by Karleen Koen
* * *
When her flux stopped, Barbara went to Roger's apartments. He was dressing to go out; Justin was just helping him shrug into a coat edged with gold lace. He looked handsome, elegant, and formal. His hands were covered with jeweled rings. Justin, seeing Barbara standing in the doorway in her nightgown and shawl like a lost child, hurried to her, fussing over her like a hen over its chick. She must sit here out of the draft; she must have a glass of wine. And Roger held her hand to his lips and kissed it. Smiling at her, his eyes crinkled in the corners. She felt her breath catch. He was so handsome. She wanted a child—their child—so much. He read her as if she were a book. He called for Justin to bring him pen and paper and dashed off a note (she caught Philippe's name) and sent Justin scurrying to have it delivered. (She was glad it was Philippe he was breaking an appointment with.) Roger pulled off his wig, and she helped him out of his coat. He pulled her onto his lap and petted her, and his petting led to more sensual caresses until finally they were in bed. She wept as they made love, which distressed him, and later lying on his chest as he stroked her hair, she tried to explain the sense of being fragile, like delicate glass, these days. The way other emotions, such as love, were underlaid by grief.
"Do you want to go home?" he asked her. "To Tamworth. I will send you there."
She closed her eyes. To be with her grandmother again. To feel her grandmother's strength, her safety. But she was a woman now. With her own life. And her duty to Roger as his wife. She had to learn to stand on her own. She reached up suddenly to kiss him for his thoughtfulness, and he was not able to hide the expression on his face. For the briefest of seconds, she saw that he wanted her gone. The shock of it squeezed her heart. She lay back on his chest, hiding her face from him. If he had told her he hated her, he could not have hurt her more. And Roger was thinking, God forgive me, but I want her gone. Not forever. Just for a few months. Just a few months of complete freedom. And she knows it. I let her see it. Jesus Christ, what is happening to me? I had better be careful. Very, very careful. He hugged her closer. I will buy her something tomorrow, he thought. Philippe can help me choose it. Something that will make her forget.
* * *
He thinks I am a child, she thought, staring into the narrow black velvet box in which was nestled a diamond–and–ruby bracelet. A child to be bribed with pretty trinkets. Why does he want me gone? What have I done?
"Madame!" exclaimed Thérèse. "You must wear this. I insist! It is absolutely beautiful. Here, hold out your arm so I may fasten it on. There! Look how lovely it is, how it shines against the black of your gown. You are fortunate to have such a thoughtful husband. I can tell you the only time the Princesse de Condé received something like this from her husband was when she caught him being unfaithful!"
Thérèse laughed; the sound was like silver bells; and Barbara, after a moment, laughed with her.
"Now, go," said Thérèse, giving her a little push. "Madame de Gondrin is waiting downstairs, and it will do you good to get out. Go, madame, go."
In the carriage, Marie–Victorie de Gondrin, placid and self-possessed as always, seeming years older, kissed Barbara on both cheeks as if she were a convalescing child. When I am twenty, will I be this way? Barbara thought. Calm, assured, understanding everything?
"I am so glad you are coming out with me," Marie–Victorie said. She held Barbara's face in one hand, examining it as if it were a piece of fruit she wished to purchase from a vendor. "What is wrong, Barbara? You have a strange look on your face."
"I–I have a headache. Perhaps I ought to go back in. I do not feel like seeing anyone."
Marie–Victorie patted her cheek. "My dear child, grief is not something one puts away in a few days like a winter cloak for storage. It has its own time. You will feel better for making the effort. I promise you. Come now, I have sworn to Armand that I will bring you by to see him. He says he has not played a decent hand of cards with anyone since you stopped coming by."
Barbara smiled.
"There. Is that not better? You need to get out more, go on with your life again. Your dear Roger will be glad to see it. Men never like it when their wives are unwell—but what is this on your arm? Let me see it! Did Roger give that to you? Naturally! You are so fortunate, Bab. Gondrin never gave me anything so beautiful. Now, let me think, what has been going on lately?"
She chatted on about the possibility of a parliamentary inquiry on Richelieu and de Gacé for dueling and the speculation of whether or not the regent would take the sacrament at Easter since it meant his swearing to give up his mistresses. Barbara thought about what Thérèse had said and the suspicion that had sprouted in her so suddenly, like a poisonous plant, was fully grown in seconds.
In the Bastille, Richelieu strutted up to her, ugly, his thin, narrow face thinner, his head cocked to one side. His strange eyes glinted at her.
"You look terrible," he said.
She laughed. He was thin and stringy and ugly, and she did not know why she had come to see him. He kissed her hand.
"I have missed you abominably, Barbara Devane. Sit down and let us play cards! At once!"
She beat him four games out of five. It almost took her mind off Roger. Marie–Victorie was correct; she must get out more. In her mourning, she could no longer attend balls and receptions, but quiet dinners, an afternoon visit here and there, would do her good. She had lessons she could begin again: Italian, watercolor, pianoforte, and singing. She could sit for her portrait once more. White and Montrose and she might resume their excursions. She would finish the volume on Palladio. And begin another. Devane House. It was the reason Roger remained so long in Paris, to order or buy all that was beautiful for it. She would make Devane House the focus of her attention. Until there should be a child. And for diversion, she had Richelieu, awful Richelieu, and the card games. And she had Roger…. She stared at the bracelet on her arm until Richelieu reminded her that it was her turn to deal.
* * *
"No, madame," Justin told her, "he is not here."
She tried to wait up but fell asleep. He did not come to breakfast the next morning. She went up to his apartments. Justin was folding linen shirts and putting them into a cupboard.
"Where is he?" she asked. Justin concentrated on his folding.
"He has gone riding."
"With whom, Justin?"
"He did not say, madame."
"Whom did he go riding with?" she asked Montrose.
"Why, I believe it was the Prince de Soissons," Montrose answered, surprised. She caught up with Roger later in the day.
"Why did you not come to breakfast?" she asked him.
He kissed the top of her head. "No reason. Do you like the bracelet?"
"It is beautiful. Why did you not come to breakfast?"
"I did not know you would be there," he said, staring at her. "I was late and breakfasted with the prince in his home."
Roger stayed in that evening and was at breakfast as usual the next morning, but it did not help the suspicions she now felt, eating at her like a canker.
* * *
"Do you really think I look so awful?" she asked Richelieu a few days later, unable to concentrate on her hand. Thérèse and Hyacinthe were with her as chaperones. She felt drawn to Richelieu the way metal filings are to a magnet. He was a man of the world, he was honest, brutally so. Women fought over his favors, except for her, and yet he had not abandoned her when others had.
"Yes."
She frowned at her cards.
Hyacinthe, fascinated by the linnet, kept pushing his finger through the cage. The linnet squawked and flapped his wings.
"Leave that bird alone!" Richelieu snapped.
"Do not raise your voice to my servant!" Barbara snapped back. Richelieu narrowed his eyes at her but did not say anything else. Hyacinthe went to stand by Thérèse, who was talking with Richelieu's valet.
"Aces are high," Richelieu prompted, when she still had not played a card. She stuck her tongue out at
him.
"Lovely, Barbara. No wonder your husband strays."
She struggled to keep her face from showing anything. Richelieu was like a viper, always knowing where to strike to kill. She felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her.
"Who says my husband strays?" She was proud of how cool her tone was. If he was looking for gossip, he would not get it from her.
"All husbands stray," he told her, watching her. "You have been ill, neglectful, full of yourself. We men are creatures of the flesh. I assume—"
"Never assume." She slapped her first card on the table. Richelieu stared at it. It was a good one. He had given up trying to guess her strategy. He suspected she played without one. He waited patiently. Patience was his strong point. They played steadily, without speaking. Finally she said, as if it were unimportant and she were merely speaking to pass time, "Why are you unfaithful to your wife?"
He smiled to himself. At last. "I am unfaithful because I was forced to marry her. Because there is no love between us. Because I wish to be. I do as I please, and so does she, with my blessing. I do not want her. Let someone else enjoy her."
Barbara shivered.
"And what would you do if you found your Roger was being unfaithful to you?"
She could not answer. Richelieu mocked her.
"You would cry. All women do. My wife did. And do nothing. Which is why men go on being unfaithful." His scorn stung.
"And what would you do—"
"I would be unfaithful back, Bab. Sauce for the goose."
"And what would that achieve?"
"Nothing. Except that sometimes revenge is sweet. Very sweet."
His eyes glinted at her. This conversation was becoming too uncomfortable, She tossed her head.
"Do you believe in anything?"
"Of course not. I lost my innocence at ten, when I was at court, and I learned that men and women—especially women—are capable of anything."
His hand was lying near hers. She had an impulse to carry it to her cheek. Part of that impulse was pity for the child of ten, and part of it was something that startled her. She glanced at Richelieu and then away, but not before he saw what had been in her eyes.
"Do not pity me," he said staring at her. "You are the one to be pitied. When you lose your innocence, it will hurt far more than losing mine did."
He made her angry. Good. She fastened on it the way one of Annie's yard hens leapt upon a fat June bug. Anger covered the fact that just a moment before she had suddenly wondered what it would be like to kiss him.
"I am not innocent. I am a married woman. I have nothing to lose."
"Barbara, you have everything to lose."
She stood up, throwing her unplayed cards on the table. "This is a stupid conversation. I have a headache, and I am going home."
"Good. I have never seen you play so badly. See if you can find someone to practice with." He stood up as she gathered her fan and gloves.
"I wish I had never come to see you."
Richelieu chucked her under the chin. She slapped his hand.
"I will see you tomorrow or the next day," he called after her. "Give your husband my regards."
He went over to the linnet and tapped against the wires of the bird's cage.
"Pretty bird," he said, smiling, "pretty, pretty bird. Sing for me. Sing."
* * *
They were talking of Barbara. Richelieu always maneuvered the conversation around to her. He was obsessed with her; no one could tell him too little or too much. He studied her the way a general might study a terrain map; no morsel of gossip about her was too small, too insignificant. Louise-Anne was used to his ways, he had always had other mistresses; yet this infatuation of his was too much. She despised Barbara because of it.
Louise–Anne sat on the edge of Richelieu's chair, sulking, but they ignored her. The three of them, St. Michel, Richelieu, and she, were more than a little drunk. They had whiled away the afternoon playing cards and drinking wine, and now it was twilight and the pretense of playing cards was finished. Richelieu baited St. Michel about his broken nose, about Barbara.
"Why did you drop her?" Richelieu asked.
"I found her boring," St. Michel answered, but it did not satisfy Richelieu. They talked of her inexplicable continued faithfulness to Roger, and here Louise–Anne was unusually silent. Roger had been to one of the Duchesse de Berry's notorious suppers. Her heart had begun to beat wildly when he walked in late with her uncle, the prince. No one came to a de Berry supper in innocence. Anything might happen. And did. By the time he arrived, nearly everyone was drunk and beginning to pair off for the evening. She immediately left her partner and went to him. He and her uncle were the oldest people in the room, but Roger was the most handsome, the most desirable. She wanted him. Wine made her bolder than usual, wine and his presence in that place. She was glad Roger was cheating on his nauseating little wife; there was no other reason for him to be here. She could have crowed with triumph. She was glad her uncle was back, that he had converted Roger to their old ways. Roger and her uncle had always chased women. And now, once more, they chased them again, if the rumors were true.
She stood before Roger, smiling wantonly. And he smiled back. She loved his smile; she always had. When she was younger, still a girl, and he and her uncle were always together, she had dreamed of him smiling at her just so. She stepped closer, swaying with wine, offering herself, her meaning plain. And he had shaken his head. Just a tiny shake. No more. No less. But her lust was ashes in her mouth. As was her pride. And her uncle stood behind him, his proud, full face contemptuous of her.
She shuddered at the memory. It was so seldom that anyone made her feel shameful, but they had. The rest of the evening she had watched them. They settled on a silly little countess and took her off with them to one of the bedrooms the Duchesse de Berry kept available for her guests. Louise-Anne had writhed with jealousy and anger and humiliation. Why not choose her? Why was she not good enough? She had had half a mind to write an anonymous note to Roger's wife—his doting wife who was busy parading her grief for her family—and tell her of her husband's activities at night with his friend, the Prince de Soissons; but she had not done it—yet.
"I want to get drunk!" she said loudly.
"You are drunk," said Richelieu.
She leaned over and kissed him, slowly, lingeringly, running her pointed little tongue along the edge of his jaw and into his ear as St. Michel watched. She looked into Richelieu's eyes. At least he understood her. Dear Armand, he understood her very well.
Richelieu motioned for the valet to pour more wine, and Louise–Anne moved to sit in his lap. She put her hand inside his shirt and rubbed his bare chest. St. Michel watched, his breathing quickened.
"I want to get totally and vilely drunk and do something awful," she whispered. She rubbed herself against Richelieu like a cat.
"Henri just told me something interesting," Richelieu said. His voice was caressing, sensual. Louise–Anne shivered at the sound of it. Armand had something planned.
"We were arguing over his true feelings for the Lady Devane. Do not frown, Louise–Anne, I promise this will be worth your while. And he admitted—I had to pull it out of him—that he does dream of the lady occasionally."
Louise–Anne put her hands over her ears, but Richelieu pulled them down.
"Listen," he commanded. He stared at her, his yellow-brown eyes mesmerizing her, knowing her. "He dreams of raping her. A recurring dream of rape. Yes…I thought you would find that interesting, Louise– Anne. I was surprised when you did not react before, but your mind was elsewhere."
"Rape," she whispered. She said the word slowly, savoring it.
"Louise–Anne is fascinated with rape," Richelieu told St. Michel, and laughed at his friend's expression.
"Tell us," he said softly. "You will not regret it, Henri. That I promise." There was silence in the room. Louise–Anne was staring at St. Michel now, her eyes wide. Richelieu reached up and caressed
her neck. She shivered again.
St. Michel was silent, as if he did not know what to do or say.
"The dream," Richelieu prodded, patiently, as if St. Michel were a slow child. "Describe the dream to us. Go on."
St. Michel swallowed. He took another drink of wine. "I–I see her coming to me…and she is crying …crying like a child…and her hair is loose and flowing—I always wanted to see her hair that way. I always wanted to touch it, run my hands through it. I always loved her hair."
Louise–Anne had put her hand inside Richelieu's shirt again, against his heart, and she could feel it beating violently, although his face showed no emotion. I hate her, she thought. Why does he want her so? And Roger wanted her too. He might tomcat through Paris with her uncle, but she knew he cared for his wife. Why? If she had not been so drunk, she would have gotten off Richelieu's lap. But she was too far gone. St. Michel's words had started something. Something she could not run from. She closed her eyes to it. Her breath was warm against Richelieu's ear. "The story is better told in bed," she said. She put her mouth on Richelieu's, drowning out thoughts of Barbara, that it was Barbara he wanted, and they kissed, their tongues twining. St. Michel watched them.
