The Maze Page 5

  “Think that helps?”

  “I do. And you’d better hope as well.”

  Thomas looks away, off to the darkness of what could be a field of flax. There are no blue flowers visible in the night, but it does look like flax just the same.

  He and his Paris friends have been mocking religious believers for so long that he’s always surprised when Hélène evokes her Catholic heart. Marguerite, he knows, lives her faith. But Hélène, well, Hélène is his own age and otherwise seems so smart. Thomas looks around at where they are: two people in flight from a château on a dark road in the middle of the night. He hunches his shoulders. Who knows? Maybe Hélène is right. What harm could there be in hoping that the Blessed Virgin and the Seigneur might be watching out for them as they head into the unknown?

  His thoughts turn to what they have just given up. Well, not they but him. Hélène already lost all she had the day before. But Thomas has just left behind a life of considerable comfort and went through a tiresome interrogation to keep it. Not to mention some noble promises to his wife. Oh my. He was higher up and better off in the world with Marguerite than he had ever been before. Yet here he is, with a woman who has not a thing. And neither of them a clue as to what comes next. What sense is there in that, in the path they are choosing?

  “What’s wrong with you?” Hélène is looking Thomas’s way.

  “Nothing.”

  “You should tell your face.”

  Thomas stares into her eyes. “I ... I’m ... well, we’re leaving a lot behind. It’ll be a long time before we’re back to that level again.”

  “You want me to turn the horse around?”

  “No, but it was a Rubicon. That’s all.”

  Hélène tilts her head quizzically. “I don’t know what that means. But I do know it doesn’t do much good to mope.”

  “Mope? Who was that in the attic just now?”

  “You want another thanks?”

  “I guess I do.”

  “Thank you.”

  They are silent for a while. The lull is broken by a laugh from Hélène.

  “Why did you say we’re leaving a lot behind? Me, I’ve already lost it all. But you, you’re still all right.”

  Thomas stares at her, eyes wide. He waits for her to explain.

  “I was a lady, or nearly so. Steady meals, fine clothes. I lost everything because of the damned maze. I fucked my life by fucking you. In front of a telescope.”

  Thomas purses his lips. “I’ve just fled from my wife. My entire Paris life – maybe even my position with the magistrate judge – is lost.”

  Hélène is silent while she makes sure the horse rounds the bend in the road. As they progress along a straight section between tall, slender trees, she turns back to Thomas. “Do you know how many husbands stray from their wives in this world?”

  Thomas shrugs.

  “Lots. I’ve probably been with a hundred all by myself. Oh, grimace all you want, but do the sums. Trust me, Thomas, you’re not lost. You’re in trouble, yes, but you’re still married to Marguerite.”

  Thomas hesitates.

  “You two were married in the eyes of God. That can’t be altered by running away with me.”

  “And she has no children,” mumbles Thomas. Silently he goes over what this means. He is indeed Marguerite Salles’s husband, and she has no heirs. So he is linked to her estate, unless she takes action in the courts to lock him out. Modest though it is in the great scheme of things, her estate is much more than he has by himself. Much more. Hélène could be right. He may not, necessarily, have burned all his bridges.

  “Well, look at that little grin. So you agree? You might yet reconcile with Marguerite?”

  “You’re not just any woman, are you, Hélène?”

  “Who is?” Hélène gives her attention back to the road.

  “You know,” she says, eyes peering forward, “you could tell Marguerite that it was me who planned this escape. That I made you come along because of my ... allure and charms.” Hélène snorts at that. “Your wife would probably believe that.”

  Hélène turns to make eye contact. “She detests me because she had given me a place in her heart and then I let her down. To her, my betrayal was worse than yours.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No, you’re a man. Women expect more from women than they ever do from men.”

  They hold eye contact, and then Hélène lets loose a sputtering laugh. Thomas hunches his shoulders, shakes his head and turns back to stare off into the darkness of the night. With Hélène guiding the horse along the moonlit road, Thomas reaches behind his seat. He pulls up the large cloak that carries everything he took from his room. He shakes it out then places the cloak around Hélène’s shoulders.

  “My tailor in Paris, a Russian, he said this cloak would keep me warm and safe. It’ll do the same for you.”

  “It is warm.” Hélène blinks her appreciation.

  “You want me to take over?”

  Hélène tilts back. “I think we need to get further away first. Maybe I’ll give you the reins later.”

  Thomas shrugs and looks up at the sky. Though there’s no wind at ground level, the thin clouds are whirling like they have somewhere to go. The canopy of stars is much more visible now than when they left the château. One by one Thomas locates the constellations he knows.

  “What happened to you back at the château?” asks Hélène.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were someone else.”

  “I was, wasn’t I?”

  “For a moment I thought you were going to beat the old man.”

  Thomas bites his lower lip. “Marguerite found out it was me behind the missing jewellery, the theft I blamed on Simone.”

  “The little servant I replaced?”

  “Yes. When I saw the look on Marguerite’s face, I panicked I guess. That’s when I went looking for you.”

  Hélène turns away from Thomas. She seems to study the horse’s bouncing tail. But when Thomas leans forward to see her profile, he sees she is squeezing her eyes tight shut. When she turns back to face Thomas again, her eyes are shining like they are wet.

  “Good then.” There’s a tremolo in her voice. “I have another chance.”

  She leans into Thomas and kisses him lightly on the lips. He is taken aback.

  “You know,” he says, “I don’t know what happens next.”

  Hélène straightens up, turning to set her eyes back on the road. “Who does? If we knew all the disappointments and setbacks that lie ahead, we’d probably all give up.”

  “You really think everything’s in vain?”

  Hélène shrugs. “Yes. No. I seem to keep hoping that it’s not.”

  The road takes a long curve as it climbs slowly to high ground. At the top of the hill the trees thin out so that Thomas and Hélène can see down into a valley below.

  “Look, that’s it.” Hélène prods Thomas with her elbow. “The château.”

  Thomas sees the sharply contoured slate roof. The light of the moon has it shining almost white. The turrets stand out and there is a faint glow from a few windows where lamps are lit.

  “Think they're talking about us?” Hélène’s eyes and smile are especially wide and saucy.

  “How could they not?” Thomas gives her shoulder a gentle push. “We have notoriety, if not renown.”

  “Is that what you really want, Thomas, renown?”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “Not me.” Hélène gives him a steely glance. “Not sure what I want, other than a bit of comfort and a place that’s safe to sleep. Speaking of which, my friend, you look spent. Here.” She pats her lap.

  “For a bit?” Thomas asks.

  “Go on.”

  As the horse begins its descent from the hilltop, p
icking up speed as the forest re-establishes itself, Thomas shifts to lower his head onto Hélène’s lap. She places her free hand gently upon the side of his head, while holding the reins in the other.

  “You know,” says Hélène, “this ride, this may be the freest I’ve ever felt.”

  “Me too.”

  Thomas fills his eyes with a field of stars and his ears with the soft tapping of the horse’s hooves on the dirt. He can hear his breath go out and come back in. “I like you, Hélène.”

  “Shush. Have a nap.”

  “But I do.”

  “Shush, I said.” Hélène takes her finger and traces a line along his now sealed lips.

  Thomas closes his eyes. He knows he should be thinking about what he and Hélène are going to do next, when they get to Paris. But he can’t. As long as they can keep rolling on, that will have to be enough until he’s had a nap. The call of sleep. The trembling of his eyes are beyond his control.

  —

  Hélène presses her back against the seat. The moon and stars are so bright at the moment that she no longer has to peer to find the road, a gently rutted track that goes through the woods and down this hill. Funny to think that this road was made no one could say when, some time long before she was born. And it’ll still be right here after she is gone. Yet all she and the horse have to do on this night is to follow where it leads.

  Hélène feels Thomas’s entire body shudder. She can tell he’s gone, deep into his sleep. She’ll take her turn later on. Right now, she is content to have the horse as her only company along a sky-lit forest road.

  III

  Arrangements

  Paris

  June to October 1727

  With the horse and calèche housed in the closest Paris stables, Thomas and Hélène hurry toward the building that houses Marguerite Salles’s apartment. It’s been raining for a day and a half, ever since they left Alençon. Neither has dared suggest to the other that the constant downpour is somehow a judgement on what they’ve done. Silently and secretly, however, each has been having exactly that thought.

  “At least it’s a warm rain,” Thomas said once along the way. Hélène’s baleful look told him not to try that again. In fact, for the last stretch of the journey, once Paris came into sight, they hardly spoke at all. There were too many unknowns lying in wait. They both resolved, independently, that no talk at all was better than sharing worries.

  The heavy cloak they share has long since become sopping wet. It is more weight than comfort round their shoulders as they scurry toward the building where less than a week ago they lived in harmony with Marguerite.

  “You remember?” asks Thomas. He reaches out and stops Hélène from rushing directly in. “The lines we rehearsed last night?”

  “Stay out here and rehearse if you want. I’m getting out of this rain.”

  Hélène jumps out from beneath the cape. She pulls open the door and goes in, Thomas following behind.

  Two floors up, standing outside the door to Marguerite’s suite of rooms, Thomas and Hélène shake the great cape. Droplets sprinkle and pool on the wooden floor. They flap their arms, swing their hats and wiggle their legs, trying to dismiss as much of their bedraggled appearance as they can. Yet their efforts don’t change a thing – both are soaked to the skin. Hélène is not wearing much at all. She is still dressed as she was when Thomas found her in the attic three nights ago. Like the lowest servant of any house, in clothes already tattered and stained before they became thoroughly wet.

  “We need to get you into some new clothes,” Thomas says.

  “Really?” Hélène shakes her head. She straightens her shoulders and once more flutters and flaps her wet blue skirt and adjusts her chemise. She tucks her sopping hair under her soaking wet servant’s cap.

  Thomas smiles at the preparations she is making before opening the door. Then he puts a silencing finger to his lips. They agreed that once they are inside the building they will not know who might be listening on the other side of any wall or door. They will speak only when prudent. Once inside Marguerite’s suite of rooms, they will be doubly careful of what they say and do. Marguerite’s servants must not suspect a thing about what happened on the short stay at Le Mesnil. Of course they will notice Hélène’s tattered state, but they have come up with a ready explanation for that.

  Thomas puts the key in the lock and turns. He pushes the door open carefully. None of Marguerite’s long-time household servants are in sight. The place is as quiet as he and Hélène hoped. She should be able to get in and changed before anyone sees her in these lowly clothes.

  Hélène taps him lightly on the arm. She asks with a gesture if they should begin their practised exchange. He nods that they likely should.

  “Well, that was one trip I’ll not care to repeat, Monsieur Pichon.”

  “Right you are, Mademoiselle. Dreadful.”

  They share grimaces. They sound like they’re in some terrible play. In their rehearsal in the inn last night, this patter sounded fine. Pronounced in the empty foyer of Marguerite’s residence, with the hall table and engravings and prints staring back, it sounds contrived.

  Thomas forces a cough. He whirls a hand in the air. Hélène’s brow wrinkles, but then she understands. They will start again.

  “My wife made the right decision, don’t you think? To stay behind and ask us to return on our own.”

  “I do, Monsieur. I just hope her journey, delayed as it is, will be better than ours was in all the rain.”

  Thomas beams at Hélène. “Best I get out of these clothes. You’ll want to do the same. I wonder if any of the servants are about.”

  Then, with a broad grin, Thomas sends his two hands to grab Hélène’s breasts. She bats his hands away. She pushes him into the wall, knocking a framed map of the siege of La Rochelle off its hook. Thomas catches it before it hits the floor. He winks at Hélène and rehangs the map.

  “Perhaps we’ll have dinner together later. Would you like to join me in that, Mademoiselle?” Thomas holds up both hands. He pokes the index finger of his right hand through a circle he makes with his left.

  “We’ll see.” Hélène gives a wide, deliberate shake of her head as she walks past Thomas, heading for her room. She reaches out for the door handle, but before she turns it she pivots Thomas’s way. He is following her every move. She makes as if to blow a kiss. Then she makes the same hand gesture Thomas did and mouths: “Two times.”

  “As you wish, Mademoiselle,” says Thomas aloud before he crosses the hall to his room. The instant he opens the door there emerges the sound of panting and the slap of skin on skin.

  “What?” Thomas shouts.

  It’s Charles, Marguerite’s sad-faced lackey from Brive, and Sébastien, the plump little Gascon cook. They're wrestling front to back, or something like, atop Thomas’s bed in Thomas’s room. The lackey’s breeches are down and he’s on top of the cook. The cook has nothing on but a pulled-up chemise.

  “What are you two doing in here? And on my bed?”

  The two men separate and jump off the bed. Their stunned faces announce their guilt. Sébastien retrieves a corner of the blanket to cover his hairy groin.

  “Weren’t expecting you, Monsieur.” Charles pulls up and buttons his breeches fast.

  “What is it?” Hélène is at the doorway. She steps in to stand beside Thomas. Her eyes go wide at what she sees. Thomas asks her with a look if the two servants were doing what he thinks. She tells him with a couple of blinks that, yes, that’s exactly what it was. Thomas feels warm air rush out his mouth and nose.

  “In here,” he cries. He is speaking to Charles and Sébastien but he’s waving at the whole room. “And on my bed. Get out. Out.” Thomas’s voice is deep, like he’s the commander of a ship. He’s pointing at the door.

  “Monsieur, you were away and we were— trying on some of your thi
ngs.” The cook suddenly studies first Thomas then Hélène. “But, but why are you so wet? And in those clothes? Where is Madame Salles?”

  “We’ll ask the questions.” Thomas puts a hand on his hip. He does not like the look of the cook’s bare, fat ass.

  Sébastien tries to fold the blanket that’s covering him as he sidles by.

  “Whoa.” Thomas grabs Sébastien by his wrist. The fellow has on one of Thomas’s chemises, a silk one at that. “That is my shirt.”

  Thomas turns to examine Charles, half hidden behind the cook. And are those not Thomas’s long-lost scarlet breeches the lackey just buttoned up? They went missing from Thomas’s wardrobe at least two months ago. “My pants. My shirt. You two are thieves. As well as....” Thomas waves at the tumult of bedclothes on the bed.

  “How were we to know you’d be back?” Charles assumes an indignant pose. “As soon as this?”

  “It’s my fault?” Thomas glances toward Hélène, as if to ask if she has ever heard the like of that. Hélène, however, has her gaze lifted on high. It seems she does not want to see another thing in the room.

  Thomas curls his lips at each servant in turn then points at the half-open door. Charles and Sébastien scamper off. Thomas cannot resist shouting a parting shot. “When Madame Salles returns, in a few days, I may have to speak to her about this. Buggery’s a crime. Not to mention a sin.”

  Thomas smirks at Hélène. He has no intention of telling anything to anyone. But catching the servants the way he did might just buy Thomas an extra portion of compliance from them. One cannot get too much of that.

  Hélène tugs on Thomas’s sleeve. There’s amusement and relief on her face. “Won’t be seeing them for a while, I bet.”

  “Not if they have good sense.” He shrugs. “Which maybe they don’t.”

  Hélène tilts her head toward the tangle of bedclothes on Thomas’s bed. She says in a hushed voice close to his ear: “I didn’t know those two were so close, did you?”

  Thomas likes the feel of her warm breath in his ear. He rolls his neck round and brings his lips close to hers, ready to see where this feeling might lead. Hélène gives him a quick peck and steps away.