The Porcelain Dove (25 page)

Artide was fascinated by them. "You'd think them princes," he said once, "the way they call for blood pudding and tripes and declare monsieur's green Jura wine poor, thin stuff. And when all's said and done, they're nothing more than rogues in cheap wigs." He shook his head admiringly. "They can't even sign their own names."

For two days, monsieur (still in his nightcap and gown), Noël Songis, and the three adventurers sat arguing over old tales and poring over old maps, plumbing legend and history and rumor for news of the Fortunate Isles. 'Twas Artide's jest that they should be called the Elusive, or perhaps even the Illusive, Isles for not one of those far-traveled men had the least idea where they lay. What they'd more than enough of, however, was theories.

The oldest of the bird-hunters argued that, most northern birds being white, the Porcelain Dove was likely from one of the tiny uncharted islands under the Arctic Circle. Another had hopes of the abundant archipelagoes of the Southern Seas. A third, more mystical, spoke of the fabled lands of the West: Hy Brasil and Avalon.

Noël Songis took no active part in this grand parliament. According to Artide, he was the only one of the lot who behaved like a sane man, quietly studying maps in a corner, leaving the library to take his meals, to make water, and to sleep. When monsieur appealed to him for his opinion, Songis replied simply that he would journey east.

For two days, the bird-hunters shouted and belched and fouled the air with their heavy tobacco. On the third day, the library stood empty—except for a monstrous litter of ash and mud and fragments of bread and meat—and the bird-hunters, their pockets heavy with de Malvoeux gold, were scattered to the north, south, and west. A day later, with no fanfare, Noël Songis rode east, accompanied by Jean Coquelet.

All the household was astonished that Jean went to Cathay. Jean, who before he went to Marseilles, had never ventured further afield than Besançon, and that only seldom. Oh, the fairy tales he told when anyone questioned him about it! He'd dreamed of a beautiful Eastern princess; Noël Songis had enchanted him; he'd eaten opium in Marseilles. Such tales were amusing, and served their purpose, which was to confound the curious. To me, who has known him longer than any living soul, to me, Jean has told the truth.

He asked Marie to marry him and Marie accepted. This was just before the beggar's curse, you understand, when madame was at her worst—not at all an auspicious time for a betrothal, but what would you? That's when Jean made up his mind to marry, and that's when he went with Marie to ask permission of Jacques Ministre, who sent them to Menée, who sent them to monsieur, who looked down the length of his nose and said they were welcome to do as they pleased. Their marriage had nothing whatever to do with him. He'd keep no married servants in his house.

Jean vows upon his mother's soul that he was prepared to risk the world outside, set himself up as a carter perhaps, move to Besançon or even Dijon. 'Twas Marie, he says, who demurred, who argued that her savings were too small and the city too cruel a place for country folk—for that, I fear her trips to Paris were to blame. She might have given over in the end, married him in monsieur's nose and died a carter's wife. But before she could screw up her courage for the change, Jean, heart-sore and angry, had ridden east with Noël Songis. He was gone for seven years, braving hardships and dangers among men who were yellow as jaundice and chirped when they spoke. At least that's what he says. Not having been there myself, I can't call him a liar.

After the bird-hunters had left, monsieur's first act was to visit madame. Fortunately, I was there to prevent him. Fortunately, I say, for after three sleepless days and nights, the duc was a wild man. His cheeks were dark with stubble, his eyes red-rimmed and wild, his nightcap smeared with some foul-smelling liquor, the cream gown cream no longer, and the shirt under it might have been used to wipe up after the sacrifice of the black hen. In short, his appearance alone was enough to throw a more robust woman than my mistress into strong convulsions. As soon as I set eyes on him, I closed the door of the bedchamber and barred it with my body. Monsieur, hands twitching impatiently, came inexorably on.

"Stand aside, girl." Monsieur's voice was low and harsh.

I shook my head stubbornly; in truth, I doubt I could have moved, my belly and legs were quaking so. "Madame is still very weak," I said. "She must not be alarmed."

Monsieur glared at me with a bloodshot eye. "Bien sûr, she's weak—that's why I've come, to strengthen her. Beware how you presume on my good nature."

Monsieur's good nature! As well presume on a wolf's lack of
appetite or a hawk's short sight. He stepped very close to me, so close that I could smell the blood and stale perfume upon him.

Heaven alone knows what indignity he might have visited upon me had not Dentelle appeared just then at the door and whimpered, "Oh dear, oh dear. Will m'sieur not let me shave him? Or put on his wig? May I bring m'sieur fresh linen, at least? Please, m'sieur?"

Monsieur turned to stare at him, then rasped his long nails over his cheeks and chin, said, "The razors, and swiftly," and stalked from the room with the little valet wringing his hands at his heels.

A good three hours later, the duc de Malvoeux presented himself a second time at his wife's chamber. He was bathed and shaved and smelled of lilies, resplendent in a freshly curled wig and an azure satin coat over a peach-colored waistcoat embroidered with bluebirds. His breeches were a shade deeper blue than his coat and his stockings were primrose yellow. At his elbow a lackey bore a covered basket and a heavily gilded folio volume, which he carried into the bedchamber and arranged on a table by the bed before bowing himself out. I withdrew to madame's dressing-room where I could be out of sight and yet within call should madame need me. Out of monsieur's sight, that is: I made sure I had a clear view of the bed.

The covered basket contained a bunch of grapes that monsieur peeled one by one and popped into my mistress' mouth. More magic, I thought, to command grapes in February. But this was the magic of wealth, a magic easy to understand; after all the mysteries of the past week, I found it oddly comforting. I was comforted, too, by the mildness of monsieur's voice inquiring after my mistress' health, begging that she would forgive his late neglect and explaining that he'd been preoccupied with fitting an expedition for a particularly rare specimen.

"The search will, I fear, be costly, for I am not sure of the bird's range and must therefore mount several excursions. In truth, until two weeks ago, I'd thought it a chimera, no more susceptible to trapping and caging than a gryphon or a cockatrice. Now that I'm sure it exists, I shall spare no effort to procure a specimen. 'Tis quite a lovely thing. Look—I've brought a painting of it."

He laid a pillow upon my mistress' lap, opened the folio, and propped it there. She glanced at the picture and said languidly, " 'Tis indeed enchanting. I do not wonder, husband, that you thought it a traveler's tale. 'Tis almost too beautiful to be real."

Monsieur's voice sharpened. "The bird is not yet caught. It will be long and far to seek; we must not expect to see it this year, or even
two years hence." He clapped the folio shut and madame started nervously. Ready to do battle, I half rose; but he himself was rising to leave.

"When you are a little stronger, Adèle," he said, "you must go to Switzerland, to Lausanne. I've already written to Réverdil to engage a house and servants. You've always said the air of Lausanne agrees with you, and I've every confidence that the Swiss physicians will soon make you strong and rosy again. You must spend the summer there, and the children as well. 'Tis time they saw something of the world outside Beauxprés."

This news so pleased madame that she began to cough again, sending me to her side and monsieur from the room. By the mercy of God, the relapse was brief, and by April she was well enough to sit on her chaise longue for an hour or two at a stretch and take an interest in her embroidery.

The journey to Lausanne was planned for the beginning of May, which left me little time to prepare. Madame's wardrobe was a shambles. Bodices that had once fit snug and smooth hung loose upon her wasted frame. When she put on her court gown—apricot silk taffeta, trimmed with painted bands and boasting a décolleté that barely covered her nipples—she resembled a little beggar-girl en masquerade. How could she hold up her head before Eveline Réverdil and the fashionable ladies of Lausanne? How could I hold up my head before their maids?

Accordingly, a letter was dispatched to Mme du Fourchet, who responded with a dozen fashion plates, twenty ells each of lustring, Lyon silk, and calamanco, lengths of point d'Espagne and Brussels lace, twenty-five ells of silver galloon and three hundred violet silk tassels for trimming. With these I was able to make do, along with dimity, ribbons, and ordinary blond bought from the peddler. Peronel and Marie assisting me, I remade the court gown and two robes à la française, cut, boned, stitched and trimmed a new polonaise, a petticoat and a caraco, and made a robe chemise for Linotte and a suit of clothes apiece for M. Justin and the vicomte de Montplaisir.

M. Léon was now twelve years and nine months old, a handsome lad very much in the mold of the Maindurs, which is to say that his face was long, his hair black and unruly, his nose fine-drawn, and his lips thin. His eyes were of an older stamp: deep-set, pale, lambent as moons among his dark lashes. If the portraits were to be believed,
such wolf's eyes hadn't appeared in the family since Jorre Maindur himself. A handsome lad, as I said, and twice as wicked as the Devil.

M. LeSueur had not been replaced, and the boy was let to run as wild as he would, which by all accounts was as wild as the wolf he resembled. Tales of disemboweled hares and headless cats traveled among the grooms and gardeners, and all within-doors went in fear of his rages and his malice. Poor Justin was his chief victim, and was forever being fished out of the ornamental pond, helped down from trees, rescued from roofs, released from cellars, or untied from wherever his brother had dragged and forgotten him in the course of one of his elaborate games. Me, I saw M. Léon only when he visited his mother, upon which occasions he conducted himself as prettily as anyone could wish. 'Twas otherwise, however, when I measured him for his new suit.

Stripped to shirt and breeches, he stood in madame's dressing-room on a stool and held out his arm for me to take its length, contriving as he did so to brush the back of his hand down my breast. I was startled and a little annoyed, but thinking it a piece of childish mischief, snipped marks at elbow and wrist without remark.

When I held the paper tape across his back, "Are not my shoulders grown astonishing broad, Berthe?" he asked me, squaring them proudly.

"Astonishing broad, M. le vicomte," I agreed coolly, and indeed they were broad for a child, and his chest also.

I passed the tape about his waist, marked it, and moved it down around his hips. Then I knelt to measure his inside leg, whereupon he turned and displayed, not three inches from my nose, a most unchildish bulge in his breeches.

"Pretty Berthe," he leered. "How you blush, just like a little virgin. But then, you are a virgin, or so I've heard. Tell me, ma belle, do I hear truly?"

I primmed my mouth and averted my eyes. "If the vicomte will please to turn around, I can proceed with my work."

The vicomte caressed the bulge. "Here's other work for you, ma belle."

I wished Marie were present, or even better, mère Boudin. If ever there lived a woman who could, with a single glance, stem the rise of a young sprig's sap, Guyette Boudin was that woman. "If you'll not be a good child and stand still, vicomte or no, I shall call your nurse to hold you."

I spoke at full voice, and from the bedchamber, madame called out querulously, "Léon? Only be patient for a little minute, and 'twill be soon done."

M. Léon pouted. " 'Twill not be done at all, ma mère. I don't like her clumsy hands upon me. Tell her to stop touching me."

"She cannot take thy measure without touching thee," said madame reasonably. "Berthe, do make haste. I want your advice on this head. Shall the ribbons be soupir de Vénus, or cheveux de reine? I vow, I cannot decide betwixt them."

Hard as I tried to keep my countenance, my lips began to quiver with laughter and the threat to my virtue abruptly subsided. Swiftly I took the remaining measurements, rose, and curtsied. "That will be all, M. Léon. When the suit's ready, Dentelle will fit it for you. In matters of the mode, a valet's a better adviser to a young man than a femme de chambre."

The vicomte de Montplaisir bared his teeth at me, then snatched aside my fichu and pinched my breast so cruelly that tears of pain rose in my eyes. 'Twas a childish revenge; but his smile when I gasped was not childish, nor the leer with which he said, "Pretty Berthe," before taking up his coat and leaving the dressing-room.

"Your Berthe is as clever with her tongue as she is with her fingers, maman," I heard him say. "Such a girl might have risen to the top of her profession, had she only stayed in Paris."

I came around the dressing-screen in time to see my mistress pat her son's smooth cheek. "Sweet child," she murmured. "Yes, my Berthe speaks like a lady, and is far cleverer than her silly mistress, are you not, Berthe? Now, the ribbons. The cheveux de reine is more a la mode, but do you not think the yellow makes me look sallow?"

After madame had retired to dream of ribbons, I sat late in the Fan room with Marie and Peronel, cutting M. Léon's new coat and breeches out of plum-colored broadcloth. Reflections of our work-candles flickered in the glass cases, so that you might almost swear the mounted fans waved again while the ghosts of coquettish eyes peeped around their lacy or feathered edges, searching in vain for new hearts to enslave.

Snip, snip went the scissors along my chalked lines.

"You'd best make it larger than the measure, Berthe: boys that age grow monstrous quick," said Marie.

I finished cutting a sleeve and handed it to Peronel to baste in a
silk lining. The broadcloth was soft and tightly woven, 10 écus the ell at least. "Such fine stuff, to be squandered on a child," I sighed. "He's sure to outgrow it within the six-month, if he doesn't spoil it first."