Spring II

. Ӝ .

I spent the remaining hours of the morning and the entirety of the afternoon in my bedchambers. Underneath me, the kitchen was alive; the sound of clanking pots vibrated through the floorboards. I paced, each step taken unconsciously in time with the grandfather clock in my room. Every noise made my head pound, every drop of rain hitting the windowpane made me grit my teeth. It was a natural form of torture, and I felt like cursing God for making it so. But I was sure it was not only my hammering headache that was leaving me with such an ill-temper. It was the stress. It was the thought of marriage. It was the thought of Élisabeth.
         The room was dark, matching the gloom outside. I always left a candle burning on my writing desk, even when I was asleep or not present, so I paced in small light. I fought the thoughts that came so naturally, the ones that boiled new feelings and reawaken old memories. I didn’t want to relive the times of the past, or even think about the present, but both were refusing to be ignored.
         I ceased my pacing. It was not helping me. I pulled out the chair at the desk and sat, hoping that this attempt for mental peace would be more effective. I reached for a pen and opened a fresh jar of ink.
         The weak burning wick stood in a pool of wax in the holder. It only gave enough light to illuminate a portion of the paper in front of me. I dipped my pen, feeling the cool of the metal between my tense fingers. I had nothing planned to write. I began with the date in the top right corner. Before the next dip, I paused, watching the black liquid dry before my eyes. The curve of the A soaked into the leaf, becoming a shade darker.
         April 5, 1892. In a few months I would be taking Mademoiselle Lormé’s hand, willingly or not. A woman who came from nothing, had nothing, meant nothing, was engaged to the heir of the DeMonté estate.  And what a tragic life she had, indeed!
         I clenched and unclenched my fist, a method I had taught myself growing up to compose and relax. But it seemed that lately the action was less successful.
              My father was trying to twist and mold my life to fit his satisfaction. The status of our family name was in danger, and he could not have that. He had chosen an unfit bride just to repair the damage caused. 
              She was sure to disgrace me! This marriage was destined to fail! I could not tolerate a woman of Élisabeth’s inadequacy. She knew nothing of this life. How would she survive?
              I threw my pen in surrender, causing a few objects to rattle. I searched the area for something new. Papers all in disarray, ink splattered, a dying candle. Nothing that could be of use.
              My gaze fell onto a small heart-shaped boîte resting untouched in the corner of the desk. The flame of the candle had tinted its glass frame a fiery orange, and with every flicker, the box appeared to beat, much like a living heart. My mother’s jewelry box. It was one of the many possessions she had left with us but the only one I managed to save from the auction. I could feel my eyes well up.
              My mother, Renée Badeau DeMonté, was a very beautiful woman. She was raised by a noble family in the city, so she was accustomed to the excitement of the theater and the dense streets. This quiet, spacious life was alien to her. I liked to believe that I inherited my love for the arts from her, since my father enjoys nothing of the sort.
              My father refused to retell the story of their meetings and, further on, engagement. He eventually denied his love for her completely. The topic was never allowed for discussion.
              As a child, I heard their arguments. I had many memories of my mother crying. But when such negative things happen each day, even a child grows familiar with it, hardened by it. Then, I could not compose the obvious. Looking back, I realized the little signs I had missed. I began to never see my mother and father together. I started to eat dinner with only her, and then, eventually, by myself. My mother began to visit the opera during the night, while my father stayed locked in his study.
              About two summers ago, my mother disappeared. I had woken to find her gone, most of her things with her. I never saw her again.
              My father was outraged, naturally, especially when the news reached the town. Scandalous, they had called it. Infidelity. The DeMonté family was the root of every conversation, every joke. It went on for so long that my father began to believe it. There was no other reason for her to leave. Some said that they had seen her walking the streets at night with another man on her arm, while some said that she had been gambling herself.
              The accusations made me furious, but after a while, I started to consider them as well. “She never loved you,” my father had said one day when he had found me weeping in my room. “She never loved anyone.” His words hurt me, scarred me, but he was here and my mother was not. If she really did care for me, she would not have left.
              There was something inside me, one small bit of hope, that told me to not think that way, but how could I not? 
              To destroy her memory, he had every bit of property she had owned and had left behind sold. I kept the boîte to hold on to her. It was all I had left of my mother. Every time it caught my eye, I would visit my childhood and find that I missed her greatly. I missed our walks in the parks during the snow fall. I missed our trips to Paris and our reenactments of popular Shakespearean plays.
              My fingers traced the edges of the box, and I sighed.
              Her departure was the motive of Élisabeth Lormé and my arrangement. The DeMonté name needed to be saved, and to do so, I would marry a girl in rags. It would change the story from shameful to valiant. My father was not aware that I knew his plans, or, for that matter, the flaws.
              There was a gentle tap at my door.
              I exhaled, and mumbled for the stranger to enter. I stood routinely as the door opened, and found that the intruder was not a stranger at all. It was Mardi, looking as warm and content as ever.
              “Dinner, Monsieur, is ready,” she said.
              My shoulders slumped. I had almost forgotten about my dinner plans with Mademoiselle Lormé. Had I really confined myself to my room all this time? “Merci. I will be down in a moment.”
                She turned to leave, but paused. “Your Mademoiselle has been waiting for you.”
                I rubbed my temples. The pain in my head was making my vision unclear. “I will be down when I am ready, Mardi,” I pressed.
                “Right, Monsieur. So sorry.” She left in a rush, her light footsteps fading down the hall.
                I was not ready to face her after what I had put her through this morning. And maybe I had been too callous to her. My mother’s face resurfaced and guilt soon followed. I would ease up a bit, try to create a relationship from the ashes of my heart. I would not become as cold as my father had been to my mother. I could not allow myself to be.
         When I had reached the dining room, I was surprised to see Élisabeth seated at the head of the table and my father standing beside her in deep conversation. I cleared my throat to claim their attention.
         “Ah, Andre. Nice of you to join us,” said my father.
                I took my seat at the far end, and my eyes swept up the length of the table. The candelabra’s candles were melted halfway from the base, telling me that they had been waiting for me longer than I had known. I knew instantly that the correct thing to do was to ask for forgiveness. “I apologize. I was wrapped in my work and lost track of the time.”
                My father seemed pleased with my answer. Élisabeth looked down at her empty plate, discomfited.
              “Mademoiselle Lormé was just telling me about life in the South. It sounds wonderful.” He smiled down at her. “Why don’t you share your experiences with my son? I am sure he would want to hear it.”
              She glanced at me, uncertain.
              My father reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver tin. From it, he took out a fresh cigar and sniffed it. “Excuse my leave, but I must be going. I have much to do, much to prepare for.”
              “You’re leaving?” Why didn’t I know of this? “For how long?”
              “A few days only.” After a small pause, he added, “You two will be fine. I will not be gone long. And this will give you more time to get to know one another.”
              That may be true, but I still was not comfortable with it.
              Mardi appeared in the archway and said that my father’s carriage had just arrived.
              My father nodded and followed her. “Enjoy your stay, Mademoiselle. Au revoir.”
              “Au revior,” she whispered to him as he disappeared.
              We were left alone to drown in the steady beat of the falling rain on the rooftop. The servants gave us our first course, and we ate in silence. I wanted to begin a conversation, but there was something thick in the bottom of my throat preventing me. Every time I would look up from my bowl, across the length of the table, she would look down and shift uneasily in her chair.
                The main course came and went in much the same way. It was not until the dessert came forth that I spoke. “I hope it is all to your liking.” My voice sounded unfamiliar to me at the moment, so quiet and fragile.
                Her head lifted and she gave me a small smile. “Yes. It is all wonderful.” Her voice was quite pleasing. It reminded me of small bells ringing. The candelabra set in the center of the table brought artificial color to her cheeks, giving her pearl skin a warm glow. It was then that I noticed that the dress she was now wearing was not the same as before. This one was made of a crowded floral print and stained an unsightly yellow color. Her hair had also been pinned up away from her face, the hat removed. It wasn’t the best by my eye, but at least it was an improvement.
                The way she looked at me, so patient and thoughtful, was like she somehow knew my thoughts, but was waiting for my response. The gentleman inside me was telling me to apologize for my indecent actions. The words left my mouth without me. “I want to apologize for my poor hospitality earlier this morning.”
                “No need, Monsieur DeMonté.” She shook her head. “It is behind us.”
                I hesitated. It was not the response I had expected. “Right. Well…” I was interrupted by the servants taking away the remaining dishes of mousse au chocolat and café.
                Élisabeth took a sip of her wine as if she was waiting for me to do something more.
                But what?
                “I would like to hear about the South,” I lied.
                She only looked at me over the top of her glass.
                I repeated myself. “Please. I am fascinated.”
                She set it aside slowly. “Monsieur DeMonté, you don’t need to lie to me,” she said. 
                My eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
                “You are lying,” she replied simply. “You don’t want to hear my story. It is obvious in your face.”
                I was baffled, and I found myself trembling. How had she known? “You assume incorrect,” I responded, my eyes narrowing. Never, in my life, had someone spoke to me in such a frank manner. I was unsure how to respond.
                She leaned back in her chair, weary. “Do I? Well, then, let me apologize. I meant nothing by it. If you really wish to listen to my ramble, then I will.”
                “Yes,” I huffed.
                She folded the napkin on her lap once and then placed it beside her plate. My reply had shaken her. She was being cautious with her words now, considering them before she spoke. “Where should I begin?”
                  “The beginning would be best, I think.”
                  “Y-Yes. Right.” Élisabeth’s attention lingered on my face for some time, and she took in a consoling breath. “The town I was born in is nothing like it is here. Dordogne has its own beauty, its own rareness, but isn’t painted in gold.” To my astonishment, she did not appear bothered when she spoke. She laughed at her remark, something I thought unusual for someone retelling about life before tragic memories, and went on. “My father owned a vineyard and that is where my family stayed. My younger sister, Brigitte, and I used to help him each day, since he had no sons. I did not mind the work. Brigitte and I always found a way to make it entertaining. I was very near to my family, you see.” She sighed, but contently. “No, it was nothing like it is here.”
                    I looked away briefly, contemplating her words. “Are you implying that we do not love here, Mademoiselle?” I questioned. “That we do not possess any kind of human emotion?”
                    Her eyes widened. “No! No, Monsieur!” she said, her voice rising in panic.
                    “I think you are suggesting that this house is deficient.”
                    “No! I never meant to offend—”
                    “I believe it is too late, Mademoiselle!” I said, rising from my chair.
                    “I just miss them!” Élisabeth stood too, her face gaining true color. “That was all I was trying to say! I meant no harm!”
                      I turned away, disregarding her pleas. “Well, allow me to inform you correctly. This house has much. Too much at times, to be quite honest. There is no aspect it lacks. Nor will there ever be.” I knew what I was saying was absurd, but I could not hold my tongue. “If you are regretting your arrival, then I suggest you take your leave.”
                    “I regret nothing!”
                      I could hear the sobs impending, so I uttered nothing more. She could dwell in her torment, lament the entirety of her stay.
                      She looked at me one last time, as if she wanted to say something more, but I refused to give her any more of my attention. “Good night, Monsieur DeMonté.” She left in a hurry, her head down and her arms hugging her chest.
                      When she had gone, I pushed in my chair. My head was giving me even more trouble than before. “Bonne nuit, Mademoiselle.”
                    A few moments later, Mardi appeared from the kitchens and began to remove the remnants of dinner from the table. I knew she had heard the commotion, but she worked as if she hadn’t and avoided my eye.
                    I straightened myself and adjusted the cuff of my sleeve, unaffected. “Mardi?”
                    She stopped at once, holding two crystal glasses. “Yes, Monsieur?” she replied meekly.
                    “Dinner did not go quite as planned.”
                    “I am sorry to hear that.” She attempted to smile, but it was clear that something was bothering her.
                    “It was expected,” I said. “I noticed that you were not able to do much to improve Mademoiselle Lormé.” I was referencing to her attire and mannerisms, of course.
                    “She does not have many dresses to choose from, Monsieur. Most are in worse condition.”
                    “Pity.”
                    Mardi continued her chore, placing the dishes on a tray in a pile. “She is very kind,” she said unexpectedly. “And very sensible.”
                    I almost laughed. She had overheard our argument. That was where these outrageous comments were coming from. “You have befriended her?”
                    She nodded timidly.
It was then that I laughed, almost maddeningly so.
                    Mardi blushed. “I know it is not my place, Monsieur, but I think your father was right when he said that you must show compassion to understand. She has come from disaster.”   
                    My face grew hot and anger pooled. “You are right, Mardi,” I scoffed. “It isn’t your place.”
                    She pressed her lips together.
                    “Compassion makes dull men witty, but it keeps them poor,” I said, setting my other cuff.
                    “Yes, Monsieur,” replied Mardi sadly. She lifted the filled tray and bowed her small head. “Bien sûr .”