Dragonfly in Amber, Page 55

  * * *

  In addition to the monkey, from whom she would not be parted, Louise’s country house contained a number of other decorations of dubious taste. In Paris, her husband’s taste and her father’s must be consulted, and the rooms of the house there were consequently done richly, but in subdued tones. But Jules seldom came to the country house, being too busy in the city, and so Louise’s taste was allowed free rein.

  “This is my newest toy; is it not lovely?” she cooed, running her hand lovingly over the carved dark wood of a tiny house that sprouted incongruously from the wall next to a gilt-bronze sconce in the shape of Eurydice.

  “That looks like a cuckoo clock,” I said disbelievingly.

  “You have seen one before? I didn’t think there were any to be found anywhere in Paris!” Louise pouted slightly at the thought that her toy might not be unique, but brightened as she twisted the hands of the clock to the next hour. She stood back, beaming proudly as the tiny clockwork bird stuck its head out and emitted several shrill Cuckoo!s in succession.

  “Isn’t it precious?” She touched the bird’s head briefly as it disappeared back into its hidey-hole. “Berta, the housekeeper here, got it for me; her brother brought it all the way from Switzerland. Whatever you want to say about the Swiss, they are clever woodcarvers, no?”

  I wanted to say no, but instead merely murmured something tactfully admiring.

  Louise’s grasshopper mind leaped nimbly to a new topic, possibly triggered by thoughts of Swiss servants.

  “You know, Claire,” she said, with a touch of reproof, “you ought really to come to Mass in the chapel each morning.”

  “Why?”

  She tossed her head in the direction of the doorway, where one of the maids was passing with a tray.

  “I don’t care at all, myself, but the servants—they’re very superstitious out here in the countryside, you know. And one of the footmen from the Paris house was foolish enough to tell the cook all about that silly story of your being La Dame Blanche. I have told them that’s all nonsense, of course, and threatened to dismiss anyone I catch spreading such gossip, but…well, it might help if you came to Mass. Or at least prayed out loud now and then, so they could hear you.”

  Unbeliever that I was, I thought daily Mass in the house’s chapel might be going a bit far, but with vague amusement, agreed to do what I could to allay the servants’ fears; consequently, Louise and I spent the next hour reading psalms aloud to each other, and reciting the Lord’s Prayer in unison—loudly. I had no idea what effect this performance might have on the servants, but it did at least exhaust me sufficiently that I went up to my room for a nap, and slept without dreaming until the next morning.

  I often had difficulty sleeping, possibly because my waking state was little different from an uneasy doze. I lay awake at night, gazing at the white-gesso ceiling with its furbishes of fruit and flowers. It hung above me like a dim gray shape in the darkness, the personification of the depression that clouded my mind by day. When I did close my eyes at night, I dreamed. I couldn’t block the dreams with grayness; they came in vivid colors to assault me in the dark. And so I seldom slept.

  * * *

  There was no word from Jamie—or of him. Whether it was guilt or injury that had kept him from coming to me at the Hôpital, I didn’t know. But he hadn’t come, nor did he come to Fontainebleau. By now he likely had left for Orvieto.

  Sometimes I found myself wondering when—or whether—I would see him again, and what—if anything—we might say to each other. But for the most part, I preferred not to think about it, letting the days come and go, one by one, avoiding thoughts of both the future and the past by living only in the present.

  Deprived of his idol, Fergus drooped. Again and again, I saw him from my window, sitting disconsolately beneath a hawthorn bush in the garden, hugging his knees and looking down the road toward Paris. At last, I stirred myself to go out to him, making my way heavily downstairs and down the garden path.

  “Can’t you find anything to do, Fergus?” I asked him. “Surely one of the stable-lads could use a hand, or something.”

  “Yes, milady,” he agreed doubtfully. He scratched absentmindedly at his buttocks. I observed this behavior with deep suspicion.

  “Fergus,” I said, folding my arms, “have you got lice?” He snatched his hand back as though burned.

  “Oh, no, milady!”

  I reached down and pulled him to his feet, sniffed delicately in his general vicinity, and put a finger inside his collar, far enough to reveal the grimy ring around his neck.

  “Bath,” I said succinctly.

  “No!” He jerked away, but I grabbed him by the shoulder. I was surprised by his vehemence; while no fonder of bathing than the normal Parisian—who regarded the prospect of immersion with a repugnance akin to horror—still, I could scarcely reconcile the usually obliging child I knew with the little fury that suddenly squirmed and twisted under my hand.

  There was a ripping noise, and he was free, bounding through the black-berry bushes like a rabbit pursued by a weasel. There was a rustle of leaves and a scrabble of stones, and he was gone, over the wall and headed for the outbuildings at the back of the estate.

  I made my way through the maze of rickety outbuildings behind the château, cursing under my breath as I skirted mud puddles and heaps of filth. Suddenly, there was a high-pitched whining buzz and a cloud of flies rose from the pile a few feet ahead of me, bodies sparking blue in the sunlight.

  I wasn’t close enough to have disturbed them; there must have been some movement from the darkened doorway beside the dungheap.

  “Aha!” I said out loud. “Got you, you filthy little son of a whatnot! Come out of there this instant!”

  No one emerged, but there was an audible stir inside the shed, and I thought I caught a glimpse of white in the shadowed interior. Holding my nose, I stepped over the manure pile into the shed.

  There were two gasps of horror; mine, at beholding something that looked like the Wild Man of Borneo flattened against the back wall, and his, at beholding me.

  The sunlight trickled through the cracks between the boards, giving enough light for us to see each other clearly, once my eyes had adapted to the relative dark. He wasn’t, after all, quite as awful-looking as I’d thought at first, but he wasn’t a lot better, either. His beard was as filthy and matted as his hair, flowing past his shoulders onto a shirt ragged as any beggar’s. He was barefoot, and if the term sans-culottes wasn’t yet in common use, it wasn’t for lack of trying on his part.

  I wasn’t afraid of him, because he was so obviously afraid of me. He was pressing himself against the wall as though trying to get through it by osmosis.

  “It’s all right,” I said soothingly. “I won’t hurt you.”

  Instead of being soothed, he drew himself abruptly upright, reached into the bosom of his shirt and pulled out a wooden crucifix on a leather thong. He held this out toward me and started praying, in a voice shaking with terror.

  “Oh, bother,” I said crossly. “Not another one!” I took a deep breath. “Pater-Noster-qui-es-in-coeliset-in-terra…” His eyes bugged out, and he kept holding the crucifix, but at least he stopped his own praying in response to this performance.

  “…Amen!” I concluded with a gasp. I held up both hands and waggled them in front of his face. “See? Not a word backward, not a single quotidianus da nobis hodie out of place, right? Didn’t even have my fingers crossed. So I can’t be a witch, can I?”

  The man slowly lowered his crucifix and stood gaping at me. “A witch?” he said. He looked as though he thought I were crazy, which I felt was a bit thick under the circumstances.

  “You didn’t think I was a witch?” I said, beginning to feel a trifle foolish.

  Something that looked like a smile twitched into existence and out again among the tangles of his beard.

  “No, Madame,” he said. “I am accustomed to people saying such things of me.”

 
“You are?” I eyed him closely. Besides the rags and filth, the man was obviously starving; the wrists that stuck out of his shirt were scrawny as a child’s. At the same time, his French was graceful and educated, if oddly accented.

  “If you’re a witch,” I said, “you aren’t very successful at it. Who the hell are you?”

  At this, the fright came back into his eyes again. He looked from side to side, seeking escape, but the shed was solidly built, if old, with no entrance other than the one in which I was standing. At last, calling on some hidden reserve of courage, he drew himself up to his full height—some three inches below my own—and with great dignity, said “I am the Reverend Walter Laurent, of Geneva.”

  “You’re a priest?” I was thunderstruck. I couldn’t imagine what might have brought a priest—Swiss or not—to this state.

  Father Laurent looked nearly as horror-struck as I.

  “A priest?” he echoed. “A papist? Never!”

  Suddenly the truth struck me.

  “A Huguenot!” I said. “That’s it—you’re a Protestant, aren’t you?” I remembered the bodies I had seen hanging in the forest. That, I thought, explained rather a lot.

  His lips quivered, but he pressed them tightly together for a moment before opening them to reply.

  “Yes, Madame. I am a pastor; I have been preaching in this district for a month.” He licked his lips briefly, eyeing me. “Your pardon, Madame—I think you are not French?”

  “I’m English,” I said, and he relaxed suddenly, as though someone had taken all the stiffening out of his spine.

  “Great Father in Heaven,” he said, prayerfully. “You are then a Protestant also?”

  “No, I’m a Catholic,” I answered. “But I’m not at all vicious about it,” I added hastily, seeing the look of alarm spring back into his light-brown eyes. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you’re here. I suppose you came to try to steal a little food?” I asked sympathetically.

  “To steal is a sin!” he said, horrified. “No, Madame. But…” He clamped his lips shut, but his glance in the direction of the château gave him away.

  “So one of the servants brings you food,” I said. “So you let them do the stealing for you. But then I suppose you can absolve them from the sin, so it all works out. Rather thin moral ice you’re on, if you ask me,” I said reprovingly, “but then it isn’t any of my business, I suppose.”

  A light of hope shone in his eyes. “You mean—you will not have me arrested, Madame?”

  “No, of course not. I’ve a sort of fellow-feeling for fugitives from the law, having come rather close to being burnt at the stake once myself.” I didn’t know quite why I was being so chatty; the relief of meeting someone who seemed intelligent, I supposed. Louise was sweet, devoted and kind, and had precisely as much brain as the cuckoo clock in her drawing room. Thinking of the Swiss clock, I suddenly realized who Pastor Laurent’s secret parishioners must be.

  “Look,” I said, “if you want to stay here, I’ll go up to the château and tell Berta or Maurice that you’re here.”

  The poor man was nothing but skin, bones, and eyes. Everything he thought was reflected in those large, gentle brown orbs. Right now, he was plainly thinking that whoever had tried to burn me at the stake had been on the right track.

  “I have heard,” he began slowly, reaching for a fresh grip on his crucifix, “of an Englishwoman whom the Parisians call ‘La Dame Blanche.’ An associate of Raymond the Heretic.”

  I sighed. “That’s me. Though I’m not an associate of Master Raymond’s, I don’t think. He’s just a friend.” Seeing him squint doubtfully at me, I inhaled again. “Pater Noster…”

  “No, no, Madame, please.” To my surprise, he had lowered the crucifix, and was smiling.

  “I also am an acquaintance of Master Raymond’s, whom I knew in Geneva. There he was a reputable physician and herbalist. Now, alas, I fear that he has turned to darker pursuits, though of course nothing was proved.”

  “Proved? About what? And what’s all this about Raymond the Heretic?”

  “You did not know?” Thin brows lifted over the brown eyes. “Ah. Then you are not associated with Master Raymond’s…activities.” He relaxed noticeably.

  “Activity” seemed like a poor description for the way in which Raymond had healed me, so I shook my head.

  “No, but I wish you’d tell me. Oh, but I shouldn’t be standing here talking; I should go and send Berta with food.”

  He waved a hand, with some dignity.

  “It is of no urgency, Madame. The appetites of the body are of no importance when weighed against the appetites of the soul. And Catholic or not, you have been kind to me. If you are not now associated with Master Raymond’s occult activities, then it is right that you should be warned in time.”

  And ignoring the dirt and the splintered boards of the floor, he folded his legs and sat down against the wall of the shed, gracefully motioning me also to sit. Intrigued, I collapsed opposite him, tucking up the folds of my skirt to keep them from dragging in the manure.

  “Have you heard of a man named du Carrefours, Madame?” the Pastor said. “No? Well, his name is well known in Paris, I assure you, but you would do well not to speak it. This man was the organizer and the leader of a ring of unspeakable vice and depravity, in association with the most debased occult practices. I cannot bring myself to mention to you some of the ceremonies that were performed in secret among the nobility. And they call me a witch!” he muttered, almost under his breath.

  He raised one bony forefinger, as though to forestall my unspoken objection.

  “I am aware, Madame, of the sort of gossip that is commonly spread, without reference to fact—who should know it better than we? But the activities of du Carrefours and his followers—these are a matter of common knowledge, for he was tried for them, imprisoned, and eventually burned in the Place de la Bastille as punishment for his crimes.”

  I remembered Raymond’s light remark, “No one’s been burned in Paris in—oh, twenty years at least,” and shuddered, in spite of the warm weather.

  “And you say that Master Raymond was associated with this du Carrefours?”

  The Pastor frowned, scratching absently at his matted beard. He likely had both lice and fleas, I thought, and tried to move back imperceptibly.

  “Well, it is difficult to say. No one knows where Master Raymond came from; he speaks several tongues, all without noticeable accent. A very mysterious man, Master Raymond, but—I would swear by the name of my God—a good one.”

  I smiled at him. “I think so, too.”

  He nodded, smiling, but then grew serious as he resumed his story. “Just so, Madame. Still, he corresponded with du Carrefours from Geneva; I know this, for he told me so himself—he supplied various substances to order: plants, elixirs, the dried skins of animals. Even a sort of fish—a most peculiar and frightening thing, which he told me was brought up from the darkest depths of the sea; a horrible thing, all teeth, with almost no flesh—but with the most horrifying small…lights…like tiny lanterns, beneath its eyes.”

  “Really,” I said, fascinated.

  Pastor Laurent shrugged. “All this may be quite innocent, of course, a mere matter of business. But he disappeared from Geneva at the same time that du Carrefours came at first under suspicion—and within weeks of du Carrefours’s execution, I had begun to hear stories that Master Raymond had established his business in Paris, and that he had taken over a number of du Carre-fours’s clandestine activities as well.”

  “Hmm,” I said. I was thinking of Raymond’s inner room, and the cabinet painted with Cabbalistic signs. To keep out those who believed in them. “Anything else?”

  The Reverend Laurent’s eyebrows arched skyward.

  “No, Madame,” he said, rather weakly. “Nothing else, to my knowledge.”

  “Well, I’m really not given to that sort of thing myself,” I assured him.

  “Oh? Good,” he said, hesitantly. He sat sile
ntly for a moment, as though making up his mind about something, then inclined his head courteously toward me.

  “You will pardon me if I intrude, Madame? Berta and Maurice have told me something of your loss. I am sorry, Madame.”

  “Thank you,” I said, staring at the stripes of sunlight on the floor.

  There was another silence, then Pastor Laurent said delicately, “Your husband, Madame? He is not here with you?”

  “No,” I said, still keeping my eyes on the floor. Flies lighted momentarily, then zoomed off, finding no nourishment. “I don’t know where he is.”

  I didn’t mean to say any more, but something made me look up at the ragged little preacher.

  “He cared more for his honor than he did for me or his child or an innocent man,” I said bitterly. “I don’t care where he is; I never want to see him again!”

  I stopped abruptly, shaken. I had not put it into words before, even to myself. But it was true. There had been a great trust between us, and Jamie had broken it, for the sake of revenge. I understood; I had seen the power of the thing that drove him, and knew it couldn’t be denied forever. But I had asked for a few months’ grace, which he had promised me. And then, unable to wait, he had broken his word, and by so doing, sacrificed everything that lay between him and me. Not only that: He had jeopardized the undertaking in which we were engaged. I could understand, but I would not forgive.