“—and at the very least, if you were going to change it from Monteverdi, you could have made it de Montvert—”
“That would have been false—”
“So is Montvert—”
“Don’t change the subject on me, Nicolas, I told you you’re not going with me to Orléans, and that’s final. Your mother needs you here—”
“No more than I need to be there—”
“For what? You have failed to ingratiate yourself with M. Bonneuil, as well as all the other important connections I’ve made for you. Why would you suddenly want to—aha! I can tell by the look in your eye—”
“My eye looks just as it usually does.”
“Oh, no, it does not. You’ve fallen in love again. Were you hoping to droop after that skinny cousin of Madame Bonneuil’s? Hang under her window playing the mandura, or maybe set me up for a cash payment to get rid of her? That’s it, I know it, I see it all in your eye. Sibille Artaud—stay away from her. The whole family are nothing but a crowd of blue-blooded, money-sucking wastrels—”
“She’s different, Father, I can tell—”
“After one chance meeting? You can’t even tell which side of the bed to get up on. You mooncalf! If you ever become responsible, and if you ever make a respectable place for yourself in society, your mother and I will send to your cousins at home to find you a good Italian girl, a pure girl of some substantial banking family, to be your wife. Until then, stay away from women of ill fame. I won’t pay a sou—”
“She’s not—how dare you—she has a noble bearing—she—”
“And I have heard from Gondi that she’s been invited to attend the queen at court, and you know what that means—affairs, fortune hunting, perhaps a lover chosen by the queen herself for some purpose of high politics—stay away, Nicolas. You are not of that rank—or that level of depravity. You will be gobbled up in an instant.”
“I will not—”
“I’m telling you, if I find you hanging around a woman like that, I’ll sign the papers to put you in the Bastille as a wayward son of dissolute life—”
But, alas, Scipion Montvert had, in his fury and indignation, selected the one argument that would cloak the unknown woman in a permanent air of desirability, the glamorous fascination of forbidden fruit. In that very moment, Nicolas’s wayward eye, so easily intrigued by the glimpse of a remote-looking, elegant young woman, was now permanently affixed to the polestar. Sibille Artaud de La Roque. Tall, slender, aristocratic-looking in black, concealing a secret tragedy in her eyes, a woman of wit and learning, of ancient name, and best of all, appropriately impoverished. Only he, Nicolas the hero, with his bold sword and dauntless spirit, could save her from the evil cesspool of court life, to which she had doubtless been driven by the cruelest necessity. She was all he wanted on this earth.
“—and what is more, by the time I return, I expect you to have mastered the calculation of compound interest…” His father’s voice resounded up the staircase as he vanished in the direction of the stable.
God didn’t mean me for a bookkeeper, thought Nicolas. I am meant to rescue the tragically beautiful Sibille from the intrigues of a sinister and decadent court, we are destined to be one…
***
I distinctly remember that it was a Tuesday when the royal messenger came, bearing a letter laden with seals. Auntie was already aflutter with the preparations for the weekly visit of her second cousin once removed, the Abbé Dufour, who came as regular as clockwork each Tuesday at midafternoon to devour sweets and play checkers while discussing the newest discoveries in the sciences and the occult. He was a man of small stature and great wisdom, invited to many uplifting afternoons, where he would read the latest selections from his monumental work-in-progress, On the Life and Habits of the Tortoise, with Additional Notes on the Waterways of the Île de France by the Author.
“Five kinds of preserves, three cakes, and candied cherries, too! Auntie, you’ve outdone yourself today.”
“The Abbé loves my candied cherries almost as much as the jeu de dames. Don’t forget to put out the board over there, on the little table—Arnaud, I hear my cousin—show him in, show him in! I must tell him about the new pain I have, right here, and the strange ache over the liver, have his opinion about which waters will do it the most good.”
Once a year, the Abbé escorted Auntie, along with another elderly maiden cousin and his old mother, to take the cure at Plombières, at Enghien-les-Bains, at Évian or some other spot where the waters were guaranteed to cure rheumatism, gout, headache, pallor, wasting, consumption, palpitations, dropsy, paralysis, nervous afflictions, overbalancing of the humors, or a thousand other diseases, all of which they assumed they had, and some of which they actually did have. Part of what made him such a valued guest and confidant was his fondness for discussing the symptoms of rare and exotic diseases, preferably apparently mysteriously harmless at first, the awful deaths they occasioned, the randomness of Fate, Godly ends, and Miraculous Cures. I had learned much on these Tuesdays, and as these were new topics to me, and not about hunting, I did not mind them.
But it was not the Abbé who was shown in. Instead, we saw a dusty man in the queen’s livery, who waited for a reply.
“Read it for me, I’m so excited I can hardly make out the lines—no, give it back! See here, how splendid, how amazing—yes, it truly says it: ‘summoned to appear before the Queen,’ right there, written as plain as day—and to read a selection of your poetic and artistic works! Oh, my heart!” Auntie sat down and placed one hand on her heart, and with the other, fanned herself with the letter she was still holding. “Yes, yes, tell the queen we are most honored to accept—”
“The queen has charged me to inform you that she has a collection of rare and ancient boxes, and hears that you have a coffer worthy of her collection. Were you to present it to her, she might consider even greater favor—an entirely new position attached to her household—that of poetess—purely ceremonial, you understand—”
“A coffer? Nothing could give us more pleasure,” said Auntie, still beaming from her seat and clutching the letter.
“But—but my writings,” I said to her when the messenger had left. “How could the queen know?”
“How could she know about the box? Queens have their ways. But the honor, the distinction! To read your works! We’ll have a splendid presentation copy made up by hand—ha! They’ll crawl in this dreadful little town when they hear we are going to court! Not good enough for them, was I? And the Abbé will be thrilled when he hears that he can escort us to Saint-Germain! Sibille, that wretched mummy in the box has brought you good fortune without you having to wish for a single thing! That just goes to show that Virtue always wins in the end! But—yes, Arnaud, that’s him at the door at last. Hurry, hurry, I have such news!”
But the next visitor Arnaud showed in was not the Abbé either. One glance at the richly dressed visitor’s painted smile and bright, beady blue eyes, from which no detail ever escaped—
“Cousin Matheline!” I exclaimed. Why should she, of all people, suddenly take it into her head to visit a house shunned for years by the respectable ladies of Orléans? “What brings you here?” Cousin Matheline seemed very conscious of being clad in the latest style; she had the new farthingale, which made her several petticoats and skirt stand out far beyond anyone else’s, the narrow ruff that peeped from above her high, silk collar was real lace, and at her narrow, corseted waist, hung a dear little embroidered velvet purse and a fan of painted silk and carved ivory.
“Oh, my dear, my dear cousin Sibille, and dear Madame Tournet—I am paying a too-long overdue courtesy call. I have been so busy—so overwhelmed by the duties of marriage. But at long last, you are here in town and we can converse once again about your beautiful poetry.”
“B-but, my letters—”
“Letter?” said Matheline, her voice bland, her eyebrows raised. “You sent letters? Oh, how cruel, I never received them. I would have loved to hav
e had your letters. We were always such close friends—” Without invitation, still standing, she began to consume the candied cherries, neatly seizing on them one at a time, with little white fingers as swift and sure as a peregrine’s beak.
“Do have a few cherries, Madame Bonneuil,” said Aunt Pauline, her voice a study in suppressed sarcasm.
“Oh, they are lovely. I do hope you received my little note of thanks for your wedding gift—I have intended to call for ever so long—” But her gaze traveled back to me. “You look so well, Sibille—my goodness, an invitation to court! And to think, soon the queen herself will listen to the very words that first were heard in my simple little provincial cénacle. My dear Monsieur Bonneuil was so impressed when he heard. Just think, poetry, he said. She was invited for her poetry. Why yes, I said, poetry gives us wings!”
“Why yes, it’s very impressive what literary talent will do,” said Aunt Pauline, in the exact same tone in which she had offered the cherries. “And how rapidly the word spreads about worthy works of art.”
“Bankers, my dear, they know everyone—it’s their business to have the very latest news from court. That was the royal messenger I saw leaving just now, wasn’t it? Official letters take so long—”
“Why yes, indeed, they seem to be behind everyone else,” said Auntie. But Cousin Matheline shook her finger at me in mock displeasure.
“And I know,” she said, “I know you have been conquering hearts. Why, dear Monsieur Montvert, who is ever so wealthy, even if his family is only recently French—his investments, you know, he is really terribly clever—was asking after you at supper only yesterday evening. He pretended indifference, but I just know he’s interested in you! His wife, they say, is sickly—expect a go-between at any time, my dear! That’s how these affairs are arranged at court, you know. His house in Paris, very lavish—connections everywhere. He was the first to hear of your good fortune. Oh, I can’t even describe the joy I felt for you, Sibille, when I heard the news from him. And such questions he had! Why, I said to him, my darling Sibille and I were at Saint-Esprit together—she has an absolutely impeccable lineage—though she had to leave after only two years, you can see it left her very cultivated—” Aunt Pauline, who was out of her line of vision, made a dangerous noise.
“So she had no vocation? he asked, and I said, well of course her family had arranged a betrothal to Thibault Villasse, a very substantial landholder—So she is engaged, but going to attend the court? he asked, and I assured him, Villasse couldn’t make any objections, because he was so desperately ill he has not left his bedchamber all this time, though of what I don’t know, but some say he had a hunting accident and shot himself through his own clumsiness and is trying to keep it a secret—” Both Auntie and I sucked in our breath at the same time.
“Thibault—is—still—ah—well, I—hmm, hope?” I asked.
“Well, I should think so, though of course nearly dead of shame I should imagine. But Montvert just said, ‘How convenient for her,’ ever so discreetly, so I am just sure you will be hearing from him soon, and I know for a fact he hasn’t a mistress, and they say he’s terribly generous, charities, you know—and that worthless son of his, he’s just poured money into him. Study here, study there, and he never finishes! My husband says that Nicolas Montvert is a born wastrel. What tolerance his father has for him! Too, too saintly. My husband says that any son of his who lived like that should go straight to the Bastille. So you see, Monsieur Montvert has a naturally generous, forbearing character. That’s just perfect for a lady who, well—And you must admit that although he is a bit old, he is far more distinguished-looking than Villasse, and away at court, well, a lady should have a gallant, but, I mean, maybe you’ll meet someone of better rank there, and in the meanwhile—and you see, he wouldn’t be hard to get rid of, once you did better—”
“Dear Matheline,” Aunt Pauline said, her voice dripping honey, “would you care to stay and meet my cousin, Abbé Dufour, who is coming to accept a contribution I am making to his Leprosarium?”
“His—ah—what?”
“Surely you’ve heard of it, his little hospital—Saint-Lazare? He is a very holy man, I’m sure you’ll find his conversation quite edifying. He washes the leper’s sores himself.”
“Why, why, that’s splendid—so charitable, so worthy. I do hope I’ll be able to meet him another time—it’s been so long since I have conversed with a truly sanctified person—so many these days are shallow—oh, Sibille, we must embrace, I have missed you so.” So Cousin Matheline, having never seated herself, clasped me to her stiffly corseted velvet bosom and we kissed, and she departed, leaving a cloud of lilac-water scent behind her.
“She’s eaten all the cherries,” said Aunt Pauline, who had never risen from her seat by the table.
“Oh, Auntie, he’s not dead after all! What shall I do? It was easier being a murderess,” I wailed.
“Do? Play dames, of course. You are better at it than I. And I will comment over your shoulder, which is even better than playing, because then I will not lose. And after that, the Abbé shall advise us of a good lawyer. And I do believe I hear his footstep at the door this very moment.”
***
Now the Abbé Dufour would never have conceived of washing a leper, because it would have interrupted his studies of the life cycles of rare and curious plants, his search for the hidden Will of God in the lusus naturae, his readings of the church fathers on the nature of the afterlife, and most especially his work on his massive monograph on the life of the tortoise, which was going to astonish the world of scientific philosophy. Besides, in the matter of leprosy, only the theory of leprosy would have ever held any importance for him, the mere possessors of it being too common for consideration. A tiny little man, curled of spine and pale of complexion, he charmed the ladies with his witty talk and utter neglect of all practical matters, which he left to them. Only in the matter of his own personal bodily comfort did he display precise, applicable knowledge. Thanks to this quality, when we at last departed on our grand and fateful journey, he knew of an ideal monastery for our overnight stay on the road, where the cook was a personal friend, and an excellent place to stay in Paris, an inn on the Left Bank in close proximity to several bookstores that he favored.
He was a perfect traveling companion, not minding the slow pace of Aunt Pauline’s ornate, curtained litter, which was slung between her two big grays, Flora and Capitaine. Every so often he would call down into the closed curtains that Auntie should risk the sun to take in this or that or the other interesting sight upon the road. And when the rays of the Evil Disc were aslant in the correct direction, Auntie would raise the curtains on the shady side, and he would regale us with amusing tales of famous robbers taken on this very knoll, or among the trees of that distant wood, or hairy monsters found later to be human just there, beyond those little houses near the hill—
“Théophile, why are we stopping? Have we reached the inn?” We had only briefly let in the sun as we paused to pass within the city wall of Paris by the Porte St.-Jacques. Now, all around us, in the joggling, dusty, dark of the litter, the entrancing sounds of a strange city came to our ears: the cries of street vendors, the calling of women out of the upper stories of their houses, the shouts of children at play. It was a great relief when Auntie opened the curtains and called out to the Abbé, where he rode beside us on his rangy sorrel mule.
“It’s much farther, my dear cousin,” he said, leaning down from his mount to the level of the open litter curtains. “This is some dreadful student imbroglio blocking the way, I fear. Youth is never quiescent in this district.”
“Are we in Paris yet? Open my box, I want to see the place,” came a muffled voice from the box beneath our cushions.
“Absolutely not,” said Auntie, dropping the curtain and addressing the space behind her ample bottom. “It’s bad enough having to bring you along at all. I certainly don’t have to take you touring.”
“You’ll be sorry,�
�� grumped the thing in the box. “I’m used to being treated with much more reverence.”
“We will simply have to go by another way,” came a voice from outside the curtains. “They are prying up the paving stones—oof, there goes one—definitely, by another way—Madame my cousin, we must turn; kindly order your valets to back the horses into this alley.”
Aunt Pauline gave the thing beneath the cushions a rap with one white, jeweled hand, while she lifted the curtain with the other and called out, “Arnaud, Pierre, have them back the horses according to my cousin’s instructions, and do look out for dear little Señor Alonzo, that he doesn’t become frightened with this dreadful racket.” What with the screeching of the monkey in his special silk-padded traveling box, the clatter and bang of Aunt Pauline’s armed valets shifting the litter-horses, and Gargantua’s barking, the complaining of the thing beneath the cushions went unnoticed. Good, I thought. So far we have succeeded in keeping it secret even from the good Abbé. As soon as we’ve given it away, my life will be my own again.
In the shadowy alley, we opened the curtains to peer out.
“Oh, look, ma tante, across the way—‘At the King David’—a bookstore.” A group of students rushed past toward the sound of the trouble, carrying an effigy stuffed with straw and wearing some sort of academic gown. Some well-hated professor, no doubt, about to have indignities rained upon him in absentia.
“There’s a better one we shall see tomorrow—‘At the Four Elements’—it has far more curiosities,” said the Abbé, but Aunt Pauline, looking at the hurrying students sniffed.
“So little fashion. How drab they all look! We certainly can’t do any shopping here. Lower the curtain Sibille, I see the way is clear enough for us to proceed.” But as we pushed through the narrow streets away from the sound of rioting, I couldn’t resist peeking out. “Of course,” Auntie was saying, “you simply have to have a few more things—”
“But, ma tante, I have so many dresses already—”
“Don’t contradict me, Sibille, I feel a shopping urge coming on. Why, that little place, the goldsmith’s there, doesn’t look half bad, even if this is the less fashionable section—my, hold up the curtain a little higher, dear—see that place over there—yes, it is beginning to sweep over me like a fever—”
Judith Merkle Riley Page 16
