French Passion (17 page)

“Vast. Endless. Beautiful. Great mountains, wide rivers, verdant wilderness. We landed in Savannah in a state called Georgia. All of us took farms along the Savannah River. Farms! Estates fit for a duke. The old man remarried, and the boy lives with him. He's learned to read in English, and to write. More important, though, he's growing up free. He can say what he wishes, go where he chooses, and when he's twenty-one, he will vote for representatives to make
his
laws. Manon, they're all free.” He turned to me, his deep-set eyes shining. “Have you any idea what it means for a serf to be free?”

“Peasants are so poor,” I sighed, thinking of Izette freezing outside my wall, Hôtel-Dieu, starving children.

“It's more than poverty,” he said. “Here, they had no humanity. They existed only to serve their lords. They were treated worse than animals, for animals are fed and housed. Once, when their lord wished, two of the men were harnessed to a plow. And the old man, his only daughter was taken by the lord, then cast off with the great pox. When frogs croaked, keeping the lord awake, they had to stay up to quiet the frogs. Their wheat—do you remember?—was left for the deer. The peasants were less important than the wild beasts! They were the lowest of the low. There was no dignity in their life, and there would have been no dignity in their death. In the United States they are equal to anyone.”

“André, you said you had a farm, a huge farm. Why did you come back?”

“Two reasons. One is I couldn't forget France. Here, too, men must live as they're created, equal and free.”

“‘If I at once the whole world could see, with free land and the people free, then to the moment might I say, linger a while, so fair thou art.'”

“I meant it,” he said shyly, as if my reciting his words embarrassed him.

We were by the house now, standing between the pair of tubbed orange bushes. Laughter, music, and light spilled from open glass doors, and we gazed through the shadows at each other.

“People come here,” I said. “They talk about equality and the Rights of Man. But you're the only person I know who's done more than talk. The only one.”

“You care, too.”

“Me? I'm frivolous and extravagant. Gowns, parties, theater, cards—you see my life.”

“You weren't always like this.”

I shivered, the memory of CoCo touching me, cruel as a razor.

André asked in a low voice, “Do you love him?”

“He's generous with me.”

“He can afford it. He profiteers on bread. So you don't love him?”

“He's been … kind. And I've needed kindness.…” I could barely speak. For André was a magnet, and I was a tiny scrap of metal being drawn across the three feet separating us.

“I've no right to ask questions. Manon, there'll be no personal life for me until France is free. There's no place in my life for love.”

“Can you control that?”

“No. The other reason I came back to France is I couldn't forget you.”

The magnet was irresistible. In a moment I would be in his arms, I would kiss those well-formed lips, I would press myself against that tall remembered body—

“My dear,” said the Comte de Créqui, “is this fair? To be so selfish, when your guests are dying to talk to our famous poet?”

He bowed to us, the picture of courtly elegance. His tone was sardonic. He might have heard, he might not. It didn't matter. He stood in the glass door, his shrewd eyes on us. He knows, I thought. He knows. Maybe he even knows that André was the first. He knows I'm alive with love.

“Come, Égalité,” I said, trilling that false laughter. “I've monopolized you long enough.”

“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty,” Izette counted as she brushed my hair.

It was then I started to cry. Tears had been frozen inside me since my baby's death. These were the melting tears of happiness. The brush strokes ceased.

“What is it?” Izette asked.

“Égalité is André.”

She sucked in her breath. My one confidante, she knew my every secret.

“And you still love him?”

I nodded.

“Does he love you?”

“Yes … he said … he's so open … good.”

“Listen to me, ma'am,” she said firmly. “You mustn't see him never again.”

“But why?”

“The Comte would destroy you both,” she said flatly.

Since I'd left the garden my body had tingled as if I'd just awakened, and I'd floated in happiness, avoiding looking at André for fear my love would be too obvious.

My tears of joy stopped.

“The Comte won't know. He goes often to Versailles.”

“He's got you watched.”

“Watched? By whom?”

“Ma'am, the servants tell me nothing. You know it's like I ain't one of them.”

“Then what makes you sure I'm being watched?”

“Don't it stand to reason? It's a man all over!”

I sighed with relief. Izette always thought the worst of any man, a holdover from the perversities committed on her child body.

“The Comte,” I said, “is above having me spied on.”

“High or low, they're the same. They want to own us soul and flesh.”

“He wouldn't stoop.”

“Listen to me,” she said. “Times is very bad, and getting worse. The police don't take kindly to revolutionaries. And he, your Égalité-André, ain't secret, not after tonight. So if you love him—”

“I do! With all my heart.”

“If you love him, you won't see him. He's got enough against him without having the Comte de Créqui after him.”

“But I tell you the Comte won't know!”

Izette turned away. “Would you risk it,” she asked, “if CoCo were alive?”

“I … no.”

“You see. It's too dangerous. And that goes for both of you. Him, too.” She went to the washbowl and wrung out a towel. Then she pressed the cold wet cloth against my face. “We don't want to start no suspicions with you crying.” And she sponged away tears of joy.

The Comte came in. He used the old nursery as a dressing room, where one of his valets tended him. He was ready for bed in a velvet
robe de chambre
. With a nod he dismissed Izette.

She slipped out.

He came to stand behind my low chair, caressed my shoulders, bent to kiss my freshly brushed hair before drawing me to my feet, turning me so I faced him. Carefully he untied the rosebud-embroidered ribbons of my silk night shift, easing the soft fabric over my shoulders, slowly baring my breasts. He leaned down, kissed each in turn, then he rubbed his face between them until his shaven cheeks had reddened the white of my skin. He glanced at me. His smile was warm, his touch had been tender. I'd felt less than if I were in my boot-shaped copper bathtub with the warm water around me. He lowered the shift, holding it at my hips while he kissed my stomach. Then he loosed his hold on the silk. The gleaming night shift puddled around my feet. He knelt to kiss me. I could see our shadowy reflection in the pier mirror. An older, balding man in velvet kneeling in worship before a slender, naked girl.

“Not much,” he whispered, “but mine own.”

“Comte.”

He pressed his lips to me. “You flirt and tease every man's heart away. You are mine?”

“I give myself only to you.”

“Tell me again.”

“I belong to you.”

“Once I thought I loved you to madness. Looking back, my dear, I see it as mere infatuation compared to what I feel now.”

He didn't have to mention André or spies or punishment. He only had to remind me how much he loved me. I knew the strange, twisting currents of his love.

Izette was right. Had CoCo been alive, I would have feared too much for my child to let emotions rule me. But CoCo was dead. And I knew there was no fear, no power, nothing that could keep me from André.

The next morning a note was delivered to the servants' door. It was addressed to me.

I must leave Paris
.

The impersonal words, the lack of signature made me tremble. André feared for me, too.

That August the Comte never went to his palace, and he never went to Versailles. He stayed with me. He took every meal with me. He watched me at my watercolors, and gave me more knowledgeable advice than my painting master. He sat in on my elocution and singing lessons, and here again, he knew far more than the masters. He would lounge with me in the garden, entertaining me with his brilliant, mordant conversation. We passed many daylight hours in my bedroom, and with the wooden jalousies casting striped sun on my uncurtained bed, he took me lingeringly, insatiably. Odd. When my mind and heart were frozen, his passion had roused me. Now, filled with yearning, fear, tremulous longing, I responded not at all. The Comte was an adversary struggling with me for possession of my body.

That August Alexine went for the month to a friend's château near Tours, so I couldn't discreetly question the pretty featherhead why André had left Paris.

That August Aunt Thérèse was always tired. The doctor diagnosed her ailment as a result of the hot weather, and bled her. I would escape the Comte to nurse the kind, stout old lady. When she drowsed, I would stare into the garden, inventing stories of how André and I would live together in that farm by the Savannah River in the state of Georgia. Impossible stories. Love makes one foolish.

Love also makes one edgy.

That August the Comte's guests sat in the most secluded corners, dipping into their enameled snuffboxes, and falling silent when anyone came near.

After one such evening, the Comte lay on the bed, watching as I tied back my hair.

“I swear,” I said, “you and your friends act like conspirators. What
do
you talk about so intently?”

“We plan the buying of grain.”

I was in one of my irritable moods. “Buying and selling? Isn't that a bourgeois occupation?”

“The bourgeoisie, my dear, don't deal for the monarchy.”

“King Louis?”

“It can't be news to you, my dear, that the royal finances are somewhat dry.”

Like everyone, I'd heard stories of Queen Marie Antoinette's extravagance, and how often Jean-Pierre had described the glittering show of Versailles Palace, yet always it was impossible for me to believe that Louis, by divine right King over us, needed cash like any other mortal.

“Why not more taxes, then?” I asked.

“At this point the rabble wouldn't stand for it. Besides, this is more subtle. The harvest's bad. Soon prices will go up, people expect it. And we, having bought up much of the grain quite reasonably, can set the prices as high as we need. Far more clever than the usual tax raise, don't you agree? How many will make the connection with the depleted royal treasury?”

André had, I remembered. “So the King is profiteering?”

“It's not the course I'd choose,” said the Comte, taut, honest. “But the King needs money, and this way is best for France. If we don't buy the grain, the bourgeoisie will. They call it business.” His tone returned to irony. “When Monsieur Sancerre made you that charming white batiste gown, my dear, did you call it profiteering?”

“If I didn't have the gown, I wouldn't have starved,” I replied. “People who can't afford bread starve.”

“Now I hear echoes of your friend Égalité.” As the Comte said this, he lifted his elbow on the pillow, raising up to look at me.

A chill shivered through my body. “Égalité's Alexine's friend, not mine,” I said. “And you know that politics bore me absolutely silly.”

This was true. The little groups that so heatedly discussed their political clubs made me yawn. The Comte, however, continued to watch me. I went to the bed, pulling off his nightcap, changing the subject to the first that came to mind.

“Speaking of Monsieur Sancerre, he has the most cunning new designs. And, Comte, if I don't get something new to wear, I'll have to go naked into the autumn season.”

Frivolous talk. And, for the last year, very typical of me. I demanded new gowns until the Comte, smiling, agreed that he wanted me naked only in bed, and drew me under the coverlet.

Chapter Three

Heat drew poignant September odors from the late roses blooming by the back hedge.

I sat at my easel, dipping my brush into the pewter mug, then rubbing the wet sable tip on a crimson square of watercolor. I'd told myself a painting of roses would cheer Aunt Thérèse in her sickroom. To be honest, though, painting was the only activity that occupied me enough to make me forget my troubles.

My dress was old a mended white muslin splotched with a streak of green paint, and my big straw hat was tied to my head with a white gauze scarf. The Comte, who always noticed women's clothes, would have been sarcastic about my casual untidiness. But the Comte was at Versailles Palace. The Queen's brother, Emperor Joseph of Austria, was making a state visit, and tonight there would be a
fête champêtre
to which, it goes without saying, the Comte and Comtesse de Créqui had been invited.

What relief it was, the Comte gone, not having to pretend! Six weeks had passed since André's note. There had been no further word. Caught between a nagging sense of desertion and anxiety about his safety, I was in a constant turmoil.

Sighing, I raised my brush, squinting along it to get perspective. Last year, to hide the stables and toolshed, I'd had the gardener plant a yew hedge. The shrubbery, not yet fully grown, was thick in places, sparse in others.

Behind, someone moved. Thinking it either the stable boy or the gardener, I paid no attention.

“Manon. Thank God it's you!”

Beyond dry leaves stood André. Obviously he'd run far and fast. His face shone with sweat, and sweat splotched his white shirt, which rose and fell with the heaving of his chest. His boots were dusty. Without a coat, cravat, or vest, he looked as if he'd been surprised at a meal.