I Am Madame X (19 page)

“For Mademoiselle Avegno’s baby,” Millicent insisted, with the uncanny prescience of an idiot savant.

“Millicent, I’m sure I’ll have a baby someday,” I said, my cheeks burning. “But I’m not even married yet.”

“Babies love rabbits,” said Millicent.

“For the love of God, be quiet!” screamed Madame Gautreau.

The old woman signaled for a footman, who held an umbrella over her head as she hobbled out of the house to a little gazebo in the garden, where she and Millicent perched on stone benches knitting. I sat between them and read a book. At two, we returned to the house for lunch and then a card game. Millicent usually won. It turned out that buried in her simple mind she had a remarkable facility for numbers. After the game, we napped. Dinner was at eight, and we retired at ten.

This dismal routine was repeated every day except Sunday, when it was interrupted to hear Mass at the château chapel. At ten on Sunday morning, Madame Gautreau, Millicent and I made our way down a gravel path at the side of the garden to the little stone church. Earlier, the priest had read Mass for the peasants, and the air was redolent of their old musty clothes and unwashed flesh.

We took our places in the first pew, and the chapel quickly filled with the haute bourgeoisie from neighboring châteaux, all of whom were old friends of the Gautreaus. I despised these dull, somber
gentilshommes,
and their smug, overfed wives. They led narrow, boring lives but were too closed-minded to see it. Coasting through life on money and pedigree, they lived out their days tending to their lands and houses, enjoying shooting parties and card games, large meals and early bedtimes, with no thought to the outside world. At least that’s how it seemed to me.

I felt superior to them, as I did to Madame Gautreau and Millicent. Yet, I must admit, I also was a bit jealous of their stability and their firm place in the universe. If we had been at Parlange, not Château des Chênes, the tables would have been turned. Among the sophisticated, pleasure-loving Creoles, these dour rural Bretons would be nothing, their commonness evident to all. But we weren’t in Louisiana. We were in Paramé.

After a while, Pierre’s mother gave up pestering me about my clothes. She also began averting her eyes whenever she spoke to me, which was as little as possible. Millicent, however, was fascinated by my toilettes and studied me carefully when I came down for breakfast in the morning. Once, during a Sunday luncheon to which several neighbors had been invited, Millicent stared at me throughout the meal. Finally, as the coffee was brought in, she blurted out, “Mademoiselle Avegno is a swan in a pond of ugly ducklings.”

That’s my secret solace,
I thought, though I ignored her, as did everyone else.

My only diversion from the boredom at Château des Chênes was the rare occasion when I joined Madame Gautreau and Millicent on a shopping trip to Saint-Malo. Originally a fortified island at the mouth of the River Rance, Saint-Malo began as a monastic settlement, walled and built with the same gray granite stone as Mont-Saint-Michel, the famous spired abbey forty-three kilometers to the east. Later, during the interminable wars of Louis XIV and Louis XV, Saint-Malo became home to a brutal breed of pirate-mariners who grew rich from shipbuilding and slave trading and erected a network of tall stone palaces within the city walls.

One morning, after I had been at Château des Chênes several weeks, we took the carriage into town and parked on the rue des Marins, in front of the Gautreau Banking House, Pierre’s Brittany office. “Would you mind if I went for a walk on the beach?” I asked.

“Do what you like,” snarled Madame Gautreau as the driver helped her out of the carriage.

I left the main gate at Port Vincent and strolled out onto the sand toward the promontory of an islet, the Grand Bé. A plain black cross rose from the jagged rocks, marking the grave of Chateaubriand, who had died in 1848. A lone ship with a monogrammed sail bobbed behind the grim tomb; a few gulls swooped about. As I gazed out into the endless sea, a longing for my own death came over me.

Looking back at that time, I realize I was in a state of shock. My affair with Dr. Pozzi had scarred my heart and left me profoundly confused. I saw no relief from this agony, only more torment ahead in a
mariage blanc
to Pierre.

Impulsively, I gathered stones from the beach and filled the pockets of my jacket. Then I walked toward the water. Images of Papa and Valentine flashed through my head. Soon the waves would swallow me, and I would be with them in heaven.

But at that moment, I thought of my unborn child, and a picture of a red-haired little girl appeared in my mind’s eye. She looked just like Valentine. I put my hands on my abdomen. Yes, I was sure it was a girl. Tears filled my eyes. I was beginning to love the baby. How could I kill it? It would be like letting Valentine die again. I saw ahead several years to when the baby was walking and talking. She would keep me company when I was lonely and Julie was busy with work. I had not had a real friend since Aurélie at convent school. Now the baby would be my companion. I thought of the games Aurélie and I had played, the hours we had spent whispering and laughing, and I imagined repeating those pleasures with my little girl. I grabbed the stones from my pocket and hurled them into the waves.

Suddenly my heart felt light, almost buoyant. I ran along the sand to the Port Vincent Gate and made my way to rue des Marins. Madame Gautreau and Millicent were waiting in the carriage, poring over a letter written in the burgundy ink favored by Pierre.

“My son wants to be married next Saturday,” Madame Gautreau said as I entered the carriage. “I’ll have to see if the priest is available.” She was not planning a big celebration. She disapproved of me because I was American, because I had no dowry, and because I was too young. She had decided she didn’t like me before she met me, and meeting me had not changed her mind.

Just as quickly as it had appeared, my lighthearted mood vanished.

“Does Saturday suit you, Mademoiselle Avegno?” Madame Gautreau asked. Her eyes looked as cold as stones.

I wanted to tell her that I hated her, that I wouldn’t stay in her house another night, and that I’d never, ever marry her son. Instead I said, “Next Saturday would be fine.”

Five days later, a month into my stay at Château des Chênes, Mama, Julie, and Pierre arrived from Paris. The civil marriage ceremony took place at city hall in Saint-Malo that afternoon, and the religious wedding at the château the next day.

The morning of the religious ceremony was overcast and cool. An early frost had withered the garden flowers, but the breeze floating through my bedroom windows held a faint floral scent, reminiscent of magnolia, as if Charles and the spirit of Grandmère were calling me across the ocean from Parlange. I closed my eyes and saw the familiar alley of oaks and the green-shuttered house with its white pillars and wide gallery, where I had spent so many happy moments. I longed to be there.

Julie had slept on the little bed in my
cabinet de toilette,
and in the morning we ate breakfast in my boudoir. As I sipped coffee, I gazed at the muslin bag holding the white silk gown that Mama had brought from Paris. Hanging from the top of an armoire door, it looked like a shroud. I felt a wave of misery in the pit of my stomach. I’d be dead in a
mariage blanc
to Pierre.

All morning, I had fantasized that Julie would come up with a solution to save me. But she said nothing.

“I can’t go through with it,” I stammered, choking back a sob. “I want to live with you. We could raise the baby together.”

Julie laid her coffee cup on the table and moved closer to me on the settee.

“What would you do for money?” she asked. “My painting hardly brings in enough to keep you and a child. Anyway, it wouldn’t be fair to the baby to grow up a bohemian bastard.”

I started to cry. Julie took hold of the cane leaning against her knees and stood, stiffening her back. “It’s time to get dressed,
chérie,
” she said. She helped me into my camisole, corset, chemise, stockings, and petticoats. Then she removed the dress from its bag and held it out for me to step into. As Julie fastened the buttons and smoothed the train, I thought back to her aborted wedding to Lucas Rochilieu. I’m sure she was thinking of it, too. Before we left the room, she hugged me tightly. “Have courage,” she said.

I draped the train over my right forearm, and Julie held my hand as we made our way down the hall. When we reached the staircase, loud arguing rose from the first floor. In the salon, Madame Gautreau sat in her chair by the mantel barking at Millicent, who stood in front of her, bowing her head like a naughty child. On the wall behind her hung a large blue
immortelle,
the type of beaded funeral wreath placed on the tombs of loved ones on their feast days.

“Take it down at once!” Madame Gautreau shouted.

“It’s for Denise!” implored Millicent. Denise was Pierre’s dead fiancée.

“Well, then bring it to the cemetery later and put it on her grave.”

“I want Pierre to go with me.”

“You imbecile! It’s his wedding day!” Madame Gautreau’s face was purple with rage. If she hadn’t been so fat and lazy, I’m sure she would have jumped up and slapped Millicent. Instead she banged her cane on the floor so hard it could be heard on the terrace, where Mama, Pierre, and the priest were chatting. Thinking Madame Gautreau’s banging was a signal to start the ceremony, they stepped into the salon.

“Shall we begin?” said the priest, a thin, bald man who lived in rooms behind the château chapel. He stood in front of the mantel facing Pierre and me. Mama, Julie, Madame Gautreau, and Millicent sat on chairs around us.

The ceremony was over in five minutes. When the priest pronounced us man and wife, Pierre took my shoulders in his hands and brushed my lips chastely. “Long live the bride and groom!” cried Millicent. Then we retired to the dining room for a lunch of
écrevisses à la bordelaise
and
suprême de volaille.

Afterward I changed into traveling clothes, and at four, Mama, Julie, Pierre, and I took the carriage into Saint-Malo, where we boarded a train for Paris. Mama and Julie sat on one side of the square compartment facing Pierre and me. Usually I read on trains, or sleep. But I was too restless for either. What’s more, I was beginning to feel ill. My whole body ached, and my head pounded. I thought I might be coming down with influenza. The train rolled through the countryside, purple with heather, past the rough pastures and dark little villages. I tried to get comfortable. I removed my shoes, folded my jacket into a pillow, and leaned the small of my back against it. Nothing helped. The light began to fade, and the sky outside the window turned pink, then deep blue. Before it fell to black, a peculiar procession of gray clouds passed overhead.

Mama and Julie dozed while Pierre snored beside me. Suddenly a sharp pain gripped my abdomen. It subsided, then returned a minute later with stronger force. I felt sick to my stomach, like I might throw up.

“Pierre, I’m sick.” I tugged on my new husband’s sleeve to awaken him.

“What? Mimi? What’s wrong?” Slowly he roused and looked at me through half-closed eyes.

“I’m sick.”

“I’ll get you a glass of water, dear.”

Pierre left the compartment, and when he returned with the water, the pain was worse. I lay against his lap as he stroked my forehead.

The attacks of pain grew stronger. I was crying now, afraid I’d start screaming, I was in such agony. I clasped Pierre’s hands and bit down on my own wrist; nothing helped. My cries had awakened Mama and Julie.

“What’s wrong, Mimi?” Mama asked when she saw me slumped across Pierre’s lap.

“We don’t know,” answered Pierre. “She started feeling ill almost as soon as we left Saint-Malo.”

“Poor child,” said Julie. She moved across the compartment and sat next to me.

By the time the train pulled into the Gare Montparnasse and the brakeman had parted the steel doors, I was in too much pain to walk.

As Pierre lifted me, I felt a warm wetness between my legs.

“My God! Her dress!” Mama cried. I looked down; the back of my skirt was soaked with blood. Pierre removed his coat, and Julie helped him tie it around my waist. Then Pierre, with Mama and Julie holding our bags, carried me off the train, through the crowded station, and into a cab. “Forty-four, rue de Luxembourg,” Pierre directed the driver.

At home, he carried me up to my room and then left to fetch the doctor.

I lost consciousness for several hours. When I awoke, I was staring at the glint of a diamond tiepin in the blue-white morning light slanting through the window. My gaze shifted from the tiepin to the face above it. Staring down at me through thick, round spectacles was Dr. Marcel Chomel, who had once treated my skin with his arsenic-based Chomel’s Solution.

“How are you feeling, Madame?” he asked softly. It was the first time anyone had called me Madame. It sounded strange.

“My head is so heavy,” I said as I started to sit up.

Dr. Chomel gently pushed me back against the pillows with a cool hand. Mama and Julie stood on either side of the bed with pale, weary faces.

“
Chérie,
you lost the baby,” Julie said.

I glanced at Mama. All the anger and tension of the previous weeks had drained from her face. She looked relieved.

“It’s true, Mimi,” she said softly.

“Where’s Pierre?”

“He’s gone to his office. He’ll be back this afternoon to see you.”

At that moment, I was too weak and sick to feel sad. But over the following days, as I began to recover, I mourned the infant as if I had lost a living child whom I had nursed and loved. Even at my young age, I’d learned how sorrow builds upon sorrow; the heart can take just so much. My grief for the unborn baby renewed my grief for Papa and Valentine, which always hovered below my surface cheerfulness, waiting to bubble up and overwhelm me. Some days I cried so much I thought I’d never stop.

About the only good thing I can say of this time is that Dr. Pozzi was not part of my misery. I had stopped loving him. One day, I woke up and felt no pain or longing when I thought of him—only regret that I had ever met him.