Jeanne had done the same for her friends, bringing the only fantasy into their ordered, monotonous life, conjuring up for them the magic hours and the legends that had enchanted her childhood.
That evening they learned she was soon to depart. As if to reassure themselves, her friends begged her, as they often did, to “tell us about Thierry.”
Sometimes Jeanne would refuse, regaling them instead with stories of knights drawn straight from her varied repertoire, or with the exciting adventures of the gods of Greek mythology.
But the moon was shining in the Troyes sky, Jeanne was in high spirits, and she agreed to launch into her most beautiful story: the one that was almost true.
“This will be the last time I’ll tell it to you. Now we know the ending, and it won’t be the one we’d dreamed of.”
Marie, Anne and Geneviève held their breath while their friend collected her thoughts. In a low voice full of mystery, Jeanne began.
“When I climbed to the very top of the big oak tree, I would see the towers of the Villebrand chateau. I knew that there lived the lord whose grandfather had ruined my ancestor. And I used to say to myself that one day I would be the Countess of Villebrand and avenge my family.”
The storyteller’s friends shivered deliciously.
“One day, when I was eight years old, I went to steal nuts in the part of the estate that was near our house. To do that, I had to jump over an old stone wall with iron pickets on top.”
“How high was the wall?” asked Geneviève. She had known the answer for years but asked again every time.
“Higher than the convent wall. Too high to get over easily. I had to climb a tree whose branches drooped over the top of the wall. From there I let myself hang from my arms, then I jumped to the ground and rolled.”
The orphans, who were forbidden to go up the stairs two at a time, had unabashed admiration for the storyteller’s boldness.
“Weren’t you afraid?” Anne asked timidly for the hundredth time.
“Not at all. I’d been doing that since I was six.”
Jeanne was patient with the interruptions; for her companions they were part of the story. She continued, “That time I tried to jump too soon. I was left hanging by my skirt on one of the pickets on the top. I was hanging like a picture on a wall, struggling to get back up, when I heard ferocious barking that was coming closer. I knew there were guard dogs on the Villebrand estate, but they never went far from the chateau, and I’d never seen them near the wall.”
“Were you afraid?” Marie trembled with sympathetic fear.
“I was more afraid of being caught. Going onto an estate without permission is serious. Before I was able to unhook myself, two big angry dogs charged out of the woods and jumped at me, growling.”
Jeanne pictured herself again, bending her knees, kicking her feet to escape the threatening fangs, desperately trying to slip her hand into her pocket.
“Why?” breathed Geneviève, for whom this gesture seemed the ultimate in composure. “What were you looking for in your pocket?”
“The bag of mustard powder that Grandfather always made me carry to protect myself against villains or wild animals.”
Nothing seemed more adventurous to the breathless listeners than this need to be armed against such formidable dangers at the age of eight.
“Would you have really thrown mustard in the dogs’ faces?”
“Of course. Especially since one of them had just torn open my calf with its claws. I was terrified. I thought I was done for.”
“And just then...” Geneviève suggested, eyes wide.
“Just then I heard a horse galloping. A voice called out sharply, ‘Sultan, Dragon, come here.’ The dogs turned and ran towards their master, tails between their legs.”
“And what about you?”
“I was still hanging by my old skirt that should have torn but wouldn’t let go. Blood was running down my foot.”
“And then?”
This was the best part of the story, the one that made their romantic hearts beat faster.
“Then he came towards me. Thierry de Villebrand, the count’s son, came to my aid.”
“On his big white horse?”
“On his big white hunting horse. He came over to the wall and took a good long look at me.”
“Was he handsome?” Anne sighed.
“As handsome as the statue of Saint Michael in the chapel. Tall, blond, tanned, dressed in buckskin and leather boots, with his hunting rifle over his shoulder.”
“Was he old?”
That question was essential to the story. Jeanne had been waiting for it before continuing.
“He seemed old to me. He was fifteen.”
“What did he do?”
“He said in a mocking voice, ‘Only foolish little birds get caught in the net.’ ”
This unromantic remark nonetheless proved that noblemen are never at a loss for words.
“And what did you say?”
“What could I have said? I waited, hanging there foolishly while he went on laughing. He had very white teeth and his eyes were as blue as the sky.”
Three sighs broke the silence.
Here the story became less enchanting, but only for an unpleasant moment that quickly passed. It seemed to the listeners that the heroine had not been true to her role. But it must not be forgotten that the heroine was Jeanne Chatel, hardly known for her patience.
“I got angry seeing him there, so conceited on his horse. I cried, ‘If you came here just to watch me, you can leave. This is all I’m going to do.’”
Was that any way to talk to a handsome knight?
“Was he insulted?”
“No. But he stopped laughing and asked, ‘Did you hurt yourself?’”
“I said, ‘No, but your dogs hurt me.’”
“He saw the gash on my leg. Immediately he brought his horse very close to the wall, stood up in the stirrups and took me under the arms. He tried to unhook my skirt, but his horse was prancing and he didn’t succeed. My old skirt was strong.”
“What did he do?” Anne whispered wildly.
“He took his dagger from his boot and murmured, ‘too bad.’ Then he ripped the cloth right to the top and freed me.”
“Did you fall to the ground?”
“No. He had a firm hold on me. I wasn’t very big. Don’t forget I was only eight years old.”
Alas, they had forgotten!
“He seated me in front of his horse and said to me, ‘I’m going to take you home. You can’t walk with your leg like that.’ Then he took a big white handkerchief from his pocket, folded it and bent down and put it around my calf that was bleeding and hurt very much.
“Then he prodded his horse into a walk and asked, ‘Where do you live? In the village?’
“I said, ‘No. I’m Jeanne Chatel. I live right by the estate, on the other side of the wall.’
“Since it wasn’t his family that had been ruined, he had forgotten the story of the ancestors. He simply said, ‘I’m Thierry de Villebrand.’ Then he added, ‘so you’re the old recluse’s granddaughter?’
“I didn’t know what that word meant, but the expression seemed offensive to me. I retorted, ‘My grandfather is an honest man.’
“He replied mockingly, ‘As honest as his granddaughter who climbs walls to steal apples.’
“I was furious. Without thinking, I blurted out, ‘I didn’t want apples. I was looking for nuts. There aren’t any apples near here.’
“He had a good laugh over my accidental confession. He said, ‘Listen, if you want nuts, don’t break your neck climbing over the wall. I’m going to show you a break I discovered when I was young. And near there is a wild apple tree nobody knows about. When I go back to school in Paris,
the dogs won’t come this way again. Take all the fruit you want and nobody will be the wiser.’”
“He was generous,” Geneviève remarked.
“Perhaps he knew about the story of his ancestor, and he wanted to make up for the injustice,” Anne suggested.
“Perhaps. I didn’t ask him. I was happy enough to get out of it so well. He took a crust of bread from his pocket and offered it to me. I was hungry and I ate it. When we rode under the big oak tree I had climbed to see the chateau, Thierry said, ‘When I was little, this tree was my sailing ship. I was her captain. I used to hide here to get away from my tutor. The view is very beautiful up there.’
“Before I knew it, I’d answered, ‘I know. I often climb up there. It’s my chateau.’
“He murmured, ‘so, you search for happiness in dreams, too.’ Then he didn’t say anything more until we reached the house. Grandfather was on the doorstep. He was worried because night was falling. He recognized my saviour and frowned. Thierry greeted him courteously and, holding me by the wrists, helped me get down. Grandfather caught me in his arms.
“Thierry was very ill at ease and embarrassed. He took a silver coin from his pocket and offered it to me.
“‘that’s to replace your skirt I had to cut with my knife.’
“Not knowing what to do, I accepted the coin. Grandfather took it away from me and threw it at him, saying, ‘the Chatels don’t need charity from their more fortunate neighbours.’
“Thierry went red in the face. He turned his horse and left at a gallop, whistling for his dogs. I didn’t see him again for two years.”
“But you didn’t forget him, did you?”
You’d think such a crime would have been inexcusable.
“Of course I thought of him every time I went through the hole in the wall and picked ‘his’ apples and ‘his’ nuts. And when I climbed up the old oak, I wondered which turret of the chateau his room was in.”
“In the highest one, for sure,” Geneviève stated with conviction.
3
AFTER A LONG silence in which each girl dreamed of her personal version of the adventure, Jeanne continued in a barely audible voice, for this part of the story still pained her, even after eight years.
“One evening, some time before Christmas, when I was ten years old, Grandfather came back from the forest, very pale and ill. The game wardens had chased him for a long time and he had had to run very fast. He lay down on his bench near the hearth and asked me to put a lot of logs on the fire. He was shivering. He slept a little, and later he asked me to light all the candles we owned. That surprised me, since we were always very sparing with light. Now I know Grandfather didn’t want me to be afraid of death, all alone in the darkness. I thought it was a celebration. It was warm and bright in our house as never before.”
Marie, Anne and Geneviève pictured an attractive, rustic cottage. Never had Jeanne been able to reconcile herself to giving a faithful description of the charred ruin that had been the centre of her happiness. Her friends couldn’t see with her eyes that immense, desolate room, where tattered tapestries disguised the very tall windows with their permanently closed shutters. Candlelight flickered on the blackened beams of the ceiling, lending a sinister air to the only ancestral portrait to survive the disaster. The few remaining pieces of furniture and the bookshelves had been arranged around the fireplace, leaving the rest of the room empty but for the echoing footsteps. All of Jeanne Chatel’s world was contained in those ten square feet of light and warmth.
“Then, calmly, as if he were telling me a story, Grandfather prepared me for his death. He had me lift a hearthstone; underneath it was a gold chain with a medal of the Virgin. In a new voice, very soft and slow, he said to me as he put the chain around my neck, ‘tomorrow you will go and take this jewel to the priest, and you will tell him I want to be laid to rest with my ancestors in the cemetery. The medal will pay the cost of a service and everything else. Then you will go to Troyes and you will tell Madame de Chablais, the Mother Superior of the Congregation, that you are my granddaughter. I knew her well at one time. She will take you in.’
“It all seemed so easy and natural that I didn’t think of being frightened. I thought it was one of Grandfather’s new stories, and since he seemed tired, I didn’t want to bother him with my objections. Tomorrow he would be better and would forget all that.
“Then he told me death was a rest in a garden of dreams. There you would find all those you had loved in life, even the dogs that had been your faithful friends. He promised me he would wait for me peacefully, smoking his pipe, setting his snares and fishing for trout in the forests of paradise. Then he told me, ‘Go to bed, my darling. Tonight it’s too cold to go poaching. Go to sleep. I am going to have a rest, and tomorrow you will remember my advice.’
“He kissed me on the forehead as he did every evening. I found it strange to sleep with all that light, but it was just those unexpected fancies that made life with my grandfather charming.
“I woke up very early because the fire had gone out. All the candles had burned their wicks right down. It was dark and I knew Grandfather was dead.”
The three friends cried openly over this story. Though it had been repeated a hundred times, it was still moving. Jeanne envied them their soothing tears. Never had she been able to cry over this memory, perhaps because Honoré Chatel had succeeded so well in his mission to soften his death for his granddaughter.
In her even voice, Jeanne continued her story. “The priest accepted the medal. Women I didn’t know forced me to wear black clothing that was too big for me. They didn’t want me to enter the church where the service was taking place. They made me stay in one of their houses, in a dusty sitting room where they recited the rosary. I was certain that wasn’t what Grandfather would have wanted. So I ran away.”
“Where, Jeanne? Where could you go in the winter when you were ten?”
There was but one refuge, all four knew, but they had to ask the ritual questions.
“I fled to the Villebrand estate, through the hole in the wall, and I climbed up the oak, higher than ever. From there I saw them put Grandfather in a hole in the cemetery. Then they returned to their houses.
“Later they started searching for me. They ran to our house, towards the town, along the paths, calling me and promising me good things to eat.
“I was cold and hungry, but I knew that if I came down, they would shut me up in a convent. I preferred to die in my tree.”
Do we need novels, Geneviève, Anne and Marie wondered, when we live with a real heroine?
Jeanne pictured herself again, huddled on a branch, paralyzed, her mind empty, oblivious to the weather and the cold, waiting, waiting.
The silence wore on. Anne took up the thread of the story again. “Then Thierry arrived on his big white horse.”
“Yes. He had come from Paris to spend Christmas with his family. I saw him in the distance talking to the villagers who were pointing towards our house and waving their arms.
“Some time later, he stopped his horse at the foot of the oak and started to climb up to me through the branches. He said softly, ‘I knew you’d be here in your chateau. Come down now. The time for dreams is over. Come, my poor little bird.’
“I was so frozen that my hands couldn’t grip the branches. He carried me in his arms down to the foot of the tree.”
“He was strong,” said Anne dreamily.
“I wasn’t heavy and I was only ten years old. He was already a man, very tall and strong.”
The listeners were always being brutally brought back to reality. This romance existed only in their minds. The heroine was but a child.
“And he took you to the convent?”
“He was heading for Troyes, holding me firmly in front of him on his horse. I felt reassured. Suddenly I came back to my senses. I h
ad to escape or be in prison for life.”
“All the same, Jeanne, the convent isn’t so terrible.”
“I know now. At that time, it seemed like a fate worse than death. I decided to run away. I still had the bag of mustard powder I had been carrying around in vain all those years. I slipped my hand into my pocket and carefully stuck my fingers in the powder. I had taken a long time to decide and we were approaching the first houses in the town.”
“And you did it? You dared to blind your benefactor?”
“In my eyes he wasn’t my benefactor. I think I’d become a little mad from grief and fatigue. I turned around and, sharply, I threw the mustard in his face.”
Sitting on their beds, Anne, Geneviève and Marie shuddered as they relived that heroic scene.
“You did dare, Jeanne, that’s terrible. Was he furious?”
“He cried out and put his hands to his eyes. I was about to jump when he caught me by the shoulder and growled between clenched teeth, ‘Silly little fool. You won’t get away from me.’
“He didn’t let me go. He threw back his head while tears ran from his reddened, closed eyes. He tried to rub his eyelids with his free hand. I felt him shaking against me. He took out his handkerchief, just like the one he’d given me the other time, and held it out to me with a trembling hand.
“‘Quick, wet it with the water in my flask.’ I emptied the water onto the handkerchief, then right onto his upturned face. He shook his head and clenched his teeth. He held the handkerchief up to his eyes and groped for the reins. The horse had come to a stop.
“I put them into his hand and he dug his heels into his mount. In a gasp he said, ‘take me to the convent. I can’t see anything. You burned my eyes!’
“I was terrified. I don’t remember how we reached the convent.
“In front of the congregation gate I said to him, ‘Here it is.’ I’d already been by there with Grandfather, and he’d pointed out the windows with their opaque glass and the high, thick wall.
The King's Daughter Page 2
