His fond gesture brought tears to my eyes. “It is kind of you, Sir, to call on me. I feared your anger.”
“I know better than to direct it at you. When I reflect upon my own conduct, Gabrielle, there are some circumstances of which I am not proud. In one particular regard I failed you. As your brother, I should have offered you my help and protection after your widowhood; I should have welcomed you back to Fontfreyde.”
I looked away, my conversation with Hélène still fresh on my mind.
“I was wrong,” the Marquis continued, “when I tried to force religious vows upon you. I see it now. I unwittingly prompted your departure to Paris. Your current life of sin and dissipation, which grieves me so, is my fault. For this, I humbly beg your forgiveness. I offer you now all I should have proposed last spring. Come back to Fontfreyde with me, dearest.”
I had expected anything but that offer. It was quite a different thing to discuss the Marquis from afar with Hélène and face him in all of his renewed kindness. I made no answer.
He held out his hand to me. “Gabrielle, do not hesitate. I will make amends for my past unkindness. I promise never to reproach you for your errors, which are no more grievous than mine.”
“I do not know how to express my gratitude, Sir.”
“Nothing is easier. You need only leave your shameful situation.”
I shook my head sadly. “No, Sir. I cannot.”
“Why not? What is keeping you here? What is that man to you? If he had the least respect, the least affection for you, he would have married you.”
The Marquis had hit close to home. “You may be right, Sir. I am indeed ashamed of my situation. I would leave Monsieur de Villers, I would follow you to Fontfreyde if I were not afraid of what would happen there.”
“How can you expect me to believe this?” he said, frowning. “I lost my mind for a moment, years ago. Am I never to be forgiven, never trusted again?” His jaw tightened. “No, there is another reason for your refusal. You are in thrall to that scoundrel. He has debauched you.”
I looked at him with tears in my eyes.
“You are now deaf to the call of duty, of virtue, of reason,” he continued. “You leave me no choice, Gabrielle, but to call upon your lover.”
He stormed out of the room. I could easily guess the outcome of such a visit.
Villers and I were to go together to the Théâtre-Français that night. I received from him a note informing me that due to an earlier engagement, unfortunately forgotten, he was unable to accompany me.
I decided to pay Lauzun a visit. I still saw him a great deal, although not outside the presence of Villers. I now called him simply “Lauzun,” a familiarity he had requested and to which Villers had not objected. I would under any other circumstances have considered a late unchaperoned visit to his mansion a most imprudent step, but was too worried to care about niceties. I was shown right away into a drawing room, where he was leaning against the mantelpiece. He smiled and bowed.
“How, Madam, should I interpret the unexpected pleasure of your visit at this hour? Have you relented at last, dearest friend?”
“Please do not trifle with me, Lauzun. What happened between my brother and Monsieur de Villers?”
He became grave. “They had an animated and most unpleasant conversation. Their sole point of agreement was to meet at dawn tomorrow in the Bois de Boulogne.”
“Are you Monsieur de Villers’s second?”
“I have this honour, Madam.”
“And who is my brother’s second?”
“The Chevalier des Huttes.”
“Could you not try to stop this horrible nonsense?”
“I met the Marquis to effect a reconciliation, but he refused to hear me.”
“Villers could decline to fight.”
“No, Madam, not without being branded a coward. The Marquis expressed himself in such terms as to leave Villers no choice. The insult has been kept private so far, but I have no doubt that your brother would reiterate it in public if he did not receive satisfaction. Villers would be disgraced if he declined. What makes his situation all the more difficult is that he knows that he would lose you if he killed or seriously wounded the Marquis tomorrow.”
“True. Do you think that they will stop fighting at the first blood?”
“I cannot say, Madam.”
“When is the duel to take place?”
“At eight o’clock in the Bois de Boulogne.” He frowned. “I hope that you are not thinking of attending. Ladies never do, nor should they, especially when they are the cause of the dispute.”
“I thank you from my heart. Please, Lauzun, as a favour to me, even if you think it is useless, please try again to prevent this.”
“I will do my best, my dearest.”
I could not sleep that night. It was still dark when I hailed a hackney to go to the Bois de Boulogne. By the time I had reached the appointed place, the sun, a fierce orange, was just above the horizon, piercing the veil of the December fog. Lauzun and the Chevalier were examining the swords. Both expressed astonishment at my arrival and demanded that I leave. I declined. My brother and Villers, in spite of the cold, had already removed their coats, waistcoats and neckties. They looked somber and ignored me. They unbuttoned their shirts to show each other their bare chests as proof that they were not wearing any concealed protection. Lauzun and the Chevalier, having found the swords of equal length, returned them to the combatants. The fight began. I ran towards the duelists, crying to them to stop.
They were about matched, as far as I could judge, in skill as well as in build, although Villers was slightly taller and slimmer. I am no expert in fencing matters, but I observed that my brother’s lunges were aimed at his adversary’s chest. Villers seemed content to parry the Marquis’s attacks and try to disarm him. Within minutes Villers received a cut on his right forearm. Blood dripped from his torn shirtsleeve. Without flinching, he switched his sword to his left hand. My brother pursued his advantage with increased energy.
Blood had been shed and the Marquis had not paused for a moment. He would not rest until he had killed Villers. I could not allow it. I ran to place myself between the combatants. Lauzun and the Chevalier tried to stop me, but I was too fast and eluded them. I found myself in the middle of the fight. Only then did I become aware of my danger. It was too late. My back turned to Villers, I faced my brother as he lunged towards the other man. The Marquis, carried by his momentum, was unable to stop and pierced me in the chest below the left breast.
The sharpness of the pain took my breath away. I saw a grey shadow standing in front of me, taking my hand in hers—for in France death is female—to lead me to a better world. I saw blood flooding the bodice of my dress. I saw Aimée orphaned. I saw my brother standing trial for my murder.
When I came to my senses, Villers and the Marquis, both very pale, were leaning over me. Their seconds were standing behind them, looking barely more composed. The Chevalier caught me by the shoulders and Lauzun by the knees. I was carried to one of the waiting hackneys, the pain in my chest throbbing with each step they took. The driver, upon observing my condition, hastened to climb down from his seat to open the door.
“What happened to her?” he asked. “How is it she’s all covered with blood? Wasn’t it supposed to be a duel? What if I am in trouble with the police now? And about the upholstery in my hackney? Who’s going to pay for that?”
Villers, without a word, handed the driver a purse, which was promptly accepted and put an end to the man’s enquiries. Everything faded as darkness closed around me.
I awoke in my bed. Villers was seated by my side, stroking my cheek.
“Do not move, dearest,” he said. “You suffered broken ribs and a deep cut, but the surgeon who probed the wound assured me that the blade missed the heart and lung. You were saved, it seems, by the boning of your corset.”
“Where is my brother?”
“He quit Paris as soon as you were pronounced out of danger. I
believe that he has been shaken enough to leave both of us alone.”
“What about your own wound?”
He shrugged. “Nothing worse than the loss of a good shirt.”
The surgeon called. A slit had been made in my chemise to allow him to dress the wound without uncovering my breast, for which I was thankful. Villers did not leave my bedside or take his eyes off me during the entire time of the visit.
The Duchess would come and spend a few hours with me every day. I recovered quickly, though my chest remained sore for a while. My only lasting memento of the duel was a thin line of a scar, red at first, which soon turned white and shiny. No one in Parisian society or at Court knew the truth, except for the eyewitnesses and the Duchess. Even Lauzun kept the secret. For this I was grateful.
38
Villers, although my equal in rank, was much my superior in other regards. Not only his fortune, but his experience of the world and especially his education far exceeded mine.
“If you wish, Belle,” he said one day towards the end of my recovery, “I can help you follow a regular course of study. You have read a great deal, but in a haphazard manner and without any guidance. I find it amazing that you know as much as you do after having been given so little attention. Do not take it amiss if I say that there are huge gaps in your education, if indeed the kind of schooling you received can be given that name. You have not learned a word of Latin, Greek or any of the modern languages.”
I had long been aware of my deficiencies. I knew some ladies in Paris society who had received the most complete of educations and truly envied them. They were not fooled by my shyness, which was genuine, but which I also used to conceal my ignorance. I accepted Villers’s offer without false pride and applied myself to my studies with a zeal that amused him. He hired tutors for the classics, English, Italian and German. Within months I was able to hold my own in the more serious conversations I would have been embarrassed to join earlier for fear of displaying my ignorance.
Villers also hired Mademoiselle Lenoir, a pianoforte teacher, and Signor Rosetti, an elderly singing master, to give me lessons twice a week, the first I had received since leaving the convent at the age of eleven. I knew that Villers wished to enhance my value as one of his possessions. It was nonetheless the first time someone took any trouble over my education and I was more grateful for this than for any other of his kindnesses. Indeed it was the most valuable gift I ever received from him.
His concern for my education also comforted me since it seemed to indicate that he did not intend to discard me soon. It would have made no sense for him to invest time and money in the accomplishments of a mistress he did not wish to retain. I had feared at first that he would tire of me once his fancy for me was satisfied, but, if anything, time only seemed to increase his tenderness.
During the spring of 1788, when Aimée was close to her third birthday, he brought to my lodgings a young woman, whom he introduced as a candidate for the place of governess. Miss Howard was English, shy, plain, with a pleasant smile in spite of teeth rather larger than average. I could not help wondering whether Villers had any designs upon her, or had already enjoyed some intimacy with her, although she did not seem to answer to his standards of female beauty. She came with an excellent recommendation from Mrs. Herndon, who was returning to England with her two girls and whose name I remembered mentioned in connection with that of Villers. The governess did not speak ten words of French, having remained at the service of an English family during her entire stay in Paris.
“All the better,” said Villers. “Aimée and you will have to speak English with her. There is no faster way to learn a language.”
I found Miss Howard to my liking and she commenced her new duties the following week.
I was soon advanced enough to read English books from the Vaucelles library. Shakespeare and the classics were still too difficult for me, but I discovered Fielding, Smollett, Richardson and other modern authors. Villers also presented me with more libertine works, such as the poetry of the Earl of Rochester, which he made me read aloud in bed under the pretext of checking my English accent. The subject matter often took our attention away from the scholastic aspect of these studies.
Villers would visit me every day, and often spent the night at my lodgings, generally after we went to the play or to dinner. I presided in an unofficial capacity over the entertainments he gave at his mansion. We would also go to Vaucelles and spend a few days at a time there. Whenever we stayed there overnight, the Duchess would accompany us for the sake of appearances. Villers treated her with affectionate respect, like a sort of mother-in-law.
He was no less kind to Aimée. He presented her, as a New Year’s gift, with a doll. It had nothing in common with poor worn-out Nana. This new doll, almost as large as Aimée, came with its bed draped in pink silk and its armoire filled with a very elegant trousseau. Margaret, for such was the name Aimée would give it, wore a gold watch and a genuine pearl necklace, with matching earrings.
Aimée, when she received this present on the morning of the 1st of January 1788, flushed with pleasure and remained speechless for a few minutes. She looked shyly at Villers, as if afraid that he would change his mind, and dared not touch the doll. He smiled at her. For the first time, she ran to him and kissed his hand. He raised her onto his lap and kissed her back on the cheek. She huddled against him. Tears came to my eyes. I, like my daughter, had been denied the tenderness of a father. I had not the heart to raise any objections to the extravagance of the gift. From then on, Villers and Aimée became close friends.
With regard to society, I was still received in most salons, thanks, I am sure, to the continued patronage of the Duchess. I befriended Emilie de Crécey, blonde, blue-eyed, pretty and unaccountably cheerful. She was married to the Marquis de Brasson, a brutal fellow nicknamed the Marquis du Bâton, which could be translated as “My Lord Cudgel.” Truth be told, soon after we became friends, she found comfort in the arms of the Count de Maury, notorious even by the lax standards of the times for his many successes with the ladies. This liaison was kept a great secret because of Lord Cudgel’s dire temper. I admired Emilie’s daring, and she in turn showed no severity in her judgment of me.
At the time, mistresses fell into two categories. The first were the ladies gentlemen “had.” Those were married or widowed, equal in rank and often in fortune to their lovers, with whom their liaisons, although generally known, were not flaunted in any scandalous manner. Then there were the women one “kept.” Those received a financial compensation for their services. They were indeed barely above prostitutes, except for the fact that they were expected to reserve their favours for their protectors.
My own situation was ambiguous. Because of my rank, I belonged to the class of the women one had, but my financial circumstances were no secret, and neither was the source of my new affluence. Thus in the eyes of some, I was no different from a kept woman. I brought the uncertainties of my status to Villers’s attention.
“Well, my love,” he said, smiling, “I find this sort of distinction silly. I am very happy to keep you, and greatly enjoy having you too.”
Some ladies would remind me of my dubious position. I overheard the Duchess’s daughter, Madame de Bastide, tell one of her friends in a rather loud whisper: “The Baroness de Peyre has the finest hair I have ever seen. So abundant, so glossy, and such a remarkable colour. Some call it red, but it is indeed a true Venetian blonde, named after the tint the harlots of Venice use to dye their tresses.”
Had Villers married me, I would have been spared that sort of remark, as well as a host of unpleasant reflections. No one, not even Madame de Bastide, judged me as harshly as I judged myself in my moments of solitude. I have no doubt that I would have fallen in thrall to Villers if he had made me his wife, but I could not help seeing in him a man who did not honour me enough to take that step. As much as I loved him, a part of me never entirely forgave him.
39
Villers taught me t
o appreciate fine paintings and took me to see the galleries, which were already open to the public, of the Louvre and the Luxembourg, as well as the private collections of his friends. He was particularly fond of the Italian masters of the Renaissance. He showed me, in his private study, a full-size copy of The Birth of Venus, by Botticelli. I gazed in admiration at the goddess, standing naked on a shell borne by the sea amid a shower of roses.
“I have to be content with this copy,” said Villers, “though I would dearly love to own the original. Look at Venus, dearest. Does she remind you of anyone?”
I hesitated, afraid of sounding presumptuous. “Do you think I look like her?”
“Oh, you do. I was struck by the resemblance when I first saw you at the Opera. You have the same colour and abundance of hair, the same exquisite features. Of course this poor Venus has the body of a peasant girl compared to you. You are so delicate in the wrists and ankles, so thin in the waist. Also, Boticelli should have given her grey eyes. Yours remind me of the colour of the sea, which is as much of a character in the painting as Venus, the Nymph and the Winds.”
“Venus is supposed to have been born from the foam of the sea, is she not?”
Villers laughed. “Yes, my love, but not from just any kind of foam. According to the Greek creation myth, the Titan Cronos castrated his father, Ouranos, god of the sky. The severed genitals fell into the sea and gave birth to Venus when their contents mixed with the salt water. So, instead of coming from a womb without semen, as Our Lord Jesus did, the goddess was born from semen without a womb. In neither case was conception tainted by copulation, which is almost as fine a notion as copulation untainted by conception.”
“I am trying,” I said, smiling, “to picture my mother’s reaction to your parallels between pagan myths and Christian dogma.”
He grinned. “If I were granted the privilege of making Her Ladyship’s acquaintance, I would strive to impress her with the depth of my religious erudition. I would for instance point out to her that the seashell which carries Venus in this painting is both a reminder of the intimate anatomy of the female sex and the Christian symbol of the purity of the Blessed Virgin.”
Mistress of the Revolution: A Novel Page 25
