Love and Honor

by Harry Samkange

*****

  There was a palpable buzz of excitement as the guests began arriving at the Blaise estate, the courtyard and surrounding grounds already filling rapidly with carriages as the sun set behind the verdant hillside. Along the entire length of the long planted approach to the plantation, lanterns were hung from the branches of trees and pitched atop stakes driven into the ground at regular intervals, providing a gleaming pathway of light to guide the arrivals toward the main house. It was a magical illusion, purposefully designed to banish all melancholy thoughts from the minds of the arriving guests.

  By the time the Salvagnac coach arrived at the château itself, there was a considerable line of carriages waiting to disgorge their passengers. Sérolène tugged nervously at her fingers as she waited to reach the main entrance, eager to arrive at last and see Nicolas. Her choice of costume for the evening was a golden gown of the more loosely flowing style known as volante, which had been popular in the early part of the century.

  “We’re here at last. Careful now as you descend the steps,” Baron Salvagnac cautioned as he and the baronne were helped out of the carriage. They passed through a gauntlet of welcoming footmen and entered the sumptuously decorated entranceway which had been framed with floral garlands of a variety of colors. Sérolène followed closely behind, holding Éléonore’s hand, searching eagerly for Nicolas or any of the Montferrauds as she waited to be announced along with the rest of her party.

  “Monsieur and Madame le Baron de Salvagnac! Mademoiselle de Salvagnac! Mademoiselle la Vicomtesse de La Bouhaire!” the steward intoned loudly, announcing the newly arriving guests. The queue of new arrivals extended well past the vestibule, making for a wait of several minutes before the Salvagnacs reached the end of the receiving line, where they were greeted by Julienne, Francis, and the marquis. After exchanging warm and extended pleasantries, the baron and his family entered the main salon with the other guests. Sérolène remained behind, still in conversation with the marquis.

  “You look splendid, my dear vicomtesse. How your gown reminds me of my own youth. Look for another golden princess, and keep an eye out for Greeks bearing gifts!” the marquis said with a wink. Sérolène nodded appreciatively, adjusting the intricately crafted butterfly-shaped mask that covered the top half of her face, leaving only her mouth and chin exposed. She fanned herself lightly, exchanging final kisses with Julienne before hurrying to catch up with her aunt and uncle who had already begun to make their way into the crowded salon de compagnie with Éléonore.

  The baron stopped to chat with a costumed Madame de Talonge, her golden tresses giving away her true identity despite her carefully crafted disguise. The baronne also joined in the conversation, Éléonore trailing closely along in her mother’s wake, her eyes wide with delight at the magical spectacle of the occasion. Sérolène, who was still some paces behind her family, was forced to yield to a couple elegantly garbed as peacocks complete with plumage, who strolled leisurely across her path. When they at last made room for her to continue forward, she had lost sight of the rest of her party in the press of the crowd. She was about to backtrack for the security of the vestibule when a woman magnificently dressed in a grand habit – a formal gown of splendidly woven golden silk, approached, entwining her arm with Sérolène’s own. Not even her elaborate golden mask, crafted to resemble a smiling sun and shielding the upper half of her face, could completely hide her beauty or her strikingly green eyes.

  “Madame de Blaise! I’d hoped I might find you! Oh, how I wish I would grow up to be as beautiful as you are,” Sérolène exclaimed excitedly, embracing the marquise in delight.

  “Oh, you do know how to make a woman feel appreciated, my dear child,” Madame de Blaise replied, leading Sérolène through the salon and out into the courtyard, which extended the full length of the château. The space was overflowing with guests talking, dancing, and sampling a variety of dishes from liveried servants who passed by with silver plates piled high with delicacies. Other servants circulated amongst the crowd with trays of crystal glasses offering champagne, wine, and ale to the guests. For the few teetotalers and younger guests, there was water and also a variety of sweetened juices made from oranges, mangoes, and lemons. A large section of the garden had been cordoned off for dancing, the orchestra already busily engaged. The household servants had been augmented with more than two dozen men all dressed as Swiss Guards, who stood on watch at all the key doors and entrances to ensure the security of the house. They were the marquis’ private guard; an insurance policy of sorts against anyone attempting to use the crowd and the convenience of costume as a cover to try and strike at his family.

  “I’ve told Solomon to inform the baronne that I’ve borrowed you for a little while and that you shall be under my tutelage tonight. Come, let’s chat while we walk. Your letters have kept me generally informed on how you’ve been faring, but I do so want to hear more about the particulars, now that I have some moments with you in person,” the marquise said.

  Sérolène eagerly opened up to Madame de Blaise, filling her in on the many small but important things that had happened to her since they had last met. She was too shy to mention what she knew of Nicolas, fearing to reveal the secret post they had established, despite her desire to know in as much detail everything about what he had thought, or done, since his return. It took all her self-control not to simply come out and ask where he was and when she would get a chance to see him, but Madame de Blaise well understood the true preoccupation of the vicomtesse’s thoughts.

  “How wonderful everything looks tonight. I’m sure it’s the occasion of the year, Madame,” Sérolène said enthusiastically.

  “Perhaps, but the year is still quite young,” Madame de Blaise replied, taking Sérolène’s arm affectionately. They walked past a group of gentlemen who were not content to merely admire their passing in silence, availing themselves of the opportunity to favor both ladies with declarations of admiration and acclaim as well as long appreciative glances. Sérolène blushed, which prompted Madame de Blaise to squeeze her hand reassuringly.

  “Come now, my dear, you must not let such notice disturb you. That is what they wish. Besides, I’m sure such attention will only increase as you grow older. You’re growing into quite the beauty, you know,” the marquise said. Sérolène blushed again, this time with pride; the gentle flash of pinkness along the nape of her long elegant neck betraying her emotion as they stood beneath one of the many lanterns that hung in the gardens, bathing the area with light.

  “Thank you, Madame. Do you think Monsieur d’Argentolle will find me pleasing enough?” she at last inquired timidly. Madame de Blaise laughed gently, the depth of her affection for the vicomtesse clear in the way she regarded her young companion.

  “I hope, my dearest, that you do not doubt either the degree or the sincerity of his affections,” Madame de Blaise said.

  “Oh, no, Madame! I didn’t mean to imply that at all! I just hope he finds me…I mean my costume…to his liking,” Sérolène explained. Madame de Blaise gave her a reassuring hug, pausing to admire the well-chosen and perfectly worn volante of yellow-gold that Sérolène wore, the style imparting to her the elegance of a bygone era when France was both proud and prosperous. Among the many other ladies in attendance, no other guest had transformed her attire into a symbol of glamour in the manner of the vicomtesse. On her, it was not merely a costume; it was a harbinger of her future place, of the greatness to come. Pulses raced, heads turned; she was both noticed and admired.

  “How could he not be? You’re absolutely stunning, my dear, and rest assured, he’s talked of nothing but you all day. But don’t tell him I told you so,” Madame de Blaise whispered conspiratorially. Sérolène’s wide smile was all the reply that was needed. They walked arm in arm past the dense throng of the island’s elite, who were busily engaged in a number of pleasant diversions. Though many eyes followed them as they walked through the crowds, the greater part with appreciation, others with envy, they were impervious to all
such scrutiny as they continued their extended tête-à-tête.

  Re-entering the château by an exterior passage to the west wing, which was not open to the general public, they climbed up to the second story, Madame de Blaise leading Sérolène into the familiar confines of the marquis’ library; a surprising oasis of calm amidst all the general commotion. Madame de Blaise smiled, giving Sérolène’s gold-masked forehead a motherly kiss.

  “Happy belated birthday, my child. Your host awaits you in the marquis’ private reading room,” Madame de Blaise purred, walking out of the library the way she had come. The attendant indicated to Sérolène that she should enter through the door at the other end of the library. Sérolène tried her best to keep her composure, but already the hint of a smile played around her lips as she turned elegantly to negotiate the narrow opening to the room. There she saw the figure of a tall young man in the battle costume of Alexandre the Great, complete with plumed helmet, cloak, and greaves. She hesitated briefly on the interior of the threshold at the sight of the helmeted warrior, superbly costumed in a Greek-styled white linen tunic trimmed with red and gold, over which he wore a detailed chest piece with lion figures; a bronze lion’s head clasp at the shoulder securing his long red cloak in place. His feet were adorned with calf-high leather boots, bleached to match his tunic, the rippling muscles of his legs revealed in their natural state, as he wore no breeches to cover them. Atop his head was a faithful replica of the Great Man’s famous lion head helmet, complete with a high red central plume and two long white feathers that protruded upwards from the front, like antlers.

  Magnificent! Sérolène thought to herself, her pulse quickening with admiration. The figure looked so tall and strong; she began to doubt for a brief moment that it was, in fact, her Nicolas. Then she noticed the piercing green eyes behind the helmet which revealed to her, beyond a doubt, the true identity of the costumed warrior.

  “Nicolas!” she cried out, plunging forward with a squeal of delight as the warrior removed his helmet, throwing his arms wide to welcome her into his embrace. Sérolène removed her own mask so that she could press her lips against his, each luxuriating in the taste of the other as they shared a long tender kiss of reacquaintance.

  “Well, my princess, I thought you had no love of dusty antiquity? I would have long ago adopted the costume of the Great Man had I known that was the path to your heart,” Nicolas said as their lips at last parted.

  “It is not the costume I love, but the wearer of it. Even in your helmet I knew you at once; your eyes gave you away. Besides, Monsieur de Blaise warned me to be on the lookout for Greeks bearing gifts,” she said, laying her head against his chest, enjoying the feeling of their bodies pressed against each other.

  “I thought that since we first met in your uncle’s library, I should arrange something for you in this favorite library of mine,” Nicolas explained, the voluptuous softness of her body pressed against him making him keenly aware of how quickly she was becoming a woman. Sérolène’s only reply was to press herself more tenderly against him, her arms enfolding his strong torso, delighting in the muscular feel of him.

  “As my father has already warned you of my secret, I suppose I’d best reveal it to you, then. Happy birthday, my dearest. I hope you’ll forgive the very belated nature of the gift,” Nicolas said, taking a brightly wrapped package from the shelf to his left and presenting it to Sérolène.

  “Oh, how sweet of you!” she said happily, taking the present in one hand and leading Nicolas by the other, to sit with her on a nearby marquise so that she could unwrap and examine it. It was a superbly bound book of poems by Racine, whose great tragedies had made him one of Nicolas’ favorites. The inside cover contained a handwritten dedication from Nicolas which she read slowly, tracing her fingers over the ink of the text as if by caressing it she were caressing him.

  “Thank you, my love. I like it very much,” she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder.

  “I know it is well past January, but the circumstances of my departure prevented me from giving it to you on your real birthday. I suspect you’ll find many matters of the heart to occupy you between its covers. I have not forgotten your wise words on that particular subject,” he said.

  She turned her head to face him, admiring the look of him in his short Greek war-skirt, more on her mind at the moment than polite conversation. She closed her eyes instinctively, arching her neck up to bestow upon him her kiss, her lips longing for his, compelled by a force deeper than she could explain. Nicolas ardently returned her offering, the taste, smell, feel of her a delicious intoxication, like ripe summer mangoes. He wondered if heaven itself could compare to an eternity of her kisses. Sérolène drew herself apart at last, cradling her head against Nicolas’ chest.

  “I love you so,” she said with all the sincerity of her being.

  “No more than I love you. I’ve missed you so much these past months, Séro. It was always the highlight of my day to receive your letters. How happy I was to learn that you shall be joining us in Paris. I confess I don’t usually look forward to being so long at sea, but the thought of spending several weeks in your company makes the prospect of this voyage altogether different. Perhaps when we reach France, I can persuade Baron Salvagnac to let you come to Argentolle. My father informed me when I arrived home, that he has added two large new domains to my existing lands. Both the area near Cerneaux and the woods surrounding Blinfey are now part of my estates. I’d hoped we might be able to discover them together. I would also be very much interested in any opinions you might have of them, or improvements you might desire to make,” Nicolas said shyly. Sérolène, touched by his attentions in matters both small and large, warmed excitedly to his proposition.

  “Oh, how I would dearly love to accompany you. What more do you know of your new domains? Is your château large or small? Please tell me all that you can. You mustn’t leave out any detail!” she said excitedly.

  “Precious little, really; I had only the briefest chance to visit Argentolle when I was at Brienne. It was well situated and seemed pleasant enough, and the lands provide a very comfortable income. The domain includes a small village, some nice woods plentiful with game, and a tolerable manor house, though Francis says it’s more of a hunting lodge, and not a very grand one at that. I confess I don’t know much about the area near Cerneaux, but my new lands near Blinfey are quite extensively forested, ideal for hunting, I should think. Perhaps one day we might decide to make some changes to render the whole of it more accommodating -- in whatever direction your tastes are inclined, of course,” he added quickly. Sérolène burst out in joyful laughter, pleased that Nicolas was already presuming that she would be mistress of the place. In her joy, she rose, coaxing him into an impromptu dance with her.

  “I should very much like to see our little lodge,” she said with a laugh, spinning round with him. At the second turn, when they were meant to arc away from each other, she turned toward him instead, kissing him again on the lips.

  “Séro,” he purred deep in his throat. She looked at him coyly, breaking into a girlish giggle.

  “Did I do it badly? I’ve been reading up on romantic things… can you tell? I found a pamphlet in Maria’s quarters. You know, my aunt’s handmaid. It was terribly written, pictures mostly…but there was a chapter on kissing. Can you believe it, a whole chapter?” she said, looking at him with amusement.

  “I decided to practice some of what it said…so I could surprise you, but I had only my pillow as a stand-in. Did I not do it right? Do you not like kissing me?” she teased, looking up at him with a forlorn pout.

  “Séro…don’t be silly. Kissing you is…is...like heaven; only better because I’m not dead yet,” he said, taking her hand and holding it gently.

  “You can kiss me whenever you like. You know that. It’s just that....” He hesitated, smiling sheepishly.

  “Just what?” she said, still pouting.

  “I made a promise to your uncle to behave like
a perfect gentleman toward you, and when you kiss me like that -- well, it makes that promise very difficult to keep. Besides, I doubt he’d approve of me kissing you at all; it is probably not on his list under examples of proper gentlemanly conduct,” Nicolas reflected. Sérolène looked at him intensely, the earnestness of her devotion written clearly across her face.

  “For you to behave in an ungentlemanly way, you would have to take liberties where they were unwelcome, my beau chevalier,” she said, pressing herself up close to him.

  “Or prove yourself unkind or unchivalrous by refusing to honor the reasonable requests and favors a lady would feel her rightful tribute from one who loves her. Is that not correct?” she asked. Nicolas nodded, feeling his resolution weakening with each second he spent in her close proximity.

  “The kisses I give you are favors I bestow with all my heart. How ungentlemanly it would be for you to refuse them. How hurt I would feel if you did so,” she said, leaning forward, kissing him again softly.

  “The kisses I receive from you are the tribute I expect of one who loves me. How unkind it would be for you to deny them to me,” she said, waiting to receive his kiss. He obliged her willingly, able to do nothing else.

  “Séro…I beg you,” he whispered, feeling his manhood rising as he broke contact after another languid gift from her soft lips, his eyes closed, forehead pressed softly against hers. Mercifully, she decided to give them both a respite, turning away from him to seat herself on a nearby chaise.