French Passion

by Briskin, Jacqueline;

  “We have no money. You’re my guardian. What else could I do?”

  “The situation remains the same.”

  “If I am to lose all honor, become a doxy,” I shouted passionately, “I’ll choose the man!”

  “The choice is made.”

  “You’re ugly! And old!”

  He was standing, too. His face was white with hurt.

  “I’m going upstairs,” I said quietly. “Tomorrow you’ll realize how impossible what you suggest is. Even if you aren’t going to marry me, you were my father’s friend. You’re my guardian. And I’m still a d’Epinay.”

  “Alas, you d’Epinays have fallen on hard times,” he said with cruelty. I knew he wanted to hurt me back. “That’s why I’m able to collect one for a mistress.”

  He was unlocking a drawer, extracting a sheet of paper, shaking it unfolded. “Here.”

  I took the paper. It was an IOU for one hundred francs made out to the Comte de Créqui in my brother’s hand, and signed Jean-Pierre d’Epinay.

  “A hundred francs,” I whispered. “So much.”

  “Your brother’s an unlucky gambler.”

  “Will you take the opals,” I asked, then clasped my hand to the necklace.

  “Ah, the oft-traded opals. My dear, the setting is antiquated. Opals aren’t a valuable stone. Besides, they don’t appeal to me.”

  “I’ll sell them.”

  “I can call this note tomorrow morning, before your chocolate is served. Your brother, unable to pay me, could be in the Bastille before his breakfast.”

  “You’re his guardian!”

  “Fathers, my dear, put their sons in prison.”

  I moved to a cabinet and stared, unseeing, at the small treasures in front of me. “How could Jean-Pierre be so reckless?”

  “I encouraged him.”

  “But why?” I asked. And then, of course, I knew why. “For this?”

  “In my financial dealings for the King,” he said, “I’ve learned to keep secret liens. One never knows when one need be … persuasive. Yes. For this.”

  I wanted to cry. Instead, I said, “So you’ve won.”

  “No. I lost. You’re too young to realize how badly I’ve lost.” His usually mocking voice was clogged with pain.

  I didn’t turn. He came up behind me, resting his hands lightly on my bared shoulders, letting his fingers graze the tops of my breasts.

  My revulsion went deeper than I’d realized.

  I couldn’t bear for him to touch me! I began to shudder violently. I couldn’t bear his hands on me! With all my strength, I pulled away, whirling. For a second I saw hurt and pain contort the clever monkey face, then I was running, my footsteps muffled by rugs. The footmen were no longer in the hall, but the great chandelier blazed. I echoed across the marble, skidding once on a step.

  The Comte wasn’t chasing me, yet I fled as if he were. I wrenched the huge round doorknob in both my hands.

  And then I was outside.

  Chapter Five

  For a moment I stood in the cold night, catching my breath, blinking while my eyes adjusted to the light of a half-moon. Stone steps fell in twin curves from this terrace to gardens. Flower beds. Topiary bushes. A maze. Oaks, chestnuts, sycamores, and planes. The trees had been pruned this week. Moonlight outlined the amputated branches, making the gardens sinister. Yet anything was better than that grazing touch on my breasts! Lifting my skirt, I ran down the steps and along the broad driveway. Gravel cut into my thin soles. Dainty high heels threatened to trip me.

  I didn’t look back.

  Wild, disconnected thoughts jumped in my brain. Where would I go? Unlike Jean-Pierre and Aunt Thérèse. I’d never left these grounds. I knew nobody in Paris. Had Aunt Thérèse ever mentioned where her friend, the widow, lived? And if she had said, and if I remembered the address, how would I manage to find the house? What would Aunt Thérèse do? She would faint. I ran by a little pond, the moon was reflected like a silver franc cut in half. Was Jean-Pierre there? If he was, what would he do? Use his new gold-hilted sword and end up either dead or in a dungeon.

  My thoughts led nowhere.

  I, however, had reached the tall gold-and-black iron-grilled gates. A huge lock held them shut. I pushed, mindless and desperate as a bird trying to escape its cage, then, abruptly giving up, ran on dew-damp grass along a row of cypresses that hid the iron fence. After a quarter of a mile or so, I found another gate. This, too, was locked, but smaller. Must be for tradespeople, I thought. Until last year Jean-Pierre and I had played and run and climbed trees together. Kicking off my silk shoes, throwing them over the gate, I climbed. Fabric tore. I swung my legs over. When I’d come down to what I thought would be the last three feet, I let go.

  I fell a long way.

  Piled leaves broke my fall. My breath coming in gasps, lying on the compost, my ankle twisted under me, I pondered—stupidly—why the gate had opened into a ditch.

  After a few minutes I recovered enough to massage my ankle. While I’d run, I’d sweated. This sweat was chilling on me. I felt for my shoes, putting them on.

  You have to have some plan, I thought. Some plan. However feeble or stupid. You can’t just run like a terrified animal.

  And then I thought, Monsieur Sancerre. He knew everyone at Court. He was friendly. More important, he was kind. And even more important, I could remember his address. I’d seen it often. He carried his bolts of fabric in large trunks green-painted:

  R. Sancerre

  Couturier to the Court

  11 Rue Maupin

  He’d told me, proudly, that Rue Maupin was a mile south of the Comte’s palace, and other fine homes. The ladies come in their carriages to me, he’d said. Carriage trade, it’s called.

  I pushed to my feet. My ankle hurt with every step, but I was able to walk. I’d limped a long way on the sandy road, hugging my arms around myself in an attempt to keep warm, before I realized I wore my opals and a priceless diamond. I needed money to pay off Jean-Pierre’s debt, and to start whatever life we would have. Footpads and thieves filled Paris. I stripped off the jewelry. Where to hide it? My fitted bodice would show any bulge.

  I sat on the road, peeling off a stocking. Slipping the necklace and ring inside, I raised my petticoats to tie the stocking around my hips.

  It was just as well I’d hidden my jewelry, for in a few minutes the wide avenue narrowed. I had left behind mansions and palaces. This was a slum.

  Around me tall houses leaned together, like enfeebled ancients holding one another up. Most of the windows were dark, for very few inside were able to afford either fire or candle. Across the street, at irregular intervals, clumsy lanterns hung on ropes. The feeble candles gave off a sickly light. Over narrow shop doors swung trade signs showing faded pictures of the smallest loaves, tiny cuts of unrecognizable meats. The few people hurrying through the night wore ragged clothes, a hunched, starving look. Rough cobbles rose like crippling stepping-stones, and I picked my limping way over sour-odored water.

  I heard a rustling.

  In a dark slit two scarecrow children, their rags too tattered to differentiate their sex, picked through an offal pile. The odor was foul, like death. A mongrel slunk near them. Both children raised sticks, shouting the foulest oaths. I remembered the thin boy with the little band of robbers. That child was robust compared to these. The dog whimpered away into darkness. The skeletal children went back to whatever lay hidden in that odorous pile.

  What could I give these starvelings? I had no money purse. I’d forgotten the jewels hidden under my petticoats. Looking down, I glimpsed my black velvet belt. I undid the silver buckle.

  “Here,” I called.

  The children, seeing me, turned as if to run. I threw the sash toward them. Silver clinked, velvet soaked into mud, and the buckle shone in feeble light.

  The gaunt faces gazed down with the same awe with which I’d looked at the Comte de Créqui’s priceless miniatures. The taller of the two children snatched up the belt.
Without a word they ran off. Barefoot, they faded silently into darkness.

  I turned a corner. Here were wineshops, each with its own inadequate lantern. A few women in gaudy bonnets walked listlessly.

  I was planning to ask one of these prostitutes the way to Rue Maupin when a wineshop door burst open. A man staggered out. Seeing me, he called, “Come here, pretty little whore.”

  He was burly, with huge hands. I moved faster. He came staggering after me. He was very drunk, but in high-heeled slippers, with a turned ankle, on slippery cobbles, I couldn’t outrun him. He caught me. Grasping my shoulders, his wine-sour breath spilling over me, he said, “A sou?”

  The price of a glass of bad wine!

  I pushed him away. He must have been more drunk than I thought. He sprawled on his back looking up at me. And I, amazed at what I’d done, stared back.

  A streetwalker stopped to look. “Why’d you do that?” she asked. “Ain’t that much trade around.”

  Her face had the huge-eyed expression that comes with hunger.

  “He’s yours,” I said. “Only tell me. Where’s Rue Maupin?”

  “Three down, four to the left,” she replied. “Ain’t you got no shawl? It’s too cold without a shawl.”

  The drunk’s butcher hands grasped for my skirt. I kicked at him, touched the girl, and said, “Thank you,” then hurried in the direction she’d pointed.

  Rue Maupin was difficult to find. The narrow streets twisted and turned like a rabbit warren. Finally I came to a wider street, with more lights and fresh paint.

  R. Sancerre

  Couturier to the Court

  11 Rue Maupin

  I hammered on the door until a lackey in a leather apron answered.

  His arms outstretched on the jambs, he barred my entry. “Well, wench. What is it?”

  And then I realized how I must look. Curls blown over my forehead, bodice torn, sash gone, green silk skirt splattered with dark water marks, shoes muddy. The lackey, sober, knew no whore plied her trade so bedraggled. He must’ve imagined he was facing a lunatic escaped from the madhouse at Charenton.

  “I wish to see Monsieur Sancerre.” I took a deep breath to steady my voice. “I’m Mademoiselle d’Epinay, a client.”

  At this Monsieur Sancerre, pulling a gold-laced sky-blue coat over his canary satin breeches, came into the hall. “Mademoiselle d’Epinay!” he cried, effusively repeating my name as he ushered me into the warm room.

  In shadowed corners stood dressmaker’s forms and pushed against walls were long cutting tables piled with fabric. In rosy firelight sat three handsome young men in lacy shirts and bright satin breeches. His apprentices, Monsieur Sancerre said. Though they were exceptionally handsome, the three were somewhat soft, girlish. There could be no further doubts about the kind of man Monsieur Sancerre was. I felt no revulsion, only a vague comradeship. On this wild run through a slum of Paris, I’d understood in order to survive I’d have to suspend morals and so-called virtue. I didn’t judge them. I felt no superiority. I was grateful for their kindness. One scurried for a warm coverlet, another for a goblet of red wine, another brought me a stool so I could sit closer to the fire. Their long-lashed eyes were round with curiosity, but Monsieur Sancerre said, “We need to talk. My boys, begone.”

  They left.

  I raised my stockinged feet to the fire and sipped the wine. Warmth came over me.

  “Now,” said Monsieur Sancerre, “tell all.”

  “I’ve decided not to marry the Comte de Créqui.”

  “But we’re finishing the wedding gown!”

  “I—I’m sure the Comte will pay you for it,” I said. Then, not so sure, I added, “Otherwise I’ll manage to.”

  “Why this change? What’s happened?”

  There was the same wide-eyed curiosity the apprentices had shown.

  “It’s hardly your business,” I said.

  “The Comte de Créqui is my client, a friend to my other clients.”

  “Oh, Monsieur Sancerre, I didn’t mean to say that. I’m distraught. Upset. I need help. You have friends, powerful friends at Court.”

  Monsieur Sancerre rose, putting one hand on the stone mantel. “Those stories I told you about my intimacy with Queen Marie Antoinette and royal ladies aren’t strictly true. I’m hardly well entrenched in Court. I make gowns for the wife of the head gardener at Le Petit Trianon. The Comte is my first noble client.” The firelight reddened his cheeks.

  My hopes dashed, near tears, embarrassed, I didn’t know what to say. After a long minute I murmured, “I’m sorry, Monsieur Sancerre.”

  He refilled my goblet. “Don’t look so dejected, it doesn’t suit you, you’re too lovely to be downcast. Now. Let me guess your problem. The Comte desires you not as a wife but as a mistress.”

  My hand jerked. Drops of red wine sizzled on the hearthstones. “How do you know? Did he tell you?”

  “Of course not. The Comte de Créqui is a great noble. He wouldn’t confide in a tradesperson, a bourgeois like me.” He poured himself more wine. “We’ll finish the wedding gown. The most beautiful girl in Paris won’t have any difficulty finding another titled gentleman to marry.”

  “I can’t do anything until I have back my brother’s note. The Comte has threatened to put Jean-Pierre in the Bastille.”

  “Note? The Bastille?” Monsieur Sancerre was examining me, his handsome soft-cheeked face grave.

  Wine and anxiety loosened my tongue. Everything spilled out, everything from the highway robbery and André and me, to the Comte’s encouraging Jean-Pierre to gamble.

  As I finished, I remembered the jewels under my petticoats.

  “Monsieur Sancerre, what a fool I am! I can pay off the note!” I smiled happily at him. “I completely forgot. There’s my opals and a very valuable diamond. We’re safe!”

  Monsieur Sancerre’s expression was yet more grave. Lines cut deep into his forehead.

  “No, Mademoiselle d’Epinay, you’re not safe. You and your brother wouldn’t be safe, not even if you possessed the Queen’s necklace.”

  I looked over the pewter goblet, questioning.

  “If the Comte wishes you this much, no IOUs are necessary. He could still imprison your brother.”

  “But how?”

  “A lettre de cachet.”

  “A what?”

  “Surely even buried in the country you’ve heard of a lettre de cachet? Any powerful noble can obtain such a letter from King Louis’ secretary. A lettre de cachet puts one in prison. A lettre de cachet keeps one in prison.”

  “If I repay—”

  “No crime is necessary with a lettre de cachet.”

  “He—the Comte—wouldn’t do that,” I said, wrapping the blanket closer around me.

  Monsieur Sancerre’s face remained somber. “Mademoiselle d’Epinay, listen to me. The Comte is well known as a dangerous adversary. A jeweler who cheated the first Comtesse was bankrupted. A bailiff who mismanaged his estate in Provence has been in a dungeon for years. And as for me, I would be burned at the stake. One nod from the Comte and—” He pointed to the fire.

  “For what?”

  “Anything that offends him. You see, I’m already guilty. Preferring men to women is a crime for which one pays at the stake.” He spoke with simple dignity.

  I had no doubt the Comte would destroy anyone who helped me. The pain in his dark eyes as I’d run from the brilliantly lit mansion was my proof.

  I stood, saying humbly, “Monsieur Sancerre, I never should have come to you. Compromising is a poor way to repay friendship.”

  “Sit down,” he said, and with both hands pressed gently on my shoulders until I was once more seated on the fire stool. “As you say, I’m a friend. And you, Mademoiselle d’Epinay, need a friend badly.”

  “I must go back,” I said in a beaten voice.

  “It’s not the end of the world,” he said. He was back to his effusive tone. “The Comte is witty, cultured, with great breeding. And wealth. Look at it this way, Mad
emoiselle d’Epinay. As the Comtesse, you would have been a lovely bird trapped in that huge, oppressive palace. As his mistress, you’ll have a charming home—ah, I promise to help you make it charming. Better, you’ll be a free agent. A beautiful young girl with an elderly protector! What a merry chase you’ll lead the Comte! Everything the heart below those exquisite little breasts desires will be yours.”

  “The only thing I want is love.”

  A few minutes earlier I’d told him love was what I felt for the highwayman I knew only as André.

  Monsieur Sancerre looked down at me. “Forget that episode,” he said in a different voice. Strong. Serious. And for once, yes, manly. “If you can’t forget it, bury it someplace deep. Believe me, believe me, Paris is an icy prison for the poor. A glittering wonderland for the rich.”

  I sighed. “In any case there’s no choice. Jean-Pierre can’t go to prison, not even for a day. His chest is so weak, it’ll kill him.” I paused. “Do you have a comb?”

  He clapped his hands together. “I have better. We’ll make you like new again!”

  And in a minute there I was, in my petticoats. One apprentice sat cross-legged on a table whipping the lace trim of my sleeves while another sponged at the skirt. The third scraped mud from my shoes. Monsieur Sancerre heated the curling iron on the fire. In a corner I untied the stocking with my jewelry. They must have glimpsed my legs, one bare, one in white silk.

  I heard a whisper. “Such legs! It’s enough to turn one to women!”

  A new belt was found, my hair curled, my gown adjusted and fastened—the skirt was clean but damp, as were my shoes. The lackey was dispatched to hire a cabriolet. Monsieur Sancerre insisted on escorting me. He directed the driver to the real trade entrance, by the coach house.

  As the cabriolet stopped, I said, “Monsieur Sancerre, there’s no way to thank you. You’ve been a true friend.”

  “You’ll order many, many gowns. It’s business, pure and simple.”

  “No, it isn’t,” I said. “You’ve endangered yourself, coming here. You’re a kind, good man.”

  “And you, Mademoiselle d’Epinay, are the rarest of creatures, a beautiful, brave, and generous woman.”