Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (113 page)

“It was kind of you to come so promptly. I would not have requested it on such short notice, but the matter is one of some urgency.”

“Please don’t consider it. How may I be of service?

“Many ways, mademoiselle,” he said, smiling, “many ways. You will remember our play?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“None can play the part of the lovelorn mistress so well as you; you were preserved from prison and other harm for this, I have no doubt. But rehearsals must recommence at once if we are not to lose what we have gained.”

This was the matter of such urgency? Cyrene hid her surprise as best she could, though there was still a touch of asperity in her voice as she said, “Tonight?”

“Unfortunately not,” the governor said, lowering his lashes in a pensive expression. “You see, one of our principal players is packing to leave us.”

She suspected the governor of levity at her expense. She was certain she had seen a flash of laughter, instantly suppressed, in his eyes. “Who might that be?”

“Lemonnier. For some reason he has taken a sudden dislike to our fair land of Louisiane. Word has come that
Le Parham
has been delayed at Belize for a few days for the replacement of a faulty mast that was only discovered on the way downriver. Fortunate, was it not, that they did not put out into the gulf before the defect was found? The outcome of it, however, is that Lemonnier intends to have himself conveyed to Belize to join the ship for the voyage to France. He must not be allowed to do this.”

“For the sake of a play?”

“It’s a most entertaining piece, you will agree? But no. We are in need of all the colonists we can acquire here. Until this afternoon, Lemonnier had great plans to become a landholder, to be an exporter of indigo and myrtle wax candles, to establish himself as a man of substance and responsibility who might be depended upon to contribute much to the good of the community. Now he goes. I ask myself why. I ask myself how he can be persuaded to stay. You, mademoiselle, are the answer.”

“I? That’s absurd.”

“Is it? Can you deny that if you had agreed to marry him he would have remained here to do all that I said?”

“How did you—”

“Never concern yourself with how. Can you deny it?”

The marquis was, in his way, a formidable man. He hid it well behind his air of graceful assurance, but it was no less true. “No,” she said shortly, “but he has no real wish either to make me his wife or to settle here.”

“He asked you, did he not?”

“Well… yes.”

“Why could you not agree?”

“Because he did not want—”

“Nonsense! It was because you did not feel worthy or rather was afraid he did not think you worthy but had asked in spite of it. In other words, it was pride.”

“I did not care to be married out of duty or pity!”

“Few men feel it a duty to marry their mistresses. You should have fallen into his arms with glad cries and sweet kisses.”

“Because he is a man of — of substance who does me the honor to correct the position in which he placed me by force? You have a very odd idea of what will make a happy marriage!”

He lifted a shoulder. “Ah, happiness, that is another matter. Marriage is an alliance, hopefully one that will do the most good for the greatest number, which may only incidentally be the husband and wife.”

“I am to marry him, in your view, for the good of your play and the colony?”

He inclined his head graciously. “In a word, yes.”

“You are wasting your time,” she said with just an edge of triumph. “He won’t ask me again.”

“I fear you may be right. But I believe he might listen if you were to ask him.”

Heat sprang into her face. She ignored it. “When he is even now packing to return to France? Why should he do that?”

“Because he loves you.”

“Oh, please, that isn’t a fair argument.”

“It happens to be true. I have never seen a man so torn between the dictates of his heart and his duty to his king. It drove him to desperate means to find a quick solution to the problem of proving the loyalty of my wife and myself.”

“You knew what he was doing?”

“I did not know. I suspected only.”

“And you let him go on?”

He waved a hand. “I could not stop him. In any case, Lemonnier and I both know that these things are decided not on merit or lack of it, but on influence. It is a lamentable system, even a decadent one, but it works in its way. As a representative of France, I take pride in governing in the name of my king and using my abilities to their utmost. It’s better than being a sycophant at court, fighting for the honor of holding the king’s basin when he is ill.”

She returned abruptly to what he had said, able now to deal with it. “It isn’t love René feels for me. If anything, it’s lust.”

“As strong an emotion as any.”

“But not one on which to base a marriage.”

“It can be a poor thing without it. But if you will not be married, I fear you must be ready to accept the consequences.”

“Consequences?” Her voice was sharp, for she had the feeling they had come finally to the meat of what the governor meant to impart to her.

“Lemonnier, I fear, is a bit unscrupulous.”

“What do you mean?”

“When he left France, he had with him one or two blank
lettres de cachet
signed by the king in case of need. Very convenient instruments, these. They allow the bearer to remove the person whose name he places in the blank and to hold him, or her, in close confinement indefinitely.”

She stared at him, unable to believe what he seemed to be saying. “You mean that René—”

“So I understand.”

“He can’t!”

“He can. The king’s signature makes it imperative for those in authority, myself included, to render him any aid necessary to secure the person he indicates.”

She looked at him for long seconds. “Why are you telling me this? If it’s true, why not just arrest me?”

The governor pursed his lips. “Because you are a beautiful woman and I like you, but also because Lemonnier will use the
lettre de cachet
to take you away, and you are needed in Louisiane fully as much as he. It occurred to me that if you were to decide on marriage after all, if you were to go to him and say so, you both might stay.”

She got to her feet. “I’ll go to him, all right, and it’s very likely he will stay in Louisiane, though not in the way you wish. When I am through, he may need a land concession in Louisiane, as a place to be buried!”

Cyrene’s fuming thoughts kept pace with her quick footsteps as she made her way from the governor’s house to René’s lodgings. The perfidy of the man, to plan her removal from Louisiane in such a way! It was beyond belief, unforgivable. When did he mean to send the soldiers for her? In the middle of the night? More than likely, she would have been given no time to say good-bye, no time to pack; it would be just like him. And where would he take her? To his father’s
chateau?
What then? Would she be a prisoner the rest of her life, kept under lock and key except for such times when it pleased him to permit her freedom? And would he visit her to take his pleasure or allow her to languish, forgotten and alone? She would die before she submitted to such a life.

No, she would kill him.

Martha let Cyrene in, then, with one look at her set and flushed face, the serving woman retreated to the kitchen regions. Cyrene advanced into the salon toward René, who stood before the fireplace with his hands behind him. A wary look hovered in his eyes as he watched her.

“I have just come from the governor,” she said without preamble.

“I trust you found him well.”

“Oh, please, have done with the courtesies,” she said in scathing tones. “I have had an incredible tale from him and I want it explained.”

“A tale?”

“About a
lettre de cachet
.”

“Ah. What of it?”

Her eyes blazed as she came closer to him. “Is it true?”

“If it is?”

“It will be,” she said deliberately, “the most base and despicable trick I have ever heard of in my life.”

“Because I want you with me?”

“You admit it!” she cried. “I couldn’t believe it. I thought it must be a lie, some story to make me come here. I should have known it was just your style, just the sort of high-handed tactics you would take to get what you want! Dear God, is there nothing you won’t do?”

“I asked you to marry me and you refused,” he said, his face grim.

“That doesn’t give you the right to take me against my will!”

“I don’t need anything to give me the right. I have the power of the king.”

“Which you have used for your own revenge!”

The flush of temper lay under the bronze of his skin. “Not yet, but press me and I well may!”

“Not yet, indeed! Why else would you make me your mistress?”

“Because I needed you more than I needed honor. Because I was afraid to let you out of my sight lest you do some wild thing that would force me to let you go to the flogging post though I would feel every lash on my own heart. Because I love you beyond thinking or telling; beyond duty or justice or pride of class; more than the service of my king, the towers of my father’s house, or the cool and shining glories of France itself.” His voice softened. “I am bound to you and you to me. Why else were we born? Why else did the fates send you here and deliver me to you? Why else did you save my life unless it was to let me love you?”

When he fell silent, she drew in her breath with a gasp, not knowing until then that she held it. She swallowed and licked her lips. Her voice low, she said, “I will not be taken to France by force.”

Anger swept over him and with it despair. He could do no more, say no more. He had let her see his soul and to her it was as if he had not spoken. He swung away from her, striding to the writing table. He picked up a foolscap sheet that lay there and tore it across once, twice. Turning, he moved to her, took her hand, and slapped the pieces of torn paper into her palm.

He moved away from her as if he could not bear to be near, saying over his shoulder, “There is your
lettre de cachet.
You are free, free of me, free to remain here in this benighted wilderness if that is what you want. Go. Get out, now! Before I change my mind.”

Free. She supposed she was, and yet she had never felt less so. There were ties of the heart stronger than any prohibition, any prison wall. Love and concern, that of Pierre and Jean and Gaston for her, kept her close to them now for fear of causing them worry. The days and the nights, the joys and the pain she had shared with René Lemonnier held her to him just as strongly, perhaps more surely.

It was odd. She had thought she could not depend on him, could not trust him, and yet she had depended on him to hold her, trusted him to use the
lettre de cachet
to keep her with him. It was only because she had been so certain he would that she had dared to goad him, dared to demand to know why he wanted her.

She had gone too far. She had become so used to pretending to doubt him that she had failed to accept his love when it was offered. She had wanted to hear more, to have some sort of proof so that she could find the words, and the right time, to tell him that she loved him, too.

The proof was in her hand. The time was now. Before it was too late.

She lifted her head. Her voice low, she said, “Stay with me.”

He turned slowly. “What?”

“Stay with me,” she repeated with tears shining like liquid gold in her eyes. “I love you. I will die if you go back to France without me. Don’t go. Stay with me.”

“Always. Before God, always, my Cyrene.”

He was upon her in a single stride. He caught her in the hard circle of his arms and swung her around so that her cloak whirled about her, sweeping over the writing table and sending papers fluttering, sliding from its surface. She clasped her arms around him, dropping the pieces of the letter she held. They showered to the floor like the petals of flowers, lying with the other sheets in a windblown drift.