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the
Credo
, or I'm much mistaken," said the marquise presently. "The deed is done, and I not there to see it. Nor you. Poor Berthe."
    As we sat listening to the choir's muted whining, tears welled in my eyes. I recall I was puzzled by them. I was no sentimentalist, me, to weep at weddings.
    Mme de Bonsecours took the cologne-soaked kerchief from my lax fingers and applied it to her throat. "I know, Berthe, I know. I myself am of two minds about this marriage, as I would be of any match of monsieur my father's making. 'Tis not so bleak, even so. M. le duc de Malvoeux looks to have all the parts of a man. Why, I've even heard him discourse sensibly on art and science." She sighed and stirred uncomfortably. "All M. de Bonsecours knows is taxes. Why, to him, the divine Voltaire is no more than a godless fool who got himself banished from court."
    I did not feel comforted. "I pray this duc will make my mistress happy."
    "Happy? What fool has told you that happiness is the object of marriage, hein? To most husbands, a wife is a purse to spend from and a womb to spend in. Wealth, position, power, sons: those are the objects of Christian marriage, Berthe."
    This, I thought, was a most unsuitable discussion for a servant to be having with a marquise. "La, madame, such things as you say! I am all out of countenance."
    She laughed, not unkindly. "I cry you pardon, Berthe: you'requite right. Will you fetch me that cushion, yes, the kneeler from the prie-dieu, and put it here, in the small of my back? Ah, just so. And a little more cologne on the kerchief, if you'd be so good? Thank you, Berthe." She smiled into my eyes. "You're as deft as Louison, and very much prettier. Cleverer, too, I've always thought."
    I felt myself flushing. "La, madame," I said.
    "Pray don't flutter—it don't become you. We're of an age, are we not?"
    I looked at her in some surprise. A servant's precise age is not generally a matter of interest to the nobly born; she is either young and strong or old and useless. But Hortense du Fourchet de Bonsecours had always been an unaccountable creature. "I'm eighteen, madame."
    "I thought so. I, too, am eighteen. Listen, ma chère." She leaned forward with difficulty and took my hand in hers. "My sister Adèle, as we both know, has more hair than wit, although 'tis such pretty hair that her lack of wit hardly matters." I began to protest; she pressed my hand and laughed. "Oh, don't deny it: you cannot. Let us be candid, you and I. Here in this vestry, with no one to hear us, we may surely speak as equals."
    Well, I knew of a certainty that we could never speak as equals. Wherever we were and whoever heard us, we were forever and always a marquise and her sister's femme de chambre. And, since Mme de Bonsecours was not a fool, she knew it too. Because she was a marquise, however, I could hardly contradict her, so I shrugged—As you will, madame—and knelt at her feet.
    "Candidly, then. I don't like this duc de Malvoeux. He fixes me with his sharp, black eye, and I feel like a beetle or a large grub—too large, thankfully, for him to snap up comfortably. He seems to me like . . . oh, I don't know, like a famine or a plague perhaps, that creeps up silently and consumes utterly."
    I shivered. "Madame is enceinte," I said uncomfortably, "and very near her time."
    "And these are the sick fancies of pregnancy? No, Berthe, I think not. Truly, I fear for Adèle." She took my chin in her hand and searched my eyes. "Madame my mother chose you for Adèle for no better reason than your youth and your pretty face. Nevertheless, she chose well. You've a fine wit, Berthe, and a good and faithful heart."
    At this, I blushed and looked away, murmuring that madame was too kind. She released my chin. "Now I've embarrassed you. But 'tis true. I hardly need ask it, I know. Yet I fear he may try to drive youaway and put some creature of his own in charge of her. Whatever he does, swear to me you'll stay with her."
    Her words were high