French Passion (10 page)

“What is it?” I called.

“It be me,” Old Lucien muttered loudly. Through the door he sounded like a hunting hound with a bird between its teeth. “And that bad 'un you brought into the house last night.”

Again the Comte raised a questioning eyebrow.

“He means Izette,” I said. “Before we went to the wedding, we found her outside, freezing.” Pulling my
robe de chambre
around my shoulders, I called, “Come in.”

Old Lucien pushed open the door, then his gnarled hand grabbed for Izette's thin arm. His other hand held a basket.

By morning light the girl looked even more pathetic. I'd imagined her my age. Now, looking at the fragile, pitiful neck, the appallingly thin, unformed body, I wondered if she could be thirteen yet. She didn't meet my gaze. She stared down at the carpet. Her wan little face, scrubbed of paint, was ginger-freckled and yet more plain. She wore the grotesque towering bonnet. Her shoes were broken, her dress worn pink cotton, and the darned white shawl was cotton, too. How could she have walked the snowy streets in these thin rags? And what man would pay for this waif body?

“Let her go,” I said.

Old Lucien continued to clamp down on the darned sleeve. “She be a thief, too,” he said.

“Let go,” I ordered.

As his hand fell reluctantly, Izette gave me that brief face-splitting smile, then stared down at the rug.

“What did you take?” I asked.

Old Lucien, triumphant, held up the basket. “A meat pastry,” he said, “a jar of plum jam, a loaf of good white bread, and a whole Brie cheese.”

“You were going to pay me with ironing, Izette. Why didn't you wait until we talked?”

She ducked her head until I could only see that awful hat. “Ma'am, I waited and waited, and the others, they paid no attention to me, so I decided you'd forgotten. And started to leave. Sometimes ladies and gentlemen, they forgets.”

Her impatience was something I could understand. “I told you to take whatever you wanted to eat,” I said. “Why steal?”

“My brother, he's at home, ma'am. There's just us.”

Yes, I thought. I'm Izette. Izette is me.

The Comte had finished his chocolate. “My dear, stop playing judge advocate. She's a little too obviously guilty. Send for the police.”

The flowers topping Izette's hat began to tremble.

“Take the basket to your brother,” I said. “Then come right back and pay me with ironing.”

The Comte rose from the table. “Not in this house,” he said. “She's been on the streets. She's diseased.” He was adjusting the lace at his cuff, a potent, strong man pulling at point d'esprit lace. In my new obsession with the price of clothing, I wondered how long the cost of that lace would feed the girl and her brother.

“Izette,” I said, and my voice shook, “take the basket to your brother. Then come right back and we'll discuss what you owe me.”

The girl, deftly, quickly, grabbed the basket. Her footsteps raced down stairs.

“She be a bad 'un—” Old Lucien started.

“You!” the Comte thundered. “Get out! Order my carriage!”

The door closed hastily on Old Lucien.

“My dear, employ all the aged incompetents you desire,” said the Comte in his most silky voice. “But I draw the line at syphilitic sluts.”

“We'll hire whom we wish in our house—until you ask us to leave.” I wondered if the pounding of my heart was audible in this pretty wallpapered bedroom. We were desperate. Yet I couldn't help myself. Izette had touched a deep vein of empathy in me. My alter ego. Besides, there was that hideous hat, so pitiful, yet somehow so brave. The emblem of a despised profession borne on a child's head.

“This is academic, because she doubtless has stolen your food—and God knows what else. She won't be back.” He pulled on his coat. “However, if by some remote chance she should be here on my return, you'll have to be taught who does run this house.”

“I await your lesson with interest, Comte. I know what an excellent teacher you are in the art of revenge.”

At this his hands clenched on his coat. Strong hands, capable of causing great pain. Then, making a polite bow, he strode from the room.

I fell back into piled pillows. I was goose bumps all over. My hands and feet were icy.

A minute later the door knocker sounded.

The elder maid, in silent carpet slippers, admitted Monsieur Sancerre. Bowing with a great flourish, the couturier came to the bed to kiss my hand, then held out folded design papers.

“I just passed the most delicious sight in the whole world,” he said in his effusive way. “An older man besotted with a lovely young girl.”

“If you mean the Comte, I'd hardly describe him that way.”

Monsieur Sancerre, chuckling, set his designs on my silken coverlet. “How would you describe the Comte de Créqui?”

“A man in a cold, dangerous fury, trying to destroy an expensive part of his collection.”

“Collection!” Monsieur Sancerre laughed.

“Oh, you know everything.” I sighed. “What else could I be to him? He—well, he finds me pretty! All right, I agree. And besides, I entertain the friends that aren't acceptable in his palace. But I'm no more than that to him.”

Monsieur Sancerre perched on the gilt chair recently vacated by the Comte. “Let me put to you a hypothetical case. Purely hypothetical. There is this elderly nobleman. Like all the nobility, he regards a large dowry as important. Yet he betroths himself to a penniless but exquisite girl—shall we say his ward? She, alas, has one minor anatomical deficiency. The noble feels that a man of his exalted position should take only a virgin to wife. He's disappointed. But he makes her his mistress. Then he turns around and betroths himself to one of the greatest heiresses in France, distant cousin to King Louis. Our hypothetical noble, on his wedding night, leaves his bride's bed to spend the night with his lovely young mistress. A dangerous swap. For he risks his position as friend and financial adviser to the King. He also risks his bride's huge dowry. Mademoiselle d'Epinay, I've never hidden my sexual preferences from you, but that doesn't mean I cannot love, or that I don't know what love is about. And I tell you the Comte is a man sick with love. No. He's
mad
with love.”

“Oh, stop it! You aren't flattering me.”

“Tell me how you came to faint at Notre Dame?”

“How did you know?”

“It's the talk of Paris.”

“And now I suppose it'll be the talk of Paris where the Comte de Créqui spent his wedding night!” I snapped.

The overly handsome face tensed with hurt.

“I'm sorry.” I patted his rose velvet sleeve. “You might as well know the worst. The reason I fainted is the same as why this gown must be made with very wide seams.”

“How delicious! I imagine the Comte is delighted.”

“So delighted he's not going to continue with me.” I leaned toward the couturier. “Monsieur Sancerre, I don't even like to ask this of you. But would it endanger you to buy back my gowns?”

“Even if it does, I'll do it. But why? Has your brother been gambling again?”

“The Comte pays—or has paid. And he's letting us keep our clothes. I'll need to sell them. I'm sure once I begin to show, he won't want me.”

“Want you—”

“He's never hinted that he cares for more than the pleasure of my body. And he left so furious I doubt if he'll even come back for that—while it's still pleasurable.”

“Coming back? Continuing wtih you? He'll dote on you the more. He has no children, and they say a child from a beloved mother is especially dear.” Monsieur Sancerre paused delicately. “It's my belief he hasn't told you he loves you because then he'd have to admit that on a certain night he made a mistake. He's too proud to admit mistakes. But at this point, the Comte de Créqui would happily trade the Valois bride, huge dowry and all, for you and the child.”

“Hah!” Gloomily I picked up one of his designs. “Oh, what's the point? He won't pay for
more
gowns.”

“I'm not worried.” Monsieur Sancerre laughed.

After the couturier left, I combed my hair slowly, thinking of what he'd said. How could the Comte be in love with me? First of all, he was too old, experienced, and worldly wise to fall in love. Besides, I irritated him, disobeyed him, and there'd been that one raging, brutal night.

On the other hand, I didn't understand him.

His expression could change from that amused hauteur to open, if dignified, laughter. He was at once a cynical observer who, after a soirée, would dissect the guests, then pat my hand, telling me to ignore him and keep my naïveté. He'd been furious at me for attending his wedding, still he'd come here to discover why I'd fainted. He could talk heartlessly about Izette in front of her, and would have condemned her to prison for stealing food, yet I'd seen him drop a lordly fistful of coins into an armless beggar's lap. He would add up the butcher, baker, and vintner accounts, fuming at an extra sou, yet he'd bought me the lynx cloak when a cheaper fur would have made me happy. Though once he'd exposed that small, brave boy he'd been, he kept a barrier of faint mockery between us. He insisted my salon be formal, and it took two footmen to pour his chocolate, yet I could have sworn he was happy at this morning's cozy and connubial breakfast.

How could I understand him? He was one of the great nobles of France. Four thousand of them gathered at Versailles, another race, proud and high as gods. They ruled, immutable and unquestioned, over us. They didn't fall in love with us.

I stopped combing my hair and stared in the mirror. Delicate shadows lay under my green eyes. There was only one truth. A glittering, loud-voiced noble had voiced this truth in Notre Dame Cathedral.

I was the Comte de Créqui's whore.

A knock on my door. “That unfortunate girl is waiting for you in the kitchen,” said Aunt Thérèse. “Manon, give her a few sous, a whole franc if you must. Then send her on her way. You mustn't condone her style of life.”

Chapter Ten

One wall of the low-ceilinged, stone-floored kitchen was a fireplace. A kettle and two huge iron pots hung simmering, giving off a savory steam. In the nook, on the fire stool, sat Old Lucien. His gnarled left hand held the well-oiled whetstone, while his right hand rhythmically sharpened a long-bladed knife. Sparks flew as that long, glittering blade went up and down, up and down.

Izette, watching as if mesmerized, rose from her seat at the deal table.

“I'm ready to do the ironing, ma'am,” she said, her voice low and frightened, her eyes on the knife blade.

“Old Lucien,” I said, “why don't you take the knife to your gatehouse? You can sharpen it there.”

“She be a bad 'un. She needs watching.”

I glanced at the scrawny child. She no longer had on the ugly heap of artificial flowers. Her shawled head ducked, as she sank back down.

“I asked you to go, Old Lucien,” I said.

Old Lucien shouted, “But the Comte—”

“Please go,” I interrupted firmly.

With a murderous glance at Izette, holding the knife and whetstone in front of him, he stamped through the scullery and slammed the back door.

Izette hadn't moved.

I sat at the table opposite her. “Did your brother like the food?”

She looked up. Her pale blue eyes shone. “Oh, ma'am! Of course we saved most of it. But he ain't never had jam, or white bread. And with his bad legs, he never gets out, and we ain't got a real window, so he never sees nobody. I tells him about people and he makes up stories about them. I told him you looks like a queen and acts like an angel.”

“You make up stories, too,” I said, smiling.

She gave me that quick, broad smile. Her tightly-clenched fists relaxed. “You're prettier than a queen,” she said. “I know. Once I saw Queen Marie Antoinette in her carriage.”

“I saw her last night. The first time.”

We smiled at each other, admitting on both sides that to see the Queen was a major event.

“Izette, how old are you?”

“Almost thirteen, ma'am.”

“Who taught you to iron?”

“My mother. When I was little, she taught me to sprinkle, and to help her hang out to dry, and to fold. When I got older, she had me heat the sadiron and fluting iron. When she was took sick three months ago, she taught me ironing. She said I done as good as her. I got a light but firm touch, she said, and you needs a light, firm touch to iron. But when she was took dead, the housekeeper where she worked wouldn't even let me do the bed linen. She said I'd burn it. And I'd been doing all the ironing for two months already. I told her so, but she still wouldn't give me the position.…” The pale blue eyes filled with tears.

“So you went out on the streets?”

“What else can a girl do, ma'am? And there's my brother. I … I ain't pretty, but some men, they likes young girls. They thinks there's less chance of catching the English disease.” She paused. “What that gentleman said upstairs, it ain't true. I never had a disease.”

“Izette, I hate and despise the way he spoke about you, and I told him so.” I got up and went into the pantry, pouring two foamy cream-rich mugs of milk. I returned, setting them on the table. “I don't have a laundress.”

The freckled face tilted. Hopeful.

“The chambermaid does the wash, and she's got enough work. She complains. My aunt complains, too. She says the linens are never white.”

“I always boils until things is like snow.”

“There's one problem.” I stopped, embarrassed. “I don't have money.”

She stared at me, her mouth open. It was, of course, a ridiculous remark to make to a child who'd never had jam or white bread.

“What I mean is, I can't pay you. But I've got a room with a big window, and there's plenty of food.”