The Porcelain Dove Read online

  In my memory, a small voice cuts through these final words like shears through silk—Linotte's voice, crying, "This chevalière, is she a hare?"

  We were in the China antechamber, as I recall, madame at her embroidery, Linotte at her sampler, me reading Mme de Bonsecours' letter aloud to them as they worked. Madame had returned from Paris fired with determination to teach her daughter the maidenly pursuits she herself had learned at the convent. I cannot say she taught her well, having no more idea of how to proceed than of how to write a book of philosophy. Yet these lessons were not unpleasant.

  The day of Mme de Bonsecours' letter, for instance. When we stared at her interruption, not knowing what to answer, Linotte repeated her question: "Is the chevalière a hare?"

  "Of course not, mignonne," said madame, rather snappishly, "nor is she a she at all, but only a silly man dressed up in petticoats. Why should she—peste!—he be anything other?"

  Linotte clearly found this question as silly as the chevalière. To my surprise, she answered it nonetheless.

  "Well, madame, when le bon Dieu let the waters come down in the great flood, all the animals had to get on the ark in a great hurry. The hares, being very fast, were among the first to enter, but so were the tigers, and the tigress was very hungry, for she was carrying cubs. It took a very long time for all the rest of the animals to get on the ark, and when Noë came at last to feed the tigers and the hares, he found the male hare mourning over a pile of clean bones.

  "'Mme la Tigresse has eaten my poor wife,' cried the hare. 'Who will now bear leverets to run upon the new earth le bon Dieu prepares for us?' But Noë could not answer him. So the hare fell to his knees and called upon le bon Dieu, who told him that when the waters had departed, the hare would turn female and bear a litter, also male, who would turn female in their season and bear other litters, and so there would always be leverets and hares. And then le bon Dieu turned to the tigress and He marked her beautiful golden hide with black bars in punishment for her crime, though He forbore to make her all black because she was only feeding the children within her.

  "And that is why I asked if the chevalière is a hare, madame, for that's the only creature to be male one season and female another. Unless"—here her face brightened with revelation—"unless by chance she has walked under a rainbow, right under the center of it, and changed from man to woman in the space of a step?"

  Madame sighed and shook her head. "Petite idiote!" she said. "All the world knows that hares are born male and female, even as tigers and horses and chickens are. Are they not, Berthe?"

  I glanced at Linotte. She'd offered up her nonsense with such a pretty air of solemnity, as though 'twere Gospel, and now she looked so cast down that I pitied her. "Well, madame," I said carefully. "It seems likely. Yet I have never seen a female hare, nor has M. Malesherbes, in all his years of roasting, stewing, and sautéing them. So we must either believe that all female hares are so much quicker and smarter than their husbands and brothers that no one ever catches them, or else we must believe that Mlle Linotte's story has some grain of truth in it after all."

  "Peste, Berthe, thou'rt as great an idiot as she," was all my mistress had to say. But I was rewarded by Linotte's smiling at me—a secret smile, the smile of one initiate to another. I smiled in return, though I could not imagine what mystery she thought we shared. That was the moment I decided to ask madame to give Peronel to Linotte as her femme de chambre.

  It seemed a good idea at the time, not only to me, but also to madame, who remarked sentimentally that Linotte was almost the age she'd been when I entered her service. "And how much happier they'll be than you and I, exiled to Port Royal. We must close the nursery and give her her own rooms, of course. Do you think the Cameo apartment would suit?"

  As the Cameo apartment opened out of the cabinet des Fées, it suited Linotte very well, as did her official elevation to young ladyhood. Peronel, however, was oddly reluctant.

  "But I like the laundry," she said when I told her of her good fortune. "I know nothing of rouge and head-dresses, Berthe, nothing of serving a great lady. And what if I want to marry someday?"

  "Oh, Peronel. She's only a child as yet—you've time and enough to learn about the mode. And as for your marrying. . . . Listen to your Berthe, now. The bonds forged in youth are strong. The younger your mistress, the more events you both will witness and suffer together and the closer you'll grow, until a single heart beats in your two bodies. And if that prospect does not move you, consider that if you attend the child, mère Boudin will not. At a stroke, we'll all be rid of an unpleasant old hag, and you'll gain an extra five livres a year for your purse."

  A year passed, a year of false peace in which monsieur once again welcomed madame into his aviary, Peronel learned to dress hair, Marie bore her first child, Pompey taught Linotte her letters, and mère Boudin set up in the village as a seller of secondhand linens. She did very well for herself, the château laundry-maids being glad to sell the worn sheets to her rather than wait on the peddler, who came by only twice or thrice a year and was a great thief besides. No one spoke of the beggar, though his shadow could still be discerned in monsieur's continued economies and the bowl of ashes in Mme Pyanet's garden. Then one summer's day, Artide came into the back kitchen waving a letter like a banner above his head. It was creased and stained and directed in an illiterate scrawl to M. le duc de Malvoeux.

  "Jacques Charreton brought it this morning," he said. "It came from Nantes, he said, and the carrier who brought it had it of a sailor on the warship Belle Poule. I take it no one'll object if I open it?"

  For answer, M. Malesherbes heated a sharp knife, and a crowd of assistant chefs, scullions, and servingmaids gathered around as Artide gently pried up the wax, unfolded the single sheet, and read it aloud.

  March, 1778. M. le duc de Malvoeux. Expedition impressed into the navy. Have seen many islands, none of them Fortunate. Besides my ship, only birds common gulls and terns. C'est la guerre.

  Yr. obedient servant, Gouberville

  Artide laughed. "So much for Hy Brasil and Avalon. If the Dove's in the Indies, some Englishman has undoubtedly shot it and stuffed it by now. The English are like that, they say."

  "Think you monsieur will rave again?" Finette asked breathlessly. "I missed it last time."

  "Idiote!" snapped M. Malesherbes. "Imbecile! I see it now. Monsieur in an uproar, madame unable to swallow more than a spoonful of soft custard. I know not why I remain here, cooking for a madman and a malade imaginaire, when a prince of the blood royal has offered me a place in his kitchens. Par Dieu, I must be as mad as our master, me."

  The sous-chef suggested that we burn the letter on the grounds of monsieur's heart not grieving over what his eye did not see. Artide shrugged. "What do you care whether monsieur grieves or not, eh? He cares nothing for your feelings. Besides, 'twill do him good to know that there are matters in the world more pressing than his jean-foutre bird."

  So we sealed the letter up again and Artide took it to monsieur, who read it and flung it upon the fire. He did not rave, did not so much as frown, and for all I know to the contrary, spoke of it to no one, neither then nor later. I can only conclude that he decided there was no letter, and therefore no war, and that a bird-hunter still searched the West for a Porcelain Dove.

  In the summer of 1780, the baron du Fourchet succumbed to a meal of port and lobster and went to learn how taxes were farmed in Heaven.

  Monsieur made no objection to madame's attending her father's funeral. Indeed, he said he'd accompany her, and Linotte as well. Although the weather was charming and the journey an easy one, to my dismay Peronel was quiet and sullen the whole while, hated the inns and the changing land, and pronounced the Seine valley flat and tedious. Paris was a pigsty, the Tuileries not so handsome as the gardens of Beauxprés, and the elegant ladies in their barouches and diligences wore their hair too high and their gowns too low. She pronounced Olympe and her friends a flock of hens tricked out like peacocks, and th
e handsome Mlle Raucourt an over-painted virago who squealed like a pig. I began to think Peronel an ungrateful chit.

  The house on the rue Quincampoix was more crowded than usual. Mme de Poix had returned from England to pay her last respects to her father, and her husband seized the opportunity to demand the return of her marriage settlement. I couldn't take three steps outside my mistress' chamber without running into her or her new English maid, or M. de Poix, or M. de Poix's handsome secretary, or M. de Poix's lawyer, or the young vicomte de Montplaisir.

  Two years at L'Epieu had polished M. Léon to a high gloss. His neckcloths were astounding, his coats a second skin, his boots like glass, and he wore his own unpowdered hair tied back in a velvet band. He drawled when he spoke, sprawled when he sat, and dangled a lace kerchief from his finger's ends as daintily as any petit maître. His shoulders were still broad and his eyes pale and cold: a wolf in dandy's clothing.

  And like a wolf, he had an attendant fox—a thin, sandy manservant called Alain Reynaud. When monsieur first became aware of him, I thought there would be murder done. 'Twas in madame's chamber as she dressed for the baron's funeral and the subject of her gown arose—how much it had cost and who was to pay for it. M. Léon agreed with monsieur that it had been very dear and madame returned the betrayal by inquiring whether the scrawny boy loitering at the door were another of L'Epieu's numerous amenities?

  Monsieur turned his cold eye first upon the boy and then upon his son. "This lout belongs to you? Take care, Montplaisir, how you spend my gold without my leave. Begone, you," he told the boy, who cowered against the door. "And be grateful I don't have the public hangman count out your wages across your back."

  M. Léon looked black for a moment, then laughed. "Come, m'sieur. 'Twill be a savings to ye, I declare. Here's laundry and personal services twenty livres per annum, not counting the odd silver for the carriage of messages and suchlike. A manservant costs no more than half that amount, outside of the livery, which may be sent from Beauxprés at no expense."

  Monsieur looked thoughtful. "Ten livres, hein?"

  Madame was clearly regretting her attack. "Let the vicomte keep him, François. He looks a sober lad."

  "The boy's name is Alain Reynaud," said M. Léon, "and he's as sober as rain water. He's clever as well, and monstrous deft with a razor."

  "Ten livres," said monsieur, rising. "And a suit of clothes. If we wait until the New Year to pay him, I make it thirty livres saved. I begin to hope for you, Montplaisir."

  The farming of money being a highly civilized pursuit, the funeral of the baron du Fourchet was consequently a highly civilized affair, and the bankers and politicians crowding the church of Sainte-Catherine were solemn rather than grief-stricken. Mme du Fourchet may have shed a tear or two behind her widow's veil, but if she wept, she wept alone. Me, I felt only so much grief as any mortal creature must feel in the presence of a coffin and a grave.

  After the funeral, certain mourners accompanied Mme la baronne back to the hôtel Fourchet, where over wine and cake they gossiped and flirted as usual. Before long, M. and Mme de Poix had begun exchanging their usual shrill pleasantries, the abbé was pale drunk, and I was seeking refuge in the lavender-scented quiet of the linen-room.

  When I opened the door, what should I see but Peronel struggling in the vicomte de Montplaisir's embrace?

  "M. Léon!" I exclaimed.

  Grinning with all his teeth, he released her, pushed me aside, and loped away down the hall, leaving Peronel backed up against the cupboards, her face flushed, her bosom heaving, her breath ragged.

  "Pauvre petite." I went to her and drew her into my arms. She shook her head and pulled away.

  Overcome with shame, I thought. Poor girl. "He should be ashamed, not you," I scolded her gently. "And ashamed he shall be, when I tell madame how her son forces his attentions upon her servants."

  She seized my hand in both of hers. "Oh, no Berthe! Oh, please, no! Not a word to madame, I entreat you. Why, she could decide that the best way to protect me is to send me away, and I couldn't bear that, Berthe, indeed I could not! Besides, 'tis all my fault for coming to Paris."

  "Never blame yourself for M. Léon's goatish ways," I began, but Peronel interrupted me with her arms about my neck and her voice in my ear.

  "Dear Berthe," she murmured. "Thou canst not be mother to all the world." Then she kissed me upon the cheek and fled, leaving me entirely bewildered.

  Next morning, she was nowhere to be found. She left behind all her small possessions, with the exception of a silver cross and the little scarlet purse in which she was storing up her wages.

  Madame was furious. "Wretch," she exclaimed when I told her of Peronel's disappearance. "Ungrateful. I always thought the girl both shifty and sly. You, you saw some promise in her, and I entrusted her with my daughter's well-being. Le bon Dieu be thanked she's stolen nothing."

  Because I was coming to know this mood in my mistress better than I liked, I saved my breath to inquire after Peronel among the servants of madame's friends. I even ventured to visit a house of accommodation in Saint-Antoine whose matron, as a young whore, had bought peignoirs of my mother. No one had heard of a fresh young country girl newly taken into service or gone upon the game. And when I came upon Reynaud lurking by the closet where the maidservants slept and demanded of him where Peronel might be, all the answer he gave was to stare at me with sly, bright eyes, lick his white teeth, and slink away.

  CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH

  In Which the Vicomte Proves Himself a True Son of Malvoeux

  Soon after the funeral, monsieur returned to Beauxprés, taking Linotte with him. Madame and I remained in the rue Quincampoix, this time at her mother's request. Mme the widowed baronne du Fourchet felt old and tired and desired her children about her. Pauline had become a trollop and a harpy; Hortense was, as ever, impossible. Surely Adèle knew that she had always been her mother's favorite child.

  Had I been my mistress, I'd have laughed in her nose and taken myself elsewhere. Madame wept and stayed.

  During the six months following the baron's death, madame could not go abroad, nor did that part of society she loved best care to call upon a house of mourning. Our only company was M. le baron's cronies—Farmers Général, officials of the Contrôle Générale, bankers, financiers—who came to the hôtel Fourchet to console their old friend's widow and stayed to eat her excellent dinners and gloom over the everlasting war with England and the upstart Necker's draconian reforms. 'Twas all as dull as hemming sheets.

  If the winter of 1778 had been a whirligig of cicisbeos and entertainments, the winter of 1780 was an altogether more staid affair. Black did not become my mistress, convention barred her from balls and soirées, and there were now beauties on the town more piquant, more complaisant, and far more witty than she. I'd no cause for jealousy—quite the opposite. 'Tis the nature of a glass to reflect, and if there's no belle or beau present, then it must reflect whoever is—crêpe-faced mother or whey-faced banker. 'Tis not astonishing that my mistress preferred to reflect me.

  Save that we were older, she and I, we might have been back at the convent. A quiet, close six months, like a meadow among mountains of activity; a time of sitting by the chamber fire, she in an armchair, I on a low stool, she embroidering, I mending, she writing to Mme Réverdil, I reading aloud to her from popular pamphlets of art and science, favorite fairy tales, chapters of La Nouvelle Héloïse and the comtesse de Malarmé's new Mémoires de Clarence Welldone, a cleverly naughty broadside. Dressing and undressing, planning new heads for when she was out of mourning, and the sweet nightly ritual of brushing her hair while she sat, eyes closed and smiling, sighing gently now and again as I drew the brush through and through the springing ebony mass.

  Sometimes I'd wake in the night from a dream of wizards or dunghills or beaked and feathered children and take comfort from the familiar rumble of cart-wheels upon the cobbled street. I'd even smile to think myself so far removed from cursing beggars, bird-mad ducs,
and the cries of ghostly children.

  What a fool I was, to be sure.

  'Twas three o'clock of a chilly spring night. Madame, now in demi-mourning, was at a soirée. I was awaiting her return in the back kitchen, half-dozing over a poem on gardens I'd bought of a peddler just that morning. The hôtel Fourchet was very silent: I could hear the rain rattle when the wind caught it like pebbles thrown against the windows. Once the wind whipped up hard, and the pebbles rattled so fiercely I thought the glass must break. Then the wind faded, and I realized that what I heard was not the rain at all, but a hand tapping, tapping at the kitchen window.

  I hesitated—only a fool would act without hesitation on such a night, at such an hour—then took my candle to the window. A figure like a drowned corpse stood without, white-faced and staring. The figure raised its hand to tap again, the mouth shaped my name, and I saw 'twas Peronel, wet as a rat and thin as famine, but alive.

  In less time than it takes to tell, I had her in the kitchen with the fire stirred up and a blanket around her shoulders, her feet to the blaze, and a chunk of bread and cheese in her hands. She was dressed in a green-striped polonaise with a fichu covering her bosom—not new, not a la mode, but respectably clean. For twenty minutes or so, she nibbled at the cheese and stared silently into the fire. Fearing my mistress would return, I asked, "Where hast thou been, child? I half-thought thee dead."