Mistress of the Revolution (23 page)

Two days later, I breakfasted with the Duchess at seven o’clock. My appetite was spoiled by the prospect of my journey. Aimée, on the contrary, had become used to traveling. She knew that she was going to visit a new place and was too excited to remain seated for more than a minute. Manon, the chambermaid assigned to my service since I first arrived in Paris, was to accompany us. She would travel on the box next to the coachman. The bell of the entrance door rang at eight o’clock. Aimée jumped out of her chair and Villers was shown into the dining parlour.

Tears filled my eyes and those of the Duchess as I took my leave. She grasped Villers’s arm. “Take good care of Belle, Villers,” she said, looking into his eyes, “or I will kill you upon your return.”

He kissed her hand, smiling. “Your Grace will not have to resort to such extremities. You have my word of honour that I will be more attentive to Madame de Peyre’s comfort than to my own.”

Villers handed me into the carriage and sat across from Aimée and me. I remained silent, twisting my gloves in both of my hands. Aimée observed him with great curiosity and tried without much success to attract his attention. He had always treated her with a benevolent indifference that seemed to pique her young pride. I looked out the window to avoid his gaze, which remained fixed on my face. He put me in mind of a fox eyeing a henhouse. The journey was uneventful and the weather fine for the season, for it was already the second half of October. Only when we reached the borders of Normandy did he become more animated. He pointed out new sights and the different style of the houses in the towns and villages we crossed. It was a country of soft rolling hills, as green as the mountains of my native Auvergne, but dotted with apple trees and divided by high earthen hedgerows crowned with hazelnut. The apples were being harvested into heaps in the middle of the fields.

“This is the beginning of the apple harvest,” observed Villers. “Have you ever tasted cider, Madam, or watched it being made?”

“Never.”

“You will before long. Autumn is in my opinion the most pleasant time of year to visit Normandy. The weather is drier than in any other season, and the days crisp and fine, as if to give us a last taste of sweetness before the bitterness of winter.”

“You seem attached to your native country.”

“One would have to be heartless not to be. Are you not to yours?”

“Very much so. It seems so long already since I left it, though it has barely been six months.”

“Would you travel there with me someday?”

“I would be afraid of meeting anyone of my family, especially my brother.”

He smiled. “There seems to be something unusually fearsome about the men of your country. Is the Marquis de Castel anything like the late Baron?”

“Oh no, not at all. The Marquis is soft-spoken and has perfect manners….” I blushed. “I did not mean any disrespect to the memory of my late husband.”

“Heaven forbid. Your Ladyship would not want to conjure his ghost. He was terrifying enough when he was alive.”

The last hours of the journey passed pleasantly enough. My conversation with Villers made me forget the purpose of our travels. I was only reminded of it when the carriage stopped in the courtyard of the château of Dampierre.

It was a beautiful building of red and white stone, about a century and a half old. Its architect, Villers informed me, was the man who had designed the older part of the château of Versailles. Indeed, it had the same formality, although Dampierre was in my opinion the finer house due to its uniformity of style and elegant proportions. My host took us to a vast drawing room, decorated with mythological paintings depicting gods and goddesses in various states of undress. The room looked out on green meadows such as the ones we had seen during our journey. Villers introduced me to his aunt, Madame de Gouville, who was lying on a sofa, her legs extended under a blanket. She was a frail lady, about fifty years of age or maybe younger because her hair was still entirely black. The ceaseless activity of her dark eyes and her hands, occupied with knitting, contrasted with the paralysis of her lower limbs. Aimée cried aloud at the sight of her and hid in my skirts.

“Please excuse my daughter, Madam,” I said. “She is very shy.”

Madame de Gouville smiled. “Do not apologize, dear Madam. She is so pretty and the sweetest little thing, I can tell. We shall be great friends, shall we not, my treasure?”

Aimée’s only response was a wail of horror. Villers mercifully put an end to that part of the conversation by embracing his aunt. Her eyes fluttered wildly, like flies trapped in a jar.

“Is not my nephew the handsomest man in the kingdom, Madam?” she asked.

I could not think of any response.

“I am afraid Madame de Peyre does not share your fond prejudice, dear Aunt,” interjected Villers, “although she is too well bred to express her true opinion. Please tell me how you have been keeping.”

“Never better, dear Aurélien. You are too modest. I assure you, Madam,” she said, turning to me, “that if I were not his aunt, and so old and decrepit, I would marry him in a second.”

“I am not surprised, Madam,” said I. “I am sure many ladies share your feelings, but from his own admission Monsieur de Villers is no friend of matrimony.”

Madame de Gouville shrugged. “Do not pay any attention to such talk, Madam. It does not mean a thing. All men speak in this manner until they meet the woman who can truly attach them.”

“True,” I said. “Your nephew must never have set eyes upon any such woman, except of course for the late Madame de Villers.”

“Pray tell me,” he said, “whether I should walk out of the room to leave both of you at liberty to discuss my marital prospects.”

“Nonsense, Aurélien,” said Madame de Gouville. “What could we have to say that you cannot hear?” She smiled at me. “He adds to his other qualities the utmost humility.”

“Dear Aunt,” said Villers, “what are you knitting? Your skill never fails to amaze me.”

She was managing her needles, never losing a stitch, while staring at us with her searching eyes. She looked down at her work only once in a while. “You are too kind, Aurélien, as usual. Just stockings for Gauvin’s children. Did you know his wife is expecting her ninth lying-in?”

“Who is Gauvin?” I hastened to ask, relieved at the change of subject.

“A cottager,” said Villers, “whom I have refrained from turning out solely out of charity. He is always late in his rent and dues. He thanks me by poaching on my land.” He turned to Madame de Gouville. “You may tell his wife the next time you see her, dear Aunt, that my gamekeepers have received orders to give him fifty lashes if he is ever caught again.”

“I am sure, Sir,” I said, “that you are joking. You are too kind to have one of your vassals flogged.”

“You are both wrong and right, My Lady. I am perfectly in earnest, and I have indeed been very kind. I yielded to my aunt’s entreaties and let the rascal go with a warning the first time, but he is testing the limits of my patience. He is lazy, except when it comes to fathering little Gauvins, and a drunkard. His children have not a shred of clothing on their backs except what has been given to them by my aunt.”

“That is indeed generous of you, Madam,” I said. “I wish I were as resourceful as you. I cannot knit at all.”

Madame de Gouville stared at me. “Can you not, Madam? You must never have been properly taught. Let me show you.”

Villers interrupted these offers to observe that I might be looking forward to an early dinner after the fatigues of our journey. We went upstairs to change. Madame de Gouville had to be carried by a footman. Aimée was holding fast to my hand. She could not keep her eyes off the lady’s lifeless legs, thin as sticks, dangling from under her skirts like those of her beloved Italian puppets.

I was shown into a lovely apartment upstairs, decorated in rose-coloured silks, that enjoyed the same pleasant view as the drawing room. I noticed a door connecting to another bedroom, which I assumed to be Villers’s.

At dinner I became silent again and could barely bring any food to my mouth. I was wondering whether Villers was expecting to “have his way,” as he had said to the Duchess, that very night.

“You look tired, Madam,” he remarked. “So am I. Shall we retire early?”

I was unsure of what he meant, but when he wished me a good night, he whispered: “You should take plenty of rest. I will not presume to bother you tonight. I have a surprise for you tomorrow.”

I was not sure that I would welcome any surprise from him, but went to bed with great relief. I still made sure that all doors were locked.

The next morning, Villers asked me if I was ready for a ride. He had a Normand mare saddled for me. We crossed the town of Dampierre, which extended beyond the gates of the château.

“My grandfather owned the whole town,” he said, “and had all the houses rebuilt in the same style. He did not want them to detract from the appearance of the château or ruin the view from its front windows.”

“Just as in Versailles.”

“On a smaller scale, the difference being that here, my grandfather assumed the construction costs and retained all property rights. I still own every house in town.”

I smiled. “And all of the surrounding land, I suppose.”

“Yes, Madam, in a twenty-league radius and up to the sea northwards.”

“Would you take me there?”

“That was indeed my intention.”

We followed country roads and then smaller lanes until we reached a moor. The grass there was shorter and less green than inland. Jackrabbits ran away from us in a flutter of white tails. We dismounted and tied the horses to a stunted tree. The wind was blowing in my face, carrying an unknown scent and the noise of rushing water. We walked until I saw a shimmering surface, woven of an infinity of blue and grey hues, reflecting the light of the clear autumn day. We were at the summit of a cliff. Waves crashed hundreds of feet below in bursts of foam. I was fascinated by their even rhythm and ever-changing shapes. I could not speak. Villers too was silent. I felt a prickling in my eyes, either from the sharpness of the wind or from some new emotion. I do not know how long the spell held. At last I recalled that I was not alone.

“Forgive me,” I said, turning to Villers. “I am so taken by the sight of the sea. You must be bored. This is nothing new to you.”

“True, but I do not tire of looking at it. And I am never bored in your company. Watching you watch the sea is fascinating.”

“Do we have to leave?”

“I am in no hurry. There is no inn nearby, but we could go to a cottage and have some luncheon before returning. Or if you prefer, I can take you to another place farther to the east. The view is not so spectacular as here, but we could ride on the beach.”

“I would rather return here. Can one see England from here?”

He smiled. “It is too far away, about thirty leagues. But Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight are due north across the Channel.”

Villers took me to a thatched cottage a couple of miles inland. The peasants recognized him and greeted us with loud cries of surprise and alarm. The woman seized a rag and began scouring the table with alacrity, an unusual occurrence judging by the shiny layer of grease covering it. Her husband chased chickens, clucking with indignation, from the bench where I was to sit.

At first I could not understand anything of what the cottagers said. Their dialect and accent were foreign to me, but I gathered from their tone that they were lamenting the lack of notice and apologizing for not receiving us properly. Villers responded in French, mixed with words of their patois, which I did not recognize. They seemed to understand him without any difficulty. The woman served us a meal of buckwheat crepes and salt pork. I ate with a hearty appetite in spite of some misgivings about the cleanliness of the plates. I felt the prickle of cider against the roof of my mouth and winced at its tartness and taste of mold. Yet it quenched my thirst. Before long, I found it delicious.

“You should be careful, Madam,” said Villers, smiling. “Cider is not the same as apple juice. It can go to one’s head if one is not accustomed to it.”

After a while, I was able to understand a few words of the peasants’ speech. They called Villers “Our Master,” a phrase I had never heard before, as well as “My Lord.” At the end of the meal, he drew a silver
écu
from his pocket and left it on the table. They made a show of protesting before accepting it and kissing both of his hands effusively.

We rode back in the direction of the sea.

“I am dizzy,” I said. “I may have had too much cider.”

“I told you so, although you may not be sober enough to remember it. I can discern two flaws among your many perfections: you are stubborn beyond belief and you never seem to trust anything I say, when all I have in mind is your best interest. I might be able to cure you of the second, but the first one must be constitutional.” He paused. “Let us hope that you can at least ride back to Dampierre. If not, I will have to leave you at the cottage and fetch you tomorrow morning. I am sure that Lafosse and his wife will be happy to give up their bed for you tonight.”

I remembered with horror seeing in a corner of the only room of the cottage an unmade bed, the curtains of which had been drawn in haste when we had arrived. I sat straight in the saddle.

“You are such a child,” Villers continued, grinning, “that one cannot help teasing you. You should know that I would never do anything of the kind. I cannot bring Your Ladyship back to Paris covered with fleas after I promised the Duchess to take good care of you.” He looked at me. “Besides, I might avail myself of the pleasure of your company at Dampierre tonight.”

That remark and the bite of the wind dispelled any traces of my dizziness. Once we reached the cliffs, I fell again under the thrall of the sea. We walked on the moor until late in the afternoon, when he observed that the sun was already low on the horizon. It was time for us to return if we wished to reach Dampierre before dark. While helping me into the saddle, he asked: “Tonight?”

He looked pleased with my silence.