"Oh, I can do that," Gervaise offered with a swift, challenging glance at his wife. "I suppose you will allow that, Claudia."
La Comtesse turned away, speaking in a somewhat muffled tone. "You must do as you think best, Gervaise. If you wish to be helpful to me in entertaining my brother, what can I be but grateful to you for your interest?" She took an unsteady breath and turned to Saint-Germain. "I must thank you for escorting Madelaine, Comte. I am sure our conversation would have bored her. So much contention for so little a matter! One would think that we had nothing better to do than displease each other to no purpose."
"So little a matter," Gervaise said with a certain malice in his smooth voice. "But now we are in perfect accord. Are we not, my love?"
"Certainly," la Comtesse agreed, too promptly. She gave the horizon a furtive glance, then said at her brightest, "Why, I did not realize how far advanced the day is. If we are to be at our hôtel when my brother arrives, I fear we must turn back now. I hope you do not mind, my dear niece. I do not want to take you from your pleasure."
Madelaine encountered a quelling look from Saint-Germain, and said tactfully, "Why, to see my father must be the greatest pleasure I may have. If it is acceptable to you, let me set the pace back to your hôtel. Saint-Germain," she said over her shoulder, "I would be happy for your company, but I know I must not keep you. I will look for you at the fête. And I promise I will not spy on your rehearsal of the opera."
Saint-Germain bowed low in his saddle, his tricorne over his heart. "Thank you, Madelaine. It has been an enchanting afternoon. Comte, Comtesse, your most obedient." He wheeled his stallion and set him for the bridge. "Until tomorrow, then."
But he waited on the far side of the bridge for some little time, watching Madelaine as long as he could see her, a brave figure leading her troubled aunt and her husband back toward their hôtel at a smart trot.
Only when she was completely gone did he cross the bridge again, and follow after them.
Excerpt from a letter from l'Abbesse Dominique de la Tristesse de les Anges to her sister's unknown benefactor, dated November 2, 1743:
...The physician who was good enough to accompany my poor Lucienne to this convent has told me that with good nursing and the help of God she may well be restored to her reason and some portion of her health.
I cannot thank you enough for your kindness on her behalf. That you sent her violoncello with her, so that she might have the solace and consolation of her art in this retreat, reveals the goodness of your soul. If you have aught to fear of God at the Last Judgment, you may be sure that your efforts on my sister's behalf will mitigate in your favor. No one, learning of her suffering, could have done more for her, or with greater care for her protection and good name. That you have rescued her without scandal shows how great is your concern for her.
Schoenbrun told me that you do not desire to be known, as much for Lucienne's benefit as for your humility. It is no doubt true that if it were known by anyone near her husband, efforts would be made to compel you to speak, thereby exposing her to punishment by the law and to forced obedience to her husband. I know that it is the duty of a wife to accept the judgments of her husband, and to submit meekly to his bidding. Yet, from what I have heard from Lucienne, her husband has been an adulterer in unnatural ways, and has eschewed the company of women, including his wife. No doubt this is not a marriage in the Eye of God, and even the Holy Virgin does not ask that those not in her service deny the flesh, but rather admonishes women to pray for the blessings of children, and bring fruits of their marriage to God in testament of their mutual respects and affections.
Be assured that I and the good nuns here will guard my sister and keep her safe until she is ready to go again into the world. If she should prefer not to return to Paris, we will be at pains to be sure she lives in a manner suited to her rank and station. Already I have written to our cousin, who is Cardinal Glaivefleur. He lives in Rome, and is a man of the most excellent repute. I am certain he would willingly be guardian to Lucienne and give her the sanctuary of his house as well as the setting for her to realize her talents in a most congenial atmosphere. Perhaps you will agree that it will be best if she does not see Achille Cressie again.
The Good Virgin, Who is our help and font of intercession before the Majesty of God, will think on you kindly, and will hold you in Her mercy for the delivering of my sister from the mouth of hell. You will always be in my prayers, for though I do not know your name, the God of us all reads our hearts and sees you as beloved among His children.
I must not be long at this letter, for I wish to send it with the physician Schoenbrun, who returns to Paris within the hour. I have had that good man's promise that should I wish to reach you, a letter to him will find you. I will take the liberty of informing you of Lucienne's progress from time to time, so that you may be certain of her recovery and salvation.
From the bottom of my heart and with the blessing and gratitude of my soul, in this world and the next, in pious gratitude
Believe me your most devoted in spirit,
Dominique de la Tristesse de les Anges Abbesse,
la couvent de la Miséricorde et la Justice de le Rédempteur
Chapter 2
Rain had been falling steadily for more than two hours when the coach pulled up at last before the side entrance of hôtel d'Argenlac. The horses were steaming, and the wheels and crested side panels of the coach were heavily spattered with mud. A shout from the coachman brought lackeys running from the hôtel, and in a few moments lanterns were brought to illume the wet, blustery night.The door of the coach opened, and the steps were let down for a staid, middle-aged servant in green livery. He held a long cane in one hand, prepared to give it to the other man about to descend.
“Thank you, Eustache," said the owner of the coach as he stepped out of the cumbersome vehicle. In the light he was revealed as a man of slightly more than middle age. His hair, unpowdered, was the color of steel, though it had once been of a rich, dark brown. Of a bit more than middle height, he was amazingly slender, with the lined, haunted face of one driven to fast often in expiation of his sins. He was dressed in well-made but drab and somewhat old-fashioned clothes. Simple muslin sufficed for his neck cloth, and there was no lace at his cuffs. His shoes were of a practical design, with very little heel on them. He turned appraising eyes toward the door, and it was seen that these were of a pale blue almost the color of ice. He addressed one of the lackeys. "Be good enough to tell la Comtesse that her brother has arrived."
The senior lackey bowed and went ahead into the house, giving orders for le Marquis de Montalia's baggage to be brought to his room, and setting the door open in welcome.
Apparently the arrival of the coach had been noticed before the lackey's announcement, for Madelaine came running down the hall, her walking dress of pale rose billowing around her as she came. "Father! Father, welcome!" She threw herself into his arms as he crossed the threshold, laughing for joy. "Oh, how I have missed you."
Le Marquis de Montalia returned his daughter's embrace, then held her off from him. "Madelaine, I have missed you. But look at you, my child. Such fashion. Such finery. I would not have known you, I think."
"Don't say that," Madelaine said quickly, putting her hand through his arm. "You would always know me, father, would you not?"
He gave her a sad smile. "Of course I would. I did not mean to distress you, my dear. I meant only to tell you how well you are looking. I sent a child away, I protest, and am met by a woman. It is the fate of every parent, I suppose."
She walked with him down the hall, smiling at him, holding onto his arm confidently. "We were just at supper, and I know you will want to join us. My aunt's chef is superb, father. He has a way with veal that will amaze you; the sauce is made with mushrooms and herbs and wine, and the veal is stuffed with pâté of chicken livers and bacon. I know you will love it."
"But I must not dine yet, my child," he said with a slight ripple of laughter in hi
s voice. "I have been traveling all day, and I know I must reek of the road."
"I am sure no one would mind," Madelaine said, a melting persuasion in her voice.
"I would mind, my child. You must allow my eccentricities. I cannot sit down to eat in this dirt. I would ruin the meal for everyone else." He kissed her on both cheeks, then said, "It will be less than an hour before I join you. Eustache has my things, and as soon as he has been shown to my room, the appropriate clothes will be laid out. I may not have been in Paris for the last twenty years, but I know what is due my hostess."
Madelaine raised her chin, a stubborn set to her face. "I would rather have you join us now, my father."
It was perhaps fortunate that at that moment the senior lackey appeared, bowing to Madelaine's father. "I have taken the liberty of showing le Marquis' servant to his rooms. If it is convenient, I will do myself the honor of directing you there."
Le Marquis de Montalia nodded to the lackey. "In a moment. I thank you for your attention," he said, handing the lackey a livre document.
"How long will you be? Do not take too long, father."
"I will take not one moment longer than is necessary. Tell my sister and her esteemed husband that I will join you as soon as may be. And pray do not wait for me at table, I am rarely hungry after a long journey. Some vegetables, an omelet, and a few slices of meat will suffice me."
"I will see that my aunt sends the order to her chef." She gave her father an impulsive hug.
"That is not wholly becoming in young ladies, my child," he said in mild reproof. "As a Father, I am overjoyed that you still show me this unaffected attention, but you must remember that in the world, such actions do not add to your credit. Be willing to be formal with me now, Madelaine." He took her hand and kissed it gallantly. "I will be with you within the hour."
The lackey, who had been watching all this as if he were a wooden statue, came to life and said to le Marquis de Montalia, "Follow me, sir, if you will be so good."
"Thank you," le Marquis said. He turned down the hall and up the stair.
Madelaine watched him go, doubt surging through her like a strange dark tide. She was delighted to see her father, this was true, and she felt her love for him well up as it always did. But the remoteness she had long sensed in him, the isolation between them, was stronger now, and if she did not know better, she would have been willing to take her oath that he had been upset at the sight of her. Certainly there was no word to betray him, yet the reserve she had always known in him felt stronger now, and deeper.
She walked slowly along the hall back toward the dining room. The veal in sauce did not tempt her to hurry now. There was the hint of a frown in the angle of her brows, and she moved as if she were locked inside herself. Pausing by one of the windows, she stared out into the streaming night, one finger following the silver progress of a drop on the other side of the glass as it slid downward. How much she wished that Saint-Germain were with her now. It was less than an hour since he had left with his musicians, promising to see her for a moment the next day. She wanted him now, so that she could pour out her confusion to him, and feel safe in the warmth of his eyes.
Realizing that she would be missed, she abandoned her vigil at the window and walked toward the dining room with a purposeful stride.
This room was on the north side of the hôtel, facing onto a little terrace so that in pleasant weather the french doors could be kept open allowing a cool breeze to pass over the diners. On nights like this it was made cozy with several trees of candles, a large fire, and thick velvet draperies over the windows to keep out annoying drafts.
The dining table was made of fine cherry wood, and could seat twenty-four. Tree crystal chandeliers hung above it, making ghostly patterns on the green-and-white-striped walls, for the candles were not lighted. At one end of the table Claudia sat, and at the other, Gervaise. Two large epergnes made conversation between them impossible without shouting, and so the room was silent when Madelaine opened the door and took her place at her aunt's right hand.
"That was Robert?" La Comtesse smiled a little wearily.
"Yes. He has gone to his room to change clothes. He asked that we do not wait for him." She studied the food on her plate as if it were a wholly unfamiliar and possibly hostile life form.
"What is it, my dear?" her aunt asked when the silence was oppressive once more.
Madelaine shook her head. "Nothing. Or probably nothing. He seemed so... strange…."
"Well"—Claudia picked up her third silver fork and helped herself to some winter pears poached in brandy—"I should not refine on it overmuch, Madelaine. He is undoubtedly tired from his long journey, and returning to Paris after so many years might distress him. He did leave because of scandal, remember. He could find this return visit somewhat distressing." She rang a bell beside her plate and in a moment two lackeys came into the room. "You may remove this course, and serve the meat at once."
"Very good, ma Comtesse," one of the lackeys said, and set to work clearing the third course.
From his end of the table, Gervaise beckoned to the other lackey and issued an order in a low voice. Then, recalling his duty as host, he said, "Is there anything your father might like, Madelaine?"
To her own consternation, Madelaine flushed. "Oh, yes. I had forgot. He would like some vegetables, an omelet, and a few slices of meat. He will not want it for a little time, so they need not rush in the kitchen." She looked at her aunt, a mild shock in her eyes. "I do not mean to give orders in your house."
La Comtesse patted her hand. "Do not talk nonsense, my dear. You may do as you wish. And when you make requests for your father, I must be pleased for his sake."
Madelaine felt the color in her face subside. "Thank you, Aunt Claudia. I do not know why I feel this way so suddenly."
La Comtesse gave a knowing smile. "With your fête the day after tomorrow, you do not know?" She gave an indulgent chuckle. "To be sure, I cannot imagine what there is to claim your attention. Merely your own fête, with three hundred guests coming—"
"Three hundred?" Madelaine was deeply shocked.
"That is what my replies have been so far. I daresay there will be more, for there are always those who come at the last minute, and I don't know why, but they inevitably bring half their friends. We may anticipate a great crowd Sunday night. Thank goodness almost all the preparations have been made." She looked up as the lackeys returned with the meat course, and she saw that Gervaise had been brought a third bottle of claret. She felt her heart sink, knowing that heavy drinking led inexorably to another bout of gambling, but she rallied her spirits and said, "Gervaise, see? Collops of suckling pork in a wine sauce with crab. Say you will have some."
Gervaise cast one eye at the new platter and three side dishes and snorted with disgust. "No, thank you." He reached unsteadily for the new bottle and poured a generous quantity into his glass.
"The meat is not red, Gervaise," his wife pleaded with him. "You need have no scruple to eat it on Friday." She pressed her hands together, and realized that the delicacy set before her would taste like sawdust now that she knew Gervaise was bent once again on his own destruction.
"Do not trouble yourself over me, Madame, I pray you." Already his speech was slurred, and there was an ugly sound to this command.
"I am sorry." The words were very soft, wrung from her heart. She put one fine hand to her eyes, then said to Madelaine, "There, my dear, I will be fine in a moment. You must not let me alarm you. I... I must be more tired than I knew, so that every little thing may set me off. Do not worry."
The effect of these reassurances was to make Madelaine more apprehensive than ever. "Dear Aunt, why do you say that?"
"I am being foolish." She gestured rather wildly. "It is nothing. Here. Have some of this excellent pork. We will break Onfredo's heart if we do not eat this dish." She motioned blindly to the platter. "Onfredo is always so considerate. It is wrong to turn back his splendid fare, Gervaise. Why do we pay
him such an outrageous salary if we do not want him to cook for us?" She did not expect an answer to this, and did not get one.
In the hopes of helping her aunt to master herself, Madelaine said, "I have heard that Onfredo is the envy of all your friends. Why is that?" She accepted a helping of the pork and put a few of the peas in a sauce of cheese and cream on the plate, nodding to the lackey to dismiss him.
Grateful for this, Claudia flashed her niece a quick smile of appreciation. "You have eaten here for more than a month, and you need to ask? Onfredo comes from one of the greatest schools in the world. His uncle and his father have been chefs to royalty. Onfredo accepted employment here because he wants to experiment without the criticism he might have in a greater establishment. I am more than delighted to have him attempt any dish he wants, for not only does this give my table a reputation no other has, but it is wonderful to think of a few great masterpieces bearing the title à la Claudia. There are three such already." She looked toward the head of the table and for an instant there was despair in her face as she watched Gervaise fill his glass yet again. She turned back to Madelaine, determined to be cheerful. "He's frightfully temperamental, of course, as befits a genius of his sort. But the food he prepares is worth it."
"I heard," Madelaine said, falling in with her aunt's frame of mind, "that he once threatened to commit suicide if he could not get fresh fennel and a particular variety of fish for a new recipe he had in mind."
Claudia made an airy tinkle of laughter as she tasted more of the pork. "He is always threatening to commit suicide over something. He was in utter desperation about all Friday dinners until l'Abbé assured him that it was only red meat that could not be served, so that suckling pigs, of this sort, or veal, could be part of the meal. Onfredo delights in these tantrums." She looked once again at her husband, and saw him toss off the last of his wine as he took the neck of the bottle.
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