French Passion

by Briskin, Jacqueline;

  A drenched stream of people was passing between the gates to the gardens of the Tuileries Palace; they were going to watch their majesties dine, a daily public spectacle that had been transferred from Versailles. If you went down that street, the third on the left, and up a narrow cul-de-sac, you came to a house where CoCo once had laughed, showing seven milk teeth.

  It was a long walk, and Old Lucien never had been one for prolonged silence. He began to chatter.

  “The Comte likes me,” he said proudly. “There don’t be many he can trust, not since the Comtesse died four months back.”

  “She died?”

  “Eating a strawberry tart she was, and all of a sudden she clasped her chest, her eyes popped, she gave a gasp.” He made a deep, rasping sound. “And her chair toppled over. Dead she be.”

  “Mmmm.”

  Old Lucien added spitefully, “Oh, the Comte’s never gotten over the loss.”

  I’ll bet, I thought, remembering how the Comte had spent his wedding night.

  “Her be a cousin to King Louis himself,” Old Lucien informed me. And on and on, as if by working for the Comte and Comtesse de Créqui he had conferred nobility on himself. But why would anyone want to be nobility nowadays? Or had I been living in St. Antoine too long? Was there another world where royalty and nobility were respected? I thought of the crowd hurrying in the rain to see the King and Queen dining.

  “The Comtesse, her be buried in St. Sulpice, near old King Louis himself. She be a great lady.”

  We were on the broad avenue. Behind dripping trees I glimpsed vast slate roofs. Soon we would be at the Comte’s palace. My amorphous insecurities about seeing him grew more solid. What does it matter, I asked myself. All that’s important is knowing about Jean-Pierre.

  Old Lucien rang the bell of the trade gate. “The Comte told me to bring you this way,” he said with malice.

  “Old Lucien,” I said, “you can stop talking in that tone. Haven’t you done me harm enough?”

  “You’d still be where you belongs if rabble wasn’t ruling.”

  And two lackeys ran from the gatehouse.

  The rain-soaked grounds were overgrown, the grass high, the bushes tangled, the maze untrimmed. We walked up the long gravel drive, huge drops gathering on bare chestnut tree branches to fall on us.

  Even before Old Lucien rang the bell of the large arched side entrance, a liveried footman was opening the door.

  For some reason I’d expected the Comte’s palace to be as desolate as the grounds. This rear hall had been freshly painted. The footman’s livery was new, crimson and white. He occasionally had served at my salon, and I greeted him by name.

  “Mademoiselle d’Epinay,” he said, “the Comte requests you wait until he’s free.”

  “He sent for me! I must see him now!”

  “He requests you make yourself comfortable. By then, he’ll be able to see you.”

  I wanted to shout angry demands. But what was the point? I’d only be arguing with a perfectly nice young footman doing his job. The Comte had given orders. From the past I knew the Comte was obeyed—not only by his servants, but by almost everyone, including the King. I’d often been disobedient. Now, though, the Comte, for whatever reasons, insisted I cool my dripping heels. I had no choice other than to wait.

  The footman begged to take my drenched shawl, the equally sopping knitted one. He also took the wad of yellow paper, André’s poem. At this respectful treatment of me, Old Lucien, leaving a trail of wet footprints, slunk toward the basement kitchens. The footman led me up to the rooms I’d used my first weeks in Paris.

  The antechamber was fragrant with hothouse white roses arranged in a porcelain bowl. White roses were my favorite flower. Behind me the door closed discreetly, and I went into the bedroom. A lavish fire blazed, and on the mantlepiece more white roses spread their artless scent. The silken doors to the boudoir were open. A short, stout maid—I didn’t recognize her—was filling the foot-shaped bath with steaming kettles.

  Turning, she cried, “You’re drenched to the skin, Mademoiselle d’Epinay!”

  “But you don’t know me.”

  “I’m here to help you,” she said.

  Bemused, I stared around. The rooms had been refurbished in the delicate informal style that was my preference. Stiff brocade bed curtains had been replaced with a foamy veil of the Brussels lace that I’d used profusely in my old house. The chaise longue had been reupholstered with my favorite color, pale green silk in which a silvery-white floral design had been woven. There was a profusion of the pretty little enamel boxes and crystal scent flacons that I’d adored. Under the steaming bath, the white bearskin rug was thick, as I liked. The rooms were enchantment. A suite from Beauty and the Beast where Beauty’s every wish has been magically anticipated. I was cold, wet, shivering. I ached to hear about Jean-Pierre, but was resigned to not hearing until the Comte was ready to talk to me.

  I gave myself over to magic.

  The maid stripped off my wet clothes and helped me into scented hot water. She shampooed my hair, handed me out of the tub, dried me in a thick towel, anointed my body with a light scent, polished dry the separate strands of my hair. And all the time she was exclaiming about the silken texture, the whiteness of my skin, the exquisite shape of my breasts and buttocks. I’d gained back most of my weight, but my waist—she said—needed no corset. My hair, she said, was the color of a sunstruck white cloud. On and on and on. From her deft touch I knew she was a highly skilled lady’s maid, far better trained than Izette. I wondered aloud if she’d served the late Comtesse.

  “I never knew her ladyship,” the garrulous little woman replied. “The Comte de Créqui’s majordomo hired me last week. And how lucky I was! My mistress had just emigrated to Weimar. I’ve been downstairs in the servants’ hall until two hours ago. Then I was told you were coming.”

  The curling irons were heating as she finished drying my hair in front of the fire. The Comte had gone to tremendous effort to accomplish his magic. Why? And how had he known I’d come here alone? What did he hope would come from this? Did he want me back? Did he imagine to make me forget the Bastille? Did he know about André? Questions darted in my head, unanswered. I didn’t even try to answer them. The Comte had always been incomprehensible to me. I could more easily decipher an ancient and unknown language like Egyptian than fathom his motives in decorating these rooms to my exact taste. I sat back in my silken chemise, part of me surrendering to the warmth and luxury, the other part of me in a ferment about Jean-Pierre.

  The maid brought out heeled slippers of patterned silk. They fit perfectly. She was taking a floaty green silk from the armoire.

  “Or would you prefer this?” She held up a formal but equally lovely darker green velvet trimmed with Valenciennes lace. These weren’t my old gowns, and I was sure that Monsieur Sancerre, who paid me to color his sketches, had no knowledge of them. Maybe, I thought whimsically, these dresses’ve appeared by magic, too, and they’ll disappear if I clap my hands.

  The pale green silk fitted well enough to have been made by a sorcerer.

  The maid opened a pretty silver jewel box.

  And I gasped. This truly was magic.

  For she was holding up my opal necklace. The d’Epinay opals that Izette had pried loose, one by one, from their setting to pay for Aunt Thérèse’s last illness.

  “It doesn’t please your ladyship?”

  “Yes … it’s a copy of one that belonged to me, my favorite piece of jewelry.”

  It was after dusk. And the footman knocked at the door.

  “Mademoiselle d’Epinay, the Comte regrets this delay, and asks the pleasure of your company at your earliest convenience.”

  I descended the marble staircase. Overhead, rosy gods and goddesses pointed to the great chandelier with its hundreds of lit tapers that reflected glittery balls and faceted drops until the blaze of light was that of an indoor sun. A dislocating wrench to be here after our mean little rooms. Too, it was impos
sible to convince myself I wasn’t sixteen and on my way to the terrifying and important noble who’d selected me as his bride. My mouth had that same dryness. Once again I touched the opals, thinking of André. I was engaged now, even if secretely, to the man I’d loved then, and loved still, a man who’d dedicated himself to ending this extravagant way of life for the very few.

  Yet … despite my love for André, deep inside me stirred a flicker of admiration. The Comte de Créqui hadn’t changed his colors to suit the day. Unlike his King, the Comte never would put on a tawdry red-white-and-blue cockade.

  The two footmen opened the study doors.

  Chapter Ten

  The Comte sat cutting the pages of a book.

  Slowly he put down the ivory paper knife. His clever monkey face grew drawn and white, as if he’d suffered a mortal wound.

  I imagine I faced him with the same pallor. Too much had passed between us for indifference. Not just the endless torment of solitary confinement. There were the hours I’d lain naked in his arms and his passion had often infected me. Our shared laughter. His loving me, teaching me, spoiling me. CoCo’s birth and death.

  As I gazed into his black-grape eyes, a paroxysm of guilt passed through me. But why should I feel guilt? It took me less than a blink to understand.

  André had accused me of not marrying him because of my lingering bondage to the older man. My vulnerability to the Comte betrayed André.

  Doors closed softly behind me.

  The Comte bowed. “How do you do, my dear. You’re even more lovely, et cetera, et cetera. Or shouldn’t I begin by enumerating your charms.” Though his face remained bloodless, his voice was flippant.

  “What about Jean-Pierre?” I demanded.

  “Ah, your impatience. I’d forgotten the impulsive streak. But how can we let this past year be without mention?” Was that a shade of anxiety in his mocking tone? “Aren’t you going to berate me for your time in the Bastille? Or did you find it a pleasant rest between lovers and regimes?”

  I shivered. How could he, even with his mordant wit, joke about such misery? “It was as you wished, Comte. I longed for death.”

  “If it’s any consolation, so did I.” His voice went deep. “I’ve been in hell.”

  A glance of suffering linked us. I struggled against the old tie.

  “I don’t pretend to understand the game you’re playing,” I said crisply. “The refurbished rooms, the maid. New clothes. And I don’t care to know. I’m here to find out about my brother.”

  He held out an envelope. I tore it from his hand.

  The letter, two pages long, was filled with examples of Jean-Pierre’s indifferent spelling. Unconsciously I smiled, remembering a boy escaping his nearsighted tutor’s cane. Jean-Pierre wrote that there were many émigrés, so he’d found a decent French society amid the barbarism that was London. He and his cohorts were planning means to bring France back to order. As he elaborated on these plans, I sensed his unhappiness. He was like a child whistling in the dark to keep up his courage. Each sentence resounded with lonely hopelessness.

  The letter concluded:

  At the moment France is a place of dire danger for one of noble blood. It would be best for you—and he you love—to emigrate. You could settle in the Americas where he owns an estate. In my letter to our guardian, I have given similar advice about emigration.

  Reading, a bleakness settled over me.

  “What does he say?” the Comte asked.

  “He’s miserable and lonely.”

  “And ashamed of running?”

  “Why do you always say the worst of him? He didn’t run! He believes the King can best be served outside France.”

  “Indubitably,” the Comte said in a smooth voice. “He requests funds from me. It’s still possible for an émigré to receive money from France. So at least, my dear, he’s miserable and lonely in comfort.”

  “Thank you, Comte.”

  “He’s my ward.” The Comte poured deep crimson wine from a rock crystal decanter, handed me a glass. “I’ve ordered supper.”

  “It’s late, I must get home.”

  “You can spare one evening, surely.”

  “I live with André.”

  “So I hear.” The dark eyes gleamed oddly. “That’s why you must stay. I need you to explain his beliefs. He’s on the other side of the Revolution. I’m ignorant of what he hopes to accomplish, putting a torch into a barrel of gunpowder.”

  My muscles tensed angrily under fine silk. But to talk about André, even in defense of his principles, would be disloyal. I managed to restrain my anger.

  Touching the necklace, I asked, “How did you have this copied so perfectly?”

  “It’s no copy. I arranged with the pawnbroker to buy the stones and setting. Your pockmarked serving wench drove a hard bargain. Fortunately.” He set down his goblet. “I’m sorry, my dear, about your aunt.”

  I closed my eyes thinking, Auntie, you were so kind to us, cuddling me and Jean-Pierre to your warm bosom, and now I’ll never be able to thank you. Never.… A faint dizziness washed over me.

  “What is it?” The Comte’s forehead was creased with concern. “What’s wrong, my dear?”

  “Thinking of Aunt Thérèse.”

  “That was more than grief. You aren’t the same, are you?”

  The dizziness had frightened me. Was it a warning that soon I would enter into one of those mental blanks? “No,” I replied leadenly, “I’m not the same.”

  “Do you have some malady?”

  I shook my head. “But there’s whole hours I can’t account for. It’s as if another mind inhabits my head. Yet I behave normally. That is, if I’m with others, they don’t notice that I’m not me.” How was it I could so easily tell the Comte what I’d kept secret from André? “I can’t remember. That’s what’s terrifying, the long, missing hours that I cannot remember.”

  “I’ve heard,” said the Comte in a muffled tone, “that when memory is too painful, the mind escapes.”

  The gilt clock chimed seven. The hour André sometimes arrived home at the Inn of St. Antoine. Other nights, though, nights that normally I dreaded, he had to meet with his fellow deputies. For the first time I found myself hoping he would be caught in some discussion of policy until late. “My clothing should be dry,” I said. “I’ll change and go home.”

  The Comte ignored my remark. “I’ve also heard,” he said, “that unburdening the memory can effect a cure. What happened to you, my dear? Maybe telling the one who caused your suffering will cure you.”

  His swarthy, clever face was wiped clean of every emotion save tender anxiety. His eyes understood me, compelled me. Maybe it was this utterly knowing sympathy. All at once I was reliving the awesome quiet of the Bastille, the dank chill, the red chilblains sore on my knuckles, the sunless days and tear-filled nights.

  Never had I been able to verbally pierce the horror of my months in Secret, never been able to speak of it to anyone, even André. Now, suddenly, I was overcome with the need.

  The misery welled up, aching in my throat, and I couldn’t halt the telling. My anxiety about returning to the inn left me, and I sat in the gray silk study surrounded by priceless miniatures and I heard myself talking of cold and hunger, talking of a loneliness so deep that it throbbed in the bone marrow. I told of the gentle idiot guard whom I’d rescued from the pike. I told of the smuggled letter and the insanity it had roused in me, of the terror of liberation, of my crazed dash through Paris to warn André, of my near rape by the brutal carter.

  Spasmodically, tears would build up in me, and I would halt to gasp them out. The Comte listened exactly as I wished him to, not commenting, moving only to give me a dry kerchief.

  While old horrors spewed from me, the fire had died. Luminous cinders rose like burned-out stars. When my emotions were drained and I could speak no more, I gazed into the fireplace. The Comte, also silent, hunched forward, poking at logs until flames rose.

  Footmen were setting a
table for two. I didn’t protest. White-gloved hands served us quenelles. These miniature sole soufflés afloat in a delicate, creamy shrimp sauce—a specialty of the Comte’s head chef—were a favorite of mine. I played with the fish, unable to eat.

  Our plates were cleared. We were served slender spears of asparagus, green-tipped and out of season.

  I broke the silence. “At St. Antoine herb market, often there’re no vegetables.”

  “St. Antoine’s always been the poorest district.”

  There was a peculiar deadness in his voice that roused me to look at him. Though the Comte’s character always had eluded me (possibly by the very nature of his brilliance and age), his moods were familiar. I’d never seen him like this. Bemused with unhappiness.

  I reached across fine-woven damask as if to comfort him, then my hand shrank back. The tentative gesture didn’t escape the Comte. Rather than lifting a quizzical brow, though, he toyed with an asparagus.

  “Are you aware, my dear, that you’re the only person ever to hear of my innermost mind? That first morning after I took you, then, in telling you of my love, I explained myself.” With a sharp click, his knife cut through the vegetable. “Once again I find myself going in for the confessional. And it’s not so strange that my feelings are a precise contradiction of the equality that your poet wishes were possible.”

  “Equality is possible.” My response came automatically. “Across the sea, in the Americas, men are equal.”

  “There, too, my dear, you’ll find rich and poor, slave and free. I’ve studied history enough to know that every culture, whether despotic or benevolent, has a small ruling elite.”

  “Here, that day soon will end.”

  “No doubt in the near future France will be overcome by rabble. But, my dear, the rabble will be ruled by a clique. I believe these men will be far less worthy than myself.”

  “No,” I denied, thinking of André.

  “Yes. The good will be forced out. Bloodshed and cruelty will make Frenchmen long for our Old Regime.” The Comte spoke with quiet indifference, as if he had no connection with the dying regime. “But let’s not argue politics. It’s hardly my point.”