Part 9: "Les Ombres" (The Shadows)

Salzburg, Austria

Winter 1779

Prince Maximilian Roehm Von Weyrother paused a moment before entering the music room. She was here. He checked his appearance in the glass just outside the door. He was what he was, there was nothing to be done about that, but surely he was not wholly unacceptable? He was twenty-four years old, a Brigade Major of the Prince Hohenzollen's Second Regiment of Chevauxlegers. He was of good height, broad of shoulder and trim of waist. His blunt, square-jawed face was perhaps a bit too ruddy from the cold, but not unhandsome, certainly? He squinted at himself, feeling a little ridiculous for being so vain. Enough. He brushed a few unmelted snowflakes from the sleeve of his dark green uniform, and swept a few more from his thick, wheat-gold hair, squared his shoulders, and walked through the doors.

 Mozart had returned to Salzburg at last. The Blixe-Coburg family were old friends and former patrons, and so the young composer would favor them this night with a private concert. There were not two dozen people in the room, yet even so, Max was surprised at the hushed, expectant atmosphere. People stood in groups, drinking champagne and conversing in low tones that raised but the merest hum in the warm, fragrant air. A harpsichord stood at the ready before massive glass doors. Glimpsed through the great swaths of heavy gold velvet drapery that hung the doors was a snow-covered balcony, and more snowflakes could be seen, swirling furiously through the emptiness of a black winter night. Max shuddered, and took a moment to be grateful he was no longer shivering on some Thuringian plain with his regiment, waiting to engage the forces of the Prussian King, Friedrich-Wilhelm.

Where had she gone? He scanned the room as discreetly as he could manage, and saw her again at last. Alone! Seated in a window alcove, her back turned to the room, gazing out at the swirling snow.

Karl had laughed at him when he had begged the promise of an introduction. "Its no use, my friend," he had said, "I would say she has little interest in men. Certainly I would like to see her married, but the matter shall not be pressed. We are just so grateful that she has come home, you see. We thought we had lost her forever."

Lost. Yes, Max fancied that there was something of the lost child about her still, a haunting air of mystery, a shadow of unknowable sorrow in the depths of her dark eyes. Again, he began to think himself ridiculous, conjuring these romantic fancies about a woman he had seen twice, but had not spoken to even once. Well, tonight he would have his introduction.

The violinist drew a tentative bow across his strings, and a thin, throbbing series of notes rose from the cello as the musicians tuned and fussed in preparation. Max grew anxious. He did not want to wait until after the music to speak to her, and yet he could not approach her alone. He took a step towards her.

"Max!"

Karl Franz Blixe-Coburg was a boyhood friend, and still the best one he had, as far as Max was concerned. He came forward with outstretched arms, a characteristic open smile on his handsome face, and seized Max's hand.

"Its good to see you," he said, "The weather is getting worse, I see. Come in and get warm. We're about to begin, I think. He has brought his cousin, The Basle, to sing his new aria. 'Alcandro lo confesso' it is called. I heard her rehearsing it earlier. Marvelous! Come, come! What are you waiting for? Let's get you a drink!"

"Its good to see you, too, friend," Max smiled and ran a nervous hand over his hair. He hesitated a moment, and then laughed shortly. "Karl…you must forgive my manners, and my…single-mindedness, but there is the matter of an introduction?"

Karl grinned and rolled his eyes. "Still, eh? Very well, but don't say I didn't warn you if she cuts you dead!"

She could not be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, not by any convention of fashion, and yet in spite of it he knew she was. She was too tall, certainly. Although she only stood as high as his chin, he himself was more than commonly tall. He noticed again, as she rose from the window seat and walked toward him, that she carried herself in the most unusual manner for a woman, with a confident, almost masculine stride that might, on any other woman, seem graceless, even offensive, but he thought it wonderfully bold and attractive. Her skin was honeyed, her breasts full and beautiful, swelling enticingly above the heavy, quilted, bronze-colored satin of her gown. A gentle face. Large, soft, brown eyes. Golden brown hair, simply styled, adorned with a comb of shell, copper feathers, and black pearls. She held out her hand.

"Prince Maximilian Roehm Von Weyrother," began Karl, "May I introduce my cousin, Fraulien Melusine Von Sachsen."

Melusine suppressed a sigh as the tall, beautiful young man bent to kiss her hand. Karl had told her he wanted to meet her. She had seen him watching her, at the opera, at the Archduke's ball. When he raised his head and looked at her, her heart went out to him, just a little, for she could tell by the expression in his eyes, as open and blue as the alpine sky, that he was already in love with her. Well, why not? Had not she, too, fallen in love at first sight? How long ago it seemed. She was twenty-five years old, and yet sometimes she felt that the living part of her life was over.

"Well, Maximilian, I am sorry," she thought, feeling the warm press of his hand as he held it, just a moment too long before releasing it. "But I shall never fall in love with you."

*****

Brittany

Spring, 1779

Galloping along the road that followed the coast, Lucien felt a wild sense of freedom and exhilaration. Beneath him, Gloire was tireless, ticking along with his rhythmic, ground-covering stride. The air was fresh, tangy with salt, and the sun was warm, sparkling on the water. He rode alone. His servants were miles behind him now. A half a league more to the river, then inland to the old bridge, and home.

His leave would be brief. Britain had declared war on France in the previous year, and in a month's time, the Regiment de Charette would sail for America, along with the regiments of Bourbon, Soisson, Saintonge, and Deux-Ponts, under General le Comte de Rochambeau. They would land in a place called Rhode Island. A long time ago, alone in his hiding place in the south tower of the old chateau, Lucien had dreamed of going to such far-flung places. He did not know what he might make of Americans, but it was of no consequence. He would fight for France, for his King, and against the British.

He might be gone a year, very likely more. He would not see the birth of his second child. Emmanuel had begun to walk, and to speak, and he changed so much in a day, a week, a month, that it was difficult to imagine how much his son would have grown by the time he returned. Always, he hated to leave Imogene. But war had come at last, and this was his chance at glory. A colonelcy was surely within easy reach; his own regiment, ultimately, was what he desired. Then he would truly have everything he had set out to gain.   

Nearing the mouth of the river, he left the road and set off across the moor, Gloire slowing to a trot to negotiate the soft, trappy ground. The river was low, and once they were well past the brackish tidewater, Lucien rode down the bank, and let Gloire wade in up to his belly to drink.

As he tilted back his head and removed his hat, a tiny speck of black floating in the sky above caught his attention, and when he heard the distant, high-pitched scream, a shiver ran down his spine. As he watched, the hawk drifted lower, wheeling in lazy circles overhead, hunting.

"Fantome," he breathed, and then he smiled to himself. Of course it was not his Fantome. That was so long ago. When he had gone away, Imogene had set her free. Wild birds did not live so long.

She was moving away. Lucien set his heels to Gloire's flanks, and they crossed the river, bounding up the opposite bank, following the flight of the hawk, heading southeast, in the direction of the old Chateau de Moncoutant.

He had never meant to see it again. He had hoped that it would continue to crumble, to sink into the marshy ground and disappear, insignificant as dust. But strangely, it seemed much the same as he remembered it, in spite of the years of abandonment and neglect, as if arrested in that particular state of decay in which it had stood on that hellish night all those years ago.

There were more weeds, he observed, and the moss grew thick on the walls of the ancient keep. Gloire's footsteps on the broken flagstones echoed in the desolate air of the empty courtyard. He found that his breath was coming hard as he looked about him, and he did not know why he had come. Following the hawk, he had been drawn here, but there was nothing here that he wanted to see, nothing to remember. A faint breeze caused the trailing ends of dead creeping vines that hung over the walls to scratch against the stones with a sound like whispering voices, and his skin prickled with a sense that he was not alone. Were they all still here? Was there no peace? He closed his eyes and heard his mother's voice, low, soothing and sad; the innocent, boyish laughter of his brother Armand; the incessant weeping of his father, hopelessly lost in the isolation of madness. Breathing deeply, he would almost swear he could smell the sharp scent of smoke from some long ago fire, and a pungent odor of burnt chicken feathers and tallow grease that conjured, like an evil suggestion, all that he meant to forget.

Enough. He clucked to Gloire, who seemed as eager to get away from this place as he was. They clattered out of the courtyard, and as they passed the old falcon mews, a threesome of huge, black crows burst from the opening where the rotted wooden door sagged on its rusted hinges. The horse shied violently. Lucien cursed, and spurred him into a frantic gallop. He did not pull up until he was within sight of Muzillac.

They had time to recover their breaths, and Lucien some of his composure as he jogged along the tree-canopied lane that led to the village. Presently he saw in the road ahead a pair of walkers, one tall, and one very small, and he recognized Gil Faure and his young son, Mathieu. They carried fishing nets, and a large basket between them.

He raised a hand in greeting as they drew near. "Good day, Faure!" he called.

"Monsieur le Marquis," the young man bowed. He had very fair, tousled hair, and light blue eyes.

"Fishing good?" asked Lucien. The little boy, Mathieu, had set the basket on the ground and opened it, and was searching for something inside.

"We had some luck yesterday, Monsieur," replied Faure. "Wait, Mathieu! You must ask Monsieur's permission!" he said as the boy came forward with a large red and green apple and held it under Gloire's nose. Mathieu was trying to do the proper thing, and hold his hand flat as he offered the apple to the horse, but as Gloire's greedy lips began to reach for the treat, he pushed it off the boy's hand, and it fell onto the ground.

"I am sorry Monsieur," apologized Faure, "He loves horses, as you can see."

Lucien smiled. "This horse would very much like to eat that apple, I think, but maybe we should make him work for it, eh?"

Mathieu, having collected his apple from the dirt, stared up at the Marquis curiously.

"I think you might ask him a question," Lucien went on, "And if he gives you the correct answer, you may give him the apple."

The boy grinned and shook his head. "Horses do not speak, Monsieur!"

"You are right, but Gloire is a very clever horse, nonetheless," Lucien said as he dismounted and went to stand beside the boy. "He is very good at guessing."

Mathieu looked suspicious, but intrigued. "What will I ask him, Monsieur?"

Lucien crossed his arms over his chest, and Gloire, seeing the signal to begin his favorite game, raised his head expectantly.

"Why don't you ask him to tell you how old you are?" Lucien suggested.

Mathieu glanced at his father. Gil smiled and nodded.

"Gloire," Mathieu said in a very serious voice, holding the apple up in front of the horse's nose. "Do you know how old I am?"

Lucien lifted his chin slightly, and Gloire raised one foreleg, and began to paw the ground. One, two, three…

Mathieu was counting aloud, "…four…five…" Lucien listened for the slight hesitation in the boy's voice as he counted "six" and he lowered his chin again, almost imperceptibly, and Gloire stopped counting, and bowed his head. Lucien smiled. He'd won a lot of wagers off of drunken officers with this little trick.

"He knows, Papa! I am six!" the little boy exclaimed in amazement. "What else can I ask, Monsieur?"

Poor Gloire. Before he could receive his reward, he'd had to count off the days of the week, the months of the year, the fingers on Mathieu's hands, and to add and subtract a number of simple sums.

As they were about to part company, Faure said, "With your permission, Monsieur, I have a gift for Madame le Marquise. Some very good Belgian lace I think she will like. We had a fever in our house, and Madame came herself with her medicines, and now everyone is well. If I may come tomorrow, I would like to thank her."

Lucien frowned slightly. He disliked the idea of his wife treating the sick, particularly as she was with child, but he nodded, and told Faure he was welcome to call.

The village of Muzillac was as lively and as beautiful as the old chateau had been dismal and bleak. Townspeople nodded and bowed to their lord as he rode through the old stone arch, and down the wide street lined with gleaming, lime-washed houses and little shops. In the new square, the cobbles were swept perfectly clean. Children splashed and played in Imogene's fountain as their mothers gossiped and filled buckets with clean water from the well. As he stopped before his own new house, a servant in dark blue livery ran down the steps to take his horse.

The house was almost exactly as Imogene had planned it, large, square, and plain. The graceful curved pediment and cupola accenting the roof, and an imposing entry facade, adorned with short columns and intricate carving, were her only concessions to his wish for greater ostentation and ornament.  

Inside, the rooms were pleasantly cool and spare. Whitewashed walls were hung with Imogene's own paintings, and a few of other artists she admired and collected: Boucher, Fragonard, Chardin. Again, in concession to his complaint that he would feel like he was living in a monastery, she had painted intricate friezes around the edges of some of the rooms, and decorated the walls of the dining room with a fanciful mural of mythical creatures and sweeping arabesques. Over the hearth hung a picture of Lucien with his favorite mare, Lucette. The horse who had been wounded under him in Corsica. The one with whom Melusine had disappeared one day, never to return.

The house was nearly as quiet as a monastery, he thought to himself, as he walked from room to room, and did not find his wife and son. A maid was sweeping. Another carried a vase of white flowers---simple wildflowers, daisies, he thought---into the dining room. Imogene's workroom was deserted. He never cared to look too closely at the things she kept there, all of her odd little collections and unidentifiable specimens, a great many things of most peculiar appearance, and, very often, even more peculiar smell.   

He walked all the way back to the kitchen, where he found the housekeeper, Marie, baking a cake. Her infant daughter, Mariette, was asleep on a pallet on the floor before the hearth, and under the massive oaken worktable, two year old Emmanuel was crawling about, playing noisily with an assortment of wooden animals.

"Monsieur!" Marie smiled, wiping floury hands on her apron. "Welcome home. Madame said we should expect you." She was a good-looking woman, slender and graceful, with dark blonde hair and large hazel eyes. She was newly married, whether to her child's father or not, of course, there was some question. Well, Lucien thought, he really need assume no obligation, and yet he continued to provide housing and employment. What more could be expected, under the circumstances?

"Hello," said Lucien, bending down and peering beneath the table, "Won't you come out and give your Papa a kiss?"

Emmanuel did not even glance up, so absorbed was he in his play.

"Mon petit Monsieur!" Marie scolded, crawling under the table to retrieve the child. "Come and see Papa!"

From the safety of Marie's arms, Emmanuel regarded his father rather blankly. "Armand," Lucien thought, as he looked at his son, with his innocent, open expression, the round, pink cheeks and lustrous brown curls. Only Armand's eyes had been dark, like Lucien's father's. Emmanuel's were clear and green, like his and like Imogene's. In his fat little fist he clutched a carved wooden bird, and after a moment's consideration, he held it out to his father.

"Merci," smiled Lucien, taking the bird, and kissing the plump little hand before returning it.

"Where is Madame?" he asked of Marie.

"She has gone to bed," was the reply, and she laid a hand demonstratively on her belly. "The baby, he makes her tired."

Imogene's bedchamber was cool, still and dark. A little light filtered in through the louvered wooden shutters, which had been closed, but the slats tilted to let in the fresh air. Filmy drapes billowed softly at the window.

Lucien crept quietly to the side of the bed. She lay on her side atop the featherbed. The whiteness of her slender arms gleamed in the semi-darkness, and her black hair spread like a shadow across the pillows. The soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing filled his heart with peace.

He eased himself onto the edge of the bed and put out a tentative hand to stroke her hair. He willed her to wake, and in a moment, she did, stirring softly, calmly rolling onto her back and looking at him serenely through half-closed eyelids.

"My beloved," she sighed.

"Yes, I am home, ma belle. I am sorry to wake you," he whispered, and then he smiled. "Really, I am a liar. I could not wait to see you." It had been two months. Looking down, he laid a hand on her belly, now perfectly rounded, stretching taut the thin fabric of her shift.  "How beautiful you are, ma 'Gene." He bent to kiss her gently, "Go back to sleep."

Her little arms went around his neck and her lips brushed his. "Come and sleep with me," she said.

He was sweaty and dusty from the road, and he was tired. It would be so sweet to lie down beside her in the quiet and the cool, and rest. She lay watching him as he stripped off his clothes, and she rolled back onto her side as he climbed onto the bed and took her in his arms.

No other woman felt like Imogene. Her size fit him perfectly, her little bottom nestling into the hollow of his hips, her slender back pressed against his chest. He pulled her close, letting his hand wander over her small, round breasts, and her belly, swelling sweetly with his child, and up under her shift to caress her silky thigh. He kissed her neck and breathed her unique fragrance, faint and earthy, like the ground in the forest after a rain. He felt the spreading warmth, familiar, urgent, as the quick blood pulsed in his groin.

He was a little surprised to find himself so aroused. Last night he had dined at the chateau of his old friend, the Comtesse de Gace, and after a good many glasses of wine, they had found themselves falling into their old habit. At the splendidly ripe age of forty, Victoire seemed to have lost none of her enthusiasm, and she had quite worn him out. Afterwards, of course, they had vowed that it was the very last time.

He felt Imogene's cool little hand reaching around, moving between his legs. He moaned softly as she stroked him lightly. Always, he desired her like no other.

"Are you very tired?" he whispered as he slowly worked her shift up over her hips. In answer to his question, she reached for his hand and moved it to her softly furred mound, purring with pleasure as his fingers delved into the warm, moist little burrow.

"Ah….ah…." came the soft little sounds from her throat as his fingertips glided, feather dainty, over the slippery, delicate flesh, dipping into the well of moisture and painting her sweet little sex with its kiss. He slid one knee between her legs, and in response, she moved forward a little, increasing the angle of their bodies to one another, inviting, allowing him to enter her.

He stifled a groan, pressing his lips into her smooth shoulder, as he felt her closing around him, and he sank, grateful and blessed, into the warm depths of her body. He slid his arm underneath and around her to hold her against him as he thrust himself gently, rhythmically, in and out, aroused by the sounds of her little sighs and moans, coming now in time to his thrusting as still he pleasured her with his deftly stroking fingers.

She tensed in his arms and the pulse of her pleasure was like a tiny fist encircling him, little gentle squeezes, so incredibly sweet and overwhelming that he gasped with the joy of it and pushed himself into her with a last little cry, adding the flood of his own spending to hers. He gathered her close, raining tiny kisses on her neck and shoulders, whispering the words of his truest heart in her ear.

When he was soft, and he slid out her at last, he fell onto his back and pulled her onto his chest. She tucked her head just under his chin, and her breath tickled his sweat-moistened skin.

"I love you, ma belle," he sighed, stroking her beautiful hair.

"Mm," she said quietly. "I think you have seen Victoire."

For a moment he said nothing, and then, simply, "Yes."

"You are unfaithful, Lucien." Her voice was oddly soothing and calm, Her fingers idly caressed his arm.

"No, I am not," he said. "I love only you."

She said not another word.

*****

They had dressed her in the white silk and diamonds of his vision, of his beautiful dream of Versailles. Impossible that she would lie here so, upon the bed where not two days before she had lain in his arms, languid and pliant with love. He remembered waking in darkness, holding her still. She had never seemed to feel the cold, and to him, her skin had always felt slightly cool, but soothingly, pleasantly so, like smooth white marble under his hands. Impossible the way she had burned with the fever, her skin flushed and hot, her eyes so strangely bright and insensible, her silence and her quick, desperate breathing, terrifying. Impossible, his child, another son, born dead, much too small ever to have lived.

He lay holding her, and the nuns were saying too late, she is gone, she is gone, but he thought he could feel her heart beating still. "The heart is strong," he remembered her saying. He saw her placing one slender white finger on the beating heart of a doomed sparrow hawk. "This little life," she had said. "That is all it is."

A hundred white, wax candles could not chase away the darkness in the room. Malevolent shadows crept from the corners and slunk across the floor. He swayed in the doorway. He'd been drinking, but he wasn't drunk. He slammed the door and latched it. A chair and a prie Dieu had been placed beside the bed, but he went and stood, looking down.

Her cheek was cool and firm. With his finger he traced the delicate arch of her nose, the sharp point of her chin. Her beautiful little hands were folded just under her breasts, but where he expected to see her old rosary of carved ivory, there was something else.

It was a thing he had never seen. Curiously, gently, he pulled the delicate golden chain from her fingers, and turned the piece over in his palm. It was a miniature portrait painted on porcelain and set in gold filigree. The black, black hair, the lucent green eyes and the pale, delicate face were Imogene's. And yet the elaborate coiffure was strange, the costume oddly out of date. So strange that she would have a miniature of herself. And why had he never seen it before?

"Not your wife. Her mother."

The voice seemed to come from the shadows, eerie, strident, a voice he somehow knew.

Turning, he demanded, "Who are you?"

How old she was, how shrunken and frail. Her face was nothing but wrinkles and a pair of glittering black eyes peering out from under a cowl of black wool.

A laugh, brittle as a thin pane of glass. "Do you not remember Riwanon, ma babig, my own little one?"

He stared. It was not possible. She had been old even then. But he did remember. He remembered her old Breton songs, remembered her rocking him in her arms, and telling him, "You will be the one."

Again, her laugh, like a scattering of dried leaves. "Yes, it is I. We do live long, my kind, but thankfully, not forever."

He shook his head slowly, trying to understand. He looked down at the miniature in his hand.

"Turn it over," she said lightly, "See what it says."

Entranced, he obeyed. He could barely make out the engraving in the poor light. "Elodie Elene de Moncoutant," it read, and then, "Pour Emmanuel, mon frere, mon coeur, mon amour."

My brother, my heart, my love.

"What is this?" Lucien demanded, angry and afraid.

"When Elodie was dead, your mother told me to take the child and kill it. Why she could not see to it herself, I do not know. Perhaps, with you at her breast, she could not bring herself to that. She managed well enough with the mother, though." She smiled, toothless and evil.

"Your father, already, I think, he knew he was losing his mind. He gave me the portrait, and Elodie's little silver scissors, all he had of hers, and he begged me to save his child's life. And so I did, but not to be kind. Because I knew, Lucien, what the future held. I knew you would be the one."

Lucien found himself trembling. "What do you say? Tell me!"

"Only what I think you must already know, my child. How alike you two were, with your black hair and your beautiful green eyes! You felt a kinship with her, always, did you not? Your own little sister. "

The bile rose in his throat, and he could not speak. Riwanon, his old nurse, where had she been all these years? He had thought her gone, along with all of the servants who had fled the Chateau when his father had gone mad. If he had thought of her at all, he had thought her dead. It was not possible; it could not be true.

"Your wife knew, I think," the old wretch whispered, her voice grating on his nerves like fingernails on a slate. "Oh, yes, I think she must have known. And yet, she took you to her bed. She bore you a son."

"You…lying…cunt!" he hissed. She went on talking. For an incredibly lucid moment, his mind took note of the way her little throat was nearly small enough for him to encircle with one hand, the skin so loose, and dry as paper as the bones snapped like winter-cold branches. He dropped her, and she fell with no more than the sound of a heavy blanket kicked off the bed on a hot summer's night.

He sat in the chair beside his dead wife's bed, and listened to the old thing dying. "A cursed life you will live," was the last thing she had said, gasping and gurgling. "A curse of madness and death…until the last of your kind shall spill his blood in this place."

*****

Spring mud made the roads slow to travel, and the carriage rocked gently as the horses plodded along the road to Agniers. Anne-Louise gazed out the window on a landscape that was bursting into bloom, so beautiful, so hopeful, and in such incongruous contrast to the grief in her heart.

Emmanuel slept in her arms. Sweet baby. Once again there was a child that needed her. She wondered if this must be why God had never given her children of her own. She knew she could have loved them all, but one did not question His wisdom.

Lucien was gone. Charette had come finally and taken him. Pierre believed that returning to the army, and traveling to America would rouse Lucien from his strange, silent grief. Anne-Louise was very afraid she would never see him again, that he would let himself be killed in that faraway place.

Even with the terrible sadness, it had been good to see Pierre. He had married the year before, an heiress, a pretty girl from a good Alsatian family who had already given him a son. He loved her still, he had said, and had kissed her hand. His smile, as always was like a warm sun.

How strange Lucien had been. He never wept, but she knew he did not sleep, and to be in the same room with him was to feel the anger that emanated from him, searing and palpable, but frighteningly restrained. She had been afraid when Faure, the linen merchant, had turned up at the house, racked with guilt that the illness from which Imogene had saved his family had caused her death. Lucien's eyes had been filled with rage, his lips white with tension. He had treated the man kindly, but already there was gossip in the town. An old woman had died. The marquis was behaving strangely. Perhaps it was best he had gone away.

 He had acted as if Emmanuel did not exist. The child was bewildered and afraid, asking for his maman.  Lucien ignored him, and when Anne-Louise offered to take him, he merely looked at her. He had given her the death mask, and some drawings to be taken to Paris, and the name of the stone carver who had executed the façade of the house in Muzillac. He wished to have an effigy carved.

She knew grief. When her first husband had passed, she had thought she would die of it. She had buried her parents, her beloved older sister. One way or another, she knew, grief must have its way out.

Emmanuel stirred, and whimpered a little in his sleep. "Never be afraid, my angel," she whispered, holding him close and kissing his soft, dark curls. "Tante is here.  I will love you and keep you safe always, no matter what happens."

Go to Part Ten