Next to arrive on deck was the glamorous Comtesse de Marbéville, whose arrival in a gown of yellow brocaded silk caused the murmurs to rise to a crescendo. As she was escorted regally down the deck by her husband to the receiving line, wagers were already being taken as to who would be fortunate enough to be able to stand up with her. She was up to this point indisputably the belle of the ball. Following her were several other ladies, including Madame Dupluie and her daughter, both plain and uninspiring, though they were still well received. Madame Dupluie did her insufferable best to talk the ears off of everyone in the receiving line, trying the patience of all. Her words, however, were soon drowned out by the whisperings that began to build as the crew gained its first glimpse of the last guest who hovered above the deck in the sling, waiting patiently to descend.
“Who is that young lady?” Michel Petitfleur whispered to his mother as the sling was lowered a final time toward the deck.
“I do not know,” Madame Petitfleur responded, concerned at the reaction she had seen in her son’s face when he had earlier glimpsed the Marquis de Blaise.
“Take care to be on your best behavior, my son, and steer well clear of your betters tonight,” she said with concern.
Michel only half heard his mother’s counsel as the last apparition was lowered onto the deck in a halo from dozens of lamps and torches like a goddess descending from heaven, the perfection of her form a mark of her unassailable distinction, the serenity of her presence manifested in the half-smile she wore, a blessing that fell upon everyone with equanimity. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, Michel thought to himself. The effect of awe the young lady produced was not unique to him; it was in fact so pronounced that when her feet touched the deck of the ship no one at first came forward to escort her, so entranced were they all by the absolute perfection of her appearance.
In contrast to the applause and other sounds of approval some of the other guests had engendered, she alone received the ultimate tribute of respectful silence as she stood alone for some awkward moments before Lieutenant Fortier strode forward to at last offer her his arm. Whispering her particulars to the watch officer so that she could be properly announced, he led her forward through a gauntlet of admirers.
“Mademoiselle la Vicomtesse de La Bouhaire!” the shout rang out as she was announced. A hundred heads turned as one to admire her procession along the deck. Michel followed her with his eyes, completely awestruck, subconsciously placing his twisted and crippled arm behind his back so as not to draw attention to it
The vicomtesse wore a subdued robe à la française of green silk taffeta with an Oriental pattern, a cream-colored petticoat, and a stomacher of matching silk gauze and taffeta trim, the colors chosen to match the eyes of the gentleman on whom her thoughts still dwelled. She had decided to forgo the elaborate curls and head adornments that were de rigueur for most French ladies of high birth, opting instead to appear in her own natural hair, her dark tresses unpowdered and pulled simply and tightly back from her face to allow her magnificent high cheekbones their proper prominence. Her long delicate neck and a generous portion of her pale throat above the layers of fine lace fichu pinned to her bodice, lay exposed to highlight a sea-blue sapphire necklace she wore to match her eyes -- a gift from Madame de Blaise -- the light reflecting back from the many torches and lamps, to create dancing fireflies of reflected light as she moved. No rouge stained her cheeks, her natural complexion the only cosmetic that she wore. She moved along the deck with the smooth effortless gait of the women at court, gliding forward on the arm of the lieutenant, her grace and nobility of carriage forcing the impression upon all that here was a beauty most rare and exceptional. All the women, even those who loved her, were envious that she should possess so many qualities of magnificence. All the men, even those happily attached, wondered what it would be like to possess her, envying Lieutenant Fortier his proximity to such perfection. More than a few noted that she was among the small company of unmarried ladies of suitable age among the guests. No one thought she would long remain so.
After the completion of the introductions, the vice-amiral gestured toward his stateroom, encouraging the gilded party of officers, ladies and gentlemen to make their way toward the most richly decorated and appointed part of the ship. Sérolène, who had regained the arm of Lieutenant Fortier after having been introduced to the various officers and dignitaries, made of the lieutenant a particular request that he felt himself obligated to fulfill.
“Lieutenant, before we join the others, might I trouble you to escort me to pay a call on the Chevalier d’Argentolle? I fear that with all the excitement, his condition may have been quite overlooked. I know that as his friend you would want to join me in confirming that this is not so,” she said.
“Forgive me that the thought had not occurred to me earlier, Mademoiselle. You must of course be concerned about the well-being of Monsieur d’Argentolle. If you would be so kind as to follow me, I shall take you to him at once,” Fortier pledged.
Sérolène nodded gracefully in thanks as the lieutenant detoured from the rest of the party, informing one of the junior officers of his intent. Out of concerns for propriety, Sérolène called for one of the maids to accompany her. The three of them descended together below the main deck and into a warren of small staterooms that served as quarters for the junior and senior officers, their passage followed by many eager and curious eyes. They made their way down the musty corridor, Sérolène doing her best to negotiate the narrow passageways in her wide skirts, the maid watchful of her passage. Lieutenant Fortier held a lamp aloft before them until they came to a door near the stern of the ship that was almost directly under the vice-amiral’s stateroom.
Fortier hesitated at the threshold, unsure as to the condition he should find Nicolas in, but seeing the thinly disguised agitation on the face of the vicomtesse, he opened the door and pressed forward into the small room. The air was damp and musty, thick with the smell of medicine and blood. He instinctively reached to cover his nose, but remembering the sensibilities of the ladies and the promise he had made to look after Nicolas, he held himself and his embarrassment in check.
Inside the cramped quarters, the pale figure of Nicolas lay peacefully on a hammock, covered only by a coarse woolen blanket. Behind the hammock were his two trunks, on top of which lay his sword, and above it was a small, closed porthole. As they advanced into the room, the dim light shining across Nicolas’ face, Sérolène’s complexion went suddenly ashen as his pale, gaunt visage was fully revealed to her.
“Oh, Monsieur! How ill he seems. I fear this will not do at all. It is quite stuffy in here, don’t you think? He needs fresh air to breathe, and some light to stimulate him. Please, can you help me open the porthole?” Sérolène exclaimed to the lieutenant. Reminded of his vow to take care of Nicolas, Fortier felt in her words the sting of reproach though she herself intended none. He moved quickly to do as she asked. She is right. He does not look particularly well, Fortier thought to himself, opening the porthole to let some fresh air into the room as Sérolène brought herself closer to the hammock so that she could inspect Nicolas’ condition more closely.
She removed her elegant evening gloves so that she could feel Nicolas’ forehead, thankful that he did not seem feverish, but concerned at how thin and yellowed he looked. Without hesitation she pulled back the blanket to reveal Nicolas’ shirtless upper torso and the heavily bandaged wound on his arm. How ironic that the first glimpse I should have of his bare chest should be under such unwelcome conditions, she mused.
“Bring me more light, please,” she called out to the maid, not shrinking at all from the blood or Nicolas’ nakedness, as she bent lower to inspect the wound herself, noting with concern the fresh blood that still seeped through the bandages.
“If you please, Lieutenant, these bandages need changing. I should like some fresh ones so that I may tend to the task myself,” Sérolène said. The look in her eye and the tone of her voice brooked no
dissent. Fortier stuck his head out of the doorway into the corridor, barking a terse order. Within seconds, a sailor had appeared at the door.
“Bring us some fresh bandages and have Doctor Hornsby sent for at once,” Fortier ordered. Within minutes the bandages had been produced, though the doctor had not yet appeared. Sérolène beckoned the maid forward to assist her, ordering her to hold the fresh dressings while she began to remove the old ones, the blood staining the tips of her fingers as she carefully unwrapped them.
“Do you think that you should be doing that, Mademoiselle? Surely this is not a job for one so delicate, perhaps the doctor…” Fortier began. The steely look from Sérolène, the motes of her eyes turning almost grey with the intensity of her scrutiny, cut Fortier off mid-sentence.
“I assure you, Lieutenant, I have tended to his wounds before and shall likely do so again. Where the welfare of the chevalier is concerned, there is nothing that shall put me off my resolution,” she said firmly. He nodded, both surprised and impressed by the flash of emotional fire, and the steel beneath the fine layers of silk and satin.
“Have you some alcohol spirits with which I may clean the wound?” Sérolène asked.
Fortier nodded to the orderly officer who had brought the bandages, and within less than a minute the man had returned with the desired article. Sérolène soaked the clean bandages thoroughly and then began removing the last and most badly stained dressings. As she unwrapped the final bandage, laying bare the cauterized seeping wound, the maid who held the lamp that she worked by retched dryly in revulsion at the sight.
“No more foolishness, if you please!” Sérolène said unsympathetically, fighting her own nausea.
“Sorry, mistress,” the maid whimpered, causing Sérolène at once to regret her harsh tone.
“I know it’s difficult, but we must try to be strong,” she said understandingly.
“Yes, mistress. Sorry again, mistress,” the maid said. Sérolène nodded as the lieutenant moved forward to hold his own lamp more closely toward the wound so that Sérolène had a clearer view of what she was doing. As he neared his friend’s side, he forced himself to resist the urge to peer down the delightful vista of the vicomtesse’s open décolletage; the hidden treasures of which, the lace fichu attached to Sérolène’s bodice failed to adequately conceal in the current light, a result of the circumstances of her slightly stooping position. Forcing his gaze instead to the brutal looking wound on Nicolas’ arm, he paid close attention as the vicomtesse proceeded to clean and carefully re-bandage it.
The stinging effect of the alcohol applied to the still-seeping wound slowly worked its way through to arouse Nicolas’ consciousness. He began to stir with the pain, rising through layers of delirium as the throbbing ache increased, until his eyes were at last forced open and he felt as if he must cry out in his anguish. He clenched his teeth instead, his attention focused entirely on the pair of blue-grey pools that he knew and adored so well and that immediately becalmed him. He held onto Sérolène’s gaze, his mind attempting to gain more secure purchase on the very thin ledge of consciousness that it held on to.
“Séro….” It was barely a whisper.
“I’m here, my dearest Nico,” she called to him, her smile of encouragement lighting the room and his soul with it. Nicolas struggled to get a sense of his bearings, seeing the face of an unfamiliar man whom he at last recognized, despite the continuing fog of his delirium.
“Lieutenant? Is that you?” Nicolas asked.
“Yes, my friend,” Fortier responded, his voice full of self-blame. Nicolas squeezed the fingers of his left hand and felt the pain shoot through his arm like a lightning bolt. He was grateful for it. It meant his arm was intact.
“You kept your promise. Thank you my friend. I am in your debt!” Nicolas said.
“I fear it is I who am in yours. I promised the vicomtesse I’d look after you, but this isn’t exactly what I had hoped for. I know you’ll forgive me by getting better nonetheless,” Fortier said.
“Where am I? The battle’s over, is it?” Nicolas asked, turning his attentions once again to Sérolène.
“Yes, it’s over. You’re aboard the Bon Majesté, the vice-amiral’s flagship. Promise me that on occasion you’ll leave the principal part of glory for someone else?” Sérolène said, gently stroking his cheek to remove the sting from her mild reproach as she admired the superbly muscled torso of her beloved. Nicolas saw the worried look on her face, and regretted that he was the cause of it.
“I cannot help myself. You inspire me so…..how beautiful you look. Like an angel,” he whispered.
“I am pleased that you should find me so, my chevalier. There is a dinner being held right now in the vice-amiral’s quarters to celebrate the victory and your part in it. Everyone is here in attendance. Lieutenant Fortier told us you were being well looked after, but I wanted to assure myself that you were all right,” she explained.
“Everyone? Father and Francis as well?” Nicolas asked. Sérolène nodded.
“And you’ve left them to come and see me…you truly are the best of friends,” he said adoringly. They regarded each other tenderly for some time, their eyes exchanging much more than words could convey in the present company.
“You should go back now, my dearest, before they begin to worry,” Nicolas cautioned her. As if on cue, his words heralded the hoped-for arrival of Doctor Hornsby.
“Ah. Excellent! I see our patient is awake,” the doctor said, stepping into the small stateroom, which compelled the maid to step out due to the lack of space. The doctor began immediately inspecting the fresh dressings that Sérolène had applied.
“May I, Mademoiselle?” he inquired, offering to take the cast off bandage from her as well. Sérolène nodded, willingly handing the gory specimen to him.
“You changed these dressings yourself, Mademoiselle?” he inquired in passable French, looking back and forth between the vicomtesse and Fortier. Sérolène nodded.
“An excellent job, by the looks of it. It would seem, Vicomtesse, that you have real talent as a nurse,” Hornsby said. Sérolène blushed, but was pleased that she had done well.
“I ordered these bandages to be changed frequently, and they were sorely in need of it by the looks of them. Perhaps in all the excitement my instructions were overlooked,” the doctor offered in way of explanation. Fortier lowered his head in embarrassment.
“Well, Monsieur le Chevalier, how indeed are you feeling?” Doctor Hornsby asked.
“Tolerably well, Monsieur. But I confess I’m rather hungry, and very thirsty. Is there some soup that might be had, and perhaps also a few morsels of bread?” Nicolas asked. The doctor clapped his hands together in satisfaction, struggling for a moment with the words he desired in French, which he was not at all accustomed to using in his everyday speech.
“Excellent! No better sign of recovery than a healthy appetite, and you’ve picked a capital night to have one. Lieutenant, might we borrow some items from the vice-amiral’s table and have them sent down to our young knight?” Hornsby asked.
“It shall be seen to at once,” Fortier said, nodding his consent.
“And now, Vicomtesse, though I regret to separate you, we’ve been gone overlong and I would not wish for your family to worry. If you would accompany me to the vice-amiral’s table, perhaps we might inform the others of the happy news that our hero is awake…and hungry!” Fortier urged.
“Very well, Lieutenant,” Sérolène said reluctantly. “Promise me, Nicolas, that you shall be good and eat well to regain your strength. I shall return to visit you as soon as I am able.”
“Je vous promets,” Nicolas said impishly.
“Vous yourself, Monsieur,” she replied, kissing her fingertips and then gently touching them to his forehead and then to his lips before putting on her gloves and taking her leave. Lucky bastard! Hornsby thought to himself, observing the vicomtesse’s parting display of affection toward Nicolas. Nicolas watched her depart with the lieut
enant and her maid, only the physician remaining with him. While they waited for the delivery of food, the doctor gave Nicolas a thorough examination. After several minutes of waiting without the appearance of the promised victuals, Nicolas’ barely concealed irritation at Sérolène’s necessary departure bubbled up to the surface.
“By God, shall I die of starvation? Is there nothing to be had for sustenance? I think perhaps I would do better to see to things myself!” Nicolas declared sullenly. Hornsby looked at him in consternation.
“Surely, Monsieur, you are not thinking of getting on your feet? You must rest and regain your strength!” the doctor urged him.
“Another night in this damp hole, and I’ll be enjoying the rest of the dead,” Nicolas said defiantly, struggling to sit upright in the hammock without using his left arm which still throbbed severely in pain. He managed it with difficulty and happily without fainting, though his head felt as if it was being hammered with cannon balls. Swinging his legs over the side of the hammock, he touched his feet to the floor and pulled himself upright with the doctor’s help. Peering around the dimly lit room, he noticed that his trunks had been sent over from the Fantassin. He guessed correctly that he would not be returning to that ship.
Love and Honor Page 36
