As the frazzled kitchen staff scurries about, he calls for wine, and I see Charlotte nearby, all agog, wrestle out a goblet from some shadowy corner. A senior member of the kitchen staff grabs the hammered pewter goblet out of her hand, hastily pours in a tot of wine, and presents it to the chevalier. As he grasps the stem and turns about, I am near enough to see a long-legged spider appear around the curve of the bowl and crawl down onto the chevalier’s fingers. He bellows an oath, sends the goblet flying under an angry red arc, shakes his hand as if he had palsy, and stamps furiously on the floor where the creature landed.
“The wine is foul!” the chevalier shouts to his companions. Then he rounds on Charlotte. “You, girl! Out! Off my property. Now!” He turns to the trembling Cook. “See to it!” Then he strides out again, his face like a sudden cloudburst.
Poor Charlotte can only stand there, ashen-faced, speechless for once, as the older women move in to carry out the chevalier’s order. I grieve at this injustice done to Charlotte, although she might be luckier than she knows to escape this place. But I know nothing was wrong with the wine. And I nurse one tiny pinprick of pleasure, amid my misery, to know there is something the chevalier fears.
Still his every glance, every smirk, hammers me raw anew and multiplies my shame. I can scarcely bear it, it smothers me so. I shall die of it. And please, God, soon.
I’ve kept out of his way since the incident with the deer, but today I dread hearing his voice and another’s above the tread of their boots as they come into one of my chambers. I grab up my scrub pail and brush and flee into the next room. I am well out of sight as the chevalier and one of his household gentlemen, his secretary, come into the room I’ve just left. It’s the secretary’s task to account for the chevalier’s fortune down to the last denier, and the burden of this task makes him perpetually earnest and wary.
The room they’ve just entered is furnished with a writing table and a chair, besides its grand display of chests and cabinetry. This is where the chevalier conducts his business, and he seats himself in the chair while the secretary lays down his burden of papers on the outer corner of the tabletop and stands respectfully to one side. I am trapped in the next room; the door between them is only partway closed, and I dare not retreat any farther, for fear of being seen by him. So I hold still, peering furtively at them through the crack between the door and the jamb.
“I’m in no mood to be bored with petty matters today, Treville,” the chevalier declares, lounging back in his chair and stretching out one long leg under the table.
“Of course not, monsieur le chevalier,” Monsieur Treville agrees. “It’s only a small item. I’ve received a petition from one of your tenants —”
“A written petition?” the chevalier interrupts. “That must have cost dearly.”
“The curé wrote it on his behalf,” the secretary explains. “The man is called, eh . . .” And he begins to consult his papers.
“Never mind what he’s called,” mutters the chevalier. “What does he want?”
“He’s a laborer from the wheat fields beyond Clairvallon,” the secretary goes on. “The rent he owes you is nearly due. He begs for an extension of one more year to pay it off.”
“A year?” echoes the chevalier. “I loaned him cash to pay his royal taxes against a higher yield. If that yield has not been forthcoming, he must bear the consequences.”
“With all respect, monsieur, consider that crops have failed everywhere,” the secretary points out. “The weather —”
“I am not responsible for the weather, Treville. The terms of our arrangement were very clear. If he can’t pay, he must forfeit his plot.”
“But where will he go? His family has worked that parcel of land for generations.”
“At the pleasure of my family. If he can’t raise a yield on it, I’ll rent it out to someone who can. These parasites can’t expect to take advantage of my good nature forever. My resources must produce if I’m to see to my own affairs.”
Treville clears his throat and shuffles his papers. “Yes. Your suit is proving to be a costly affair, indeed. There are lawyers’ bills, recorder’s fees, testimonies to be bought —”
The chevalier’s eyes narrow. “If you are suggesting my funds are in arrears, there is something very wrong with your accounting.”
“Your fortune is intact, monsieur,” says Treville. “I only wonder if there might be other . . . detrimental costs if you pursue it.”
“It’s the richest estate in Clamecy, well worth pursuing. The expense will be recovered once I have won it.”
“Until then, is it not wise to practice some . . . economies?”
The chevalier stares at Treville as if he has never before heard the word. Perhaps he has not — I’ll wager few enough have ever dared to utter it in his presence.
“Economies? I am the Chevalier de Beaumont. All that is mine must inspire respect. The Villeneuve estate will ornament the entire seigneurie. Its splendor shall be a source of pride through all of Burgundy. If my suit is too costly, I’ll raise my tenants’ rents, charge more at my mill.”
“But the weather has been foul and harvests poor throughout your lands. Your people may not be able to pay anymore.”
“Of course they will pay! They must share the expense, just as they’ll presume to share in my prosperity when the suit is won.”
“I’m afraid the expense may be twofold,” murmurs Treville. “Some of your people may resent your extravagant habits in this and other matters when they have so little.”
“Who dares to say so?” cries the chevalier, leaping to his feet. He rounds fiercely on his secretary. “I’ll have it known that I will not tolerate rebellion.”
“Of course not. There is no such talk abroad,” Treville assures him hastily. “But if you would maintain the goodwill of your people, might it not be advisable to limit your rents and dues to what they can pay? And your spending to what is most necessary?”
“And do you set a limit on what my honor is worth?” the chevalier demands. He paces angrily about the room. “The Villeneuve estate is mine by right, and I’ll not betray the memory of my father nor my grandfathers by letting it slip through my grasp, whatever the cost. What is the goodwill of a few peasants when the honor of my family name is at stake? I am the lord of Beaumont, and I shall conduct my business with all the resources Beaumont affords — including your salary, Treville, should occasion arise.”
He stalks back to his writing table and flings himself into the chair. He draws a fresh page of parchment out of the box, reaches for his pen, and dips its point in the inkwell. “Now,” he commands Treville, his pen hovering above the page, “who speaks against me in the town?”
“Monsieur, there is no such talk.”
“There must be, Treville, or you should not have heard it. Give me their names.”
Treville does not know how to respond. At last, the chevalier snorts in disgust, flicks away his pen, and shoves himself out of his seat. He marches to the outer doorway and calls for the captain of his guard. The call is raised among the spiderweb of servants and messengers always hovering within the range of the chevalier’s voice, and a moment later, the captain of the guard appears in the doorway opposite mine. He’s a big man trying not to pant with the exertions of his arrival, but his medals jangle on his chest, and his sword shivers against his boots.
“Your orders, monsieur le chevalier?”
“Monsieur le capitaine, I have heard a report that tongues are clacking against me in the town,” says the chevalier. “Monsieur Treville here will supply you with the names of persons whose seditious talk is to be silenced by a day in the public stocks. I choose the Feast Day of Saint Martin next week; it will give the people something to ponder while my bailiff is collecting their quarter rents. If no names are forthcoming,” he adds, glancing briefly at Treville, “you will put Monsieur Treville in the stocks on that day.”