The Porcelain Dove (38 page)

In any case, one day he turned up, unheralded and unaccompanied and riding on a fat white mule. Artide showed him into the Sèvres salon where the family sat at dinner. I remember how we laughed to hear Artide tell how Mme la duchesse had choked on her quenelle,
how M. le duc had ordered a cover set and bade his son be seated for all the world as if his sudden appearance were in no way out of the ordinary.

"So I sighed with relief—LePousset, here, sighed also, and went for the cover while I pulled out a chair. Did M. Justin then sit down like a human man and help himself to Malesherbes' good quenelles? He did not. M. Justin clapped shut his eyes and folded his hands and commenced to mutter Latin while monsieur looked daggers at him and Mlle Linotte was seized with a fit of giggling, which she pretended was coughing. Monsieur roared at her to hold her noise, and madame said she hoped she wasn't falling sick. And all the while, our monkling kept up his
pater nostering
and
gaudeamusing
as though he were alone in his cell. Mademoiselle laughed until she coughed in good earnest and monsieur flung the seethed mushrooms at her head. After that, M. Justin consented to seat himself at last and dinner proceeded quietly."

"Quietly!" M. Malesherbes shook his jowls sadly. "I'd hoped to hear they'd dined on theological argument, for 'tis sure they dined on little else."

"You may blame our precious eremite for spoiling their appetites," Artide said. "The only thing to pass His Asceticship's lips—saving Latin, of course—was bread and water. Pah! 'Tis enough to make a man weep, to watch them turning up their aristocratic noses at a meal any peasant would sell his firstborn for."

Dentelle threw his hands to Heaven and implored the saints to grant him patience. "Ah, Artide, Artide. Peasants eat what they can. Ducs eat what they will. That is how the world wags. You who are so learned, so deeply and widely read in things that are not at all your affair, you should know
that
, at least."

"Not my affair?" Artide's cheeks mottled. "Was that not what Cain said of Abel?"

"Quote not scripture to me," snapped Dentelle. "I've heard you say often enough you believe not a word of it. Atheist!"

"Lick-arse!"

Dentelle sprang to his feet, ruffles quivering with rage. Artide stood more slowly, raised fists like hooves, and told the little valet to come on. M. Malesherbes, who'd been slumped over his evening brandy-and-sugar like a figure on a tomb, roused himself to shout with something of his old authority: "Regulate yourselves, the pair
of you! Artide, your mouth is a midden. And as for you, Dentelle, nobles may eat while peasants starve, but as far as I know, 'tis not by divine law."

They glowered, grumbled, and as they subsided, I remarked that M. Justin was no doubt come to announce his intention of taking final vows.

"A blind man might see as much," said Jean loftily.

"Leave her alone," said Artide. "She's not seen M. Justin. I'll give the boy this—he won't be one of those fat monks whose spotless habit hides a spotted soul. If dirt and bony wrists be holy, our Justin bids fair to be a saint."

"Nothing fair about him," said the lackey LePousset. "A bird of ill-omen, if you ask me. A real magpie, in fact."

Dentelle muttered into his cup that some people had no respect for their betters. Jean laughed and slapped LePousset on the shoulder. "Very good, mon vieux! A magpie—ha! That's Brother Justin to the life, save that magpies are cocksure birds and Brother Justin seems set upon teaching a church mouse humility. You know that white mule he rode? Well, he led it to the stable himself and wiped it down with his own hands. Did a poor enough job of it, too, and you could see the mule wasn't happy, but put up with it like a God-fearing beast."

I sipped my brandy thoughtfully. "Magpie, mouse, or saint, monsieur won't like him going into holy orders."

"Pooh," said Dentelle. " 'Tis as natural for second sons to enter the church as for doves to flock to a cote."

M. Malesherbes shrugged. "The boy must go somewhere, after all. What else could he do, poor deaf stick that he is? Would you have him buy a commission and take up a musket against the English?"

The thought of M. Justin taking up a musket at all nearly undid us, even Dentelle. When I'd wiped the tears of laughter from my eyes, I said, "Ah, me. Of course not, poor boy. But only consider. The vicomte de Montplaisir is enduring God only knows what dangers in God only knows what foreign land. And if you have forgotten the little matter of the Porcelain Dove, you may be sure monsieur has not. He'll see to it our monkling stays in the world at least until his brother comes home, with or without that accursed bird."

Artide said, "In the world? He's never been in the world, any more than the rest of them. They're all alike, these aristocrats. They
care only for their own pleasures and their own occupations, and everyone else may starve or go to Hell."

"Come now," said Dentelle. "This has not been a perfect world since Eve ate the apple."

"Foutre!" shouted Artide, and flung his cup clanging upon the flagstones. "I beg your pardon, M. Malesherbes, but Dentelle speaks like a fool. The world would be less imperfect if the likes of monsieur were forced to pay for what they took."

This outburst shocked even Dentelle into silence. Somewhat shamefaced, Artide shrugged and knelt to retrieve his cup and mop up the spreading brandy. A log broke and settled in the hearth, birthing a litter of spark and flame. That I remember clearly, and the crimson streaks the fire splashed across his broad face. Did I shiver and cross myself? I think I did.

The very next morning, madame declared that Linotte was running wild and must be taken in hand. She was right, bien sûr—the child had been running wild these three years and more. I was only surprised she'd noticed.

Jean, who likes things to be clear, says that Colette will never tell from my account of her whether I liked Mlle Linotte de Malvoeux or loathed her. His confusion is not in the least astonishing; I myself share it. Some days I'd see her in the formal garden, skipping through the paths in some intricate, private game, and 'twas as though the years rolled back to show me Mlle Adèle playing alone in the garden of the hôtel Fourchet. Then my heart would go out to her as it had to her mother, and I would resolve to mention to madame that the time had come to find a new maid for her.

On other occasions, I'd pass her in the cabinet des Fées or descending the Unicorn stair from the Alchemical attic, her black eyes fierce with thought, the air around her tingling like the magnetic spirit in Dr. Mesmer's tubs. Then she seemed to me her father's daughter from beaky face to long, narrow feet, indifferent to all save her own arcane pursuits. So I pendulumed between pity and dislike. And all the time I knew nothing of the Linotte de Malvoeux who was neither her father's daughter nor her mother's, but herself alone.

I was writing about madame.

Even though you'd think Justin's return would be uppermost in her mind, 'twas Linotte's ill manners and Linotte's ill looks came
between my mistress and her chocolate, and not her son at all. Well, monks and their manners were far beyond her ken. Young girls, now, she knew exactly how young girls should dress and act.

Twice or thrice she lifted the cup to her lips, only to put it down untasted as another of her daughter's imperfections erupted in her memory. "Oh, that hair of hers! I'd be astonished if it's so much as seen a comb since the turn of the year. There's nothing for it but cut it all off. And her clothing! Why, she's ragged as a beggar's child. You'll make over something of mine, won't you, Berthe? The blue silk, I think, and that sprigged polonaise—the one that never became me."

When she sipped her chocolate at last, her mouth wryed. "This is cold, Berthe, and quite undrinkable," she said, thrusting the cup into my hands and throwing back the covers. "Well, why do you stand there gawking? We've not a moment to waste—my corset, at once, if you please, and the mauve lace powdering-gown. When I'm dressed, you may send for Mlle Linotte, oh, and for Pompey as well. He can read to us as we work. 'Twill be quite like old times."

In less time than I'd have thought possible, madame was dressed, and Linotte and Pompey were standing bewildered before her.

Madame bent a severe eye upon her daughter. "Linotte, thou art an object of disgust," she said. "Remove that, that
rag
at once, and Berthe will cut thy hair. Pompey, read to us." She took up her tambour frame. "I'm in a mood for fairies, I think."

"Yes, madame." Pompey opened a glass-fronted case and ran his finger over the books within. "What is madame's pleasure?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. Anything, so long as 'tis romantical." She waved a vague needle. "The one with the clever princess."

"'Finette Cindron'?"

"Clever monkey! C'est ça!"

While Pompey leafed through the well-worn
Fées à la mode
, I unlaced Linotte's gown. To call it a rag was to overstate the case, though 'twas certainly not new, and far too tight for the girl. Pompey had done his best to comb her straggling hair and dress it, after a fashion, in a plaited tail down her back. Shivering in her skimpy chemise, she looked like a charity child, shamefaced and uncertain, and my heart, like a cracked tooth, ached with her chill. 'Twould not have been proper to embrace her, so I winked and whispered that if she stood still while I cut her hair, I'd make her a petticoat, yes, and a new gown as well.

She smiled at that. I fetched a pair of scissors from my workbasket and a sheet to spread on the rug. By now Pompey had found the place, and while I combed and snipped, he began to read aloud.

"
Once upon a time there was a king and a queen who had managed their affairs so badly that they were driven out of their kingdom. In order to live, they sold their crowns, then their wardrobes, their linen, their lace, and all their furniture, piece by piece
."

He glanced up under his brows at madame, who was holding her embroidery up to the light and considering it, her lips a little pursed. "Poor things," she said absently. "They must have been prodigious careless. Go on."

"
When the king and the queen were truly destitute, the king said to his wife, 'We are exiled from our kingdom and have nothing left to sell. We must earn a living for ourselves and our poor children. Consider a little what we can do: for up to this time I have known no trade but a king's, which is a very agreeable one
.' "

The queen's answer was rudely interrupted by the door of the China antechamber's slamming open and Justin stumbling into the room with monsieur stalking upon his heels.

"Madame," said the duc de Malvoeux. "Behold thy son."

Our eyes turned to Justin, who stood firm before our scrutiny. I remember thinking that LePousset and Jean had been right: the boy was very like a magpie in his novice's habit, all black and white with a cowl up to his chin, and his sharp, pasty face and his dark, cropped hair. In the five years since I'd seen him, he'd grown tall and bony, and his eyes burned with a martyr's passion.

Madame lowered her embroidery to her lap and sighed. " 'Tis ill-done, my son, to disturb thy father when he has so much to worry him. I'd have thought the monks might have taught thee consideration, at least."

Justin lowered his eyes to his sandaled feet.

"He professes a vocation," said monsieur in a voice of loathing. "I ask you, madame. A monk! I cannot imagine where the boy came by such an idea."

"He's been living in a monastery for six years," said my mistress reasonably.

"Madame!" Justin's voice broke and slid. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Madame my mother, I am eighteen years of age . . ."

"To be sure, Justin, I of all people need no reminding how old thou art. When I bore thee, I was little older."

Monsieur ground his teeth. "Hold your tongue, wife, and listen. The boy is eighteen. By law, no novice may make his final vows until the age of twenty-one. My consent is withheld by law, not whim. So I have told him and so you must tell him, madame. He will not believe me."

"Shame upon thee, Justin! Why should thy father lie to thee?"

Justin muttered into his cowl.

"If you'd speak," said monsieur, "speak. 'Tis bad enough I've spawned a monk without he be a coward as well."

Rage cracked Justin's face.

"My father would lie to me," he said passionately, "because he hates me, because he thinks me unfit to bear his name. He would lie to spite me, madame, and above all, to make divorce between my God and me. Believing in nothing, madame, he begrudges me that I do believe, and would murder my faith as he has murdered everything else I have loved."

He looked accusingly at monsieur. "What of my rabbit, monsieur, my pet rabbit that you took from my apartments and gave M. Malesherbes to cook into a pie? And what of my tutor? What of poor M. LeSueur?"

During his son's outburst, monsieur had frowned, then settled into an expression of bored distaste. "M. LeSueur was still in health when last I heard of him. Of the rabbit I have not the slightest recollection. Doubtless I thought it unsuitable for a Malvoeux to sleep with animals, like a peasant's child." He turned to madame. "Did I not know otherwise, I'd swear this eunuch was none of my getting. Mère Malateste warned me your seed might yet be weak from bearing Léon. If Justin is a bloodless turnip, I've only my impatience to blame."

In his chair by the window, Pompey sighed, just a little too loudly. Monsieur's bright gaze fixed upon his wife's servant. Identically black, identically contemptuous, their eyes met. Monsieur's chin lifted; his sallow cheek flushed.

"My son shall not return to the black monks of Baume-les-Messieurs," he said, speaking as to empty air. "In three years, if he still wishes to take the cowl, I cannot prevent him. Until then, he is still my son, subject to my authority by duty and by law. Until then, let him live as a son should, under his father's roof and under his father's eye."

He turned to madame, who was clutching her embroidery helplessly. "See to it."

As soon as the door shut behind his father, Justin sank to his knees and commenced to beat his fists upon the floor and cry aloud to God.