After our son’s death, the Baron returned to the cruelties he had inflicted at the beginning of our marriage. My heart would still skip a beat at the signs of his anger, but once I was past the first lash, I knew how to detach myself from my own body. As to his other attentions, they no longer repelled me. I did everything he required of me and simply waited for the proceedings to be over. Any resistance, which he would have overcome without difficulty, would only have increased his pleasure and my misery.
Many times did I watch, from the window of my bedroom, the Baron mount his horse in the courtyard and ride away. I bit my lips with envy, remembering his injunction not to approach within a hundred feet of the stables. I knew that it was meant to be taken literally and that any disobedience would be reported by the servants. I sighed as I recalled the happy days of my girlhood, when I was free to ride Jewel into the mountains. That would never be again. I was careful not to indulge in any hopes of a change.
Yet my life was not without its consolations. I had my little girl, who was now past her first birthday. Her eyes were no longer blue, but had turned dark like her father’s. Apart from her black hair, she still very much resembled me. She had learned to walk by holding fast to my skirts, and could now say not only “Mama” but also “want” while pointing at the object of her desires. I had presented her with my old rag doll, which she called “Nana” and dragged everywhere. I mended the poor thing, now discoloured and threadbare, over and over again. I even sewed a replacement for it, but Aimée steadfastly refused to even look at the new doll.
Whenever I played the harpsichord, Aimée would listen with rapt attention, propped against the bench. After I was done, I sat her on my lap and guided her tiny forefinger on the keys to produce simple melodies. She giggled in delight while I kissed her dark curls and praised her musical skills.
I found more solace than ever in the little library. Reading about the trials of others made me forget mine. Tales, real or imaginary, of faraway lands made my seclusion in Cénac bearable.
17
The 17th of March 1787 witnessed one of those momentous turns in the course of my life. Around midmorning, while I was reading in my apartment, I heard Maryssou howling, which very much surprised me for she was not given to venting her feelings. My chambermaid, out of breath, burst into the room without knocking.
“Oh, Madam,” she said, “a great misfortune had happened. My Lord’s been taken ill.”
I ran downstairs and saw four peasants carrying a sort of door on which lay my husband. They gently put it down in the vestibule. I cried aloud, took his hand, which was already cold, and looked into his face. His eyes and mouth half-closed, he looked very much as he had done that night when he had fallen asleep in my bed, except for a small cut across the bridge of his nose. In a moment I understood that I was a widow.
I felt no sorrow. Many times during my marriage I had reflected that death only could release me from my servitude, but I had always thought of mine, not his. My first feeling was one of astonishment and shock rather than relief. All of my waking hours had been occupied by the dread of his reactions. Now he was gone, I was free, and I was lost. The only person whose help I could think of enlisting was my brother. I scrawled a note and asked a manservant to deliver it to Fontfreyde. I waited in the parlour, pacing the room.
Shortly after noon, I heard the sound of hooves on the gravel in the courtyard. I ran outside. It was the Marquis. His horse was covered with sweat. I fell into his arms, sobbing. He took me back to the house.
“Gabrielle, what is the matter? I could not make any sense of your note. I rode like hell to find out what is ailing you.”
“The Baron is dead. Oh, Sir, I am a widow now.”
“Poor child, what a blow this must be.”
He called to a servant for a glass of wine, which he made me drink. It steadied me. I was able to sit still.
“Now tell me about it, Gabrielle. How did this happen?”
“He went hunting early this morning, as usual. Baduel, the tenant of the Bousquet farm, found him lying in the snow. He was apparently already dead. This is so sudden. He seemed in excellent health.”
“Well, dearest, he indulged in many excesses. The less said about it, the better, I guess.”
I grasped his hands. “If you do not help me, Sir, I do not know what will become of my little girl and me. I cannot spend the night here. Please take us back with you to Fontfreyde.”
“Be brave, Gabrielle. As his widow, you will wake your husband. His corpse cannot be left unattended. You must spend the first night in prayers by his side.”
The idea of spending the night in the Baron’s bedroom, where I had never entered, in the company of his dead body, was more than I could bear.
“I have never sat with the dead before. Please, Sir, stay with me tonight.”
“If you wish, little sister. Please calm yourself.”
The Marquis sent word to Carrier, the Baron’s attorney, and had a physician and a priest fetched. He went in search of Maryssou, whom he found sobbing in the kitchen. Under his direction, she had the body of the Baron dressed properly and laid on his bed.
Dr. Roussille, after acknowledging my husband’s demise, which he assured me had been due to a sudden rupture of the heart, handed me a vial of medicine.
“Take this in a cup of herb tea, My Lady,” he said. “It is laudanum and will quiet you.”
I sat to dinner with my brother, and we went to the Baron’s bedroom, where he lay, dressed in his finest clothes. A rosary, which I had never seen him use during his life, had been placed in his hands. Two candles were burning on the nightstand, where Father Vidal had left a basin of holy water with instructions to sprinkle the body from time to time. My brother and I each took a chair by the side of the bed. I could not take my eyes off the thing that had been my husband. I imagined that I saw him stirring. If I stopped watching him for a moment, he would rise from the dead to beat me again.
The Marquis, glancing at me, rang for a cup of lime-blossom tea. He poured all the contents of Dr. Roussille’s medicine in it and made me drink it. It tasted sweet and strong, like liquor. Within minutes I became dizzy. I was dreaming awake. Wolves with human faces were watching me, and sometimes they came frighteningly close to me. I cried aloud to my brother. He took me in his arms, carried me to a couch in front of the fireplace, lay me down and removed my shoes. He sat next to me and held my feet in his hands. He was talking while caressing my ankles, but I could not understand what he was telling me, as if he had been speaking a foreign language. I needed to hear his voice. It kept the eerie visions from closing upon me. It lulled me to sleep. I fell into a pit of oblivion.
When I woke and raised myself on one elbow, my brother was opening the inside shutters and the grey light of dawn could be glimpsed beyond the woods. Smiling, he walked up to me and ran his fingers on my cheek.
“So, my love,” he asked, “are you better this morning?”
I seized his hand. “Please do not leave yet.”
“Of course not, little sister.”
The Marquis remained another day and night at Cénac.
18
I was growing accustomed to the idea that I was free at last. Yet my relief was tempered by concerns about the future. I ordered the carriage to go to Aurillac, where I stopped at Maître Carrier’s chambers. I had met him during the signing of my marriage contract and on occasion in Cénac when he came to attend to the Baron’s business. Although there was nothing objectionable in his manners, he made me uncomfortable and I had always avoided him.
Many say that Carrier was ugly. That is not true. He was tall, thin, a bit stooped and olive-skinned. There was a certain countrified air about him and he spoke French with a thick Roman accent. His father had been a peasant from Yolet, a village close to Vic. Pierre-André, the son of a lawyer and a convent-educated lady of the bourgeoisie, was far more polished in manners and language. Yet that day, the unease I felt in Carrier’s presence was not enough to deter me from my pur
pose. I announced myself to one of his clerks and was shown into his chambers without delay.
“Well, Madam,” he said, bowing, “it seems too long since I last had the honour of seeing Your Ladyship. Please allow me to offer my condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“You had no need to come here. I would have been happy to call on you at Cénac.”
“You are very kind, Sir, but what brings me is a delicate matter which I wanted to discuss in your chambers.”
He looked straight into my eyes, smiling. “I am honoured by your trust, My Lady. I hope that it will be in my power to assist you.”
“You are, of course, familiar with the provisions of my late husband’s will.”
“I drafted it.”
“I need to know its contents.”
“Your Ladyship, like the other heirs, will have to wait until I come to Cénac to read the will after the funeral.”
“What harm would there be in telling me of its terms now? Please, Maître Carrier, I am sure that you would not be so unfeeling as to deny a poor widow’s request.”
“Indeed, Madam, there is nothing I find so moving as a lady in distress.” He was not smiling anymore, but watching me, his eyes narrowed, in a manner that made me squirm in my chair. “And I have always felt the most respectful admiration for you.”
“Should I be worried?”
“You should be aware of an unfortunate circumstance: you waived, by marriage contract, all of your rights to the assets and estate of the late Baron. Thus he was not bound to leave Your Ladyship a sol more than agreed to in the contract.”
“And pray what was that?”
“I will not keep you in suspense any longer, Madam. I will go directly to the relevant provisions of the late Baron’s will.”
He pulled a bundle of papers from a drawer in his desk and read: “To my beloved wife, the High and Mighty Lady Marie Gabrielle Aliénor de Montserrat de Castel: the sum of 3,000 francs; I also confirm all gifts of jewellery and personal property made by me to said Lady before and during our marriage, without any limitation of value.”
I stared at him in amazement. He paused to look at me, then resumed his reading. “To my legitimate daughter Aimée Françoise Marie, the sum of 3,000 francs. Then, Madam, there are various legacies to servants, including a rather generous 1,000 francs to one Marie, or Maryssou Magne, the housekeeper at Cénac. Then we go back to what concerns you: Should my wife be pregnant at the time of my demise, the sum of 3,000 francs to the child of her body if such child be a female, and to such child the remainder of my estate should it be a male. And finally: Should my wife bear a male child, I give her an additional 100,000 francs and for life the income of the Barony of Cénaret. That, Madam, is 11,000 francs per annum. Should my wife fail to bear a male child, the remainder of my estate to my cousin, François-Xavier Alexandre de Laubrac.”
Carrier put down the will. “You wanted to know. You do now.”
I hid my face in my hands. “Are you telling me, Maître Carrier, that all I can expect is 3,000 francs, with the same sum going to my daughter? Is that what the marriage contract provided?”
“The marriage contract required 3,000 francs for you, Madam, and another 3,000 for each daughter. Of course, the Baron could have left you and your little girl more if he had so chosen.”
My cheeks were burning. I interrupted Carrier. “What is the value of my late husband’s estate?”
“Probably a little under two million.”
“And of that, I am to receive 3,000 francs! What if I were pregnant now?”
“Ah, that would make things interesting. The estate would be held in abeyance until the birth of your child. If it were a female, nothing would change, except that she too would receive 3,000 francs, but the birth of a male would of course be a very fortunate circumstance for you, as well as a severe disappointment to Monsieur de Laubrac, whose hopes are totally contingent upon the absence of a direct heir.”
“Thank you, Maître Carrier. You have been most helpful.”
He smiled again. “I will always remain, with all due respect, at Your Ladyship’s service and that of your honourable family.”
19
Carrier’s words were very much on my mind as I greeted Monsieur de Laubrac and his wife on the day of the Baron’s funeral. She was draped in a vast quantity of black crape, which made her frame still more formidable than usual. She smothered me against her bosom.
“Poor, poor child,” she said, “so young and such a dreadful misfortune. Fear not, Madam, my husband will not mind your staying another week at Cénac. This will give you ample time to pack your things. As I told the new Baron: We would not want to rush the dear Dowager Baroness out of her former house, would we?”
To me, dowagers were ancient ladies with doddering heads and snowy hair. Madame de Laubrac’s haste irritated me. The Marquis arrived. Our mother, he explained, had been too grieved by the Baron’s death to attend. Madeleine alighted from her carriage and embraced me in silence.
The family repaired to the parish church for the funeral service, which was celebrated with all the pomp required by the Baron’s rank. The local nobility attended, along with all of his vassals. The little church could not accommodate such a crowd, and many had to follow the service from outside. The Baron’s coffin, covered with a black and silver pall, was then brought back to Cénac, where it was laid to rest in the crypt beneath the chapel, among the dust of his ancestors. It was put down on iron sawhorses, between the bodies of his first wife and elder brother. Dozens of coffins of all sizes, some, like the Baron’s, made of lead, and some, older ones, of stone, crowded the confined space. I felt that the ghosts of the Peyre family were rising around me. I had not attended my son’s funeral nine months earlier and indeed had never entered the crypt before. I gasped when I saw a tiny box, draped in dusty white silk, resting on a kind of shelf carved in a wall. I was suffocating and sought the support of my brother’s arm.
I regained enough composure to return to the house, leaning on him. In the main drawing room, Maître Carrier read the will in front of the assembled family. I kept my eyes down and gave no sign of emotion.
After the attorney was done, I said: “Maître Carrier, I know that all umarried and widowed women must report their pregnancies to a ministerial officer of the King. You are, I believe, such an officer.”
“Indeed.”
“Then I must report to you the fact that I am with child.”
Carrier grinned. “I will come back tomorrow to take your official declaration, Madam. So after all, this time will be one of congratulations as well as condolences.”
Monsieur de Laubrac had recovered enough to hiss to his wife: “The woman is lying.”
I raised my eyes. My brother rose, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and faced Monsieur de Laubrac. “You insulted my sister, Sir.”
“Surely,” intervened Carrier, “Her Ladyship would not make such a claim without good reason.”
“You, stay out of this,” said Monsieur de Laubrac, red in the face. He turned to my brother. “My deepest apologies to you, My Lord, and to Her Ladyship. I would not dare impugn her veracity.”
I put my hand to my stomach. “Your apology is accepted, Sir. Now I will retire to my apartment and take some rest.”
I curtseyed to the company. The idea of keeping Monsieur and Madame de Laubrac in suspense for some time gave me great satisfaction. My brother joined me a few minutes later in my apartment. He seized me none too gently by the elbow.
“Gabrielle, what is the meaning of this? Are you really with child?”
“I certainly intend to remain pregnant until further notice.”
He released my arm. “How can you make light of such matters? You should know that our sister Hélène wrote Madeleine to offer to receive you among her novices at the Convent of Noirvaux. Your 3,000 francs would not normally be enough of a dowry for Noirvaux, but Hélène will make an exception in your favour. I have also approached the Bishop on
your behalf. You will, as a widow, need a dispensation before being allowed to take the veil.”
I frowned. “Is this not premature, Sir? I have not expressed the slightest wish to become a nun.”
“Do you think we are placed on earth for the sole purpose of following our whims? Your husband is not yet cold in his grave and you are already showing signs of your old willfulness. But you would be wise not to spurn your family’s help so hastily. You might find that 3,000 francs is not quite enough to support you in the style to which you have grown accustomed.”
I sighed. “I am aware of it. I am not seeking a quarrel with you, Sir. I have entertained the hope that you would take me back. Please let me return to Fontfreyde. You used to be so fond of me when I was little. You were so good to stay with me to wake my husband. How can you forsake me now that your kindness is my only hope?”
The Marquis shook his head. “What are you trying to do, Gabrielle? I love you as much as ever, but I am not weak enough to yield to your entreaties when I know that it would not be proper.”
“What could be improper about a brother offering a widowed sister his help? Remember that Aimée is your goddaughter. Noirvaux is not a teaching institution. What would you suggest I do with her if I took the veil?”
“You need not worry on Aimée’s account. Mother will raise her at Fontfreyde. I will treat her as my own daughter. As for you, I do not want you back. Do you think I forgot your scandalous affair? You were disgraced by that scoundrel!”
For the first time I raised my voice to my brother. “I was not disgraced, Sir. That scoundrel, as you call him, had respected my innocence. Did he not propose? And was not his offer more advantageous than the one you accepted? He would have settled 20,000 francs on me; he would not have left me destitute as the Baron did. How could you forget it when you arranged my marriage contract?” I glared at the Marquis. “And what about my feelings, Sir? Did you care at all about them?”
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