French Passion (2 page)

The door burst open. Wind and rain swept in the men's voices. Yet this silhouette wasn't human. It was a monster drawn from the dripping depths of the woods, a great amorphous blackness with one distinguishable feature: a dull gleam, like a claw.

Aunt Thérèse crossed herself. Instinctively, I put a protective arm about her soft, quivering shoulders.

“Wh—what are you?” Jean-Pierre asked, his tone for once unmusical, quavering to a boyish falsetto. “What do you want?”

No answer.

The old coach shuddered and trembled as the creature hauled itself aboard.

Chapter Two

It wasn't a monster but a man. A tall man wrapped in a tiered cape, which gave him his odd, unearthly outline. The gleaming claw was the muzzle of a pistol. Terrifying enough, but at least human. I let out a small sigh of relief.

From outside a loud peasant voice bawled, “What's we got?”

And another peasant out there called, “Is it more of them fine folk, on the way to Versailles Palace?”

By the dim light of carriage lamps, I got the impression of a wolf pack, gleaming eyes and teeth, outside the coach.

The man inside spoke. “A fair young gentleman,” he called in educated tones. Bending, he thrust his head toward Aunt Thérèse. She gasped louder. I squeezed her shoulder. “An old lady.”

He turned, peering at me. Even in my terror, I noted every detail of his rain-wet face. He had a small scar just above his bold hawk nose. His full lips were well formed, his eyes deep set and dark, his bared head dripping with locks of black hair. But to describe his features is meaningless. It was his expression that entrapped me. Brooding, intense, yet oddly kind.

In that heartbeat as we gazed at each other, I thought: He's a poet.

“Another woman,” he called.

“Looks like a pretty little pullet to me,” one of the men shouted.

There was a burst of laughter and crude remarks.

“Throw her out!”

“Let's pluck her feathers.”

And then someone shouted, “Take care of the cockerel first.”

I began to shiver, remembering Aunt Thérèse's words.
The Baron was killed
.… What if they killed Jean-Pierre? Oh my God, I thought, my mind dizzy with fear. Death comes in an instant and is as long as eternity. My brother … And below the dizziness I felt my brain clench like a fist. I knew without doubt I would do anything, anything, to save Jean-Pierre.

Pushing aside Aunt Thérèse's soft weight, I sat up. “Monsieur,” I said, surprised at the coldness I'd mustered, “we have nothing of value, but choose what you wish, then we must be on our way.”

“You're not in any position to give orders, mademoiselle,” said the highwayman, equally cold.

“Don't talk to my sister!” Jean-Pierre snapped.

“Jean-Pierre,” I said, “he's right. We
are
his prisoners.”

Out of the darkness came a shout. “Give us both hens, old and young, we ain't fussy. And get to work on that young rooster.”

My shivering increased. My voice stayed level. I said, “Use your pistol on me before him.”

Said the highwayman, “Just keep silent!”

At this Jean-Pierre raised his arm toward me. A sudden movement. The highwayman, startled, hit out with his pistol. As the blow landed, the highwayman's mouth opened, as if in surprise. I could have sworn he meant my brother no harm. But accident or no, blood was gushing from Jean-Pierre's left eyebrow down the side of his cheek.

I dropped to my knees on the floorboard between the benches, cuddling his head in my arms. Nothing mattered except that small, angry wound.

“I'm all right,” he mumbled shakily.

“Don't say one thing more,” I whispered in his ear. “Please, Jean-Pierre, don't be brave. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you. Nothing is worth that.” And inwardly I made the prayer that I always made when Jean-Pierre was ill. Please, God, let my brother be all right, Mary, Mother of God, let my brother be all right.

From the rain came laughing and jeering approval of Jean-Pierre's wound.

“A cut, that's all,” said the highwayman to me in a low voice. “He'll have a headache, no more. Do as I say, and I give you this oath. Tomorrow all three of you will be alive.” His voice was deep with sincerity.

I raised my head. Even in that drenched cloak, his wet dark hair escaping its club, his fingers dangling a pistol, there was a sincerity to him, a brooding honesty. He compelled me.

“And our coachman, too?” I asked. The coachman was Old Lucien, cowherd to our three milch cows.

“Why would we harm him? He's one of the people.”

And then I understood why he, educated, a gentleman, had aligned himself with those creatures outside. He was a revolutionary. Even in our remote village we'd heard of well-bred men who gave their sympathy to the peasants.

Jean-Pierre's wound flowed, and he'd turned pale. Reaching under my cloak, fumbling with the broach that held my fichu, I pulled out the linen scarf. I pressed fabric to the wound. Blood soaked through. I refolded the triangle and applied it again.

After a minute Jean-Pierre raised his hand, holding the bloodied linen himself. I helped him back to a sitting position.

“You could hang for this,” I said.

“People around here are starving,” the highwayman replied. “The gallows is a far more merciful end. Now, get outside.”

Outside?

With the wolf pack?

It was as if he'd punched me in the stomach. I could hear myself gasp. Beyond this coach was darkness. Nightmare country.

“Let us stay out of the rain,” I said, and again my voice surprised me. Not a quaver. “Give us that much.”

The highwayman examined me. The light was dim, and I couldn't tell whether, plumbing my fear, he pitied me, or if he simply were keeping his promise that we would remain alive. Did it matter? He was calling out, “They're coming down. Don't touch them. The man's tamed. And the girl is for me.”

There was an urgency in his voice. Something stirred deep within me, an excitement at the pit of my stomach. Then it was gone. And a chill went down my spine as I understood the terms by which we would be spared. I must give myself to him. I had made a bargain with him and all that was binding in my life—honor, religion, family, pride in name, rebelled against the bargain.

Grumbles rose above the sough of wet branches.

“She's mine,” the highwayman repeated.

A crude peasant voice shouted, “Must be even tastier up close, the little pullet. This be the first time
you
picked a woman.”

“Then don't begrudge me.” He bent to me, saying in a low voice, “There's trees for shelter.”

I managed to pull Aunt Thérèse, quivering and moaning, to her feet. Jean-Pierre climbed unsteadily out. The dark crowd pulled back. There were no carriage steps, and it was a long way down. Jean-Pierre, still pressing my fichu to his wound, raised his free hand for me. Between us, we managed to get Aunt Thérèse to the muddy ground.

As we led her through cold, prickling rain to the protection of a great oak, men crowded about us. They exuded the smell of dirty wet clothing and unwashed bodies. It came as a shock to me that there were only five, one a gnarled old man, another a scrawny little boy. All were wrapped in ill-fitting capes that surely had been stolen. They carried an assortment of pistols and muskets. Jean-Pierre had taught me to shoot. I guessed from their awkward cradling of the weapons that none of these peasants had ever fired a shot.

A poor, sorry little band.

My pity dispersed as they clambered over the coach, opening our wooden trunks, gleefully holding up feminine undergarments, Aunt Thérèse's large ones, my beribboned ones.

Seeing Old Lucien tied to a nearby elm, I ran through the rain to him.

“Old Lucien. Did they hurt you?”

“I be fine.”

My gloved fingers struggled with wet ropes.

“No! Stop!” His toothless mouth sputtered.

“But the knots are working loose.”

“Untying me'll anger them. Mademoiselle Manon, you always be rushing into hazard! You mustn't anger them. They be rough 'uns.” His voice lowered to a mumble. “Don't let 'em near you. They wants bad women, not the likes of you.”

“The leader said they would kill all of us … if …” My voice trailed away. I couldn't give words to the terrifying and shameful bargain I had agreed to.

“Killing don't be the worst that can happen to a young girl. Get you back to Madame Thérèse. She be the one to explain it.”

I mopped the old man's dirt-smeared face with the lining of my cape, touched to tears. Tonight, when his life—all our lives—were at stake, he feared most for my so-called honor.

He was correct about Aunt Thérèse making explanations. She'd been huddling against the broad tree trunk. As I returned, she pulled herself erect.

“Manon,” she said, “you shouldn't have run off like that, alone. You must always keep near Jean-Pierre and me.” For three long seconds she was silent. Raindrops gathered on leaves, plopping onto mud. “That man, the young brigand … you mustn't let him touch you.”

“I'll kill him!” cried Jean-Pierre.

“Jean-Pierre!” My voice rose in alarm. “Promise me you'll try no such thing.”

“You're my sister.”

Even in the dimness I could see the angry set of his delicate eyebrows. I could see the blood soaking through my fichu.
They killed the Baron
.

“Promise you won't. Jean-Pierre, promise!
Please
.”

“How can I let you be dishonored?”

At this Aunt Thérèse said, “If you are, the Comte de Créqui won't have you.”

“That's the one silver lining in this whole ugly cloud. A chance not to be the Comtesse de Créqui.” I held my hand over my lips to stifle the laughter that bubbled hysterically in my throat.

Aunt Thérèse's plump face creased up like a worried child's. “Manon, Manon. If the Comte doesn't marry you, what will we do? We are destitute, and now we don't even have our clothes—”

She was interrupted by a sudden shout from the carriage.

They had found our secret drawer. A filthy claw held up the opal necklace that had been in the family for over two hundred years. The great polished gems caught the feeble light, gleaming. My spirit deserted me and I had to fight back tears. To me that necklace symbolized past generations of the d'Epinay family, those gleaming white opals represented the bleached bones of my ancestors, bones entombed under chapels that now belonged to others. A gnarled fist shook the necklace.

“Damn, damn them.” Jean-Pierre's voice shook. “May they rot in hell for eternity.”

Someone had undone our money pouch. Hoots of disappointment. “Five paltry francs!” Then the men in turn jumped down until only the highwayman remained inside. The old man splashed noisily to us, his arthritic hand grasping my arm. “Now, pretty little pullet, our business be done, and he be ready for his reward.”

Old Lucien's thin shout came through rainy darkness. “Stay away from my young lady!”

“Manon,” Aunt Thérèse quavered, “don't go.”

I ached to throw my arms around her, ached to cling to her. But I could see the proud yet desolate angle of Jean-Pierre's head.
They killed the Baron
.… Cold determination grew inside my skull.

I must do whatever the highwayman ordered. I must not put up a fight. I must rely on his promise that my brother as well as Aunt Thérèse, Old Lucien, and I would be alive tomorrow. His promise was all I had.

They were crowding around to escort me to my fate, lustily shouting how they would pleasure me, the young boy's treble echoing every obscenity.

Terrified yet determined, I stepped ahead of them, picking my way swiftly around shadowed puddles to the looming, box-shaped old carriage.

Chapter Three

As I opened the door, the taper by the rear window flickered and the highwayman shifted, as if to rise, then checked himself, remaining seated on the bench, his muddied black knee boots planted on splinters of our secret drawer. He had thrown off his cape and his loose white shirt gleamed.

My thighs weak with fear, I sat opposite him. Rain drummed on the roof, he pulled the leather curtains shut, and we were cut off from the world, alone.

He was twenty, no more. As he gazed at me, the tension around his full, well-formed lips softened, and he looked younger, like the boys who danced with me and stole kisses on fête days. A momentary warmth spilled through me, an echo of that earlier excitement in the pit of my stomach, then a rain-muted shout of lechery pierced our solitude, reminding me that I was about to be taken with as little dignity as our undergarments had been exhibited. I was an object. Booty. I clasped my cold, shaking fingers in my lap.

“This is the first time, isn't it?” he asked.

There was a sympathy in his tone that made me want to blurt out my fears, beg to be spared. However, my impulsive pride acted against me. I found myself mustering the coldest expression I could, straightening my spine, lifting my chin.

“Of course it is,” I replied, ice in my voice. “We're on our way to Paris where I'm to be married.”

“To someone you love?”

“Respect,” I said in that same cold, level tone. “He's financial adviser to King Louis.”

“What a corrupt regime! A girl trading her youth and loveliness for wealth. Is
she
your grandmother?”

“My mother's aunt. We're orphans, my brother and I.”

“Then your brother's the one who's selling you.”

He spoke scornfully. This roused me from my terror, banished my false hauteur. He might be my captor—but nobody, nobody could speak ill of Jean-Pierre.

“Jean-Pierre's helpless in the matter!” I snapped. “I have no dowry, and the Comte is our guardian!”