Tracy Chevalier - The Lady and the Unicorn

Yesterday I tried to listen to Maman’s confession at Saint-Germain-des-Prés to find out if she felt bad about being so spiteful to me. I hid behind a pillar near the pew where she sat with the priest but her voice was so low that I had to creep quite close. All I heard was ‘ Ça c’est mon seul désir ’ before one of the priests saw me and chased me away. ‘ Mon seul désir ,’ I murmured to myself. My one desire. The phrase is so bewitching that I repeat it to myself all day long.

Once I was sure that Nicolas would be coming I knew I had to see him. C’est mon seul désir . Hah! There is my man. I’ve thought about him every hour of every day since I met him. Of course I’ve said nothing to anyone, except for Béatrice, who to my surprise was not very kind about him. That is her one fault. I was describing his eyes – how they are brown as chestnuts and pinched at the corners so that he looks a little sad even when he clearly is not. ‘He’s not worthy of you,’ Béatrice interrupted. ‘He’s just an artist, and not trustworthy at that. You should be thinking of lords instead.’

‘If he were untrustworthy, my father would never have hired him,’ I retorted. ‘Oncle Léon wouldn’t have allowed it.’ Léon is not really my uncle, but an old merchant who looks after my father’s business. He treats me like a niece – until recently he chucked me under the chin and brought me sweetmeats, but now he tells me to stand straight and comb my hair. ‘Tell me what sort of husband you’d like and I’ll see if there’s one ripe at market,’ he likes to say. Wouldn’t he be surprised if I described Nicolas! He doesn’t think much of the artist, I’m sure – I overheard him with Papa, trying to undo Nicolas’ unicorns, saying they wouldn’t be right for the Grande Salle. Papa’s door is not so thick, and if I put my ear right up to the keyhole I can hear him. Papa won’t change his mind again, though. I could have told Léon that. To change once was bad enough, but to switch back now would be unthinkable.

Once I knew that Nicolas would be coming to the rue du Four, I went straight to the steward to find out exactly when. As usual, the steward was in the stores, counting things. He is always worried we are being robbed. He looked even more horrified than Béatrice when I said Nicolas’ name. ‘You don’t want anything to do with that lot, Mademoiselle,’ he said.

‘I’m simply asking when he is coming.’ I smiled sweetly. ‘If you don’t tell me I shall just have to go to Papa and say that you have not been helpful to me.’

The steward grimaced. ‘Thursday at Sext,’ he muttered. ‘Him and Léon too.’

‘You see, that wasn’t so bad. You should always tell me what I want to know, and I’ll be happy.’

The steward bowed but kept looking at me as I turned to go. It seemed he was about to say something, but then he didn’t. That struck me as comical and I laughed as I ran away.

Thursday I was meant to go with Maman and my sisters to grandmother’s at Nanterre for the night, but I pretended to have a bellyache so that I could stay at home. When Jeanne heard I wasn’t going she wanted to pretend along with me, even though she didn’t know why I was really staying behind. I couldn’t tell her about Nicolas – she is too young to understand. She hung about until I had to say nasty things to her, which made her cry and run off. Afterwards I felt awful – I shouldn’t treat my sister so. She and I have been close all our lives. Until recently we shared the same bed, and Jeanne cried then too when I said I wanted to begin sleeping alone. But I am so restless at night now. I kick off the covers and roll about, and even the thought of having another body in the bed – apart from Nicolas’ – annoys me.

Now Jeanne has to be more with Petite Geneviève, who is sweet but only seven, and Jeanne has always preferred to be with older girls. Also Petite Geneviève is Maman’s favourite, and that is irritating to Jeanne. Of course she has Maman’s lovely name, while Jeanne and I have names that remind us we are not the boys Papa wanted.

Maman had Béatrice stay back to look after me, and she and my sisters finally left for Nanterre. I then sent Béatrice out to buy some honeyed orange peel I have a liking for, saying it would settle my stomach. I insisted that she go all the way to a stall near Notre Dame for it. She rolled her eyes at me but she went. When she was gone I let out a big sigh and ran to my room. My nipples were rubbing against my underdress and I lay on my bed and pushed a pillow between my legs, longing for an answer to my body’s question. I felt like a prayer sung at Mass that is interrupted and left unfinished.

Finally I got up, straightened my clothes and head-dress, and ran to my father’s private chamber. The door was open and I peeked in. Only Marie-Céleste was there, crouching at the hearth to light the fire. When I was younger and we were at the Château d’Arcy for the summer, Marie-Céleste used to take me and Jeanne and Petite Geneviève down to the river and sing us bawdy songs while she washed clothes. I wanted to tell her now about Nicolas des Innocents, about where I wanted his hands to go and what I would do with my tongue. After all, it had been her songs and stories that taught me about such things. But something stopped me. She had been my friend when I was a girl, but now I am growing up, soon to have a lady-in-waiting and prepare for a husband, and it was not right to speak of such things with her.

‘Why are you lighting the fire, Marie-Céleste?’ I asked instead, even though I knew already.

She looked up at me. There was a smudge of ash on her forehead, as if it were still Ash Wednesday. She always was a messy girl. ‘Visitors coming, Mademoiselle,’ she answered. ‘For your father.’

The wood was beginning to smoke, with flames licking here and there. Marie-Céleste grabbed onto a chair and hauled herself to her feet with a grunt. Her face looked fatter than before. In fact – I gazed at her body in growing horror. ‘Marie-Céleste, are you with child?’

The girl hung her head. It was strange – all those songs she had sung about maids getting caught, and she must never have thought it would happen to her. Of course every woman wants a child, but not like that, with no husband.

‘You silly thing!’ I scolded. ‘Who is he?’

Marie-Céleste waved her hand as if batting away the question.

‘Does he work here?’

She shook her head.

‘ Alors , will he marry you?’

Marie-Céleste scowled. ‘No.’

‘But what will you do?’

‘Don’t know, Mademoiselle.’

‘Maman will be furious. Has she seen you?’

‘I keep away from her, Mademoiselle.’

‘She’ll find out soon enough. You should wear a cloak at least to hide it.’

‘Maids don’t wear cloaks, Mademoiselle – can’t work in a cloak.’

‘You won’t be able to work soon anyway, by the look of you. You’ll have to go back to your family. Attends , you must tell Maman something. I know – tell her your mother’s ill and you must tend to her. Then you can come back after the baby’s born.’

‘Can’t go to the mistress looking like this, Mademoiselle – she’ll know straight away what’s wrong.’

‘I’ll tell her, then, when she comes back from Nanterre.’ I did feel sorry for Marie-Céleste and wanted to help her.

Marie-Céleste brightened. ‘Oh, thank you, Mademoiselle. That is good of you!’

‘You’d best be off as soon as you can.’

‘Thank you, Mademoiselle. Thank you. I’ll see you when I come back.’ She turned to go, then turned back again. ‘If it’s a girl I’ll name her after you.’

‘That would be nice. If it’s a boy will you name it after the father?’