Gabrielle

by Theresa Conway

  Stubbornly, she lifted her chin, hating the knowledge that he had been able to walk away from their brief encounter without qualms, without fears, without memories.

  How dare she let herself wallow in this pit of self-pity and self-hatred—she would not give him the satisfaction!

  Gabrielle stepped out of the bath and rubbed herself with the soft, fluffy towel the maid had left for her. She would simply not go to pieces. She had too much pride for. that, surely.

  But her pride was sorely tried at the return of Chloe, who came into the room, looking at her doubtfully, her hands held behind her back as though she would hide something from her.

  “What is it?” she demanded, her voice sharper.

  Chloe shook her head slowly, and Gabrielle saw that her cheeks were bright red with embarrassment.

  “What is it?” she demanded, her voice sharper.

  “Oh, ma’m’selle, I—I did as you told me and went back to the house to take the sheets from the bed and—and under the pillow—I found—I found. . . .”

  “Yes?” Gabrielle prompted although she already knew that she did not want to know.

  Silently, the maid brought out her hands and opened them, revealing ten brightly glittering gold pieces that seemed suddenly to swim before Gabrielle’s eyes. So, he had paid her for her services like any other cheap, dock-side prostitute, she thought in agony. And to be shamed, thus, in front of her own maid was nearly too much to bear.

  Her small laugh was filled with bitterness as she waved the money away. “Keep them, Chloe. So you see how things really are between the captain and me,” she said, her voice heavy with humiliation.

  “Oh, ma’m’selle, it was cruel of him to—to cheapen such a—”

  Gabrielle motioned her to silence. “I’m afraid, Chloe, that the captain does not care much for sentimentality, nor even for respect or consideration.”

  Listlessly she chose a gown from her wardrobe and prepared herself to go downstairs. She was well aware that she must make an appearance today, for Alexandre would be anxious to hear how the evening had turned out. She would have to count on Chloe’s silence and hope that she, herself, would be able to act with some semblance of normalcy. She descended the stairs, hoping to catch Alexandre alone. Such was not to be the case, for to her dismay, Charles was with his father.

  “Good morning, my dear,” Alexandre smiled at her, coming over to raise her hand to his lips. He tried to study her face, but Gabrielle carefully veiled the expression in her eyes. “I trust you enjoyed yourself last night?”

  Gabrielle nodded silently.

  “I must confess, my dear, I—I was worried about you,” he went on. “I believe it was quite late when you returned home, for I fell asleep waiting for you.”

  “Yes, it—it was quite late, Alexandre. There was no need for you to wait.” Gabrielle felt her mouth tremble ever so slightly. She knew Charles was watching her surreptitiously, and she wished now to escape.

  “I’m pleased you had an enjoyable evening,” Alexandre was continuing nervously. “I—I must admit I had my doubts as to Savage’s integrity, but it seems as though I underestimated your ability to handle him, child.”

  Every word he uttered seemed to send barbs deeper into her, and Gabrielle shifted on her feet, uncomfortable in the face of Charles’ continued staring.

  There was a sudden, complete silence in the room as Alexandre could find no more pleasantries to say, and Gabrielle’s throat was too dry for her to contribute anything else to the conversation. Charles, his eyes never leaving her face, moved over to where she had seated herself on a chair.

  “I’m sure M’sieur Savage was sufficiently charming, father, to keep our guest entertained throughout the evening.”

  Gabrielle did not comment at this unexpected utterance, nor did Charles seem to expect any.

  “I’m curious, though, as to why you allowed him—a stranger—to escort you to a dinner party, Gabrielle. Surely, you were a trifle hasty in your—selection of evening partners?”

  Alexandre cleared his throat a little nervously, and Gabrielle could not keep from blushing. She exchanged a glance with the older man, then met Charles’ level stare, wondering why he was badgering her this way.

  “Captain Savage is—is a friend of your father’s, Charles. He saved your life the night you were stabbed.”

  “A friend of my father’s, you say? How curious that an American sea captain would be on friendly terms with a marquis of France, wouldn’t you agree, Gabrielle?”

  Gabrielle stared at him, wondering, with a chill of premonition in her heart, if Charles had somehow found out about the smuggling. How could he? Unless—unless he had overheard a conversation between herself and Alexandre?, Or, perhaps he had come across some papers in his father’s desk? There was nothing for her to say, and she waited in trepidation for his next probe.

  “Charles, I can’t think why you are cross-examining our guest,” Alexandre put in suddenly, striving to keep his voice under control. “She must be tired from her late night out.”

  Charles hesitated and turned a look of ill-disguised disgust on his father. Gabrielle held her breath, hoping not to be witness to a confrontation between father and son in such a personal matter. Quickly she stood up from her seat and made a small curtsy of departure.

  “I—I have a few things I must attend to,” she said by way of explanation, and she made a hurried retreat from the room, unmindful of Charles’ knowing laughter or the look of consternation on Alexandre’s face that seemed a portent of things to come.

  Chapter Nine

  It was fortunate for Gabrielle that she was so caught up in the preparations for Isabel’s wedding that she had no time to brood on what had happened to her, nor on Charles’ increasingly curious attitude towards her. At times he seemed genuinely interested in her activities. Yet he also seemed to be watching her like a cat, waiting for the right moment to spring the trap.

  With a determined effort, Gabrielle had shaken off any melancholy memories of her night of seduction with Rafe Savage. After all, she reminded herself steadfastly, he was gone now and she would certainly never see him again. She had not told Isabel about the experience, realizing that Isabel had much too much to contend with already. If she had not been so busy, she might have guessed at the change in Gabrielle for Isabel had an uncanny faculty for ferreting out the truth. But as it was, Gabrielle was thankful that for the moment Isabel guessed nothing.

  June burst into full flower, bringing with it a lazy heat and balmy breezes that were hardly conducive to making all the preparations for a grand wedding. But Gabrielle set about with considerable vigor helping Isabel and on the morning of the wedding, she awoke with excitement.

  She rang for Chloe and stretched languidly, eyeing the clock to check on the time. The wedding was arranged for twelve noon and it was now a little past eight o’clock. She would have to get up presently for her bath. She glanced at the dress she would be wearing today and sighed with pleasure at the artistry of M’sieur LeRoy. The gown was a shimmering silk, in a soft shade of spring green that rippled through its diaphanous folds like a shaded woodland stream. The décolletage was low and squared with a double row of Belgian lace ruffles edging it, and there were tiny puffed sleeves. A wide sash ran beneath the breasts and tied coquettishly in the back, its ends trailing just below the hemline. There was a train fastened at the waist which would be taken off for dancing.

  She gazed out the window, filled with gladness that this was going to be a beautiful day.

  Nothing could go wrong on such a day, and the thought brought her comfort and a sense of well-being that had been missing until now.

  “Ma’m’selle looks truly beautiful this morning. I am much afraid that you will outshine the bride,” Chloe said.

  Gabrielle laughed. “Oh, no, Chloe. Isabel will be more radiant than I this day, but I do feel wonderful. I think I shall want some of that heavenly perfume that Alexandre presented to me last night. Pour some in my bath wate
r.”

  As Chloe obeyed, the room was filled with the delicious scent of honeysuckle and roses, and Gabrielle lay for almost an hour in the tub, luxuriating in the scented warmth. When she was finished, Chloe toweled her dry and slipped her chemise over her head. Its silkiness caressed her skin, and Gabrielle wriggled sensuously, pulling on her silk stockings with practiced hands and tying the embroidered garters with a flourish.

  She sat at the dressing table as Chloe worked patiently on the thick coils of her hair, brushing it so that it shone like burnished bronze. She arranged it high on her head, sprinkling brilliants with careless abandon in between the curls. Only the bride would wear her hair down this day, and Gabrielle could picture Isabel’s dark, shining tresses, curling softly at her shoulders. Yes, she knew Isabel would make a beautiful bride, and the thought came to her, unbidden, that Isabel would be beautiful even though her body had known many men. Another thought followed—that she herself was lovely, too, and that knowing a man did not necessarily make one old and ugly. The conclusion gave her strength and the beginnings of inner peace.

  The drive to Isabelle’s house was short, but even before they reached it Gabrielle felt a light film of perspiration like a veil on her arms and shoulders. She wiped her skin with a handkerchief and alighted from the carriage to hurry into the comparative coolness of the house.

  Isabel was upstairs, putting the finishing touches to her toilet, for once nervous and unsure of herself.

  “Oh, my hair,” she wailed, tugging ineffectually at it with a brush. “Gabrielle, you know how it tangles in this heat.”

  “Calm yourself, for goodness’ sake, Isabel, or you’ll be weeping down the aisle,” Gabrielle interjected, secretly amused at her friend’s unusual lack of composure. She could not imagine Isabel as anything but her calm, cool self. But then she supposed marriage did that to one. She said as much to Isabel, while the latter bit her lip in exasperation as she attempted to pin a large white camellia in her dark hair. ,

  “Oh, you can say that,” she said, in answer to Gabrielle’s comment. “You’re not the one getting married, but just you wait, Gabrielle. Some day, it will be you in this position, and I won’t offer you an ounce of sympathy.”

  She cast a sober look at the other girl, her eyes going moodily over the shining coils of hair, the gleaming whiteness of her shoulders, the tiny waist. “And look at you! Standing there as unruffled as I should be—and, what is worse, looking lovelier than ever! Gabrielle, I should positively hate you if you were anyone else!”

  Gabrielle laughed good-naturedly and picked up the brush the maid had set down. “Let me brush your hair for a moment. It may soothe you and, besides, you know perfectly well that Henri will have eyes for no one but you today.”

  With two maids working swiftly and competently, Isabel was soon dressed, and both girls were safely ensconced in their carriages on their way to the church. They arrived at Notre-Dame with some minutes to spare, although the courtyard was already crowded with cabriolets, carriages, and hired chaises. Isabel pointed excitedly to a large, imposing carriage that bore the imperial eagle.

  “The emperor,” Madame de Montfort noted calmly. “I knew he would come. After all, they say he tries constantly to conceive a son on his Austrian broodmare. But who would pay homage to the boy if his father did not honor the ancient blood in his court.”

  As maid of honor, Gabrielle was expected, along with three other young ladies of good family, to hold Isabel’s long train. It would take that many attendants to keep the enormously long, heavy material straight, and Gabrielle trembled with pride as she lifted a portion of the satin in her hands while Isabel readied herself to walk down the long aisle.

  The two girls looked gravely at one another one last time before walking out into the huge church. Gabrielle felt herself very nearly on the verge of tears, and she reached forward spontaneously to hug her friend.

  Music, laughter, and the buzzing of conversation lasted far into the evening at the home of the de Montforts. Commoners and simple folk tried to peer in the windows if they could manage to slip past the guards at the gate and struggle between the closely packed carriages. They could hardly believe their eyes as they gazed first at the lovely, bejeweled ladies and gentlemen of the court and then at the splendor of the decorations which included fresh flowers everywhere, even strewn aimlessly on the dancing floor—and a huge, sparkling fountain of wine that shone ruby-red under the light of a thousand candles.

  All these pleasant images stayed in Gabrielle’s mind as she and Alexandre seated themselves in their carriage for the drive home. It had been a perfect wedding. She had not lacked for dancing partners and had noted the unusual enthusiasm on Charles’ face, attributing it to the presence of his commanding officer, Murat. He had seemed to watch her throughout the dancing but had made no attempt to be seen with her. The look on his face could almost be called conspiratorial, she thought, and she felt an odd shiver pass through her.

  Riding home with Alexandre, Gabrielle was contented. She had received a letter from her aunt, informing her that she had decided to take the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience with the good sisters. Somehow, Gabrielle could not quite visualize her sturdy aunt as a nun devoted to God and good works, but she accepted the decision with something like relief, glad that Aunt Louise had found something that would give meaning to her life.

  Alexandre seemed to be watching her thoughtfully. “Happy, my dear?”

  Gabrielle smiled. “Yes, I’m so glad that Isabel’s wedding turned out to be perfect. It was all that she deserved.”

  As soon as they returned home, Gabrielle excused herself to go up to her room. She had only been there a few moments when there was the noise of several horses in the courtyard and sounds associated with a soldier’s boots and guns. Gabrielle looked out the window curiously, then hurried downstairs in sudden inexplicable alarm.

  Alexandre was in the foyer and as their eyes met, she read the expression of fear on his face. “What is it, Alexandre?” she asked, her voice rising.

  The majordomo had already opened the door, and six uniformed officers marched into the hallway where they bowed smartly. The officer in charge, a thin-faced man with a long nose and cruel lips stepped closer to Alexandre who stood as though about to be sentenced.

  “M’sieur de Chevalier? Permit me—Lieutenant Michel Rue. I have come to inform you of your immediate arrest in the name of the emperor of France, against whom you have participated in treasonous acts. I must tell you that we are prepared to deal with any resistance.”

  Alexandre bowed his head. “Allow me to fetch my hat and cape, lieutenant.” He started to leave the room, but the officer’s voice stopped him.

  “Your ward, one Ma’m’selle de Beauvoir, will accompany you, marquis, as she will be necessary in the questioning.”

  “But she—she has nothing to do with it, I can assure you. She would be no help at all, lieutenant.”

  The officer motioned to one of men to follow Alexandre upstairs. “I have my orders,” he said briefly.

  Gabrielle, wide-eyed and trembling, thought she must be having some sort of nightmare.

  “Please, ma’m’selle,” the lieutenant was indicating that she should ready herself.

  “But—but where are you taking me?” she asked with difficulty.

  Lieutenant Rué half-smiled, but there was no humor in the sadistic twist of his lips. “Why, to the conciergerie, ma’m’selle.”

  Gabrielle gasped. “To the prison!” she repeated in disbelief. “But I have done nothing. We have only just come back from—”

  “I am aware of your whereabouts earlier today,” the officer cut in impatiently. “I can assure you, we were instructed to avoid any scandal to the de Montforts.”

  Gabrielle stared at him for another moment, but at his nod, she hurried to fetch her cape and scarf. Several soldiers waited outside and Lieutenant Rué dispatched them to surround the house and grounds with quick clipped instructions. He and the six off
icers escorted the carriages, one of which would take Gabrielle to her destination and the other to carry Alexandre.

  Gabrielle’s heart sank when she realized that she would not have an opportunity to be alone with Alexandre. With a terrible dread she knew that this arrest had resulted from the authorities’ somehow finding out about the smuggling business. But why she had been taken she didn’t know.

  Once they arrived at the prison, Gabrielle was led immediately through a doorway and into a large room that served to house the guards on duty. She followed a woman who appeared from another doorway and ushered her into a small, dark cell whose only window was so small that only a sad trickle of light could seep through to the inside. The stout metal door was shut with an ominous creaking, and she heard the key turn in the lock.

  Once her eyes had become accustomed to the semigloom, Gabrielle could make out the bare essentials of the cell—the narrow cot, whose mattress was in a sad state of decay, the chamber pot, whose odor was worse than anything she had ever smelled, and a low stool that was placed in front of a table.

  She felt tears gathering in her eyes. This was much worse than she had thought it would be, and she wondered if she could endure it for even a few hours.

  After a wait that seemed like days, Gabrielle watched the thin blade of light go out in the window of the cell, and the darkness closed in around her. She could hear faint scurrying sounds and almost screamed when a small furry thing ran over her slipper. She huddled herself on the stool, feeling a desperate urge to run to the door and beat her fists on it and demand to be let out. But she knew that no one would come to her aid. It seemed they intended to keep her here for the night.

  Gingerly, she walked to the cot and made herself lie down on it, feeling the metal beneath the mattress, cold and hard as stone. She slept fitfully, hearing the continued scampering of the rats and hoping they could not find her on the cot.