Spring III

. Ӝ .

Élisabeth avoided me for the remainder  of the three days my father was absent from home. I believed Mardi to be disappointed in me as well, for she would not give me more than a stiff greeting when I called for her. It was rather childish, even for Mardi, but I let the hastiness go instead of dwelling. There was nothing I could do to reprimand her. She was my father’s favorite out of the servants. 
            The cause for her stubbornness was unknown to me at the start, but when I found her with Élisabeth each afternoon following, I knew the reason. She was displeased by the way I had handled dinner the first night. Surely the pair had discussed it.
            I ignored their folly and continued my life as it had been before the Élisabeth’s arrival. After the clock chimed twice each afternoon, I retreated to the mansion’s library. On the third day, the pattern remained the same, and I sat on the chaise lounge, my mind lost in the tragic tale of Shakespeare. Even as a child, I found comfort in classical literature. I could always find my mother in the library as well, her nose in a volume. I would pester her, tug on the hem of her dress, until she would lift me onto her knee. She would read me mostly Shakespeare, because from the moment I had first been introduced to his works, I fell in love with the challenge and the diversity. And when I became old enough to read, we would exchange lines from the plays, testing each other’s knowledge and memory. It shortly became a routine, a game of some sort, and we would recite famed verses in-between our daily conversations and in place of greetings. Only we could understand the sport in it, which added to the fun.
            The sweet scents of her perfumes still lingered in the fabrics. Romeo and Juliet had been her favorite, and I believed it was because she yearned for the eternal love the two characters shared. “Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn,” my mother had retold one winter night after her and my father had quarreled. I could never forget the sadness in her eyes then, the longing, as she had gently stroked the top of my head and sighed. “I only hope that love is kind to you, my son. Some have been blessed, while others have been pricked by thorns.”
              I read to clear my mind, and yet I could never truly erase the memory of her. It made the illusion of her only greater and the pain only harder to bear. Why return here if the ache was too great? Why torment myself? Was it because I enjoyed the moments of reverie? The sweet bliss of being young and loved?
              “Monsieur, your father has returned.”
              There was no need for me to look up. I knew it was Mardi who beckoned me. Bitterness still coated her tone, and I refused to reply to her insolence.
              “He calls for you.”
              When I was sure she had left me, I closed my book and got to my feet. My father was home, which meant the uneasiness of being alone with Élisabeth was over but a new kind of torment was only a few steps and some doors away.



                When I knocked on my father’s study door, he granted me entrance with little hesitation. He did not look up from his work, but only wrote more fiercely as I entered.
         There was a chair in front of the desk but it was not offered, and wouldn’t be. I stood rigid in front of him, waiting for him to cease his mad scribbling and address me. It took him minutes to do so.
         He laid down his pen and looked up, gaze choking my attention. “I have been very busy planning for the wedding,” he said slowly. “There is so much to do in such a short amount of time.” He was not apologizing for the delay. This stern tone I knew well.
         “I haven’t been able to wander far from this spot, Andre, but I have heard things…” He paused, rubbing the light whiskers on his chin. “Mademoiselle Lormé is not happy here.”
         Somehow I knew this meeting had been called for this. There was nowhere I could be hidden from my father’s prying eyes and ears. The word must have escaped from Mardi’s lips. She never refused to answer my father’s questions, so he knew every affair, every detail happening on the estate.
         “And I have heard you are the reason for it.”
         “Father—” I began.
         His hand went up to silence me. “I will not hear any of your excuses. Since Mademoiselle Lormé arrived, you have been making life here difficult for her.”
         That was not true. I didn’t believe that I was the sole reason for Élisabeth’s distress.
         My father rose from his place and pulled a cigar from the inner pocket of his jacket. He cut it swiftly, took a match from a box on his desk, struck it, and brought it to the cigar’s end. He inhaled deeply; smoke escaped the corners of his mouth and nostrils.
         When the pungent smell reached my senses, I could feel water filling my eyes. But I did not wince, only watched each dragged intake and shaken exhale.
                Suddenly, he pulled out his handkerchief and coughed violently into it, his body shaking from the force. His hand went to the desk to support himself, and he gasped for air before each terrible choke. When the fit ceased, he stood up again and excused himself, disregarding it all together. I had not noticed it prior, but now being so close to him, I could see his skin much resembled old ash and was sagging underneath his eyes a little more than normal. He appeared almost ill, but as far as I could remember, the man always was in good-health. He crumbled the cloth into a small ball and disposed of it in a nearby waste bin as if it had never occurred.
                I had not moved at all. I remained silent for a moment, searching his face for any other details of change. I could find no other except for the slight droop to his eyelids.
         “Father, I promise you, I speak daggers to her, but use none,” I said.
                “You are to be wed in less than two months,” he said hoarsely. “In that time I want to hear nothing more about you poisoning her stay with your rudeness.”
                The anger awoke in me again, wanting escape, but I stilled my arguments, my swears. I knew the true reason he had arranged this marriage, the true reason he was forcing me through all this. It was all for his image, the perfect masquerade that was the DeMonté family. It was a necessity for me to marry a beautiful wife to display, to host parties, to be loved by everyone who had questioned the family’s integrity. A wife to be concerned with the town’s gossip, never a part of it- the very thing my mother struggled with.
         And I was sure Élisabeth could not hold all these responsibilities. She had never been introduced to the proper way to do things, and so she was lost in this society of grace.
         I was the only one to see this.
         “You will take Mademoiselle Lormé to Le Centre du Ciel tomorrow night. I have already arranged for it. She has told me that she has never seen an opera, so you will take her to the city and enjoy yourselves.”
         There was nothing I could say. His order was made, and could not be swayed.
         “Yes, Father.”
         He took his pen from the flask and went back to his work. My time for his attention was spent, and feeling unable to deal with the harsh silence that followed, I left him to his work.
         


         I went to find Élisabeth. If I was to escort her into the city, there would be a few things I needed to explain to her beforehand. Finding that she was nowhere inside the manor, I directed my search elsewhere. I went outside into the house’s courtyard. The sun was fighting to shine through the thick film of clouds. Its light barely touched the earth, but it was the most we had seen that season. The air was warm, soothing, and the cool breeze that had gathered from the passing rainfall had gifted the yard with a certain sanguinity.
              I followed the cobblestones to the garden, which was placed along the side of the property. Each year during this time, the garden gained a life of its own, and I had almost forgotten that spring could produce such delightful things. In a matter of seconds, my temper had drained from me, soaking into the ground along with the morning dew. I walked along the path, taking in the beauty around me. Not a bud lay still in its winter sleep; all were full and reaching for the food of the sun. The drops of water that still clung to the petals resembled little diamonds that had gone astray. I gently cupped a blossom in my hand. I dwelled on the color- so lovely, so pure. And what an aroma! The perfume was alluring, calming, and I smiled.
              Someone giggled close by- high-pitched laughter, much like from a child. My head perked up instantly. Another giggle. I followed the sound around the path. There I found two women huddled close together, laughing at something I could not see. I approached them, clearing my throat to gain their attention. At once, Mardi stood, brushing off her apron and curtsying. She knew she had done something wrong. It was clear in her face.
              Élisabeth rose too, only more slowly. When my eyes fell upon her, my breath caught in my chest. Her hair was kept in a loose braid, stubborn hairs framing her heart-shaped face. Dirt was smudged on one of her cheeks, and her dress had been marked with filth. No proper lady went on her knees and rummaged through the muck and grime! It was unheard of!     
              “Oh, good evening, Monsieur DeMonté,” said Élisabeth, her voice still cheery from the laughter.
              I couldn’t find my voice at the moment.
              “Good evening,” Mardi repeated, but more timidly. When I did not respond, Mardi took a step back. Nervously, she said, “I must tend to dinner.” She looked between me and Élisabeth, waiting for the permission to leave.
              I nodded, letting her leave, and she hurried back up the path. I needed to speak with Élisabeth alone.
              When we were on our own, I could not contain my concerns any longer. “Do you enjoy playing in the dirt, Mademoiselle?” I asked. It was a question meant not to have a reply, but she did not see it as such.
              “Not exactly,” she laughed. “I used to have a garden on my family’s property. I am use to the work that comes with it.”
                “Mademoiselle, there are servants here to care for it,” I assured.
                “Oh, I know. I have to admit that I do miss it at times.”
                I did not know someone could miss such a disgusting chore.
                “I can promise you that you will never need to get your hands dirty here.” I took out my handkerchief and handed it to her. Bashful, she tried to wipe the dirt off the side of her face. The effort only smeared it, but she handed it back, thanking me. I couldn’t help but chuckle.
                I had embarrassed her. She turned away, pretending to be distracted by one of the white roses on the shrubbery. I went to her side and watched her. She held the bloom gently between her fingers. “They are lovely, aren’t they?” she said. “I have never seen such a beautiful garden.”
                “Merci. A lot of work had gone into it,” I replied.
                From a pouch at her waist, she took out a pair of sharpened shears. “I think I will pick some for the table.” She looked up at me, expecting an objection, and added, “If that is alright with you, of course.” The smile reappeared, and something inside me fluttered alive.
                  I hesitated. My body’s response had taken me by surprise. “I see no problem with it.”
                  With one swift clip, the stem was cut, the flower released. When she lifted the rose to her nose, her eyes stayed fixed on me. So blue and clear, they were. They radiated behind the fairness of the flower.
                  I swallowed the knot that had formed in my throat. I did not understand why speaking to her was becoming so difficult. “Mademoiselle Lormé,” I started, “my father suggested that I take you with me to a performance in the Opéra Garnier tomorrow night.”
                  “Your father suggested?”
                  “Yes,” I replied, my jaw tightening.
                  She glanced down, her eyes disappearing behind long, dark lashes. “You are inviting me after what I did at dinner the other evening?”
                  “Yes. I am,” I said. “I wish to start anew.” It was something I believed my father would have wished me to say.
                  “I agree.”
                  “So it is settled, then. You will accompany me to Paris tomorrow night.”
                  There was a moment of silence from her, but I waited. There was something more she wished to say, but she was unsure whether or not to release it. “Let me apologize,” she said softly. “Please.”
                  I held up my hand. “No need. It is behind us.”
                  She noticed the familiarity to my words, and her expression brightened. “Alright. Anew.” She extended her hand, twisting the stem with her fingers, making the petals dance and sway.
                  I took the flower she offered, remembering a line from the play I had read only minutes ago. “What’s in a name?” I recited. “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” I had heard the expression so many times before that it just flowed from me. There was no thought to it.
                  “That was wonderful,” said Élisabeth. “Did you think of it just now?”
                  “Just now?” I could not mask my amusement. She had never read Romeo and Juliet? One of the most famed pieces of literature ever written? “Mademoiselle, it is one of the most well-known quotes of William Shakespeare.”
                  “Shakespeare? Is he an author?” She clipped a few more roses and held them as if they were a child in her arms.
                  “An author. A poet. An actor. He was all of them. The man was brilliant.”
                  “I cannot say…” she said, her voice losing its natural poise suddenly, “that I have read anything of his.”
                  Absolutely unbelievable! She simply hasn’t lived! I thought.
                  “It is such an inspiring quote,” she added, drawing my attention back to her.
                  “Inspiring?” I questioned. “How so?”
                  “It tells that a name does not determine one’s character and heart. A rose is still a rose, no matter what name it is given.”
                  I could not believe what I was hearing. Her answer was precise and well-said. She had only heard the expression once, and still she had extracted the meaning within. I had read the play many times, and yet I had never lingered on the significance. I only understood that it was meant to be there.
                  I stared at the flower, trying to look deeper within. It was true. I had known the instant the words had left her lips. A rose was still a rose. It did not matter what name a person placed on it. It was the texture, the beauty, the makeup within that created it. Not its title.
                  I looked up at Élisabeth. Her eyes found mine instantly, and she smiled.
                  Slightly unnerved, I began making my way back toward the house. I had to gather myself, remember her purpose for being here, and my purpose for inviting her to the opera. Above the manor, the sun hovered low, glowing. I made sure to slow my pace in order for her to follow beside me. We walked together until we reached the door. “Dinner should be done in a moment,” I told her. “You might want to clean up before.”
                  She glanced at her hands. “Yes. I think I will.”
                  I opened the door, and gestured for her to enter before me. She did, and I followed suit, closing it behind me. “I will meet you there, then?” I asked.
                  Élisabeth looked astonished for an instant, but it did not take long for the lines to smooth and the gentleness to return to her features. “If you are willing to try another dinner with me,” she said quietly, “then you will.”
                  “Anew,” I repeated, reminding her.
                  She nodded subtly. “Nouveau.”