Mistress of the Revolution (5 page)

“Pierre attended her till her last moment,” said Pierre-André. “Unfortunately the progress of her illness was very rapid. I was away in Paris and could only return to Vic in time to see her in her coffin. It grieved me not to be able to say good-bye to her, though I know she forgave me. I was her favourite son.”

He gazed into the distance. I remained silent.

“Since completing my medical studies,” he continued, “I have joined Pierre’s practice. He attends to his patients in town while I call upon those in the countryside. It entails riding long distances in all weathers, but I do not mind it. On the contrary, there is nothing I like better than the country around Vic. When I was at school, I always came back here for Christmas and the summer holidays. Indeed I cannot think of a more beautiful place in the world.”

“Neither can I. I was born in Lavigerie, but raised here, first by my nurse and then at the convent.”

My hand brushed against the tall grass on the side of the lane.

“I am happy to see that we share this opinion of Vic,” he said. “Although I prefer this town, I have thought of opening a surgery in Lavigerie, where there is no physician in residence. My late mother, like you, was born there.”

“If you were to settle in Lavigerie, you could attend to my own mother. She would be delighted to have a physician at hand.”

“My brother Pierre wishes to bring me along during his next visit to Fontfreyde.” He frowned. “I know the Marquis by sight only and never had the honour of meeting Her Ladyship. I suspect that I will not answer to her ideas of refinement. She will think that I am just good enough for townspeople and peasants.”

“Why do you say this? She is fond of your brother and might like you as well. It is difficult to tell in advance whom she will fancy. What is sure is that she has not a high opinion of me. She finds me stupid.”

“A deplorable lack of judgment.”

“Unfortunately not. I was taken from the convent at the age of eleven and have not studied anything since. If you knew me better, you would be amazed at my ignorance.”

He smiled. “At the very least, your humility should disarm criticism. I find you anything but stupid. If you were, you would not be aware of the deficiencies of your education. You seem very young and—”

“I will turn fifteen in less than three weeks,” I interrupted, frowning.

“I am sorry to have offended you. But even if you had already reached the ripe age of fifteen, I would still consider you very young. You will, no doubt, have many opportunities to improve your mind as you grow up. You will read, you will travel, you will mingle in society. I wish more attention were paid to the schooling of young ladies. My late mother, who was the daughter of a mere bourgeois, remained in a convent in Aurillac until she was married at the age of eighteen. It is a pity your family did not value your education more.”

“I did not mean any reflection on them,” I said. “My brother has always been very kind to me.”

“He obviously leaves you free to go wherever you want on your own. If I had a sister so young and delightful as you, I would be less kind and a bit more watchful.”

I coloured at that criticism of the Marquis.

“Yet,” Pierre-André added, “I should be the last person to complain about it. I might never have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance otherwise.”

“Usually my brother rides with me, although we do not come here together. It is only lately that he has been away in Limousin.”

“Does he know that, in his absence, you come here to bathe in front of strangers?”

I stopped walking and looked straight at Pierre-André. “It is very rude of you to ask such a question.”

“Please forgive me. I seem perversely determined to sink myself in your opinion. You should slap me for my insolence. I deserve it.”

“You do, but I would never strike another. My mother often slaps me and I do not like it at all.”

“My rudeness will then remain unpunished, which makes me feel my guilt still more. My sole excuse, if I may claim any, is that I do not like the idea of another man finding you here in your chemise.”

I resumed walking. “You need not worry. I have come here for years without meeting anyone. That is why you startled me the other day. You reminded me of the poem ‘The Wolf and the Lamb,’ by La Fontaine. The nuns made me learn it by rote at the convent.”

“Rather unflattering for me, and most unfair. If my memory serves me well, the wolf in that story, after finding the lamb drinking in the middle of the river, falsely accuses it of muddying the waters and devours the defenseless animal. I was less fierce and let you escape unscathed. I did not leave a single toothmark on you.”

I laughed. “It was only when I first saw you that you reminded me of the wolf. I do not believe now that you would harm me.”

“You are right, all the more so because you trust me, but you might have made a less fortunate encounter.”

“I am afraid of no one.”

“Are you sure?”

I hesitated. “Well, maybe it was a silly thing to say.”

“It simply reflects your lack of experience. May life never teach you otherwise.”

“Has it taught you otherwise?”

“In some ways. I learned much in medical school.”

“How did you like it? Oh, I envy you. You are so fortunate to have lived in great cities. I know next to nothing of them. I am eager to see other places but have never been more than ten leagues from Fontfreyde. Please tell me all about Paris.”

He obliged. He spoke well and I could picture unknown places and people as he described them. I had never been so well entertained in anyone’s company and did not like to rush home later that afternoon. I told him, truthfully that time, of my early years at the Labro cottage, of my milk brother Jacques, of our childhood friendship and his subsequent disdain for my company.

“One day, five years ago, I told him how pretty I found the wild carnations that grow around here and he twined those flowers into my braids. When we returned to the cottage, very pleased with ourselves, Mamé, instead of complimenting us, as we had expected, reprimanded me for my vanity and gave Jacques a flogging.”

“A well-deserved one,” said Pierre-André. “I agree with your nurse. No one except me should play with your hair.”

I blushed at the thought of what he had done during our first encounter. “Pray what would make you an exception? You are in no position to speak in this manner. I kept my word by coming here again, as I hope you kept yours by being discreet. Now we are done. It is time for me to go home.”

“Now I have upset you again. What a poor way of thanking you for your kindness in coming here. I have never spent a more pleasant hour than in your company. Yet I do not want to delay you, no matter how much it pains me to part with you. Now as to the fact that we are done, I disagree.” He turned to face me, a grave look on his face. “I, for one, am not done with you. Two days from now I will be waiting for you here. I will make no threats this time. You are free to come back or not, at your pleasure. Either way I will not tell a soul about meeting you. If you care at all for me, as I care for you, you will return. If not, I will remember you for the rest of my life as the prettiest, most unfeeling little liar in the country. I will curse your name, whatever it is. You will never be able to come here again for fear of seeing me, for I will haunt these banks forever, brokenhearted.”

I giggled at that depiction, which did not seem to fit him at all.

“Do not laugh,” he said seriously. “I mean it.”

I knew not what to believe and avoided his eye. We walked in silence through the wood to the spot where we had left our horses. Before reaching it, he took my face between his hands and looked into my eyes. He bent towards me. I opened my mouth to protest, but only let out a moan. At first his lips brushed against mine, then became more insistent. Soon he was kissing me deeply, slowly, deliberately as if we had all the time in the world, or as if the world no longer existed. I had never felt anything of the kind, and enjoyed the novelty of it so much that I found myself kissing him back. I closed my eyes to savor this sensation. He sighed and, much to my regret, let go of me.

“Two days from now,” he said, “same hour.”

He seized me by the waist to help me into the saddle. He lifted me without any effort but changed his mind and, still holding me in midair, kissed me again.

I was in a flutter of spirits when I arrived at Fontfreyde. I could not make any sense of what had happened. Why had I let a stranger, a commoner, and a plain one at that, kiss me? In fact, I had kissed him too. And was he so very plain? I was beginning to find him rather handsome, or at least attractive in his own way. Had he been a peasant or a soldier, he would have been considered an uncommonly fine-looking man. Did he really mean what he had said about being brokenhearted if we did not meet again or was he merely mocking me, as his tone had seemed to indicate? Would he be waiting for me in two days? Was it wise to see him again? Truth be told, I knew the answer to this last question. I was playing with fire, but what girl of fifteen is afraid of fire? I was delighted with the game in which I had been drawn. With the innocence and arrogance of youth, I believed that I could control the course of events that would unfold.

Two days later, a heavy summer rain was knocking at the window-panes of Fontfreyde. Without hesitation I threw my winter cloak on my shoulders, grabbed an old hat of my brother’s and slipped out. I rode again to the river.

Pierre-André was waiting for me, this time in the wood. One could barely feel any drops there. He helped me dismount and he led me without a word to a shallow cave on the banks of the river. Again, we shared an all too brief hour, sheltered from the rain, enjoying the softness of its noise, mingled with that of running water, and the smell of wet earth. Again we kissed, longer than the last time. I have a beauty mark on the side of my neck, and he kissed me there too, telling me that it was the most enticing thing he had ever seen. He traced the blue lines of my veins on my wrists, which the sleeves of my dress were too short to cover.

“This is the origin of the phrase
blue blood
,” he said. “People of noble descent are supposed to have fair skin, but I have never seen any as translucent as yours. Look at my hand: I have no blue blood, either literally, because my complexion is much darker than yours, or figuratively, because I am the grandson of a peasant.”

He put his hand against mine. His was twice as large. He kissed the inside of mine and lightly followed the lines there with his fingertips. That simple caress, more than anything else, troubled me. I shuddered, my skin tingling. He never asked my permission before doing anything he pleased, but nothing he did offended me anymore. He now used the familiar form when addressing me. I no longer found it rude, and responded in the same manner. He did not try to touch me on those parts of my body hidden from public view. I rewarded his restraint by giving him my absolute confidence. He was over a foot taller than me, broad-shouldered and muscular, but I did not for a moment entertain the idea that he might take advantage of our isolation. I was not in the least afraid of him.

In that manner we met many times in the course of the following weeks, until there was nothing on my mind but the thought of being with him again. I did not know what the future held for us beyond our next assignation, nor did I wonder about it. The present happiness occupied all of my waking hours, and many of my dreams. My brother was still often away and nothing prevented me from riding to the river.

The heat turned stifling at the beginning of August. I met Pierre-André again on the pebble beach. No breeze was rustling the leaves above us. We were seated next to each other in the dappled shade, my head leaning against his arm. He had taken off his coat and waistcoat, and I my kerchief. My chemise was sticking to my skin under my corset and I felt beads of moisture forming between my breasts. Yet I did not recognize as mine the faint musky scent hovering in the still air. It came from him. To break free from its spell, I turned my attention to the river. Blue and green dragonflies, glittering like jewels, grazed the surface of the water. I looked wistfully at the insects. He read my mind.

“You are dying to go into the water,” he remarked.

I bit my lip and made no response. After our first meeting, I had never again bathed in front of him.

“Do it,” he said. “Do you not trust me? I already saw you in your chemise, and did not harm you then. What is worrying you now?”

I looked into his eyes. I read a certain amusement there, and no malice.

“Would you do it too?” I thought of the Marquis de Carabas, the hero of one of my favourite fairy tales, who bathed naked in the river. I wondered whether Pierre-André would disrobe. This idea sent ripples of fear down to my stomach.

“No, I will watch you from the bank,” Pierre-André said. “Like the first time we met. And I will turn away while you undress. Tell me when I may look.”

His smile reassured me. I no longer hesitated. I removed my clothes and, wearing nothing but my chemise and corset, waded into the river. After a few yards, I turned around and looked at him. He was sitting on his haunches, his face averted. I could not resist the impulse to splash him lightly. He moved his head towards me and rose slowly. He was no longer smiling, but gazing at me without a word. I saw his chest heaving under the linen of his shirt. Now he seemed very tall.

I needed to break the silence. “The water feels delightful,” I said. “You do not know what you are missing.”

“Oh, I do know.” His tone was sharp now. “Come back here this moment.”

Something within me, stronger than my apprehension, prompted me to walk towards the pebble bank. Before I even reached it, Pierre-André seized my arm to draw me to him. Holding me tight, he kissed me in a new, resentful manner. The trees, the sky, the dark cliffs, the river were swirling around me. Without letting go of my lips, he caught both of my wrists in one of his hands and with the other pushed down on my shoulder.

There was neither brutality nor hesitation in his manner. He did not seem to expect any resistance, nor was I offering any. I knew what he wanted. I realized that I wanted it too. I lay down while he knelt by me. Looking into my eyes, he raised my chemise to my waist. He insinuated one of his thighs, then the other, between mine. His weight now rested upon my hips. He lowered his face to the side of my neck. I felt his breath, his lips, his teeth on my skin as he kissed me relentlessly. I threw my head backwards and moaned.

“My beloved,” he whispered. “At last.”

I tried to move from under him, not to escape him but to assure myself that there was no turning back now. He pressed down on my hips more firmly. I was his. Waves of desire rose from my loins to my chest. I had experienced the same when he had touched me before, but now they were so strong as to feel like pain. I was afraid, not of him but of what was going to happen. Yet fear only heightened my yearning for him. I spread my thighs wide and, trembling at my own audacity, wrapped my arms around his chest to draw him still closer. I felt his heart beat faster, his muscles tighten under his shirt.

Without warning, everything changed. His face contracted. He rolled over on his back, staring at the sky.

“What is wrong?” I asked. “Are you angry with me?”

He raised himself on one elbow, kissed me lightly on the forehead and pulled my chemise down to my ankles.

“No, I am angry with myself. Meeting you like this, Gabrielle, is the sweetest thing I can imagine, save one. I would not give it up for the world, but it is driving me out of my mind. Many times I have wanted to take you. Nothing could have been easier, but I could not, I still cannot bring myself to act like a thief when you trust me so. I will marry you.”

He simply stated a fact that admitted of no discussion. I huddled against him. I wanted his arms to close around me, but he seized my chin to peer into my eyes.

“Look at me,” he said. “Will you marry me?”

“Oh yes, I will.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes, I do. If you do not trust me, treat me as your bride already. Do it even if you trust me. I want it. Do whatever you like.”

He groaned. “Please stop this, Gabrielle. Do you know what you are doing to me? As if I were not tempted enough. But I cannot take you now, in this manner. I would hurt you, little as I want it.”

“It will hurt anyway. I am ready for it.”

“What do you know about it, poor innocent? What
I
know is that, my pleasure taken, I would have to send you back to Fontfreyde by yourself, torn, bleeding, maybe regretting your tenderness.” He caressed my cheek. “I want you to be my true bride; I want to discover you slowly, gently, tenderly, over an entire night. And afterwards I want to keep you forever.”

“But I do not want to deny you anything.”

“You are not denying me anything. You gave me your promise. It is all I need for now, my beloved.”

He kept me embraced for a long time. I was, to use a trite phrase, the happiest girl in the world.

Yet all too soon it was time to think of returning to Fontfreyde. I tried to imagine my family’s reaction to my engagement. True, my brother wanted to see me settled early, but I suspected that my suitor was not the kind of husband the Marquis had in mind for me. Indeed I did not know of any noblewoman who had wed a commoner. I tried to express my misgivings without hurting Pierre-André’s pride.

“I am afraid I have not much of a dowry,” I said, my head still resting on his shoulder.

He laughed. “I have enough money for both of us, my beloved. I do not want a
sol
from your brother. I am sure that he will be as disagreeable as can be, to make me feel how unworthy I am of marrying into the high and mighty house of Montserrat, but who cares? You are worth it. I will talk to my brothers. They will know how to approach him.”

During my ride back home, I tried to imagine my life as Pierre-André’s wife. He would take a house for us in town, hire a few maids and a groom. I would be expected to manage it on my own. My mother had no housekeeper in Fontfreyde, nor did she want any, because she liked to direct things herself. Was I too young, too inexperienced to do so? Would Pierre-André be angry with me if the servants were slovenly, the food unappetizing, his shirts not properly washed and ironed? No, he would allow me a few months to become used to my new duties; he would always be kind and patient with me.

And what if I put him to shame by my ignorance? His brothers’ wives must be far better educated than I. What had I learned at the convent, beside the alphabet and three tunes on the harpsichord? But he understood that it was not my fault. And he had said that he found me far from stupid. He would take the trouble to instruct me on the many topics of which I knew nothing. He would give me books to read, and I would show my gratitude by the speed of my progress. On winter evenings I would study by the fire, counting the strokes of the clock, waiting to hear the hooves of his horse in the night. He might ride home tired, cold, hungry or sullen after visiting his patients, but I would have a hot meal ready for him. He would tell me of his concerns over supper. Then he would take me in his arms and hold me as he had done that afternoon; he would call me his beloved. He would carry me to bed. It would be
our
bed, where I would give myself to him, where I would fall asleep every night, nestled against him, where I would bear his children, and where someday I would die.

I was still lost in my thoughts as I sat to dinner with my mother and brother. The Marquis had returned that very afternoon. I did not hear half of what my mother said to me and responded to the rest at cross-purposes, to the point where she remarked: “The girl has never been too clever, but she is now turning into a complete simpleton. Mark my words, my son: she will disgrace the family and be the ruin of us.”

My brother too seemed absentminded. He turned to our mother and said abruptly: “Gabrielle should have a new dress.”

“Well,” my mother responded after a pause, “I hope she appreciates your generosity. I am ready to part with one of my gowns if you wish.”

“No, Madam, it is not what I meant. I believe that Gabrielle should have a new dress of her own. She looks very pretty in black, with her fair skin, but I was thinking of a more lively colour, more in keeping with her age.”

My mother, silenced for once, stared at my brother.

“I am not so destitute, Madam,” he continued, “as to be unable to afford a new gown for my sister. You could go to Vic with her tomorrow to buy some fabric.”

I had become fully attentive to the conversation. I was, of course, happy to have a new gown. What girl of fifteen would not have been? It was mortifying to be seen by Pierre-André, week after week, in the only two black things I had inherited from my mother. Yet the Marquis’s unexpected generosity was unsettling. He could not have heard from Pierre-André’s brothers yet. What had he in mind?

My mother ordered the carriage to go to the draper in Vic. For the first time in my life, I indulged in the pleasures of finery. The seemingly limitless choice of textures and colours made my head spin. She picked a greenish satin and raised it to my face.

“With this unfortunate hair of yours,” she said, “we are left with very few choices.”

“No, Madam,” I said, “not the green. It reminds me of the colour of goose droppings. And it makes my skin look sallow. This bright pink silk will do much better.”

My mother frowned. “Are you out of your senses, Gabrielle? I will not allow my child to parade around in a colour fit for a loose woman.”

At last we settled our differences with the help of the shopkeeper and agreed on a striped material, light pink and white, which happened to be the least expensive.

“It will look lovely on Mademoiselle de Montserrat,” said the shopkeeper. “It will highlight the delicacy of her complexion and her beautiful hair. I would recommend this as a pattern for the dress, with the stripes straight in the skirt and cut on the bias in the bodice.”

Our purchases that day also included white silk stockings. We even stopped by the cobbler’s shop. There were ordered for me, for the first time in years, new shoes, black and elegant with a silver buckle. I thanked my mother, all the more embarrassed that I felt no real gratitude. During the ride back to Fontfreyde, I wanted to ask about the reason for these purchases, but she volunteered no information and I thought it wiser not to press the point.