Beyond paradise (37 page)

"What's that?"

"Uh ... nothing." He handed back the parchment with a quick smile. "Thank you for showing me that."

"I thought Etienne might like to see it," she ventured, "but Maman said nothing about bringing it to him."

"Well..." He scratched his chin, trying to decide how much he ought to tell a sixteen-year-old girl. "Etienne has been rather ... preoccupied since his return. Apparently, there were a lot of ladies waiting at his doorstep, rather round in the belly, wanting to know where he had been. His mother is making him work in the stables to earn the cost of paying each of them for her silence."

"What does that mean?"

"It means don't kiss boys until you are married."

Chantal pretended to understand, nodding wisely.

Jervais glanced behind him and noticed the horse. Sylvie's horse. "Are you riding her now?" he asked.

"Yes," she said proudly. "Maman said I could have her."

"Hmmm." He stood up and examined the mare, trying not to let it remind him of the first time he had escorted Sylvie home. "She is a good horse. Do you know how to ride her?"

Chantal was an expert rider. "Well, not as well as you do, perhaps. That is, I imagine that if I had you to teach me, I would be much, much better."

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Jervais seemed to like that answer. "Well, a woman doesn't know how to command a beast," he said, squaring his massive shoulders. k it s in her nature to befriend, but not command. That's the problem."

"YouYe so very right!" she squealed excitedly. "I'd never thought of it that way." It was a bunch of rubbish, and she knew it. But it bothered her not at all.

Jervais grinned. "Yes, well, all you'll need is a little guidance, and I'm sure you'll do well." "Would you be my teacher?" He bowed his head. "Well, I... I don't know, I. . ." "Oh, please! I know you would be a marvelous teacher!" "Well. .." He noticed for the first time what lovely yellow hair she had. Her beauty was more solid than Sylvie's— it lacked subtlety. The hair was a perfect yellow, the eyes a perfect pale blue, the face adorned with a splotch of pink on each cheekbone. She was larger and more seductively built. It was different. Yet. . . lovely. "I suppose I could."

"Oh, this is wonderful! Is there anything else you can teach me? I know you must be an expert in nearly everything!"

"Well, not.. . absolutely ... everything." "But you're so brave and strong and smart!" He raised a sinister eyebrow. "How old are you again?" Chantal thrust her chin high into the air. "Old enough," she said. "Old enough to wait for."

Jervais returned her smile. Maybe she was right, he thought. In very little time, she would be a woman. He noticed her—really noticed her—for one fleeting instant. She was a beautiful girl, so different from her sister in both looks and mannerism. There was no doubt she was her own soul. Yet there was a comforting familiarity there. Hmm. He met her eyes in a friendly, good-hearted truce. Maybe she was right.

Thirty-six

Their home was on a busy street, in the center of all of Paris's worst commotion. It was how they liked it. All day and all night, Sylvie could hear horses' hooves clip-clopping on stones. She kept her multipaned window pushed outward to the iron railing so she could feel the city breeze and hear the elegant sound of carriage wheels turning in the rain. The ceilings inside their stone town house were so high that they created an echo, muffled only by the brightly colored rugs below. The furniture was of the heaviest wood, but never dreary, for there was so much light pouring in from the many windows and faux terraces. At night, Sylvie lay awake in her joy, listening to the raucous sounds from the street, gazing contentedly past her sleeping lover, through the French windows into the narrow alley which stretched into a hilly view. But during the day, it was her front parlour that was filled with sunshine. The windows there opened up to a busy street where shoppers and respectable ladies and gentleman trotted properly by, casting an occasional wary glance at the windows above them.

Elizabeth Doyle

Sylvie herself looked quite the respectable Parisian nowadays. Only those who knew her would have guessed that her attire was but a gay costume to hide her rebellious spirit. Her hair was tied into a coiffeur that was taller than the length of her face. Her face was whitened with a hint of beauty paste. A tight corset wrinkled her chemise, and it was a sin what she had spent on elaborately laced petticoats, given that no one could see them. She wore a full-skirted gown of shocking blue, which nearly managed to match the color of her eyes. Her square-toed, high-heeled booties were nearly too uncomfortable for walking, though she'd learned to manage. And always, she carried a handbag embroidered with that most popular of all adornments, pearls. Her dark eyebrows, she had learned, were tremendously fashionable, which struck her as comical. What would she have done if they were unfashionable? It was ridiculous. But it was a game, this fitting in, and it was fun.

"You look lovely," said Jacques, who seemed to be getting more handsome with every passing day. Or had she always thought that. "May I help you with your necklace?" he asked, observing her struggle.

"Why, thank you." She handed him the string of pearls and let him fumble with it behind her neck. His hands were warm but sensually rough against her skin. "Thank you," she said, turning around to beam at him. She never forgot to look at him while she spoke anymore. In fact, she was so in the habit of turning, that she imagined she did so with everyone she met, no matter how crisp their hearing.

Jacques made quite an elegant gentleman, as it turned out. If he had been dashing in torn, old pirate clothes, he was nothing short of breathtaking when dressed as a member of the Noblesse de robe. An olive greatcoat of military styling flattered his light hair and matched his knee-length breeches with precision. Silk stockings showed off the strong curve of

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his calf, and the hat he carried under his arm was as elegant in its plumage as it was thoroughly unwearable for its tightness. It didn't matter. Carrying them under the arm was the fashionable solution. What would never be fashionable, however, was his fair hair, which he refused to grow long because of the fuss. In public, he had to wear a wig of long, waving gold to cover his sin. But the moment he got home, he took it off again. He hated being fashionable. Though currently, that was his only true complaint in life. So he imagined, all things considered, he must be doing well.

"My family has surely received my letter by now," said Sylvie, touching her pearls with tenderness. They were the first gift Jacques had given her after the small church ceremony, and they were already taking on her glow. "Do you think they will forgive me?"

Jacques bent down slightly to look her in the eye and replied, "I don't know them, but you do. So the question is do you think they'll forgive you."

Sylvie bowed her head pensively, but then looked up with a smile. "I do," she said.

He rewarded her optimism with a kiss. "Then I do, too."

"Are we going to the theater tonight?" she asked, as he reached for his much-hated wig.

"Don't we every night?" The joy that truth brought to him was apparent by his broad smile.

"Yes," she said. "I was only making certain."

He kissed her again as a gesture of departure. "I'm going to do some errands. Will you be entertained?"

"Oh yes," she said. "I have never had hobbies before, but now it seems I'm overwhelmed by them." She smiled gaily as she glanced toward her latest project—a half completed woven tapestry of a ship. It was marvelous, for Sylvie was one of those people who naturally excelled at nearly everything she attempted, even halfheartedly.

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"Will you do any shopping?" he asked, jingling his pouch. "Do you need money?"

"No," she said, "I'm fine." She stood on her toes and kissed him in good cheer, promising she would be ready in time for the theater. His eyes twinkled in reply. This was exactly the sort of life he had always thought impossible. It was hard even to step out of the door while his adorable wife was still beaming at him so. But somehow, he managed. And he did so with brightness in his heart, knowing that she would still be there upon his return. Upon every return. To him, it was a miracle.

Jacques stepped outside with his mind still several steps behind him. He had an uneasy sensation that made him wonder whether he'd forgotten to bring something. Quickly, he checked for both his coin pouch and his snuffbox, and found both where they should be. He moved forward along the sidewalk, handing a coin to a beggar. He never tossed coins. Somehow, the implication that one should have to fetch for the means to buy a meal seemed insulting or even cruel. He knew well that if fortune had turned differently, he could easily have been a beggar by now. Indeed, there were many who had been born to a higher lot than he who had become worse. He was all too aware of his fine attire as his heels clicked along the cobblestones. He felt as though he were at a costume ball every day of his life, as though every afternoon were a charade. He never felt guilty about the money, at least not for having stolen it from pirates. Money that had been stolen from thieves was so far removed from an original victim that it was hard to know who should feel guilty about its redistribution. That seemed to be the theory of most nobles. But there was still something about his lifestyle which bothered him, something that made him feel he shouldn't have been so fortunate. Good things never happened to people like himself, unless there were a dark omen attached.

He was due to meet some acquaintances at an outdoor

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cafe. It was a strange thing about the bourgeoisie, he had noted. Though they were supposed to feel inadequate regarding their lack of title, and hence responsibility, they were far too busy frolicking to bow their heads in proper shame. Though some of his new acquaintances were successful merchants or doctors, none performed what Jacques would consider actual labor. And many of them, having tired of earning money, had given up work altogether. That's what they assumed he and Sylvie had done, which in a sense was true, though the exact nature of the job from which he had retired he chose to keep ambiguous. Jacques saw that his friends had already purchased their tea and cocoa and were seated comfortably far away from the danger of splashings from balconies above. He grinned, and moved to join them, but stopped. Had he forgotten something at home? It still seemed as though he had. He patted his pouch once more to be certain. No, it wasn't that. He had an uneasy feeling, though, one he normally associated with the vulnerability of being without an important possession. What was it?

His friends caught sight of him and gestured for him to join. He did so with a casual stride and distracted smile. "Speaking of theology so early in the day?" he asked, forgetting that they didn't know he read lips.

"What?" asked a pointy-bearded fellow in a tall periwig, "You heard us from all the way yonder?"

"Uh . . . yes." He signaled to the merchant that he would like some coffee. Tea was the more dignified drink, but he had not developed a taste for it.

"Well, what do you say, then?" asked Matthieu. "Did or did not Paul contradict earlier Biblical teachings when he spoke of—"

"I'm, uh ... I'm really not. . . not the one to answer that." He smiled weakly, his eyes averted. "Really, you should ask my wife. She's more ... an expert."

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That stirred much unkind laughter around the table. "You allow a mere woman to speak on your behalf about God?"

"Uh ... well, not exactly, I..." He wanted to change the subject so badly it pained him. "I just find ... well, I just find that... if God knew everything, and ... was entirely kind and... had unlimited power, then... then things wouldn't hurt the way they do."

There was a lot of blinking but not much noise.

Thinking that explaining would improve rather than worsen his social position, he made the mistake of continuing. "Well, He could be omniscient and benevolent, in which case He knows how much we suffer but can't do a thing about it. Or He could be omnipotent and benevolent, but simply unaware. Or He could be omnipotent and omniscient, but have rather an unpleasant sense of humor, but He can't be all three, you see? I know my wife would disagree, but ... the pain and the suffering I've seen, I..."

There was still a great deal of blinking.

Jacques shrugged. "Never mind, I'll just say 'yes'. There's a contradiction in the text."

There was a lot of relieved chatter and the bickering continued over and around Jacques, who sipped his coffee as though it were the only reason he had come. He watched the lovely ladies pass by, thinking how terribly they would have regarded him if they had known him a year ago, an ill-dressed criminal escaped from an asylum. He thought of Sylvie and smiled into his cup. She was more lovely than any of them, not so much because she was fairer of skin, but because she had the fairest heart. She had loved him when no one else would have. The curious glances of women who now found him handsome struck him as a joke or an insult. Sylvie was the one who had loved him for the right reasons, and devoting himself to faithfulness would be the easiest decision he

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had ever made. Indeed he was among the few at the gathering who did not take a mistress. And he never would.

Sylvie. He cocked his head. That feeling was coming over him again. Perhaps he had forgotten to tell her something? No, there was nothing he'd needed to say, no urgent message. Then why did he feel as though he ought to go home? The conversation turned to business. Matthieu was a doctor who grew tired of being asked to wait for pay. "They think I am a charity," he chuckled. "If I were building their furniture or cooking their meals, they would never dream of asking me to forgo my bill. But because I mend bodies, I am expected to accept payment of thank-yous. Don't they realize I have expenses?"

"That reminds me," said Olivier, "my throat has been awfully sore. I wonder if you could inspect it as a personal favor." He burst into laughter when he received a glaring look.

"That is exactly what I mean. I.. . Jacques? Where are you going?"

"I'm sorry," he said, tossing some coins on the table. "I... I have to go home."

"Is it something we said?"

"Oh, no. No, nothing of that sort. I just... I forgot something." It was a lie, of course. At least, he thought it was. He wasn't sure.

"Will you and the lady be attending the performance tonight?"

"Yes, yes. I will see you then." He offered a stiff, nervous bow. "Thank you all for the company. I am very sorry. Very sorry."

"Not at all." They watched him go, then exchanged some curious glances at one another. But ultimately, they were not really interested enough in the state of another to cease the discussion of themselves. So they continued on gaily for the

Elizabeth Doyle

rest of the afternoon, discussing jobs, discussing plays, discussing wives and mistresses. They soon forgot Jacques's strange behavior, and were oblivious to the horror he was about to endure.

Sylvie was thinking of taking a nap. Wearing the placid smile that always seemed to grace her face nowadays, she let down her hair, feeling its soft ringlets cascade behind her neck. She wasn't sure. A nap seemed a friendly idea—the thought of opening up the French windows in the bedroom, breathing in the sunshine for a few minutes, letting a breeze tickle her cheek. Her days were peaceful in this way, though her nights were always jubilant. Perhaps she should prepare for the night, she thought, finding it an excellent excuse to tip the balance toward taking a relaxing nap. Perhaps some gentle afternoon slumber would leave her energized, or perhaps she didn't even need to fall asleep. Maybe just lying down for a while and listening to the birds in the alley would be of some benefit. She sighed at her incomplete tapestry. She'd had cup after cup of tea this morning, gazing at the ship, trying to imagine how she might turn it into a semblance of the Angel But the tea kept disappearing and the tapestry remained the same. Maybe she really should work some more before ... oh, blast it all. She wanted her nap.

Grinning at the funny way in which desire always conquered reason, she stretched her arms overhead on her way to the bedroom. Their bed had to be the softest in all of Paris. Months of sleeping on ships' cots had left Sylvie with an enormous longing for a soft place to sleep at night. It was the first piece of furniture she and Jacques had bought, and she was the one who'd insisted they spare no expense. Any table and chair would do, any wardrobe that would hold her clothes was adequate, but for the bed, she wanted paradise.

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She slid across its in, sinking into the feathers until

her head hit a pile of plush pillows at the top. She let out a sigh, and though her eyes were closed, her smile did not fade. She felt squares of sunlight streaming through the window panes and landing on her nose and chin. She had forgotten to open the windows.

Reluctantly, she forced herself upright and approached the windows. Turning the iron handles, she pushed them open, noticing how much noisier that made the room. But it wasn't unpleasant. It was the sound of human traffic in the distance, and birds arguing in the damp, gray alley below. The Parisian air never had a smell that she would describe as lovely. There were too many people and too many horses nearby for pleasant smells to prevail. But behind the house in the alley, nature's fresher scents did have a way of creeping in. The breeze carried the scent of distant grass and flowers. The cobblestones remembered the scent of old rains. One of the birds raised its wings and squawked angrily at another over a piece of bread. Sylvie laughed at its antics. But her eyes narrowed when she thought she heard a new sound. Leaning deeper into the iron flower box, she listened more careftilly, wondering whether she might hear it again.

It was then that she was grabbed around the throat and warned not to scream. "Do you understand me?" commanded a deep-throated, aged voice.

Sylvie nodded, every muscle in her body tightened to full attention.

"Move away from the window," it said. "That's good. Very slowly." As the intruder reached out to close the windows with his free arm, Sylvie caught a glimpse of him. His hair was white as his skin, and he smelled of sea salt. "Turn around," he ordered, as though uneasy that she had gazed at him. As though he hadn't wanted to see her eyes. "Go on," he said when she hesitated, "move to the door."

Elizabeth Doyle

A fiery bravery superimposed itself upon her thoughts and fears. She turned to the door as instructed, but rather than walking, she made a quick move, elbowed him in the gut, and plunged a fist in his face. Though old, he was much stockier than she, and not particularly weary from age. He recovered quickly from the surprise and pain of the blow, and wrestled her down—to the only place he could find to settle her. Unfortunately, it was the bed. He'd intended to scurry her from this dwelling as quickly as he could. His intentions had been unmuddled by thoughts of decadence. But his heart was buried under years of soot, so there was nothing to stop him from letting his mind turn to impurity when he saw her sprawled on the green satin beneath him, her shining hair falling wildly in ringlets all about her pretty face.

To him, she looked like a little porcelain doll. She was small, even for a woman, and not at all mature in the skin. She was struggling and fighting, tossing her head this way and that. But from her position, lying flat on her back with her wrists clasped at her sides, there really was no hope of escape. Her insistence on struggling only added to her appearance of vulnerability. And though he was not a criminal by trade, he found himself surprisingly willing to entertain the notion of assault... even an assault as unnecessary as this one. And when she spat in his face, that really sealed her fate.

Sylvie screamed as he wedged his knee between her skirted thighs. She screamed so loudly that she drew her own sweat. But it was at that desperate moment, that she heard the sweetest sound she knew. It was Jacques's voice, and it was saying, "Don't make me kill you, Blanchet."

Sylvie's eyes flung wide open. Blanchet? She could feel the shift in the old man's interest. It came in the form of weight lifting from her body, and a new freedom in her wrists. Slowly, the old man turned around, glancing at the long pistol

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aimed casually at his head, and then at the man who bore the weapon. "Jacques ," he whispered, as though it were a curse.

Sylvie studied her husband's face. He looked angry and tense, yes. But he also had another look in his dark brown eyes. There was sorrow there, some very deep pain. "How nice of you to pay us a visit," he said icily.

Blanchet's dark eyes narrowed, and in them, Sylvie saw hatred. His was not at all Jacques's sad, confused look. It was the expression of a seething yearning to kill something. Jacques saw it, too, and steadied his gun. "Move away from my wife," he said in a tone that left no room for argument.

Blanchet seemed to have lost all interest in Sylvie. He had not spared her a single glance since he'd laid eyes on Jacques. Slowly stepping away didn't seem to bother him a bit. His hatred sought a much more intriguing target now. "You won't kill me," he told Jacques, as though daring him to try.

"I didn't say I would. I said, move away from my wife. Your gripe is not with her, Blanchet."

The old man broke into a cruel smile as though he were trying to make himself laugh. "If you were a man, you would have killed me already."

"If you were a man you would have attacked me instead of hurting a woman in my place!" he yelled. He forced himself to lower his voice and asked, "How did you find me, Blanchet?"

He shrugged, a gesture disrespectful of the gun aimed so steadily at his chest. "Captain Tremblay may be tight of lip, but his crew can be made to talk."

"Why?" was the next question that sprang from his lips, "Why did you come?"

Blanchet's burning, beady eyes seemed to answer that question, but he said nothing.

"Because you hate me this much?" asked Jacques, pain

Elizabeth Doyle

and confusion seeping through the rage. "It was worth coming all the way to Paris just to torment me?"

Again, Blanchet said nothing, only glared.

Jacques looked so flustered, that Sylvie moved quickly to his side and said, "I'd better hold the gun. Here. Let me have it." He didn't seem ready to let it go, but she reminded him, "You taught me yourself how to use it. I think I'm able." And out of respect, and because he was feeling a bit overwhelmed by emotion, he put her in charge of the weapon, of their safety.

As Sylvie narrowed her eyes and aimed the barrel steadily at their intruder, Jacques used his recently freed hand to rub his weary head. "You came here for Sylvie?" he asked.

This time, Blanchet answered. "I came to make sure that you never prosper."

"You came to kill my wife?"

"And the child I imagined she must be carrying." He snorted. "Why else would a woman marry you?"

Jacques shot him a look that stung, but didn't let himself become distracted by the insults. "Making me less doesn't make you more," he said, uttering the words he had yearned to speak for so long.

"How can I make you less than what you are?" sneered Blanchet. "An invalid and a ward of an asylum."

"I am neither," said Jacques. "I am no longer anyone's ward, and I have never been an invalid." His jaw was fixed and his mouth was hard. But his eyes quivered with an emotion he was trying hard to restrain.

"Even a parrot can learn to talk," said Blanchet. "That doesn't make you a man."

"I'm more a man than you."

Blanchet made himself laugh, and Sylvie aimed harder. "You're an abomination of nature. We have places that we put people like you—and it's where you belong."

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"Why is this so important to you?!" Jacques shouted, drawing moisture to his brow. "Why do you care that I won't be your servant and I won't be your whipping boy?! Why can't you forget me?!"

"Have you forgotten mel" he asked, causing Jacques to freeze.

Jacques thought of all the whippings, all the cruelty, all the years he was treated as nothing but an animal—first by the asylum, and then by this man. He shook his head, grateful that he was no longer carrying the pistol, for he was certain he would have used it. "No, I haven't," he said quietly, "but I would like to."

"Then that's the difference between us," said Blanchet. "You would like to forget what you are. And I demand that you remember."

"I am not what you say I am," said Jacques, believing it for perhaps the first time in his life. "I am no less than you. I am a human being."

"Not a man. A man wouldn't give his gun to a woman."

"She's a human being, too!" cried Jacques. "And I think I finally do understand!" He paced before his ex-master, as one bearing great authority. For once, their eyes met with equal strength and equal certainty. "You deny others their humanity," he challenged, "because you think we're all in competition, and you would rather have a man disqualified than see him win. You're so weak, you know you'll be in last place unless you have some of us thrown out! Well, I'm not in your blasted competition! I don't care who's first and who's last, who's higher and who's lower. I just want to live! I just want to be happy! I just want what every man wants!"