointed out.

  “They won’t come back here with Scipio’s stall door open. Everyone but you is afraid of that horse. Besides, Nico, today is my birthday and this may be our last moment together for some time. I need my fill of your kisses now to sustain me while you are gone,” Sérolène explained.

  “Your birthday! I’m sorry, my love, I didn’t know. How cruel it now seems to have to leave you. I promise I shall make it up to you, though,” Nicolas assured her.

  “Your kiss will be gift enough,” she urged, pressing herself more closely against him, her lips finding his, her tongue probing relentlessly against his own as they kissed longingly. Nicolas held Scipio’s bridle in his left hand as the stallion snorted and pranced his indignation at being so thoroughly ignored. After a time, the sharp jerk of the rein warned Nicolas that they had already been alone together in the stables longer than propriety would have deemed prudent.

  “Happ
y birthday, my love,” he said, reluctantly breaking their kiss; drawing Sérolène toward him so that he could render unto her his cross of kisses in parting.

  “Come, let’s walk him out,” he said, leading Scipio out of the stall behind her.

  Once outside, Sérolène quickly shielded herself behind her parasol to prevent the scrutiny of others as the groom carried forward Scipio’s blanket, saddle, and furniture. Nicolas placed the saddle blanket across the stallion’s back, saddling Scipio carefully, checking and rechecking the tightness of all the fittings, cinches, and straps before satisfying himself that he was at last ready to depart. Adjusting his sword for riding, he turned to take his leave of Sérolène.

  “May we walk you back to the house?” he offered, still reluctant to say a final farewell. Sérolène nodded, this time unable to prevent her eyes from clouding with tears. They walked along together, she holding his arm, stroking it tenderly as he whispered again and again his love for her, reminding her of his promise to write and assuring her that he would soon return.