Written on Silk (21 page)

Not that it matters to me, but to Madeleine and Sebastien — and bébé
Joan.

Perhaps Duchesse Dushane would take Madeleine into her own spacious quarters when the Queen Mother told her to vacate the apparte-ment. As a duchesse she had special rights at Court and was treated with deference despite her association with the Huguenots, for the persecutions raged mainly against the serfs and middle class of France. Even Admiral Coligny, a staunch Huguenot, was welcomed at Court and indeed had audience with King Francis and the Queen Mother.

Rachelle comforted herself with the thought that the Father above would give them new and far more glorious chambers in which to abide in comfort and everlasting joy. When she recalled the future blessings promised the redeemed in Christ, she knew how tawdry were the much sought after glories of earthly kingdoms, destined to be governed by the great stone made without man’s workmanship, whose righteous rule would cover the whole earth.

“Seek those things which are above, where Christ sitteth on the right
hand of God.
”

Where had she read that verse in Scripture? And only recently too. She must find it. Idelette had often told her that since the French Bible was forbidden and they may not be able to possess it much longer, they must discipline themselves to memorize more of it.

R
ACHELLE,
WITH COUSIN
BERTRAND
and Andelot, was escorted into the Louvre palais by Page Romier.

With heart beating quickly, she went through the corridor and up the marbled steps, entering the blue-and-gold
salle de séjour
of Comte Sebastien and Madeleine.

She stood, breathless, taking in the familiar furniture with silver tassels, the heavy blue brocade coverings, and draperies on the windows. Even the musty smell of ancient furniture and the Aubusson rug, walked upon by kings, struck her with the sensation that she may be too late.

Too late. What could be more heartrending than those simple words?

Andelot had spoken to one of the ladies-in-waiting who had left to announce their arrival to Duchesse Dushane.

The duchesse came from one of the interior chambers, and Rachelle was struck that she looked weary and older than during their last meeting at Amboise. Rachelle curtsied and the duchesse caught up her hand.

“Your Grace?” Pasteur Bertrand inquired.

“You have come in time.”

“Is there any improvement, Madame?” Rachelle asked.

“I fear there is not. Le docteur is with your grandmère now.”

The duchesse noticed Bertrand’s bound arm in a sling and that he used a walking stick.

“What happened to you, Pasteur Bertrand? Were you thrown from your horse?”

“Ah, Madame, I see you have not received Clair’s correspondence.”

“Non. Has something of import occurred?”

“Unfortunately so, which leaves me with the difficult task of explaining.”

“I am in no state for more troubling events, I assure you. But come, we will talk in the next chamber while one of my ladies brings pastries and petit noir.” She turned to Romier who stood near the door. “Romier, do help Messire Bertrand.”

“I can manage. Merci, Madame,” Bertrand said. “I am feeling much stronger. I intend to leave first thing in the morning for Calais.”

“Calais? It seems you have more than one venture to tell me about, but at least permit Romier to help settle you comfortably on the divan.”

She turned to Rachelle who waited anxiously with only one matter on her mind. The duchesse’s eyes softened.

“Do not hesitate to go to Grandmère, for she is becoming weaker.”

“Oui. Merci, Madame.”

Rachelle went past her through a door into Grandmère’s bed chamber. Ladies-in-waiting stood or sat about near the chamber wall. One lady sat on a brocade chair near the bedside. Rachelle did not recognize her, but she appeared of high title. A docteur was there, and she thought he might be the famed Ambrose Paré, royalty’s own physician-surgeon, who had removed the wood splinter from the eye of Catherine de Medici’s husband, King Henry II, after the accident during a friendly joust that had taken his life.

The docteur beckoned her forward. The ladies moved away to grant Rachelle privacy. Their faces wore sympathy, and many looked tired from long hours of vigilance.

Rachelle approached the bedside and slipped to her knees on a little padded brocade stool.
Could this gaunt face belong to her sprightly
grandmère, who once had twinkling dark eyes and roses in her cheeks?

Ah, death and sickness! How it decays the body and turns it to dust!

Rachelle took the limp hand between her own and held it against the side of her cheek.
Grandmère, do not leave me. You are the one who
understands me best.

O
UTSIDE THE BEDCHAMBER IN
the main salle, Andelot stood watching through the doorway. Had the sight not been so sad, it would have been a tender and lovely painting, he thought. The gracious Rachelle kneeling with her belle skirts spread about her on the floor, her luxuriant auburn-brown hair in curls on one shoulder, holding the grande dame’s fragile hand.

I think I am in love with her
, he mused,
but who am I to think I could
ever have her?

Andelot said his own silent prayers as he had been taught. He wished he could send for the bishop, but he dare not; such would not be permitted. He noted the absence of ceremonial candles and incense.

There would be no last rites, and none of the ceremony that attended the dying of a Catholic noble or monarch.

Later, he saw Bertrand coming out of another bedchamber that he assumed must be Madeleine’s. Andelot took a risk and walked up to him.

“Monsieur, should we not call for the bishop?”

“Grandmère does not take last rites.” He put a hand on Andelot’s shoulder. “You see, it is Christ alone and His promises we trust for eternal deliverance from the just retribution of our sins and weaknesses.”

“But, I thought — Ah, well, I see. If I may, I should like to go in and say my prayers.”

“We will both go in, Andelot. I am certain Grandmère would be pleased by your presence.”

A few minutes later, when Andelot entered Grandmère’s bedchamber with Bertrand, the docteur came up beside Bertrand as though he might know him. Perhaps he did, for it was said that Docteur Ambrose Paré was a Huguenot.

“She is conscious but cannot speak without effort. I believe she knows who Mademoiselle is. She tires easily, so we must not overwhelm her.”

Andelot kept back, kneeling some feet behind Rachelle who remained at Grandmère’s bedside, holding her hand. Pasteur Bertrand stood at the foot of her bed.

“Grandmère?” Rachelle whispered. “It is Rachelle! Can you understand?”

G
RANDMÈRE
HEARD
RACHELLE’S
VOICE
as though from a distance. She tried to turn her head and focus upon her beloved granddaughter. There was something she must tell Rachelle, something most important.
If only
her mind were more alert to speak the danger — yes, that was it — the danger
— danger — the gloves — Rachelle, ma chérie, the gloves! Tell Xenia! Tell Madeleine! Rachelle, do not wear the gloves that wicked woman gave
to the three of us —

“Do not be fearful, Grandmère. Do not become overwrought,” Rachelle whispered, trying to soothe her, but Grandmère did not wish to be quieted. She was dying, but she had little to fear, for Christ had triumphed over the sting of death.
The sting of death is sin. But thanks be
unto God who gives us the victory through Jesus Christ our Lord
.

Grandmère prayed again as she had done upon every awakening when her mind became briefly clear. She tried to squeeze Rachelle’s fingers and direct her gaze toward the belle red box sitting on the stand where the gloves remained after she had removed them —
when? Yesterday — a
week ago?

Grandmère remembered she had gone out to shop, to the marketplace. She had felt full of hope and joy. Madeleine’s daughter was doing so well, and Madeleine too. And then, when she had returned here to the Louvre, she fell suddenly and violently ill. Her breathing became difficult, as though she were being slowly smothered. The following night was passed in a burning fever with a terrible weariness in her limbs, and by morning she had lost control of them. She could scarcely breathe and the pain in her chest worsened. She had wanted to warn Madeleine, but by then her speech had deserted her as well, and she was not remembering things. Then Xenia had come with the best docteur, a Huguenot, Ambroise Paré, the king’s surgeon. Grandmère remembered little after that.

In rare moments of consciousness she had known there was something she must tell the ladies in attendance. They were all in danger;
yes, that was it. Danger!
She remembered the gloves, but her mind was failing her again, and she could no longer express her fears —

Gloves
, she said,
remember the gloves? But could they hear her? Was
she even speaking aloud?

The Lord Jesus was her solace and calm expectation.
Though dumbness
seals my lips, You know, O Lord.

Nothing escapes the Lord’s knowledge, no, not the suffering of those who rejoice to bear His name among His enemies.
Fear none of those
things which thou shalt suffer . . . Be thou faithful unto death . . . and I will
give you the crown of life.

Her aging body would turn to dust, but her life was not ending. He to whom she belonged had triumphed over death and the grave. Would it matter that she had so briefly tasted the cup of suffering? Soon now . . . soon, the anguish would be forgotten, the ecstasy of seeing the Lord of glory would be hers. No one could take that away — not a persecuting cleric, nor even a king.

The Belle Red Box

R
ACHELLE
WAS RESTING HER HEAD ON
GRANDMÈRE’S
SHOULDER.
ANDELOT
saw Bertrand speaking to one of the ladies-in-waiting. She left the bedchamber. Now what? Perhaps he should not have been surprised when some few minutes later the lady returned and handed Bertrand a bowl with several small rosy apples. Bertrand walked over to the docteur who listened in silence, head bent, attentive, chin in hand. They spoke for some time; the docteur took the apples and quietly placed them in his satchel. Andelot felt pleased with himself.