Angelique - Part 2. Marriage in Toulouse Chapter 4 - Read online

A DISCREET HAND TOUCHED ANGELIQUE’s ARM.
“Madame,” whispered Margot the maid, “this is the moment when you should leave. His lordship the Comte has charged me to lead you to the pavilion on the Garonne where you will spend the night.”
“But I don’t wish to leave!” protested Angelique. “I want to listen to that singer whom everyone praises so. I have not even seen him.”
“He will sing for you, Madame. He will sing for you in private, the Comte has promised it,” the big woman assured her. “But your sedan- chair is waiting.”
While speaking, she had thrown a hooded cloak over her mistress’s shoulders and held a black velvet mask out to her.
“Put this over your face,” she whispered. “Thus you won't be re¬cognised. Otherwise the tin-kettle musicians might well run all the way to the pavilion and upset your wedding-night with the terrific din they make on their pots and pans.
The maid giggled behind her hand. *
“It's always like that in Toulouse,” she explained. “The young couple that doesn’t manage to steal away like thieves jp. the night must pay a heavy forfeit in coins or else put up with the infernal row of those devils. Monseigneur and the police have tried to suppress this custom in vain.” V
She pushed Angllique into a sedan-chair, which two sturdy footmen promptly lifted on to their shoulders. A few riders emerged from the darkness to form an escort. After passing through a maze of narrow lanes, the small party reached the countryside.
The pavilion was a modest building surrounded by gardens that sloped down to the river. As she alighted, Angelique was starded by the pro¬found silence, .which was disturbed only by the chirping of crickets. Margot, who had ridden pillion behind one of the horsemen, slipped to the ground and showed the young bride into the empty house. With sparkling eyes and a smile on her lips, the maid apparently relished all this love-mystery.
Angelique found herself in a room tiled with mosaics. A small lamp burned near the alcove, but its light was wasted, for the moonlight shone so far into the room that it lent a snowy sparkle to the lace sheets on the big bed. Margot threw a last critical glance at the young woman, then hunted in her bag for a flask of angel-water for purifying the skin.
“Leave me,” protested Angelique impatiendy.
“Madame, your husband will come, you must . . .”
“I must nothing. Leave me.”
“Yes, Madame.”
The maid dropped a curtsy.
“I wish Madame a sweet night.”
“Leave me!” cried Angelique angrily for the third time.
She remained alone, annoyed with herself for not having been able to control her feelings in the servant’s presence. But she did not like Margot. Her sure and skilful manners intimidated her, and she feared her mocking black eyes.
She remained motionless for a long time, until the great silence of the room became more than she could stand.
Her fear awoke afresh. She clenched her teeth.
‘I am not afraid,’ she told herself almost aloud. *1 know what I have to do. I shall die rather than let him touch me!’
She walked towards the french window that opened out on the terrace. Only at Plessis had Angelique seen these elegant balconies that Renaissance architecture had made fashionable.
Toulouse was hidden by a turn of the river. There were only gardens and gleaming water in sight, and farther away maize-fields and vineyards.
Angelique sat down on die edge of a green velvet couch and let her fore¬head rest against the balustrade. The pearls and diamond pins of her intricate hairdress had begun to hurt her. She tried to undo it, not without difficulty.
‘Why didn’t that big fool undo it and undress me?* she thought. ‘Does she imagine my husband will do it for her?*
Inwardly she gave a mocking, sad little laugh.
‘Mother Saintc-Anne never failed to lecture us on the docility a woman must show to all her husband’s desires. And when she said all, she’d roll her eyeballs, and we’d stifle our giggles for we well knew what she was thinking of . But I’ve no taste for docility. Molines was right to say that I cannot bow to something I don’t understand. I’ve obeyed them to save Monteloup. What more can they ask of me? The Argentiere mine belongs to the Comte de Peyrac. He and Molines can go on trafficking. My father can continue to breed mules to carry the Spanish gold. If I died by throwing myself of f this balcony, nothing would be changed. Every¬one’s got what he wanted. . . .’
She had finally managed to undo her hair. It spread over her bare shoulders, and she shook it out with a toss of her head, in the wild familiar way of her childhood.
Just then it seemed to her that she heard a faint noise. Turning round, she stifled a cry of terror. Leaning against the frame of the french window, the lame one was gazing at her.
He was no longer wearing his red costume, but was dressed in breeches and a very short black velvet doublet.
He advanced with his uneven step and bowed deeply.
“Will you allow me to sit beside you, Madame?”
She nodded her head in silence. He sat down, rested his elbow on the stone balustrade, and gazed out nonchalantly.
“Several centuries ago,” he said, “under these very stars, ladies and troubadours would mount the walks on the walls of their castles, and there Courts of Love would be held. Have you heard of the troubadours of Languedoc, Madame?”
Angelique had not foreseen this kind of conversation. She was taut with defensive tension, and could only stammer with difficulty:
“I . . . I think so. . . . That’s what they called the poets in the Middle Ages.”
“The poets of love. Langue d'oc! The soft tongue! So different from the uncouth speech of the north, the langue (Toil. In Aquitaine people learned the art of love, for, as Ovid said: ‘Love is an art that can be taught and in which you can perfect yourself by studying its laws.’ Have you as yet taken an interest in this art, Madame?”
She did not know what to reply; she was too wary not to sense the slight irony in the other’s voice. From the way the question was put, both yes and no would have been equally ridiculous. She was not used to elegant dallying. Dazed by so many happenings, her gift for repartee had deserted her. She could only turn her head away and gaze mechanically out at the slumbering plain.
She realised that the man had moved closer to her, but she did not move.
“Do you see,” he went on, “in the garden, the little fish-pond into which the moon is dipping like a toadstone into a glass of anisette? . . . That water has the same colour as your eyes, my sweet. Never, in the whole wide world, have I come across such strange, such alluring eyes. And you see these roses which cling in garlands to our balcony? They are the same tint as your lips. No, truly, never have I met such lips . . . and such tightly-closed ones. As for their sweetness . . . I shall judge.”
Suddenly two hands had seized her waist. Angclique felt herself bent backward by a strength she had not suspected in this tall gaunt man. She found her neck thrown back into the hollow of an arm whose pressure numbed her. The horrible face loomed over her. She cried out with horror, writhed, sick with revulsion. Almost instantly she found herself free. The Conite had released her and was looking at her laughingly.
“It’s just as I thought. I scare you to death. You’d rather jump down from this balcony than be mine. Isn’t it so?”
She stared at him, with beating heart. He rose and his long spidery silhouette lengthened under the moonlit sky.
“I shall not force you, poor little virgin. I have no taste for that. So you’ve been delivered up brand-new to the Big Lame Man of Languedoc? What a terrible fate!”
He bent down and she hated his mocking smile.
“I want you to know that I have possessed many women in my life: white, black, yellow, red. But I’ve never taken one by force nor seduced one with money. They have all come to me freely, and you too will come some day, some night . . .”
“Never!”
The word had shot out violently, but the smile did not fade from that strange face.
“You are a young savage, but I don’t dislike that. An easy conquest renders love worthless, a difficult one lends it value. Thus spoke Andre Le Chapelain, master of the art of love. Good night, my pretty one, sleep well in your big bed, alone, with your graceful limbs and your
enchanting little breasts that will be so sad to have gone uncaressed. Good night!” —
When Angdlique woke up the next morning, the sun stood high in the sky. The birds, already dazed by the heat, were silent in the trees.
She could hardly remember how she had undressed and got into this bed with its emblazoned sheets that smelt of violets. She had wept with fatigue and disappointment, perhaps with loneliness. This morning she felt more dear-headed. The assurance her peculiar husband had given her that he would not touch her unless she herself desired it put her mind at rest for a while. ‘Does he imagine that I shall find his game leg and seared face irresistible?*
She toyed with the idea of a pleasant life at the side of a husband with whom she would be on terms of friendship. After all, life might not be lacking in charm. Toulouse of fered so many attractions.
Margot came in to dress her, discreet and impassive. At noon Angelique returned to town. Clement presented himself and announced that his lordship the Comte had instructed him to advise her ladyship that he was working in his laboratory and would not be back for lunch. Angelique felt relieved. The man added that the Comte had engaged him as his major-domo. He was well pleased with his new post. People hereabouts were loud and lazy but cordial. The house seemed to be rich and he would do his best to satisfy his new masters.
Angelique thanked him for his little speech, in which a hint of con-descension mingled with obsequiousness. She was not displeased to keep near her this fellow whose manners contrasted strongly with the exuber¬ance of her environment.
During the next days Angelique learned that the palace of the Comte de Pcyrac was certainly the most frequented place in town. The master of the house took an active part in all the festivities. His tall ungainly figure passed from one group to another, and Angelique was astonished by the animation aroused by his mere presence.
She was getting used to his appearance and her revulsion lessened. No doubt the thought that she owed him submission in the flesh had accounted for much of her violent resentment as well as for the fear he had inspired in her. Now that she felt reassured on this subject, she had to admit that the man attracted people, with his sparkling talk and playful, curious disposition.
Towards her he affected a casual indifference. While lavishing upon her the attentions due to her rank, he hardly seemed to see her. He greeted her every morning, and, seated opposite him, she presided over the meals, at
which there were always at least a dozen guests; thus she avoided a tite-h- tite with him.
Not a day passed, however, without her finding in her jroom a present— a scarf or a jewel, a new dress, a piece of furniture, even sweets and flowers. Everything was in perfect taste, and of a luxury that dazzled and enchanted her—but embarrassed her too. She did not know how to show the Comte the pleasure these presents gave her. Whenever she was obliged to address him directly, she could not make herself raise her eyes to his slashed face and she became gauche and started stammering.
One day she found in her room a red morocco-leather case with iron mountings. When she opened it, she found the most magnificent diamond necklace she could have ever dreamed of .
She was gazing at it tremblingly, convinced that the Queen herself surely had nothing comparable, when she heard her husband’s peculiar step.
Impulsively she ran towards him with shining eyes.
41 What a beauty! How can I thank you, Monsieur?”
Her enthusiasm had carried her towards him too fast. She almost knocked against him. Her cheeks met the velvet of his doublet, while a steely arm was grasping her. The face that terrified her seemed so close that her smile faded, and she drew back with an uncontrollable shudder of fear. Joffrey de Peyrac’s arm promptly fell away, and he said with a somewhat scornful casualness:
‘‘Thank me? Why? . . . Don’t forget, my dear, that you are the wife of the Comte de Peyrac, last descendant of the illustrious Counts of Toulouse. In this capacity, you must be the most beautiful, the most exquisitely adorned woman. Hereafter do not consider yourself obliged to thank me.”
Joffrey de Peyrac did not remind her of his prerogatives, except on very rare occasions: for instance, when there was a ball at the Governor’s or at the house of one of the higher city of ficials, which demanded that Madame de Peyrac indeed be the most beautiful and the most bejewelled woman in the gathering. On those occasions he would come in un¬announced, sit down near her dressing-table and watch attentively as the young woman dressed. He would guide Margot’s and the waiting- maids’ skilful hands with a word here and there. No detail escaped him. Feminine adornments held no secrets for him. Ang£lique marvelled at the acuteness of his observations, at his carefully studied elegance. As she was most willing to become a great lady of distinction, not a word of these lessons escaped her. In those moments she forgot her grudges and apprehensions.
But one evening, as she was looking at herself in the tall mirror, dazzling in an ivory satin dress with a high lace and pearl collar, she saw at her side the sombre figure of the Comte de Peyrac, and sudden despair weighed down on her shoulders like a leaden cape.
‘What good is wealth and luxury,* she thought, ‘in face of this dreadful fate: to be tied for life to a horrible, infirm husband !*
He suddenly realised that she was looking at him in the mirror, and as suddenly drew away.
“What is the matter? Don’t you find yourself beautiful ?”
She turned a mournful gaze back to her own image.
“Yes, Monsieur,*’ she said obediently.
“Well, then? . . . You might at least smile. . . .**
She thought she heard him sigh very softly.
In the months that followed, she came to realise that Jeffrey de Pcyrac lavished far more attention and compliments on other women than on his wife. His gallantry was spontaneous, gay, elegant, and the ladies strove to provoke it with obvious enjoyment. They were playing at being pricieuses, as the Paris fashion decreed.
“This is the Palace of Gay Learning,’* the Comte said to her one day. “Everything that contributed to the grace and courtesy of Aquitaine, and hence of France, must be found again in these walls. Thus, Toulouse has just celebrated its famous Floral Games. The golden violet has been awarded to a young poet of the Roussillon. From all parts of France and even of the world rhymesters of rondeaux come to Toulouse to be judged, under the aegis of Clemence Isaurc, who so brilliantly inspired the trouba¬dours of the past. So don’t be frightened, Angelique, by all the unknown faces that come and go in my palace. If they disturb you, you can always retire to the pavilion on the Garonne.”
But Angelique felt no desire to isolate herself. She gradually let herself be won over by the charm of this life of song. After first scorning her, several ladies found she had wit and welcomed her in their circles. The success of the parties the Comte gave in this house, which after all was hers as well, had roused in the young woman a desire to help in planning them properly. She could be seen running from the kitchens to the gardens, from the garrets to the cellars, followed by her three little blackamoors.
She had grown accustomed to their funny, black, round faces. There were many Moorish slaves in Toulouse, for the ports of Aigues-mortes and Narbonne were gateways to the Mediterranean, which was but one vast pirate lake. To sail from Narbonne to Marseille was a real expedition! At that time everyone in Toulouse was laughing uproariously at the mis¬adventures of a Gascon gentleman who had been captured by Arab galleys. The King of France had promptly bought him back from the Sultan of Barbary.
But, of the Comte’s negro servants, really only Kouassi-Ba impressed Ang£lique. When she saw this dark colossus with white enamel eyes loom before her, she had to check an urge to shrink back. Yet he seemed very gentle. He never left the side of the Comte de Peyrac except when he kept watch over the door to a mysterious apartment at the farthest end of the palace. The Comte withdrew there every evening and sometimes in the daytime. Angelique had no doubt that this forbidden domain sheltered the retorts and phials which the page Henrico had mentioned to Fantine. She felt a great curiosity to enter it, but did not dare. It was to be one of the visitors to the Palace of Gay Learning who would finally enable her to discover this hidden facet of her husband’s strange personality.