The Maze Read online

  “What are you doing here?” Hélène’s voice is distant and throaty. She is stirring out of sleep, or deep sadness.

  “Come on.” He pulls her up. She doesn’t resist, but she doesn’t help. It's a strain to get her to her feet.

  Hélène reclaims her hands. “I’m ruined because of you. Because of that.” She points at his groin as he bends down to get the lamp.

  Thomas has to smile. “Just get your things.”

  Hélène shakes her head like she disagrees. But then she runs her fingers through her hair and adjusts the waist of her skirt. She slips on the shoes her feet find beneath the bed. She starts to set off toward the steps. Thomas lays a hand on her shoulder.

  “Your things.”

  “This ... this is all I own. Marguerite took back everything I had.”

  “Oh.” Thomas puts an arm round her waist and presses her to his side. They come to the servant girl seated in the dark. In the light of the lamp he carries Thomas sees she is still waiting where she was, needle and thread in her hands, chemise across her lap, waiting for the return of the light.

  Thomas sets the lamp back on her table. “Thank you.”

  The girl looks at the lamp, then at Thomas and Hélène. “Need it more than me.” She hands the lamp to Hélène. “I can finish this tomorrow.”

  “Thank you Suzette.” Hélène blinks at the girl. “It's Suzette, isn’t it?”

  “It is. I won’t tell anyone you’ve left. I won’t. But where do you go? It’s night and we’re in the woods.”

  Hélène shrugs. She is tugged along by Thomas who is already one step down.

  “The lamp,” he says.

  “You carry it then.”

  The couple halts at the bottom of the steps and Thomas hands the lamp back to Hélène. He bends to rebundle his strewn clothes inside his great Parisian cape.

  —

  Lamp extinguished and set down on the wooden floor beside the doorway, Thomas and Hélène peek out. They can see that there’s a bit of light from the moon overhead, even though it’s behind a giant cloud. The darker the better at this point. All that’s illuminating the brick courtyard are two torches in their brackets. They make the bricks appear orange in their dim, flickering light.

  The flight across the courtyard is a soft slap of hurrying shoes, two bodies trying to run as one. Between them both sets of arms hold up the bundle of Thomas’s things.

  “Where to?” she whispers close to his ear.

  “Shush.”

  A small door beside the large double stable doors opens a crack. A hand beckons Thomas and Hélène. The wide-eyed servant is holding a beaming lantern aloft. The man shakes his head as he quickly closes the door. He takes a step toward Thomas and presents an angry face. “You didn’t say anything about her.”

  “Be silent.” Thomas snaps his fingers. “Is it ready or not?”

  “What’s this about? I cannot—”

  “Not your worry. Where is it?”

  “Through there.” The servant points at an interior wooden door. “I’m taking a big risk. I want my money. Now.”

  “What’s he saying, Thomas?”

  Thomas gives Hélène a tiny shake of his head. He turns to the servant. “Show us first. Nothing until we’re set.”

  The servant strikes a pose, chin upraised, a hand on each hip. “I’ll not be taken.”

  “Enough!” Thomas shouts. “Bastard,” he mutters under his breath.

  “Here,” he says to Hélène, pressing the bundle against her chest. She’s startled, but gets her arms around it.

  Thomas goes to the servant, whose wide eyes narrow to a squint when Thomas places a single finger only inches from his face.

  “First, we make sure there really is a carriage waiting.”

  A second finger shoots up. “She and I get in.”

  A third finger. “You open the stable doors.”

  The fourth finger. “That’s when you get your coin.”

  “Coinssss. You promised two écus.”

  “Yes, two. It will be two.”

  The servant hesitates before he makes a quick nod. His expression suggests he’s been duped before. He leads Thomas and Hélène over to the door that connects with the main part of the stables. He pulls it open and stands back. Thomas takes the lantern from the man’s hand as he steps by.

  The smell of hay and horses is strong. The animals are clearly disturbed by the coming of people and the light. There are four wooden stalls, with horses standing and craning over their gates in two of them. They are whinnying and tossing their long necks up and down in the excitement.

  Thomas hoists the lantern high to see what else is in this structure. It’s a building of rustic stone, not smooth-cut limestone like the main part of the château. Wooden pillars support the upper level, which is overflowing with hay. A dropped lantern, or an errant flame of any kind, would send the whole thing up. Thomas casts a glance at the candle burning inside the lantern’s glass. He goes to the nearest post and hangs the lantern on a hook.

  There are three coaches in the stables. It’s the farthest one, a small, open, two-wheeled black carriage that has a horse harnessed up, a single horse. The horse is chestnut brown. It’s pawing the ground, sniffing the air.

  “It’ll do.”

  “Do? That’s a fine calèche. Do you understand the risk I’m taking here?”

  “Not really.” Thomas puts a hand on the servant’s chest and gives him a light push out of the way, then takes the cloaked bundle from Hélène. He pulls down the little iron step for her. “Up you get.”

  Hélène puts a foot on the step and pulls herself up by grasping the side of the calèche. Thomas tosses the bundle up to her. She wedges it into the narrow space behind the bench seat. Thomas climbs up and reaches for the reins. He shakes them up and down. He’s not sure what comes next. He’s never in his life ridden a horse, let alone been a coachman handling reins.

  “You don’t know horses, do you?” Hélène is shaking her head.

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet?” Hélène grins and laughs. She takes the lines out of Thomas’s hands and at once tightens the tension between her and the horse. The harnessed horse whinnies at the tightening. Hélène utters soothing coos and chucks. The horse settles down. “I grew up in a coaching inn, remember?”

  “I do.” Thomas winks at her. He feels better without the responsibility of the reins. He taps the pockets of his veston just to reassure himself that he still has the leather pouches of coins. “We’re set.”

  The ancient servant steps up on the iron foothold. He’s seen Thomas tap his pockets. “I’ll have my due.”

  “Doors first.” Thomas points at the two wide doors beyond the horse’s snorting nose.

  “And watch you take off? No. The money now or I’ll wake the night.”

  “Give it to him.” Hélène gives Thomas a push. “We have to go.”

  “Step off,” Thomas directs.

  The man does as he is told. Thomas brings out one pouch and searches its coins with his longest fingers. He pulls out a single one. “Your écu.” He tosses it through the air.

  The servant catches it and studies it in the dim light. “And the other?”

  “When the doors are opened and we roll.”

  “Your word?”

  “Of course.” Under his breath, Thomas mutters, “And what word is that?”

  This time, Hélène elbows Thomas in the ribs. “Give it to him. We have to go.”

  “All right.” Thomas feels for another écu. “Here.” He throws it to the servant. “The doors.” Thomas makes a widening movement with his two hands.

  “If you’re caught, I did not help at all. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Thomas says.

  “Agreed,” Hélène repeats.

  The man goes t
o the double doors. He shows his age, for the opening of the doors proves to be not a simple task. He lifts the long plank that bars both doors from the inside. He carries it with wavering difficulty over to the wall on the left. Hobbling now he retraces his steps and lifts the iron latch.

  “Hurry up,” Thomas calls out.

  “Hold on. Nearly done.”

  The servant pulls the first door open wide, and pushes it all the way to the left. He trudges back to pull and push the other one. Thomas measures the half-opening with his eyes. He compares it to the width of the calèche they’re in.

  “That’s enough,” he whispers to Hélène.

  “Not yet,” she says.

  The servant jerks the second door partway open. He bends and puts his shoulder to it. The opening widens with each staggered step, though there are still a half dozen more feet until the second door is pushed as far as it could go.

  “Now,” says Thomas.

  Hélène cracks the reins and yells. The horse startles and rears. Hélène snaps the reins again and gives a whistle. The carriage jerks and starts to roll. The aged servant leaps out of the way. “Hey!” he shouts.

  The calèche jumps into the opened space. The horse strides out of the stables with ease, but the coach does not. It catches on both sides. There’s an awful scraping sound. The little carriage wedges to a halt.

  “You’ve wrecked Madame’s calèche,” the servant shouts. He tries to grab Thomas.

  Thomas thrusts out a leg. He kicks at the servant to move him back. “Away,” he yells. The old man grabs hold of Thomas’s leg.

  Hélène cracks the whip and screams some new guttural sound at the horse. The horse whinnies as it rears. There’s a loud creak, a metallic scrape. Then a crack. But the calèche begins to move. Thomas reaches out and undoes the servant’s grip upon his leg. The old man tumbles to the ground.

  The carriage is all the way through. With building speed the horse’s hooves hit the bricks of the courtyard. It’s a clattering, swelling sound. Hélène holds the reins taut to steer the horse on a sweeping turn. The calèche straightens out. They are heading for the portcullised gate.

  Behind them the servant cries out, “Thieves! Stop, thieves!”

  Thomas glances back. The old fellow is now standing in the centre of the brick courtyard brandishing an upraised fist. He’s yelling at the top of his voice.

  “Have to give him his due,” Thomas says to Hélène. “He earned his coins.”

  “Him? What about me?” She makes as if to hand the reins over to Thomas.

  “Maybe later.” He half stands and grabs her by the shoulders. He kisses her hard on the mouth.

  “Can’t see.” She pushes him away.

  Thomas beams back. Always a surprise, is she not?

  —

  At the sudden shouting and the clatter of hooves on the bricks, Madame Dufour and Marguerite go to the windows of their respective rooms. Madame Dufour parts the curtains and opens a window a moment before Marguerite does the same. Two flickering torches and a shaft of moonlight light the courtyard.

  “Gilles!” cries out Madame Dufour. “Gilles, our calèche!”

  The elderly servant stops waving his fist. The coach is now under the portcullis and barely visible at all. Gilles cranes up to speak to his mistress.

  “He’s a scoundrel, Madame. He tricked me. I didn’t know that he—” Gilles stops when he notices Marguerite at her window. She is leaning out and evidently listening to every word. The servant sends a deferential nod in Marguerite’s direction. “Madame,” he says with a bow.

  “Keep on,” yells Madame Dufour.

  Gilles places a hand beside his mouth. He pretends he is speaking only to her, that Marguerite in the next window cannot listen in. “Might I come up and explain what I know? It’s delicate.”

  “Of course. But hurry, will you please.”

  —

  Gilles takes his time. He knows he has to get the story straight before he opens his mouth. He has a laughably easy life at Le Mesnil, except for the few weeks when Madame Dufour comes down from Paris. His future depends on how well he’ll be able to explain this unfortunate incident away. It comes to him that it would be best to say he encountered the two house guests in the stables readying the horse to the calèche. He did everything he could to stop them from getting away, from stealing the coach. He even placed his very body, frail as it is, in harm’s way.

  Alas, Marguerite’s unscrupulous husband Thomas – with his harlot, the servant called Hélène – they shoved him down. They kicked him and threatened to pierce out his eyes. No, that might be a bit too far. They kicked him and spat in his face.

  Gilles stops on the first landing and kicks off his shoes. He puts one of his new coins in each, then slips the shoes back on.

  —

  Still leaning out their windows overlooking the silent courtyard, now bathed in the moon’s sickly glow, Madame Dufour and Marguerite exchange dour looks. Neither woman dares to say aloud, at least not across a public space, whom she thinks she spied riding away in the calèche. Each is certain who those two people are.

  “I will speak with my man Gilles.” Madame Dufour looks to Marguerite as if to seek approval.

  The woman whose husband has just ridden off with a whore steps back, making no reply. She latches the windows shut, then yanks the curtains closed.

  Marguerite grabs a candle out of a sconce. She goes at once down the hall and into her husband’s room. She sees the open trunk, everything within it all stirred up. The wardrobe, doors ajar and gaping, stands nearly empty. So it’s true. It is. It really was Thomas, her Thomas, in the calèche. He was looking back over his shoulder while a slender-figured woman held the reins. That thieving slut.

  Marguerite staggers over to a chair. Once again, she has learned that this man, the man she married barely seven months ago, practises deceit. She brings her hands up to cover her face.

  “Aha. There you are. Not surprised, I bet.”

  Marguerite splays her fingers. She peeks through her hands at Madame Dufour in the doorway to Thomas’s room.

  “I thought you’d be in here. Just to confirm, I suppose.”

  Madame Dufour pauses and tips her head back just a bit. To Marguerite it looks like her cousin is weighing the consequences of what she might say next.

  “I was right all along, you know. I told you from the start, before you wed, that man was no good.”

  Marguerite removes her hands from her face and rises swiftly from her chair. She meets Marie-France Dufour at the foot of the bed and grabs her by the sleeves of her nightdress. She spins her cousin round and pushes her toward the door.

  “What— what are you doing?”

  With a push and fling, Marguerite shoves her cousin out into the hall. She closes the door and locks it before Madame can come back in.

  “Marguerite,” implores the voice through the door. “I’m on your side. I am.”

  “Leave me, will you please?” Marguerite’s voice is a plaintive appeal.

  She hears a mumbling from Madame out in the hall. She can’t make out the words, but she is relieved to hear the sound of retreating footsteps.

  “Thank you,” Marguerite says quietly, briefly closing her eyes. She goes back to the chair she was in a moment before. She has to figure this out.

  Yes, she’s hurt and seething mad, but she knows those sentiments always pass. Unbridled emotions accomplish nothing in the end. To be sure, her first husband had his lapses and distractions too. Yet she was always able to overcome the various predicaments he put her in. Marriage is a sacrament sworn before God. It is a promise and a vow. An oath. Are not oaths the basis of everything in the world? Of course they are. Otherwise it would be every man and woman out only for themselves. Obligations given and observed are a check and a balance in such a world. Since marriage is the path she has
chosen, the real question is: Is it still possible, after these past two days, for her to find some way to work things out with this Thomas Pichon as it was with her first? Marguerite inhales as deeply as she can, then empties her lungs as though firing up her resolution.

  She rises from the chair, goes to the wardrobe and closes its doors. Next it’s the trunk, whose lid she closes as well.

  What’s wrong with Thomas, it comes to Marguerite as she returns to her chair, is that woman he has fled with. She has him bewitched. There is likely nothing for her he would not do. For her, the wench, alas, not for his wife. Her husband is young. That makes him easily led. What he’s done on this trip ... these actions are not really who and what he is. No. What Marguerite has to figure out is how she can liberate her young man from that woman’s spell. Before it’s too late. Too late for him, too late for Marguerite, and too late for the union they made seven months ago before God. They both have immortal souls to be saved.

  Marguerite moves off the chair and toward the door. The errant couple is undoubtedly heading back to Paris. Where else? A determined wife would be wise to do the same. She’ll speak with Madame Dufour and ask if she will make the arrangements.

  —

  Hélène slows the pace of the horse once the calèche is well beyond the château gate and climbing the road that leads up the hill through the avenue of trees. Though she saw no other coach in the stables ready to come after them, she glances over her shoulder just the same. It is reassuring to see that she’s right, at least for now. But pursuit is only a matter of time. Most likely it will be tomorrow. She and Thomas should have the night to get a considerable distance ahead.

  “Thank you, Thomas. Thank you for getting me out of there.”

  “I just wanted you instead of her,” he says to her, with a shrug.

  —

  Relieved to be off the resounding bricks of the courtyard and onto the dirt road, Thomas looks to the sky. The moon is up high and enough to see where they are going. “It’s enough light, is it not?”

  “Should be,” Hélène replies, eyes straight ahead. “So long as the horse remembers the road.” She sends Thomas a quick smile. Then she makes the sign of the cross.