Words from the Dark Inkwell of the Heart (3 page)

DeRoste, grinning, made a florid bow in my direction. “
Enchante,
Mademoiselle. I am delighted to make your acquaintance. She who is precious to Cecile, is precious to me.”

I could not speak; instead I made a sharp, sudden bend of knees as a curtsey, and took an abrupt interest in my shoes.

“And now I am off.” He clapped his flamboyant
chapeau
back onto his head. “Good day, fair cousin. I may call on you again next week, if you will have me.”

Madame laughed and stood to see him out. “But of course I will. You know you are always welcome.”

His last gesture was an odd one, repeated countless times in the ensuing years. Madame waited for him at the door, and DeRoste turned toward the mantle. There above the fireplace was a painting of Monsieur de Maurier, before he went away to war; DeRoste squared his shoulders and heels and gave his old friend’s portrait a quick, jaunty military salute. Then, without another word, he left the room.

* * *

I continued in Madame’s service for another four years without incident. Her cousin Edmund was a regular visitor and a constant companion to her. She could call on him any time; DeRoste attended her at the opera, escorted her to concerts and plays, joined her for luncheon and rides in the park. As I grew older, and saw more of the world—or rather, that small part of it which passed through Madame’s drawing room—I understood more and more how she depended on her cousin to shield her from other men.

It was both Madame’s joy and her grave misfortune that she had given her heart to only one man in her life. This was the gentleman whose portrait hung above her mantle. She did not intend to re-marry, and could not bear even to be courted—whether for her beauty or for her fortune made no difference. Even to hear the suit of another man was an insult to the memory of her beloved Lucien, and she would not allow the subject to be broached. Twice I saw her cut off all contact with a man who dared to make an improper suggestion—all letters returned and all visits refused from the hapless fellow thereafter.

 When she thought she was alone, Madame often mourned for Monsieur de Maurier. More than once I saw her reach behind that portrait and take out a packet of letters, still bound by a faded ribbon. Many of them remained unopened, even years later—but in one of the old linen envelopes, there was still a single lock of his chestnut hair. On her darker days, she would open that envelope and breathe in the smell of her beloved, hold the silken loop of hair against her cheek, and weep.

From time to time I studied the portrait of Monsieur de Maurier myself. It was impossible to do otherwise, when he was the object of so much love. He was a handsome young man, in many ways the masculine counterpart to Madame’s own luminous beauty: tall, lean, with piercing gray eyes and features so lovely they might have been a girl’s. His face did not seem unkind, and he looked well in his uniform. But whatever quality he possessed that could inspire Madame’s lifetime of devotion, I could not see.

There is little else to say about those years, save that I was happy. My hunger for words had never been so gluttonously surfeited: I drowned in books, papers, letters and writs. Soon, emboldened by my daily service to Madame, I began to write little things of my own, in my private hours. My salary was more than sufficient to afford my own quills and a bound diary; in the pages of those blank books I began to explore my inner country.

I burned those diaries this evening; I could not allow them to be found. Someone might have seen in them a contradiction with tomorrow’s confession. In any case, all those little thoughts had no great value; in all the years I sat writing, I arrived at only three great truths.

One, that I was desperately and hopelessly in love with the great writer, Edmund DeRoste.

Two, that Edmund Deroste was just as hopelessly in love with my mistress, Cecile de Maurier.

Three, that Cecile de Maurier had given her heart away years ago, to a dead man, and would not ever return her cousin’s love, no matter how great their mutual affection. Her love for him was of another nature entirely.

I suppose that in my simple way, I had assumed that these great truths were equally evident to all three of us. I thought we had agreed, by silent mutual consent, to continue as we were; we knew there was no need to trouble one another with painful subjects, or to speak of loves which can never be returned.

As it happened, I was mistaken. The three great truths were known only to me, and neither Madame nor DeRoste understood and accepted them as I had. Apparently, there are some matters in which a crippled serving girl has the advantage over a great beauty or a great talent, and the acceptance of pain—both for myself and others—was one of these.

* * *

The change in DeRoste came slowly. It was obvious to me that he was restless, gnawed from within by a pang that grew stronger with the passage of time. Unless he found some relief, it would eventually become unbearable.

Last November, he announced that he was writing a new play. “It will be my greatest work to date. The one for which I am remembered.”

“Really?” Madame lowered her knitting. “And what will be the subject?”

“Love.” He fixed her with his eyes. “It will be a comedy.”

“Excellent! I shall look forward to reading it.”

DeRoste began the same evening. The writing was the work of three months; he did not call upon Madame during that time, although she sent letters to inquire after his health. When I delivered the last of these to his door, following Madame’s own instructions, Jean-Patrice would not let me in.

“He is working,” the old man said simply. “He is not to be disturbed.”

The play arrived on a stormy February evening, carried by Jean-Patrice in an oiled leather sachet. I brought it to Madame still dripping from the rain. When she bade me open it, I found the play itself prefaced by a terse note: “Cecile—please read. I will call on you tomorrow to see what you think of it.” Unusually, he had signed it with his first name: “Anxiously yours, Charles.”

“Well!” Madame took the heavy parcel from my hands, hefting the weight of the five acts within. “He sounds very urgent,
n’est ce pas
? We shall have to begin reading this at bedtime, Claudette—it won’t do to be rude.”

“No, Madame.” I was outwardly calm—but I could barely contain myself. What on earth had DeRoste written in this play, so urgently, so passionately, for three long months without rest? What was so important that he could not wait a single day longer for Madame to read it?

The answer was slow in coming. Madame’s guests lingered over their coffee; Madame herself dawdled on her way to bed. Even as I braided her hair I could see how tired she was, her neck bowed like the stem of a wilting flower. She lay in bed ready to listen—but by the second page of the first act, she was sound asleep.

Quietly I snuffed the lamp, took up my cane, and retired to my own room. I still held DeRoste’s play under my arm. Cecile de Maurier might be too tired to receive his words, but I was born for nothing else. There was not the slightest possibility that I could sleep before I had finished reading that play. The sun might sooner fall from the sky like a lemon.

And so I sat, first with laughter, then with tears, and finally in cold, sickening dread, as I turned page after page. It was, indeed, DeRoste’s masterpiece—a magnificent play about a magnificent man and a magnificent, tragic, and beautiful love. It sparkled with fine
repartee
, with humane understanding, with affection and tolerance for all the pretty foibles of humankind—moreover, with an abiding faith in the deeper truth which lies beneath the face we all must show to the world.

At last I read the final words, so hastily written that the ink had not been properly blotted. He had finished it that very evening, I was certain, only hours ago. Even now he was pacing, sleepless, waiting for the hour when he could come to Madame, and demand her answer.

Silently, I took up my candle and went to the parlor. For the first time I dared to touch the portrait of Monsieur de Maurier, drawing aside the picture frame to find the packet of letters. Looking constantly over my shoulder, I took them to my room, and opened the ribbon with a trembling hand.

No. No, even from the very first letter, there could be no doubt. Even had the Voice not spoken so clearly, the occasional backslant of the hand would have given it away. Shaking, weeping, I opened one after the other—even daring to profane those which Madame had left sealed and unread, all those years ago.

When at last I was finished, my heart was cold; foreboding hung over me like an axe. Only a few hours remained until dawn. I worked as fast as I could; I had an ample supply of Madame’s best paper at my disposal, and I knew her epistolary style very well. I referred often to my own diaries, scanning page after page for all the things I had longed to say, but had never dared. I knew it must all be voiced now…every precious word. There could be no holding back.

* * *

He arrived the following afternoon. Madame could not conceal her delight; of the three of us, only she was not ragged for want of sleep. Seeing the hollow, feverish gleam in his eyes, I trembled. Nonetheless, he greeted her with a smile. “Cecile.”

“
Bon jour
, Edmund. It is so good to see you again—congratulations. You finished your play!”

He took her hand and sat upon the divan, drawing her down into the chair beside him. “Yes,
cherie
.” He looked into her eyes, searching. “And did you read it?”

Madame looked away. “Of course.” She was ashamed, naturally, but so eager to spare his feelings that she couldn’t bear to tell him she had fallen asleep. “It was good—very good! You should be quite proud.”

A smile broke out, bright as the sun piercing the clouds. “Do you think so? I had hoped…hoped that it would speak to you.”

“Oh yes.” She nodded. “Very much so.”

“Ah Cecile.” For a moment, overcome, he bent and pressed his forehead to the back of her hand, as if in supplication. “I should have written it years ago. When I think of all the time I wasted…!” His voice was heavy with emotion.

Tenderly, Madame tousled his hair. “Your life has not been wasted, cousin. You have written so many fine things…this is only one of the many.”

He sat up abruptly, looking into her face. “Surely you cannot mean it.” Incredulous, he laughed. “Cecile, this play
is
my life…your life…even poor Lucien’s life…”

Madame’s back stiffened. “Lucien? I’m sorry…I don’t believe I understand. Was one of the characters supposed to be Lucien?”

He gaped at her. “Of course. Lucien, you, me—you didn’t see it?”

Madame withdrew her hand from his with chilly finality. “No.”

Something seemed to pierce him at that moment, as if an unseen shaft had feathered his breast; unwittingly he put a hand to his chest. “Cecile.” Her name was a plea. “Surely you remember, years ago, when Lucien was courting. The letters he wrote to you…the many love letters…?”

“Yes?” She frowned; she did not understand, and was not certain she wanted to.

“Those letters won your heart, did they not? Lucien…the loving words he wrote…?”

“Ah!” Madame suddenly smiled again, and patted her cousin’s hand affectionately. “No, Edmund. Of course not!”

He froze, one hand still clutching his chest. “No?” Numbly, he added, “Not?”

“Not at all.” She wrinkled her nose prettily. “Lucien was never good at writing letters. He was never himself when he picked up a pen; he’d go stiff as a board, and try to be flowery—it was dreadful, really. His letters always made me laugh. He tried so hard to be poetic!”

“But…” DeRoste turned helplessly toward the painting on the wall. “You’ve kept his letters, haven’t you? For all these years…why?”

A mist of tears rose in her eyes. “I’ve kept everything, Edmund. Anything he touched is still with me. His clothes, his comb, his scissors. I would sooner throw myself into the Seine than lose any of his things. I may not love the letters, but I loved the foolish man who wrote them—a man who believed that a simple soldier was unworthy to love me. Who tried so hard, for my sake, to be something better.”

I watched, eyes burning, as the blood slowly drained from his face. At last he stood. “Cecile…forgive me.” He offered her a painful smile—God, could she not see? “I have been very foolish.”

She shook her head, smiling in return. “Not at all, cousin. We so seldom speak of Lucien.” She lowered her eyes, and her voice dropped as well. “The pain is so fresh, even after all these years.”

Moved by an impulse of kindness, he caressed her cheek with the back of one finger, brushing away a tear that shone like a dewdrop on a morning peach. “I…I would like to read those letters of Lucien’s.” He turned toward the portrait. “If you would not mind.”

She made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Take them all, if you like. I know you loved him too. But don’t think too unkindly, please, of his mawkish pretensions, when you read them—he was a very young man, trying so hard to please.”

DeRoste paused in mid-step on his way to the mantel; I could almost see where the second shaft had driven through him. “No.” He practically staggered to the mantle. “Of course…I will not judge him too harshly.”

As he reached to take the bundle, she suddenly lifted her chin and held up a hand to forestall him. “But leave me one. The one that still holds a lock of his hair? I cannot part with that one.”

“Just the one,” he murmured. He gave her the bundle, and she quickly withdrew her prize—sparing not a glance to the other letters, much to my relief.

“Yes, you can take the rest—they are only words. The words do not matter.”

Throughout this interview, I had remained in my corner, as dumb and helpless as a rag doll. But when Madame de Maurier loosed the final, fatal shaft, I rose to my feet, a storm of protest rising in my throat—too late. Already DeRoste had turned to the man above the mantel, offering not his usual salute but a final, low bow of defeat. He left without another word.