Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (57 page)

   "Do not pity me," he said staring at her. "You are the one to be pitied. When you lose your innocence, it will hurt far more than losing mine did."

   He made her angry. Good. She fastened on it the way one of Annie's yard hens leapt upon a fat June bug. Anger covered the fact that just a moment before she had suddenly wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

   "I am not innocent. I am a married woman. I have nothing to lose."

   "Barbara, you have everything to lose."

   She stood up, throwing her unplayed cards on the table. "This is a stupid conversation. I have a headache, and I am going home."

   "Good. I have never seen you play so badly. See if you can find someone to practice with." He stood up as she gathered her fan and gloves.

   "I wish I had never come to see you."

   Richelieu chucked her under the chin. She slapped his hand.

   "I will see you tomorrow or the next day," he called after her. "Give your husband my regards."

   He went over to the linnet and tapped against the wires of the bird's cage.

   "Pretty bird," he said, smiling, "pretty, pretty bird. Sing for me. Sing."

* * *

   They were talking of Barbara. Richelieu always maneuvered the conversation around to her. He was obsessed with her; no one could tell him too little or too much. He studied her the way a general might study a terrain map; no morsel of gossip about her was too small, too insignificant. Louise-Anne was used to his ways, he had always had other mistresses; yet this infatuation of his was too much. She despised Barbara because of it.

   Louise–Anne sat on the edge of Richelieu's chair, sulking, but they ignored her. The three of them, St. Michel, Richelieu, and she, were more than a little drunk. They had whiled away the afternoon playing cards and drinking wine, and now it was twilight and the pretense of playing cards was finished. Richelieu baited St. Michel about his broken nose, about Barbara.

   "Why did you drop her?" Richelieu asked.

   "I found her boring," St. Michel answered, but it did not satisfy Richelieu. They talked of her inexplicable continued faithfulness to Roger, and here Louise–Anne was unusually silent. Roger had been to one of the Duchesse de Berry's notorious suppers. Her heart had begun to beat wildly when he walked in late with her uncle, the prince. No one came to a de Berry supper in innocence. Anything might happen. And did. By the time he arrived, nearly everyone was drunk and beginning to pair off for the evening. She immediately left her partner and went to him. He and her uncle were the oldest people in the room, but Roger was the most handsome, the most desirable. She wanted him. Wine made her bolder than usual, wine and his presence in that place. She was glad Roger was cheating on his nauseating little wife; there was no other reason for him to be here. She could have crowed with triumph. She was glad her uncle was back, that he had converted Roger to their old ways. Roger and her uncle had always chased women. And now, once more, they chased them again, if the rumors were true.

   She stood before Roger, smiling wantonly. And he smiled back. She loved his smile; she always had. When she was younger, still a girl, and he and her uncle were always together, she had dreamed of him smiling at her just so. She stepped closer, swaying with wine, offering herself, her meaning plain. And he had shaken his head. Just a tiny shake. No more. No less. But her lust was ashes in her mouth. As was her pride. And her uncle stood behind him, his proud, full face contemptuous of her.

   She shuddered at the memory. It was so seldom that anyone made her feel shameful, but they had. The rest of the evening she had watched them. They settled on a silly little countess and took her off with them to one of the bedrooms the Duchesse de Berry kept available for her guests. Louise-Anne had writhed with jealousy and anger and humiliation. Why not choose her? Why was she not good enough? She had had half a mind to write an anonymous note to Roger's wife—his doting wife who was busy parading her grief for her family—and tell her of her husband's activities at night with his friend, the Prince de Soissons; but she had not done it—yet.

   "I want to get drunk!" she said loudly.

   "You are drunk," said Richelieu.

   She leaned over and kissed him, slowly, lingeringly, running her pointed little tongue along the edge of his jaw and into his ear as St. Michel watched. She looked into Richelieu's eyes. At least he understood her. Dear Armand, he understood her very well.

   Richelieu motioned for the valet to pour more wine, and Louise–Anne moved to sit in his lap. She put her hand inside his shirt and rubbed his bare chest. St. Michel watched, his breathing quickened.

   "I want to get totally and vilely drunk and do something awful," she whispered. She rubbed herself against Richelieu like a cat.

   "Henri just told me something interesting," Richelieu said. His voice was caressing, sensual. Louise–Anne shivered at the sound of it. Armand had something planned.

   "We were arguing over his true feelings for the Lady Devane. Do not frown, Louise–Anne, I promise this will be worth your while. And he admitted—I had to pull it out of him—that he does dream of the lady occasionally."

   Louise–Anne put her hands over her ears, but Richelieu pulled them down.

   "Listen," he commanded. He stared at her, his yellow-brown eyes mesmerizing her, knowing her. "He dreams of raping her. A recurring dream of rape. Yes…I thought you would find that interesting, Louise– Anne. I was surprised when you did not react before, but your mind was elsewhere."

   "Rape," she whispered. She said the word slowly, savoring it.

   "Louise–Anne is fascinated with rape," Richelieu told St. Michel, and laughed at his friend's expression.

   "Tell us," he said softly. "You will not regret it, Henri. That I promise." There was silence in the room. Louise–Anne was staring at St. Michel now, her eyes wide. Richelieu reached up and caressed her neck. She shivered again.

   St. Michel was silent, as if he did not know what to do or say.

   "The dream," Richelieu prodded, patiently, as if St. Michel were a slow child. "Describe the dream to us. Go on."

   St. Michel swallowed. He took another drink of wine. "I–I see her coming to me…and she is crying …crying like a child…and her hair is loose and flowing—I always wanted to see her hair that way. I always wanted to touch it, run my hands through it. I always loved her hair."

   Louise–Anne had put her hand inside Richelieu's shirt again, against his heart, and she could feel it beating violently, although his face showed no emotion. I hate her, she thought. Why does he want her so? And Roger wanted her too. He might tomcat through Paris with her uncle, but she knew he cared for his wife. Why? If she had not been so drunk, she would have gotten off Richelieu's lap. But she was too far gone. St. Michel's words had started something. Something she could not run from. She closed her eyes to it. Her breath was warm against Richelieu's ear. "The story is better told in bed," she said. She put her mouth on Richelieu's, drowning out thoughts of Barbara, that it was Barbara he wanted, and they kissed, their tongues twining. St. Michel watched them.

   Richelieu, Louise–Anne in his arms, walked over to the bed. St. Michel stood up hesitantly, watching Richelieu. Richelieu nodded his head, and St. Michel stumbled in his haste to join them. Louise–Anne lay now in the bed's center, her eyes closed, as if she had swooned. Richelieu leaned against the carved headboard of the bed, his face slack and empty.

   "We want to hear more of your dream, Henri."

   St. Michel swallowed and sat down on the edge of the bed. Louise–Anne sat up and turned her back to St. Michel, who licked his lips.

   "Unlace me," she said to him, her eyes on Richelieu's. "My gown feels too tight."

   Richelieu leaned his head back and watched them with narrowed eyes. St. Michel's hands trembled as he unlaced Louise–Anne's intricate corset. She sighed as it loosened and let her gown slip down her shoulders. Her slight breasts were white just above her chemise. She reached up and began to unfasten the pins in her hair. It fell on her shoulders, tangled, luxuriant. She leaned back against St. Michel, her eyes closed, and his hands came around to touch her breasts. He fondled them, breathing shallowly. She slipped away from him, and shrugged out of her gown and hoop. Now she wore only her chemise and stockings and garters. Both men's eyes were fastened to her slender leg, to the soft white of her thigh and calf as she slowly unrolled her stockings.

   "Tell us the dream," Richelieu said hoarsely.

   St. Michel licked his lips, his eyes on Louise–Anne, who was kneeling near him.

   "I–I see her coming to me and crying…"

   "Yes?" said Richelieu. Louise–Anne had begun to caress her breasts through the chemise. Her eyes were closed.

   "Is she clothed or naked?" asked Richelieu.

   "Clothed for now," said St. Michel. "And I take her in my arms, and I hold her tenderly, softly, so that she trusts me, but all the while I want to hurt her, to pound her into nothingness…I lead her to my bed, and we lie down upon it—" he stopped and gasped. Louise–Anne had unbuttoned the front of his breaches, and her mouth was on him, sucking.

   "God!" he said.

   "Go on," urged Richelieu.

   "She–she is still crying…oh, that is good…and-and I slowly undress her…God, Louise–Anne, do not stop, harder, harder—"

   "Describe it," said Richelieu, his eyes closed, his body limp and relaxed.

   "I–I unfasten the front of her gown as she lies on the bed. Louise– Anne, why did you stop?"

   But Louise–Anne had moved to Richelieu, who lay with his eyes closed. She unfastened his breeches and began on him. Richelieu never moved. St. Michel groaned and pulled off his shirt and breeches and moved so that he was beside Louise-Anne. He put his hand under her chemise, on her small, white buttocks.

   "Her eyes are closed," St. Michel said. "I pull down her gown and turn her over and unlace the corset. Her arms are trapped by the sleeves of her gown, and so I turn her back over and begin to kiss her breasts—"

   "Describe them," whispered Richelieu.

   "They are young and firm and they have pink tips. I kiss them and free her arms from the gown, and she wraps her arms around me. I make her stand and I pull down the gown. I pull away everything but her chemise and stockings. Her legs are long, long and slim. I pull up her chemise…I see her most private parts, her hips swell gently…how soft and white her thighs are…the hair on her…I tear the chemise from her. Her eyes widen with shock, for I have been so gentle, but before she can react I throw her to the bed and enter her savagely—"

   Louise–Anne groaned, but Richelieu pushed her head away from him. He lay with his eyes closed. Louise–Anne lay back beside him, her eyes on St. Michel. She pulled up her chemise and opened her legs.

   "No kisses now," St. Michel said, crawling over Louise-Anne, and beginning to do what he had just described. "I make her cry with the pain, writhe under me, desperate to be free, but it does not—God!—matter. Only I matter, my need, my anger…I hurt her again and again and— God!—again." Supported by his arms, he thrust himself in and out of Louise–Anne viciously. She was making soft little cries, cries slowly escalating into screams. She reached over for Richelieu's hand and brought it to her breasts. She screamed louder.

   The valet, who had been sitting outside, ran into the cell, but stopped the moment his eyes caught the writhing bodies on the bed, for none of them had bothered to close the bed draperies. He turned at once and closed the door behind him, crossing himself as he sat down once more in his chair. The Princesse de Charolais screamed for a long time, but he stayed where he was. He knew better than to intrude.

* * *

   No one was in Roger's apartments. Barbara opened the cupboard and felt under the pile of shirts. Nothing. She pulled the drawers and rummaged through the clothing there. Under a pile of stockings, she found a handkerchief. Opening it, she saw an embroidered initial in the corner, an
S
surrounded by tiny fleurs–de–lis. She smelled it; there was no fragrance. She ran to the small study next to Justin's room, in which Roger kept all his letters, and was just beginning to rifle through a box of letters when Justin said from the door, "Lady Devane, is there something I can help you find?"

   Blushing scarlet from her shoulders to the top of her head, she stammered "no" and hurried from Roger's apartments, the handkerchief wadded into a small ball in her hand. Roger did not come home at all that night.

   The next morning, as soon as she was fully awake, she ran to his bedchamber and pulled back the bed draperies, half expecting him to be gone, but to her relief he was there, sleeping. She tugged on his shoulder. He tossed and muttered and after a moment opened his eyes blearily.

   "Jesus Christ, my head. What time is it?"

   "Seven."

   He groaned and turned over. She stood by the bed. After a moment, he opened one eye and looked at her.

   "If you are going riding this morning, I would like to go. My black riding habit is ready, and I could…I could join you…." Her voice trailed off.

   "Not this morning," he said. "The only thing I want to do is sleep."

   "'Well, I will see you at breakfast—"

   "Do not talk to me of food." He closed his eyes.

   She rubbed one foot against the carpet. "Yes. Well, I will just let you sleep."

   Once she was certain he was sleeping again, she rummaged through the pockets of his coat and breeches. Nothing. She smelled his shirt. Sweat, brandy, perhaps jasmine and orange water. Nothing more.

* * *

   Curled up in an armchair in the window of her bedchamber, she thought about it as she embroidered. Her needle plunked in and out of the thin material. Was he being unfaithful? It seemed as if she had wakened from the first shock of her grief to find something changed between them… in such a subtle way that she did not trust her own intuition…and yet she had seen the look on his face. He wanted her gone. Why? She had thought he was growing fond of her, was loving her a little. And she had been so happy with that. And now she did not know what to think. He had never been more cheerful, more tender and solicitous of her. Why did she suspect him? Was it her imagination?