Pam Rosenthal (13 page)

His parents had often been at Versailles, Hubert away at school. From time to time his mother or father would come home for a visit, and the servants would get very busy, cleaning, cooking, and cursing; eventually he’d be summoned, usually to be shown off for guests: a precocious prattling toy, his hair painstakingly curled and a miniature sword dangling from his side.

He’d almost never seen his parents together; they had separate interests and pursuits—and separate guests, like the series of gorgeous ladies his father had entertained.

“Your little boy’s adorable, Alphonse,” a lady would coo. “Sweet as my lapdog.”

“If he were smaller,” one of them had added, “I’d borrow him to wear on my arm like a bracelet.”

He’d always known quite well that these ladies were his father’s mistresses—the servants’ jokes about them were easy enough to understand. And while he hadn’t liked the way they’d fawned over his father, he’d certainly preferred the mistresses to the priest who came to give his mother religious instruction. He’d hated his mother’s tremulous humility in Père Antoine’s presence, her long eyelashes casting shadows over her flushed cheeks, her red lips parted in what she must have supposed was devotion.

He’d wanted to kill Père Antoine. But he was too afraid of him to dare misbehaving. So he simply recited some verses he’d memorized, bowed, received the priest’s hurried commendations, and backed away, staring at the large, ivory, manicured hand laid so possessively over one of his mother’s small white ones. “And now, my dear Madame, we will sequester ourselves for your, ah, confession…”

The double doors would close upon the tableau of his mother kneeling on an embroidered stool, the priest looming in front of her, his hands invisible under the even folds of his heavy silk gown. It looked as though she were worshipping at the foot of a black marble pillar topped with alabaster, a look of smug anticipation cleanly carved into the priest’s cruel, handsome face.

Joseph would try to find a hiding place after Père Antoine’s visits. He didn’t really mind the servants’ jokes about his father’s playmates, but he didn’t like hearing what they had to say about his mother’s confessor.

He’d been less a child, he thought now, than a house pet—clever, pretty, and pathetically eager for affection. A witness to things a child shouldn’t witness, he’d been brought in to confer innocence on the proceedings. He’d been quite a valuable little asset, all in all.

And now he was going to be sold to the highest bidder.

Which had
really
been what they’d wanted to talk about this afternoon at tea. His father had barely begun to applaud and to call out his bravos when Hubert launched into his own song of praise—about the two potential wives from Paris.

The lawyers, he announced, had deemed the Machery offer a better one.

“But they advised us not to play our cards too quickly,” Hubert continued. “Keep them bidding a little longer; we can probably squeeze another thousand out of them. Amazing, isn’t it, what those old bloodlines of ours are worth?”

He grinned sourly as he poured a bit of Armagnac into his tea. “Especially when a lady’s main charm is her family’s money. Of course, the Machery family is a pretty ancient one too. But I guess nobody wanted that fat old Marquise without a fortune attached to her.”

His wife chose to ignore the opening part of his comment.

“I’ve heard that their house in Paris is magnificent,” she said. “The art, the furnishings…it will be a delight to be received there.

“Especially,” she turned to Joseph with a sisterly smile, “because we shall be seeing
you
surrounded by all that splendor. We’ll come to visit you and your wife often, dear Joseph.”

And so it went. Hubert relishing the money, Amélie the family connections, his mother nodding and smiling, promising to produce the precious necklace she’d been saving all these years for Joseph’s bride. Worn out by the excitement of seeing his play, his father snored in his wheelchair.

I was a damned fool
, Joseph told himself,
to expect anything else.

From
them
, at any rate.

He paced his room, too agitated this evening even to write.

And if he were to try to describe his feelings to Marie-Laure?

Never.

It would mean opening the Pandora’s box of his emotions—anger, petulance, and confusion would come flying out; she’d see what he
really
was like inside—and how powerless he was over his destiny. Better to keep a tight lid on all that, maintain a little dignity.

And anyway, her life had its own challenges. Remarkable how strong-willed she was; she actually intended to work her way back into the world of bookselling, all from the pittance they were paying her to scrub and scour the pots.

“I’ll sell Papa’s spectacles too,” she’d told him one evening. “They’re good ones, from Amsterdam; I know they’ll bring in something. Of course, then I won’t have them to remind me of him—but I’ll know how proud he’d be if he could see me through them, and that will be just as good.”

How extraordinary that he could admire her as he did, even while wanting her so fiercely that it went beyond pain. It wasn’t supposed to work like that, he thought.

Hearing her describe her plans for the future, he’d begun to make some of his own. Not as brave as hers, but creditable enough. Jeanne de Machery was a good friend. If he had to marry someone he didn’t love, she was the ideal candidate; she had her own complicated life, her own secret reasons for marrying. They’d joke about their situation. They’d be honest with each other. They’d have civilized conversations over breakfast, reviewing the latest talk at the political salons, where the best of the Parisian upper classes argued about how to make France a better, fairer place. And then they’d part for the day, each in pursuit of separate interests—they’d part, knowing that they wouldn’t see each other until the next day’s breakfast.

He’d renew old acquaintances, join Lafayette’s antislavery society. He should have done it years ago; having fought for the rights of the American colonists, he had a responsibility to work for the freedom of their black slaves. He’d reconnect with the people he’d disappointed at Versailles: returning from America a hero, he’d squandered his glory by becoming a fop and a libertine. All because of some obscure angers and long-ago shames that shouldn’t matter anymore.

He’d be all right, he thought, once he was gone from here and mercifully free of his family.

Gone from here and—most likely—never to see Marie-Laure again.

He stopped pacing, to allow himself to feel the pain of that last thought.

Well, at least he could be proud that he’d stood by his principles. He hadn’t taken advantage of her, hadn’t harmed her. As once he
had
done, to another innocent…

He raised his chin.
Listen. Aren’t those her steps in the corridor?

He dove into the armchair, hurriedly opening the volume on the table. A collection of American political writing; the editor had chosen to call it
The Pursuit of Happiness
. Rather an annoying phrase, he thought, when one was being denied the freedom to pursue one’s own marital happiness.

But the ideas in the book were still interesting and worthy of discussion. Yes, he’d keep the conversation to books and ideas tonight. A peaceful, intellectual evening would be best.

The only problem with this scheme was that
her
mood was anything but peaceful or intellectual. He could see it as soon as she walked through the door. The exaggerated straightness of her back, the tilt of her chin, the flush in her cheeks and opacity of her usually limpid eyes gave her away immediately. She looked as she had last winter, when he’d told her she should stick to reading what was on the page.

“Are you tired?” he asked hopefully. “Have they worked you too hard in the kitchen?”

She shook her head.

“I’m used to the work,” she said, “and today was actually rather pleasant.

“We learned how to make madeleines,” she added. “Fashionable little teacakes, Monsieur Colet says they’re quite the rage among the gentry. I imagine you ate a few of them this afternoon.”

He hadn’t eaten anything.

“My father enjoyed the performance,” he offered.

She nodded. “Louise told me.

“The maid who served the tea and cakes,” she explained with exaggerated patience. “The girl with the misshapen mouth.”

“I know who Louise is,” he answered quietly.

His jaw tightened.
Of course
Marie-Laure knew how his show had come off. An aristocrat’s life was always a performance, acted out in front of the same merciless audience who washed your soiled linen. What other entertainments did servants have, after all?

He was usually so conscious of that all-seeing gaze, too. But somehow he’d managed to trick himself into forgetting that
she
was part of that audience.

And that she obviously knew about his family selling him on the marriage market. Perhaps even about their threat to imprison him.

His stomach clenched. In the kitchen they would have been discussing his marriage, as well as making the same kinds of scabrous jokes they’d made about his mother and Père Antoine. Marie-Laure had doubtless laughed at the jokes—and at
him
and his ridiculous situation too. Perhaps, since she knew him so well, she’d even contributed a few
bon mots
to the proceedings.

She relaxed against the cushions, her breath coming more evenly now as her muscles uncoiled. She watched the candlelight cast shadows on his cheek. One of the candles flared suddenly; the smell of the singed wick prickled her nostrils.

He looked sad, tired, perhaps even a bit angry. She regretted that she hadn’t thought to say something nice to him.

For he
had
been a dutiful son all these weeks, sensitive and imaginative, caring and devoted. Even Gilles, who thought all aristocrats were heartless parasites, would have applauded the loving consideration Joseph had shown his father.

She’d say something now.

Something comforting and encouraging.

But as soon as she opened her mouth to speak, she could feel the words coming out all wrong.

“And your intended wife,” she heard herself saying in a sharp, querulous voice. “The Marquise de Machery. Does
she
like acting and theater?”

If she’d rehearsed all day, she thought, she couldn’t have chosen a worse question to ask him. She watched in horrified fascination as his mouth compressed to a thin line and curved downward into a sneer. His face became a mask of aristocratic hauteur, his black eyes suddenly gone cold.

“Yes,” he said, “she does like actors.” His voice was calm, emotionless. “She’s rather a patron of the theater, in fact, and has got some intimates in the
Comédie-Française
.”

He shrugged.

“Well, she knows actors
and
actresses, of course. Which will be rather a help to me when I look around for a suitable mistress. Because I’ll be able to afford the best—”

“I suppose so,” she said.

“Don’t interrupt,” he replied quickly. “It’s impertinent for a servant to interrupt.”

She stared at him.

“Yes, I’ll buy the most expensive mistress I can find. Of course, you and the rest of the crew down in the kitchen already know about the fabulous clothing allowance I’ll have. It’s almost as good as the King’s brother’s. And if we hold out a little longer, wait for a better settlement, who can say what riches they’ll shower on me and my family? Quite impressive all in all, don’t you think?”

He’s dueling with his
shadow
, she thought.

She opened her mouth to reply but no sound came out.

“It’s also impertinent,” he told her, “not to answer when your master asks you a question.”

She took a breath.

“And what,” she asked, “will you actually
do
with your life in Paris?”

He raised an eyebrow. “An aristocrat doesn’t
do
anything, Marie-Laure. But I thought you already knew that. An aristocrat simply
lives
, brilliantly and gracefully, wasting his time and spending France’s money. You told me that yourself—told me how selfish, how petty—”

“Stop it,” she cried. “You
know
I’m sorry that I said that. It’s just something Papa used to say, a general observation about the aristocrats who patronized our shop. But Papa hadn’t met you. And you’re
not
like that.”

“On the contrary,” he snapped. “Your esteemed Papa was quite right about me. Because I’m
exactly
that selfish and petty. Worse, if truth be told—but that’s a story I think I’ll keep to myself.

“And I’ll go on being that way. I’ll enjoy it too. I’ll buy the most expensive mistress in Paris, and when she cheats on me I’ll dabble in more esoteric pleasures—but only as a diversion—and then I’ll toss her out and move on to the next, even more stunning, mistress. I’ll eat good food, drink expensive wine, sleep with beautiful women on perfectly laundered linen. No fleas in
my
bed, thank you.”

She gasped.

Now you’ve done it, Joseph.
Badly phrased, that comment about fleas. Everybody knows that typhus is spread by flea bites. And typhus killed her father.