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‘Why?’
‘Jean Le Viste wanted battle tapestries. Instead you have given him his wife and daughter to look at. There is no comparison.’
‘He agreed to the unicorn tapestries.’
‘But you don’t have to give him an ode to his wife and daughter. Now, I do have sympathy for Dame Geneviève. Jean Le Viste is not an easy man. But you know that she and Claude are thorns in his side. He wouldn’t want them depicted in something as valuable as the tapestries.’
‘Oh!’ I cried, and this time I did knock my head against the tabletop. It hurt.
There were surprised grunts, then two faces appeared beneath the table. Léon was glaring, but Nicolas smiled when he saw it was me. He held out his hand and helped me up.
‘Thank you,’ I said when I was standing. Nicolas bowed over my hand, but I pulled my hand away before he could kiss it, and made a show of straightening my dress. I wasn’t quite ready to forgive him the rude things he had said about my father.
‘What were you doing there, you naughty girl?’ Oncle Léon said. For a moment I thought he was going to swat me as if I were the same age as Petite Geneviève, but he seemed to remember himself and didn’t. ‘Your father would be very angry if he knew you had been spying on us.’
‘My father would be very angry if he knew what you said about him, Oncle Léon. And you, Monsieur,’ I added, glancing at Nicolas.
There was a silence. I could see both men thinking back to their earlier words, trying to remember what would be offensive to Papa. They looked so worried that I couldn’t help laughing.
Oncle Léon frowned at me. ‘Claude, you really are a very naughty girl.’ He sounded less stern this time – more as if he were trying to placate a little lapdog.
‘Oh, I know. And what about you, Monsieur – do you think I’m a very naughty girl?’ I said to Nicolas. It was wonderful to be able to see his handsome face.
I didn’t know how he would answer, but he delighted me by saying, ‘You are certainly the naughtiest girl I know, Mademoiselle.’ For a second time his voice touched my maidenhead, and I felt wet there.
Oncle Léon snorted. ‘That’s enough. Claude, you must go now. Your father will be here soon.’
‘No, I want to see the picture of my mother. Where is it?’ I turned to the drawings and pushed them about the table. They were a jumble of ladies and Le Viste banners and lions and unicorns.
‘Claude, please.’
I ignored Oncle Léon and turned to Nicolas. ‘Which one is it, Monsieur? I would like to see.’
Without a word he pulled a drawing from across the table to me.
I was relieved to see that Maman was not so pretty as me in the drawing. Nor was her dress so fine as mine, but much plainer. And the wind wasn’t blowing through the drawing – the banner wasn’t rippling, and the lion and unicorn sat tamely rather than standing rampant as they did in mine. In fact, everything in it was very still, except that Maman was pulling a necklace from a casket held by one of her ladies-in-waiting. I didn’t mind now that Maman was in the tapestries as well – the comparison favoured me.
But if Oncle Léon had his way neither of our faces would remain. I would have to do something. What, though? Although I had threatened Léon with repeating his words to my father, in truth I knew that Papa wouldn’t listen to me. It was terrible to hear Maman and me referred to as thorns, but Léon was right – Maman had not produced an heir, for my sisters and I were not boys. Every time Papa looked at us he was reminded that all of his wealth would one day go to my husband and son, who would not carry the Le Viste name or coat of arms. Knowing this had made him even colder with us. I knew too from Béatrice that Papa did not share Maman’s bed.
Nicolas tried to save Maman and me. ‘I will only change their faces if Monseigneur asks me to,’ he declared. ‘Not if you do. I make changes for the patron, not the patron’s merchant.’
Oncle Léon glared at him, but before he could respond we heard footsteps in the hallway. ‘Go!’ Léon hissed, but it was too late for me to escape. Nicolas put his hand on my head and gently pushed me down so that I was kneeling. For a moment my face was close to his bulging groin. I looked up and saw him smiling. Then he shoved me under the table.
It felt even colder and harder and darker under the table this time, but I wouldn’t have to endure it for long. Papa’s feet came straight to the table, where he stood next to Léon, with Nicolas to one side. I sat looking at Nicolas’ legs. He seemed to be standing differently now that he knew I was there, though I could not say what exactly was different. It was as if his legs had eyes and were watching me.
Papa’s legs were like himself – straight and indifferent as a chair’s. ‘Now, the designs,’ he said.
Someone was scrabbling among the drawings, moving them around the table. ‘Here they are, Monseigneur,’ Nicolas said. ‘As you see, you can look at them in this order. First the Lady dons her necklace for the seduction of the unicorn. In the next she plays the organ to get the unicorn’s attention. And here she is – feeding a parakeet – and the unicorn has moved closer, though he is rampant and his head is still turned away. He is almost seduced, but needs more temptation.’
I noted the pause before Nicolas said ‘feeding’. So, I have become Taste, I thought. Then taste me.
‘Then the Lady weaves a crown of carnations in preparation for a wedding. Her own wedding. As you can see, the unicorn is now sitting calmly. At last—’ Nicolas tapped the table ‘—the unicorn lies in her lap and they look at each other. And in the final tapestry she has tamed him – she holds him by the horn. You can see that the animals in the background are now in chains – they have become the slaves of love.’
When Nicolas finished there was a silence, as if he expected my father to speak. But Papa said nothing. He often does that, keeping quiet to make people unsure of themselves. It worked this time too, for after a moment Nicolas began to speak again, sounding nervous.
‘You can see, Monseigneur, that throughout the unicorn is accompanied by the lion, who represents nobility, strength and courage as a complement to the unicorn’s purity and wildness. The lion is an example of noble savagery tamed.’
‘Of course the background will be filled with millefleurs, Monseigneur,’ Léon added. ‘The Brussels weavers will design that themselves – that is their speciality. Nicolas has only hinted at it here.’
There was another pause. I found I was holding my breath, waiting to see if Papa would remark on the drawings of Maman and me. ‘There are not enough coats of arms,’ he said at last.
‘The unicorn and lion hold Le Viste banners and standards throughout,’ Nicolas said. He sounded annoyed. I reached over and nudged his leg to remind him not to use such a tone with my father. Nicolas shuffled his feet.
‘In two of the drawings there is only a banner,’ Papa said.
‘I could add shields for the lion and unicorn to carry, Monseigneur.’ Nicolas must have taken my hint, for he sounded calmer. I began to stroke his calf.
‘The standard and banner poles should be spiked,’ Papa declared. ‘Not the round ends you have drawn.’
‘But – spikes are for battles, Monseigneur.’ Nicolas spoke as if someone were strangling him. I giggled and moved my hand up to his thigh.
‘I want spikes on the poles,’ Papa repeated. ‘There are too many women and flowers in these tapestries. There should be battle poles, and something else to remind us of war. What happens to the unicorn when the Lady has caught him?’
Luckily Nicolas didn’t have to answer, as he couldn’t have spoken. I had placed my hand on his bulge, which was as hard as a tree branch. I had never touched one before. ‘Doesn’t the Lady lead him to the hunter who kills him?’ Papa continued. He likes to answer his own questions. ‘You should add another tapestry to complete the story.’
‘I believe there is no room in the Grande Salle for another tapestry,’ Oncle Léon said.
‘Then replace one of these women. The one with the carnations, or the one feeding the bird.’
I dropped my hand.
‘That is a very good idea, Monseigneur,’ Oncle Léon said. I gasped. Luckily Nicolas made a noise too, so I don’t think Papa heard me.
Then Oncle Léon showed just why he is so good at business. ‘It is a fine idea,’ he repeated. ‘Of course the boldness of the kill will contrast well with the more subtle hints of the battle poles. One would not want to be too cunning at the end, would one?’
‘What do you mean, too cunning?’
‘Well, for instance, one might simply imply the hunt – or the battle, if you like – with the spiked poles (a fine touch, Monseigneur, I must say), the battle shields Nicolas has suggested adding, and perhaps something else. Let me think. What about a tent – the kind set up in battles for the King? That would also remind one of the King as well as the battle. But then again, perhaps that would be too subtle. Perhaps a hunter killing the unicorn would be better.’
‘No, I want the King’s tent.’
I sat back on my heels in wonder at Oncle Léon. He had hooked Papa like a fish, without Papa even noticing, and brought him to land just where he pleased.
‘The tent would be quite large and so should go on one of the larger tapestries,’ Léon said briskly, to keep Papa from changing his mind. ‘The Lady with the jewels or the Lady with the parakeet. Which would you prefer, Monseigneur?’
Nicolas began to speak but Papa interrupted. ‘The jewels – she is more regal than the other.’
Before I could cry out again, Nicolas reached under the table with his foot and pressed my own foot. I kept quiet and he left his foot there, tapping mine.
‘All right, Nicolas, add a tent to this one,’ Oncle Léon said.
‘Of course, Monseigneur. Would Monseigneur like a special design on the tent?’
‘A coat of arms.’
‘That goes without saying, Monseigneur. But I was thinking more of a motto for a battle. Something to indicate that it is a battle for love.’
‘I know nothing of love,’ Papa growled. ‘What would you have? I suspect you are familiar with it.’
I had an idea, and tapped Nicolas’ leg. After a moment one of the drawings floated to the floor. ‘Oh! Pardon, Monseigneur. I am so clumsy.’ Nicolas crouched down to retrieve the drawing. I leaned over and whispered in his ear, ‘C’est mon seul désir.’ Then I bit him.
Nicolas stood up.
‘Is your ear bleeding?’ Papa said.
‘Pardon, Monseigneur. I knocked it against the table leg. But I have had a thought. What about “À mon seul désir”? It means—’
‘That will do,’ Papa cut him off. I knew that tone – it meant that the meeting had gone on for too long. ‘Show your changes to Léon and bring the finished paintings here a fortnight after May Day. No later, as we leave for Château d’Arcy by Ascension Day.’
‘Yes, Monseigneur.’
Papa’s legs moved away from the table. ‘Léon, come with me – I have things to discuss with you. You can accompany me as far as the Conciergerie.’
Léon’s robes swayed as he began to move, then stopped. ‘Perhaps we should remain here, Monseigneur. It’s more comfortable for discussing business. And Nicolas is just going, aren’t you, Nicolas?’
‘Yes, certainly, as soon as I collect the drawings, Monseigneur.’
‘No, I’m in a hurry. Come along.’ And Papa was gone.
Oncle Léon still hesitated. He didn’t want to leave me alone with Nicolas.
‘Go,’ I hissed.
He went.
I did not come out from under the table, but remained there on my knees. After a moment Nicolas climbed in to me. We gazed at each other. ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle,’ he said.
I smiled. He was nothing like the kind of man my parents intended for me. I was glad. ‘Are you going to kiss me, then?’
He had me on my back and was on top of me before I could think. Then his tongue was deep in my mouth and his hands were squeezing my breasts. It was a strange thing. I had been dreaming of this moment ever since meeting him, but now that there was a body on top of me, a bulge grinding hard into my belly, a wet tongue in my ear, I was surprised by how different it felt from what I had dreamed.
Part of me liked it – wanted the bulge to push even harder, and not through so many layers of clothes. My hands wanted to touch every part of him – squeeze his cherry bum and measure his broad back. My mouth met his as if it were biting into a fig.
But it was a shock to have someone’s wet, thrusting tongue in my mouth, to have so much weight squeezing the breath from me, to have his hands touch parts of me no man had ever touched. And I had not expected to think so much when a man was with me. With Nicolas I found words accompanying everything we did – ‘Why is he doing that? His tongue is so wet in my ear,’ and ‘His belt is jabbing into my side,’ and ‘Does that feel good?’
I was thinking too of my father – of being under the table in his chamber, and of the value he placed on my maidenhead. Could I really throw it away in a moment, as someone like Marie-Céleste had? Perhaps that more than anything stopped me from truly enjoying myself. ‘Should we be doing this?’ I whispered when Nicolas had begun biting my breasts through the cloth of my dress.
‘I know, we’re mad. But we may never have another chance.’ Nicolas began pulling at my skirt. ‘They never leave you alone – not the daughter of Jean Le Viste with a mere painter.’ He lifted up my skirt and underdress and ran his hand up my thigh. ‘Now this, beauty, this is mon seul désir.’ With that he touched my maidenhead, and the surge of pleasure I felt was so strong that I was ready to give it up to him.
‘Claude!’
I looked behind me and saw Béatrice’s face upside down, glaring at us.
Nicolas pulled his hand from under my skirt, but he did not immediately jump off me. That pleased me. He looked at Béatrice, and then he kissed me deeply before slowly sitting back on his knees.
‘For this,’ Béatrice said, ‘I really will marry you, Nicolas des Innocents. I swear I will!’
GENEVIÈVE DE NANTERRE (#u5d44e193-de3d-5e0d-9f81-d3dccb947954)
Béatrice has told me the bodices of my dresses have become too loose. ‘Either you eat more, Madame, or we must call in the tailor.’
‘Send for the tailor.’
That was not the answer she wanted, and she kept her big dog-brown eyes on me until I turned from her and began playing with my rosary. I’d had the same look from my mother – though her eyes are shrewder than Béatrice’s – when I took the girls to visit her at Nanterre. I told her that Claude did not come with us because of a stomach ache that I suffered from as well. She didn’t believe me, just as I hadn’t believed Claude when she made her excuses to me. Perhaps it is always thus, that daughters lie to their mothers and their mothers let them.
I was just as glad that Claude didn’t go with us, though the girls begged her to. Claude and I are like two cats around each other, our fur always ruffled. She is sullen with me, and her sideways looks are critical. I know she is comparing herself to me and thinking that she does not want to be like me.
I do not want her to be like me either.
I went to see Père Hugo after I got back from Nanterre. As I sat down on a pew next to him he said, ‘Vraiment, mon enfant, you cannot have sinned so much in three days that you need to confess again already.’ Though his words were kind his tone was sour. In truth he despairs of me, as I despair of myself.
I repeated the words I had used the other morning, staring at the scratched pew in front of us. ‘It is my one desire to join the convent at Chelles,’ I said. ‘Mon seul désir. My grandmother joined before she died, and my mother is sure to as well.’
‘You are not about to die, mon enfant. Nor is your husband. Your grandmother was a widow when she took the veil.’
‘Do you think my faith is not strong enough? Shall I prove it to you?’
‘It is not your faith that is so strong, but your desire to be rid of your life that is. It troubles me. I am sure enough of your faith, but you need to want to surrender yourself to Christ—’
‘But I do!’
‘—surrender yourself to Christ without thought of yourself and your worldly life. The world of the convent should not be an escape from a life you hate—’
‘A life I detest!’ I bit my tongue.
Père Hugo waited a moment, then said, ‘The best nuns are often those who have been happy outside, and are happy inside.’
I sat silent, my head bowed. I knew now that I had been wrong to speak like this. I should have been more patient – taken months, a year, two years to plant the seed with Père Hugo, soften him, make him agreeable. Instead I’d spoken to the priest suddenly and desperately. Of course, Père Hugo did not decide who entered Chelles – only the Abbess Catherine de Lignières had that power. But I would need my husband’s consent to become a nun, and must get powerful men to argue on my behalf. Père Hugo was one of those men.
There was one thing that might still sway Père Hugo. I smoothed my skirt and cleared my throat. ‘My dowry was substantial,’ I said in a low voice. ‘I’m sure that if I became a bride of Christ I would be able to give a portion of it to Saint-Germain-des-Prés, in thanks for the succour it has given me. If only you would speak to my husband …’ I let my voice trail away.
It was Père Hugo’s turn to be silent. While I waited I ran my finger along one of the scratches on the pew. When he spoke at last there was true regret in his voice – but whether for what he said or for the money just out of his grasp was not clear. ‘Geneviève, you know Jean Le Viste will never give his consent for you to enter a convent. He wants a wife, not a nun.’
‘You could talk to him, tell him how it would suit me to enter Chelles.’
‘Have you talked to him yourself, as I suggested the other day?’
‘No, because he doesn’t listen to me. But he would to you, I’m sure of it. What you think matters to him.’
