In The Face Of Death (49 page)

Monbussy-sur-Marne, 19 November, 1886

It was a great shock seeing Paul Danner again. He is looking quite distinguished now, at the middle of his thirties, his hair turning silver at the temples and the lines of his face settling in, giving him the air of a man who has gained some understanding and possibly some insight as well. Had I thought he would attend the salon, I would not have gone to Paris for it. Occasions of this kind are often awkward or worse. . . . He told me I am prettier than my cousin was, and said he was sad to learn of her death while she was still so young. . . . I felt my interest awaken in him again. . . .

Paul Danner drew in his carriage, letting Madelaine alight at the entrance gates to her own courtyard at Monbussy-sur-Marne. “It was a pleasure to have your company today, Mademoiselle Bertrande.”

Madelaine looked up at him. “Are you not going to come inside?”

He looked around, his expression awkward. “I would not like to cause you any embarrassment.”

“Are you worried that my reputation in the neighborhood would be damaged for my entertaining you?” Madelaine asked, her violet eyes lighting with amusement. “There is a butler, a housekeeper, two cooks, and three chambermaids to chaperon us. And I think that most of the staff would be heartily relieved if I had a man visit me. I fear they think me past praying for.” She pulled her fur coat more closely around her, glad that she no longer had to maneuver the tremendous bell skirts of twenty years ago. The bustle occasionally made sitting uncomfortable, but was nowhere near as difficult an encumbrance as the multi-tiered hoops had been. She smiled at Paul, enjoying their flirtation.

“It is a very tempting offer,” he said, with a glance at the lowering sky. There had been a sprinkle of rain earlier but now the clouds had massed and darkened and their threat was more troubling.

“And consider the hour, and the weather.” Madelaine regarded him with amusement. “You will not get very far before either nightfall or a downpour. If you come in you will have a good meal, a bottle of wine, a comfortable bed for the night, and your horses rested and fed for your journey tomorrow. Or you can hope to reach an inn before you are soaked.” She started through the open gates, letting him make up his mind to follow her.

“I would not want to take advantage of your youthful generosity,” said Paul, his expression showing clearly that he wanted very much to accept her offer.

“It is merely the hospitality I would expect were I in England,” said Madelaine over her shoulder.

Paul faltered. “I suppose, with your staff on hand, it would not be too improper,” he said at last.

“Bring your carriage around to the side. My coachman will take your team in hand and see they are watered, and fed and bedded down for the night in box stalls.” She knew this was a handsomer gesture than any he could expect at an inn on his way back to Paris. “And you could use the evening to examine my . . . cousin’s library.”

This last temptation was more than Paul could resist. He tipped his hat, saying, “If you are certain that I will not betray your kindness with compromise, I will do it.” With that he whipped up his team and went around the curve of the stone walls.

Madelaine went into her hall, calling out to her butler as she did, “Pierre, Monsieur Danner will be my guest this evening. See that he has a room prepared, and tell the cooks to start a supper for him.” She stripped off her gloves and cast them aside, then draped her coat over the back of a sixteenth-century chair as she went on into the main withdrawing room, which was furnished in more modern style, with over-stuffed chairs in dark brown plush and a Turkish carpet.

“Mademoiselle Bertrande?” said Pierre, coming into the withdrawing room from the morning salon beyond.

“Good evening, Pierre,” said Madelaine, giving her butler a quick glance. “I trust there will be no gossip about this visitor. Given the hour and the weather, I thought it would be best to make sure he did not get caught on the road, in the rain.”

“Very wise of you, Mademoiselle,” said Pierre, his manner correct to a fault. “I will give the cooks their instructions at once. Doubtless you will want your ’tire woman to meet you in your chamber when you change for supper?” This last suggestion was made in such a controlled way that Madelaine knew Pierre was all but bursting with curiosity.

“I suppose I should change to a more suitable ensemble,” said Madelaine, enjoying the suspense of her butler. “Very well, inform Lucette that I will want her help shortly, and I will need her to sleep in the sewing room tonight.”

The butler bowed slightly. “Very good, Mademoiselle. There can be no gossip if you take such precautions.”

“No, indeed,” said Madelaine, and indicated her coat and gloves. “See to those, won’t you? And take Monsieur Danner to the Yellow Suite as soon as he comes in from the stable.”

“The Yellow Suite. Very suitable,” approved Pierre, since the Yellow Suite was at the far end of the fortified chateau from Madelaine’s own rooms.

“So I thought,” said Madelaine, and waved Pierre away before going herself to climb the stairs to her rooms.

Lucette arrived a short time later, looking slightly flustered, her cap askew on her neat, rolled braids. A thirty-four-year-old widow, she had been in Madelaine’s employ for almost two years. “I was told I am to sleep in the adjacent chamber tonight, Mademoiselle Bertrande.”

“If it is not inconvenient, please,” said Madelaine as she opened her larger armoire and inspected the various dinner dresses there. “I think the violet silk, don’t you?”

“It is very suitable,” said Lucette with ill-disguised excitement. “Here. I will help you out of your driving frock and into the dress.” She smiled her encouragement. “And there will be time, won’t there, for me to do something with your hair.”

“It’s probably necessary,” Madelaine admitted, not bothering to do more than finger her hair.

“If Mademoiselle had a mirror, I could show her a number of fetching modes with her hair,” Lucette ventured.

“We’re not going to have this argument again, are we?” said Madelaine impatiently. “Help me out of this dress and bring me the silk one. I haven’t time to cover old ground again.” She knew that this was only a delaying tactic, and that Lucette was determined to have a mirror installed in Madelaine’s suite.

“Of course, Mademoiselle,” said Lucette, all good behavior now.

“And as a reward for this extra service,” said Madelaine as Lucette finished unfastening the back of her dress, “you may have a ration of brandy when you are through with your supper in the servant’s hall.” It would serve the dual purpose of ensuring that Lucette would sleep thoroughly through the entire night, and that she would attend to her duties without feeling ill-used.

“Thank you, Mademoiselle Bertrande.” The punctilious behavior faded into a mildly conspiratorial display. “This Monsieur Danner, is there any chance? . . .”

“I don’t know,” said Madelaine honestly. “He knew my cousin, years ago, and I was hoping he would tell me something about her.” That much was truthful, though it was only a portion of what she sought.

“Ah, of course, you hardly knew your cousin,” said Lucette in that knowing French way. “Everyone must begin somewhere.” She gave Madelaine’s petticoats a critical inspection, decided that they must be changed as well, and went to get the proper undergarments for the violet silk dress.

Madelaine occupied this short time pulling the pins out of her chignon and brushing her hair, so that by the time Lucette returned with the appropriate petticoats, Madelaine was ready for her to finish her ministrations.

“Put this on, Mademoiselle,” said Lucette, her mind now wholly full of making the most of the evening for her employer.

“All right,” said Madelaine, and bent over so that Lucette could slip the petticoat over her head. “Not so bad as twenty years ago, when it took three maids with rods to raise the dress over the wearer’s head.”

Lucette chuckled. “I remember watching my older sister being taught to use to rods, to aid Madame des Pauclin dress for her wedding.”

“Was it amusing?” Madelaine inquired as she stood upright, adjusting the buckles at the waist and preparing for the skirt of the violet silk to be eased over once the petticoat was in place.

“It was difficult, and ridiculous. To dress that way.” She sighed as she gathered the skirt, preparing to lift it over Madelaine’s head. “If you will kneel, Mademoiselle Bertrande?”

Madelaine did as she was asked, and rose into the opening for her waist. “I would like the violet scent, as well,” she said as Lucette fastened the skirt into place.

“An excellent idea,” Lucette approved, and held out the bodice to Madelaine, preparing to fasten the hooks down the back as she tugged it into place. “This man, this Monsieur Danner, he is pleasing to you, yes?”

“He is interesting,” said Madelaine carefully. “It remains to be seen if he is pleasing.”

“Ah. Tres bien. It is always best to begin this way.” She completed her task on the bodice and moved Madelaine to the vanity stool where she set about dressing her hair. “Neat, then, and not too coquettish.”

“Yes, I think that would be wisest.” Madelaine lowered her eyes to her hands, trying to decide which of a dozen rings to wear. She decided on a simple amethyst-and-pearl band set in gold. “I should go down soon.”

“Yes, you should,” said Lucette with that faint scolding tone Madelaine had long associated with French servants. “If you will hold still, I will finish your hair, get your perfume, and then you will be ready.”

“Fine,” said Madelaine, growing restive. Already she was wondering how to talk with Paul Danner now. It had been one thing, riding about in his open carriage, discussing the expeditions they had been on. But the privacy of dining would be another matter entirely.

“You are ready, Mademoiselle Bertrande,” said Lucette with a slight sigh. “Here is the scent.” The crystal bottle was fitted with a jeweled stopper. “Not too much; he will want to be able to smell his food.” She said this last with a trace of amusement. “It is a mistake so many women make, putting on too much scent before a meal.”

“Thank you,” said Madelaine in a neutral voice as she applied the perfume to her wrists and the base of her throat. This done, she handed the bottle back to Lucette and rose from the stool. “Is he in
.
. . .”

“The Red Salon,” said Lucette. “Pierre thought it would be nicer than the dining hall. All those books. . . .”

“Excellent,” said Madelaine, and started to the door.

“Mademoiselle Bertrande?” ventured Lucette.

‘What is it?” Madelaine was poised, her hand on the latch, to leave.

“If there is any trouble, you have only to call out, and we will know what to do.” Her smile was more of a simper, but Madelaine accepted it for the gesture it was.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, and went out of her rooms, down the fine staircase to the main hall. She could sense her servants watching her as she made her way to the Red Salon, a small parlor adjoining the large chamber which served as her library. As she entered the Red Salon, she noted with satisfaction that a single place had been laid for supper on the table in the window embrasure. A fire was burning on the hearth and a branch of candles had been set out but not yet lit.

Paul Danner was already in the room, a glass of sherry held in his hand. He rose from the plush settee as Madelaine came into the room. “Mademoiselle Bertrande,” he said graciously. “You look quite lovely in that dress.”

“Thank you,” said Madelaine, unaccountably disliking his smooth address. “Please be seated again. I am sure your supper will be served shortly.”

“No hurry is necessary, I assure you,” he said, indicating beside him on the settee. “I am enthralled by what you have here.”

“It is an enviable collection, isn’t it?” she said with innocent pride. “I understand the library was begun well over a hundred years ago. I realize that many collections are older, but few, I suspect, are more diverse than this one.” She thought briefly of the library at Montalia with its hundreds of ancient volumes, and found herself missing her native earth with a fierce longing.

“I can see your cousin’s hand in much of it,” said Paul, holding up the book he had selected. “This monograph about the Indians of the Far West. It is fascinating.”

“Oh?” said Madelaine, doing her best to conceal her curiosity. “Why do you think so?”

“For a very young Frenchwoman to assume that she can know the ways of these savages,” said Paul with a shake of his head. “Your cousin was quite young when I knew her, and I cannot think that she was more than a child when she made these observations.”

“She was like most of the women of my blood—she did not show her years,” said Madelaine a little stiffly.

“Well, even if she were in her thirties—which, incidentally, I doubt—while we were in Syria, she would not have been more than a youngster twenty years before that, wouldn’t she? And what can a schoolgirl know of such barbarians as these Paiute? I think you can dismiss most of what she says regarding their society; she was not capable of making a sensible judgment.”

“I am certain she was . . . older than you assumed,” said Madelaine, trying to maintain the right tone with him. “That was my understanding, in any case.”

“It is possible,” said Paul, in a tone that suggested it was not. “You look a great deal like her, though you are prettier.”

“You mean,” said Madelaine sharply, “that I am better dressed.”

“No,” Paul responded seriously. “There was a hardness about your cousin Madelaine that is lacking in you. She had spent too much time with savages, I would suppose. You have not made that error to the degree that she did.”

“I did some exploring in Tunis,” Madelaine reminded him. “Before coming to France for my inheritance.”

“That is another matter entirely. You were part of a French community, and the Roman ruins there have no sinister associations, not as the American war has, or the expedition in Syria; you did little more than what inquisitive youth must do, just as I did when I went to Egypt,” said Paul, lifting his glass in a toast. “You did not put yourself beyond good society, as your cousin was wont to do. And you now live an ordered and appropriate life, which was not the case with your cousin Madelaine. Think of all those years spent in the American war?”