In The Face Of Death (50 page)

It took all of Madelaine’s will to keep from challenging the condescending attitude Paul Danner showed. “I think they were terrible years, judging from what she wrote in her journal.”

“Yes, and such things coarsen a woman more than they do men,” said Paul with a look of vindication. “Fortunately Ingrid, my affianced wife, has not been touched by any of the upheavals and disasters your cousin appears to have sought out deliberately.” He put the book aside and looked directly at Madelaine. “I hope you will not make your cousin’s error, and allow yourself to be tainted by cruelty.”

“Tainted by cruelty,” Madelaine repeated, and was shocked by how vividly she recalled Sherman’s condemnation of war.

“It could happen easily to one as young and delicate as you are,” said Paul. “I have no wish to see you lose the sweet candor you possess. You need only look at the women who have chosen the cloister to know how precious that candor is.” He smiled at her. “It would probably be best if you did not read your cousin’s journals. They will give you absurd notions about going into the world, which would spoil you.”

Pierre arrived then, bearing a covered platter which he put on the octagonal table near the window; he lit the branch of twelve candles before he drew the heavy red curtains—which gave the salon its name—closed against the night. “Your supper, Monsieur Danner.”

“Very good,” said Paul, taking it upon himself to instruct the butler. “I think it would be best if you provide a place for your mistress, as well. Who knows, I may be able to persuade her to join me, no matter how incorrect it may be.” He took the bottle of wine Pierre had brought and inspected the label. “Quite a respectable vintage.”

“Do you wish a plate, Mademoiselle Bertrande?” Pierre inquired with interest. “Or a glass?”

“No; it would not be suitable, since there are only the two of us.” This was correct as far as it went, and Madelaine was glad that society provided her so convenient an excuse to avoid the meal.

“Shall I decant the wine, Mademoiselle?” Pierre asked Madelaine, making it clear he took his orders from her.

“That would be best, I think,” said Madelaine, already regretting that she had ordered a bottle of wine from Saint-Germain’s vineyards.

“There is lamb in a sauce of rosemary, pepper, juniper berries, wine, and onions. And a soufflé of cheese and spinach, in the Italian style,” Pierre said as he uncovered the platter. “For a side dish, peas in butter.” He bowed slightly as he set these out, then gave his attention to decanting the wine.

Paul approached the table with real hunger in his expression. “Let me congratulate you on your chef, Mademoiselle. This is truly impressive.”

“I am so pleased it meets your approval,” said Madelaine, hoping he could not hear the sarcasm in her words.

“I would be a useless fool if I could not be satisfied with this,” he said, and held a chair for her. “It is a pity that you will not join me, but I bow to your sense of propriety.”

“How good of you,” said Madelaine as she took her place at the table and watched while Pierre served supper to Paul.

“It has started to rain,” Pierre announced as he poured the decanted wine for Paul. “The groom says that the road will be impassable in another hour.”

Paul cocked his head. “Then, Mademoiselle Bertrande, I am doubly in your debt, for your hospitality and for saving me from the storm.” He tasted the wine and announced, “This is superior.”

“So I have been told,” said Madelaine, and gestured dismissal to Pierre.

“I hope you are not offended by my remarks about your cousin?” said Paul as he cut himself a first slice of lamb. “I would be a poor guest, Mademoiselle Bertrande, if I caused you any distress on your cousin’s account.”

“Not offended so much as instructed,” said Madelaine, making no attempt to keep the irony from her remarks.

Paul was wholly unaware of it. “Very good; then I have done you a service.”

“You certainly have,” said Madelaine, wondering what it was that had originally drawn her to him, back in Egypt. A certain mischievous impulse seized her and she said, “Suppose I
were
my cousin. Suppose I was the one who had lived those years with Indians and during the American war. What would you say to me then?”

“But that’s ridiculous,” protested Paul through the lamb.

“Perhaps it is, but indulge me, if you will,” said Madelaine. “Think of it as a supper-time amusement.”

“Oh, very well,” said Paul, giving in to her request.

“Suppose that I was the one who had gone all across America—” she began.

“Thirty years ago?” said Paul, trying to get the spirit of the game.

“Yes, in the fifties,” she said firmly. “Suppose that I had known the Kiowa and Cheyenne, and the rest of them?” She paused. “Suppose I had lived in San Francisco in 1855? What would you say to me then?”

He chuckled. “That you are a very youthful old woman,” he answered at once, and sipped his wine.

“And if I were a youthful old woman, what would you think?” Madelaine persisted. “Suppose I had lived for, oh, years and years without aging, that I had traveled to America and Egypt and many other places. Suppose I was the woman who had come through the terrible American war? Suppose—”

“This is too fanciful for me,” he objected. “And why would someone like you want to be old?” His gallantry was sounding a bit forced. “I will admit when I met your cousin I found her captivating. But I was a much younger man, and in Egypt I saw few women of quality. I do not find it astonishing that she would catch my fancy then. But now? I would hope I know better than to let an aged hoyden engage my interests.” He gave her a long, thoughtful look. “I think you wish to emulate her. That would be a grave mistake. For she died without husband or child to remember her. Surely you do not want that to happen to you?” He put his wine glass down and leaned toward her. “Mademoiselle Bertrande, do not let yourself be seduced by what you see as adventure.”

“Hardly adventure,” said Madelaine quietly.

“That is a good sign,” said Paul, resuming his eating. “For men do not want women who are forever traipsing about the world, uncaring of the good opinion of others. My fiancée is more the model you would do well to choose for yourself. She has the good sense and reserve that has made Swedish women prized throughout Europe.”

Madelaine sighed inwardly, and said, “Tell me about her,” resigning herself to a paean of the ordinary.

Monbussy-sur-Marne, 10 February, 1888

I have rarely been so glad to see a guest depart than when Paul Danner left this morning, full of effusive thanks and warnings about taking after my lamentable cousin. What in the world made me think he might be able to know my secret, would consider sharing it with me? Or am I so lonely to be loved with knowing that I am willing to consider someone of Paul Danner’s bent?

Again I miss Tecumseh, and the bond that holds me to him is cold comfort when what I want most is his body and the love in his eyes. And who dare blame me, for he was willing to know me for what I am, and to accept it as much as he was able. He has just turned sixty-seven, and I know I would love him today as when I was in San Francisco. . . . But unless he has changed beyond all recognition, he would not be able to see past my appearance, so it is probably just as well that an ocean lies between us. . . .

I miss Saint-Germain more keenly, and more poignantly. And more futilely; for while Tecumseh lives I have the chance to love him, but once come into this life, Saint-Germain tells me that we no longer can give each other what we seek. . . . This day, more than most, I wish it were not so. . . .

Monbussy-sur-Marne, 13 December, 1888

Something dreadful has happened to Tecumseh. I have felt the blackness around him for more than two weeks. Whatever the catastrophe is, I know it has struck him to the heart; I can only feel his anguish with no chance to succor him. . . . If I thought I would be welcome, I would go to him, never mind the unpleasantness of an ocean crossing, let alone in winter. . . . But he would not want me near him while he is in such torment, and for once I am certain that I could do nothing that would not distress him more deeply than he is distressed already. . . .

Since that fiasco with Paul Danner, I have been disinclined to venture into society again. I suppose I am being a coward, to restrict myself to the dreams of servants. . . . It would be best to go back to Montalia, not only for the solace of my native earth, but to avoid questions and suppositions that can only serve to make my stay here increasingly hazardous.

I have at last prepared a monograph on Tunis, and this will go to Amsterdam in a matter of days, as soon as the weather improves. With the Boulanger matter finally at an end, France is once again ready to become the heart of Europe. The Germans have already lost two rulers this year, and who can say if this young Wilhelm II will prove capable. . . .

Lyons, 22 March, 1889

I have come upon newspapers for New York for last autumn and winter, and I have discovered what has driven Tecumseh into such despair: his wife died late last November. I think it is past time that I ventured into the world. Little news of anything but France has reached me while I was at Monbussy. Now that I am bound for Montalia, I must not make the same mistake again, not with the Boulanger matter in upheaval once again, and rumors of an epidemic of influenza beginning. I fear it is necessary to keep up with events. . . .

I have taken advantage of my travels to send Tecumseh another three bottles of the tincture for asthma. That should last him another year at least, and by that time I will have prepared more for him. . . .

There seems to be some question about the death of Archduke Rudolph and his mistress, Baroness Marie Vetser. Some are saying it was a suicide pact, others are claiming it is a double murder. . . .

Mercurio was thicker about the waist then the last time Madelaine had seen him, though he was still a handsome fellow, proud of his wife and two young children, and the state of Montalia.

“As you can see, I followed the instructions your cousin . . . she was your cousin, wasn’t she? The instructions she gave me.” He indicated the orchards angling down the hill, and the formal rose garden at the end of the
salon des fenetres
in the new wing at the north end of the chateau. “You can see the full glory of spring for a few weeks more. The farm is producing well. We have surplus produce which is sold in Saint-Jacques-sur-Crete on market day, and my wife can show you the records of those transactions.” His French was spoken in Italian cadences, but correctly and with ease.

“I will look at them later,” said Madelaine. “Who is in charge of the household as butler? My cousin’s records said it was a man named Yves.”

Mercurio colored. “I suppose, since Yves took ill, I have been doing the work, with the help of Ignace, who is Yves’ half-brother, many years younger, of course.” He was flustered. “Madame Bertrande, I must apologize. Your letter announcing your arrival came only three days ago; hardly enough time for us to prepare a proper welcome for you.” He bowed respectfully. “I knew your cousin only slightly, but permit me to say that you have a resemblance to her. Though she was taller and had an air about her.”

“Thank you,” said Madelaine, trying not to be too amused.

Mercurio smiled distantly. “I should not say it, but I had the most amazing penchant for her, when she first engaged me to come here from Rho, in Italy.” He looked directly at Madelaine. “She was a woman to dream about, your cousin Madelaine.”

“How very kind of you to tell me,” said Madelaine, with genuine feeling.

Mercurio opened her main doors for her. “Please. Your staff is in the old hall, at the south end of the chateau.” He gave her a look to encourage her. “I don’t know if you can find your way around. It took me two weeks before I was certain of the arrangement of halls and rooms.”

Madelaine made a gesture of appreciation. “I have been here as a child. I am certain to orient myself quickly.”

“Certainly,” said Mercurio without any hesitation. “But if I may be of any assistance, you have only to inform me.”

The annealing presence of her native earth began to ease the ache deep in Madelaine’s soul. She was able to show Mercurio a genuine look of approval. “You have done well. My . . . cousin would be grateful, and so I will see you are rewarded for your work on her behalf.”

They were almost to the hall where the rest of the staff was waiting. “I must ask: do you plan to remain here long, Madame Bertrande?”

“Why do you wish to know?” Madelaine inquired, pausing to wait for his answer.

“Well, if you are planning to open the chateau for entertaining and grand occasions, you will need a larger staff. Those we have now can manage with half the rooms closed, but if you open them, we will need to engage more maids and cooks, and grooms and all the rest of it.”

Madelaine shook her head. “Have no fear, Mercurio. I have no plans to turn this into a fine country seat. It is too much of a refuge for me to want to do that.”

She stepped into the hall, and looked at the eleven servants gathered there. She recognized three of them only: her old coachman Gerard; her housekeeper, Madame Nicole, who had been a new maid the last time she was home; and the gardener Jean-Gaston.

“Madame Bertrande de Montalia,” said Mercurio, presenting Madelaine to those who, all unknowing, watched over her native earth.

Montalia, 14 September, 1889

The repairs I have ordered on the old windows are almost complete, and I am satisfied that we have no reason to fear leaks this winter. . . .

Today a box of magazines and books was brought up from Saint-Jacques-sur-Crete, sent by Harris and Taylor in Philadelphia. I can hardly wait for evening to catch up on all that has been going on in America. A superficial review of the contents shows me that John Taylor has made a good effort to procure some of the papers I asked him to get, including issues of
The New York Tribune
and
The San Francisco Examiner,
which I look forward to reading.