French Passion (29 page)

“I remember nothing.”

“That,” he said, kissing my neck, “isn't flattering.”

“You've invented a masquerade,” I accused, my voice rising with panic. “Last night you knew I wasn't myself, so you've invented this story.”

That happy, teasing grin went. “What I feel for you is so absolute that the word
love
is very pale. Yes, I knew of your mental condition, but this is no hoax. I took advantage of your blankness to make you my wife. And I was more helpless than you in the matter. I'm a slave to you.”

On my finger was a broad gold wedding band inset with cabochon rubies. Next to it, on my middle finger, was André's ring. Slowly I rubbed the initials.

I believed in this ring. Therefore the ruby wedding band had to be part of a hoax perpetrated by this enigmatic man whose naked body was pressing against mine, rousing me to unwilling passion.

About noon the Comte rang for his valets. In my rooms the stout, talkative lady's maid called me Madame. I told myself she could have been ordered to lie. She dressed me in a velvet
robe de toilette
that would have been a formal gown if the skirt didn't divide to show a silk shift. Her plump fingers moved skillfully in my hair. The Comte, in his usual black, came in, bent to kiss my shoulder, handed the maid a strand of emeralds that she pinned across the smoothed back crown of my head.

The Comte gave me his hand.

We went downstairs. Servants were lined up in the hall. First the majordomo with his gold-knobbed staff of office, then the sommelier with the chained keys of the wine cellar, the chef and his underlings, the musicians, the valets, eight bewigged footmen. Wenches stifling giggles. Four whiskered coachmen and their lackeys. Jack boys from the stables, their high boots nervously tapping inlaid marble floors. Old Lucien anxiously clutching his hat. The gardener and undergardeners.

As we moved down the line, each face in front of us changed from lascivious to solemn. “Good day, Comtesse, good day, Comte.”

I knew without question this small army had witnessed our marriage.
Sotto voce
, the Comte said, “But, my dear, have I ever lied to you?” And, thumbing an age-old gesture in the palm of my hand, he grinned. I couldn't prevent a faint answering smile. He was a rogue, but an amusing one.

Two footmen sprang from the line to open study doors.

We had dined and the Comte was showing me gold miniatures from Peru when a discreet knock sounded.

The footman announced, “A deputy from the Assembly to speak with the Comtesse.”

Blood drained from my head. The Comte had agreed to let me go to the Inn of St. Antoine this evening, and I'd been worrying what to tell André. What could I tell him? I'd walked to the Comte's palace to hear about my brother, had a blank spell, and woken to find myself in bed, married to the Comte—who, in case André might have forgotten, had used a
lettre de cachet
to throw me into the Bastille. Even if André had known of my mental blackouts, even if he had known the full and bizarre extent of the Comte's and my incestuous relationship, how could he have believed me? It was all unbelievable, unbelievable! Besides, André harbored a pinpointed jealousy toward the Comte. But André loves me, I thought, trying to bolster myself. And to love is to believe.

It was shattering enough to be parted from him without having him hate me, too.

The Comte was saying, “Would it be easier for you if I speak to him?”

“What would you say?”

“The truth is always easiest,” the Comte replied, setting the tiny gold animal back in the cabinet. “Unfortunately, though, the truth seldom convinces idealists. They prefer sugar coating and slogans.”

“He'll believe what I tell him!”

“Only a true cynic—like myself—could accept that I'd trapped you.”

“He'll believe!”

“If you say so.” The Comte bowed with overelaborate courtesy. “Would explanation be easier if you're alone with him?”

“Please,” I murmured.

The Comte turned to the footman, saying, “Show the deputy to the reception room. Wait five minutes. Announce him to the Comtesse in here.”

After the footman left, the Comte put his hand on my shoulder. “Listen to me,” he said. “You're about to be very hurt. So console yourself with this thought. Men willfully hurt only the loveliest, most desirable of women. The more normal cruelty is neglect.”

After he left, I stood facing the doors. My mouth was dry, my stomach fluttery.

After what seemed an hour, a footman opened only one door, as was done for unimportant guests.

André ran in. His hair was windblown, his buckled shoes muddy. There were dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept.

“Manon. Are you all right?”

I nodded.

“You're sure?”

“You trust me, André, don't you?”

“Of course I do. How could I love you if I didn't?” He stopped abruptly, for the first time taking in the emeralds gleaming in my skillful coiffure, the elaborate
robe de toilette
, my high-heeled backless slippers. “Where did you get those?” he demanded.

“Here.” I cleared my throat. “Everything was here.”

He stared at me. In his bewilderment he looked young, almost naïve, especially after the Comte's cynical maturity. The small scar on his forehead stood out, as if pointing to his baffled gray eyes. “The Comte de Créqui keeps a wardrobe in your size?”

“No.…” My voice faltered. “Yes. I don't know. He had clothes to fit me.”

André drew a sharp breath. His chest went out, his jaw clenched. We'd had brief, hot arguments—over the Comte—but this was entirely different. André's eyes were the cold gray of a winter sky, his lips hard. He looked like a young king in an implacable, banishing rage.

“I could have spared myself worry,” he said coldly. “My vote was needed in the Assembly, but I've been with Goujon, searching places where you might have been abducted. I've been in Palais Royale brothels where slavers sell black and Chinese women, I've been in those dark warrens behind the Boulevard des Capucines where girls are kept. Fool that I am. You're not for small change. Your price is emeralds.”

“The Comte got a letter for me from Jean-Pierre. I came here to read it.”

“Your brother must've written a book. You left the inn yesterday afternoon. Besides, why would he address you here?”

“He believed sending mail to the Inn of St. Antoine might compromise us. Being related to an émigré isn't exactly something one advertises.”

“So he addressed it to your former lover?”

“The Comte is our guardian.”

André glanced around the room with its innumerable priceless miniatures. “He doesn't bow to the Revolution, does he, the Comte? All right. So your brother sent a letter here. And the Comte, to further screen you from the world, didn't forward it. Instead, you came to get it, without a goodbye.”

“I thought I'd be home before you.”

André ignored me. His eyes were filled with pain. “Or is the Comte your
former
lover? While I'm on the floor of the Assembly, have you been here, parading in your gowns for him? Taking off your gowns for him? Lying in his bed?”

I couldn't resist saying, “You've acted jealous enough for that to be true.”

“Well?”

“Yesterday was the first time I'd seen him in over a year.”

“Since he threw you in the Bastille. You've always told me
that
was for discovering about us. You and me. But every single one of your friends, not to mention your own brother, told a different story. They said you were a flirt, faithless. All agreed you'd run off with a new lover. What did happen? Did you finally try even the Comte's aptitude for corruptness with your affairs?”

“The Comte never believed promiscuity of me,” I said. My voice was level. Yet fear crept through me. André believed the worst. Past, present, and future, he believed the worst. By now I knew I couldn't stop him from hating me. Maybe, though, I could save him from his arctic rage. “Finding out about you hurt him more than he could bear.”

“The Comte? Are you this protective of all your clients?”

Anger popped inside me. “You will not talk to me like this! I've told you the truth, always. I love you, and I've loved you from the first time I saw you.”

“The coach, yes. You insisted, didn't you? Even then you wanted—”

“I was a virgin! And you know it.”

“You gave me your word,” he said. “I've had your word on everything. So let's hear your version of what happened here.”

I sat in the upholstered armchair next to the fire.

“André, since the illness, there've been times when I just don't remember. I never told you. I didn't want to worry you. But there's a kind of dizziness, and then I blank out. It happened last week. Do you remember? We were having supper in front of the fire, and I asked how I got there?”

“I remember,” he said, taut. “You gave me one of your pretty smiles, laughed, then said, ‘How on earth did I get here?' Your mind must've been in this mansion, not a poor inn. Just forget the questions and answers. There's no need for you to lie. I know what you've been doing.”

He strode to where I sat, both hands clenching my shoulders, his fingers digging in until the terrible pain in him communicated itself physically. I gave a moan. He released me.

“A shame I can't afford you,” he said. “And I refuse to take charity.”

“Don't, don't,” I whispered. “You're ruining what we did have.”

“The Comte is welcome to his doxy.”

“I'm not.”

“Pardon me. I forgot. He's your guardian.”

“He's my husband,” I said, very low.

André stared at me, then sank slowly on the chair opposite me. “Husband?”

“That's what I've been trying to tell you. I came here yesterday to read Jean-Pierre's letter. And the Comte loves me. He always—”

André interrupted, ‘So in a fit of forgetfulness, you married him? You expect me to believe that?” He paused. “Now I know why you refused to marry me.” He glanced around the room with its magnificent tasteful collection. “You wanted this.”

“Oh, André,” I sighed. “What's the point. You know I just didn't want to smear you with my past.”

He gave a laugh. The bitterness was strange to him. “Everybody is so damn considerate. Your brother not endangering us with letters, the Comte not forwarding them. You protecting me. Manon, you're a slut. A sensuous, desirable slut. You don't have to make up explanations. You go to the highest bidder.”

“I told you not to talk to me like that!” In a sudden burst of anger, I tried to pull off his ring, but my hands shook, and the gold stuck at the knuckle. I struggled, got it off, held it out to him. “Here.”

“Keep it,” he said. “It's low enough price for the number of times I've bought the loveliest, most exciting whore in Paris.”

“It's yours.”

“My father's. He gave it to my mother. He was as degenerate as you,” he said. “Your husband is welcome to you, madame, and to all your brats of uncertain fathering.”

This was the ultimate cruelty his pain could hurl at me. I had, of course, told him how much I'd loved CoCo. My baby. Possibly his baby. That plump little miracle buried in an unmarked pauper's grave. My brief spurt of anger melted and I was blinking back tears of desolation. How could two people so passionately in love rend each other like this?

Both doors swung open. The Comte entered. To hide my tears, I gazed at the fire.

I heard the Comte say, “Monsieur Égalité, has the Comtesse informed you of our marriage?”

“She has. Have you ever considered, Comte, that you and your bride would be better off in another country?”

“Oh? Do deputies in the Assembly have the same power to exile as kings once had?”

The Comte's wry voice had a peculiar undercurrent.

I turned. They faced each other across a flowered carpet. André, tall, handsome with his dark, windblown hair, his bourgeois wool suit ennobled by his slender body. There was a haunted, hunted glint in his gray eyes, and on his high cheeks the skin seemed more taut. A new André, in his torment and anger. I'd never loved him more.

The Comte, shorter and heavier-shouldered, with all the virility of middle age. Powerful. Strong. Martial—it was easy to see he'd once been a field general. He came to where I sat, rested his hand on my shoulder. She's mine, the gesture said.

André asked coldly, “Why do you stay here, when you have so much to lose?”

“You can answer that question better than any man in France,” the Comte replied, amused.

To my surprise, André turned crimson, for a moment looking a schoolboy. He recovered. “You should leave, Comte de Créqui,” he said. “You and your secondhand bride.”

At the word
secondhand
, the Comte's fingers tightened on my velvet
robe de toilette
. “I've fought for this country, given my blood. And I'm not going to leave it.” The words were angry, but the tone remained amused. “And as for the Comtesse, I'd be happy to oblige you with a duel. I understand, though, from careful reading of your poetry, that you dislike killing. In this case, you'd be forced to kill me. Though I flatter myself both on my shooting and swordsmanship, I would have to offer myself to you out of respect.…”

Again André reddened. His jaw clenched. He was in a towering rage. Giving me a last, arrow-eyed look, he flung open a door. The footman didn't open the other.

“Show my guest proper respect!” the Comte roared.

The white-faced footman flung open the other door too late. André's footsteps were fading on marble. Both doors were closed.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“What, my dear?”

“Have them open both doors. André's nothing exalted. Just a deputy.”