The Dream Lover (23 page)

“
Oh là là là
, how warm you are. I shall prepare a cool compress for you. Have you eaten? Where is the soup? Has no one brought you soup?”

“There is bread and cheese,” I said.

“Bread and cheese! Might as well say nails and bricks! You need soup! After I have made you more comfortable, I shall go out and get what I need to make it for you. But first I shall bathe you and refresh your linens.”

“No, Marie.”

She ignored me; instead, she bustled about, gathering a basin, towels, sheets, and pillowcases.

“You have rehearsal,” I said, and she looked over her shoulder at me, so bright and beautiful, the color high in her cheeks, her dangling earrings catching and then refracting the light.

“I have canceled rehearsal. What need have I of rehearsal when I already know my lines perfectly? And in any case, my audience will forgive me everything. You know that!”

“But—”

“And now you are to say no more about anything. Instead, you will only listen to me tell you of the scandal I witnessed last night. It concerns Victoire Adeaux. Perhaps I need say no more than that! You know her name; you know she has earned her reputation. And I shall also need to talk at length about the entertainment I enjoyed last night with a most lavish suitor to the melody of my husband passing gas in the next room over. Oh! And I am having made a dress that is a dream, a confection, one I will wear for my next play; the dressmaker came this morning with thousands of yards of silk as blue as the deepest sea—I shall be remarkable in it. Are you awake? Stay awake. Later you can sleep, after I have…”

She clasped her hands beneath her chin, sighing dramatically. “But
mon Dieu
, look at you! You must not have slept in days! I shudder on your behalf. And you haven't even a single rose beside you!”

I began to cough violently, and she widened her eyes and watched me until I finally stopped and fell back against the pillow, exhausted. “Oh, poor George. Yes, close your eyes, dear one, but listen to me, are you listening? I shall make you well, I shall make you soup with the sweetest carrots and onions and potatoes. And when you have eaten and are bathed, I shall sit beside you and read to you from whatever book you choose. Poetry, perhaps, short bits?

“And you will wear my new necklace as I read to you—look what the gentleman last night pressed into my hand upon arrival!
Emeralds are not my favorite, but this is an exceptional cut, and I think it will look well on you; I will give it to you if you promise to keep it and not hand it over to some suffering soul.

“No, you will not be alone in misery, I shall see to that; we will make your illness a little holiday, we will travel together through this day, and when tomorrow comes you will be much improved—I must insist upon it, for I cannot be distracted from my performance tonight because of worries about you!” At last, she drew a breath. “Have you at least one lovely plate on which I may serve you one perfect slice of fruit?”

“Marie,” I said. “Where have you been?”

A miracle: quiet from Marie Dorval. Then: “George,” she said softly. “Here I am.”

Easy to comprehend that when I was ill, I was helpless before her. But even when I was not ill, such was always the case. She swept me away from my woes and reminded me of my capacity for joy. She seemed to work miracles that were personal and intricate in nature, and that were a testimony to her understanding and generosity. She ridiculed me for my automatic defense of anyone who suffered, but her sentiments in that regard were the same as mine. Beneath the glitter and the gaiety and the fame and the storms of temperament and the constant hyperbole and the demands and the wants and the waste was a truly compassionate being. When I was with her, I brought her most fully to herself. She did the same for me. I thought we held true mirrors to each other's souls.

M
ARIE'S SOUP HAD THE
curative powers she had said it would. Three days after her visit, I was back to myself. I worked well during the day, and that night I went to Marie's show and then let myself into her dressing room. I wanted to surprise her. I lit a fire and sat before it, watching as the flames leapt up, separated, met again.

I sensed her coming before she arrived; I smelled her perfume
before she turned the knob on the door. She entered like a glittering whirlwind, her voice hoarse, but speaking rapidly. “At long last, to be finished with a night that I thought would never end! My God, my feet, my throat! They use me up, they grind me out, they can never get enough! Oh, look, my husband has made a fire for me!” I started to answer, then saw that she was not speaking to me at all. Behind her was a tall, strikingly handsome young blond man, someone I did not know; nor, apparently, did Marie.

“Tell me your name again, my darling, and then help me out of my dress,” she said. “I am looking forward to—” She stopped then, having seen me standing quietly in the shadows.

“Forgive me,” I said. “I wanted to surprise you.”

She laughed. “Well, you have succeeded! I am surprised.”

The young man cleared his throat, and I picked up my coat.

“Where are you going?” Marie asked.

I pointed to the door. “Call on me tomorrow.”

“Stay,” she told me.

She took hold of the young man's arm and looked up at him. “You, I shall see on another occasion, perhaps?”

The man started to speak, and she stood on her toes to kiss him quickly, multiple times. “Ah, you are delicious, you turn my bones into water. But run along now and find someone else to play with.”

He stood crushed, unmoving, and she laughed and shooed him out the door.

Then she came to kiss me.

“A bit cruel, no?” I said.

She shrugged. “By now, he is telling all his friends that he had me. Ah, let them talk; I appreciate the worth of gossip in keeping alive a reputation I no longer have the energy to maintain.”

She flung her fur-trimmed cloak to the floor, along with a huge bouquet, then stepped out of her dress, her petticoats, and her undergarments. The dress, lavender in color, had a pelerine
en ailes d'oiseau
, “wings of a bird,” a look of which I was particularly fond. She wrapped herself in the dressing gown she kept draped over her
Oriental screen, then sat at her dressing table to rub cream over her face. By now, her post-performance routine was familiar to me, and I loved watching it.

“Thank heaven you are here, George! Now that I see you, I realize again how much I need you! You always have such a wonderful effect on me. Come and sit by me, take down my hair.” I went to her, put my hands in her silken mass of curls, and began removing pins.

She sighed deeply, then cocked her head. “And how are you, my darling, did you love my performance?”

“Of course I loved your performance. There is no one like you. You devastate us. We all were on the edges of our seats every time you spoke. How fully you become your characters!”

“Yes. As do you! We are both instruments of our art—we give ourselves completely to it. And yet is it not completely exhausting? I often wonder if it is wrong to have such passion for one's work. Or even a sin! Why are we so utterly devoted? Tell me, do you think it is a curse?”

I began to massage her shoulders, and she closed her eyes and leaned her head back; her throat was white as a swan's, her lashes a black filigree. I felt a rising up of a strong desire and had to struggle to keep my voice level as I answered her question.

“I think it is our nature, not our decision,” I told her. “And I think, furthermore, that it is a blessing and not a curse. Our work sustains us, rewards us, and it endures. It does not attempt to contain us or call us names or try to make us suffer for what we cannot help being. It is how we go to bed satisfied, and why we get up in the morning.”

She opened her eyes and sought out mine in the mirror as she spoke. “It is true, all that you say. Yet is there not in you a longing for a deeper connection to something else, something more?” She sighed. “Always, always, something more?”

I spoke carefully. “Are those your feelings, Marie?”

She laughed and spun around on her bench, took my hands in
hers, and kissed them, knuckle by knuckle. “I tell you this truly, George, to be near you is to be reborn. Look at me, I am suddenly wide awake! Let us take off our shoes and stockings and dance barefoot down the streets, let us pull down the stars from the heavens—I will gather them in my skirt for us to have as our own. Let us lie down and ravage each other all night, and then breakfast on champagne and oysters!”

“Shall we?” I asked quietly, my heart racing. Could I at last act on my desires? Marie had just opened her mouth to answer me when we heard a knock on the door. And then her husband came into the room.

“Marie?” he said, and just before her face changed into one of domestic compliance, she glanced over at me, and we shared a look that we had shared before, one that could be translated into a single word that meant many things:
Men
.

I nodded to her husband and took my leave. Outside, the clouds had lifted, and the stars shone brilliantly. Mercilessly. I stood still looking up at them, my hands in my pockets. I ached for her then. Then and always.

All the way home, I made love to her in my imagination, as I thought I could if only she would let me. I would kiss those lips, that neck, that bosom: pink and white, roses and cream.

March 1822

RUE NEUVE-DES-MATHURINS

PARIS

M
y mother and I had moved into my grandmother's apartment. Rather than the two of us enjoying each other, which I confess I still hoped for, there was cold silence and an ongoing disapproval. My mother seemed to want to punish me for the life I had lived with my grandmother. She seemed intent on breaking my spirit, on taking away from me the things I loved most. She ripped books from my hand, telling me that since she found them incomprehensible, they were no good. She got rid of my maid, saying she did not like her, and even sent back to Nohant my dog, Phanor, whose imploring look when he departed nearly broke my heart.

I felt I had no allies. My cousin René de Villeneuve, once my champion, stopped coming to visit. When his brother, Auguste, came once to call on me, I expressed my dismay about no longer seeing René. Auguste, who was no diplomat, said, “With a mother like yours, what do you expect? She is always rude to René. And besides that, you did not adhere to the plan we all had agreed to. You did not go to live in the convent. Rather, you choose to live here with your mother, and you even show yourself on the street with her and her people. I myself don't mind such a thing, but for my sister-in-law and other important people in society, it is quite impossible to think of getting you married off when you are seen with such types.”

However challenging my mother was for me, this made me angry. “First of all,” I told Auguste, “my mother would not permit me to live at the convent. I am seventeen years old, not of age, and therefore am obliged to do as she says. What recourse did I have? Secondly, you suggest that it is wrong for me to keep company with my mother and her family and friends. As long as you are taking
moral inventory, you might want to ponder this: What kind of virtue would be shown by my abandoning my own flesh and blood? Shall I blatantly disobey my mother? Threaten and insult her? Shall I run away and abandon her as she abandoned me, throwing bad after bad?

“What, after all, Auguste, makes you a nobleman but the circumstances of your birth? It is no credit to you that you sprang from your mother's limbs; you had nothing to do with it. Is it not one's character and actions that make him what he truly is?”

Auguste bristled. “If so, take care to recall the actions of your mother, who before she married your father was—”

“I know what she was! She did what she had to do! Her choices were limited; they were not those of a man!”

He sighed. “Aurore. There are ideals, and then there is the world we live in. You must be realistic. You must be practical. Surely you see our predicament. Our society is not welcoming of women like your mother. As her daughter, if you expect to marry well—”

“The world we live in is the way it is because of the decisions people make. Or do not make, but instead blindly follow behind those who went before, never questioning their motives or reasoning, never thinking for themselves!”

He shook his head. “Aurore—”

“And as for you dangling the prospect of my marriage to a nobleman, what makes you think I want such a marriage? The idea of the convent is more appealing to me than marriage!”

He laughed heartily. “Come, come, let us not pretend that every woman does not dream of getting married! What we hoped for was for you to find a good match, by which I mean a man of wealth and good breeding. But all right, then, marry a commoner, if that is your desire. It makes no difference to me.” He raised a shoulder in a lazy shrug.

My heart was racing so fast it was making me dizzy, but I spoke calmly: “If you want to speak in absolutes, then I shall answer you this way. Every man thinks he can speak for any woman. But he
would do better to let her speak for herself, and then consider the worth of her words!”

“Bah!” He stood, pulled out his pocket watch, and looked at it. “I must take my leave. But before I go, I should like to tell you something, Aurore. I know that René finds many of your odd ideas charming. I confess I do not share his enthusiasm. Your outrage about such matters only bores me. Men and women live in this society in the way that makes the most sense; we have evolved quite naturally to operate in a way that is best for all of us. That includes recognizing men as the superior sex, though of course women do have their charming contributions to make. I believe that when you mature somewhat, you will come to understand this. And I hope that, despite your feelings toward me now, you will think about our conversation and understand my family's concern for you. I speak for all of us, I know, when I say that I wish you well.”