The Maze Page 6

  Thomas steps over to close the door. “How about that proposition you made in the hall?” he whispers. He puts his hands around her waist and draws her close. “Something about two times.”

  Hélène uses a hand to intercept the face descending for her lips. She pushes back and steps away, out of his grasp. “I think it was a joke.”

  “A joke? That is no subject for a joke.”

  Hélène covers her mouth and whispers, “Marie-Claude.”

  Thomas nods. That’s right, he had forgotten about the long, lean maid from Marlotte. Marie-Claude is a woman of few words and ever-darting, always doubting eyes. She could be lurking somewhere close at hand, waiting to overhear something that could ruin Thomas’s slowly forming plan. Marie-Claude would never hesitate to tell Marguerite any little thing she sees or hears, especially if it might harm Hélène. Ever since Hélène arrived, Marie-Claude has resented her as the should-be servant who does not do servant chores. She’ll be delighted to learn that Hélène was caught out by the mistress and put into the street.

  Hélène uses a loud speaking voice, just in case the unseen Marie-Claude is near. “You’ll be wanting to change out of your wet clothes, Monsieur. As I must change out of mine. After that, we must make sure the apartment is perfect for the return of our dear Marguerite in a few days.”

  “To be sure,” says Thomas in his stage voice. He closes the door after Hélène steps out of his room. He begins to strip everything off the bed.

  —

  Tomorrow he’ll help Hélène find a place over on the left bank. That will greatly diminish the likelihood of Marguerite ever seeing her again. The right side of the Seine is his wife’s world. She rarely travels over to the left. So when Marguerite returns to the apartment, he will quietly explain how the harlot in her employ charmed and confused him. That they met in a chance encounter a month before the unfortunate incident with Simone. He’ll make a point not to use Hélène’s name. He’ll refer to her only by one or more of the many epithets that exist for women of her kind. In any case, Thomas will tell Marguerite that his first meeting with that one was after a night of excessive drinking with his writer friends. One among them – Thomas will use Jean Gallatin if Marguerite presses for a name – convinced him to try a courtesan. It was a mistake Thomas will swear he’ll never make again.

  The courtesan had her tricks, and so placed him under some kind of spell. For the second time he’ll say that he was Adam to her sultry and sneaky Eve. Marguerite likes to cite Christian parables, so why not reinforce the earliest Bible story of all?

  Yes, Thomas sees logic in what Hélène suggested, to blame everything on her. He’ll assert that he now recognizes how wrong and sinful his actions were. He’ll swear that he is going to make a full confession of his wrongdoings at church.

  As for the midnight flight from Le Mesnil, Thomas will point out he did that strictly for Marguerite. He felt deep remorse for his betrayal and knew that Marguerite could not stand the sight of the duplicitous whore. So he took it upon himself to get that woman out of there. As quickly as he could. Back to lusty Paris where she belongs. Yes, Thomas knows now he could have and should have waited until the next morning and explained what he was about, but he wanted to make immediate amends. The calèche and horse he borrowed from Madame Dufour are well and safely stabled a few minutes away from the apartment. A few scratches, it's true, but he trusts that her cousin will understand the haste. Most of all, he hopes Marguerite will give him another chance to be the husband he still longs to be.

  Oh yes, he’ll likely have to explain why he brought the harlot back into Marguerite’s for one last night. It was charity, nothing else. He could not cast the whore out with no place to stay. He did not want to abet an immediate return to her life of shame. So he asked himself, what would Marguerite do? She would let the poor woman have one more sleep in a decent bed and one more fulsome meal. The next day, however, Thomas took the strumpet out of the apartment as soon as it was light.

  Yes, it’s a pretty good explanation if he does say so himself. He’ll go over it again tomorrow to see if there are any rough spots he needs to smooth. The time of Marguerite’s return to Paris is unknown, but he wants to be ready. The important thing will be contrition. He has to head off any intention Marguerite might have to take him to a court of justice over what happened with the dismissed Simone. Or to spread tales of his alleged wrongdoing among her friends. Careers rise and fall on gossip, and Thomas cannot afford any blackening of his name.

  A rapprochement with Marguerite is possible, Thomas is convinced. The trick, as Hélène told him more than once in the calèche, is to admit as quickly as he can to Marguerite that he was wrong. There are many shakier marriages in Paris than theirs. He genuinely likes the woman with affection and respect. The secret will lie in keeping Hélène and Marguerite far apart. It was naive of him to think he could have them under the same roof.

  —

  Warm and dry in new clothes, Thomas and Hélène’s evening unfolds as they thought it would. The lackey Charles and the cook Sébastien keep mostly out of sight. When they come and go in Thomas and Hélène’s presence they say only “Yes, Monsieur” and “Yes, Mademoiselle.” Not once do they ask why they are back from Brittany earlier than expected and without Marguerite. They keep their lips tightly drawn and go about their tasks.

  As for the inscrutable Marie-Claude, she is no problem at all. Her brooding eyes register only the thinnest hint of doubt when Hélène states in a loud clear voice that Marguerite was unfortunately delayed at Madame Dufour’s château. Hélène says nothing more than that Marguerite will be along in a day or two. A quick curtsey is Marie-Claude’s entire reply. It’s further proof that the truth or falsehood of a story is less important than how the story is told. After that, Hélène gives Marie-Claude a long list of chores. The gangly servant spends the rest of the evening after dinner in either the scullery or the cabinet.

  Dinner itself tastes not too bad to Thomas and wonderful to Hélène, who savours every bite. She knows it’s the last meal she’s going to enjoy that she does not prepare herself or purchase at a cabaret.

  The meal begins with escargots in butter then moves on to a platter of braised rabbit, with two individual Chinese porcelain bowls overstuffed with saffron-coloured scented rice. Next comes the celadon bowl filled with a combination of bright green lettuce wedges and freshly steamed green peas. A couple of cheeses Hélène does not recognize come at the end. Flecks of blue in one and a gentle almond taste to the other. Then a pastry that brims with cream and slivered strawberries. A tiny cup of coffee and, for Thomas, a snifter of cognac.

  It is only after the candles in the main rooms are extinguished and Sébastien, Charles and Marie-Claude are completing their tidying and cleaning before they go to their respective beds, that Thomas and Hélène allow themselves to retire from the public space. For the sake of appearances, Hélène pretends to go by herself to her separate room. Only after a safe interval has passed will she creep up the hall and into Thomas’s room.

  —

  For a quarter hour Thomas lies atop his bed, clothed in only his chemise. His legs are bare but the fire is giving off sufficient heat as he waits for Hélène. He’s reading a book his friend Jean Gallatin sent him from London more than a month ago. It’s a novel, a genre Thomas does not often turn to. And it’s in English, a language he’s only casually acquainted with. It’s now two years since Jean crossed the Manche to London, attracted as he was by the political ideas of that nearby land. What prompts Thomas to pick up the book he’s not read in all the weeks he’s had it, is its title, Fantomina, or Love in a Maze. Love in a maze! Gallatin, you prescient bastard, laughed Thomas when he came in the room and spied the unread book lying on the table beside the bed. However did he know? Before starting to read the story, however, Thomas rereads the short note that Gallatin sent with it.

  Mon cher Thomas,

 
Vous êtes souvent dans mes pensées, je vous assure. Un jour, j’es-père, vous viendrez à Londres pour me rendre une visite. Maybe you’ll even consider moving here as I did? And to help you start the process, you note already, I switch to English. Practice makes perfect we say in both languages, in our different ways. Vive la différence, n’est-ce pas? I’ve added a painter to my circle of friends. Most are writers, but this man tells stories with his paintings. His name is William Hogarth. When you see what he produces on his canvases and in his engravings, you’ll understand.

  Meanwhile, I think you’ll like this little book I’m sending along. Love in a Maze. Yes, I know, you think fiction is a junior discipline in the writing arts. Not up to the standard of the older forms. Nonetheless, I urge you to give this one a try. It has caused quite a stir over here. I confess that I fear its subject matter might whet your already ravenous appetite for love-making with different women. Such is the world, it seems. Here in London it is just the same and I still stand apart, looking for a single woman to be with me. I thought of you often when I read it and could not resist sending it your way. My friend Henry Fielding calls its author, Eliza Haywood, “Mrs. Novel.” The woman is prolific. I wonder, Thomas, if this might not be a genre you would someday want to try yourself, given your many encounters and adventures on the battlefield of love.

  Please know, cher ami, that I think of you often. I hope that one day our paths will cross again. London welcomes the world, my friend.

  Au plaisir de recevoir une lettre de vous avec toutes vos nouvelles.

  Jean

  P.S. My English is pretty good, n’est-ce pas? Yours could be as well. It’s like anything else in these passing lives of ours, it only takes a little time.

  Thomas smiles as he refolds the letter into the small square it was. Turning to the title page of the book, he sees it was published in 1725, two years ago. Not red-hot, perhaps, but still warm. Eliza Haywood is a name he’s heard before, though this is the first work of hers he’s held in his hands. Love in a maze. Is she referring to something literal or something more figurative? And how will love be described in a story coming off a woman’s quill?

  As he turns the pages Thomas learns that the central character, Fantomina, is a woman of quality without experience with men. She decides to dress and act like a prostitute to see what all the fuss is about. It’s Hélène’s recent adventures in reverse, is it not? Thomas stops reading and looks at the candle flickering on the little table by his bed. It’s true, anyone can get away with whatever role one wants, as long as one can dress and act the part.

  There’s a sound of movement at the door. Thomas places the letter from Gallatin into the book to mark his spot. He must tell Hélène about the book and its ingenious plot. Too bad she cannot read it for herself.

  —

  She enters swiftly, closing the door behind her in a rush. All she has on is a chemise. Thomas yields a delicious smile as he recalls the first time they met. They were just fifteen. He was expecting her to come fully dressed tonight, in case one of the servants happened to glimpse her in the hall. But this is better. He likes the boldness. And he can see that her eyes are excited. Keen is the word.

  Hélène holds up a cautionary finger as she climbs upon the narrow canopy bed to join him atop the covers.

  Thomas speaks as softly as he can. “I’ve just started this book, and its heroine—”

  “Shhh,” Hélène says. “No noise.” She has a stern look.

  “Everything all right?”

  “I’m chilled.” Hélène snuggles close, pressing against Thomas’s frame. Her cold brow burrows into the warmth of his throat. “Warm me, will you?”

  “I will,” Thomas whispers in her ear. He inhales her scent. Strangely, it reminds him of Marguerite. He begins to stroke Hélène’s back. His breathing ticks at a faster pace.

  “That’s good.” Hélène closes her eyes.

  Thomas increases the pressure of his hands on her back. Then he lengthens the strokes. It’s not long before his hands are making contact, still through the chemise, with the upper contours of her buttocks.

  Hélène’s eyes lift open. She leans back to take in the whole of Thomas’s face. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Thomas?”

  “Definitely.” He allows a laugh, and slides his caressing hand down to grasp the hem of Hélène’s chemise. He pulls it up above her knees.

  “Not that.” Hélène pinches her knees shut, pinning Thomas’s hand. She shakes her head.

  “Stop,” Thomas protests.

  “Stop yourself.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. We have to talk.”

  “Talk?” Thomas’s eyes and lips shift from arousal to disappointment to frustration. The rise he was feeling starts to drain away.

  “Come on, you’re not a child. You can wait. What about tomorrow and the days after that?” Hélène catches her voice rising louder than she wants. She wiggles close. “Voices down, all right?”

  Thomas shrugs, his expression long.

  “Tomorrow,” Hélène begins, “we leave as soon as we get up. Or I do at least. I have to be gone before Marguerite gets here. I do. Otherwise— Well, you know what could happen to me. Are you going to help me find a place on the left bank or just put me out in the street? Sorry if that makes you frown, but I have to know. I also have to find some work. Maybe you know someone who is looking for—”

  “Whoa.” Thomas places his hand across Hélène’s mouth.

  She bats his hand away. “This is what’s on my mind.”

  “May I speak?”

  Hélène indicates with her eyes that he may.

  “All right then. What I think is—”

  “Start with Marguerite. Will she be here in the morning?”

  “No, I don’t think. She’d have to have left shortly after us and pushed the pace like we did.”

  “So, we’re safe?”

  “I wouldn’t say safe, but surely we can have something to eat before we look for your new place.”

  “Over on the other side?”

  “Yes, around the university, or perhaps the Fauxbourg Saint-Victor or Saint-Marceau.”

  “I know those areas. They’re good. You’ll visit once in a while?”

  “I’m not abandoning you, Hélène.”

  Hélène smiles, then studies Thomas’s earnest face. He’s more handsome now than he was when they first met. He was almost pretty back then. He looks better with a bit of age on his face. A bit like a priest. Well, not a priest. He would consume her like she’s the staff of life if she let him have his way. But priest-like in some other way she does not fully grasp.

  “So, maybe you know someone who could give me work?”

  “Me? Can’t think of anyone.”

  Hélène makes a deliberate sour face.

  “Sorry, but I only know law offices. Well, and writers who gather at night.”

  There is a long silence. Each is lost in thought.

  “I’ll have to be careful with you for a while, Hélène. Marguerite will be on the lookout for any sign I’ve strayed off the path.”

  “I know.” She nudges her body closer to his. They are now in contact the entire length of their two frames. “You’re married. You have to look out for yourself.”

  Hélène rolls away and lies on her back. She is staring up at the canopy top.

  Thomas watches her deep brown eyes. It looks to him like she’s figuring something out.

  Thomas gets up on an elbow. “What?” he asks.

  Hélène rolls back into full contact with Thomas. This time she kisses him roughly on the lips. It’s more a bite than a kiss. “A few thoughts is all. Mine, not yours, my friend Thomas.”

  “Your friend Thomas? Is that the best I can be?”

  “What more do you want?” Hélène tilts her head. There’s a
sparkle in her eyes.

  “This?” Thomas reaches down and lifts her chemise.

  This time Hélène does not make him stop. His hand goes where it wants. She gives a little gasp. “Right to the pudding, is it?” she asks.

  “The pudendum,” Thomas corrects.

  “Oh, I know.”

  “You know the Latin term?”

  “Voltaire was like you in that regard.”

  “Oh.”

  “Not so clever after all, is it?”

  “It’s not.”

  “More talk?” Hélène asks. “Or something else?”

  “The something else.”

  They put themselves together, as close as they can get. The air is a mix of musky scents. But there is also a hint of sweeter smells, from the sprinklings each has applied. Thomas sniffs the air inches from Hélène’s chin.

  “You like?” she says.

  “I do. It’s familiar. What is it?”

  “Lavender and jasmine, I think. I stopped in Marguerite’s room before I came in here. Gave myself a little splash. Do you think it wrong for me to take what belongs to her?”

  “The perfume or me?” Thomas smiles as if that were clever. “Either way, she isn’t here to complain.” He begins to get to work. He starts with light kisses on her neck.

  Hélène twists her neck to allow Thomas to get at the back side. It always makes her shiver. “I need to take some of her clothes as well. So I can start as a lady, or near enough.”

  “Take what you need,” Thomas mutters. “Just nothing recent. Or any of her favourites. I’ll make up some story to cover it when she gets back.”

  “What I hoped you’d say. But then you’d say near anything to get what you want from me, is that not right?”

  “Maybe.” He reaches out to tweak the nipple of one then the other breast. “You should be pleased to know you have such a hold on me.”

  “You’re the one with the hold, not me.” She looks down at what he’s doing with her breasts.