“Oh, who is he?” sighed Isabelle.
“I swear, I’m half in love already,” said Laurette.
For myself, I was a betrothed woman, so I did not allow myself to think anything
***
“So, when Monsieur de Damville heard that Le Vaillant was for sale, he entrusted us with the purchase, on behalf of his father, the Constable.” Annibal put his knife into the pigeon pie and cut another piece. “Ah, this is wonderful; home cooking is always best.”
“Annibal, why did you never tell me your sisters are all beauties?” said the stranger, raising his wine cup and glancing knowingly at Laurette, who blushed.
“Monsieur d’Estouville, if you will only stay a few more days, you will find the hunting around here admirable.” The remains of empty platters sat all around father, who was feeling mellow.
“Annibal, do stay a bit longer,” said mother. “We see so little of you nowadays.”
“Annibal, never refuse a mother’s plea,” said the stranger, smiling first at mother, then at father. “That’s a beautiful piece you have on the wall there. Italian, isn’t it?”
“Battle of Landriano. Took it from a Spaniard.”
“Those were great times, they say. It has the new wheel-lock firing. A great improvement. My father used to tell me how the harquebusiers would plant the guns on their stands, light the fuses, and then turn their backs for fear they might explode, rather than fire at the enemy.”
“A good mechanism, but tricky. One can’t risk leaving it uncleaned for a month, especially in damp weather, and I can’t trust it to a valet.”
Guns, hunting. The boring occupations of the barbarian mind, I thought. The only thing that remains to be discussed is dogs or falcons.
“Your mastiff there—he’s the biggest I’ve ever seen. Have you tried him on bear?”
“Gargantua, at a bear hunt? He’s the most useless creature God ever made. Does nothing but eat and grow. I tell you, he’d flee a rabbit, let alone a bear. I’d have drowned him long before now, but my daughters would howl and fuss.”
“Oh, we couldn’t have these delightful demoiselles unhappy for even a moment,” said the charming stranger, flashing us an ingratiating smile.
“We really cannot overstay—” Annibal was saying.
“I have a new peregrine I want to try at ducks. Do you like falconry, Monsieur d’Estouville?”
“I am tempted. After all, we can’t weary Monsieur de Damville’s new prize stud with forced marches, now, can we? A day more—tell me, what lure do you use in this part of the country?”
“For hawking at the brook? Mallard wings, and only mallard wings—so did my father and grandfather before him.”
“The wisest course—the weight of them is more satisfactory. So, Annibal, your father has tempted me to stay another day. The ducks—and this wonderful wine here. Where did you say it was from?”
“From a vineyard I have south of Orléans—not so far from Blois, actually. Perfect soil.”
“Ah, you can always tell the soil.”
“And the sun. The weather, this year, perfect for grapes. So tell me, M. d’Estouville, which bird would you find more profitable to train, one with a good conformation and bad plumage, or a bad conformation and good plumage?”
“There are those who’d be fooled by the plumage, but I’d take the bird with good conformation—it will have more staying power—”
“I had one once that simply refused ducks. Not that good-looking, either. I sold it to a neighbor who fancied it and thought he could train it. The first time it perched; the second time it raked off and was never found. Monsieur de La Tourette it was; have you heard of him?”
“La Tourette? Is that in the duchy? What is his family name?”
“Villasse.”
“Villasse. Ah, I see…” His voice dripped scorn.
But my ever-busy imagination had been set to dreaming about the little peregrine, circling, circling above Villasse while he sat on his horse, first summoning the bird with his glove, then shouting in rage, as she realized that nothing held her, and she flew blithely to freedom. I never heard the rest until Annibal said, “Sibille, Sibille—you will go with us, won’t you?”
“What? Oh, yes,” I answered, without even thinking.
“How splendid to have the ladies join us,” said the gorgeous Philippe d’Estouville, flashing his absolutely charming smile at me. I did not sleep all that night.
***
We were away when the letter from Villasse was delivered to mother. I imagined her putting her hand to her heart when she received it, and turning a little pale. But we were splashing into the reeds by the pond at full canter, sending the ducks scrambling into the air, where the falcons, already loosed, were waiting, flying in circles until the game should be sent up to them. Bright silver water flew in every direction, Laurette laughed and turned pink, and Annibal pointed up into the bright azure above.
“Look, she’s got one!” Father’s peregrine dove suddenly, catching a mallard in her claws, the force of her dive sending her into the water with the flapping, screeching duck.
“I told you she’s a bold one,” said father, riding into the water to save the peregrine, as it clutched tenaciously to the still living duck. With a thrust of his finger, he broke the skin of the duck and pulled out its heart as it convulsed in its death agony, feeding it to the falcon. Sunlight glistened on the leaves of the trees at the far side of the reedy pond. Already the ducks were returning to the water there, far from our horses, where the peregrines did not dare to pursue them. As if in a dream, I saw Annibal retrieve his bird, which had brought a mallard to earth in a flurry of feathers and hard-beating wings, as the mallard fought back with all its strength.
“There’s a sweet little bird,” said the stranger, riding up beside me, his eyes catching me with a knowing, sideways glance. Somehow, it didn’t seem to me that he was talking about birds. I lowered my eyes suddenly, and my face felt hot. Something inside me was trembling all over.
“My brother is a wonderful falconer,” I said.
“So am I,” he said in that voice of his, which gave it a double meaning. He flicked his gaze over me, then spurred his horse forward to congratulate Annibal. In a flash, I was hating myself, thinking, oh, Sibille, how could you, with your natural delicacy of expression and intelligence of spirit, have failed so miserably to say something witty, something light and charming that would keep him by your side for a moment more of conversation? On paper, your words flow in a sparkling torrent; in life, you are as dumb as a stick.
“A perfect day, my friend,” I heard him say to Annibal as we rode home past the green stalks of growing wheat, the swaying poplars, the peasant huts with their little vegetable gardens toward the pointed gables of the farm. My brother’s reply was lost in the breeze. But as we clattered through our courtyard gates, I heard him say, “You are a fortunate fellow, Annibal, to be pampered by all these good-looking sisters.” Again, Philippe d’Estouville flashed that delicious, knowing smile. How dazzling the glance of his amber eyes! How bold and charming and, God help me, young and vibrant, he seemed, compared to Thibault Villasse. But between us stood rank and favor, the demands of family, reputation, and honor. If only I dared…
He had spurred his horse forward, and now was riding beside Laurette, telling her a joke, and she was laughing. I saw him glance at the pretty ankles she managed to let her riding habit reveal, mounted sideways as she was, her dainty little feet placed like a pair of jewels on the brightly painted board buckled to the left-hand side of her saddle. I saw she had worn her best pair of green stockings. And how on earth had she got them to stretch so tight? I looked down at my own big, bony feet where they sat beside each other. Betrayers, I thought. No one wants to see your legs in stockings, no matter how high your skirts get hiked. Maybe Villasse was all I deserved.
You must imagine the mournful state to which I had descended, in complete contradiction to the glorious red of the setting sun, by t
he time mother greeted us at the door, with the unwelcome letter reminding me of my impending fate. Villasse had written that he had acquired, from a printer at Lyons, an entire stock of religious works, with hand-illuminated capitals, and ordered the new curtains for our wedding bed. Since there was now nothing lacking for my personal and spiritual comfort, there was no need to delay the joyous occasion of our nuptials any longer.
“He’s enclosed a list of the books, Sibille. They seem quite numerous,” said mother, handing me the letter. Oh, dear, there they all were, pious sermons, works of the church fathers, a missal, a book of hours. I thought they’d take longer to find than that. He must have sent his clerk directly there.
“B-but I haven’t finished embroidering my wedding linens yet,” I stammered. Too soon, much too soon.
That evening we played tric-trac after supper, and then sang harmonies about the table. But the vast dejection of spirit I was experiencing weighed down my heart and spoiled my voice. So downcast was I that I did not even offer to read the first pages of my Dialogue, although they had been received so successfully at the last artistic afternoon I had attended at my cousin Matheline’s. Somehow, it was all the worse watching the dashing stranger dote upon Laurette, who wound her golden curls about one finger while she sang, looking up from beneath her eyelashes at him. How fascinated she seemed with every word that Philippe d’Estouville said: about life at court, the politics and favoritism in M. de Damville’s company, and blow-by-blow descriptions of every one of his twelve celebrated duels, in which he had never failed to kill his man.
“I have such a difficulty at court, you see—so many ladies are attracted to me—their husbands, so jealous, but with each affair of honor, the ladies flock in even greater numbers. So my blade brings on more of what it would end—”
“Of course, oh, it is a trial, suffering such people,” said Laurette, as he glanced at her with burning eyes to gauge the effect of his speech. Ah, Misery, were I to portray you in verse most symbolic, you would be more than wrapped in dark vestments of sorrow: you would have large feet.
The following day, when Monsieur de Damville’s new stallion, sleek and rested, was led out the courtyard gate with his retinue of grooms, his trainer, and his military escort, we stood at the front steps waving, then ran to the tower room to catch the last sight of the procession, of Annibal’s bright cloak, of the stranger’s elegant form, until they vanished out of sight on the dusty road.
“Sibille, take out your cards and tell me about Philippe,” sighed Laurette when they had disappeared.
“He’s due to inherit estates in Picardy and Normandy, and is out of your reach,” I said, rather cruelly. “You don’t need the cards for that.”
“But I know he likes me,” she answered. “Why should you be jealous? You have a husband already.”
“I’m just pointing out the truth. A man of his standing does not marry where there’s no dowry.”
“Do you think you can set yourself up, just because grandfather left you property? He might have done the same for me, if I’d been born before he died. And when Aunt Pauline dies and father inherits her fortune, we’ll all have dowry enough. Philippe said I had wonderful eyes. Beauty does count for something, you know.”
“So you count on Auntie dying? How do you know she won’t leave everything to the church?”
“Oh! You are unspeakable!” said Laurette, and she flounced off in a rage down the tower stair. “I have better things to do…” I heard her voice fade off as she vanished. And I have worse, I thought, and put my head down on the windowsill and wept.
Now it was not too much time later, as I recall, only a week or so, when I was in the midst of gathering up my poor nerves to write Villasse a letter explaining that my trousseau was not yet complete and the material ordered in Orléans for my wedding dress had been delayed in shipment, that something most unusual happened. I was in the salle at father’s big desk—my grandfather’s really, inlaid in six woods and too valuable to be left in the house that had been rented to the glove merchant—struggling with my response, when a valet in livery arrived at the courtyard gate.
“But, Sibille,” Isabelle was saying, as she leaned over my shoulder to read what I was writing, “you’re not ordering material from Orléans. You know you’re making over mother’s wedding dress.” Mother, seated at her embroidery frame, pretended not to hear, but her mouth was tight with disapproval.
“It’s almost the same. Making over a dress takes a long time. A very long time. Longer than ordering, really, because remaking is much harder than sewing fresh. Besides, you wouldn’t want him to think we wouldn’t honor him enough to have an entirely new gown made, would you?” I was just admiring the effect that powerfully reasoned arguments of logic have on twelve-year-old girls who are driven by an unholy and Pandora-like curiosity to read other people’s writing over their shoulders, when Françoise came running in.
“Sibille, Sibille! Auntie has sent her very own footman with a wedding gift! Oh, you should see how beautiful his livery is! He has a silk doublet in her colors!” Mother looked up, half rising from her seat.
“So, let’s all see what that crazy old woman has taken it into her head to send you this time,” said father, who had found the valet would not deliver over his charge except into my own hands.
“There is also a letter from Madame Tournet,” said the valet, skillfully evading father’s grasp. Mother stood, coming closer to see the letter.
“Well then, read it, read it,” said father. “Let’s hope she sent you money, and not another daft book of poetry.”
“‘My dear Goddaughter,’” I read aloud. “‘The cards told me that you are soon destined to leave home. Last week, on my way to Mass, I saw Monsieur Villasse in the street near your old home, and learned from a servant that he is at last to wed you, and that the date is not far. How like my brother not to tell me—’”
At this, father snarled, “Do you think I have to let her in on all my business?”
“But Father, surely, you could invite—”
“I told you I don’t want you ever seeing her, and the same is true for all of you! Don’t any of you have anything to do with her! She wants nothing better than to drag you into the gutter with her! Sister indeed! My sister is dead!”
“But Father,” said Isabelle, “she doesn’t live in the gutter at all. Her house is very large, and in the best part of town.”
“And I would love to see what’s in it,” said Laurette.
“I forbid you to ever set foot in that house. The name Tournet must not cross your lips in public.” But I read on:
“‘Although I have not been allowed to see your face since you were a little thing, through Annibal, I have learned that you have grown as I thought you might.’”
“Why is Annibal allowed to see her, if she is my godmother?” I asked. Suddenly curious, I looked up from the letter. My father’s face was as hard as stone.
“Annibal is a man,” said father. “Read the rest.”
“Auntie bought him that bay hackney he was riding. He told me so,” piped up Françoise.
“Shhh!” said mother, putting her hand over Françoise’s mouth. I read on:
“‘My gift is one that you must keep about your person always, for your own consolation in your new married life. Read it in solitude. It will bring you much solace. Take my blessings with you, whatever comes. I remain always, your affectionate, Auntie.’”
I unwrapped the oiled silk from the packet the valet proffered. It was a plain book bound in calfskin, curiously heavy for its small size. I opened it at random and saw a beautiful engraving of Our Lord, surrounded by men in armor, being kissed by an unpleasant-looking fellow whose malignant eye had an unpleasant resemblance to that of my intended. “Passio domini nostri iesu xpi secundum Johannem,” it said beneath, in red letters. A book of hours, most singularly appropriate and in good taste, if not as lavish a gift as I had hoped.
“A prayer book. What greater hypocris
y is that woman capable of?” said father, and I knew suddenly he had been anticipating money, or wedding jewelry, which he might well have caused to be transferred into his own hands for some useful purpose of his own contriving. And handsomely made as the book was, the plain calfskin binding, slightly stained with some brownish stuff, reduced the value. Yet there was the matter of the weight. I turned it over in my hands, inspecting it again. This talk of solitude, I thought; it may be more than a tribute to my sensitivity of spirit. When I’m alone, I’ll look inside the spine. Aunt Pauline doubtless knows father even better than I and may have hidden a little money in the book for my own use. On further contemplation of the matter, it seemed that a book of hours, even though printed in two colors, if it had no hand painting on the plates, was a bit too plain for a wedding gift. Definitely, there must be more to the book than appeared on the face of it.
But there was a stir and a cry. Mother, who had pressed in close again to see what the gift was, had fainted.
Four
It was suppertime, and the gentleman led the Sieur de Bernage into a beautiful room draped with magnificent tapestries. When the food was brought onto the table, he saw emerge from behind the tapestry the most beautiful woman it was ever possible to behold…except that her face was very pale and her expression very sad. When she had eaten a little, she asked for something to drink, and a servant of the house brought her a most remarkable drinking cup made of a skull, the apertures of which were filled in with silver. The lord of the house explained to Bernage that the lady was his wife, and the skull that of the lover he had murdered on the way to her bed, from which he had made her drink for all the years since to remind her of her sin.
“Ladies [said Oisille] if all the women who behaved like this one were to drink from cups like hers, I fear that many a golden goblet would be replaced by a skull!…”
Judith Merkle Riley Page 4
