“We should charge for the exhibit of the monkey, since he will be a source of amusement,” observed the Abbé, as he produced another few sous.
“Animals not allowed. I’m only letting you in because he’s in a cage.”
“I simply cannot live without the sight of my dear monkey,” announced Aunt Pauline. “And he droops, positively droops without me.”
“Hmm. Yes,” said the attendant, still holding out his hand. Señor Alonzo stretched out his mouth with his fingers to make an ugly face at the attendant. The Abbé increased his offering, and we passed through into the bathhouse. Actually, we had to have Señor Alonzo, not for himself, but for his cage. In the bottom, beneath a board, lay the Deathless Menander’s box, and by keeping him in close proximity to us, he was unable to flit about and embarrass us by materializing at the waterside, after having been left up in our rooms. Of course, he had been furious at the notion.
“My beautiful box, in the bottom of a monkey’s cage! I tell you, I’ll have a terrible revenge!”
“Nonsense,” Auntie had told him. “I’m tired of your limiting our little pleasure excursions. It’s time we went to the spa, and you’re just going to have to settle for the monkey’s cage. No supernatural phenomenon has a right to be a social embarrassment.”
“I tell you, I’ll squeak, I’ll howl!”
“And everyone will assume it’s Señor Alonzo, and ignore you completely.”
“Never, never in eighteen centuries—”
“You’re spoiled, Menander, that’s your problem. You’ve had your own way far too much. It’s high time you were taken in hand.”
So there we were, monkey, lackeys, Menander and all. Only Gargantua had been left behind in the rooms, to his great grief, since he considered himself a far more worthy companion than Señor Alonzo, his mortal enemy.
Now I had never taken the waters before, since not only did I always enjoy perfect health, but father was a great hater of spas, saying they were nothing but dens of sin, where men and women went to devote themselves to orgiastic pleasures, and only a wicked woman like his sister would ever persist in such flagrant behavior. But the great bath inside the arcade looked to me more like the aftermath of sin than sin itself, resembling those paintings in church where the souls of the wicked are stewed in steaming sulfur pools. The pool had shallow steps descending into the water, and men on crutches, women twisted into the shape of gnomes, and even pallid children with withered and useless limbs were being assisted down into the water by various attendants. At one end, a canvas awning was stretched, and there Auntie was assisted to a seat on the sunken steps, her immense shift billowing about her in the water. There, she was immediately surrounded by a number of other old ladies, all trading notes on their ailments at a rate of speech almost too fast to follow. Over all, the hideous smell rolled like a curse. And for myself—well, I was just praying that no one would notice me there, so gawky, so undressed, my wet shift clinging to me. Where to hide? Only deeper in the water, crouching so it came up to my chin, in the center of the pool, my eyes tightly closed, away from the cripples splashing in the shallow water on the steps.
“Sibille, Sibille!” I could hear my godmother calling. “Over here—there are some ladies I’d like you to meet!” I opened one eye. All around me, the pool of the damned, except the attendants didn’t have pitchforks. “Don’t stay in the sun, Sibille, you’ll spoil your complexion!” I opened the other eye. In front of me, a woman with the biggest nose in the world. Another, with a china eye and a huge wen. You may be plain, but you’re not as awful looking as that, said my Lower Self to my secret mind. I turned my head to the source of the sound, and saw the old ladies all bobbing in the water beneath the canopy. And at least you’re not as old as that, whispered that regrettable, low element of my character. Sorrowfully, I thought of the new, vicious scars that spoiled my left hand and arm. But even though I’m young, my pretty hand has been spoiled, I thought. I wiggled the fingers. The scar still felt tight, and it looked horrid, all red and lumpy.
A frail boy with paralyzed limbs was being lowered into the water by the attendants. I knew I should feel sorry for him. But my mean-spirited little Lower Self said, well, at least your arm is better than that. Then I thought, what a low person you are, Sibille, and not sensitive and sympathetic at all the way you thought you were—instead of feeling compassion for the unfortunate who are all around you, you are beginning to feel better because you see other people worse off than yourself. Now I felt guilty about feeling better, so I felt just as bad as ever. Slowly, my conscience eating at me, I made my way through the stinking water to the shaded spot beneath the canopy.
“Ah, here you are at last,” exclaimed Auntie. “Sibille, I swear I see a freckle! You must be more careful!” And the ladies left off discussing a woman whose womb had fallen after the birth of her fourth child in order to consider my own case, which they found quite scandalous.
“Imagine! A hired attacker with vitriol! My dear, how fortunate you were to be spared from marrying him!” Well, they were certainly right there. Just think, no matter what, I’d been spared marrying Villasse. And while I did feel guilty, it was not as guilty as if I’d been a murderess, and besides, now everybody who wanted me to marry Villasse was shown to be wrong. As they chattered, I began to feel my bad mood shrink. Perhaps Nicolas hadn’t been convinced, perhaps Auntie could manage something after all.
“Why, the scarring is not bad at all—a glove, or you could hold a fan just so—”
“My poor niece is devastated because her admirer, her brave rescuer, has been forbidden to marry her by his father, and now he doesn’t call anymore. I’m sure she’s secretly afraid it’s because she’s scarred.”
“Why, that’s ridiculous! A beautiful, virtuous girl like your niece? The old man ought to praise God for his luck!” The old lady turned and inspected me closely. “Besides, look, not a drop hit your face, dear—why, if I had your complexion—Trust me, his love will only grow stronger once it’s forbidden. And when a boy’s in love, he’ll find a way. He’ll get a message to you—who knows, maybe one has been intercepted already—and then—ah, love!”
I began to notice that the sky above the pool was very blue. The company was amusing and lighthearted. The shady arcade seemed graceful and inviting. I could hear birds in the trees beyond the bathhouse wall. The sulfur stink had quite faded out; I hardly smelled it at all. My goodness, Auntie was right after all—these waters were very restorative.
“—your hair, it is so thick and handsome, and with the curl, it will hold the new style. Just a glimpse, and he’ll fall in love with you more than ever. I’ll send my hairdresser, he’s a genius—”
“Now you see, Sibille? I told you you needed to take the waters. Your face is looking brighter already,” said Auntie.
***
“A tall girl and a very large lady with a cane? Yes, they’re inside,” said the attendant.
“Then let me pass,” said the captain, trying to push by.
“Oh, no. Not without the fee. And you have to leave your sword with your man, here. See the rules?” The attendant pointed to the placard posted at the entry.
“Those rules are not for people of birth.” The captain was splendidly dressed, his high white ruff trimmed with lace, his brown velvet doublet slashed with cream-colored satin, his wide, sleeveless gown fur trimmed and embroidered with crimson. At his side hung a rapier and dagger, and though he was on foot, he had not taken the spurs from his boots. With all his elegance of dress, few present would have suspected he was a chaser-after-dowries, a debtor living beyond his means, and a man who was capable of stooping so low as to purchase a love potion from Lorenzo Ruggieri to seduce the wealthy sister of his best friend and comrade-in-arms, Annibal de La Roque.
“Oh, no, they’re the king’s rules, and they’re for everybody. No weapons, no quarrels.”
“I have no intention to quarrel. I simply want to see Sibille de La Roque.”
“No indecent proposals. Them
’s the king’s rules, too.”
“Fellow, I could strike you down for your insolence.”
“Don’t complain to me, complain to the governor of the baths. You can go in if you want to bathe. That’s all.”
“Well, then, I want to bathe,” said Philippe d’Estouville, fishing in his wallet.
“No swords,” said the attendant.
It was without a sword that Captain d’Estouville surveyed the great bathing pool from the shade of the arcade. Nowhere did he see the dark, curling head of his rival. His spies had told him right. The wretched interloper was no longer calling on her. Doubtless sent away. Now her heart was free. Good. The ladies, where were they? Aha, over there under the canopy. Yes, there she was, right by that vulgar old aunt who refused to allow him in the house. But sooner or later, Sibille would get out of the water, dry off, perhaps want a refreshing drink under the arcade. Perhaps the old dragon would vanish in to the bathhouse for a massage, or a cupping. Then he could offer the niece some light refreshment. It was astonishing to him how simple the concept of a love potion was, and how difficult to carry off its administration. Particularly when one must attend to a demanding superior, who traveled between his estates, the court, and now the battlefront, and when a suspicious old duenna manages to intervene on every social occasion. This time, this time he would manage, and Sibille would fall hopelessly in love with him, and his money worries would be solved forever.
***
Outside the bathhouse gate, a beetle-like figure in black leather had been barred from entrance by the attendant.
“But I have no intention of bathing. I simply want to visit,” Cosmo Ruggieri was saying.
“It doesn’t matter. If you want to go in, you must pay. And no swords. No daggers, either. Read the rules there. Those are the governor’s rules, on orders of the king. And no going in just to pay addresses to some lady. That’s forbidden, too.”
“I am not going in to pay addresses to a lady,” said Ruggieri.
“Well, then, what do you want?”
“I—I have a very bad back. I—I need a massage, and a bleeding,” said Ruggieri, rather unconvincingly, as he fished in his wallet for the admission price. Within minutes, he, too, was standing in the arcade, also clad only in his long undershirt, looking about for d’Estouville, whom he had followed in. God, there he was in the water, floundering about like a fish, making his way toward a group of ladies seated on the steps in the water beneath a shady canopy. What a bumbler. A Florentine, given any potion whatsoever, would not fail in a clever ruse to administer it speedily. But this wretched, arrogant, useless Frenchman, what a hopeless case! He moped; he traveled; he sent serenaders in an attempt to get into her house; he followed the sorceress about the court instead of joining her at supper in one of the great houses where she was invited to read her poetry. All he had to do was get her to sit down and drink with him just once. A failure, an utter failure, this ridiculous French captain. And a terrible annoyance to him, Cosmo, who had to trail this bumbler everywhere to grab The Master of All Desires the minute it was ownerless! If I hadn’t found out she was going to the spa, and suggested this scheme, he’d still be pouting outside her door, thought Ruggieri. The French, how incompetent!
Where could they have The Master of All Desires? They couldn’t risk traveling this far without bringing it. The wily Florentine hunted about among the loungers, the strollers, the bored valets, the attendants laden with towels. No box in sight. And yet it could not be far. Otherwise, it would follow them and materialize at the poolside. It must be in the dressing room. How like them—to hide it in the ladies’ dressing rooms. Where were they? Ah, yes, there where the two arthritic old ladies were being assisted by a powerful matron to move, crab-like, toward the healing pool. As quietly as a lengthening shadow in the evening, Cosmo Ruggieri moved toward the unguarded door and slipped in. Suddenly, there was a powerful shriek, and several attendants rushed toward the sound, emerging with the unlucky Cosmo firmly in their grasp. Sputtering protests, he was dragged unceremoniously toward the bathhouse gate and pitched out.
“If you even think of trying to get back in, we’ll have you in prison so fast your head will spin,” shouted one of them, as the gate slammed shut. A ripple of laughter and the buzz of conversation spread through the sulfurous fumes. There is nothing like a scandal to excite conversation among strangers, and Cosmo had created a worthy one.
“Just what did he think he was doing?”
“A thief, obviously.”
Sibille and Aunt Pauline looked at each other meaningfully, and their eyes lit up with amusement as Señor Alonzo began to dance and chatter in his cage. Sensing his opportunity, d’Estouville sloshed his way to the ladies under the canopy, and entered the conversation. “A scandal, what a dreadful fellow. It is such a relief to know that these baths are so well governed—”
***
A delightful June breeze ruffled the waters of the lake, and carried the sound of a young man playing the lute for his ladylove from a boat drifting far out on the placid surface. But the melancholy fellow feeding the swans took no notice of the pretty sight. He had managed to escape from his father’s house, followed only by a single minder, for this brief moment only, on the grounds that he had lost so much weight that he should take the waters to restore himself before the long and risky trip over the Alps into exile. Over and over, he rehearsed what he was doing to say. His Sibille was there, the greatest love of his life, and he would have only a brief moment to say farewell. Suppose she thought he had abandoned her? Suppose another man had taken advantage of his absence to lie about him, to sow doubts, to win her over? Suppose she refused to speak to him? Then he’d just leave silently, and languish and die—would it upset his father more if he languished and died on the road, or once he was at his uncle’s house in Genoa? Never mind, a cruel fate would arrange it in the most tragic fashion.
“Master Nicolas, it does no good to droop and dawdle here; you need to take the treatment so you will be well enough to travel.” Hmm, thought Nicholas, how am I to get rid of Bernardo? It was a fortunate thing that I discovered she would be here. But what will be the good, if I can’t break free of father’s lackey? He’ll report everything. Languidly, he drifted toward the bathhouse gate, the old servant following close behind.
“Goodness, just look at that placard,” said Nicolas, still at a distance from the gate. “I can’t take my sword or my knife inside. Bernardo, could you take them back to the room?”
“Not until I see you’re safely inside, Master Nicolas. As long as you’ve clothes on, you might escape.”
“Not without my sword. You know it’s too valuable to leave behind.” Grudgingly, the older man watched as Nicolas leaned against a tree and fumbled in the purse at his waist for the price of admission. He looked even skinnier and more hollow-eyed than he had ever been since he had fallen in love with that canon’s niece at Bologna, who had promptly been sent off to stay with relatives in the country. Poor old man, thought the servant; this ungrateful, useless fellow is the only son he’s got.
But hardly had Bernardo departed when the strangest old woman hurried past the languid, heavily sighing Nicolas. The hoops in her farthingale joggled this way and that; she trod on her hem, and a distinctly masculine curse emerged from beneath the heavy veil she wore. Nicolas’s eyes brightened.
“Your beard is showing,” he said to the strange old woman.
“Young man, I have a terrible disease,” whispered Cosmo Ruggieri in a hoarse voice.
“Terrible indeed—you are so badly crippled you walk like a man,” observed Nicolas, his left eyebrow raised sarcastically.
“Listen, you have to help me. If I lean on your arm, and you pay for both of us, the gatekeeper will never see through my disguise.”
“Why should I help you?”
“Because I am planning a rare prank. A clever young fellow like you will be able to dine out for years simply retelling the story.”
“A prank? On who
m?”
“On a snobbish gentleman who thoroughly deserves it. Monsieur d’Estouville, if you’ve ever heard of him.”
“Heard of him? Why, he hired serenaders to steal a lady’s affections from me. I was forced to drive them off at sword’s point, the wretches.”
“A lady? Could that lady be—Sibille de La Roque?”
“Why—yes—was I that notorious?” asked Nicolas. Cosmo’s eyes narrowed slyly beneath his heavy veil.
“Well, at this very moment, Monsieur d’Estouville is paying his addresses to her inside.” Nicolas first turned pale, then crimson with concealed rage.
“Take my arm, old lady, you’re too weak to walk without a cane,” announced Nicolas in a loud voice, and together they passed through the bathhouse gate.
As Nicolas emerged from the bathhouse into the arcade, he noticed the strange old woman was nowhere to be seen. What a fool I feel like, with my shirt flapping about me. How can I say good-bye like this? But then he caught sight of d’Estouville’s fashionable little beard, and his flashing smile, and heard his light laughter as he escorted Sibille to the edge of the water. His Sibille, looking more beautiful than a nymph, her head and neck emerging from the water. And beneath that, her wet shift, clinging and floating—he could feel himself tremble all over. Sacrilege! That odious womanizer, so close, so foul!
At that very moment, Ruggieri, divested of his feminine attire, was slinking behind the pole that supported one side of the canopy, not far from the backs of the jabbering old ladies and the monkey’s cage, which had attracted several curiosity-seekers. Señor Alonzo, pleased with his audience, was entertaining them with several of the extraordinarily vulgar acts of which only monkeys are capable.
“Again! Oh, look at that!” There was a patter of applause. A groan came from the bottom of the cage. Cosmo edged closer. Yes, definitely, that was not a monkey sound. In the midst of the laughter, he could distinctly make out words:
“Never, never have I been treated so rudely—”
Yes, that was it! It could only be The Master of All Desires, set beneath a board in the bottom of the monkey’s cage! Quickly, Cosmo looked at the pool. Sibille was emerging behind a large sheet being held by an attendant, and d’Estouville was following, all dripping wet. Soon enough he’d be dressing, then offering her a drink—
Judith Merkle Riley Page 28
