Read Online The Porcelain Dove by Delia Sherman - Free Book Online Page A

tragedy; her face and figure low comedy. And yet I never doubted that the lady was in earnest. You may imagine how I stared at her, alarmed no less by her vehemence than by her dark forebodings. My oath, when at last I collected my wits to swear it, was drowned by a consort of horns blaring the news that M. le duc de Malvoeux and his new-made duchesse were leaving the church. If I didn't hurry, they'd be away. I started to my feet, then looked down into Mme de Bonsecours's sweat-streaked face. How could I leave her alone? Whether her pangs were wind or labor, she was clearly unwell. And yet, who'd see to my mistress' train if I were not by? Who'd help her into her carriage?
    Mme de Bonsecours laughed. "I am well answered, Berthe. Such a look of dismay! Bien sûr, you must go to your mistress. But first desire Mme de Luce to step inside—I think I saw her standing near. She's a kindly old biddy-hen, and delights in births and deaths." Stricken, I goggled at her; she sighed impatiently. " 'Tis only wind, silly goose. Fetch Mme de Luce and then be off with you."
    Gratefully, I curtsied and went in search of Mme de Luce, who was plump breasted, bright eyed, and given to coquelicot ribbons on her caps. I urged her, clucking, into the vestry, then made off down the side aisle for the church porch.
    What a throng was there! 'Tis hard to believe, at this remove of miles and centuries, that there were ever so many people in the world, much less in a single Paris street. How can I hope to describe the wonder and the terror of such a scene? In a world populated by seven, four make a crowd; four hundred is inconceivable. And there were upwards of four hundred guests in the church of Sainte-Catherine, and le bon Dieu only knows how many common folk in the street outside. The noise they made was deafening, like a flock of hungry crows cawing, pecking, treading on one another's feet and backs, battering one another with their wings, all eager to be the first to the fresh carrion, to peck out the tender eyes, the soft tongue.
    I stood a-tiptoe at the church door, searching for my mistress in among the chapeaux-bras, bow-knots, plumes, and powdered horsehair wigs swarming on the church porch and steps. In the street below, liveried guards linked arms against the canaille, whose gaunt and filthy faces grimaced in the lurid flare of the flambeaux like so many fiendsof hell. Some several caws could be heard above the high-bred shrieking of the wedding guests:
    "Hey, sieur! Let me break her in for you!"
    "Make her show you what they taught her in the convent!"
    "Don't cry, missus. It'll be over soon."
    "Aye. From the looks of him, he'll be finished long before you begin to enjoy it!"
    "Think she'll pleasure you better than your manservant, sieur?"
    Briefly the flow of guests parted around my mistress, who was cringing against M. le duc's arm in an attitude more suitable to a new-caught thief than a new-made bride. I wormed my way to her, then, suddenly shy, smoothed my apron and coughed for her attention. She clutched his arm—I remember the pearly silk wrinkling under her fingers—and turned a frightened face to me.
    "My felicitations, mademoiselle," I murmured, curtsying low.
    My mistress smiled—a small, tight, cold smile. "I am not mademoiselle anymore, Berthe, but the duchesse de Malvoeux. You must call me madame now."
    I swallowed tears. "Yes, madame. I . . . wish you happy, madame."
    "Thank you, Berthe," she said more easily, and I think would have embraced me had not M. de Malvoeux put his arm about her waist to bear her down the steps and into the carriage. Nobles and beggars raised a cheer, and then the bridal couple were off, their horses plunging madly and scattering the rabble like rats before them.
    That night, while the duchesse de Malvoeux was toasting her husband before two hundred noble guests, I was rattling my bones in the baron's old traveling coach over the cobbles towards the rue des Lions.
    In physical distance, at