The Porcelain Dove Read online

  Snug in a world where each magic had its reasonable explanation, I began to think of Beauxprés—its birds, its cabinet des Fées, and its mère Malateste—as a kind of living bibliothèque bleu of incredible tales and legends with which to regale my fellow servants. I was a child of the Enlightenment, me, educated and well-read. Witches were for ignorant peasants to believe in.

  Being a devout atheist, M. le duc de Malvoeux did not himself observe the feast of Christ's Nativity. Neither would he accompany my mistress to Mass on Christmas morning, although he graciously consented to take dinner at the hôtel Fourchet, and even to refrain from arguing politics or economy with his father-in-law.

  All the while I was dressing her, madame fretted and fidgeted. "I do not know what will be worse," she complained. "If madame my mother has told them I am increasing or if she has not. If she has not, I will be spared Pauline's jealousy. If she has, I will be spared Hortense's teasing about how stout I've grown. I protest I'm tempted to plead a migraine and keep my bed."

  "If madame is absent, her sisters will while away the afternoon speculating on her health, and decide at last either that madame has miscarried or that the child is none of her husband's getting. And consider—if madame doesn't go to the rue Quincampoix, Pompey and I will be condemned to eating cold mutton in an empty house."

  "Oh, Lud, so you must. Well, that won't do, I suppose," said my mistress playfully. "I indulge you, and you tyrannize over me. I should beat you, I vow, or stop your wages, or even dismiss you." She caught my hand, hovering with a comb by her ear, and held it briefly to her lips. "Instead, I'll brave Pauline and Hortense and their tiresome husbands, my father's gout, my mother's sharp tongue, and M. de Malvoeux's inevitable ill-humor, not to mention indigestion and headache, all that you may dance with my father's handsome valet de chambre. Just see you don't lose your heart to him."

  "If madame permits, I shall take Marie as a chaperone."

  "Poor Marie. Naturally, she must not be left to dine alone. She may ride on the box with you and Carmontelle."

  This arrangement found more favor with Marie than with Carmontelle, who grumbled prodigiously at the crowding, vowed he could not drive so impeded by women and skirts, and cursed my panniers to hell and back every time we took a corner. But as the postilions had as much to do with guiding the horses as he, we arrived at the rue Quincampoix without mishap.

  While the greater part of the household was occupied in serving up the Christmas feast, Dentelle, Marie and I retired to the back kitchen with the other femmes and valets de chambre: Saint-Cloud and Olympe for the du Fourchets, Louison and LeBeau for the de Bonsecours, and two I hadn't met before who belonged to the comte and comtesse de Poix.

  Saint-Cloud greeted us warmly. "Joyeux Noël, Dentelle. Berthe, I'd swear you grow prettier by the day! Pray present me to your charming friend." He studied Marie until she turned scarlet. "I adore girls who carry the smell of the country upon their skin. It quite adds a year to my life to be around them."

  "Ah, bah, Saint-Cloud," I said, kissing his cheek. "This is Marie Vissot, personal laundress to madame. There is not a blanchisseuse in all of Paris to touch her way with thread-lace, so pray you be civil to her. Marie, this out-sized piece of nature is Gilles Lasnier, called Saint-Cloud, who is valet de chambre to M. le baron and the most shameless gallant this side of Montmartre."

  As Saint-Cloud kissed Marie's fingers, Olympe approached in a rustle of taffeta to embrace me. Saint-Cloud then opened a bottle or two of M. le baron's bettermost champagne, and before long, M. de Poix's valet, who was called LeFranc, was regaling us with the story of how his master had threatened to beat him for overheating the tongs and scorching his best peruke into a frazzle.

  "'Lud, monsieur,' says I to he. 'Indeed, you must thank me instead.' And, 'Why, capon?' says he, though he's a fine one to be calling me a capon, he who is no earthly use to his wife or any other woman."

  "Mon Dieu! Has he been gelded, then?" inquired Marie anxiously.

  LeFranc spluttered into his champagne and began to cough. Amid great peals of general laughter, Dentelle reached over and thumped him smartly upon the back.

  "Sacré Mère de Dieu!" Olympe managed at last. "I'll burst my stays! No, Marie, M. de Poix hasn't been gelded."

  "No need," said LeFranc unsteadily. "His name alone tells all." And then we were all off again, Marie as well this time, until our sides ached and we could laugh no more.

  "Aye me," said Saint-Cloud at length. "So, let us hear the rest, LeFranc. Why should your master have thanked you for ruining his peruke?"

  LeFranc wiped his eyes and ventured another sip of champagne. "The story is not near so amusing as the prologue, I fear, but here 'tis, as perfect an instance of a fool setting the mode as you'd ever wish to see. 'Why, monsieur,' I says. ' 'Tis a full two weeks since monsieur set Paris buzzing with the scarlet hose he wore with the suit of purple velvet. All the world waits for monsieur's next daring fashion. Add but a dusting of blue powder to the frizz, parade it along the boulevards, and in two days, Paris will stink of scorching hair.' He thinks for a little with his eyes squinched up, so. Then, ' 'Pon my soul,' says he, 'thou art a Jacquard among valets, LeFranc.' And he bestows upon me the sapphire from his cravat, flings a pound of blue powder upon his head, and goes whistling off to the promenade, looking like nothing I have ever seen."

  "He sounds like a heron," I said judiciously. "Especially when one considers his spindly legs."

  "Ah," said Louison. "I've heard about your master and his birds. My mistress, she finds him peu sympathique, and declares 'tis a marvel to see him dine upon bread and flesh and not upon raw grain or beetles."

  Dentelle, who'd been sitting a little apart from us, sneering to himself as he drank, set down his glass with a snap. "Thy mistress is a great cow," he said. "Does it therefore follow that she dines upon hay?"

  Louison gaped at him, whereupon Dentelle descanted upon his master's impeccable lineage until Saint-Cloud wearily bade him shut his jaw. There was an uncomfortable silence into which I said peaceably, "My master's no worse than many another, Louison. My mistress is mad with love for him, and he seems fond enough. Although"—with a sly glance at Dentelle—" 'tis my opinion she's barely even with his birds on that score."

  "That's as may be," said LeFranc. "But I hear that Mme la duchesse is heavy of his child, and I'll warrant there's no bird can say the same." He laid a finger to his nose and winked. "To tell true, the half of Paris is privy to the news. Madame my mistress was storming up and down the house, shouting: 'Here's my sister enceinte not seven months since her wedding, and I still a virgin after four long years. I rejoice that she, at least, has wed a man and not a tailor's dummy.' Costerine, thou should'st advise thy mistress that a reluctant husband is not to be seduced by pelting him with candlesticks and hard words."

  What Costerine would have answered I don't know, for just then Pompey appeared, looking small and very black in a suit and turban of white satin.

  "Why, if 'tis not madame's little baboon, let off its chain for a Christmas treat," cried Marie, who had drunk her share of champagne. "Come hither, ape, and dance for us!"

  Pompey shrank into his jacket and looked as though he would have fled the room if he'd known where to hide. "Shame, Marie," I said. "You shouldn't drink if you can't hold your wine." I rose carefully, crossed the room, took the child by the hand, and led him back to the fire. "Olympe, you know Pompey. Pray present him."

  Olympe introduced Pompey civilly enough, and he ventured a shy smile which Louison declared most charming, like pearls against black velvet. He looked alarmed, but taking no notice of his shrinking, she drew him to her and commenced to stroke his hands, exclaiming on the pinkness of his palms and the softness of his black skin.

  "Oh, let me touch," said Costerine and dabbed gingerly at his cheek. "Peste! You're right. Just like good felt. But he's so ugly, Louison. Have you seen such a face outside the royal menagerie? The duchesse de Grandcourt's blackamoor is not nearly so tarry and b
lubber-lipped as this. Duvet, are you sure he's not an ape after all?"

  Pompey looked pleadingly at me. I could see that his chin was wrinkled with the effort of keeping his bottom lip still; his eyes swam with tears. "Apes don't weep," I said as levelly as I could.

  Louison took Pompey's chin in her hand and turned his head to look into his face. "So he is weeping," she said, surprised. "I'd no idea he could understand me."

  "He's a human child, Louison, and I who have watched him serve madame these seven months can tell you he's quicker in his wits than most children, and infinitely better behaved."

  Well, this inspired Dentelle to a jibe about crocodile tears and Costerine to protest that the most mischievous ape was better behaved than most children, and then M. Dubedat the chef de cuisine entered the back kitchen followed by a chattering crowd of servingmaids and kitchen-boys bearing linen, china, and cutlery. Pompey was forgotten.

  We ate as well as our masters above-stairs, I dare say, for M. Dubedat was one who did not shrink from shoeing his mule at his master's expense. Trout and roast larks and veal there were in abundance, as well as a large bûche de Noël and chocolate iced cream. With each dish came its wine, until we all grew merry as nuns on the sabbath. When we were done eating, the tables were pushed aside, Carmontelle produced a fiddle, and lackeys and maidservants, kitchen-boys and femmes de chambre, valets, coachmen, postilions and all commenced to dance.

  After one particularly lively tarantelle, I collapsed upon a bench beside Olympe. Her color was very high, she smelled of lilac-water, sweat, and eau de vie, and she seemed wholly unconscious that her nipples were showing above the neck of her elegant English nightgown. Blearily she smiled at me and reached up to pinch my cheek.

  "Thou art in truth charming, ma mie, a credit, I feel, to she who had the raising of thee." A sly look came over her face and she leaned closer. "Come," she whispered, "are thy mountain boys as lusty as we hear? Tell Olympe thine amorous adventures, and I'll swear upon my gold beads that thou shalt not hear them told thee again as the finest new on-dit."

  "Of course I trust thee, Olympe, but upon my mother's blessed soul, I swear to thee I've nothing to tell. I return to Paris just as I left it: virgo intacta."

  "Chut! Either thou liest or the men of Beauxprés are all capons like our dear M. de Poix. Never mind; if that's thy tale, then I will back it." She put her mouth to my ear. "Hear, untrustful one, how I trust thee. At the de Chardons' this autumn, no less a personage than the marquis d'Emplumer summoned me to his bed. Ah, Berthe, the pleasure of it! His lips like burning coals upon my breast, and his hands, and his mighty sword that thrust me through and through. . . . If 'twere possible to die indeed of pleasure, I'd have given up the ghost upon the moment." I looked at her blankly. She leaned back and giggled. "His tool, silly child, his manhood. 'Twas prodigious large, and he wielded it with a will. I vow I didn't piss comfortably for a fortnight."

  I felt myself blush scarlet.

  "What an infant thou art, to be sure," said Olympe, and patted my cheek. "I begin to believe thee virgin indeed. After he'd sated himself, the marquis gave me a gold louis and offered to set me up in my own apartments in the rue de Rivoli with a carriage and a chain of sapphires. I was tempted, I vow. But I'm nearly thirty, though you'd not think it to look at me. You know how men are—he'd discard me at the first wrinkle. Having no desire to end my days in a ditch, I regretfully declined. Would you credit it, ma mie? He wept. Perhaps I should have accepted his offer after all."

  That night, a little drunk myself, I examined my face in madame's hand glass, and wondered what I would say to such a proposal. The circumstance was not altogether beyond belief, for I was young and well-shaped, as well as having particularly good teeth. Handsomer men than Menée had stared at my breasts; Saint-Cloud himself had said I was a toothsome piece. Presumably he, and they, had imagined—how had Olympe put it?—thrusting me through with their swords. I could very well imagine dying of such a proceeding, but not from pleasure. I remember I felt quite terrified and sick—though that could have been the champagne—and calming myself with a fantasy of how 'twould play on the stage, where lovers grapple only with words.

  The curtain would rise on a summer-house or a private salon, discovering me seated upon a sofa or a rustic bench, reading. Enter a handsome marquis or chevalier, who, upon seeing me there, would clutch his breast, fling himself at my feet, and reverently embrace my slippers.

  "Thou art more beautiful than an angel," he'd exclaim. "Only let me hope, and the meanest of thy jewels shall be a chain of gold and amber."

  Withdrawing my feet from beneath his brow, "Monsieur," I would reply. "Beg no more, I pray. Twenty golden chains would not suffice to draw me from my mistress' side, who has all my service and my love. You mean kindly, monsieur, I'm sure. But no." Then I thought I'd give him my hand to kiss, and perhaps a tiny lock of hair pour mémoire.

  Such nonsense! But I remember being moved to tears by my imagined lover's despair and my own noble chastity. Is there any greater fool than a virgin of twenty bung-full of sentiment and champagne on Christmas night?

  After her morning-sickness passed off, madame's pregnancy proceeded without incident. She was only eighteen years old, after all, and (thanks to the meat and oporto) in stout health. So stout, in fact, that by March, Marie had let out her waists as far as they would go, and it became apparent to all that 'twas high time for Mme de Malvoeux to retire to the country. Accordingly, back to Beauxprés we posted, as soon as the roads became passable.

  Once more monsieur disappeared into his aviary, and this time madame was glad enough to see him go. The more her belly and her ankles swelled, the more moody she grew, and snappish, and prey to odd fancies and hungers. One week, she desired all her dishes to be garnished with pickle even though mère Malateste warned her that such a diet must make the child hot-tempered. Then she took a fancy to be bled, and fretted until mère Malateste consented to put a leech to her arm and draw off a gill of blood. Though the treatment made her weak and more peevish than before, the witch-wife repeated it twice or thrice, saying 'twas likely to keep the baby small and the labor short, which would be all to the good, she was sure.

  My part in all this was more work than a month of court presentations and far more tedious: back-massaging, foot-bath carrying, posset-fetching, listening to madame's endless speculations on the infant's sex, its name, its character and future prospects. I took some little comfort, however, in monsieur's continuing absence and in madame's need of me, which grew more anxious as her confinement approached. From the time she rose in the morning until she lay down at night, I must be by her side, keeping boredom and fear at bay. To be sure, 'twas no more than I'd prayed for only a year past, but now I found myself a little lonely and not so indulgent of her moods as I had been. And I missed Pompey, whom mère Malateste had forbidden madame's sight until she be delivered, lest monsieur's heir be born with a darker skin than is usual among the French nobility.

  Madame's pangs began one sweltering August night, when a full moon hung swollen and red above the far hills. I ran to fetch mère Malateste with sweat running down my face and such a stitch in my side that almost I felt as though I too labored.

  "It's begun!" I gasped, flapping my apron at the witch-wife's hissing geese. "Oh, pray make haste, mère Malateste. Madame dies with pain."

  "Hmph." Very leisurely, mère Malateste began to pack bunches of herbs, an earthen jar, and a small jug into a basket. "Mme la duchesse had best accustom herself to pain," said she. "First babies are a mortal long time coming. I've known a girl labored three days and more, and brought forth nothing at last but dead meat and blood." Horrified, I stared at her, and she laughed. "Never tha fear: I've the delivering of this babe. Thy mistress'll bear a living child; I have sworn it. But don't tha be thinking 'twill be easy."

  Indeed it was not easy. For upwards of sixteen hours mère Malateste, two old grannies from the village, Marie, and I sat in murk and heat while madame groaned and sweated und
er a featherbed. They'd called for it when they came in, as well as a knife, a comb, a bottle of brandy, a pot of water and the fire built up to a midwinter roar. The knife went under the bed to cut the pain, the comb was dragged through my mistress' hair to keep its tangles from binding the child in her body. When the pot of water boiled, "Nothing like heat to draw out a reluctant child," said mère Malateste, and put scalding clothes to madame's belly while I fed her warm brandy and one of the grannies rubbed her privates with a foul-smelling unguent mère Malateste swore would make the baby pop from her, when the time came, like a pea from its pod.

  As the day wore on, she massaged madame's belly while the grannies enlivened our waiting with tales of infants strangled by their own birth cords, of midwives who had torn a foot or an arm from a babe while drawing it forth from the womb, of monstrous litters of hedgehogs or tiny devils that had leapt from between their mothers' thighs to scurry madly about the floor before flying up the chimney, blaspheming.