Annette Vallon: A Novel of the French Revolution (19 page)

Nothing in here, though, except an inch of old brandy I finally found in a cupboard. We ’ll need to eat soon.”

“I want to rest just now, a little more. Monsieur William, am I mistaken, but did you not sing softly last night, as I was falling asleep?”

“Once I thought you were out of danger, I wanted you to sleep, but I wanted to keep myself awake, just in case you started trembling again—so I sang old border songs of Scotland and England.”

“It was lovely. Could you sing one again?”

“In English?”

“The language doesn’t matter.”

“Well, that’s probably a good thing, because they are all sad. You see, this fellow Gordon, Annachie Gordon, that’s a Scottish name, loved this girl and she him.” When I first awoke, he had been speaking excitedly, but now he spoke again in his quiet, slow, deliberate way.

“But her father wanted her to marry a rich lord—it’s an old story—so Gordon went out on a long sea voyage, and when he returned, her father had married her to the lord, and she, Jeannie, had died.”

And in his sweet baritone he sang softly the long song, and I imagined the parted lovers, the one returning too late, and watched the fire leap up and Monsieur William sing as he gazed at the fire.

The day that Jeannie married was the day that Jeannie died

And the day that young Annachie came home on the tide

And down came her maidens all wringing of their hands

Saying, oh it’s been so long; you’ve been so long on the sands,

So long on the sands, so long on the flood.

And when it was over, he sat there, still staring at the fire for a long time. “Would you like some more water, Mademoiselle Vallon? I’m afraid that’s all we have to offer here.”

I nodded, for I did not trust my voice anymore, and he filled a wooden cup from an earthenware jug and knelt by me and brought the cup to my lips. I drank deeply, and when he had taken the cup from my lips, I leaned back and held my arms out to him. He seemed abashed. He did not know what to do. But I held my arms out, bare, cold above the blankets. He put the cup down on the stones by the fire.

“Mademoiselle Vallon, I—”

My arms were still out, and he entered into them and kissed my cheeks, then my lips, and I lifted the blanket, and he tried to speak again, and I only kissed him.

Then he disengaged himself, and I watched him, still kneeling by the fire, take off his boots, coat, and waistcoat. I watched him pause, glance back at me, receive my smile, then remove his pantaloons. In his long cotton underwear and linen shirt, he quickly climbed back under the blanket. Just as our kisses became more urgent, our hands more confident in caressing each other, Monsieur William said, “I think, Mademoiselle, that you still need some warming from your ordeal last night,” and he sat up beside me and began slowly and strongly again to knead my shoulders, my back, my arms. A delicious warmth shot, then settled through my limbs. Feeling spoiled, I lazily lifted a foot and let it dangle in the air. William received my message and began stroking it. Then I stuck my other foot up. A tingling rippled down my legs from my toes and the balls of my feet. One of William’s hands departed from the ends of my body and gently made its way up my leg and rested there.

I rolled over. His other hand skirted across my breasts, back and forth. A current thrummed deep within me. My hips lifted and swayed in a rhythm all their own. As the movements heightened, as a pitched intensity drew us more and more as one body, suddenly all my limbs, muscles, and thoughts lapsed into an exquisite stillness, luxuriant and simple, united with William yet wholly myself.

We lay still now, and I felt again the warmth of the fire on my face.

Where had it gone, during our moments of passion? Where had everything gone? I lay on my side, with his chest against my back, with one of his arms over me, the other under my neck: his warmth on one side, the fire’s on the other, the only sound or movement the hiss or snap or undulating dance of the flames.

The fire flickered on the high oak beams of the lodge. We were alone in all the world. There was no tomorrow, barely yesterday, and now the fire danced. Now I could hear his even breathing as he slept after he had watched me most of the night. He was a rare soul. I took our fugitive hour and held it close.

There lies my love,

My love lies on him and cannot remove

And I never will forget my love Annachie.

After the snow stopped, after the world was remade in white, the horses pranced in the powder with plumes of smoke rising from their nostrils. The earth glimmered at their hooves.

As we rode, Monsieur William asked me what I thought about the “understanding” that the brigands said they had with the count. “That understanding almost cost you your life, Mademoiselle,” he said.

“Yes, but whatever understanding they
said
they have, I think it didn’t include attacking innocent travelers on their way back to Blois.”

“You’re fond of that old fellow, aren’t you?”

“I’ve known him all my life. In my mind, I suppose, he’s like my father. They were such good friends.”

“Your forgiveness is admirable. But the count was in the wrong to put the safety of his château over that of his fellow citizens. You’re a loving soul, aren’t you? I don’t think you have a vengeful bone in your body.”

“Not now, I don’t Monsieur William. Not now.”

Suddenly I felt curiously formal. “I would like you to meet my older sister and her family, Monsieur William. Will you ride with me there?”

I did not want him to return to his lodgings, and I to chez Vergez.

And I wanted to share my newfound joy. I could trust Marguerite to be grateful for the way he had protected me. Maman, if she knew, would probably want him arrested for spending the night with me in an abandoned lodge.

“They are parents of the little Gérard?” he said. “I liked that child.

A most delightful child,” he said, “a most delightful child.”

I agreed. The world was, briefly, a delightful place. It seemed odd that it was only yesterday that we had crossed the river. It was swollen now with the storm. For me it sang a panegyric on behalf of my personal saint, Lucette, who had lifted the moon from the passing clouds, who had led me to Monsieur William. I had almost died and had been delivered back to life. I had found a love that I had not thought possible. It was not the first time that I had felt that so much had changed in so short a time, but it was the first time I felt such joy.

As we rode along the quai Villebois, Monsieur William, too, was looking at the water. “The river glides by at its own sweet will,” he said.

Once at chez Vincent, I asked Marguerite if a servant could deliver a note for me to chez Vergez. “Didn’t you just come from there?” she asked.

“We rode from the château de Beauregard. I’ll explain later.” I didn’t want to start off our visit with Marguerite worrying about brigands chasing Monsieur William and me through the forest.

She nodded, in her way of understanding and respect that Marguerite always has, and sent for old Pierre, who was slow but reliable.

“You are always welcome here—you and any friend of yours. You must make yourselves at home and stay for dinner.”

The note informed Claudette that I had dined late and had spent the night at the château de Beauregard and that we were now at chez Vincent.

Benoît then arrived. He had returned to the château that morning, and when he told the count that we had not returned to chez Vergez the previous night, Benoît had been sent immediately back, bearing a letter with the seal of the count on it addressed to the commanding officer of the local National Guard. But Benoît had first stopped at chez Vergez, and Claudette showed him the note. She sent him then to chez Vincent.

Benoît looked relieved to see that we were indeed safe. “The count was like a crazy man when I told him you had not returned to chez Vergez. He was crying and cursing himself and the walls of the château de Beauregard and calling to the ghost of someone named Jean-Paul.”

“That would be my father,” I said.

“He was like a crazy man,” Benoît repeated. He looked curious, but said nothing more. I hastily wrote another note saying that we had been pursued, but our horses had proved their worth again, and that we were safe at chez Vincent. I gave it to Benoît with a big tip.

“Well, your holiday is over now,” I said. “Please tell Claudette on your way back that there is nothing to worry about.”

I would tell Marguerite after dinner, I decided.

Monsieur William tied chestnuts to strings, and he and Gérard swung and knocked the chestnuts together in a merry war until my sister gently chided them to come to the table.

I was happy to observe Monsieur William that evening with the Vincents. Paul was still in Orléans, and the Englishman was the gentleman of the table. To Marguerite he praised her casserole of chicken in white wine, saying dinners in the Loire Valley far outdid anything he was used to in England. He asked her to tell him a story of our childhood together, and she told him of our playing hide-and-seek in the crypt of the cathedral, a story the children had never heard, which widened their eyes and brought a laugh from our guest at the general unorthodoxy of the Vallon children, which was amusing because Marguerite herself sat there smiling placidly, the very picture of domesticity.

At Monsieur William’s bidding, Marie played a Lully piece after dinner that I had taught her, and at her own instigation, she brought two drawings in from her room and laid them out before the fire, and they discussed the virtues of her different shades of green and blue in creating for the viewer the summer trees and river. Monsieur William said he tried to do in words what she was doing in painting. And I, I enjoyed them all liking him. This was my family, completed by Monsieur William.

I think they could tell that the Englishman and I liked each other very much. Marguerite asked him when he was thinking of returning to England, and he shrugged and said, “Not until my money runs out, and I am very frugal; not until I have finished a poem about my voyage to Switzerland, and it is very long.” He looked at me and added, “Not until Mademoiselle Vallon has shown me all the best places to walk along the river, and she has said there are many.” Then it was time for coffee and pastries, and for listening to Marie play. I thought how patient they had all been with Monsieur William’s sometimes slow speech. I was proud of how willing he was to engage them in conversation in a language he was still learning, how frank his desire to please was, how he was utterly devoid of superficial charm, and how intelligent and warm a person they must think him.

After the children had retired, I gave a truncated version of events in the forest to Marguerite, who was shocked for our safety, and I had to assure her several times that we were fine. She said that she had heard rumors of brigands that had come down from the Sologne forest near Orléans and that, in addition to the count’s letter, she would ask Paul to report our plight to the new Committee of Surveillance, though she had heard they reserved the use of the National Guard now mainly for locating and deporting priests who wouldn’t take the new oath of patriotism. A bizarre definition of “crime,” she said. Monsieur William said he would mention it to his new friend at his lodgings, who was a captain in a local regiment and whom he was sure would not look kindly on any anarchy in his demesne. “The captain will feel it is his duty to take care of the situation,” he said.

During that conversation I felt a weight settle on my heart. I saw the soft look their eyes had all had during dinner harden. I was reminded of that world that I knew hovered just outside the door of the count’s lodge. I felt it threaten to take what I had just found. Monsieur William went on about how the brigands had used the term
patriotism
in vain. He was growing angry. I decided, then, that I had to bring my friend back from brigands and Committees of Surveillance and regiments. I would lose him eventually, I knew, but I could not bear to lose him now. I picked up an orange from the bowl of fruit, cut it, and began to peel it with an ivory-handled knife. I felt a slight spray from it come up to my face.

“These people say they are
for
the Revolution. It’s a travesty,” Monsieur William said. The scent of the orange clung to my hands.

My friend and my sister were outside its sweet range.

“Would you like some orange?” I said.

“Thank you,” William said, and I passed him segments I had cut.

He also chose a whole one from the bowl.

“Monsieur William,” I said. “I was telling my sister that you are a poet, but she has only my word. Perhaps you could share some of the lines you’ve translated.”

“Poems in translation are delicate grounds on which to draw conclusions,” he said, perfectly peeling almost a whole orange in one cut.

“But it’s worth a try.”

His eyes had their old light. His poems and he were
inseparable
; they were far more intimate to him even than his ideals of the Revolution. More intimate to him than I, but I had my place near them in his heart, I felt. It was to that place I had wanted him to repair. He put his orange on the porcelain plate painted with blue pagodas and willows and said, “You will not hear them as they are meant to be heard, but—” He paused. “I’ll take another risk, Madame Vincent, and give you new lines even Mademoiselle Vallon has not heard. I was waiting to share them with her, but circumstances...”

He flushed and began. I had won my friend back, for now.

Once, Man entirely free, alone and wild,

Was blest as free—for he was Nature’s child:

Confessed no law but what his reason taught,

Did all he wished and wished but what he ought.

“Those sound like the sentiments of Rousseau,” my sister said, “the beautiful thought that we are all nature’s children.”

“Reflected upon from the vantage point of the pure and beautiful Alps, Madame,” Monsieur William said, “in nature itself, where one pays proper homage to philosophy.”

I did not want this fragile happiness to end, but at last I could not stifle my yawns. My sister clapped her hands and commanded us all to bed. She insisted that Monsieur William stay at chez Vincent rather than find his way to his lodging in Blois. He did not refuse.