The Bad Seed
Tim Sayeau
Paris, 22 July 1633
Master Antoine Dreux d’Aubray, Prefect of Paris in the year of our Lord 1633, stood listlessly against a door jamb, staring into the room in which his little daughter Marie Madeleine Marguerite slept. The moonlight coming in from a window illuminated her sleeping features, her blonde hair loose upon her pillow, a somewhat worn Barbie doll tucked close to her small gamine face.
There could be no cuter three-year-old in France, thought Antoine. Yes, all parents thought or should think their children were angels from God, but clearly none of those others had ever seen his Marie Madeleine as she smiled, laughed, and played.
None had ever had Marie Madeleine falling asleep in their arms, her absolute love and trust clear with every breath, her head resting upon their arms and chest.
None had ever simply stared at her, amazed that such innocence, beauty, trust, charm, intellect, and kindness could be found in one perfect little girl.
None could ever have sworn with such loving devotion as he that the cares and the cruelties of the world would be kept from her for as long as possible.
And none had ever had within their souls such despair and love as he now had.
Slowly he closed the door to his daughter’s chambers, stiffening in dread that each creak might awaken his sleeping daughter. She would blink, and look around, and she would see him, and her eyes and face would brighten up, calling him “Papa!” as her arms reached out to him to be picked up and cuddled, protected from the night.
And that would let loose the tears already at his eyes, and she would look at him and ask, “Papa! What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
And he would smile, and wipe his tears away, and say, “Nothing for you to worry about, little one. Now hush, back to sleep.”
And she would cuddle closer, safe in his arms, and slowly her breaths would deepen, her body relax into sleep, and he would return her to her bed, place her Barbie within her little hands, and leave.
And in the morning she would wonder why he had cried, and held her so close, and he would have to lie to her again.
☆ ☆ ☆
The door closed, Master Antoine walked up the hall to his office.
There upon his desk lay the missive that had caused him to need to see his daughter sleeping, to know she was only three years old, still his little Marie Madeleine, his adored and adoring daughter.
He sat at the desk and stared at the document, his hands steepled in front of him. Then he leaned forward and studied the paper again.
Like everybody who had heard of the Ring of Fire, of Grantville in the Germanies, he had of course sought to learn what the future held, to learn if the future remembered him and how it did so. To know what to avoid and what to embrace.
Why would he not? Why would anybody not?
Well, perhaps now he knew why not. Man proposes, God disposes, and God knew he, Master Antoine Dreux d’Aubray, Prefect of Paris, Civil Lieutenant of Paris, counselor of State and Master of Requests, a personal attendant to the king and member of the king’s Conseil privé, had according to the 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica been disposed of in the most certain of manners.
The Britannica, in words he personally considered too calm and separate from emotion, stated:
BRINVILLIERS, MARIE MADELEINE MARGUERITE D’AUBRAY, Marquise de (c. 1630-1676), French poisoner, daughter of Dreux d’Aubray, civil lieutenant of Paris, was born in Paris about 1630.
No. Not about 1630. The twenty-second of July 1630. The Feast Day of St. Mary Magdalene the Penitent. Called so as, proud and beautiful, with seven devils within her, she had lived a life of sin. Then she met Christ. Who forgave her her sins, whose feet she humbly washed. St. Mary Magdalene, who three days after the Crucifixion became the first to know Christ had risen.
A fitting day for his daughter’s birth, he had thought. Auspicious. And per the Britannica, the twenty-second of July had for years augured good fortune for the penitent’s namesake.
In 1651 she married the Marquis de Brinvilliers, then serving in the regiment of Normandy. Contemporary evidence describes the marquise at this time as a pretty and much-courted little woman, with a fascinating air of childlike innocence.
So. His daughter’s life had been all that he or any father could want for his child. An advantageous marriage. A fascinating personality, a charmed life. An innocent life.
Then came the serpent.
In 1659 her husband introduced her to his friend Godin de Sainte-Croix, a handsome young cavalry officer of extravagant tastes and bad reputation, whose mistress she became.
The irony was almost amusing, thought Master d’Aubray. Mary Magdalene meets Christ, Marie Madeleine meets Sainte-Croix. But with such different results! The first becomes a better person, the second—not.
Their relations soon created a public scandal, and as the Marquis de Brinvilliers, who had left France to avoid his creditors, made no effort to terminate them,…
So much for the marquis, the cowardly cuckold. With bad taste in friends and finances as well.
One could not blame his other self, reflected Antoine. How was he to know? Surely when approached for Marie Madeleine’s hand in marriage he had joyously consented. His daughter, a marquise!
Well, not now. Not ever. Not unless this world’s marquis proved himself more worthy than that—that disgusting worm, that—Nothing!—who had left his marital difficulties to his father-in-law to sort.
Which he, Master Antoine Dreux d’Aubray, had sought to do.
M. d’Aubray secured the arrest of Sainte-Croix on a lettre de cachet.
A lettre de cachet. An order of the king, or more probably his chief Minister, authorizing incarceration without trial.
Simplistic, this Britannica entry. Naive, even—insulting. Yes, of course he, Master Antoine Dreux d’Aubray, Prefect of Paris, Civil Lieutenant of Paris, counselor of State, Master of Requests, an attendant of the king and member of the Conseil privé, could obtain a lettre de cachet.
But not as easily as this cursed missive implied! Lettres were serious legal documents, not playbills and billets doux!
No. Clearly that other Antoine had tried all other means before this one. Appeals to his daughter, to his son-in-law, yes even to that Godin de Sainte-Croix.
None of which had been heard. The marquis—well, what of him? Useless capon!
Sainte-Croix? Why would that devil listen to a father’s pleas?
And Marie Madeleine, his sweet child, how infatuated with this Sainte-Croix she must have been, not to have heeded her father’s words!
Dear Lord, how very infatuated she must have been!
For after a year in prison, a year in which Sainte-Croix is popularly supposed to have acquired a knowledge of poisons from his fellow prisoner, the Italian poisoner Exili,
and a year in which a father might reasonably hope his daughter’s passions would have cooled,
he plotted with his willing mistress his revenge upon her father.
Breathe, Antoine, breathe. Remember, she is only three years old!
She cheerfully undertook to experiment with the poisons which Sainte-Croix, possibly with the help of a chemist, Christopher Glaser, prepared, and found subjects ready to hand in the poor who sought her charity, and the sick whom she visited in the hospitals.
Who sought her charity…whom she visited…
In February 1666, satisfied with the efficiency of Sainte-Croix’s preparations and with the ease with which they could be administered without detection, the marquise poisoned her father…
Thank God I made it to the window in time, reflected Master Antoine. Better I decorate the gardens with my heavings than the carpets. Dear God, there can’t be anything left in my stomach, so why these pains? Why these cramps—oh God! No! Don’t cry out, don’t—oh Christ, stop it—oh God it hurts—why these convulsions—oh Marie Madeleine—Christ Almighty please stop it stop it stop stop…
☆ ☆ ☆
Master Antoine Dreux d’Aubray, ashen-faced stomach-pained cold-sweating Prefect of Paris, cautiously lifted himself off the floor where for the most frightening hour of his life he had alternately convulsed in pain, unable to breathe and lying exhausted, shallowly panting.
Was that how it was for them? The poor, the sick—me? Was that how they—we—died? That pain? If so, Christ have mercy on us all.
Even Marie Madeleine?
Yes, even Marie Madeleine, you traitorous thought! Even Marie Madeleine, especially Marie Madeleine! Oh God, my sweet one, how? Why? Me, them, how? And why were we not enough? Why even not only me
but also the latter’s two sons and other daughter should be poisoned, so that the Marquise de Brinvilliers might come into possession of the large family fortune.
Money, Marie Madeleine? For money? Was that all I—we—were to you? Your brothers, my sons? Your sister? Dear God, even your sister? Parricide, fratricide, sororicide, for money and—love? You and that God-damned Sainte-Croix, was it love? Was that love to you? How could you call that love? Did we—did I—not teach you love? Did we not show you love? How did we—did I—fail you, Marie Madeleine? How? Did we teach you money above all, position and privilege above all? Was that it? Did we—I—us, all, did we not—
Marie Madeleine, why?
I am lost. Worn. Weary. I am come to the end of all things. I am Antoine Dreux d’Aubray, and I am lost. All is gone, all emotion, all care, worries, joys, sorrows, all gone.
Like my sons.
In 1670, with the connivance of their valet La Chaussée, her two brothers. A postmortem examination suggested the real cause of death, but no suspicion was directed to the murderers.
My sons, thought Master Antoine, my poor sons. They didn’t even have their names mentioned. As dead to history as they were to Marie Madeleine.
Before any attempt could be made on the life of Mlle Théresè d’Aubray, Sainte-Croix suddenly died. As he left no heirs the police were called in, and discovered among his belongings documents seriously incriminating the marquise and La Chaussée.
Théresè. Her name was—is?—will be?—Théresè. My second daughter. My one surviving child.
I wonder, did she live well, after? Did Théresè marry, have children, live her full life? In that other France, when Grantville was brought back, did we have family? Did they know of their many-times great-aunt and what she did? How she died?
The marquise escaped, taking refuge first probably in England, then in Germany, and finally in a convent at Liège, whence she was decoyed by a police emissary disguised as a priest.
I wish—I wish they had left her in that convent in Liège. What harm could she have done there? All was in the past, all gone, all passion fled.
A full account of her life and crimes was found among her papers. Her attempt to commit suicide was frustrated, and she was taken to Paris, where she was beheaded and her body burned on the 16th of July 1676.
Ha. The sixteenth of July 1676. They couldn’t have waited six more days, till the Feast of St. Mary Magdalene? Life and Death, on the same day?
No. I suppose they couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
Did she regret it, at the end? Did she weep for what she had done? With Sainte-Croix dead, and I hope it hurt the bastard, did she awaken? Did she return to herself, to Marie Madeleine?
At the end, was she again my daughter Marie Madeleine?
I hope so. God, how I hope so, how I—hope—
Master Antoine Dreux d’Aubray placed his head in his hands and cried, suppressing the sobs lest anyone hear.
For long minutes his eyes watered his face, his hands, his clothing, falling upon the desk, the missive, the floor. Crying for Marie Madeleine, for his sons, him, the poor, the sick, Théresè, his sorrows a service for the dead.
I am now truly come to the end of myself, Master Antoine thought, lifting his face from his hands, eyes red, nose streaming.
Hurriedly he wiped his face clean with a sleeve. Staring at the stained document, he poured fine white sand from a small container nearby, normally used to absorb wet ink.
Finished, he carefully lifted the paper and shook the sand off. Wiping the desk clean with a sleeve, he placed the missive before him. Stared at it. Considered it.
I am a lawyer, Master Antoine asserted to himself. I am the current Prefect of Paris, its Civil Lieutenant. I am a King’s Attendant, a counselor of State. As Master of Requests I am an aristocrat of the robe. I am in all humility and just recognition of self an eminent authority on the laws and the procedures of the courts of France, possibly even the authority. Within France I am an haute placée, second only to the cardinal and the king.
Was that why I died? Did my pride blind me? Pride in position, in family? Did I not see my daughter as she was, not as I wished her to be? As I—forced?—her to be?
What was it, that made her so willing to murder myself, her sister, her brothers? The poor, the sick? What flaw made Sainte-Croix so appealing to her that she let seven devils or more into her?
Marie Madeleine, why?
And what do I do now? You sleep now, my little one, safe and warm within your bed. If only I could put time in a bottle, I would keep you there till all the dangers were past.
Only I can’t. The future comes. For you, for me. Us.
I dread it, Marie Madeleine. How will it be for you, with the sins of your other self known? What am I to tell you, when mothers pull their children away, warning against you? Because they will, innocent though you are.
You will need strength, Marie Madeleine.
Strength to know what in another world you did and strength to not let that knowledge darken your life in this one.
Strength to face those who will damn you for your other self.
Strength for those times when it will seem simpler and easier to be what the idiots and the envious claim you are.
They will watch and whisper, see in your least actions and slightest words proof that you are the Marquise de Brinvilliers.
Which you are not. Which you will never be, my child.
Yes, in another world, in another time, I died at your hands.
As did my namesake, your little brother Antoine. Who in this world you often hold in your arms, calling him frèrot, babbling all sorts of insights and news to him as your mother Marie and I watch on, amused and pleased.
I wonder, did you do the same with your second brother, my unborn, unnamed son? With your sister? Both of whom will never exist now.
Even should I have another son, another daughter, they will not be the same. God, even Antoine is not the same, now. Not since the Ring of Fire. We are all different now.
That is my hope, Marie Madeleine. That we are all different, now. Better, too, I hope.
So. The future has already changed. That is good.
But has it changed enough?
Consider that fool Charles in England. Who seems to want to lose his head earlier in this world than in the other.
But then, consider Gustav of Sweden. Who was slated to die at Lützen this past November the sixteenth. Who lives instead.
Whose daughter Kristina still has a father. Kristina Vasa, whose life has certainly changed. Who is not now likely to abdicate her throne, or convert to Catholicism, or order cannons fired on unruly guests, or any of those other buffooneries—well, perhaps not the conversion—that make her up-time biographies interesting reads.
So. Don’t think of what was-to-might-have-been—Lord, what a phrase!—think of what instead could be, what must and will be.
Unlike his self in that other Earth, that other thought of God’s, this Antoine Dreux d’Aubray for a certainty knew what the future held. And with God’s help, or the Devil’s if needs be, that future would remain like Kristina Vasa’s biographies, words on a page.
Only, how?
A nunnery? His sweet Marie Madeleine, immured within a convent? Given to God in this world as penance for her sins in the other?
No. That other Marie Madeleine had enough victims to her name. Let that damned, foul, murderous creature suffer and leave his innocent child alone!
Sainte-Croix, then?
How old would he be now? Where would he be now? If Marie Madeleine’s fate could be avoided, could his be as well?
Perhaps—but if need be, Godin de Sainte-Croix would one day suffer a tragic mishap in the streets of wherever, an assault late at night by footpads bent on his purse at whatever cost.
A policy of last resort, to be sure. A policy however demanding further knowledge of Sainte-Croix, his location and his conduct.
Fortunately, for one such as he, Antoine Dreux d’Aubray, Prefect and Civil Lieutenant of Paris, counselor of State, Master of Requests, an attendant of the king, member of the Conseil privé, such knowledge was easily to be had.
The Marquis de Brinvilliers. Who had let his wife carry on with that abomination Sainte-Croix. Whose shameful refusal to protect his marriage had left himself, Antoine Dreux d’Aubray, no choice but to take action. Most likely that contemptible cuckold is only a child himself now.
A child who depending on his age and conduct would get a sound kick to the backside and a few slaps to the head, should ever he have the misfortune to meet his once-future father-in-law!
Christopher Glaser. Who might or might not have aided Sainte-Croix in his preparations for murder. Who might be in Paris or in the provinces, or not in France at all, who might be alive or yet to be born. A ghost, really. A phantasm. Still to be searched for, of course.
Exili, now. Not directly responsible for the evils of Sainte-Croix and—and Marie Madeleine, true.
Certainly not unresponsible, however. That name, now. Clearly an alias. Probably nothing to be gained from it, though certainly inquiries would be made. Likely older than Sainte-Croix and Ma—the Marquise de B— No. L’Empoisonneuse. Let that be its name now. Had Exili already begun his career, then? How to know?
Grantville. That was how to know. Surely there must be more in Grantville than that almost-afterthought in the 1911 Britannica.
Cruel though God had been to him and his family in that other world, for whatever reasons only He knew, in this one He had let the d’Aubrays know their—erstwhile?—fate.
To reveal that much yet to conceal more, to hide why L’Empoisonneuse had willingly murdered her father, her brothers and others, to let no hint through the Ring of Fire as to how he, Master Antoine Dreux d’Aubray, might guide his children and children-to-be through their personal Gethsemane, that bespoke a cruelty deserving of Satan, not God. Not even the God of the Old Testament, and certainly not that of the New, not God the Father and Christ the Son and the Holy Ghost.
Very well, concluded Antoine d’Aubray. Preparations will be made. Grantville will reveal what it knows, and Marie Madeleine shall live a better and longer life in this world than in the other.
A task which will be the easier once my wife Marie knows of this.
I wonder why the Britannica did not mention her. Was she already dead before L’Empoisonneuse began her work? Or did that creature hesitate before her mother’s death?
No, Marie must have been dead before then.
Was that why L’Empoisonneuse was—born?
Would she have lived, would we have lived, had Marie lived?
Ha.
Grantville may just save more than one Marie, then.
A possibility—no, a fact I should make clear when I tell Marie of this.
He paused in thought.
The up-timers have it right. Now comes the hard part.
☆ ☆ ☆
Marie Ollier d’Aubray, wife of Maître Antoine Dreux d’Aubray, mother of three-year-old Marie Madeleine Marguerite d’Aubray and one-year-old Antoine d’Aubray, stared at the document in front of her.
In appearance it was a most unprepossessing document. Less than half a page, water-stained, somewhat creased, flecked with white sand.
Really, a very plebian document.
She picked it up. Really, how plain. Look at how easily it tears. Look at it rip apart.
There it goes again. It just can’t hold together. What a silly document, just ripping apart like so. Just a little pressure and it just falls apart. How useless a document, just falling away like that. How—how infuriating!
How dare it be so useless useless useless useless a document! I hate it, I absolutely hate it, I want it gone, it has to go away, I don’t want to see it, I keep seeing it, I have to put it away, someplace I can’t see it…
Why is Antoine staring at me like that? He’s the one who put this useless useless useless document in front of me, he’s the one who cancelled all our plans for today without telling me, he’s the one who…oh.
Hurriedly Marie Ollier d’Aubray spat out from her mouth the torn, masticated remains of that useless document.
The document which described how her little daughter Marie Madeleine Marguerite had grown up to murder most of her family and hundreds of other people.
Probably hundreds, corrected Marie. Possibly hundreds. You know how people exaggerate.
Not that that makes—that—any easier to—swallow.
Poor Antoine. He must think he married a madwoman, and I think he did.
☆ ☆ ☆
Inner monologue complete, Marie Ollier d’Aubray turned to her husband, who had remained silent throughout her fugue.
“Really, Antoine!” she said crossly. “How could you let me do that? Surely somewhere in our wedding vows you promised otherwise!”
Antoine d’Aubray did not follow his cue. “Better now?” he asked.
“Yes. Somewhat. Some wine, please. I—” She spat some flecks of paper out. “We must converse, and my throat is not at its best. The d’Angouléme, I believe.”
Antoine poured out some wine from a sidebar into a glass. Placed it before her. Marie took it up and took a sip. Then another.
Swished it about her mouth. Swallowed.
“Marie!” cried Master Antoine.
“Oh hush,” she said, sipping again. “With or without paper, this is still d’Angouléme, and besides, where would I put it? The floor? The window? Besides, what does it matter?” She looked at him.
“We have other copies, do we not?”
“Yes, Marie. I hadn’t anticipated your exact reaction, but considering my own, I felt it best we have others.”
“Oh good. Why?”
“Well, because—we do need to know what happened, Marie. As horrible as that up-time knowledge is, without it we are condemned, damned to—”
“No no, not that” interrupted his wife. “I meant, why tell me, why share that—atrocity—with me?” she asked, not harshly.
Antoine sat in a chair next to her. He paused, collecting his thoughts.
“I considered not telling you. It—what become of our little Marie Madeleine in the future—was horrible enough. To share seemed—cruel.”
“Then?”
He shrugged his shoulders, apology on every line. “To not tell you seems even crueler. There are already several copies of the 1911 Britannica in Paris. The king has one, Richelieu another, Monsieur Gaston another. Not that I think any of them, even Gaston, would be so vile as to snicker, laugh and sneer, except—”
“Except some of theirs would,” said Marie, finishing his sentence. “None of Richelieu’s, likely. Or stay long in his service if they did. But some of the king’s, even with Richelieu, assuredly. And as for Monsieur Gaston’s!”
Her voice rose. “Such fine gossip to share! Madame Bovary for one would not hesitate! Such sympathy she would have for me, such expressions of care and understanding, all in that grating falsetto of hers! ‘Oh my dear, how can you bear it? Such fortitude! I am in envy of you Madame d’Aubray, positively in envy!’ Pfaugh! Hand me more paper, Antoine, I need to taste something clean!”
She instead took another sip of d’Angouléme.
☆ ☆ ☆
Finished, Marie cradled the glass in her fingers as she looked over at her husband.
“What have we decided, then?” she asked.
Antoine, as used as he was to his wife, was still somewhat surprised. “You are taking this much better than I expected, my dear. Far better than I,” he admitted.
“Oh Antoine, I assure you, this”—she waved a hand about—“is all an act. Inside, I am—I am—not sure what I am. Besides, I was not mentioned in that pernicious article, so presumably I was not among the dead. That is to say, not the dead. So I can pretend it was, it is, nothing to do with me.”
She leaned forward. “Which is not what you could do. Nor what we will do. So again, what have we decided?”
Master Antoine stood up. Walked around. His wife watching him, letting him speak at his pace.
“At first I was not sure what to do. Reading this,” he said, picking up the chewed remains, tossing those into a wastebasket, “affected me greatly.”
“Mmmm. The rose bushes again?”
“I fear so. I sometimes wonder how those manage to do so well.”
“Competent gardening, cautious pruning, and skillfully applied fertilizer. Go on.”
“I decided to make inquiries into the others mentioned. Brinvilliers, Glaser, Exili. Sainte-Croix.” This last was delivered with a snarl.
“Leave Brinvilliers to me,” stated Marie. “No doubt if Madame Bovary and that other harpy duBarry know, there will be whispered comments. No matter. Discussing marriage plans and family alliances is after all my province. Besides, he may yet prove suitable, if he learns proper judgment and household finances.”
“Not a prospect I consider favorably, Marie.”
She waved a hand. “Of course not. But he is presumably still a child, so…”
“The Child is Father to the Man!”
Marie stared at Antoine. “The child is—Antoine, do explain.”
“An up-time phrase, from an English poet between now and their time. The idea being that who a child is and how he behaves as a child shows how he will be as a man.”
“Ah. An English poet. That explains everything. I admit a certain barbaric genius to it, but let us not take it too far. I doubt Brinvilliers has overspent his allowance, for one.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” said Maître Antoine, sotto voce.
“I shall ignore my lord and master’s last comment as a good wife should,” continued Marie. “Returning to those you named—”
“Mmmm. As I said, make inquiries as to those responsible. Brinvilliers should be easy enough to learn of, and thank you.”
“Marie Madeleine is our daughter, never forget. As Antoine is our son.”
“Glaser and Exili—I called Glaser a ghost, and he is likely to prove one. Not so much as Exili, I fear.”
“Indeed. An Italian poisoner. How redundant. How superfluous. Like saying an English thief or a Spanish braggart. Or a French conspirator, I admit.”
“And Godin de Sainte-Croix, inquiries especially will be made of him.”
“Quite. And should that English poet prove accurate?”
“I had considered footpads in the night. Now, in the day—” Master Antoine fell silent.
Marie stared at the wineglass in her hands. She did not take a sip. “Yes, in the day, it seems—but—he killed our daughter, Antoine. As surely as though he burned her himself, he killed our daughter!”
Hands trembling, she set the wineglass upon a small table. The base knocked against the table. Hurriedly Antoine removed it.
Marie clenched her hands. Stared at those as they shook.
“He killed our daughter. He. killed. Our. DAUGHTER HE KILLED OUR SON!”
This last was a shriek, muffled into her hands.
Antoine knelt and held his wife as she screamed her rage and her hatred into her hands, her feet stamping hard into the floor, grinding motes of paper into the wood.
He did not flinch as she gripped him, over and over screaming into his chest.
“He. Killed. Them! He. Killed. Marie Madeleine. He. Killed. Antoine. He. Killed. Them! That SALAUD killed them! Kill. Him. Kill. Him. KILL. HIM!”
Antoine carefully held his wife as her incandescent sorrow and rage peaked, then ebbed. He held her as she rocked back and forth, wordless keening coming from her lips.
Still it was long minutes before Marie returned to herself. Carefully easing her husband’s cramped arms away from her, she picked up the glass of d’Angouléme. Poured some into a cupped hand. Used it to cleanse her face. Refreshed, she turned to her husband.
“Oh, Antoine. I am sorry.”
“Do not be, love. This is a part of our wedding vows.”
“Really?” she sniffed, an arm brushing past her nose, mouth in a rueful smile. “To hold your wife as she screams and carries on like a hysteric banshee?”
“You should have heard me last night. This morning, rather. You are still taking this better than myself, you know.”
“Well, of course. I have you, you have the rose bushes. I could be quite jealous, you know. Turning to those instead of to me!”
Antoine smiled. “I thought that was what I was doing, my love, when I asked you to read that ‘pernicious article.’ Of course, if you had rather I speak with the rose bushes—”
“Good heavens, no. Though I may. Better those than Madame Bovary. Who would no doubt bring up Sainte-Croix to me at every opportunity. I can hear her in my mind going on about that—that—that monster, that malefic thing, that—”
Antoine moved closer, to hold her again. She did not stop him.
“Thank you. I—I know he—I know he is now only a child, but—it does not matter. The rest, they do not seem—seem real to me, I can consider them without—hate, but him—I cannot see him as a child.”
Marie moved her hands, to grasp and unclasp her husband’s hands and arms.
“I am calm now. Well, calmer. Enough to hear more of our plans, at least.” She retook her seat.
Antoine moved his chair to sit beside her.
“Inquiries aside, it seems to me that pernicious article is grossly incomplete. The very least of information provided. It came from Grantville, so it is my hope Grantville has more—more insight. Right now, all we know is what happened, not how. Why. Why Marie Madeleine would—did—”
“Not a word more, my heart. Marie Madeleine has done nothing save be our daughter, our laughing, playful, ofttimes exasperating, loving, daughter.”
“Quite. A conclusion I myself reached. In private I refer to that other as L’Empoisonneuse. Would that work for you?”
“L’Empoisonneuse. L’Empoisonneuse,” said Marie, trying it out on her tongue. “Hmm. Non. My apologies, Antoine, but that is too—it is entirely—almost a compliment, really. It gives her a power she should not have. Perhaps instead La Folle or La Bestiole. We need something—La Stupide,” she said, decisively.
“La Stupide? Are you sure? Considering what was done—”
“Précisément. You dead, petit Antoine dead, our other son dead, all those charity cases dead, La Stupide dead, and all for what? Entertainment? Vanity? No, I think you are right. Marie Madeleine and Brinvilliers should never marry.”
Maître Antoine stared at his wife. Blinked.
“Marie, as used as I am to your sudden turns of thought, and as oddly perceptive as those often are, this last leaves me—lost.”
Marie glanced away a moment, then returned her gaze to him.
“Antoine—you wondered earlier why La Stupide committed her crimes, did you not?”
“Yes. I still do.”
“Well” she said, taking a deep breath, “I do not know myself. But I can imagine.”
She looked away.
“Antoine—do you know why I enjoy being married to you?”
“Ah—love?”
“Oh, that. Of course. But more than that, or rather in addition to that—on occasion I criticize Madame Bovary, you know.”
“There is that sudden turn of thought again, Marie. And yes, you do.”
“Well, she is stupid. Very. Which would be nothing, were she not also unpleasant as well. All her time on who wore what to which soirée, eager for the latest on-dit, ready to repeat and embellish whatever rumor and gossip—the more tawdry and damaging the better, alert to every error of dress and manner imaginable, able to wrest hours of drama and attention out of the most trivial of incidents, all of it to impress and dazzle her semblables, and as much as I go on about her, what else does she have to do with her time?”
Marie paused, and went on.
“True, I also play the social rounds. One has to. And it can be enjoyable. At times. But often it is just—what one does. The same dance with different partners. And not that different.”
“Then there is you.”
She turned to him.
“Do you think Monsieur Bovary would discuss anything with Madame? Impossible. He would not think she had anything to say, not that she ever would. Even were she to try, even were she to suggest the most perfect of solutions to any quandary, he would not listen. He would listen to his horses before her. Which he should, but enough.
“You. You listen to me. You do not always do as I suggest, but you consider what I have to say. You discuss your cases with me—”
“I certainly do. You ofttimes see what I miss. And you keep my confidences to yourself. And besides, sometimes you know more of the law than I do. Comes from having been raised in a family of avocats, I expect.”
“Quite. But could I ever be a lawyer? Be honest, Antoine. Could I?”
“Ah…no.”
“You need not look so ashamed, mon amour. That is another reason I love you. You are always honest with me. Often annoyingly so, particularly when you do not agree with me. Though sometimes you are correct not to. Which is exasperating.
“As to your answer, you are correct. No, I could not be. I am a woman, of the propertied class. Expected only to make an advantageous marriage, by which is meant the richer the better.”
She smiled at him. “Well, I did make an advantageous marriage. Also a beneficial one. Perhaps you didn’t, but I did. Which I suspect Marie Madeleine—La Stupide, rather—did not. It may be that Sainte-Croix regarded her as more than only a decorative ornament to his arm and to his bed. Which may explain her conduct. Not that that excuses La Stupide, or makes him anything other than the rapacious enfant de maquereau he is!” she concluded, snapping out her last words.
“Deadlier than the male,” murmured Antoine.
“Pardon, Antoine?”
“De rien. Another up-time English poet.”
“Ah? I may alter my opinion of English poets. Or not. I must say, I do wonder at the lack of French phrases from up-time. Of course it is an English—American—village, but even so, the scarcity reflects ill of France-futur. Speaking of up-time, what are we to do with Grantville? Send for more information, or go ourselves?”
“Oh, go ourselves, of course. Researchers, no matter how professional, can never be as concerned and as interested in the material as ourselves.”
“True, but hire some even so. Ones less personally involved may see more clearly. Find connections we might miss or not understand are connections. How long until we can depart?”
“That—I am not certain. I would have us leave today, but arrangements must be made. Cases brought to a finish, others transferred. Richelieu for a certainty must be informed, and the king as well.”
“So. A month, then.”
“At least. Though perhaps somewhat earlier. Certainly by the end of today we can ensure sufficient funds for our stay there. The Abrabanels, after all.”
“Quite so. They can also provide researchers, I am sure. Very well then. Contact them. Arrange your affairs. Myself, I will deal with the household. I believe we should expect to pass three months, and if three, likely six, in Grantville. By that I mean not only Grantville, but also elsewhere. Magdeburg, perhaps. I have heard of certain social enterprises, endeavors, I forget the exact terms—which the up-timers have begun. Many of Monsieur Gaston’s circle dismiss those as peasant superstition beneath the notice of decent people, so there must be something of merit there.”
Marie Ollier d’Aubray stood up, resolution in her stance. And also—care.
“But before that, I—we—Antoine, we need to see Marie Madeleine. To hug her, hold her close.”
“Of course, Marie. Always.”