The French Bride (17 page)

Now all the people Anne was fond of were coming to the ball: Katherine and Sir James, Jean and Paul, and old friends from Charantaise, cousins and neighbours and the highest level of court society from the King downwards. It would be an occasion to remember, and it astonished her to think how shy she used to be and how disinclined to give parties at the château. And yet she was still in the cruellest suspense because the letter she had sent to Charles at the War Ministry had not been answered. She had begged him to come, writing and rewriting it several times in her determination to avoid a pleading tone that would irritate him, and yet show him that the ball and all it represented would mean nothing to her if he were not there to share it with her. It would break her heart if he refused. She had only to think that he would sent a curt refusal, or worse still, not trouble to reply at all, and she was ready to cancel everything and make her way back in defeat to Charantaise.

The thought of Francis troubled her too; Marie-Jeanne had not found him and Anne had received no word. Though she looked for him at Versailles, she never saw him or could discover anyone else who had. He might have disappeared from the face of the earth. She owed him money, she owed him above all an explanation for that dreadful dismissal; she would have risked the consequence of Charles's discovery just to see him for a few minutes and heal the wound that her husband had forced her to inflict upon him. But there was no word and no sign.

She had been waiting in her little boudoir, tired out and yet unable to take her maid's advice and rest because she was waiting and listening for a message.… ‘I am coming … I will join you.… The prospect bores me, I have other plans.…' Some word must come; only one day was left. Not even Charles could inflict such a wanton insult on her. When the door opened she opened her eyes; when she saw the maidservant with a letter in her hand, she sprang up. ‘Give it to me! Quickly!' She was too agitated to notice that the girl was the same one who brought her water in the morning, the silent one who watched her and whom she often curtly told to go away.

The maid curtsied, and withdrew; deliberately, she neglected to quite close the door and in the empty corridor outside she stood up and peered through the crack. She saw her mistress tear the letter open, noted the trembling hands and fading colour, saw the look of intense disappointment that passed across her face for a moment, and then watched while the note was re-read. A quick glance behind her assured the spy that she was still alone; no one was coming, or she would have heard steps on the marble floors long before anyone came in sight of her. She stooped to the door again. Mme. Macdonald was at her writing desk, her back to her, answering whatever was in that letter. She had taken that job out of greed; the pay offered by the Baroness de Vitale was high enough to tempt anyone; by this time her jealousy and dislike of her victim made the task a pleasure. Rich, arrogant, spoilt; she spied on the marquise avidly, hoping to do her some harm in retaliation for her impatient manners and disapproving looks. Bringing the bath water to her room every morning, the girl often felt tempted to make it scalding hot so that the high-born whore would burn the skin of her body. She saw her close the desk; there were two letters in her hand. She rang her little hand bell, and Marie-Jeanne came hurrying out of her closet. Flat against the door, the spy strained to catch what was said. ‘Take this to the comtesse.…' The last word eluded her as it often does with a new name. She swore under her breath. ‘And this one to the captain!' That was what she had been waiting for! That was who had sent that letter.… They were still in contact with each other but no one knew where or how; he had certainly not entered the house since the night he left it, like a beaten cur with his luggage on the back of that horrible one-eye Bohemian brute, Boehmer. If she could but get that letter, the one she had so foolishly delivered without daring to steam it open first, then she could have the proof Baroness de Vitale wanted. She ran down the corridor and slipped into an empty bedroom, hiding again behind the door until she saw Marie-Jeanne hurrying past, wrapped in a cloak. That was one out of the way. If only that other pampered bitch would go into her bedroom and lie down, she could slip into the boudoir and try the lid of that desk.… That note was still inside it; she was certain that if she could once get in and open the desk she would find it.

She came out and made her way back to Anne's apartments; unfortunately the door was properly shut; though she listened hard, she could hear nothing. She rubbed her hand across her face; she was sweating with fear. Even the money wouldn't have made her take the risk, nothing but primitive jealousy of her mistress gave her the courage to open the door very quietly and look in.

The boudoir was empty. The bedroom door was shut; she could hear sounds behind it. Her mistress was in there, not resting, moving about – she might come out at any second; if she heard a sound she was certain to do so. The maid crept across the floor towards the little desk, one eye on the bedroom door, her hearing as sharp as a predator's seeking its prey in the forest. She reached the desk and the tips of her fingers touched the lid. It moved; as she expected, it was not locked. She half turned away from the door to Anne's bedroom, and very slowly drew the lid back until it rested against her. She waited a second more; the woman in the room was pulling out some drawer, she could hear it distinctly. Like a flash, the spy went through the few papers in the desk; what she was looking for was under a half sheet of blank paper. She stuffed it into the neck of her dress; gently, very gently, she closed the lid again, and with a last glance at the shut door, she fled from the room.

‘Anne! Anne, my dearest, let me embrace you!' Jean de Mallot held out her arms to her old friend. Anne's hood fell back, her hair was loosely drawn up with ribbons; under her cloak she wore a boudoir gown.

‘Jean, did you get my note? I beg you to forgive me, but you were the only one I could trust!'

‘Of course I got it; that fool of a maid of yours didn't wait or I should have told her it was quite all right.'

‘She had another to deliver,' Anne said. She blushed suddenly. ‘Jean, it isn't what you think.'

‘He's here,' her sister-in-law said gently. ‘He's been here for half an hour. What is it that I'm supposed to think, by the way?'

‘It's not an assignation,' Anne said. ‘He's a friend, I owe him a great deal – I had to see him for a moment. I'm not being unfaithful to Charles.'

Jean looked at her and laughed.

‘More fool you, then. I've seen your handsome captain, and by Heaven, I wouldn't like to trust myself with him for long! Unfaithful to Charles! What a sweet idiot you are; I should hope you've betrayed him a dozen times by now! Who is this captain? Do tell me, I'm dying of curiosity.'

‘We met at Versailles,' Anne said. ‘He was friendless, and at that time I knew hardly anyone and I was grateful for his company. He's a mercenary soldier; he hoped the King would give him a commission. The time went by, you know how it is at court, the King comes, he passes, and those without influence can stand in front of him for years without being seen or spoken to – I asked Francis to be my agent when I re-opened the hôtel. He did everything for me, miracles of organisation. I could never have accomplished it alone or without being robbed twice over. Then Charles broke in one night and made me send him away. He accused us, can you imagine it?'

Jean nodded. ‘Only too clearly. What a revolting hypocrite – whose bed had he crawled out of? That whore Vitale's I suppose. Sorry, my dear, go on. I didn't mean to say that.'

‘There's nothing else to tell,' Anne said. ‘Francis was turned out of the house like a dog. I searched for him but I had to be careful. Charles threatened to have me exiled and Francis killed if we saw each other again. Then, not two hours ago, I got a note from him, begging me to meet him. I sent to tell him to come here; it was the only place where we'd be safe. Oh, Jean, please believe me, we are both innocent. But I couldn't let him go without a word, without explaining what had happened.'

‘Are you in love with him?' her sister-in-law asked her.

Anne shook her head. ‘No. You must believe that too. Where is he?'

‘Downstairs in the library. Go to him and don't worry. No one will disturb you.'

He had his back to her when she opened the door; he was standing by the window, holding the curtain and looking out on to the dark Paris street, one hand in his breeches pocket in the attitude she knew so well. Even before he turned, Anne wondered why it was that she was not in love with him, and whether if Charles and she had never met, her whole life might not have been quite different.

‘Francis!'

‘Anne!'

When he took her in his arms she did not try to draw away; he held her and she felt him tremble, his cheek pressed against hers. Comfort, tenderness, safety. His love enveloped her, freed at last of the restraints he had put upon it. He didn't speak a word, but turned her face to his and kissed her on the mouth. It was not what she imagined it would be; romantic, almost deferential. It was the kiss given by a man to the woman he loves, and for a moment the force of his passion communicated itself to her; the masculine demand for submission was so strong and her nature so naturally responsive to it that for a moment she weakened in his arms. But it was only a moment and it was not what she felt in the arms of Charles, who kissed her and made love to her and did not care for her at all.

‘Francis, I beg you, let me go.…'

‘I've waited months for this,' he whispered. ‘I've thought of it and lain awake, knowing you were in the room above me, and fought the temptation to get up and go to you. I love you, Anne. I love you more than anything else in the whole world.'

He released her a little and looked down at her.

‘I've got my commission from the King,' he said. ‘I'm going to Metz tomorrow to join the third regiment of musketeers. At last I've got something to offer you now; the King gave me a permanent commission with the rank of captain. My darling, will you come with me?'

‘I can't, I can't.' She shook her head, stammering, and still he held her and his bright-blue eyes were full of his love and his triumph at having her within reach at last.

‘That's what I've been waiting for,' he went on. ‘A commission. I told you I'd have something to ask you, do you remember? I told you the time would come for it. Come away with me! I love you, I've always loved you. I'll make you happy, Anne. Come to Metz.'

‘And my husband,' she said. ‘Have you forgotten him?'

‘No,' he said quietly. ‘I'm not likely to forget him or that night when he dragged you into the room and made you send me away. I knew you had to do it; I understood. I should have killed him there and then. But I'll do that when he comes after us to get you back. And he'll come, don't doubt it! He's not the man to let you be happy with anyone else. And I shall kill him, my love, I know it. Then we'll be free to marry.'

‘Let me go,' she begged him. ‘Please, I've got to talk to you.'

‘I know what you'll say,' he interrupted. ‘You don't love me, do you?'

‘No,' Anne said. ‘No, I don't love you. I should, God knows, I ought to love you. But I don't.'

‘I knew that too,' Francis answered. ‘Your love will come. Give me the chance.'

‘I can never love you, Francis.' Gently she drew back from him and at last he let her go. ‘I can never love you because I am still in love with him. I told you that a long time ago, when we first met. Nothing he does to me can kill that love; nothing will ever kill it. I shall love him until the day I die. That's why I cannot go with you to Metz. I can only ask you to forgive me. Even a moment ago when you kissed me … I knew it was useless. I still belong to Charles Macdonald, and I always will.'

He did not speak for a moment; they stood looking at each other and Anne made a little helpless gesture.

‘Forgive me,' she whispered. ‘Please forgive me.'

‘No,' he came back to her and took her hands. ‘There's nothing to forgive. I should be asking you to pardon me; Anne, if I've distressed you … if I've taken advantage of you – I didn't mean it. You may love him for the rest of your life – I don't believe it. I know I shall always love you. Don't cry, my love. I'm going now and I don't want to remember you in tears. Take this – it belonged to my father and it's all I have to give you. If ever you need me, send it back and I promise I'll come to you. Even out of the grave.'

He took the sapphire pin out of his cravat and fastened it to her dress. Gently, Anne reached up and kissed him.

‘I'll keep it always. May God go with you.'

‘Remember,' he said, and his voice shook, ‘if ever you need me.…'

The door shut after him and she was alone in the room; she waited, and the tears she had held back while he was with her began to flow at last, but they were for him and his disappointed love, not for herself.

‘I can't understand how you could be such a fool,' Jean said. ‘He asked you to run away with him and you refused because you loved my
brother!
Mother has told me how Charles treats you; truly, Anne, I think you're mad.'

‘I don't love him,' Anne repeated. ‘Not in the way he loves me. I can't; Charles has taken it all. He gave me this, Jean.' She took off the pin. ‘It was his father's and the only thing of value he had.' The small blue stone flashed in the light. Jean examined it and gave it back.

‘How could you have sent him away,' she said slowly. ‘How could you have refused him everything like that, even if you wouldn't go to Metz …?'

‘Have you been unfaithful to Paul?' Anne demanded. ‘Why should you expect me …?'

‘You asked a question,' Jean said calmly. ‘Wait for the answer. Yes, I have. The last child isn't his; but it's all over now. He's dead. He was a soldier too.'