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I passed a pleasant morning reading to Aurore in Clio’s sitting room while Clio began work on the portrait. Out of curiosity, I chose a book by Ulysse to read, which turned out to be full of irreverent humor and mockery, so that Clio had to break off her work several times because all three of us were convulsing with laughter. We looked through Clio’s other sketches and the paintings she had stored in her portfolio. Though I knew little of drawing and painting, I was struck at once by her gift for bringing out the beauty in her subjects. There were self-portraits and sketches of still lifes – flowers, fruits, insects – and many drawings of her younger brother and of her family’s and neighbors’ pets – dogs, cats, and a little green bird in a cage. There were sketches of the neighbors too, generally young mothers, alone or with their children. The common thread among the sketches of people was the natural way her subjects were posed and dressed.
Before we went down for our dinner at midday, Aurore pulled me aside and gently touched a spot on my neck.
“You … have a few red marks. Here.” She took off the neckerchief she’d tied around her own neck and arranged it on mine. She fussed with it a good long while, trying to pin it just right, and then gave up and asked Clio if she had any ribbons we could borrow instead. When Clio had found some, Aurore wrapped a wide one around my throat and tied it with a bow in back. Only then was she satisfied.
The whole company was present for the midday meal. For a moment or two I thought a new young gentleman had joined us, before I realized Séléné had dressed herself in a man’s breeches, stockings, shirt, waistcoat, and coat, all elegantly cut and tailored perfectly to her small, compact figure. She laughed at our surprise.
“I’m much more comfortable like this. You should try it sometime. I like coming to Boisaulne because I can dress however I want here.”
In truth it seemed impractical to me, to go without stays and have to unbutton breeches and pull them down every time one had to make water. But I was relieved the general excitement produced by her dress spared me the embarrassment of any reference to our night together by the standing stone. Her neck and chest weren’t covered by a handkerchief or ribbon or collar, but there were no blue or purple marks to be seen on her white skin. I supposed hers must be all below the waist. A part of me wished I could ask Aurore if she had ever been seduced by Séléné as I had been, but at the same time I was glad for the rules of Boisaulne that discouraged such conversations in the day. Although, in truth, it seemed the rules were often ignored.
When Aurore, Clio, and I told the others how we had spent our morning, everyone was eager to join in our new project. It was agreed we would take turns reading to Aurore while she sat for her portrait, and whoever else wished to hear the reading could sit in on it too.
Tristan claimed the next slot for reading aloud and offered to read us his favorite novel.
“What’s it about?” Clio asked.
“It’s the story of two noble souls, a man and a woman in a small town at the foot of the Alps, who fall in love with each other, but society places obstacles in the way of them being together. The woman must marry another whom she respects but does not love with passion. She and the hero surmount the difficulty by forming a spiritual union that allows them to be true lovers even while they’re kept apart.”
Clio screwed up her freckled face prettily. “Hmm, I don’t know. It sounds like a rather sad story, if the lovers never come together.”
“It’s total tripe,” said Ulysse. “I know the one you mean. It’s an absurd travesty of a storyline. It takes a rake and strumpet and paints them in lovely colors so she becomes a philosopher and he a prince. I’d rather read a story where a rake is admitted to be what he is and he and his strumpet at least end up happy together.”
“There’s no disputing tastes,” the Scotsman said, “but I suppose with a story like that it comes down to whether one is an idealist or a materialist.”
“Does it?” said Séléné. “As if those were the only two alternatives. Isn’t there a third way, some more moderate view in between?”
“I’ve been struggling to find that compromise in my own philosophy, that takes account of the best and truest points of both,” the Scotsman admitted. “By nature I’d say I’m inclined to moderation, though I recognize sometimes extreme circumstances require extreme actions.”
“Such as?” Séléné asked.
“Well, for example, a case of extreme evil. If you meet a man who wishes to destroy you, unprovoked, it may be the most moral response to defend one’s life by any means necessary, including inflicting a fatal wound upon him.”
“No one with half a brain would dispute that,” Ulysse said. “Though our idealistic Tristan might say it’s better to let him kill you.”
“Indeed, it might be,” Tristan said. “If one’s principles are absolutely against killing or violence.”
“In that case, it seems your principles would amount to suicide,” Donatien interjected.
“Perhaps even suicide might be an honorable course of action in some cases,” Tristan replied.
The Scotsman said, “I’ve argued as much in print, myself. But there are those who’d counter that it’s the very definition of evil to disregard the sanctity of life, even one’s own.”
“And I would agree with them,” Aurore said, looking to Clio and me for confirmation. “For my part I can’t think of a scenario where I could condone suicide. So long as one is alive, one can always strive to better one’s condition, to do good, and to make the best of one’s God-given gift of existence.”
A part of me wanted to agree with her, but another part remembered the terrible loneliness of the darkest days of my marriage, when I had lost my faith in the God of my childhood. If I hadn’t had Valentin, Aimée, and my father to think of, who knows? Perhaps my despair might have overcome me.
As though responding to my thoughts, Harlequin said, “Sometimes, perhaps, a person might take his own life out of cowardice. Far more often I think of those who do, it’s because they’ve faced extremes of despair or anxiety or misery. They’re to be viewed with compassion, rather than judgment.”
Séléné nodded vigorously, and I remembered the story of her young lover who had killed himself.
“But I’m of Aurore’s opinion,” Clio said. “It’s never right. The breath of life in a human being is a divine, sacred thing.”
“What about killing in times of war?” the Scotsman said. “What if the unrest spreads in the capital of France, for example, or if the King of Sardinia orders the Savoyards to go to war with the French or the Swiss over disputed territory? Suppose you or your menfolk were called upon to fight. Would it be just then, to follow the sovereign’s orders and defend one’s country?”
“Unthinking allegiance to sovereigns is an abdication of moral agency,” Tristan said firmly.
“For once we’re in agreement,” Ulysse said. “Sovereign powers, whether church or state, have their own interests, independent of morality. It may be that sometimes the state’s interests coincide with what’s moral and right for an individual, but only the individual can judge whether that’s so, by consulting his conscience and reason.”
“I should say by consulting his heart,” said Tristan.
“Ah,” the Scotsman laughed, “another topic for another essay. Can we trust feeling as surely as reason?”
“Far more so, I think. Absolutely,” said Tristan.
“Reason can be mistaken, but desire doesn’t lie.” Donatien said, meeting Aurore’s eyes. “When you see someone or something beautiful, you know without a doubt you desire it. You don’t have to scratch your head over it.”
Aurore’s cheeks turned pink, and she looked away.
Séléné laughed out loud, and there was a hard edge to her words. “But that’s utter rubbish. Desire and feeling depend on perception. And perception fools us all the time. One sees a stag in the woods at night, for example, and mistakes it for a monster out of a fairy tale.”
“It’s true,” Aurore said. “In fairy tales it often happens that someone’s senses are enchanted and they fall prey to an illusion. The princess in the tale of Peau d’Âne disguises herself in a donkey’s skin to escape from her father, who wants to marry her. In the story of the Path of Needles and the Path of Pins, the wolf deceives the girl and makes her believe he’s a safe and comfortable grandmother so he can lure her in and eat her.”
Donatien kept his gaze on Aurore and said in a gentle tone, “Fairy tales are only meant to frighten children and terrify pious peasants. When I feel enchanted by someone charming, I can usually trust it’s not a wicked sorcerer deceiving me.” He smiled at Aurore, and she looked up and smiled back at him shyly.
“There is truth at the heart of those tales, though,” Aurore said. “That’s why they’re told over and over again. People aren’t always what they seem and our impressions aren’t always reliable.”
“Isn’t deception the essence of all seduction?” Harlequin asked. “To create an appearance of beauty or love that conceals the mere desire for conquest, for dominance?”
Donatien drew his brows together. He seemed to be considering a reply when Clio interrupted.
“Well,” Clio said, laying a hand on Tristan’s arm, “you can read that book to us if you like. Perhaps it’d be interesting. In any case, it will give us something to talk about.”
After the rapid volleys of conversation over the meal, I wanted to go out for an afternoon walk in the garden, since the clouds and constant downpour of cold rain had finally broken. I wanted to be alone for a while, to think about all that had happened in the past two days since the others had arrived. So I slipped out of the hall into the privy room and waited until the gallery was empty. From there I slunk out to the garden unnoticed, and into the labyrinth of hedges and tall bushes where I could hide if I heard anyone coming. How beautiful the flowers and plants were, washed clean from the rain! I walked down the paths, shaded by arbors and trellises of clematis, honeysuckle, and roses, stopping now and then to watch bees dipping in and out of the cups of the petals. After an hour of walking, I sat down on a bench in the sun across from an elaborately woven spider web. Its maker, the size of a hazelnut and shiny black, clung to the center. The spider’s forearms were busy, turning a piece of prey back and forth, back and forth, encasing it in a white cottony cocoon.
I heard voices approaching, Séléné’s and Ulysse’s. I stood up to dart around the spider’s web into the bushes behind it. In this way I succeeded in avoiding the two speakers, but unwittingly stumbled nearly into the laps of a silent couple sitting on another stone bench. Donatien pressed close to Aurore, with one hand at her waist and another laid against her chest. When Aurore saw me, she pulled away from him and jumped up as if stung. He stood up too, and I averted my eyes so as not to stare at the erection under his breeches. He smiled at us both.
“Good day, Belle-Âme,” he said. “It’s a pretty afternoon, isn’t it?”
Aurore wrung her hands, blushing and trembling, and then put a hand to her hair and realized that her coiffure was half undone. Without a word and without meeting my eyes, she plunged forward, nearly breaking the spider’s web before I grabbed her arm and said, “Wait,” and pointed out the shiny black creature that was a hair’s breadth from her arm. She gave me a grateful look and skirted around it, and I followed after her. Donatien stayed behind.
I took Aurore’s arm to steady her and we walked arm in arm. “What was that?” I asked her.
She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I don’t know … I … Donatien was being so sweet and sympathetic to me. I let things go farther than I should have. I’ve never in my life been unfaithful to my husband, though it’s been years since he’s touched me.”
I walked her to the house, through the gallery, and up the stairs to her own room on the third floor. I didn’t know if it was right to tell her what I had witnessed the night before between Donatien and Séléné, since it might reflect badly on Séléné. I didn’t wish to harm Séléné in her friend’s eyes, or seem as if I wished to create bad blood between them, or to disobey the rules of Boisaulne.
“I’ll lie down. I don’t feel well,” she said. She no longer trembled, but her face was white as a moonflower and the skin around her eyes was drawn.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“I’m fine, thank you. I just want to rest for a little.”
We parted with kisses on each cheek.
Aurore, Donatien, and Séléné were all absent from the table at supper. Ulysse, Tristan, and the Scotsman got into a long discussion about whether the soul might be a separate and different kind of substance from the body. Tristan believed it was of a spiritual nature, like love. The Scotsman believed it consisted of the action of ordinary physical substances such as the brain and the other organs of a human being, rather than being a separate kind of substance unto itself.
“When Galileo dropped cannonballs out the window of his tower, he performed the experiment to observe the effects of gravity and the resistance of the air. But no one would posit – and he certainly didn’t – that the downward movement of the balls was a substance unto itself. Rather, the state of movement was the balls’ potential energy that was being actualized. So it is also with the action of the brain, when it directs the body and its thoughts and movements. It’s that action, I believe, that has been given the name of the soul.”
Ulysse, for his part, didn’t doubt the materialist position. He was mainly concerned with drawing out its implications for morality and ethics.
“If there’s no separate soul to save or lose, that means morality isn’t spiritual, but rather practical. For the ancients, indeed, morals or mores were practices – the way one chose to live one’s life, not divine injunctions. Therefore, our morals, our ethical practices, must be determined by our material circumstances.”
“But the implications of that are rather monstrous, don’t you think?” said Tristan. “Is it justified then for a hungry man to steal? Or for a lustful person to commit adultery? After all, those are material circumstances.”
“Well, that’s the question. On what basis do we determine morality if material circumstances are all we have to go on? There’s still the matter of the need to preserve order and justice in society, for the good and safety of all. But the best start we can make toward forming a truly just society is to throw out authoritarian dictates regarding moral principles, based on old and false notions of a divide between body and soul.”
Tristan launched into a passionate defense of conscience and moral sentiment as functions of the soul and contended they ought to be the true basis of moral judgments.
I listened along with the others and thought about the points and questions the three of them raised. I stored up thoughts to talk over with Thérion, when he came that night. Harlequin sat next to me again, and once or twice his hand brushed against mine and he looked at me sidelong, surreptitiously, his long reddish lashes lowering and hooding his pale silver eyes. Was it his lips, his teeth, his tongue, that had left the marks on my neck under the ribbon? The thought aroused me and half-consciously, in my reverie, I stroked the tines of my fork. I glanced up at him again to see that his eyes were fixed on the movement of my fingers. He looked away quickly.
After supper, coffee and sweets were served in the music room, but I chose not to linger and left to go upstairs to my chamber. As I passed by Séléné’s door, I heard a sound coming out of the keyhole again and couldn’t resist bending down and glancing through it into the room to see if Donatien was with her. I made out a form huddled on her bed. She appeared to be alone, weeping as if her heart would break.
For a moment I wondered what to do. I tapped lightly on her door. She looked up, dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, and came to open the door. Her face fell a little when she saw it was me.
“Are you all right?” I asked. “I was passing by and I thought I heard a noise.”
She sniffled. Her eyes were red, puffy, and swollen. “I’m fine. Just … tired.”
“Are you sure? Would you like to talk?”
“You can come in if you like.” She drew me in and we sat on opposite ends of a sofa against the wall, facing each other.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m just an idiot. I made a mistake, trusting someone I shouldn’t have trusted.”
“Who?”
“Donatien. Fils de pute.” She punched the sofa cushion with enough force to shake the whole sofa. “But I guess he can’t be blamed for abandoning me. I’m old and used up.”
“What nonsense. What did he do to you? Did he hurt you?”
“It was all right at first. It was fun. He was different and it was rather exciting. What I didn’t like was that he changed toward me from one day to the next, with no explanation. He made me think he cared about me. He spent a whole month writing me dear little notes, charming and flirting with me. He finally made his conquest, a couple of weeks ago, and we’d been meeting discreetly whenever we could. Then suddenly today, he was as cold to me as could be. He’s chasing after Aurore, I think just because she has a reputation for being virtuous and incorruptible. He joked about what an accomplishment it would be if anyone seduced her, but I thought he was only teasing.”
“It did seem he was paying attention to her and she seemed troubled by it.”
“Well, I saw him go into her room just as I was coming up the stairs. So she can’t have been as troubled as all that.”
“Really? That surprises me. I hope she’s all right.” I thought for a long moment. “Do you think I ought to go and check on her? Suppose he’s not a gentleman with her?”
Séléné snorted. “A gentleman. Right. I mean, I don’t think he’s so bad as to force himself on a woman. He prefers the thrill of the chase, and overpowering a woman by force wouldn’t please his vanity so well as being able to talk her into it so she gives herself to him. He had me practically pursuing him in Paris.”
I frowned. “I hope you’re right and she’ll be safe.”
“Safe – that’s another matter. He doesn’t care what damage he does or whom he hurts.”
“Oh, Séléné, I’m sorry. You don’t deserve to be hurt like this.”
“Perhaps I do.”
“Why should you?”
“I’m a fool. I make terrible choices regarding men. I’m always getting my feelings hurt.”
“But you seemed so confident. I thought perhaps, if you have had many love affairs, they might not mean much to you.”
“You must have heard about my reputation. I can’t say I haven’t earned it. Yes, I’ve had many lovers. I’m not ashamed of that. I certainly take pleasure in the act itself, when the fellow’s up to it and has some sense of what he’s doing. And it was lovely with you the other night.”
I stared down at my hands and felt sweat gathering along my brow and under my arms. This was exactly what I had hoped we wouldn’t ever talk about. I swallowed and began to stammer, “I hadn’t ever done anything like that before. I’m not normally …”
“Shhh, don’t worry about it,” she said, laying a hand on my arm for a moment. “What I mean to say is, sometimes it is just fun. But having many encounters doesn’t mean I have no feelings. I told you, didn’t I, about my late husband?”
“A little. It sounded as if you had a terrible time with him.”
“Well, after he died, I decided I’d never let anyone else determine what I did with my body ever again. I claimed my freedom. Do you know, one of my chevaliers wanted to marry me so badly he contrived to put a child in my belly, thinking that would persuade me. But I gave the child up to the foundling hospital. I wasn’t going to let myself be bullied into marrying again, not after having a husband who used to beat me and force himself on me. You look horrified. I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?”
“I … never mind. Go on.”
“The thing is, once you have the freedom to choose your own life, and to choose any lover who will have you, then you have the hope of finding something satisfying. It’s hard to fail at it, again and again. If I couldn’t hope to find true love, I shouldn’t feel so miserable, perhaps, every time things fizzle.”
“I think I understand what you mean. May I ask – what happened to the child?”
“The child? Oh, the foundling hospital you mean. It all turned out all right. The boy’s father took charge of his upbringing and education, which was only right, given that I had no choice in the matter of giving him life.”
“Ah.”
“But tell me, you’re a widow,” she said. “Don’t you find your freedom exhilarating? Or do you miss being married?”
“Goodness, no, I don’t miss it.” I didn’t tell her I wasn’t free, but a prisoner of the Castle of Enlightenment.
“What do you think you’d like in a lover? You know, ideally.”
“Well … someone kind, strong, intelligent, faithful … I suppose I hadn’t really thought about it in a long time. When I was married I read romances and dreamed of a knight who’d be chivalrous and devoted, who would rescue me and defend me. But in my dreams the details were always hazy. What about you?”
“I’ve thought about it a good deal,” she said. “I long for a union of the mind as well as of the body. Perfect harmony. We might quarrel, but we do so lovingly, from a shared love of ideas, in the furtherance of our learning and knowledge together. Neither of us would ever be subordinate to the other. We’d be equals. We’d support each other in our intellectual efforts. He wouldn’t mind my writing, or make fun of it, but would be proud of it, and I’d be proud of him too, whatever his field of endeavor.”
“And you’ve never met anyone who seemed able to live up to that ideal?”
“There’ve been those who said they were in love with me. Those who wanted to take up all my time. Those who were good in character but unbearably dull. Men like Donatien who were exciting but vicious. Those who only cared to make love and never stimulated my mind or my imagination.”
“I wonder – what do you think of Ulysse? I thought I heard the two of you talking together today in the garden.”
“Ulysse? Ah, that’s a long and complicated story. We’ve known each other for years and years. When we first met we fell straight into bed with each other. Then we quarreled and I broke it off with him, but we’ve stayed friends. He’s more like me than any man I’ve ever known. Perhaps we’re too alike to be lovers. Yet we always seem to be drawn back to each other.”
“Do you think he means to make a protégée of Clio?”
“It’s possible. If he doesn’t I think I shall. She’s a wonderful little person. Gifted, clever, charming and pretty. Someone certainly ought to help her.”
I nodded. “If she wants help, that is.”
Leaving Séléné distracted and comforted by new thoughts, I hoped, I settled into bed to wait for Thérion. When the lights at last went out and he arrived, he asked me whether I’d like to try with him some of the things I had seen Donatien and Séléné do. I was a little frightened, but I said yes.
“Whenever you want me to stop,” he said, “if it gets to be too much, you only have to tell me and I’ll stop.” His voice went a note deeper. “Sit up and turn around, on your hands and knees. Yes, like that. Now put your hands here.” He guided my hands and I let him tie them to the bedpost with soft cords. He ran his hands along my prone, bent body, from my breasts to my knees, and pressed his hard sexe against the back of my thighs with a low groan. He wove the outstretched fingers of one hand through my unpinned hair, closed his fist around it, and began my punishments.
In the nights that followed, our lovemaking grew increasingly rough and passionate. We talked less as time went on, for Thérion was always hungry for me, and I for him. He tested and pushed my boundaries, binding me, mastering me, teaching me, teasing me, even tormenting me, but the pleasure always outweighed the pain. Sometimes we switched places, and he gave me the upper hand, as much as my blindness with him allowed. I missed our conversations but was too caught up in our explorations of each other’s bodies in the night to insist on pausing the language of touch for the sake of speech. There would be time enough for talking of books and philosophy after my new friends had gone home for the autumn, when years had passed, when we’d grown old together, when we’d long since learned every atom of each other’s skin, when every time we made love no longer felt like the revelation of a new Eden, a new heaven and earth.
Sometimes I wondered dreamily during the days, as the others debated politics, metaphysics, science, and morals, whether I had only one lover, or two, or many. Was Thérion really every man at Boisaulne, coming to me in turn? I came to love each of them in their own way. Above all Harlequin, who excited me with his air of mingled reserve, attentiveness, and humor, always speaking little but listening keenly and watching with his silver-blue eyes, sleek and dangerous-looking in his dark, rich dress, with his high cheekbones, dress sword, and ebony earrings. Tristan with his idealism and guilelessness, his opinions always contrary and his manner sensitive, gentle, and melancholy. The Scotsman, who was always kind, sensible, and moderate, ugly and steady as a rock. Donatien with his elfin beauty, sensuality, and seductive charm. Ulysse with his roaring laugh, skewering every form of injustice and hypocrisy with his boundless energy and ruthless sarcasm.
Later that week, I saw Séléné lead Tristan into the garden toward the fountain of the spring after dinner. On the same evening, Aurore confessed to me that she had let Donatien take her.
“I don’t know how to feel about it. I always believed in honoring my vows. I’m no Deist like the rest of you – I still hold to my faith in the truths of the Church. But then it didn’t seem I’d harm my husband or anyone else by it, which makes it hard to feel too terrible about it. It’s been so long since I felt wanted by a man or wanted one in return.”
“And – how was it, being with him?” I asked her.
“It was … strange. He was very passionate. But I expected my pleasure to be more. I felt as though he was mainly interested in taking something from me, not in giving to me. I felt hollow afterward, and he wasn’t very affectionate. I suppose I regret it. Though not as much as I probably ought to.”
That was her initial confession to me, but her mood worsened and her regret seemed to increase as time passed and Donatien continued to toy with her – taking her up and dropping her, repeatedly and coldly, even as he pushed her to do things she’d never considered doing in the bedroom before. At last she broke with him, only to be met with harsh indifference. After this I noticed Donatien began to watch me all the time, much as Harlequin always had, in a hungry way. At the same time he began to pay more attention to Clio.
I was not immune to his charm and felt inclined to forgive him. It was hard to turn my eyes away from him when he was in the room. His clothes were always near works of art in their tailoring and trims, their gorgeous fabrics and colors, and he moved with the confident grace of a lynx. As long as I didn’t succumb to his seductions, as long as I took wisdom from Séléné’s and Aurore’s suffering, I supposed there was no reason why I couldn’t admire him from a safe distance, appreciating the good in him and evading the bad.
I consented to walk with him in the garden one day, for I was curious to hear his side of why things had gone the way they did with Aurore. I had never met a man so free of scruples where seduction was concerned, and I felt a kind of botanist’s interest in studying and examining his character, trying to see into and understand the soul that underlay it.
“I know Aurore must have taken it badly,” he told me as we walked through the shaded, sweet-smelling bower under a roof of trellised white roses. “The last thing I ever mean to do is hurt anyone.” He heaved a sigh. “But I’m a strange man, I know, inwardly malformed and difficult to love.”
“She was very distressed, I can tell you.”
“It wasn’t that I didn’t love her, that’s what you have to understand. She inspired me, and still does, with her sweetness and virtue.”
“Which you wanted to corrupt.”
“No! Well, not only.” He laughed. “She made me wish to be a better sort of man, the kind she could love and admire. I sent thirty gold louis to a charitable organization she favors in Paris, a home for orphans, only in the hope of earning her regard. I thought she seemed lonely, confined as I know she’s been in that sham of a marriage to an old invalid. I thought it might give her pleasure to be made love to. Only, I just – I’m restless. I’m no good at patiently following the conventions. And I can’t trust my own heart to feel the same from day to day.”
I nodded, considering whether perhaps all men felt like this, and the flaw that made him seem villainous to some was only his sincerity and honesty about it. We spoke of his family, of his father, an uncannily successful and shrewd investor whom Donatien had always admired greatly, but who had never paid much attention to his children in his passion for acquiring ever more wealth and influencing the men of the court. Much as Donatien’s stories drew me in, I still tried to keep my distance in heart and mind.
“And whom do you intend to seduce next?” I asked boldly. “Clio? Or me, perhaps?”
He laughed and spread out his hands in a gesture of innocence.
“Me, seduce anyone? I don’t know where you get these calumnious notions from.”
I giggled, and he looked at me with unexpected tenderness.
“Would you like to sit down for a while?” he asked, pointing toward a bench. His eyes went to my waist and traveled back up to my face, full of longing. The pain in them affected me, and for a moment I imagined sitting with him as Aurore had done, letting him put his arm around my waist and lean his head in toward mine. Mightn’t it be a pleasure to be with him as long as one had no expectations of a lasting liaison? Thérion had said it was for me to choose with whom I made love. With a twinge of sadness I thought how sitting in the warm afternoon sun on a garden bench with a handsome admirer was something I could never do with Thérion, who would never walk with me in the daylight or allow me to look into his eyes when we made love. If Thérion denied me such simple pleasures, he shouldn’t begrudge me taking them elsewhere.
As I stood wavering, my hand slipped down into the pocket of my skirt, where I had taken to keeping the medallion of Cernunnos that I had borrowed from the chest, as if it were a kind of protective talisman. My fingers closed around the metal, and I took in a deep breath and let it out. The solidity of the pendant in my grip, its grooves under my thumb, recalled me to myself.
I made a show of looking up to gauge the distance in hand lengths of the sun from the top of the garden wall. “I ought to be getting back,” I said. “I wanted to write a letter before supper.”
Donatien’s face fell. We turned back to make our way through the labyrinth of hedges out to the path to the arch, but as we passed a shady corner, he took hold of my hand and pulled me back into the shade with him. Stepping behind me, he wrapped his arms around my waist and chest and held me tightly. His movement was so unexpected that I didn’t struggle but relaxed into his embrace. He kissed the side of my neck and whispered how beautiful I was, how he thought of me all the time, how I was different from anyone he’d ever known. I felt hot from the warmth of his body pressing against me from behind and dizzy from the biting pressure of his kisses. He began to move his hands down, and then I did struggle to free myself. His grip was iron and didn’t loosen.
“Come, what have you got to lose? Let me pleasure you,” he whispered. “I need this. I know you long for it too. What’s all this enlightenment for, if not so we’re free to reach the height of bliss together? No one else need ever know. Ma foi, you’ve the body of a goddess. You were made for love.”
“Let go.” I wriggled to free myself again, but he laughed and held me tighter. He was too strong for me. “I want to,” I said, “you’re right, but just not now. I’m not ready yet.” His grasp slackened then enough for me to break free. The momentum of pushing away from him carried me several steps forward, and I turned around to face him, breathless, my knees and elbows apart and slightly bent like a wrestler facing an opponent.
He realized then I hadn’t mean what I’d said, and his face darkened. He kicked the ground in disgust. “I don’t understand you. Can’t you see it’s cruel to make me want you this way? I’d never hurt you. People think I’m unfeeling but the truth is, I’m alone, and it hurts to be pushed away. I hoped I’d have something lasting with Aurore, but she couldn’t love the real me. She only wanted the fantasy. And now you, too.”
Had I really hurt him? “I apologize. Please forgive me.”
“Is it Harlequin?” he asked softly. “I’ve seen you look at him.”
I stiffened in embarrassment.
“But he’ll hurt you, I promise you that,” he said. “I’ve seen it before. He makes women fall in love with him, acting as though he’s in love with them. He strings them along as long as he can, for the sake of his vanity, but he never gives them anything. I’m not like that. I’m not withholding. I may not be perfect, but at least with me you know what you have and where you stand.”
“I need to go.” I turned around and walked quickly, almost running, around the corner of the hedge toward the exit of the maze, away from him, my head spinning with confusion and doubt. He didn’t follow.
Ashamed of how I had nearly succumbed to Donatien, and of the parcel of regret and uncertainty that had lodged itself in my soul ever since, I said nothing to Aurore or Thérion about the incident in the garden labyrinth. Mercifully or unmercifully, Donatien left me alone for the most part and we behaved as though it had never happened. Two or three times I caught him looking at me intently from across the library, his book unread in front of him, while I spent the morning at a writing desk working over a poem, but the emotion behind his gaze was unreadable. I wondered, still, if I had truly hurt or upset him with my refusal and if he genuinely had feelings for me.
On another of those mornings in the library, as I made notes to myself about a new poem and gazed idly at the sunlight streaming in through the window shade, the idea came to me of concentrating on the image of Donatien’s face as if I were going to write a poem about it. I had often found that when I began a poem this way – when I sat perfectly still and shut out everything from my thoughts and senses but a single image – a kind of intuition drew new knowledge to the surface of my consciousness that I hadn’t been aware was in me. But all I could gather from engaging in this sort of meditation on Donatien’s expression was a strange sense of … nothingness in him. There was simply a blankness. Was it an absence of esteem for me, perhaps? What my intuition seemed to tell me was that Donatien simply didn’t care for me, however charming and outwardly gallant he might be.
When I turned the meditation inward to examine my own feelings, what rose to the surface wasn’t so much hurt or annoyance, but a pity twined with tenderness. I felt sorry for him for being so empty, incapable of returning the warmth, affection, and curiosity I had felt for him all the times he had made me laugh or I had admired his beauty and elegance.
I put the discovery to the back of my mind. Aurore, for her part, comforted herself after her disappointment with Donatien by spending more time in the Scotsman’s company. I thought surely she couldn’t love such an ugly man, especially not after a liaison with such a beautiful one. But the Scotsman became her most faithful and favored reader during her morning sittings with Clio. He read tirelessly and with animation, and in the afternoons they walked together in the garden, à deux, or accompanied by others. A quiet mutual respect and admiration grew between them as they spoke of books, the Scotsman’s historical research and philosophical writing, and her work in gathering and compiling tales.
One night after dinner she read one of her fairy tales aloud to the company. It concerned a Persian maiden deceived by an ugly, wicked sorcerer who had drunk a potion to give himself the form of a handsome prince. Cast out into a desert and disinherited by her family, she endured trials and misfortunes before finally encountering a wretched beast that was half tiger and half antelope. She showed it kindness by giving it water and drying its tears when it cried over its ugliness. The beast then revealed itself to be the handsome king of a nearby kingdom who had hitherto been under a spell, and he made her his queen.
After that night, the Scotsman began to look at her with the lost expression of a lover. Although he was unfailingly respectful and gentlemanly towards her, he lost no opportunity to take her hand on a rocky part of the path, to lift her over a muddy spot by putting his hands around her waist, or to touch her arm when pointing out a bird or an unusual stone in the garden.
As for Clio, none of her male admirers succeeded very well in charming her. She spent the better part of her days painting and sketching, and neither Donatien nor Ulysse had the patience to sit with her as she worked in silence. Instead they went out riding with Harlequin, or they wandered the galleries of Boisaulne, while Harlequin explained the provenance of the objets d’art on the walls and pedestals and in the curiosity cabinets. Otherwise, Ulysse seemed mainly to devote himself to arguments and flirting with Séléné, who matched him with spirited rejoinders and arch teasing. Now and then he looked regretfully at Clio, as though ruing his inability to take a proper interest in her. She was friendly and cordial to him and seemed not to mind his lack of ardor.
Tristan, on the other hand, took great pleasure in watching her work, and she seemed to mind him least of her admirers. She sparked off a loud discussion at dinner by saying how she liked the novel he had read aloud, about the two lovers with their spiritual union. Ulysse was vocally dumbfounded that such an otherwise bright young woman could have such terrible taste in literature. Clio held her ground, insisting the story was fine and moving, and Tristan looked at her in worshipful gratitude.
“But he wouldn’t know how to flirt with a girl to save his life,” she confided to Aurore and me, talking about Tristan in the morning room over her breakfast chocolate. “And he hardly has a sou to his name. He’s a genius, but he lives with some stupid laundry woman who can’t even read, in a small town outside Paris, in a falling-down rented house. So I suppose we can’t ever be anything more than friends. What a bother. Doesn’t he have fine eyes, though?” She sighed.
“I’m sure he likes you a good deal,” I said.
“And I’m sure his intentions must be honorable, or he wouldn’t have told you about the laundry woman or the falling-down house,” Aurore pointed out. “Better to have a friend with a good character than a lover with a poor one.”
Clio propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her wrist dejectedly. “I suppose so.”
“But surely he could leave his laundry woman?” I said, arranging a happy ending for my friend in my mind. “Perhaps she doesn’t mean so much to him, if he hasn’t married her. Have they any children together?”
“He made her enceinte a few times, but he couldn’t afford to keep a family, so the babies were all given up to the foundling hospital. He’s very honest about it.”
Aurore and I exchanged glances with raised eyebrows.
“But I like that he’s honest,” Clio insisted. “There’s no harm in our having a friendship is there?”
“He’s lucky to have a friend in you,” Aurore said. “We all are.”
Nearly a month had gone by since I had first met Aurore in the morning room, and I hardly felt myself a prisoner at Boisaulne, now that I was surrounded by such lively companions during my days. The romances and intrigues of my new friends provided me with better entertainment than any theater ever could. It wasn’t always enough to distract me from missing Aimée and Valentin, but distraction enough that I felt guilty sometimes over how long I could go without aching for the sight of their faces. My only other twinges of unhappiness came in the form of wistfulness when I thought of Thérion. As I saw my new friends falling in and out of love with each other, I wished for the normalcy, even the banality, of such love affairs. To read together in the library, to walk in the garden together, to sit on a stone bench in the sun with our arms around each other – what delightful luxuries those must be. If only I could gaze on Thérion’s face, just once, and caress him with my eyes too, not only with my hands. And suppose it wasn’t the face I had dreamt of, suppose it wasn’t Harlequin’s – what of it? I would discover my true lover then. I was ready to face the truth.
Thérion was adamant, though, and deaf to my entreaties. Now he met them only with silence, as though I had not spoken, and made love to me all the more fiercely until I wept with pleasure, and tears continued to seep from my eyes.
I sought ways to keep a light in my room, hiding candles and lanterns, flints and tinder, but the darkness that accompanied Thérion seemed to be a part of the magic of Boisaulne. My flint wouldn’t spark, candles guttered out, the fire died in the fireplace, and the lantern wicks were snuffed out by the mysterious invisible hands of Thérion’s servants. The shutters of my window were silently shut and locked against any light of the moon or stars.
One morning I awoke to find a folded letter perched on top of my Book of the Rose, which I always kept next to me on my bedside table while I slept, with the medallion of Cernunnos tucked between its pages. The letter was from Edmée, who wrote that my father had fallen ill. She begged me to come home, and to forgive my father, who cried at the thought of the wrong he had done me in sending me off to Boisaulne. My silence had weighed heavily on him, and M. du Herle’s assurances that I was well had not consoled him. Enclosed was a letter from Valentin, spattered with teardrops. I was delighted to see how greatly his handwriting had improved in the few months he’d been away at school, but he wrote that the other boys beat him, and the Jesuit fathers also doled out beatings as punishments. The food was meager and terrible, and he was always cold and starving. He wished to come home and study on his own, or perhaps to become a farmer like his uncles. Aimée wasn’t getting along well with her cousins either, who were jealous she had a governess and didn’t have to do chores. Both of them missed me terribly and wished I would come home.