They passed by a magnificent marble statue of Achilles, four feet high and with spear and shield readied against an unseen foe. The baron readied himself to receive the compliments which always came. Everyone who saw the statue remarked upon it. But the marquis passed it by without seeming to notice it at all. The baron considered what he knew of the marquis, beyond the general stories. Perhaps the marquis’ silence was one of envy? Or perhaps he had comparable works of his own on display and simply had nothing to say. It was hard to fathom such a man as the marquis. A man whose nobility began even before the time of Charlemagne.
The marquis’ ancestors had served as chevaliers, knights, to the great man himself and the later Carolingian Emperors. Montferraud power had risen in concert with the extension of French authority and greatness. The Montferraud were at heart, warriors more than courtiers. Other families grasped at high titles and offices. Many rose swiftly on the whim of royal favor, others were broken by the same kingly caprice. Those who remained great through the ages were either tied directly by blood to the King, or became indispensable to the maintenance of the crown by mustering knights and men to defend it. The Montferraud were such a family. Their standard had flown in every battle in which a French Emperor or King had taken part. War was the way, the lifeblood of their house, and they bred their sons for it as steeds were bred to be ridden.
The Marquis de Blaise was a fitting archetype of his line; tall, urbane, handsome, erudite, and reserved. His face bore a striking likeness to ancient images of Caesar himself, with piercing grey eyes, and a hawk-like gaze which surveyed everything with absorbing interest. The marquis had both wit and a tongue as biting as a lash, but seldom chose to wield either in petulance or anger. His mind was quick and subtle and he used his piercing intellect to sift through the chaff of his many affairs, always managing to strain out the best prospects for his endeavors. He was noted for his great passion and his acumen for war, but he was also a maverick—a man who regarded himself and his house as allies rather than vassals of his sovereign.
As they passed by the main sitting room which led out onto the gardens, the last rays of daylight bathed the room in an orange-red glow. Two of the baron’s uniformed lackeys stood in the sitting room, waiting in attendance by the twin doors which led out into the rear courtyard. Another two stood directly before them on each side of the double oak doors at the end of the hall which led to the dining room itself. The baron gave his men the once-over, looking for any faults of appearance or grooming, then compared his own suit to the one worn by the marquis as they prepared to enter the dining hall.
The marquis’ suit was a mix of slate and violet, with no visible adornment to the fabric, other than patterned abstracts in silver thread. His waistcoat was white, as were his stockings. The only embellishment he wore about his person was a signet ring on his right hand, about which the baron was curious.
“Monsieur le Marquis, may I ask the significance of the signet you bear? As you may have noticed, I have a certain fondness for antiquities. The ring you wear seems most unique to me.”
“You do indeed have a keen eye for ancient objects, Monsieur le Baron. The signet bears the crest of my family. It once belonged to the original founder of our line. I consider it my one true treasure. It is always with me, except when I play the violin, which I have not done in years now.”
“I did not know Monsieur le Marquis possessed a talent for music. We have a small music room here, Monsieur, with a variety of instruments. I would be more than honored to hear you play.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Monsieur le Baron, but I stopped playing because I can find no time to practice and I prefer not to play at all rather than to play badly. A talent for music runs in the family. It was always encouraged as an accompaniment to the skills of war. My son Nicolas is quite accomplished on the pianoforte. Perhaps you might convince him to play for you.”
“With your consent, perhaps I shall try, Monsieur le Marquis.”
They walked on in silence. The marquis considered what he had won and conceded in the discussions concluded earlier in the baron’s library. For nearly a thousand years, the house of Montferraud had borne arms in the service of France and her Kings. The family had prospered for centuries, reaching its greatest influence as a result of the many wars fought by Louis XIV, the Sun King. The death of the grandest of Bourbon monarchs however, marked the decline of Montferraud influence at court. Much of the family fortune and influence had been lost by Philippe Édouard de Montferraud, his grandfather, who got himself on the wrong side of Madame de Maintenon[i] by opposing the revocation of the Edict of Nantes[ii]. The Sun King exiled Philippe de Montferraud to his estates for his troubles and confiscated a large portion of Philippe’s wealth as a punishment for trifling with the Royal Mistress. The greater part of the clan’s remaining influence then died with his father, Jean Alexandre Nicolas de Montferraud, General of Cavalry, who cared only for fighting, and spending lavishly on hunting and his many mistresses. He paid little attention to what remained of his patrimony, most of which was squandered while he was off fighting Louis XV’s wars. Realizing at last what a mess he’d made of things when his wife retired to a convent to avoid the embarrassment of being confronted in public by his many creditors, his father had at least had the good grace to get himself killed heroically at the Battle of Fontenoy.
My father’s death left me with the mess of the family’s ruined finances. I suppose circumstances forced my hand, at least in my first marriage. But I was determined not to let them control me in my second.
The marquis had married a wealthy heiress in his early twenties, who had replenished the family coffers and given him a son before succumbing to the tropical scourge of yellow fever. With fortune restored and an heir secured, the marquis broke with previous tradition by immersing himself in mundane affairs of commerce, shipping and planting—all occupations which most of his noble peers considered well beneath them. Having seen his house flirt with financial ruin under his father, Édouard Charles Pierre Marie François de Montferraud, was not above the common pursuit of enriching himself. He paid attention to his money and it rewarded him by growing handsomely.
But I did not know then, that becoming wealthy would make me so many enemies at court. A fortune independent of royal patronage was considered too dangerous. The circle of my enemies around the King wanted me broken and in time they achieved some of their aims by having me exiled. But time has strengthened me and weakened them. Our class as a whole, is a parasitic anachronism. Feudal armies are a thing of the past. They will eventually succumb to a national one. The function we have provided for over a millennium will become professionalized. The King would need our expertise, but I will become just an employee of the throne instead of its ally. The basis of our power is evolving and we must progress with it or risk being swept away.
There was a large portrait of a gale at sea just outside the doors to the dining room. A ship floundered on the rocks. It looked certain to be lost. The marquis thought the painting an apt description of the current times. Other storms brew on the horizon. The challenge to absolutism is real and the despots of Europe can’t ban or burn the books of liberty fast enough. The Americans already fight for their freedom. If the they succeed, their revolt might not be confined to the New World. Wealth will be the new aristocracy, and I intend to stake out a solid foundation for it now. A foundation upon which the great and lasting structure of our new power will be built.
It had been nearly twenty years since the first Madame de Blaise had died. The son she had given birth to had now grown into a man, and that young man was presently in need of a bride. Tonight, the marquis had given him one, deviating from the usual choice of a girl with an old and famous pedigree in favor of a petit name and a grand fortune.
In times past, his forebears would never have even considered the progeny of upstarts like the Baron de Salvagnac as suitable marriage stock for their sons, but France was no longer the great nation it had been under
the Sun King. The expenses of Louis XIV's wars were now falling on the heads of his descendants and the backs of the growing legions of French poor. The realm, though still outwardly splendid, was rotting from the inside. But for the bold, there was always opportunity within misfortune. The alliance the marquis had agreed to was a first step toward that end.
The Baron de Salvagnac’s lackeys bowed and opened the doors to the dining room. It was a large circular space, some thirty yards in diameter. At the center of the room was a long rectangular table which looked capable of seating at least two dozen guests, but was now set for just eight.
Seated at table was the marquis’ eldest son Francis, his future bride Julienne de Salvagnac, her younger sister Éléonore, and Madame de Salvagnac. His future daughter-in-law looked splendid in a pale green evening gown. It won’t hurt that she’s quite fine to look at, in addition to the large dowry she’ll bring. He’s luckier than I was with the choice my father made for me.
Madame de Salvagnac rose to welcome her husband and his guest. “There you are, my dear. We’d begun to think we’d lost you.”
“Lost us? What a notion, my dear. How could that be? I was just showing Monsieur le Marquis my library in the east wing. We had some important matters to discuss in private. Matters which will be of interest and advantage to others as well as the marquis and myself.”
The baronne studied her husband’s demeanor with care. Agnès Caroline Marie de Saint-Giresse had hazel eyes murky with guile, set wide apart and full of the sultry indolence of the tropics. Born into a noble but impoverished Gascon family, her nose was straight and narrow, anchored above a small red cherry of a mouth which nestled over a rounded, cleft chin. Her face was attractive, if unremarkable, but as one followed a line from the point of her chin, down past the long elegant neck, the eye was swallow up in the lush creamy abundance of the feature for which she was most known and admired. Her bosom was simply exquisite. She knew this and displayed it to best advantage. The prevailing tastes in fashion favored a very open neckline in which almost all of the breast, save for the nipple, was exposed. Though most ladies of good breeding covered the bosom in lace once married, the baronne eagerly displayed her bountiful décolletage without such demure flaps of concealment. She had seldom known a man capable of overlooking “her two best companions” as she often referred to her breasts. She had also discovered, that the more she revealed of her grand balcony, the prettier and wittier most men seemed to find her. It was the fineness of her bosom which had initially attracted her husband to be. Having seen her among the noble pews in church, the young Rocheforte couldn’t resist approaching for a better look. Once Agnès had learned that his fortune was even larger than his very real interest, she and her two best companions, had done everything in their power to encourage and hold his attentions.
The baronne glanced across the table at the handsome Comte de Marbéville, who was seated next to her eldest daughter Julienne. For more than a year she had secretly pursued her aims of an alliance with vigor, putting her influence and considerable talent for persuasion to the sternest test. As of late, the comte’s attentions had seemed to be directed elsewhere. Afraid that her gilded fish might be slipping off the hook, she had arranged tonight’s dinner on relatively short notice to close matters once and for all, instructing Julienne beforehand on how precisely to use all her charms to tie down the handsome young comte. Her husband was usually adept enough at following her lead, but he did on occasion get things wrong. And in this matter it simply wouldn’t do to get things wrong. More than wealth was at stake.
The marriage with the Montferrauds would be the mechanism by which the baronne would exact a measure of revenge against all those who had looked down upon her for the perceived fault of marrying a commoner by birth. Her husband had bought his title. He was noblesse de robe – nobility of office, and not noblesse de sang – nobility of blood. By taking nobly bought Guy Rocheforte for a husband, nobly born Agnès de Saint-Giresse had thus lowered herself for money. The salonnières would never let her forget this ready debasement, no matter how wealthy she later became. To trade status for wealth was the behavior of a whore, and they treated her as if she were a courtesan, sneering their disdain at the theater, the opera, and any other place where ridicule could be exacted for their amusement. The baronne bore the slights with humility because she had to, but remembered every one, vowing to one day have vengeance for every petty insult she had been forced to endure.
And now, on this night, a way of achieving retribution had at last presented itself. No blood was bluer than Montferraud blood. With a daughter married into so noble and ancient a house, Agnès would be able to look down her nose at all her detractors. And with the Montferraud as the center of a new power base, other alliances could be orchestrated to further her family’s rise. For years she had waited, planned, schemed, to raise the cup of reckoning, and tonight, circumstances had at last contrived to place the sacred chalice of vengeance within her grasp. Had her husband done as she had hoped, or had the chance been allowed to slip away?
It must be tonight! That much was certain. Unless an announcement was forthcoming, the object of her schemes had likely eluded her, despite all her efforts. The baronne’s stomach churned with anxiety as her husband saluted the table with a respectful nod, preparing to address them all. She gripped the edge of her seat, knuckles white with apprehension, wondering to what extent her plans had been made, or unmade, during the baron’s private discussions with the marquis.
“My dear guests and family. I have always esteemed Monsieur de Blaise and Monsieur de Marbéville, whom I am delighted today to receive in our home. There is admiration which exists between friends and acquaintances, I tell you, and there are also the bonds of devotion, duty, and respect which bind families together. Though similar in nature, these conditions are altogether different in both degree and import.”
The baron paused briefly for effect. He was not generally noted for the quality of his oratory. He was thus genuinely pleased his words held everyone in rapt attention. Glancing briefly around the table to make eye contact with the captive audience before him, he smiled and resumed his remarks.
“Today I am delighted to announce the happy news that Monsieur de Blaise and I have agreed to join both our fortunes and our families together in formal alliance!”
Madame de Salvagnac let out an audible cry of joy before clasping her hands together in jubilation. It was the announcement she had hoped for! A wave of elation lit her face with triumph. She turned to look at Julienne. How will she react? Does she even comprehend her fate has just been decided? The baronne had dressed her daughter herself, with one purpose in mind, to catch the eye of the Comte de Marbéville and to hold it. Julienne wore a silk-satin robe à la française of pale green, embroidered with yellow flowers, a striped green and yellow underskirt, and a matching stomacher. At the base of her graceful neck was a satin choker which featured a large emerald brooch surrounded by pearls. Her shapely young bosom was displayed as prominently as the baronne’s own, with equally mesmeric effect. Madame de Salvagnac beamed her encouragement at her daughter, proud to have produced such an enchanting and radiant specimen of French womanhood. I understand what men desire. I knew once the comte laid eyes on you himself, he couldn’t resist you!
Aware of the instant scrutiny of everyone, Julienne maintained an outward appearance of obedience and submission, a beatific half-smile frozen on a countenance both beautiful and serene. All her life, the ability to conceal her true feelings beneath an outward show of contentment had been one of her most admired qualities. But Julienne Claire Sophie Rocheforte de Salvagnac—rich, sweet, beautiful, tranquil of temperament and spirit—was possessed of a surfeit of desirable traits. With straw colored hair, fair hazel eyes, and a full pair of “young friends” of her own, she had never lacked for prospects or attention. But the baronne had always been determined to make the best possible alliance she could for her daughter, which was why Julienne still remained unmarri
ed at the ripe old age of nineteen.
“My dear child, what wonderful news! Let me be the first to congratulate both you and the Comte de Marbéville, on your betrothal,” Madame de Salvagnac offered with exuberance, casting a proud glance at her future son-in-law.
Julienne allowed herself a genuine smile. She could see what the alliance meant to her mother and father and was proud to have done so well for the family. She offered her hand to her future husband, her face lit with the radiance of one coming to realize she has just been very advantageously allied. The comte accepted the offering happily, pressing his lips to the back of Julienne’s palm.
“Monsieur de Marbéville, since we are now to be married, I should be pleased if you would bestow upon me your kiss, which I hope to be the first of many favors you will see fit to grant me as your obedient wife and steadfast friend.”
The Comte de Marbéville was more than pleased with the ready submission of his future bride. He had three other given names to follow the first—Christophe, Alexandre and Honoré, but preferred to be called Francis, which had been the name of his maternal grandfather. He was tall and thin, with the upright posture and pleasing manners expected of a man whose blood was so old and blue his nobility preceded the advent of kings. A perpetual smile adorned his face, displaying an upper row of fine white teeth. The comte seemed always on the verge of breaking out in a laugh, but seldom allowed his emotions or his speech to carry him to extremes. His dress was impeccable. Black shoes, silver buckles and red heels, white silk stockings, satin breeches of charcoal velvet, white silk waistcoat to which a gold watch fob was attached, and a charcoal velvet jacket heavily embroidered with silver thread. On his coat were silver buttons, and embellishments of double muslin lace at collar and sleeve. In contrast to the baron’s flamboyant suit, the comte’s attire was subdued and worn with the casual indifference of the very well-bred. It was also only slightly less expensive than what his future father-in-law wore, though only a very discerning eye would have guessed it. Jeweled rings adorned several fingers on each hand, reflecting the comte’s preference for large showy diamonds. The comte’s eyes were brown and full of mirth, brimming with the self-confidence his ancient lineage and the enormous size of his future inheritance, bequeathed him.
Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1) Page 4
