Lysette Read online

  Lysette

  Sylvia Halliday

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1983 by Sylvia Halliday

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition January 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-539-1

  Also by Sylvia Halliday

  The French Maiden Series

  Marielle

  Lysette

  Delphine

  Dreams So Fleeting

  Gold as the Morning Sun

  The Ring

  Summer Darkness, Winter Light

  Chapter One

  Save for the small spot of blood on his chin and the crimson line encircling his neck, dripping away into nothingness where his body should have been, Duvalier’s face had never looked more natural. It was as though the indignities visited upon his person had failed to disarray his customary mask of hauteur, one eyebrow raised scornfully, the lips curved ever so delicately in permanent disdain. Or perhaps his aristocratic breeding had forbidden him to acknowledge the torment he had suffered until that merciful moment when his head had been severed from its body.

  Crouched within the ruined carriage, her body hidden from view by the jumbled cushions and velvet draperies, Lysette could feel no horror at the sight of his face. He had looked just so—arrogant, bored, heavy-lidded eyes half closed—two summers ago when her husband, Guy, had introduced her to Duvalier at Fontainebleau. One of Cardinal Richelieu’s most capable Royal commissioners, Guy had said, a skillful mediator in local disputes, dispensing the King’s justice in whatever corner of the realm he was summoned to. Until now. Lysette closed her eyes and swallowed hard, feeling the nausea rise in her throat. Ah, Dieu! That was worse. With her eyes closed, the terrible sounds around her were intensified: the frenzied oaths and shouts of the rabble, their blood-lust not yet sated; the sickening thud of fists and heavy boots against Monsieur Gossault’s flaccid body, though the unfortunate man had long since ceased to cry out; the sobs and pleas of Madame Gossault, begging the mob to leave her husband in peace. Pitiful fools! Why had the Gossaults not stayed hidden in the overturned carriage with her? She was safe, covered by the velvets, in the midst of the madness that swirled around the market square. Safe. But, perhaps…a straggler…? Her eyes flew open in sudden panic and she pressed her face close to the carriage’s pierced fretwork; the carved and gilded swirls gave her a wide view of the marketplace, while screening her from discovery. Only Duvalier’s sightless eyes were turned in her direction; the bloody pike upon which his head had been impaled had been thrust carelessly into the ground and forgotten in the fresh excitement the Gossaults had provided.

  Lysette groaned inwardly. Were they madmen in Paris? She knew little of politics and cared less, but any fool could see that with the war against Spain and the heavy taxes that had followed the peasants had grown desperate. Their children died of starvation in the streets—eyes sunken, bellies bloated—and the King’s men raised the price of the salt in the Royal warehouses. The wine producers saw their wholesale taxes raised again and yet again; their only recourse was to cut the wages of the peasants who worked for them. And then Paris had decided to tax the retail wine in the taverns and shops. It was all madness! The entire region was in ferment. Since April there had been reports from Angoulême and Limoges of armed uprisings, town halls burned to the ground, a poor surgeon from Bergerac murdered because he had been a stranger.

  That was what had finally persuaded Lysette to go home to her brother in Chartres. Conditions in the north of France were far less unsettled than they were here in the south. Besides, her husband Guy, as a Royal notary, had sometimes dealt unscrupulously with the peasants while he was alive, overcharging them for the wills and deeds he drew up, or using their ignorance to cheat them of what little they owned. As Guy’s widow, the Marquise de Ferrand, Lysette might be imperiled should the peasants of Soligne reach the breaking point. She had sold what little jewelry remained to her, and settled the last of Guy’s debts, sending a letter ahead to her brother to notify him of her arrival. Was it only this morning that, impatient for the journey to begin, she had sat in this very coach, perched on these velvet cushions, and smiled across at Monsieur and Madame Gossault? M. Gossault was a wheat broker and, in spite of the heavy taxes, he had managed to grow rich and fat; it was whispered that he hid his inventories from the tax assessor. They had sat opposite Lysette in the carriage, smug and fat and satisfied, like two swollen dumplings, while Madame waved her pudgy fingers and shook her head, the better to make a show of the gaudy jewels on her hands and ears, and Monsieur bragged of the noble title he was going to buy at the Court.

  It was market day in Soligne. The square in front of the church had been crowded with stalls and carts piled high with the produce of midsummer, broad beans and golden peaches, melons and cabbages. There were baskets of fresh daisies and crisp round loaves of bread stacked neatly in careful pyramids, and long strings of smoked sausages hanging like garlands from the tops of the stalls.

  From her seat in the carriage at the edge of the square, Lysette had watched the scene with an odd sense that something was not quite right. The sky was overcast, gray, and murky, the air heavy and close, charged with a strange tension. The well-to-do bourgeoisie, the wives of merchants and artisans and town officials, shopped as usual, joined by the servants of the few aristocrats who lived in the vicinity of Soligne, but the peasants and the farmers’ wives, their faces pinched, market baskets clutched tightly on their arms, stopped at carts, asked prices, clucked their tongues, and turned away empty-handed.

  There were more men in the square than usual. Perhaps that was it. Tight knots of men, gathered near the steps of the church, grumbling little groups, milling about with sullen, angry eyes. With a start, Lysette had recognized several of the young men as farmers’ sons who had volunteered for the Army in the spring. For a few crowns they had marched off to fight against Spain, reluctant to go during the growing season, aware that their going left the fields woefully short of laborers. Yet the coins they would bring back at their dismissal in the fall might keep their families from starvation in the cold and barren winter. But here it was barely August! What were they doing home in Soligne? Deserters? Lysette had frowned and stirred uneasily on the velvet cushions. As if to echo her thoughts, Monsieur Gossault had spoken up.

  “I shall be glad to leave Soligne,” he had said. “I think there will be trouble. I have heard that since the price of salt has gone up, no one has purchased any from the Royal warehouse.”

  Lysette shrugged in indifference. “Sooner or later, the people will need salt. Where else are they to get it, since it is forbidden elsewhere? In spite of the price, they will return to the King’s storehouse!”

  Monsieur Gossault lowered his voice and leaned forward. “They say that salt is being smuggled into Soligne under the very noses of the town council!” He leaned further forward and placed one puffy hand on Lysette’s own two, folded demurely in her lap. “Gigot was arrested under strange circumstances only last week, and the town is buzzing with the rumor that the Mayor has sent for a Royal commissioner to hold the trial!”

  Lysette tossed her dark curls, uncomfortable with the damp fingers that covered her own. “And
so…? If it is found that Gigot has been smuggling, he will be hanged or sent to prison, and there’s an end to it!”

  “But the Royal commissioner has the power to force every family in Soligne to buy its quota of salt. I tell you yet again there will be trouble!” Monsieur bobbed his head up and down, his pink jowls quivering, his expression benign and angelic, but his large enveloping hand did not move. Bored with the conversation, Madame Gossault had turned and was leaning out the window, waving a coin in her bejeweled fingers and motioning to a young girl who carried a tray of sweet pastries.

  Lysette frowned, annoyed at Monsieur Gossault’s continuing presumption. “Pooh! What care I? My brother’s estates in Chartres are rich with wheat and barley! There will always be salt on his table…and gold in his coffers!”

  “Ah, but the pity of it, my dear Madame la Marquise! That your late husband left you with so little! And to be at the mercy of a brother’s generosity…such a brave and noble woman!” And here Monsieur Gossault patted Lysette’s hands in sympathy. Then, with a swift glance at his wife, munching on her pastry in happy oblivion, he allowed his sweaty hand to drop lightly onto Lysette’s knee. “Be assured, Madame,” he continued smoothly, “I stand ready to render you what service I may. Chartres is not so far from Paris, n’est-ce pas? If you should chance to come to Paris—alone—I should be happy to see that you are not at a loss for companionship!” He smiled a conspirator’s smile, and gave her knee a squeeze.

  Lysette’s violet eyes flashed. The fat pig! How dare he! She had half a mind to wring his bulbous nose and listen to him squeal, but contented herself with brushing his hand disgustedly from her lap as though it were a piece of dung. The sudden movement caught Madame Gossault’s eye, and she turned from the window. Lysette smiled disarmingly at them both. “How kind you are! How I shall miss the tender concern of all my friends in Soligne! But you are mistaken, Monsieur. I am not a destitute widow. My dear Guy left me rich in the memory of his love, custodian of his spotless name. I shall rest content in Chartres, living off my brother’s crumbs, needing no one to ease my loneliness. No man can ever replace my heart’s love, the very breath of my days, my own Guy!” Madame Gossault, profoundly moved by such tender sentiments, clutched her husband’s arm tightly and smiled lovingly at him, her eyes filled with tears at her own good fortune. Her husband blushed to the roots of his thinning hair, embarrassed at his own crassness. How could he have thought for a minute that a grieving widow, and a young and pretty one at that, would be willing to be an old man’s mistress, no matter how many titles his gold could buy!

  Lysette lowered her eyes demurely. The fat fools, she thought. Had her charm ever failed her? Growing up in a motherless house, petted and pampered by two older brothers and a father who doted on her, had she not learned early how to let her violet eyes go all misty and tender, veiled behind her long black lashes, while her mouth drooped forlornly? What could they deny her then, the sweet child? How glad she had been, as she grew older, to realize that she would never be a tall or a large woman, but would remain dainty and petite even into adulthood. And here she was now, at twenty-two, a wife since the age of nineteen, a widow since last year, small-boned, elfin, with the sweet innocent face of a lass of sixteen. They had never stopped looking at her like a child, all those years of growing up, while she expanded her repertory to include coy smiles and wheedling and pink-lipped pouting. Not that she had not loved them dearly: it had simply become a habit to want her own way and to use those enchantments a woman had at her command. And, truth to tell, the lines had become blurred long since: her artifice had become art, intrinsic to her nature, and the men in her life had clothed that art with love and had willingly acquiesced in her game.

  When her father died, she was inconsolable. He had been her king, her prince, her paladin. She saw him still with the grieving eyes of a thirteen-year-old: he had been the tallest, the strongest, the handsomest of men. Her elder brother had inherited the title and the estates at Chartres, but he had trained as a soldier and spent, by choice, half the year in the field; her younger brother, studying for the Church, had received an appointment for a small village near Rouen. It was decided that the young Lysette would be happier in a more stable household, and she had been sent to live with her father’s elder sister and her husband. She had not been unhappy with them, for they treated her kindly, making few onerous demands upon her. She could sew a little, and was taught to cook (although she despised both endeavors), but when her aunt attempted to instruct her in managing a large household, she had balked at the complexity of domestic purchases and menu planning and bookkeeping, stamping her dainty foot and insisting that these were chores for a servant and a housekeeper. Cowed by those flashing violet eyes darkened to the color of the midnight sky, her aunt discontinued her training. Lysette by now had learned that what could not be accomplished by charm and wheedling could be brought about by a flood of tears or a noisy tantrum. Not all her lessons displeased her, however. She learned to ride as skillfully as a man and discovered a talent for the lute, pleasing both her riding and music masters with her interest and enthusiasm. They praised her fulsomely to her uncle, scarcely aware that their approbation had as much to do with her charm as with her skills. For Lysette had discovered that men especially were susceptible to feminine guile.

  Poor Monsieur Gossault, still crimson with shame! He had scarcely been a match for her! Still, she had not completely lied to him, she thought bitterly. She had indeed a legacy from Guy! A mountain of debts, the memory of a faithless marriage, the humiliation of her dependence on her brother. Oh, she had been ripe for Guy! Bored, stifled in her uncle’s household, waiting impatiently until she should be twenty-one, that she might collect her inheritance and live her own life. It had become too easy: to manipulate the people around her, to have what she wanted. Yet she ached for something more, something that did not even have a name. When she discovered that her inheritance would revert at once to her, as a dowry, should she marry, she felt like a prisoner on the edge of freedom, searching for the key that would open the door. And then Guy had appeared. The Marquis de Ferrand. Ah, Dieu, it had sounded grand! He had known her father. He reminded her of her father, tall, broad-shouldered, incredibly handsome, with a certain air of maturity and her father’s inclination to find her coquettishness charming. She had only to admire a comb or a brooch in a shop window and it appeared on her vanity table the following day, and when she pouted he scolded her lovingly, coaxing her into smiles again like a doting and indulgent father. Fearful of losing him, she devised elaborate schemes to force him into marriage, was afraid to put them into effect, agonized, suffered. And then, without any prompting, he asked her for her hand. Her brother had come from Rouen to perform the ceremony. She had been nineteen. Madame la Marquise de Ferrand.

  Sitting in the carriage this morning, as the coachman whistled to his horses and swung himself, grunting, onto his box, she laughed ruefully to herself. What a little fool she had been! It was one thing to scheme and beguile to get your way; it was quite another to know the wisdom of those desires. For while she had charmed Guy into marriage, it soon became apparent that he had assuredly tricked her as well.

  He had taken her to live in Soligne, near Limoges, a small town, an undistinguished little village in southwest France, where he held the post of Royal notary. They had moved into a small rented house with but one servant, and she soon discovered that his title of Marquis was all that remained to him, the family estate long since foreclosed for lack of money. No matter how much Guy swindled his clients, they seemed always to be struggling, teetering on the edge of ruin, and when he had died last year, she had found that the bulk of her dowry had vanished, gone to pay off his monumental debts. Until now, she had managed alone in Soligne, unwilling to be dependent on her brother (and on the sharp-tongued shrew he had married!), ashamed to admit to her bad judgment: that, for all her games, she had managed to outsmart herself.

  Lysette had shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her e
yes on the lowering sky. Would they never start? The heavy carriage had jerked forward for an instant and then stopped. From the edge of the town, where a small chapel marked the crossing of the dusty highroad, a bell began to toll. It was answered at once by the church in the market square, its sonorous bronze carillon echoing the call as though it were a signal. It had been so sudden that Lysette, her thoughts still on Guy, had shuddered involuntarily and looked with concern to the Gossaults. And surely it had been a signal of some sort. The groups of men no longer lolled in dim corners, but gathered together in ranks, to be joined by more and more of their fellows, men who seemed to crowd into the square from every quarter. Some carried pitchforks and stout cudgels, but Lysette was sure she had seen a musket or two. Alarmed, she had leaned her head out of the carriage, meaning to order the coachman to make haste, to head his team out of Soligne as quickly as possible.

  But it was too late. Duvalier, the Royal commissioner, had already ridden into the square—proud, imperious, aristocratic. Alone. (Why, in the name of le bon Dieu had they not sent him with troops?) The mob, for such it had become, had fallen back, reformed, and then, like waves enveloping a drowning man, had surged forward, crowding around until horse and rider had gone down and been swallowed up. There was a moment of eerie silence, and then a roaring, shrieking, triumphant cry that seemed to come from a thousand throats. Lysette had clapped her hands over her ears, and Monsieur Gossault had wrung his fat fingers together in anguish. The coachman, fearful of the crowds that pressed ever closer, swelling to the edges of the marketplace, had abandoned his box and vanished down a narrow lane. The square had emptied of its patrons, who had disappeared behind closed doors into the safety of their comfortable houses, while the vendors had gathered such of their stores as could be quickly saved, and sought refuge in the church.