“It seems to me that the woman Alceste is in love with is not worthy of his love.” Katie looked up from the book of Molière’s plays, which she had only purchased that morning.
But Monsieur Santerre did not respond to her. He sat in his chair across from her in the shade of the chestnut tree, his hands loosely clasped on the blanket covering his lap.
“Am I understanding this opening scene correctly?”
He blinked and shook his head slightly. “Pardon me, mademoiselle, what is it you said?”
She set her book down. “You weren’t paying attention! Was my reading so very, very bad?”
“Of course not, you read very well. So well, in fact, that I wasn’t paying attention to the individual words, but merely listening to your melodious voice.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know quite what to say.
“You have a beautiful voice, you know. It soothes me.”
She felt her cheeks grow warm. Another answer to prayer—how to help Monsieur Santerre. “Then I’m very glad God gave me this voice.”
“Must you bring God into every conversation?”
She blinked in surprise, never having thought about it. “I suppose I do. It’s what we all do in my family. ‘In Him I live and breathe and have my being,’” she quoted from the Scriptures with a smile.
He said nothing but she could see displeasure marring his features.
She turned back to the book, feeling a bit saddened that she would not be able to share her love of the Lord with him, at least not overtly.
Before she could find her place again, he asked, “How was your ball last evening?”
She remembered her discomfort there—more mental than physical—despite how much her feet hurt or her corset pinched. “Fine.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
She lifted her gaze from the pages of the book she held in her lap. “How do you know that?”
“Because I hear a weight of resignation in that word you uttered, as if you had to endure a lot that gave you displeasure.”
When she did not answer right away, as she tried to decide how much to tell him, he asked softly, “Was it so very bad?”
She set the book flat on her lap, amazed at his discernment. “Gerrit insisted I get over my fear of dancing and took me out for one set. That was all right, though I find the quadrille more stately and graceful than our simple country dances. But then he brought over another young gentleman—besides all the ones he had brought earlier in the evening. This time I was obliged to dance with him, but it was so...” She sighed and looked away toward the dark green Seine.
“Tedious?”
Her glance turned slowly back to his unseeing one. “Yes—and stressful, of course, as I was terrified I’d trip over his elegant feet.” She giggled at her last words and found to her surprise that he laughed as well. That alone made the previous evening’s experience worth it.
“I did stumble a few times, and I could see Monsieur de Bérenger was most bothered, though he was much too well-bred to let on. But as soon as the dance was over, he led me back to the side and attempted no more conversation with me. But that part was even worse, because he refused to leave my side until my brother-in-law and sister returned. It was most provoking.”
Monsieur Santerre curled his lip. “De Bérenger, that fop? Believe me, he would have bored you to death if he had engaged you in conversation. The fact that he didn’t proves how empty-headed he is. He probably had no thoughts at all.”
She smiled, feeling ten times better than she had this morning at the memory of the ball. “You know him?”
He shrugged. “In another life, I was acquainted with him. It is a very small world, that of the beau monde in Paris.”
“That is what Gerrit says.”
“Does he? Perhaps he has some sensibility for an Englishman.”
She giggled again. “You sound like Alceste in this play. Do you think so little of people as he does?”
“I have seen—” his mouth twisted derisively—“excuse me—experienced—I should say, little to admire in recent years.”
“Oh, not everyone is as bad as Alceste makes out.” She sobered. “Although it is true, as Jesus says, that we have all fallen short of God’s glory. We are all sinners in need of His grace.”
“You sound like one of the reformés, whom the crown and the church have spent centuries trying to, how do you say, éteindre?” He pinched his fingers together. “Like a candle.”
“Oh, you mean ‘snuff out?’ I’ve heard the servants use that word when putting out the candles.”
He gave a mirthless laugh. “But these reformés refuse to go out. There are still a few about even after all the massacres and the emigration.”
“No matter how much the true church is persecuted, God’s light will never be extinguished.”
He smiled sardonically. “They can thank Napoléon for freedom of religion.” When she said nothing, he asked, “And which do you think is the ‘true church’?”
She answered slowly. “I believe what the Bible says, that God the Father seeks those who will worship Him in spirit and in truth. That is the true church.”
“As far as I’m concerned, the best thing our revolution did was to do away with the church.” He made a sound of disgust. “Unfortunately, the present royalists are undoing all that the revolution and the empire accomplished to separate church and state. There is a fever of piety sweeping the land, I’m told.”
“You don’t like the present king?”
“Louis the Eighteenth—that cowardly old fool? He is dragging the country back to what it was a century ago, undoing the work of our great philosophers.” He snorted. “Those young gentlemen you meet each evening are right behind him. All they care about is maintaining and adding to their comfort and wealth. But their notion of religion is a far cry from yours, I imagine.”
“Well then, I must show you more of the ‘true church,’” she added brightly. Her father had taught her never to debate religion, but to let the light of Christ shine through her by her manner. She looked back down at the book in her lap. “Let me continue reading some more or we shall not get beyond the second page this afternoon.”
“Very well. As I said, I enjoy listening to your voice.”
She began to read again. “What does ‘tu te flattes’ mean?”
“You pride yourself.”
She scanned the rest of the sentence. “Ah yes, ‘you flatter yourself.”
“That is correct.”
She read another scene, stopping every so often to ask the meaning of another word, which he was always able to explain in a clear way to her. At other times, he gently corrected her pronunciation, so unlike the sharp, derisive way of her tutor. It showed her that beneath his arrogant, cynical façade lay a goodhearted soul.
“Is your voice getting tired?” he asked when she had paused for a moment.
“Not very, but it would be nice to have a sip of water. Perhaps I shall bring a flask with me next time.” Her gaze wandered over the large area. “You know, this is an idyllic spot. It is a pity you cannot see the view of the river.”
“I remember it from bygone days.”
“Do you ever speak to any of the older gentlemen who come here to take the sun? They seem quite lonely, each one sitting in his chair.”
“No. I have no idea where Pierre chooses to wheel me when he deigns to bring me out here.”
Her eyes fixed on the nearest old veteran to her right. He inclined his head and smiled when he noticed her gaze. She imagined what a distinguished-looking soldier he must have been at an earlier time, perhaps even an officer in a smartly braided uniform. She smiled back, an idea forming.
She turned back to Monsieur Santerre. “I was thinking, perhaps some of them would care to hear a little of this play?”
Instead of being pleased, he frowned. “You would read to these old men, too?”
She bit her lip. “Well, yes. I mean, if you don’t think my French is too awful. Maybe they have others who read to them...but if their circumstances are at all like yours, they, too, might miss the pleasure of stories. Back home, when we read aloud to each other, half the fun comes when we discuss the story.”
He rubbed his face with one hand then bowed his head. Finally, just when she was going to continue reading, he said, “Very well, if you wish to approach any of those old men, do what you must.”
He didn’t sound pleased about the prospect at all. “It was only a suggestion. Perhaps another day.” She cleared her throat and recommenced reading.
He waved a hand. “Your voice is tired. Leave it for today. Let us talk some more. Whom else did you meet last evening?”
She shut the book and laid it on the bench beside her. “Oh, so many people I scarcely remember their names. There was an older gentleman who asked me to dance after Monsieur de Bérenger, but I refused. I don’t know how he could have wanted to dance after seeing me stumble about a few minutes prior.”
“An older man? You don’t remember his name?”
“No, but he still wore his hair powdered.”
“He must have been ancient indeed.”
“I was afraid that it would be just as in Maine. Only the middle-aged widowers looked my way.”
He gave a disbelieving laugh. “I can scarcely imagine that.”
“That is what happens when you have two beautiful sisters, and you are only passable.”
“You are being overly modest.”
“No, I am being accurate. But it is neither here nor there. I was simply making a point that last night seemed to augur the same thing. Except, it is true Gerrit brought over many young gentlemen.” She tilted her head, remembering one. “So many gentlemen took my hand, I finally could no longer remember their names, so I used other methods to recall them. ‘The gentleman with the dark curving moustache,’ ‘the gentleman with the mole under his eye,’ or ‘the young gentleman with the unusual signet ring.’”
He was chuckling by the time she finished her list. “How do you define an unusual signet ring?”
“This one was dark green instead of the usual gold, and carved. Almost like onyx, but green. I suppose it must be a family crest. We don’t have such things in America. I mean, I suppose some old English families do—not the Puritans but those who favored King George during our Revolution and now pride themselves on their ancient heritage—” She noticed how rigidly he sat, his face thrust forward. “What is it? I’m sorry, I was prattling on about things you doubtless care nothing about—”
“No, not at all. I was taking great interest in what you were recounting.”
“You seemed so—” she gave an embarrassed half-laugh— “haunted almost. Are you in any pain?”
Pain? Emotional pain, perhaps, such that sweet Mlle. Leighton could never know, she whose young life had never been tainted by any real evil. “No...no,” Etienne managed at last. “I’m not in any pain. It...just interested me...what you were saying. Please continue.” His words came out unevenly, since he could hardly breathe, the pain was so suffocating. “You say that he wore a signet ring. Can you tell me more about how it looked?”
“Why, yes, if you are certain you are all right.”
He nodded his head impatiently. “Yes, yes, go on.”
“Very well. The ring drew my attention because it was so unusual to me. Dark green, almost black, as I said, I even think the stone had black flecks in it. It was carved, to use with sealing wax, no doubt. It seemed like a heraldic seal, possibly a fleur-de-lis, such as I’ve seen on your royal documents here, or perhaps a lion. Very intricate and manly-looking. My father and brother are not given to wearing jewelry. Perhaps that’s why it drew my attention.
“My father wears only his wedding ring, a plain gold band. Gerrit, who is British, and was an aristocrat before he came to America, is a bit more fancy in his ways, though no dandy. He’ll wear a stick pin in his cravat and of course, he, too, wears a wedding band. But he also wears a ring with a family crest.”
But Etienne was no longer listening to her. His mind’s eye saw that ring she described—his ring.
He jumped at the light touch on his knuckles.
“Your hands are clenched so tightly, your knuckles are white. There must be something I’m telling you that is upsetting you. You can tell me. It won’t go beyond me, I promise, and...perhaps I can help in some way.”
Slowly, he unclenched his fingers. “Can you?” he said gently with a softening of his lips. “It is most kind of you to offer. I don’t believe you can help me in any way, though I appreciate your offer more than I can say.” He reached out his hand, groping the air until she caught his hand in hers and he grabbed it, squeezing as if to a lifeline. “But I assure you that it has nothing to do with your delightful conversation...your father with his plain ways and your brother-in-law, the Englishman. See, I was listening to you.”
“Your mind seemed very far away,” she said, a smile in her voice.
He made a visible effort to relax against his chair. “How can you accuse me of that?”
She giggled. “You have a most expressive face.”
He frowned, hating the disadvantage of having others see his expression while being literally in the dark about theirs. He must learn to school his features better. It had taken him months to stop his ranting and raving against fate. Reluctantly, he let go of her hand and rubbed his face, staring unseeing straight ahead.
“You are looking so fierce. I hope I am not the cause of your ire.”
“Oh—” He realized how deeply his eyebrows were drawn together. Taking in a breath, he once again relaxed his facial muscles.
“I’m sorry if I upset you.”
“You haven’t. Your words merely disconcerted me momentarily, reminding me of former things. I didn’t realize my face was so transparent.”
“Why should you hide what you feel?”
He grimaced. “Many reasons.”
“Such as?” She sounded truly puzzled.
He couldn’t help a smile. “Because, dear mademoiselle, any emotion I exhibit is only used to confirm my madness.”
“Madness? Ha! You are no more mad than I. It isn’t madness to display emotion.”
“But in my case, having declared me mad, they will use any weapon at hand, including any emotion I might display, to aid in their case.”
“Why would anyone wish to declare you mad?”
He was tempted to confide in her, but dare he? Would she, too, think him mad if she heard his claims? And then perhaps he’d lose her friendship. No, it was too new and delicate. He daren’t risk it. Oh, she might still talk to him. She was too kind-hearted to just drop him, but it would be in a voice full of pity and not that of an equal. And then—oh, it was an unbearable thought—to lose his one link to reality, to normalcy, to anything resembling his former, civilized existence outside the walls of Les Invalides.
“Your hands are clenched again, Monsieur Santerre! Truly, you must tell me what is upsetting you so. Is it so very terrible?”
He blew out a breath and attempted to relax again. “Yes, it is. Perhaps...perhaps someday I may tell you about it.”
“I would be honored to have your confidence,” she said softly, pressing his hand before letting it go.
His throat tightened so he couldn’t respond. To have another human being, a cultivated young lady of some intelligence and breeding, look beyond his present condition and speak to him as if his thoughts and opinions had merit.
When he could speak again, he said, “Do you recall, mademoiselle, what the gentleman with the unusual ring looked like?”
“I think he had light brown hair, cut short, but truly, I hardly remember. There were so many gentlemen, all dressed similarly in black jackets and white cravats. Do you think it’s someone you used to know?”
He kept his voice neutral this time. “Perhaps. If you meet him again and take note of his name, then I can better tell you.”
“Very well. I’ll make a point to look for him.” She sighed, and he heard sounds of her collecting her things. “I’d better be getting back. Come, Brioche, we must be off.”
The dog, probably eager to be walking again, got up from his resting place at Etienne’s feet.
“Must you go?” he couldn’t help asking, then bit his tongue at the pathetic tone.
“Yes.” Her tone sounded regretful as well, and very near, as if she had approached his chair again. “There are some people coming for dinner tonight. I...I hope you enjoy the waffle I brought you.”
“Eh...yes, I’m sure I shall.” How to let her know how much he appreciated her gifts but not let on what Pierre did to them as soon as she was out of sight? He was afraid if she said anything to him, his manservant would no longer bring him. It seemed a small enough bribe to enjoy these times with her.
“I shan’t be able to come by tomorrow nor the next day, I fear.”
His body became very still. “Oh. Why is that?” With great effort he managed to achieve a nonchalance to his tone he was far from feeling within.
“A party of us are going out to Fontainebleau, the royal château. I think we are to spend the night at someone’s country home. Gerrit wants to make sure Hester doesn’t get too tired by driving there and back the same day.”
“Is your sister ill?”
“No, but I’ve just found out that I am to be an aunt sometime next winter.”
He could hear the affection in her tone. “Ah, she is enceinte.”
“Yes.” She sighed.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“I beg your pardon if I seem overly inquisitive. It’s just that when you are silent, I don’t know how to read your thoughts or feelings. It’s as if you are not there. I can interpret a sigh or an expression of your voice, but not silence.”
She took a step toward him, touching his arm lightly. “Oh, it is I then who must beg your pardon. It’s just that I see Pierre coming to attend to you and know I must depart.” She sighed again. “Come, Brioche, let us say goodbye to Monsieur Santerre. Give him your paw.” As she spoke, she placed a treat in the count’s hand. “Here you go, monsieur, to give him if he obeys.”
“Thank you,” he said softly, his hand opening to receive it.
Brioche sat up and gave him his paw.
“Good boy,” she told her dog, as Etienne held out the treat.
“You may pet him if you like,” she said. “It will encourage him that he did right.”
“Bien fait, Brioche, très bien fait.” He reached out hesitantly and petted the dog’s head. “Well done.” But as Brioche sat still, he grew more confident and reached out both hands to stroke the dog’s head and ears. How nice it was to touch a living being again.
“I brought you a small bag of his biscuits, so you can have them to give to Brioche when next he comes.” As she spoke, she removed the bag from her satchel and put it in his lap.
“Thank you,” he replied, touched that she had remembered her promise. When he had set it under his blanket, away from Pierre’s inquisitive eyes, he held out his hand. “Au revoir, Mademoiselle Leighton. I wish you a pleasant trip to Fontainebleau. It is a beautiful château and parkland.”
“Thank you,” she replied, taking his hand and holding it, almost as if to impart encouragement and hope. “A bientôt, monsieur.”
“Not soon enough for me,” he murmured as he heard her walk away.
* * *
Katie left the wide shaded paths of the esplanade with a slow pace, deep in thought. She couldn’t get over how upset her description of a gentleman’s signet ring had made Monsieur Santerre. She would be sure to find out the information he had requested of her, though she had little hopes of meeting the same man again. How she wished she’d paid better attention to the French syllables the first time he’d been presented to her.
She was also realizing how much she would miss her visits to Monsieur Santerre in the coming two days.
What was it about the count that made him so easy to talk to? Was it only because he could not see her, and therefore not judge her by her appearance, that she could be herself around him? She would never have told another soul—let alone a gentleman—her mortifying experiences with the French gentlemen.
She could even imagine telling him of her experience back in Bangor. Monsieur Santerre had a way of making her feel better.
She had walked only a few blocks down the rue Saint Dominique when her attention was arrested by a narrow street off her right. She caught her breath. Since arriving in Paris, she had been enchanted by the alleyways and cobblestone streets with their overhanging buildings and uneven architecture straight out of a medieval fairytale. But because they were traveling in a coach, she couldn’t stop to explore.
“Come along, Brioche, let’s walk down a little ways.” She had no fear of getting lost. Brioche always guided her safely home.
She peeked through the glazed glass of the shop windows and sniffed deeply at one entry. Fat round loaves of bread and long, crusty ones were jammed into baskets which seemed specially shaped to hold them. “A boulangerie!” she repeated in French from the sign above the door.
“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,”
“Oh, oui—” She hurried out of the way of a customer coming through the door, her arm carrying a long reed basket filled with loaves. Katie tugged on Brioche’s leash and ducked under an arch off the narrow sidewalk.
As soon as she stepped through it, she breathed in wonder again. It looked like the entry into an even narrower alley. She could hardly see the sky above, the buildings’ balconies almost meeting across. Cascading geraniums covered the iron railings above her.
A second later, a bucketful of water landed only a few feet in front of her. Dirty water splashed at her, splattering the hem of her gown.
She skirted around the puddle, realizing she’d better be more vigilant. Perhaps she should turn back. But just then she reached the end of the alley and found herself in a slightly wider, sunnier street. A button shop beckoned her and she stood a moment admiring all the different shapes and colors.
Everything was so different from her own town of Bangor, Maine with its new-hewn timber houses. Large ships brought in merchandise from many parts of the world, but everything from the buildings, the surrounding farmland, and the miles of dark forests seemed rough and raw, spacious and wide open.
She glanced over her shoulder, making sure she’d remember her return route. Her eyebrows drew together as she noticed a man, his face covered by the brim of his hat, who stood at the end of the alleyway she’d just come through. He seemed unoccupied, merely standing there, and she remembered Monsieur Santerre’s warning against walking out alone.
Perhaps she had been foolhardy. She whirled around and resumed her walk, picking up her pace. She was perfectly safe. It was broad daylight and she had Brioche with her. Besides that, she wasn’t that far from home, she kept telling herself.
Hester would be upset if she knew she hadn’t brought Marie-Thérèse with her. Katie shuddered at the thought. She wasn’t used to being accompanied by strangers, much less surly ones. She, who was accustomed to wandering in the forests of Maine where much greater perils faced her in the shape of bears and wolves, would not tolerate a young woman who was barely civil to her. The streets of Bangor were quite safe, as long as she stayed away from the waterfronts on a Saturday night.
She tightened her hand around Brioche’s leash and turned down another street, deciding not to return the way she had come. As she entered this narrow street, she looked back. She drew in a sharp breath, spying the same man emerging from the street from whence she’d just come. The next second he drew back.
Had he seen her notice him? Was he following her?
Her frown deepened, thinking he looked like a fellow Pierre had been talking to. But many of those types of laborers resembled each other with their similar garb and dark hair.
Her breathing shallow and her heartbeat pattering erratically, she hurried down an alley, no longer interested in its architecture, but in finding her way back to the Hôtel LeClaire.
Brioche thought it was a game and started to run ahead of her, pulling on his leash and barking joyfully. Trusting that he would lead her home, she concentrated on not tripping over the cobblestones.
The alley led to kitchen gardens and the walled courtyards of another row of houses.
Suddenly, she came out on another wider street and she gave an exclamation of relief. Here, there was carriage traffic and pedestrians. She hurried down it, now tugging on Brioche’s leash to slow him down. Not until she was a good ways from where she’d emerged did she dare look back to see if the man had followed her. But she saw no one who looked like him.
By the time she arrived home, she was panting and her gown was damp. But the sight of the imposing yellow sandstone mansion behind the black wrought-iron fence reassured her. Surely, she had imagined the threat.
She gave herself a mental shake as she entered by the side iron gate beside the wider carriage gate. “What a silly girl you are becoming if a strange man manages to spook you. You are made of sterner stuff, my girl!”