French Passion

by Briskin, Jacqueline;

  “Our benefactor!”

  I knelt by my brother. In this position my welts throbbed fiercely. It was all I could do not to wince. “Why wouldn’t she accept that he’s giving us a place of our own? And as for the other—you know how early Aunt Thérèse goes to bed.”

  I clasped both Jean-Pierre’s hands. His refined features were drawn into a grimace. Like me, he was fighting back tears.

  The house the Comte rented for us was near the Palais Royale, where cafés lined the arcades. Our street, however, was very quiet. It reminded me of the country. In front of our cobbled entry was a tiny steep-roofed gatehouse where Old Lucien lived. Behind the big back garden stood the stables with a smart new lacquered carriage, a pair of matched white horses, and a bay stallion for Jean-Pierre.

  The house itself charmed me. Four reception rooms opened one into the other with doors that folded back to make a vista leading to the room we called the music room because it contained Jean-Pierre’s new pianoforte.

  I had the big front bedroom. My bed, daringly uncurtained, reminded me of a harem sofa, and the walls were hung with paper. Monsieur Sancerre had told me wallpaper was all the rage, the newest thing. Mine came from China, and bright, odd Oriental birds flew in delicate branches. I spent a lot of time enjoying the exotic scene.

  The Comte’s prediction of my rapid recovery hadn’t come true.

  Oh, the welts and bruises were healed. My spirit wasn’t. I’d never been like this. Lethargic. Without appetite. Mornings were worst. Sometimes I lay in my sofa bed until noon—me, who moved with rapid, dancing steps from dawn until as late as possible!

  I’d told Aunt Thérèse that the Comte, while unwilling to marry me in my deflowered state, was delighted to continue as our generous guardian. She swallowed the story. The Comte went along with the pretense. He even made it easier for her by announcing that on December 2 he would marry Mahout de Valois, heiress to vast estates, descended from Henry II, and therefore a remote cousin to King Louis.

  I took comfort in the Comte’s betrothal. After December 2, I would think wistfully, he won’t be after me so often.

  Since the rage of that first night, there had been no brutality. In fact, I suppose he was rather tender. On my pretty sofa bed, by candlelight, he would make love to me, first kissing me all over, as if he wanted not only to possess my lips, my breasts, thighs, but also my hands, my arms, my legs, slender feet—and maybe my intractable spirit.

  I remained numb to his touch.

  I did, however, enjoy his conversation. The Comte de Créqui was worldly wise, sophisticated, an utterly amusing man. Though he was old and quite ugly, he was dignified in his diamond-glittered black. Women glanced admiringly at him in my salon.

  Being a salonnière meant I held a soirée every Friday evening. Two of the Comte’s footmen announced the guests. His second chef served up a buffet, which always included cold pheasant en croûte and my favorite, ice cream. Fireplaces crackled, warding off winter’s chill. We would start with a musicale; either Jean-Pierre would play his pianoforte or he and I would sing duets by Gluck and Gretry. Afterward Jean-Pierre would hurry to the card tables, his solace, his joy.

  I was roused from my languor by the people.

  What a sparkling crowd the Comte gathered!

  To our house came intelligence, wit, wealth, and beauty.

  The bourgeois—the wealthy merchants, doctors, and lawyers—came because though the nobly born often snubbed them, and though Jean-Pierre and I were of gentle birth, in this house everyone was treated with courtesy. Intellectuals, writers, and artists came because they knew here they would have sympathetic ears for their avant-garde ideas. Men like Monsieur Sancerre came because they vowed that I was the liveliest, prettiest woman alive. Financiers came for the quiet nooks where they and the Comte de Créqui settled the monetary problems of the land. Noblemen came because here they could bring their courtesans. Courtesans and pretty actresses came to flirt over their painted fans at generous rakes, old and young.

  No married woman entered my home.

  I knew by now that the respectable ladies of Paris were no purer than the demimonde. Quite a few were kept by men other than their husbands. The respectable ladies, however, all did have husbands, and, being married, could be part of the Court life at Versailles. Women like myself, women who for whatever reason remained unwed yet not chaste, were considered courtesans. We were gossiped about, sniped at, pursued by men, and if a lover chanced to kill one of us, nothing would be done about it. We, as prostitutes on the highest level, were outside the law.

  Jean-Pierre lay feverish in his bed. Outside, in the gray December afternoon, snow fell. Jean-Pierre’s body arched as he coughed. I filled the spoon with soothing honey.

  “Here,” I said, holding it to his mouth.

  Aunt Thérèse rustled in. “Jean-Pierre, are you no better?” she asked in a concerned tone.

  “Worse,” I replied. “Auntie, he can’t go.”

  “By evening I’ll be fit as a fiddle,” Jean-Pierre croaked. “Don’t worry, Aunt Thérèse, you’ll have your escort.”

  “You’re staying right here in bed!” I cried. “It’s snowing.”

  This was the afternoon of December 2, and we were talking about his attending the Comte de Créqui’s wedding to Mahout de Valois. According to custom, the ceremony would be held at midnight in Notre Dame Cathedral.

  “I’ll be there,” Jean-Pierre said, and went into a coughing spasm. His face turned crimson, his chest under the warm coverlet rose violently. The choking coughs came and came.

  Hastily Aunt Thérèse puffed the pillows behind him. My hand shook as I poured medicine. The spell ended. He lay back, pale, his eyes closed. We tucked in his coverlet, pulled his bed curtains, and left his room so he could sleep.

  In the corridor Aunt Thérèse took my arm. “Manon, he can’t go. You must.”

  “I?” My face turned hot.

  “You’re the Comte’s ward, too.”

  “Auntie, it’s impossible.”

  “Think of how generous he’s been. Your fur cape. Jean-Pierre’s commission.”

  The Comte had arranged for Jean-Pierre to be a captain in the Royal Guard. This honor gave my brother pride. I hoped, too, it would lessen his gambling. Not that I condemned the ardor with which Jean-Pierre threw himself into piquet, for I knew this was his way of forgetting. He played cards compulsively to forget my dishonor.

  “Auntie, tonight’s impossible. Monsieur Sancerre’s bringing the design for my new gown.”

  “The Comte de Créqui’s been so good to you two, and you’re not even his kin. I’ll be shamed to death, going to Notre Dame alone.” And the old eyes with blur-rimmed irises filled with tears.

  She’s the one who’s been good to us, I thought, remembering the soft vanilla-scented bosom, a warm haven for a pair of frightened, confused little orphans.

  Later, it was easy enough to say I should have stayed home that night. But at the time Aunt Thérèse was crying.

  I put my arm around her plump, shaking waist. “It’s all right, Auntie. Old Lucien’ll take a note asking Monsieur Sancerre to come tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter Eight

  Old Lucien helped Aunt Thérèse into the carriage. He was warmly wrapped in Jean-Pierre’s old cape. Aunt Thérèse wore her beloved fox-lined velvet, and I was snug in a full-length cloak of white lynx, the Comte’s most recent gift. The horses wore blankets, and their breath steamed.

  The night was bitterly cold.

  Around six the snow had stopped, turning to ice. Then, about an hour ago, as if to herald the noble wedding, flakes had started drifting down again.

  Old Lucien handed me into the coach, tucking the lap robe around my knees. The carriage floundered through snow and out the gate.

  I glimpsed a mound by the wall. A snow-covered sack, maybe. Peering through dim light, I saw it was a human shape.

  A woman.

  She slumped against the wall, snow covering the high peak of her hat and
her shawl. I rapped sharply. The carriage jerked to a halt.

  “Manon, why’re you stopping?” Aunt Thérèse asked. “We mustn’t be late.”

  “There’s a woman. See?”

  “This cold a night—she must be dead,” whispered Aunt Thérèse, crossing herself.

  Old Lucien opened the door. “Yes?”

  “Help me down,” I said.

  Aunt Thérèse was saying, “Let Old Lucien look first.”

  But I’d already started, my brocade skirt and lynx cape trailing behind me in the snow.

  As I neared, the woman looked up. The snow shifted and I saw the hat was a gaudily pathetic heap of artificial flowers. Her young and painted face was shaking with cold. The paint, the hat. She must be a prostitute who’d strayed from the Palais Royale cafés.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Walking, ma’am. It ain’t easy to find the way, and I sat down to rest my feet.” Her teeth were chattering.

  “You’ll freeze,” I said.

  By then Old Lucien was next to us, muttering, “Be another bad ’un. Paris be full of ’em.”

  “Can you stand?” I asked the girl.

  She pushed herself to her feet.

  “Manon, hurry!” called Aunt Thérèse.

  “One second, Auntie,” I called back.

  The girl had taken a tentative step away from the house.

  “Come inside,” I said.

  “Me?”

  “Who else?”

  Old Lucien, still protesting about “bad ’uns” followed as I led the girl inside, and down to the kitchen; where the fire still glowed. I set a hot wrapped brick at her feet. She kicked off thin, torn shoes, and the brick steamed at the touch of her wet stockings.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Izette, ma’am.”

  “Izette, we’ll talk in the morning.” One of the two serving girls had appeared, yawning, and I said, “See she has hot food and a bed.”

  “Not for me, ma’am!” Izette gasped.

  “You,” I said firmly.

  Her chin was pointed, her nose wide, and her crudely applied paint didn’t quite cover her freckles. Her jaw still shook with cold. “But why, ma’am?”

  “Frozen, do you think you’ll be a handsome statue for our wall?”

  She blinked. Then she smiled. A wide gamine smile that redeemed her plain face.

  “Then thankee, ma’am,” she said without subservience. “I can pay, too. At least, I can iron with a fluting iron, perfect.”

  “Tomorrow you’ll do my petticoats, then,” I said, and ran out.

  Old Lucien brought the carriage back to the door, helped me in and retucked the lap robe about us. We were again on our way.

  “How is the girl?” asked Aunt Thérèse.

  “Staying the night.”

  “Manon! You shouldn’t have let her. She’s an … unfortunate woman.”

  “But what else could I do? Pack her outside again?”

  “Of course not,” Aunt Thérèse said, her plump face creasing into wrinkles of hurt.

  I clasped her gloved hand in my own. “Auntie, it seems so unfair, when we’ve got so much, that a girl my age should be freezing outside our door.”

  Aunt Thérèse sighed deeply. “When we get home I’ll give her a few sous. I must send her on her way. The Comte never would forgive me, letting a woman like that spend the night under the same roof as you.”

  Oh my good, decent, blind Auntie!

  Izette is me, and I am Izette, I thought. She will not be turned out into the night.

  The Court attended the wedding.

  The vast stone interior of Notre Dame was lit by thousands of fragrant beeswax tapers, and in their flickering, swimming glow, the gathering had the pageantry of a magical world. My own salon, previously so splendid to me, dwindled and paled.

  Great nobles glittered with decorations, sashed orders, and bejeweled swords. The ladies, in towering powdered wigs, shone with brooches and necklaces and earrings and bracelets of diamonds and emeralds and sapphires and rubies. Parures of South Sea pearls. Satin court gowns with wide panniered skirts and long pleated trains that fell from the shoulders made each lady a gleaming island in her own magnificence.

  The ceremony hadn’t started. Chairs had been placed near the altar for the royal family, and these were still empty. Neither Aunt Thérèse nor I had ever seen the King and Queen. Aunt Thérèse wanted to move closer. I shrank in the shadow of a pillar near the main entry. “Auntie, from back here we can see it all better. Everything.”

  We gazed at fairyland.

  “That’s her,” I heard a man whisper. “His new mistress, the one in white lynx.”

  Either he didn’t care if I heard, or he wanted me to hear.

  The woman’s reply was as audible. “Imagine coming here tonight! The little thing has her gall!”

  “But isn’t she radiant? That face! So exquisite! Fragonard might use her as a model.”

  Men’s powdered wigs and women’s tall powdered hair-dresses turned toward me. More loud whispers. Aunt Thérèse kept gazing expectantly at the chairs near the altar. She must have heard. She appeared to have no idea whom they were whispering about. Yet … could even her kind and decent heart be that uncomprehending? The soft white furs of my cloak collar trembled with each breath I drew. The staring eyes, the haughty voices, began to take a physical effect. My recent odd torpor changed to weakness. My thighs went watery, and I had to put my hand on the pillar in order to stay erect. I feared I would faint. Ridiculous, I told myself. I’ve never fainted in my life. It’s Aunt Thérèse who faints.

  Fortunately the cathedral was very cold. This chill kept me conscious.

  The jeweled ladies and gentlemen turned. A sigh rose to the highest dome. The King and Queen were entering at a side door. We were too far away to see them in detail, but even from here one could tell King Louis was portly, and Queen Marie Antoinette graceful, with a large bosom and tiny waist.

  The wedding started. The bridal couple wore white brocade. Odd, seeing the Comte without his usual black. I couldn’t quite believe it was him. His white-gowned bride, Mahout de Valois, was taller than he, and corpulent.

  “She’s so ugly,” Aunt Thérèse whispered in my ear.

  “Mmmm,” I whispered back.

  “Sometimes when he visits, he looks at you in the softest way. Manon, I think he’s sorry he couldn’t marry you. Child, he loves you.”

  I gripped her hand, thanking the God who surely inhabits cathedrals that He had made this kind old aunt too unworldly to hear the malicous talk, to notice the avid glances. My dizziness worsened.

  Rings were exchanged.

  Two old men, having strolled closer to our pillar, stopped, peering openly at me.

  “Lovely creature,” one said loudly. “Where did de Créqui find her?”

  “She’s his ward.”

  “What?”

  “His ward. Remember Raoul d’Epinay? Poor, but fine family. His daughter. Mignon or Manon or somesuch.”

  “Raoul d’Epinay. Oh yes, I remember him. Excellent fellow. Has she no brother or uncle to protect her?”

  “A brother. Very young. And weak.”

  “She really is magnificent.”

  “My chef is friend to de Créqui’s chef, and they say de Créqui forced her. Kitchen gossip. Sometimes true, though.”

  “Wicked thing to make an old friend’s daughter into a whore.” Laughter. “Don’t blame him too much, though. What hair! Does de Créqui lend her out yet?”

  The loud, deaf voices echoed, bouncing off stone walls and arches and naves, carved stone saints, voices like a huge choir, or was that a choir singing? My heart beat at a terrible pace. I looked wildly for escape. We stood near the main door, but the ceremony had concluded and the King and Queen, followed by the bridal party, were coming toward the door. The entire glittering fairy-tale assemblage was coming toward us.

  Aunt Thérèse was staring at me. Her eyes were wide. “Man
on,” she said, and her voice wavered as if she were weaving in and out of the niche. “Manon?”

  “Auntie, please don’t faint. Not now. I couldn’t bear it if you fainted … they’re all watching … Auntie …”

  And then the great domed cathedral, the candle flames, the glittering and malicious Court of France closed in on me.

  I coughed, gasping strong vinegar odors. We were in the coach. Aunt Thérèse held her open vinaigrette under my nose. Old Lucien sat on the opposite seat, chafing one of my hands.

  “I’m all right,” I murmured, trying to lift my shoulders.

  “Don’t sit up yet,” Aunt Thérèse said.

  My head was in her soft lap, and the coach seemed a small private heaven after the cathedral.

  I didn’t move. My body was too weak. My mind, however, had come out of unconsciousness with a sharp clarity. I never had fainted before. There had been my curious malaise. My lack of my woman’s time, which I’d attributed to the shock of the beating. Now, clear and rational, I listed my other symptoms and knew what ailed me.

  I was pregnant.

  “Be you all right?” asked Old Lucien.

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, and proved it by sitting up.

  “Then we best be getting home,” he said.

  We moved slowly in the crush of horses and lackeyed equipages that filled the cathedral square. Then our coach moved along snow-muffled streets.

  “I shouldn’t have made you come tonight,” Aunt Thérèse said at last. “What a fool I’ve been. A stupid, blind old fool!”

  “Auntie, you’re too good to think bad thoughts.”

  “It started that night I was away, when you told him about the robber mistreating you, didn’t it?”

  Nodding, I shivered a little.

  “And I thought him kind!” she said. “Manon, you should have told me. I have friends, old and poor to be sure, but friends. They would have helped us. He’s a monster!”

  “Oh, Auntie, he’s not bad, really. He would’ve married me without a dowry. Until … well, it’s all past. He’s been generous. He got Jean-Pierre the commission, we have the house. He’s helped me keep this relationship from you.” Why was I defending the Comte?