Words from the Dark Inkwell of the Heart (2 page)

She gave me her card; I took it with a shaking hand. “Please let me know as soon as possible.” Taking her umbrella from Bernal, she let herself out of the shop. I could barely understand what had just happened, but I clutched the little rectangle of fine paper in a vise grip.

* * *

A situation. A companion. A lady’s maid. The family was in shock; from the moment I was born, it was assumed that I could be nothing in life but a burden to others. The notion that I was welcome in the home of a fine lady of good family and estate was inconceivable.

My stepmother was the first to recover her wits and seize the day; she knew better than to miss the chance to have me out of her house. The following morning, she dressed me in my most presentable clothes and took me to see Madame de Maurier. I don’t believe I said more than two words during the entire interview—my father’s wife answered all of Madame’s questions. When the subject of my duties arose, Madame turned to me and handed me a book: I recognized the author immediately, a favorite of the old tutor.

“Claudette, if you would please turn to “Perseverance”, and read the last lines aloud?”

I bent to the familiar task. I could barely speak at all, if the words were my own, but losing myself in Balzac was easy. Without a moment’s hesitation, my voice rang out clearly:

“…Nevertheless, this wealth, far from emptying his purse, filled it full to overflowing, because so rapidly increased his fame and his fortune that he was able to buy a patent of nobility and lands, and he founded the house of Anseau, which has since been held in great honour in fair Touraine.

This teaches us to have always recourse to God and the saints in all the undertakings of life, to be steadfast in all things, and, above all, that a great love triumphs over everything, which is an old sentence; but the author has rewritten it because it is a most pleasant one.”

Madame de Maurier smiled. “Very good, Claudette. You will do very well indeed.”

“She has the job, then?” my stepmother said. “You will take her?”

“Indeed I shall. Thank you, Madame Bertrand. You have done me a great kindness; I hope you and your husband will accept a small token of my appreciation.” With this, Madame handed across a bank draft. I did not see the sum, but my stepmother’s eyes flew wide and beads of sweat sprang up on her nose.

“Thank you, Madame. You are very generous. You know my husband has been ill…”

“Yes, Madame Bertrand.”

“Things have been very bad.”

Madame de Maurier nodded. “I pray for your husband’s swift recovery.”

“I have two sons, if ever you have need of—”

Madame cleared her throat. “Thank you, Madame Bertrand.” She picked up the little bell upon her table and rang it; her valet appeared at the door. “Please bring the coach around to see Madame Bertrand home safely.” My father’s wife was shown to the door, still bobbing and nodding her respects. “Claudette will join her in a moment.”

I was left alone with Madame, my stepmother having accepted the job on my behalf without so much as a glance in my direction. Cecile de Maurier smiled at me. “Come, Claudette. I have made a place for you, if you will have it.”

She led me up the stairs to the second floor. It was part of her natural grace that she found a way to ascend those steps so languidly that it did not seem that I lagged behind her. When we reached her private apartments, she opened a white door.

If I had entertained any doubts about entering her service, the sight of my new bedroom erased them. It was easily four times the size of my closet at home, with a soft bed and a tub for my own private baths. A vase of bright flowers had been arranged on the bedside table, and a few paintings of pleasant country scenes upon the walls. In the corner, there was a writing desk and pair of tall bookcases. At the sight of them I forgot myself and hobbled forward.

I let my fingertips trail over the fine gilt and leather spines. Moliere. Shakespeare. Cicero. I had read many of these before, but I had never touched a book so elegantly bound. I leaned close, intoxicated by the mingled perfume of good paper and leather.

“I had intended to remove these shelves later.” I turned to her in sudden fear; Madame de Maurier’s eyes danced, and the smile she offered was so beautiful that tears sprang up in my eyes. “But I will leave them, if you like.”

I nearly threw myself at her feet; I was in the presence of an angel, a saint. “Please, Madame. I…I would like to read them. When can I begin?”

* * *

There was nothing else to it. My few possessions were thrown into a single box, and moved into the splendid room. For the first year I did not unpack them, hardly daring to expose my tattered books in Madame’s fine house, or show the face of poor Jolie. I was fitted for three new dresses, simple and sober clothes which echoed Madame’s own. I became a member of Madame’s household, paid twice monthly. I was allowed half a day’s leisure on Tuesday afternoons.

My duties were simple. I awoke before Madame, sorted her letters and newspapers, and brought them to her with her morning meal. While she drank her coffee, I read her correspondence aloud, and then sat at her desk with pen and paper as she patiently dictated each response. Afterward, I helped her dress and arrange her hair; I would remain at her side for the rest of the day, departing only when dismissed. If she was alone or with intimate friends, I might even take meals with her. And when the mood struck her—as it did quite often—I would read.

I was, quite simply, Madame de Maurier’s eyes. Her vision had begun to fail in recent years, until even her best reading glasses were of no use. The attempt to read a finely printed line would make her eyes water and her temples throb; a note from a friend, the menu at a restaurant, the program of a play, and a bill from the grocer’s were all equally painful. But half of her life was in correspondence, and in her social circle it was impossible to enjoy the company of others unless she was prepared to discuss the latest novel, poem, or pamphlet. As her companion, my duties were light—but indispensable.

At the end of the day, I would brush her hair until it shone like a cataract of yellow silk, and plait it into a long smooth rope. She closed her eyes, rested her head on the pillow, and I took whatever lay upon her bedside table to read aloud until she was ready to snuff the lamp and sleep.

It was there, seated on the edge of Madame de Maurier’s bed, that I first encountered the love of my life. I had just read a sheet of hand-written verses, two sonnets so scandalously funny that I laughed aloud—and at the bottom of the page, I saw his name: C. Edmund DeRoste.

* * *

“Cousin Edmund”, as she called him, had been a fixture in the life of Madame de Maurier since she was a small child. He was her second cousin; the two of them had played together on the family estate in the Dordogne. They had always moved in the same social circles, and when he joined the musketeers, the two remained close. He had been a good friend to her husband, in years past. After Monsieur de Maurier was killed in the war, DeRoste remained one of the very few intimates with whom Madame could discuss her husband—and the only one before whom she would openly weep.

The fact that he was one of the most celebrated
litterateurs
in Paris was an afterthought, to her; Madame was aware of his fame, but she never seemed to understand it. To Cecile de Maurier, DeRoste was only “funny old Cousin Edmund”, and she could not regard him in any other light. He always passed along his latest efforts to her, long before they were published; she received his poems and plays with a gracious smile, but she was careless about reading them. Celebrated as he was, his cousin found his work…uninspiring.

Naturally, I had heard of DeRoste before. It was impossible to haunt the bookstalls in any marketplace without hearing of his latest escapade. He was the sort of man that people love to talk about, and his latest writing was always avidly sought—so much so that I had never been able to read more than a few discarded leaves which fell when another customer had taken the last copy.

When I first came to work for Madame de Maurier, he was away from the city for a number of months, on holiday in Italy. Thus I had nearly half a year to find every page he had written and read them all—once or twice aloud, at her direction, but more often secretly, in my room. It became a delicious treat to search the voluminous sheaves written by her other friends, when Madame was away, seeking these little treasures…always written in that vigorous, back-slanting hand which I came to recognize at a glance.

By the time I was nineteen, I knew a page written by DeRoste anywhere, not only by sight but by sound. Every line was spoken by the same wonderful Voice. To me, these were the outpourings of a great soul: wry, sad, irreverent and wicked, world-weary and wise, sweetly romantic, and often given to rage—this last always on behalf of those weaker than himself, who were wronged by the strong. His pen had a Voice, and when that Voice spoke, I burned. I could give no name to the passion that had come over me. I took his unpublished poems and hid them under my mattress, as if they were written for me.

His letters came more frequently as he planned his return to Paris. Day after day I sat at Madame’s desk, writing her calm and courteous replies. I was unbearably excited that he was coming back—that he would soon be as common a visitor in Madame’s parlor as any other friend. But how would I recognize him? None of his published books carried an engraving of his face, and much as I searched, I could find no portrait of her cousin among Madame de Maurier’s things.

The reason for this became clear soon enough. He sent word that he would call on her, on the fifth of September. On the day of his arrival, Madame took me aside.

“My cousin Edmund is coming this afternoon. Since you have never met him, I must warn you that he is a man of great sensitivity. Please be very careful not to stare at him. He is very tender about his looks, and quick to take offense.”

I nodded and lowered my eyes. DeRoste—was he ugly? Could such wonderful words be written by an ugly man? I allowed it could be so. I understood ugliness well enough, having borne its curse all of my life. I had certainly heard the tales of DeRoste’s quick temper. The notion that I could offend or insult him in some way terrified me. But part of me marveled at Madame’s tone—did she really think her Cousin hideous? She seemed to have a very tender affection for him; she always began her letters to him “Dearest Friend”…could it be that she was as kindly solicitous of his deformity as she was of mine?

I sat in my accustomed chair by the window when his carriage arrived. From this vantage point, DeRoste was nothing but the crown of a broad-brimmed hat, its band sporting three long spotted plumes. When I heard his thunderous knock, heard the thud of his boots on the wooden floor, the rumble of his approach in the hall, I thought he must be a giant.

The door opened; the valet spoke his name. He exploded into the room like a flock of pigeons, sweeping off his hat with a bow. Before Madame de Maurier could more than half rise from her chair, he had clapped his arms around her and kissed both her pale cheeks.

“Cecile,
ma chere cousine!
I am home.” And with that he collapsed on her divan, as if he had run the whole way from Italy on foot. Before Madame could speak again, he launched into the story of his travails on the road from Tuscany. Anxious, I waited to be introduced, but it was impossible; he stayed for two hours, and in that time poor Madame could not get in a word.

I contented myself by studying the man from the corner of my eye, stealing longer glances when I thought I could go unnoticed. Vainly I searched for ugliness, beginning with his face. It seemed a good face to me. A firm Gallic nose, perhaps a bit larger than usual, which served him as a ship is served by a strong prow. An old dueling scar across the bridge was more romantic than disfiguring. A generous mouth, filled with strong white teeth. A lavish moustache, lustrous black, and a neatly pointed tuft of beard upon his stubborn chin. He wore his hair long, in glossy, coal-black curls—another man might have paid handsomely to wear them as a wig. Large, soulful brown eyes, surrounded by lines of laughter and pain. Thick lashes and brows—these as mobile and mercurial as a summer sky, portending joy or thunder with his many swiftly passing moods.

Finding no ugliness above the neck, I continued my search below. DeRoste was not a tall man; he wore a high-heeled boot that came to his knee, but when Madame stood to greet him, she had to bend to kiss his cheek. His shoulders were broad and powerful beneath his cotton chemise, the sleeves rolled up over a sun-blackened forearm. His hands had seen both hard work and violence. He had the thighs of a horseman, and a prosperous middle—but these did not seem to me unattractive.

Despite myself, I found myself caught up in the story of his roadside adventures, which he told with such passion that the voyage seemed as marvelous as a trip to Arabia. I found myself riding upon the waves of his voice, having lost all sense of time or self—smiling and often almost chuckling as he talked, as if he were speaking to me directly. But at last, concluding his narrative, he leaned forward; Madame de Maurier smiled as he took her tiny hand.

“And so I return to Paris, not much the worse for wear. Sweet cousin…” He kissed her fingers. “You are looking well.”

She squeezed his hand, smiling tenderly. “I am well,
cher
Edmund. I am glad to see you again.” She met his eyes. “You are, indeed, not much the worse for wear.”

He smiled broadly. “Fortune did Her worst the day that I was born.” He stood to go. “But tell me, before I leave—who is this little person sitting in the corner? She has been staring at me ever since I arrived in the rudest, most reprehensible manner!”

With that he turned to me, full face, and gave me a broad comedian’s wink. Caught! My mouth dropped open, aghast. I jumped to my feet. The blood soared to my face in a ferocious hot blush.

“This is my new companion, Mademoiselle Bertrand. I took her into my service several months ago—she is quite precious to me.” There was a note of chiding in Madame’s voice. “And I’m quite sure that she was not staring at you, Edmund. Do not be diabolical. Poor Claudette has never stared at anyone in her life.”