That Scoundrel Émile Dubois

by Lucinda Elliot

  “Enchanté, Mademoiselle.” He bent to kiss her hand, showing remarkable gallantry towards a poor relative. “But surely we have met before, Mademoiselle?” His expression was still intense.

  “Why, yes, Sir,” she smiled, astonished and delighted that he should remember, though she was sure that had nothing to do with his apparent amazement. “We met at a wedding, when I was quite a child and you were possibly twelve, and I remember you advising His Lordship on the art of handstands.”

  “I do remember that occasion now, Mademoiselle Sophie, but surely we met again later?”

  “That may well be, Sir.” She hesitated. She must be careful to avoid contradicting her social superior. Besides, saying that she didn’t remember a meeting between them since would imply he was forgettable, when he showed condescension in remembering her at all. She’d been at a couple of large family occasions at which he might be between that wedding and the outbreak of the Revolution, where she had always looked for him in vain. When could he mean?

  He gave her hand – which he still retained – a sudden squeeze. He smiled down into her eyes – he was fully a foot taller than she – before reluctantly loosing hold of it.

  The Dowager Countess was saying, “I remember that wedding. It must have been how you came to make sorry holes in the knees of your breeches within an hour, Ynyr. The Dear Late Count was annoyed.”

  “It would seem then that my instructions were not helpful, eh, Mademoiselle Sophie?” Monsieur Émile beamed on her. This was extraordinary, yet somehow there was nothing insincere about him.

  “I remember that they were quite detailed, Sir.” she smiled back at him, hoping he didn’t notice how red in the face she was. This wasn’t only due to confusion over his strange attitude; it was because, at his touch, her insides had given a melting sort of lurch.

  Meanwhile, Lord Ynyr, who fancied himself as the sort of countryman who can predict the weather, went to look out of the window, looking for snow. “It is well that you arrived today, Émile, for I am sure that there will be heavy snow within hours, and the head gardener agrees. It would have made for a difficult journey. By the by, Cousin, with your robust attitude towards settling disputes I suppose that you would have welcomed a confrontation with those highwaymen who have been terrorising the roads out of town?”

  Sophie, glancing back at Monsieur Émile, saw a momentary look of consciousness before he laughed. “I had no trouble with them, Cousin. They must be taking a break in the country, like me.”

  This made her uneasy; she wasn’t sure why.

  Meanwhile, Morwenna was eager to return her long-lost relative’s attention to its proper place. “Émile, if it snows heavily, we must go out on the sleigh, if Ynyr will be kind enough to arrange it. Please, Ynyr, with sleigh bells?”

  “Of course we must, Morwenna!” Lord Ynyr was delighted.

  “An excellent idea, Morwenna. I hope you will come with us, Mademoiselle?” Monsieur Émile turned his rapt gaze on Sophie.

  She murmured, “I would be honoured, Sir.” She wondered if he had met her double.

  “I must rely on you gentleman to do the driving of the sleigh.” Morwenna sparkled. “I hope if you take a turn at the reins you do not overturn us quite, Émile?”

  “Miss Morwenna recollects my mishap nine years since.” He laughed too.

  Soon afterwards, Sophie slipped out to check upon the centrepiece on the dining room table, leaving the others chatting. She thought she left unnoticed, but as she crossed the great hall she heard quick footsteps behind. Turning, she was astonished to see Monsieur Émile loping after her.

  “Mademoiselle Sophie!” As she paused, he rushed up to seize her hands. “Ah, chérie, I cannot believe my luck!” He bent to kiss them passionately.

  She sometimes made up a fantasy where an attractive, rich, dashing young man took one look at her and for some reason best known to himself, fell violently in love with her, once and forever. She never dared dream about Monsieur Émile, though, as she knew him and he was out of reach. It would just make it embarrassing should they ever meet again.

  She had imagined that the emotion that would quiver in her suitor’s voice as he declared himself would stir her likewise to passion. Now, her reaction was horror; this despite finding him attractive, and his having been for so long her hero. She felt like running away.

  She must have looked stunned. He went on, “It is a shock to you. I could scarce believe it myself. I had given up hope of seeing you again. To meet you, my lovely girl, as Madame ma Tante’s companion! Alors, it will not continue so. You shall have my status, anyway. If you will take a rascal like Gilles Long Legs, that is? You look alarmed, Sophie. I hope you are not scared of me? You did not seem alarmed by me back then. Those innocent’s kisses that you gave me led me to hope that you forgave me for being a ruffian.” He squeezed her hands passionately, meanwhile staring at her as if he would swallow her up with his eyes.

  She was speechless. She began to fear that he had been driven mad by his terrible experiences. All she could think of to say was, absurdly, “Oh, gracious!”

  “But where did you go, chérie? Do you know how I have suffered on your account? I had men looking for you all night, but you were vanished. So many nights since I have been awake till dawn wondering what became of you. To see you here, and in the same dress, too!” He looked at it almost gloatingly. The said dress was a grey everyday dress that the Dowager Countess had ordered made up for her last autumn.

  Then he went back to kissing her hands in the most embarrassing, passionate way. At least, unlike Mr Kenrick, he was personable and did not slobber on them.

  While in the sitting room his kiss had made her tingle, now she felt nothing. Amongst her whirling thoughts came the memory of Agnes’ predictions, which were coming true so bathetically. After all, here was a fair-haired young man from overseas. All she wanted was for him to stop talking nonsense and go away.

  “Do speak to me. I suppose you are astounded to see me here as Émile Dubois, and shy too, about how we went on, but what could be happier?” He took hold of her chin and raised it. As she caught his adoring gaze, she felt a pang of dismay, for by the expression in his eyes, even if he was mad, he was sincere. He was convinced of some imaginary, passionate (and improper) encounter.

  It seemed that the look in her eyes confirmed his fears. He drew back slightly. “Sophie, I know I have been bad enough, but you gave me the impression that you liked the wicked Gilles Long Legs somewhat. Alors, I do not want to be ungallant enough to remind you, but now we meet again, and as Émile Dubois I adore you no whit less, ma chère, than I did as Gilles –”

  They heard distant footsteps and drew apart. “Wait!” He loped across the hall to the library door to glance in.

  “Viens ici!” He beckoned to her. She felt like taking to her heels, but that wouldn’t do. She followed him into the room.

  This great room was so chilly in winter that the family rarely stayed in here long. The fire never had much effect upon the frigid air. It burnt brightly now, illuminating the room with a pleasant glow. The drapes were as yet undrawn. She automatically noted some specks of snow whirling against the great windows, now blue in the gathering dusk. The Count would be pleased. Harriet would have been equally displeased by the fact that two candles were left alight on a table. This waste typified the extravagance at Plas Uchaf.

  He took her arm as though he had a right to it, and led her over to the blaze. “We will not be disturbed here. You shiver. Come over to the fire.” He massaged the arm familiarly.

  “Er, thank you, Sir.” She had no idea what else to say. Thoughts whirled in her head. It seemed that the grand Monsieur Émile had – incredibly – just proposed to his poor relation. She suddenly realised that John would take the view that Sophie must humour him, deranged or not. What was a little sanity gone astray compared to such an offer?

  Monsieur laughed, nervously, she thought. “‘Sir?’ You did not call me so, back in Paris. It was but seven month
s since, yet it seems like years.” He put his arms about her. “Come, my lovely girl, give me that same ingénue’s kiss you gave me then. I sound like some imbecile in a novel, but I care not, so as you kiss me.” He bent down to her, lips at the ready.

  She was roused, not to passion, but to resistance. She struggled and burst out, “I am sorry Sir, but I have to say that – that there is some sort of mistake. I have never been in Paris.”

  He froze and then slackened his hold. “What? What did you say?” He gasped the words, staring.

  “Sir,” she thought that her unsteady voice came out as an unappealing whinge, “I am sorry, but truly I do not know of what you speak. I think you – forgive me – confuse me with another.”

  He gave a laugh both mocking and uncertain. “Come, Mademoiselle Sophie! There is no need to take discretion to the point of absurdity. I make no excuses for what you saw. No doubt I am depraved villain enough. Are you horrified by me? If only you will trust me I will turn my back on my horrible past.”

  “But how, Monsieur Émile? What can be happening?”

  His eyes flashed. He drew back himself and let go of her. “I think you are not acting, and you have no memory of me and that evening. I can scarce believe it, but it is true!” He breathed so heavily and quickly that she thought it lucky that he was so wiry and active, or he might even keel over in an attack of apoplexy. “I am not vain, but I had no idea that I was so forgettable.”

  He turned away from her to march about, apparently at a loss for words in either French or English. Every now and then, he shot her a look of outrage. If his besotted attitude earlier was unnerving, this was worse.

  After a while, during which she could think of nothing to say, he came to a stop. Voice shaking with rage, he berated her some more. “Alors, I would have been a cad as well as an assassin had I not done my best for you then. Ah, and I was a jest amongst the others as I fretted over you. I heard them laughing at me over it, ‘Poor old Gilles Long Legs has it badly!’ But I didn’t care – I was tortured by the thought of that innocent lost somewhere amongst brutes. I think perhaps Mademoiselle decided that it was time to withdraw as her scoundrel of an admirer was becoming too pressing in his attentions. Sure it was the hardened ruffian who the innocent all along!”

  He broke off to aim a furious kick at the logs in the fire, knocking one into the grate. He turned about and loped aimlessly about the carpet for some moments before breaking out again. “Perhaps that little adventure was but one amongst many? Après tout, what was an English bourgeoise doing in such a neighbourhood, and you would not tell me? Is that why you won’t remember?” He glared at her again. By some unfair trick of fate she blushed, though she didn’t understand what he meant.

  In the face of such bizarre abuse, such wild imaginings, she felt three things. The first was a sense of injustice; she wanted to stamp her foot and scream that it wasn’t fair, as in childhood when her friend stole her doll. The second was an hysterical desire to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. A third was an inclination to burst into tears.

  She took a fourth course of action, trying to speak calmly. “I have never been in Revolutionary Paris, Monsieur Émile. How could I so? Truly, this is someone else of whom you speak.”

  “An identical twin with the exact same gown? So you are determined to keep up this ludicrous pretence? It is as well that I disgusted enough by human nature not to be entirely surprised.” Yet he went on glowering at her with baffled rage. “However do you come to be with Madame ma Tante and Cousin Ynyr?”

  She found herself saying ludicrously, “Monsieur Émile, you are not acting the gentleman.”

  “You, Mademoiselle Sophie, have invariably acted the lady.”

  “Yes, indeed, Monsieur Émile, to the best of my ability.” Sophie’s indignation at these vague but intolerable slurs on her character spurred her on to give a speech worthy of one of Richardson’s beleaguered heroines.

  “I am your poor relation, your aunt’s dependant, and you speak to me so. My furthest trip has been to come here and my only adventure has been to live amongst such grand people. I am dismayed at your attitude towards me, Sir, when I have ever wished you well and throughout your vicissitudes I prayed for you every night.”

  Monsieur Émile – far from being soothed by this speech – looked so angry that she wondered that steam did not burst out of his ears. She’d heard somewhere how Henry the Second suffered from rages so terrible he used to roll on the floor, chewing the rushes. Monsieur Émile looked as though he would have liked to do so too, but in the absence of rushes was forced to remain on his feet, contenting himself with marching about. For variety, though, he did some snorting worthy of the Count’s horse Boris.

  He half turned. “Think you that prissy speech suited to your new role of humility? Alors, you do not need to fear, Mademoiselle. I am not so mean spirited that I would run tales to my relatives about anything you may wish to conceal, such as your brief liking for the ruffian Gilles. You are at liberty to divulge to them what you wish of my own miserable past.” He went over to stare into the fire, arms crossed.

  Suddenly, her sense of his distress calmed her. She went over and put a hand on his arm. “I really am sorry. I wish I could remedy matters, but how can I, when I have no recollection of these incidents? Yet truly I am overwhelmed that you –”

  He flung off her arm, with a look that exceeded all the others in outrage. “You are clearly a cynic, little Miss Sophie, besides the most accomplished actress and I am surprised that though you evidently have no warm feelings towards me, you should so turn your back upon worldly advantage as to ignore my naive offer for you a couple of minutes since. You might give me your reason.”

  Being unable to give him the true one – that she thought him slightly mad – she could make no reply, but watched him anxiously.

  Suddenly, his eyes flashed as some explanation came to him. “Perhaps you have your eye on Cousin Ynyr and his title? So that is it! To have brushed aside my offer so contemptuously you must be complacent about your chances of success.”

  She in turn was speechless. Staring wildly at her, he hissed something rude in French, and turning, rushed out of the room, banging the door behind him so violently that some specks of plaster drifted down from the ceiling. She heard his footsteps dashing across the hall and sprinting up the great staircase.

  “Oh, dear!” Sophie realised that this was ridiculously inadequate.

  The great portraits of the Lords and Ladies of Ruthin seemed to stare down rebuke at her in the glow from the fire. The statues in the alcoves seemed united in disapproval.

  She emulated her grand relative, and did some wandering about, though she was too fond of her slippers and too scared of singing her feet to aim kicks at the fire.

  One statue in particular – that of a bald man with a prominent nose – seemed to be looking at her with outrage. She was relieved to see that it wasn’t a family member, but a Roman emperor, she forgot who.

  Sophie addressed it. “Really, I do not see what I could do. I am sorry for it all, but I did nothing to provoke such an outburst. Poor Monsieur Émile’s nerves must be out of sorts. He was being such delightful company when I came in, too. It is a shame.” She added, more prosaically, “As if I would not give my eye teeth for such an offer, particularly from one I have always so admired, were it made in a sane manner! It is too bad.”

  Émile rushed into the bedroom, kicking aside a small tapestry stool and swearing horribly. “Oi, Georges! Where are you?”

  Georges appeared in the doorway and whistled. “What ails you, Monsieur Gilles?”

  “Nothing.” Émile paced over to the window, and stared out at the darkening sky. “Get a move on, Georges, I’ve got to get myself ready for dinner, we’re in civilised company now, don’t forget.” He made another furious snorting noise at some recollection.

  “Alors, I can tell that this is about a woman. With a man you’d just do what you aristos term ‘Calling him out’. Wouldn’t
coy Miss Morwenna let you take liberties?”

  “Hold your noise, you dirty minded rascal, I’m in no mood for your nonsense.” Émile came over to sit in a chair, then immediately jumped up to pace over to the fire.

  Georges went on teasing. “Alors, you’ll have my luck with them skirts one of these days. A subtle approach, that is what is needed. I have that. There’s some pretty girls here, including Éloise, who comes from France, but it is a Galloise, Agnes, who takes my fancy most. I can tell that she likes me already. She is shockingly ignorant about good cuisine and did think that we French only dine off frogs and snails. “I am not sure I could kiss a man as ate them things.” she told me, lips all pursed up the while, you understand –”

  “Tais toi! Stop blathering about banalities, imbecile. Where are my clothes?”

  “Your pardon, Master, I will fetch them immediately.” Georges lounged to the dressing room. “I think it might be best to wear a mask for dinner; that face of yours will sour the wine.”

  Meanwhile, Agnes was lacing Sophie. “Is unaccountable, Miss Sophie. Yet I don’t think he is mad, for all that. I cannot see Georges – him and me is getting to be good friends already – working for a lunatic.”

  Sophie had to smile. “Then Monsieur Émile and his valet are the fair and the dark man? I fear poor Monsieur Émile must be subject to delusions after his awful experiences. It is dreadful, when he was a real hero.” Her eyes sparkled.

  Agnes smiled. “He was so, and maybe there is some explanation without him being fit for Bedlam. I was just thinking, Miss, you must take my word for it, but when I did that reading said the young men would come from overseas – and here they are – the timing was all mixed up. Cards which should have come in the positions for the future came in the past and the Lovers was one.”

  “It is a wonder, Agnes that is not more often so. But as I said, he kept insisting that we met when he was ‘Gilles Long Legs’ and a ‘ruffian’. Perhaps the poor man believes himself to be two people? He rambled strangely. I fear he is outraged at my not recollecting it.” She went red, remembering his talk about kissing.