Speechless, withdrawn, sealed shut like their luggage, the de Prahecqs departed without a word for the Marquis—ignoring his pitiful glances and visible unease. They left him alone with the child, to nurse her back to health, aided only by Justine and the elderly Countess de Montégrier. A letter followed, sent by the Viscount, confirming Laure’s permanent stay at Juvigny—with one condition: she was never to receive special treatment to the detriment of her siblings, present or future.
Agénor could barely contain his joy. A second youth overtook him—almost frolicsome, effusive—as Laure’s poor bones began to mend. At the same time, Tangier and Mogador were under siege, and Bugeaud secured victory at Isly(139)..
A northern wind prompted households to light their windows, while bureaucrats frothed over with grandiose speeches. For a brief moment, France allowed itself to feel proud of its king—whom the Marquis now loathed a little less, thanks to a renewed indifference, a desire to live undisturbed.
When stout Monsieur Manoury announced one morning that the young miss was improving and would soon be running and playing, Agénor called for a champagne toast, with the Countess de Montégrier at his side. Supported by loving arms, Laure at last emerged from bed—limping slightly, still stiff, freed from her splints.
“How does it feel?”
“I can’t tell, gran’pa… My knees are all pins and needles.”
Agénor, meanwhile, was flooded with fresh, scarcely worn sentiments: a deep respect for Madame de Montégrier, the joy of having a family, the quiet pride of loyal servants long settled in his household. Gratification in possessing, giving, existing—and in curating a chosen, vanished era, to escape the present now and then. The autumn light swelled his spirits, warming his limbs; and the yellow melancholy of falling leaves no longer pierced his insides, but instead marked the return of nature’s unchanging order.
He enquired about the Viscount de Prahecq, and learnt of his refusal to serve the d’Orléans—a career forsaken in favour of the legitimate line. This news moved Agénor, stirring in him a sympathetic chord.
For months, Laure leaned on a crutch. They had hoped that with care and caution her leg might heal fully. But a persistent ache remained, with stabbing jolts. Monsieur Manoury offered no false hope: “Not good, when the fusion’s so close to the joint… Twice I’ve seen this before. Both girls were left permanently lame.”
Laure, ever sweet-natured, made the best of things. Agénor read constantly. With her spectacles nestled among English-style curls, the Countess de Montégrier sewed and embroidered tirelessly, mending vestments for Juvigny’s church. Their days were filled with long carriage rides. A pudgy, quiet boy—the notary’s son—was brought to the château on select days by the Chevalier de Caristy: endless games of Battle, miniature tea parties, a reading hour. Outside, rain washed over the park; the hours blurred into a soft, steady sameness.
As cold weather arrived, clamorous swallows clustered on gutters and rooftops before rising into the clouds and vanishing southward.
The Countess completed one last altar cloth, embroidered with nails, thorns, and a golden pyx. And then she too prepared to leave.
Laure was free from pain now, walking only with a slight leftward limp. The Marquis never saw her angry; and when her parents left, she shed no tears. Astonishingly, they’d shown little attachment—just as Berthe once had for Agénor. Laure made no mention of Hazebrouck, no childish regrets for what had been left behind. Her existence seemed to begin that day, on the road, when her grandfather appeared before her—handsome, affectionate, bearing flowers.
Of this dear man, whose past lay veiled in mist, she retained a kind of innocent memory—a soft amnesia. It remained within her, dormant and unexplained, without weight.
She cherished Agénor’s smallest gestures, eagerly absorbing his words and guidance. In his shadow, beguiled by the rich splendours that surrounded her, she flourished—like moss clinging to the trunk of an oak.
And then came her dolls—arriving from Paris by mail coach—marvellous dolls, gifted in lavish generosity by the Marquis.
She had a dozen dolls—dark-haired, ginger-haired, brown-haired, and blonde—of varying heights. She christened them Javotte, Caroline, Marguerite, one after the other, preaching what was right, forbidding them the few evils she could imagine. And sensibly—one seated, another lying down, a third propped against an armchair, one dressed only in a chemise, wearing a blue or pink bonnet—she spoke in a quiet monologue, never intrusive, her face animated with a host of comic expressions.
While leafing through a weighty tome, Agénor once listened in, indiscreetly, and heard:
“My goodness! Blanche, how plump your cheeks are!… Don’t laugh… You mustn’t laugh at compliments… First, it’s not good manners, and besides, you’ll upset my grandfather… Look at him—my grandfather—full-face, in profile… You imagined him very old, didn’t you? Like yours, with his big, long nose, three strands of hair, donkey ears. Well! No, miss, my grandfather is just like a father… And since you’ve stopped laughing, since you haven’t told a single lie today, I’ll tell you a story—his story.
They found him under a rosebush, on an island where men have red beards and women jutting jaws. Not a pretty sight!
Why did his parents live in such an unsightly place?… Thieves—a gang of thieves—had driven them from their home. The thieves eventually beheaded one another, and my grandfather was able to return.
Just when he was least prepared, his mother died; and they hid her deep in a chapel, behind a grille, because when dead, one is very ugly—uglier than the island folk. — Justine has done a poor job pressing your collar.
You know what priests are, miss; so I won’t… ahem! ahem!… be so vain as to explain them to you! But you don’t know that my grandfather had one to play with, to learn from—a tiny one, just like you. He died too.
Priests are clever; grandfather became clever, took to reading from morning till night, in books with no pictures.
When the priest—he had a goat-like name… Biquet… Robiquet—was no longer around to play hoop, ball, or four corners, grandfather grew bored. That makes sense. So grandfather said to himself: the best thing would be to get married… I’ll find someone prettier than my priest, less shrivelled, because truly, he wasn’t handsome enough; and we’ll dance, sing to our hearts’ content; and we’ll look for little children under rosebushes, in the moonlight.
He came upon a ravishing maiden, his relation by blood—I’m said to take after her—and they pledged themselves to one another, a glorious ceremony… fine clothes, merrymaking, festive tables, music… straight from the pages of Riquet with the Tuft(140)..
While strolling after sunset, they stumbled upon Mama—my own mother—perched at the base of a sunflower. Why a sunflower instead of the usual rosebush? Only the Blessed Virgin could say… The new wife grew alarmed, filled with dread: what strange child appears not under a rosebush, as nature intends? Overheated from agitation, she caught a fatal chill. And so she died too. How grandfather suffered!
His tears flowed endlessly through the changing seasons, and he rejected his own daughter, seeing in her only the face of calamity, eventually sending her to Grandmother de Montégrier’s care.”
Laure’s voice dropped to a confidential whisper:
“Not everything should be shouted for all to hear; but to you, the soul of discretion, I shall confide: rumour has it that from pining too much for his beloved and refusing to consider another, grandfather’s sanity took flight—soaring skyward among feathered creatures… Eventually, someone fetched it back down. What blessed luck.”
“Are you pleased with my story?… You are?… I’m so glad; now I shall devote myself to Javotte.”
The Marquis de Cluses flushed crimson. Good heavens, such cleverness in this little one! What remarkable skill in weaving together scraps of overheard conversation, playful nonsense, and fairy-tale invention.
The idea of having been thought mad troubled him not in the least; rather, he felt jubilant, charmed by beloved Laure’s innocent handling of reality, emotion, and life’s cruel reversals. Yet gradually, Thérèse’s image resurfaced in his mind, unsettling him as he contemplated the transformation of one once so measured and judicious into this childlike incarnation.
Time scarcely touched the Marquis as the calendar turned from 1844 to 1846.
Madame de Prahecq gave birth to another daughter: Jeanne. At irregular intervals, Berthe, her husband, their children, and the Countess de Montégrier descended en masse upon Juvigny for two-week visits. They had engaged a governess—Mademoiselle Hamelin—a woman of serious disposition. Meanwhile, Laure, who commanded château-wide obedience befitting royalty, Laure, who through innate kindness and natural affection never strayed into mischief, Laure was growing up—delicately, with all the refined elegance of her lineage.
Up with the dawn, she played, pursued various activities, and practised the piano until midday; afterwards, she applied herself to her studies for two further hours. This structured routine continued unchanged for exactly eighteen months. Then came the day when Agénor acquired Toby, an ancient yet pristine black pony, which the beloved child saw being led towards the château entrance one memorable October afternoon—Saint Thérèse’s feast day—alongside the Marquis’s own mount. Joy flushed her cheeks scarlet as spontaneous cries of wonder escaped her lips; without hesitation, she flung herself towards her grandfather’s hands, showering them with grateful kisses. Their first equestrian outing wound through the parkland, accompanied by the delicate rustling of autumn leaves; behind them, Mademoiselle Hamelin followed, her curiosity tempered by mild concern.
Neither tall nor slender, habitually dressed in green silk the exact shade of fine wine bottles, her head crowned with a wild thicket of silver hair, her features marked by a mischievous nose and an elegant mouth—such was this unassuming woman, whose soul remained blessedly untouched by pride.
When news broke of Prince Bonaparte’s successful escape from the fortress at Ham, Juvigny erupted in unrestrained celebration. Neither Agénor nor the Chevalier could contain their near-delirious joy.
“How perfectly timed!… Checkmate at last for that sickly-sweet Equality clan!… After the fiascos at Strasbourg and Boulogne, surely Toulon and Lille will follow suit!… That proverbial saucepan everyone hoped would dangle from Louis-Philippe’s coat-tails has now been fastened by fate itself—gleaming and clattering for all to see(141)!”
Meanwhile, the cornelian snuffbox performed elaborate aerial manoeuvres between practised fingers, and the Marquis felt his long-smouldering hatred for the d’Orléans reignite with full force.
Astute political observers predicted a parade of notorious prisoners through the state’s dungeons under this feeble monarchy; and sure enough, Abd-el-Kader was swiftly added to the roster.
During this period, Agénor pored over countless gazettes, detecting in their varied contents a pervasive malaise—a thread of ominous signs running through seemingly unrelated stories. It was like that peculiar weight in the air when heat swells beyond natural bounds, creating unbearable pressure before the inevitable storm.
What did it matter if one allied with Spain, traded, built up commerce, filled bellies and coffers, watered down the Penal Code, abolished the lottery, constructed lighthouses, or dreamt up new railways? Human nature remained unchanged: ministers hawked their signatures, voters their ballots, and speculation—that repugnant speculation—beat its drum. The opposition stockpiled arms and held banquets, the royalist left flaunted its idiocy, and the people their injustice. O serene heavens! Idyllic Baetica(142)!
At Juvigny, Miss Hamelin was always seen accompanying her charge to church on Sundays and holy days. The Marquis, though deeply unsettled by even the briefest separation from Laure and plagued by irrational fears, could not bring himself to join them. His own convictions forbade what he saw as religious pretence or spiritual compromise. His strategy was patient: to wait until she grew older, when doubt might arise naturally and she would have acquired the protective armour of adult fortitude—then he would attempt to guide her away from what he considered mistaken beliefs.
“Six years gone… Seventy-two months since Thérèse vanished, never to return! Can it truly be six years already?”
It was snowing. The Marquis de Cluses drifted into reverie, his gaze blind to the present, as he recalled that cherished voice saying “farewell!”—astonished that he could still hear it so vividly, as though time had never touched it.
“When she disappeared, everything in the park seemed suddenly abandoned and forlorn… A deep sadness seemed to fall from the trees, from the statues frozen in their eternal poses, from the radiant sky, and from the white mantle of snow where that final revelation had inscribed itself with terrifying brevity!”
Outside, the snow continued to fall.
With her face pressed to the glass, Laure was utterly absorbed in the soft, feathery snow drifting down from the clouds. Miss Hamelin sat in her room, carefully playing through the overture to Robert the Devil(143), while M. de Caristy, well wrapped against the cold, walked away from the château.
“My dear.”
“Grandfather?”
“Would you do something to please me?”
“Yes.”
“Say farewell to me… Farewell! Just like that, standing at the door, as though you were about to leave me.”
Laure rushed over and took her place by the door.
“Farewell.”
“Once more.”
“Farewell! Farewell!”
Could it be imagination? The Marquis recognised that vanished voice—that beloved, loving voice—just a little more fragile than he remembered.
“Oh, Grandfather, let’s not stop our make-believe,” the little girl pleaded.
Ringlets framed her small face. She wore grey—a blend of velvet and wool—with baggy trousers peeking out beneath her billowing skirt, falling all the way to her ankles.
On the evening of 20 August 1847, at around six o’clock, Laure wandered across the garden lawns with her halting gait. The sorb trees glowed with a pinkish sheen; the fountain pythons, clasped in the mighty arms of their Herculean statues, sprayed lofty jets into a sky awash with blue, purple, and lilac, criss-crossed with shades of yellow—from pure cadmium to rich ochre—forming a magnificent canopy, the sun’s resting place. A manservant approached and handed newspapers and correspondence to the Marquis de Cluses, who stood hatless, a chair behind him, at the shadowed edge of the park.
Forty-eight years had passed since Agénor’s birth. Only the lobes of his ears peeked out from beneath his greying hair. Neither his moustache nor the beard framing his chin betrayed his age. From his breast pocket, a white handkerchief speckled with flowers puffed outward in a fashionable tuft. His ensemble—brown trousers, black jacket with gold buttons, and a green-and-black waistcoat—had recently been delivered by Mérandoux, who now ran the business once owned by Burte and Pommadère. A touch of cosmetics near the eyes and a hint of hair tint would have sufficed to make Agénor appear youthful once more.
He rifled through his mail, opened a newspaper, and noticed the headline in capital letters: ASSASSINATION OF THE DUCHESS OF PRASLIN(144). But the name, aristocratic though it was, barely registered with him, and he set the article aside for later.
Time slipped by as he surrendered to an hour of oblivion and utter stillness. The dinner bell rang, its vibrations shattering the landscape’s peace, the air’s stillness, the western palette of colours—every quiet impression. Looking rather tousled, Miss Hamelin appeared at the château’s entrance.
“A lovely age we live in, Miss! Do you know what’s in the Moniteur(145)? A murder, to add a little variety—the Duchess of Praslin.”
Strangely, Agénor now felt tense and irritable over an incident that had previously left him unmoved, having made no delicate impression on his sensibilities.
“I was nearly appointed governess to the Duchess,” Miss Hamelin remarked, “thanks to her father, Marshal Sebastiani(146)… But she didn’t care for my appearance.”
“Sebastiani? Sebastiani?” Agénor muttered. And from the hazy shadows of memory, a young woman gradually took shape—one he had escorted many times in days gone by, at balls, festivities, and grand social affairs. As he recalled, she had been a friend of Thérèse.
Dinner was served; afterwards, Laure and the governess played a game of quinola(147)—a card game from the age of Louis XIV that had never lost its popularity at Juvigny—while the Marquis unfolded the pages of the Moniteur.
“Obese… mother of nine children… murdered, slashed with thirty wounds, sprawled on the floor amid violent disorder…” Thus did life and chance now portray to him a woman he had once known in her maidenhood—slender, cheerful, at that time of life when every union held the promise of happiness. “What kind of monster would dare…? The husband, without question… a duke… a peer of France!… for the usual reason… The other woman, the rival?… scarcely more than a servant…”
Lifting his shoulders in disgust, Agénor lamented the dishonour brought upon his class by a Praslin, whose high birth made his villainy all the more repugnant.
Afterwards, he imagined her horror at facing violence from a hand she had once respected, bound by memories of past affections.
The Marquis pictured her ghostly form, disoriented in the afterlife, trailing her assassin to his private quarters, where the frightened man secluded himself—his head covered with a Greek cap, wrapped in a belted dressing gown, dressed as he would be for work or domestic comfort.
Like Thérèse before her, Laure developed a growing passion for all things seventeenth-century, rightly assuming it pleased her grandfather. She tackled its decorative intricacies with innocent pride, occasionally showing off her knowledge with words like “acanthus,” “cross-hatching,” “volute”—much to the Marquis’s amusement.
The days repeated themselves, blending into predictable weeks and unremarkable months. There exists a breed of humanity who let life trickle past them, accepting everything without complaint, feeling no inner turmoil, nursing no lasting regrets, and never yearning for the Unknown. These people amuse themselves, idle about, sleep, digest their meals—or, when slightly less superficial, seek occupation, shine in society, and practise frugality. Miss Hamelin, the Chevalier de Caristy, and all the château’s domestic staff exemplified this perfectly.
A manor house and its furnishings went under the hammer. Agénor attended the auction and was astonished to discover a priceless spinet with keys of agate and lapis lazuli, its casing adorned with ivory veneer and ruby inlays. He gifted this treasure to Laure, hoping she would master antique melodies by Beaujoyeux, Campra, and Lully(148).
On their Sunday walk back from church, Laure looked up hopefully:
“Grandfather, would you quiz me about the reign of Louis XIV?”
“About Louis XIV? So you’ve studied it, have you?”
“I have indeed.”
Standing upright, her bad leg pulling her slightly to the left, Laure’s face glowed pink with anticipation.
“What can you tell me about the War of the Queen’s Rights(149)?”
Thus began his impromptu examination, which extended to twenty more historical questions. Though Laure occasionally paused to gather her thoughts, she never once erred in her replies. Throughout the exchange, Miss Hamelin continued her needlework nearby, good-naturedly pretending ignorance of the subject.
Sheets of heavy rain swept across Hazebrouck and its surrounding lands; the wind wailed like a mourner. It was winter once more—another in the endless procession, as mechanical and imperturbable as ever.
Monsieur de Prahecq, weary of home and family yet cheerful about the political chaos, resolved to visit Laure—to catch the Marquis off guard, and perhaps prompt him to take precautions. He arrived on a foggy, bitterly cold evening, when Juvigny’s lights were reduced to faint glimmers and the château loomed like some mystical Swedenborgian abode beyond the veil of the unreal.
As he supped and warmed himself by the fire, he could barely contain his excitement—rubbing his hands together, barely pausing in his animated talk of strife and upheaval. He was convinced that France—and he along with it—would soon bow to a new master, placing all his hopes in Henri V, rising from the ashes of a failed republic. His effusive manner and bold declarations stirred such confidence in the wise Marquis de Cluses that the older man found himself uplifted and energised. As they spoke, Laure hung on every word, never once closing her beautiful, velvety eyes.
As December gave way to January and then February, the Revolution of 1848 erupted. A single shot from a frenzied weapon, the troops’ return fire—and Paris was ablaze. It took no more than that.
Louis-Philippe, cowardly in abdication as he had been in rule, stood down. His exit was as bourgeois as his arrival. The provisional government proclaimed a Republic—loudly, and as if for good. Monsieur de Prahecq was beside himself with joy.
What followed came swiftly: the March demonstrations on the 16th and 17th; the inauguration of the National Assembly; the Polish affair of 15 May; the rise of Blanqui, Barbès, Lamartine, and Cavaignac; the June insurrections; casualties including Affre, Négrier, and Damesme; five thousand lives lost, twelve thousand deported, and the nation shattered. All of it paved the way for the presidency of Louis-Napoléon Bonaparte—the rebirth of Empire, dragged behind the name of his uncle, the corporal, who still dazzled in memory despite his errors, atrocities, and squandered promise. Monsieur de Prahecq’s mirth had long since vanished(150).
With the rise of that buffoon from London, Ham, and Strasbourg—whose latest cheap trick had earned him popular support—a great weariness settled over the land. A desperate craving for hope and renewal emerged, alongside a ravenous appetite for money. One might have believed oneself returned to the tranquil days of the previous régime, so alike are men in their ambitions and their baseness, so indistinguishable are kings from those who ruled before.
Through it all, Laure grew. Raised in the Christian faith, her features no longer mirrored Thérèse’s so precisely; but her gestures, expressions, and temperament grew ever more similar.
Seven months passed without a word from the Prahecqs or the ageing Countess de Montégrier.
“Are they travelling? Has Jeanne fallen ill? What of Louis? Bah—enough!” Agénor couldn’t shake the unease caused by their silence.
Then one morning a four-page letter arrived from Paris, leaving the Marquis appalled and livid. Monsieur de Prahecq, once a pilgrim to Belgrave Square and Wiesbaden, had betrayed his principles—and his character—for the benefit of his cherished son Charles, accepting a paltry post as chamberlain in the court of Napoleon III.
“The rogue!… The contemptible rogue!… The boorish knave!” Agénor stammered.
His very flesh recoiled; his thoughts churned in wild confusion.
“Laure… Laure must know at once!… She’s in the library…”
He rushed to find her, thrusting the letter into her hands.
“There! Read… Your father… your father has become…”
He stopped short, aware of the governess nearby. Still, his lips quivered, desperate to spit his disgust for the Viscount, whom he now regretted ever receiving with cordiality—against that primal instinct gifted to all men to love or loathe at first sight.
“O-oh,” said Laure, offering nothing more than this respectful sigh after reading the proof of her father’s apostasy.
The Marquis began searching for paper and ink.
Monsieur,
You have betrayed your exiled king. Had my own son shown such cowardice, I would have driven him from my threshold. By what madness has Berthe allowed you to besmirch her name?
Farewell; your news is of no further concern.
Cluses.
Agénor affixed his seal—crisp and uncreased, the coat of arms impressed at the bottom. Off it went.
He wrote to Frohsdorf(151), formally disowning the Prahecqs.
Then, overcome by dread, he sank pale and anguished into the depths of a bergère(152):
“They’ll take her away!… The Viscount will see to it!… He has every legal right!… A perfect act of revenge!”
Unable to eat more than a bite at luncheon, Agénor left the château, consumed by grief. Not once did he entertain the indecent idea of writing a second, conciliatory letter.
He wandered from park to field, from field to Juvigny, from Juvigny to the distant village glimpsed between twin hills. Every last shred of hope had vanished.
“The child, his beloved child, would no longer smile at him—she would prove to have been merely a fleeting comfort, another cruel illusion.”
And as night fell, so came that sharpened clarity that night lends to sorrow, when all the world slips into its impenetrable slumber.
Mad with fear, wrapped in nocturnal solitude—his body weakened, his heart strained, his forehead heavy with burdens—he collapsed to his knees, imploring God, the God of ineffable mercy, and cried out for Thérèse, professing his love, begging her to appear one last time, wherever she might be, just as she had been.
At first, nothing came—and he sank even deeper into despair. Not a whisper broke the room’s silence; even the air seemed to resist him.
Then, suddenly, a chill ran through him—brief, yet familiar, a herald of something more. He started violently; the eternal part of his being began to stir, to rise like vapour, to probe with subtle purpose from atom to shadow, from soul to breath, seeking the invisible presence, the otherworldly voice, the miraculous vision that might, at whim, choose to reveal itself within the room.
A distant creak, then another—closer; soft footsteps, light and measured, brushing against his frayed nerves, so impossibly delicate they seemed not of this world. In one swift movement, Agénor sprang to his feet, breathing heavily, listening keenly, wishing his modest lamp might blaze like the sun.
Then the door creaked open—two fumbling hands had found it. He stumbled backwards, stunned and overwhelmed with joy.
There stood Laure—silent, radiant, her feet bare, her eyelids shut, clad in the matte whiteness of her nightgown. Motionless.
“Oh, Thérèse… My precious Thérèse…” murmured the Marquis in a trembling whisper.
Laure did not answer; she stood, wrapped in sleep.
All doubts fled. The child and the departed one shared a single spirit. What clearer proof than this graceful figure responding to a summons never uttered aloud? What miraculous blessing, what heavenly certainty!
A deceptive peace overtook Agénor’s thoughts. He thanked the Creator, convinced that no mortal power could now separate him from she who was doubly his by divine grace.
He kissed the girl’s cheeks, careful not to wake her, and with tender care carried her back to bed, tucking her in as a mother might, while Miss Hamelin slept peacefully nearby, fists clenched, lost in absurd dreams.
Knowing that the Marquis de Cluses had the legal right to bequeath half his fortune as he saw fit—under Civil Code articles 913 and 914—and fearing the potential disadvantage, the Prahecqs remained silent, ignoring both the letter and its affront to their pride. Thus, Laure remained by her grandfather’s side.
It was during Napoleon III’s reluctant betrothal to a striking Spanish beauty—haunted as he was by memories of Marie-Louise—that Madame de Montégrier passed away at her residence on the rue du Bac.
Determined to attend the funeral, Agénor found himself beside his son-in-law and daughter, then returned to Juvigny—shaken, irritable, and unwell. Another three years passed—bitter ones for Russia and Tsar Nicholas—while Laure continued to grow, the great trees of the park reached higher, the château’s collections grew richer, and—for reasons never disclosed—relations between the Chevalier de Caristy and the Marquis de Cluses soured over the course of a single month.
The crinoline(153) became de rigueur among fashionable women. Bearded chins gave way to moustaches. Anyone of modest means, come summer, took to the spa towns and seaside resorts: Dieppe, Trouville, Plombières, Vichy. And, true to form, the French once again believed themselves a magnificent nation.
“Sweetheart, could you play me some music?” the Marquis asked Laure on an autumn evening, as gusts of wind sent leaves tumbling through the air.
“I should be happy to, Grandfather.”
Laure was no longer a child. Her limp persisted—her affliction never remedied. She was of medium height, her hair caught in a net at the nape, her head small, her nose fine and straight. Little of Thérèse remained, save the warmth of her gaze—those brown eyes that seemed to have escaped the tomb.
It was ten o’clock. Miss Hamelin had retired. The air was mild, no chill lingering. And in the chamber that served as Agénor’s retreat, two shaded lamps cast a sombre glow across the harpsichord’s keys.
Not a single item had been disturbed in the chamber. The mantelpiece remained exactly as it had in Father Robiquet’s time; likewise preserved were the Corinthian columns of brocatelle marble, the imposing bookcase, the Thurel clock, the console tables adorned with pewter, and the vivid crimson velvet folding screen, its mauve and black silk galloons(154) intact. Only the most observant eye would detect the faintest trace of the rust-like patina that light gradually imprints upon the folds of portières(155) and draperies.
“The Queen’s Ballet first, wouldn’t you agree, Grandfather?… Then the passacaglia from Armide(156), and the one from Issé(157)… concluding with one of Campra’s divertissements.”
Laure spoke and gestured with light-hearted grace. She wore rose-coloured silk—fabrics and shades dear to the Marquis, as they had once been favourites of his late wife. She seated herself at the harpsichord.
A capricious opening. The girl flexed her fingers to loosen them. Four old-fashioned lines of verse—hopelessly clichéd—rose in Agénor’s mind like foam upon the sea:
To view this dark-haired wonder near,
The question leaves one quite perplexed:
Whether her music charms the ear,
Or by her beauty eyes are vexed(158).
The Marquis de Cluses’s hair had lightened to a near pure white. For the pleasure of his companion and to better resemble his contemporaries, he had shaved away the beard that once traced his jaw. Bowing his head and closing his eyes, he felt Thérèse within him, superimposed upon the figure before him, whose form and shoulders, shifting in the light, held him captive in rapturous concentration.
“I’m all set, Grandfather.”
“Good, then.”
The word good emerged in a voice altered almost beyond recognition.
As the first bars of music trickled forth, Agénor shed his modern self within minutes. Away fled the endless hauntings of death! Gone was the imaginary archipelago where his thoughts so often dashed themselves in silence. He felt light and strong, a smile on his lips, soaring into a past where no barrier stood too high—a realm charged with enchantment, where books and star-bound dreams had conspired to build fragments of the ideal.
Soon, even Laure herself—her rose-hued figure and the variations dancing beneath her fingers—dissolved for him. All that remained were sounds: colourless, cradling, suggestive. They relieved him of conscious thought, involving him wholly in a heightened vision.
Beyond the bounds of the present, in ephemeral reverie, beneath a summer sky, in an ancient Parisian street strewn with rushes and shimmering green, he conjured a wondrous scene: commoners, men and women alike, clad in Louis XIV finery; noblemen surveying from ornate windows, their hangings ablaze with moiré and satin.
People bustled, exclaimed, postured. The date was August 1660—for Agénor’s devotion never extended to the eighteenth century. Any moment now, Marie-Thérèse(159), the new Queen of France, would appear. She was journeying from Saint-Jean-de-Luz.
“She’s here! She’s here!… Quiet, now!… Silence!”
Only with effort did the throng flatten against the low-built houses. A band of archers restrained them as trumpets blared and drums beat their steady rhythm. The harpsichord continued its unbroken voice.
A ring of metal striking stone. Then, astride matching bay horses, their braided manes and wavy tails in perfect symmetry, rode some sixty gentlemen, four abreast.
They wore doublets(160) in white or tan, leather tinted with red-gold and trimmed in silver, felt hats of grey or black, each adorned with sweeping plumes, wielding battle-axes tipped like the beak of a raven.
A battery of drums, joined by oboes in glorious metre. Then came the musketeers, cuirassed, mounted on dappled greys and browns, clad in blue and red regalia. Behind them, wheeling their mounts with precision, faces fierce beneath their mitres, rode a brigade of hussars(161), decked in ornate frogging(162), their leather dolmans(163) billowing in the breeze.
No interruption; no conscious memory intruding. The Marquis de Cluses absorbed it all—an unending tattoo of hoofbeats, the whinnying of horses, the flutter of plumage and the glint of breastplates, a soft jangle, a soundless flicker of glimmering steel: dragoons in yellow, leather gaiters, turbans atop their caps, muskets braced to their thighs; light cavalry in white boots and scarlet jerkins(164); carabineers in iron skullcaps; gendarmes with ready swords, clad in green, crimson, or leonine hues; guards in sky-blue coats shimmered with lily-shaped crosses and crowns, their crossbelts striped in emerald, cobalt, and orange.
Behind the guards came a detachment of mounted grenadiers, a handful of lance-corporals, and hirsute Swiss soldiers beneath wide-brimmed headgear.
When the provost’s bowmen appeared—draped in flesh-coloured surcoats, lavishly embroidered and glinting with sequins, emblazoned with Hercules’ mace above the royal motto(165), at the centre of a pattern strewn with Ls(166)—a thousand hearts, including Agénor’s own, began to race uncontrollably. Spectral hands, rising beyond the bounds of his physical self, seemed to brandish hats with unrestrained fervour.
More gentlemen passed by, each bearing a raven’s-beak staff, followed by fashionable, comely pages, every one of them riding lively steeds and clutching a rose between their teeth. And then came the royal coach—immense, gilded, and studded with sculptural relief—pulled in long, measured strides by eight pinto horses(167) .
It dazzled the eye, casting rays in every direction.
The Marquis scanned the carriage’s surroundings, recognising noble faces, lion-like and familiar. He glimpsed, if only for a moment, Louis XIV—expressionless, young, handsome, radiant with pearls—and the fair-haired Queen, vibrant and fresh, gloved in Bruges lace, bedecked with jewels and gilded foliage, her bearing stiff and ceremonial. Then, as the dream overcame him, Agénor bowed his head in homage to such splendour and to a chosen, revered monarch. The cavalcade ceased abruptly—its noise, festivity, and opulence dissolving into a shifting stream of colour, an electric summer cloud dispersed by a single breath.
Agénor, now and then, would drift away like this into the era he longed to inhabit—an era he was certain he’d once belonged to. He would return to daily life more talkative than usual.
At this point, after a week had passed, the Marquis received a humble, insistent note from his daughter, pleading to re-establish ties.
Following only his sense of duty—and reassured that Laure had remained undisturbed throughout their quarrel—he replied: “I agree to put this behind us; but my son-in-law must resign his post at the imperial court, journey to Frohsdorf to seek forgiveness, and become once more what he was: independent and principled.”
A month passed under rain as the park budded and dressed itself in golden brown. Perhaps the Viscount was weighing his options. Within the château, secluded from outside affairs, the two dear souls who shared its quiet shadow had resumed their gentle routine—until a second message arrived from the Prahecqs.
Laure was to return to her father’s home, chaperoned by Miss Hamelin, within the week.
Ashen and speechless, the Marquis de Cluses felt himself pitched towards the abyss—the tormenting chasm into which, with vindictive intent and a cruelty that destroyed reason, Berthe and the blackguard she had married had chosen to cast him.
He fell, spun, grasped desperately for hope—found none—moaned in helplessness, wanted to bite, to fight, to cry out for the rights he felt entitled him to Laure’s care. But the void pulled him deeper, as did that peculiar weakness—the deranged pleasure that rational beings sometimes derive from profound grief. The horizon, once blue, was now only a wall of shadow; and this new agony, layered upon all that came before, overwhelmed and emptied him, kneaded him like clay, ground him down.
A fit of rage seized him. His eyes narrowed with fury, and in one swift, unconscious motion, he snapped a heavy malachite(168) paper cutter. Then his gaze fell on Laure—and shame overtook him.
She looked about to faint.
“What’s the matter, my dear?”
At the sound of that treasured, familiar voice, her expression transformed. Tears sprang forth—a shimmering cascade that wound its way towards her bodice. The Marquis de Cluses, equally undone, found himself weeping.
“We’ve known too much favour… too much tranquillity… It couldn’t last…”
They wept with abandon. Their souls fled inward like startled birds retreating to hollows within wounded trees.
“Dear God…”
They clung to one another with limp arms—no gentle embraces, just mutual delirium. She wept out of love for his despair; he suffered from seeing her so deeply wounded.
“To be parted!… Never again to walk together!… Never again to tremble at the sound of a familiar voice!… To need arrangements, to plan for time apart, just to share the little things—the threads of daily joy, our reason to go on, the shape of tomorrow!”
Twin thoughts dawned upon the unhappy twosome. They were devastated by the knowledge that their unified whole was soon to be divided. Laure, on the verge of fainting, sat down. Behind her, flooded with daylight, the mullions(169), fleurons(170), and damask upholstery of a nearby chair shimmered—wreathing her in a nimbus of light.
“My angel, speak to me—take heart,” the Marquis faltered.
Laure took no notice. She had cast herself into supplication. Her soul dissolved into prayer; her thoughts evaporated and drifted upwards.
“No one has the right… You know I won’t allow it…” the Marquis murmured, his voice faint. “If it comes to that, we’ll flee… The world is full of shelter…”
The room was silent. The slice of sky visible through the windows remained serene and still.
Then came a muted, hesitant voice:
“Pray, my child… Pray… From the depths of your heart, ask mercy of the eternal Judge. He alone can love you more than I do… He alone can trust your innocence.”
The Marquis bent over his beloved, gasping between sobs, watching those silent lips that once brimmed with laughter. He studied her closed eyelids beneath which, resurrected and serene, a fragment of Thérèse seemed to dwell.
“I believe… Hail to you… Redeeming Son of the world, hear our prayer…” came to him between long silences.
Then her lips fell quiet; then her eyes stirred, those beloved eyes echoing another’s.
“Tell me—will you flee with me?” Agénor asked again, his voice urgent. “Will you go with me tomorrow—or even tonight—somewhere we’ll be beholden to no one, where we can live in peace, together forever?”
Laure shook her head gently. Calmly, she replied that one must honour and obey one’s parents, as faith instructed.
Agénor, near despair, was about to object. He had considered, while she prayed, the idea—clever but misguided—that her faith was false, that the moment had come to enlighten this misguided soul. But he checked himself. He silenced that inner impulse to play the evangelist. All prayer, he reflected, was valuable if it freed the mind from rigidity. Any worship that fostered surrender was sublime. He decided to let Laure keep her faith and her innocence—and to endure nobly, for the love of what he knew, and what she would one day remember.
A wave of deep contemplation washed over him—that singular kind of reflection that helps one confront grief, push back against futile imaginings, and find some unnamed source of comfort.
Mademoiselle Hamelin, swiftly informed and profoundly displeased, fell into a fit of hysteria. For a few hours, she proved a welcome distraction from Laure’s pious anguish—a lesser concern among Agénor’s mounting sorrows.
Then life resumed—shrunken, fractured, hostile, shrouded in dread. The trio slowly pulled apart. The Marquis and his cherished granddaughter struggled to numb themselves, to muster resolve, to play at strength that neither possessed. Sweet charade! A quiet pantomime of worshipful hearts.
They sensed the unwept tears in one another, though none escaped their lashes.
Once, Laure tried to lift her grandfather’s spirits by playing the harpsichord. He, for his part, forced a cheerful demeanour one sunlit midday, though his throat burned with anxiety.
They parted, came together again, but dared not look into each other’s faces. They exchanged secret glances, caught each other in moments of yearning, and forced smiles that barely held shape. They moved like automata performing a task, lost their appetites, found no rest, and spoke only when silence could no longer sustain them.
And as the days sped on with derisive haste, six mornings saw them grow ever paler—tormented, helpless in the art of disguise, yet upholding a dignified affection. Then, wearied by their pretence, on the seventh evening they cast aside pride and heroic façades, admitting they had no strength left, falling into one another’s arms. Their final night was sleepless—fevered, faint with exhaustion and hopelessness, haunted by the ceaseless churn of identical thoughts. And when dawn broke, it did so in scarlet—forewarning them to lavish what tenderness they could, for the hour of parting had come.
Hand in hand like lovers—she, so youthful and limping slightly; he, in the dusk of his prime—they wandered through the château, its towering trees and grassy meadows: she to fix it in memory, he to gather sorrowful recollections.
When the lunch bell rang, Miss Hamelin appeared with red eyes and nose, a travelling bonnet set atop her head. Tears continued unabated. And when two servants brought down the luggage, it felt as though they trailed behind a departed soul, bearing her keepsakes for burial.
Juvigny lay four leagues from the nearest station. Laure, the governess, and the Marquis boarded the berline; the household staff moved about with downcast faces.
The carriage rolled on, trailing dust, and no words were exchanged.
They had scarcely found time to embrace, to promise to write, to suppress another swell of grief, when suddenly the train stood before them, already exhaling great clouds of smoke.
Twenty jolts, a dragging weight, the shriek of a whistle, a glove waved by a girlish hand in the distance—Agénor was alone.
“Watch where you’re going, sir!”
The Marquis de Cluses found his carriage and sank heavily onto its cushion.
“Wretched business…”
And on that lonely journey home, wounded and bereft, he resembled beasts dazed by fear, stricken and ready to perish.
That night in his château, until sunrise, he paced between his chamber and Laure’s empty bedroom—roaming, restless, gesturing without thought, inhaling her memory, collecting the trifles she had forgotten or left behind, pressing them to his lips, mingling them with the mementos of his wife, zealously uniting Laure and Thérèse—the same soul.
He resolved to write a few pages to the Prahecqs: a plea in favour of their gentle new companion, asking that she be welcomed with warmth. But he could not keep from launching once more into a tirade—reminding them of their betrayal, pouring out his hatred and scorn. In the end, fatigue overcame him. His eyes had dulled, his hands refused command, and a terrible migraine pounded at his temples.
Ten hours of sleep followed—then thirteen hours of nausea and lucid deterioration. Finally, a letter arrived from Laure:
“I was received warmly… Monsieur de Prahecq, moustachioed and jovial. Madame de Prahecq, statuesque, hearty, beautiful… They didn’t know me—not in the least! But I remembered nothing of them either. We are even… Louis? Good-hearted. Jeanne? Proper—too proper… Oh, Grandfather, how I miss you! How I long to be at Juvigny… Beloved Grandfather, my friend, my papa…”
From that day forward, each morning brought a letter from Paris—some brief, some meandering, often repetitive—in which the absent one professed her devotion to Agénor. She recounted the minutiae of her days: her irritations, her spirited nature, the décor of her room, the cut of her dresses, the whirl of dinners and dances, the ebb and flow of society. She spoke of Mademoiselle Hamelin and countless unfamiliar faces, of a life she scarcely understood, and of the ache she knew only too well—that of a heart yearning in absence.
Léon Hennique Novel 