“Does he suspect?”
“Not yet…” Aunt Pauline leans forward in her chair. It has legs carved like a lion’s feet. I want to look underneath the chair to see if it is carved like a lion’s stomach, but Aunt Pauline’s gown is too large.
“Give her to me,” says Aunt Pauline, her eyes blazing. “Give her to me. What good is all this wealth? My life is barren. Trade a portion of your wealth for mine.”
“But, my husband—Hercule says—”
“I know my brother. He thinks girls are nothing but a burden. You have a son, and a more beautiful baby girl, and he doesn’t even like this one—Monsieur Tournet would make it worth his while—”
At home, a storm. One of many. I hide beneath the table.
“I tell you, I will not give Pauline the satisfaction!” The sound of blows and sobs comes from above my hiding place. The lid of the kettle that hangs in the kitchen fireplace bubbles and rattles unattended. The blood from a half cut up chicken drips from the tabletop in front of my nose. A pair of heavy boots are standing just beyond the hem of my skirt. “And you, come out, come out, you weasel—I tell you, you grow more abnormal each day—crazy! You’ll be a crazy woman, and they’ll lock you up forever. I’ll lock you up! I’ll shut you in a trunk, you’ll never get out, if you don’t quit being crazy!” A big hand is reaching under the table, and I scramble away. “What has my sister given her? I know she’s given her something behind my back—” The big hand grabs me and drags me out. My feet aren’t touching the ground. “I swear, I’ll shake it out of you—” My head wobbles; my neck feels as if it will crack. The gift handkerchief with my initials, all rolled around several sweets, falls from its hiding place in my sleeve, and onto the floor. The heavy boot stamps on it and grinds it into a gooey, filthy mess on the straw-covered tiles of the kitchen floor.
“Father!” I cry, but it seems to be coming from far away, not from me.
“I won’t see you corrupted by that woman, I tell you—I’d sooner see you dead!”
“Hercule, no, not your riding crop—she’s so little—”
“Never—see—her—again—I—forbid—it.” The blows rain down in rhythm with his terrible words. What is wrong with me? Why doesn’t father love me?
“I—I’ll be good—” I sob, over and over.
***
But I am grown up now, and I am not good, I thought, as I pondered over the memory to the slow clop-clop of my little mare’s hooves. For I was on the road to see Aunt Pauline. And I planned to tell her…everything.
There was a time at the convent, shortly after my discovery of my rarified spiritual nature, that I planned to dedicate my entire life to God. But, alas, all idylls must end. Another of my father’s financial embarrassments led to my cruel wrenching from the cloistered abode and into the final arrangements for marriage with a neighboring gentleman, Thibault Villasse, Monsieur de La Tourette. Monsieur Villasse had first spoken for me when I was sixteen, but father’s fortunes were higher then, and he spurned him for his lack of ancient lineage. Indeed, the man had no quarterings at all, but only a large and dubious fortune made through currying favor with a royal favorite, the Maréchal St.-André, and the purchase of a salt monopoly. His title, in short, was without that sacred validation conferred by tradition, crassly purchased with his estate in the time shortly after my birth.
Monsieur Villasse would never have been my first choice, mind you, being nearly fifty and full of wrinkles, with white already showing in his fading brown hair and rusty beard. There was also a look in his cold green eye, well, perhaps I shall come again to that look later, but it seemed to me the look of a man with inadequate quarterings, peering at the world of noble thoughts and noble deeds as if through a spyhole, an eye that winked and shone with malicious craft and secret desires for revenge. Indeed, the life of a Bride of Christ, limiting as it was, seemed more desirable than union with such a man. But—a woman’s opinion is of no importance. A demoiselle must marry where her father wishes. I think it had something to do with a vineyard, left to me by my maternal grandfather, which lay directly on the southern side of Villasse’s lands, which possessed no vineyard at all. There was also something about various debts being canceled, and other loans extended, once the vineyard and my personal self (the two being inalienable, much to Monsieur Villasse’s frustration) had been transferred into his possession. But I have never pretended to understand about money. It is a subject unfit for a lady, who should never concern herself with it at all.
And yet, money, ever the vulgarian, forces us to think about it, like a drunken man who breaks into an elegant ball to which he has not been invited. For example, imagine my surprise at the time of my leaving my beloved Saint Esprit, when the mounted valets who had been sent to bring me home turned away from the distant spires of Orléans in the direction of our rustic country seat at La Roque-aux-Bois! “Why are we not going to our town house in this season?” I asked, and thus discovered that our distinguished and commodious family abode within the city walls had been let, partially furnished, to an upthrusting merchant of Italian leather gloves! My grandfather’s elegant hôtel, the galleries that had resounded to my mother’s childish play, the very rooms in which my infant prattle first resounded, filled with the rattle of alien accents, and the clink of money, and the haggling of purchasers! Why not rent it out for a pawnbroker’s, or a bordello? It would be hard to stoop lower.
But the superior mind can always find new possibilities in altered circumstances, even if they involve living year-round on an estate more suited to a pleasant stay during the summer months. I might make a botanical collection and drawings of the local herbs, I said to myself. Or perhaps I should create a cycle of nature poems, matched to the seasons. Rather than regret the reduction of social duties brought on by isolation, I might pick up again the threads of my most elevated, though unfinished project: a work entitled A Dialogue of the Virtues, in which the superiority of True Temperance, Humble Devotion, and all Excellence of the Christian Belief are Explicated, by a Lady. In this, my altogether boldest foray into the realms of the mind, the pagan gods debate the Christian saints, to the detriment of the pagan gods. The voice of my Sensible, or Lower, Self I had put in the mouth of Vulcan, a laborious but malformed and unworthy deity. I did not plan, of course, to reveal my name on this manuscript, for a lady of good family must always remain anonymous when setting pen to paper, as Sister Celeste used to admonish us. Nor did I plan anything so vulgar as to put it in actual print. No, the success of a private reading, a rustle of approval in some select cénacle, would content me entirely…
But, alas, all too soon we rode through the great gates beneath the dovecote tower of our farmhouse. Dismounting in the courtyard of our now year-round residence, I gave thought to how the cour d’honneur might be improved by the removal of the chickens and the extension of the paving beyond the entry to the front door of the logis at the far side of the dusty court. Entering the front door into the salle, which might have benefited greatly from the removal of several hundred pair of deer antlers and their replacement with a few tapestries in good taste, I found myself confronted with father, Monsieur Villasse, and the betrothal documents laid out on the table beneath the far window for my signature. Mother, my sisters, and the household servants were clustered at the back of our hall, silent, looking as if they were attending a funeral.
Villasse appeared somewhat larger than I remembered, his face more seamed, and his cold green eye more calculating. I must confess I had a moment of trepidation: his estate was isolated, and notoriously lacking in those little refinements required for a lady of my delicate and sensitive nature. Besides, there were the rumors about the death of his second wife that I had heard from my second cousin Matheline, who makes up for what she lacks in spiritual disposition by a decidedly worldly affection for gossip and dancing. No, Villasse, though he had acquired the title of Sieur de La Tourette, and was therefore an acceptable match, in spite of lacking in that multiplicity of distinguished an
tecedents that commands true respect, did not seem to be a man whom one might grow to love.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Sign: here’s the pen,” said my father, in the brusque tones of a retired capitaine of the light horse, accustomed to command. But we women, not having served in the military, are not required to bend our delicate souls to harsh vulgarities.
“It says nothing here about the wedding date,” I replied.
“It will be immediately; the banns have already been posted,” said my father.
“Oh, that cannot be; I will hardly have time to supervise the furnishing of my chamber at La Tourette, to say nothing of those little necessities which a lady of breeding requires.”
Villasse’s eyes narrowed a bit, but he asked, with great suavity, “And how much time would that be, Demoiselle Sibille?”
“Why, barely a nothing—I hope you will write it in there. Why, even I hate to postpone my moment of joy; but one must think of our future happiness. Preparation is all.”
“Preparation? How long a preparation?”
“Well, I must order my trousseau, my gown. And then there are the bed hangings and linens. And I must survey your library in order to send for those volumes of religious consolation required by the female sex. Six months, at least, counting the time to send for the volumes.”
“Books of religion?” said Villasse, the creases in his face registering interesting emotions. I glanced at mother, stiff, pale and silent. I thought I saw her eyes glint.
“I told you she was educated,” said my father.
“A mistake. Luckily one you have not repeated with your other daughters.”
“It was a fancy of my sister’s. She seemed better suited to the convent.” This, of course, was my father’s habitual way of remarking that he considered me too plain to marry off. And, of course, when the oldest cannot marry, the younger cannot move ahead of her. When my aunt Pauline, who is also my godmother, offered to pay for my education, father jumped at the chance to be rid of me. I felt the rosy tint warm my maidenly visage. Just because the Giver of All Good Gifts felt that an excess of boldly creative spirit might compensate in my case for a certain lack of physical charm does not mean it should be commented upon on such a significant day in my life.
It is true that certain of my old schoolmates made sport of my height and boniness; but I note that they were those of bad complexion and ill figure, and count them as simply jealous of my excellent clear skin and large dark eyes, my plenitude of richly curling black hair, and above all of my melodious singing voice, which surpassed theirs. Besides, I was certainly handsome enough to be the third bride of Thibault Villasse, who, as I have said, was not only lacking in youth and physical beauty, but also in spiritual development.
“So, you are refusing to sign?” said my father, rather menacing this time. I thought I heard my sister Laurette suck in her breath, but could not see where she stood in the shadow of the immense, carved sideboard beyond the table. Dinners of bread and water, imprisonment in a remote chamber, nightly beatings—these are not things I wish to make part of my life. Therefore I am always agreeable to father.
“Oh, never in the world. I yearn only to make you happy and hasten the joyful occasion of my wedding. But I know that Monsieur Villasse craves to make me welcome in a way that befits his nobility, just as I crave only to serve the happiness of his home and person.” My father’s eyes rolled, as if he were saying, now what the hell does that mean, and I smiled, a small but contented smile.
Villasse, seeing that smile, beamed upon me and said, in a purring voice, “Why, we’ll have the notary here make an addendum, with the condition that you can decide to hasten the day of our union at any time, if you so desire.”
“You’re giving in to her? Stubborn girls should be shown the whip, I say. And none come stubborner or flightier than Sibille. You are starting ill, Monsieur Villasse.”
“My bride shall have nothing but respect. Demoiselle, when the volumes of religion arrive, perhaps you will be able to read them to me in my easy hours, and instruct me further.” Father looked shocked. Villasse beamed upon him. The notary scratched. I signed. “Wine, to celebrate our union,” said my betrothed, in his silky-smooth voice, and mother nodded and smiled a wan smile. As I sipped and they toasted, my Spiritual Self began to think that perhaps I might civilize him after all. A delay so that he might value me the more, then the nightly reading of Uplifting Works aloud, perhaps regular attendance at mass. These things have been known to soften a man’s soul, my Higher Mind assured me. Or perhaps, if you can put it off long enough, something might happen to get you out of it, whispered my Lower Self.
***
An infinitude of intervening possibilities can occur in six months, I thought, as I set my card book, the Giardino di Pensieri, out on the big canopied bed I shared with my sisters. Ah, would that I, like Penelope, had an infinite tapestry to unravel by night, I sighed to myself as I laid out the cards. Why, I thought, let’s see—May is almost gone, but there’s June, July, August, September, October. That’s practically forever. Besides, not only was my botanical collection coming on well, but I had begun a series of drawings of the wing bones of various birds, hoping to discover the secrets of flight.
“Ah, there you are, Laurette. The four of deniers—that’s money after a wait, I’m sure. We don’t even have to look it up—I remember that one from the book.” Beneath the bed there was a contented munching and groaning sound. Gargantua, large of body but small of brain, was consuming an ox bone. Useless in the hunt, useless on the watch, he was born the size of a large lapdog, and since then had done nothing but eat and grow. No one knew when he would quit. But he was a devoted creature, so mother wouldn’t let father get rid of him.
“Oh, how wonderful to be educated,” sighed Françoise, who had just turned ten that summer.
“Did the nuns teach you to read cards?” asked Isabelle, who was twelve and disliked sums.
“Oh, no, nuns don’t believe in cards. They’re strictly forbidden. But then, they don’t know everything, do they? Cakes and pet kittens and cards, they do find their way in.” I picked up the card book and leafed through it. “Dominique gave me her deck when she renounced the world. And Cousin Matheline gave me her book last year when she left to be married. Her husband hates fortune-telling.”
“I saw her going to the cathedral two days before we moved,” announced Laurette, who at eighteen was the beauty of our family. “She was riding a gorgeous white hackney, behind a groom in silk livery. She greeted me. They say she is very rich, now that she is married.”
“Ladies never discuss money,” I said. “It is a lower taste.”
“Honestly, sister, you have no sense at all,” Laurette answered. “One can’t do anything without money, even sit all day and daydream and scribble, the way you do. As for me, I’ll take the lower and let the higher take care of itself. Now, lay out some more cards for me. Tell me I’ll be rich, and mistress of a great house, and attend at least two—no, three balls a week, and have gowns and jewels and horses all of my own.” I sighed. Not only do I not look like my sisters, I don’t even want the same things.
It is difficult to describe the burdens of a civilized soul born into entirely the wrong family, by some mischance of a jesting God. It’s not as if the Almighty might not with profit have placed me in a more genteel and congenial setting. Willingly I would have sacrificed my place as eldest, vineyard and all, for, perhaps, birth as the only daughter of a Gentleman Philosopher or a wellborn Doctor of Theology, rather than one of the overstock of a patriotic warrior’s excessive family. Indeed, on my father’s side, so numerous were the cousins that the family estates had been subdivided into crumbs, so to speak. Poverty is the curse of ancient but numerous lineages. Of that whole side of the family, only Aunt Pauline had money, and she had married it, by sacrificing rank to fortune. Father regarded her as one dead, though her offerings from the tomb, as it were, were not scorned as greatly as her person.
I
t was mother who had been the heiress, bringing my father several farms, a vineyard with a spring and a ruined tower, and my grandparents’ town home. But all of her rich inheritance except for La Roque-aux-Bois had fallen to father’s extravagance, the requirements of his position, the need to purchase for our brother Annibal a commission in the fashionable company of Monsieur de Damville.
It was only thanks to grandfather’s foresight, the vineyard had been left to me, while I lay in my mother’s womb. And before he died, he had set the little inheritance so thickly about with legal entanglements that it could not be separated from my person. A strange gift, one that had resulted not in my good fortune, but in my betrothal to a gross being of purchased title who wished to extend the boundaries of his estate.
But the cries of strangers and the sound of horses in the courtyard broke into my Contemplation of Fate. Even reverie and speculation must be sacrificed in a household of barbarians.
“Look, look, who’s in the courtyard!”
“Annibal! He’s back, and he’s brought people with him!”
“The horses, Sibille. They are splendid! Just come look!”
Clustered in the upstairs window, we looked down on a grand sight.
Six armed foot soldiers were escorting an immense dappled gray destrier, led by two grooms holding his silver-trimmed bridle. His ears were trimmed down in the military style, and his mane shaved, and his immense shoulders stood a good three hands above those of any of the other mounts in the party. Behind the destrier trailed a mounted groom, his trainer, and ahead of him rode two officers: Annibal, our brother, in his short, embroidered cloak, flat plumed hat, and high boots, and a stranger, even better mounted and more grandly fitted out than Annibal.
“Annibal, Annibal!” cried Françoise and baby Renée, and he looked up and waved. The stranger looked up, too. He was splendid: eagle-eyed, dark mustachioed, and commanding. He rode with an easy arrogance and surveyed the world as if he owned it.
Judith Merkle Riley Page 3
