Mistress of the Revolution by Catherine Delors Page A

brother wanted to see me settled early, but I suspected that my suitor was not the kind of husband the Marquis had in mind for me. Indeed I did not know of any noblewoman who had wed a commoner. I tried to express my misgivings without hurting Pierre-André’s pride.
    “I am afraid I have not much of a dowry,” I said, my head still resting on his shoulder.
    He laughed. “I have enough money for both of us, my beloved. I do not want a sol from your brother. I am sure that he will be as disagreeable as can be, to make me feel how unworthy I am of marrying into the high and mighty house of Montserrat, but who cares? You are worth it. I will talk to my brothers. They will know how to approach him.”
    During my ride back home, I tried to imagine my life as Pierre-André’s wife. He would take a house for us in town, hire a few maids and a groom. I would be expected to manage it on my own. My mother had no housekeeper in Fontfreyde, nor did she want any, because she liked to direct things herself. Was I too young, too inexperienced to do so? Would Pierre-André be angry with me if the servants were slovenly, the food unappetizing, his shirts not properly washed and ironed? No, he would allow me a few months to become used to my new duties; he would always be kind and patient with me.
    And what if I put him to shame by my ignorance? His brothers’ wives must be far better educated than I. What had I learned at the convent, beside the alphabet and three tunes on the harpsichord? But he understood that it was not my fault. And he had said that he found me far from stupid. He would take the trouble to instruct me on the many topics of which I knew nothing. He would give me books to read, and I would show my gratitude by the speed of my progress. On winter evenings I would study by the fire, counting the strokes of the clock, waiting to hear the hooves of his horse in the night. He might ride home tired, cold, hungry or sullen after visiting his patients, but I would have a hot meal ready for him. He would tell me of his concerns over supper. Then he would take me in his arms and hold me as he had done that afternoon; he would call me his beloved. He would carry me to bed. It would be our bed, where I would give myself to him, where I would fall asleep every night, nestled against him, where I would bear his children, and where someday I would die.
    I was still lost in my thoughts as I sat to dinner with my mother and brother. The Marquis had returned that very afternoon. I did not hear half of what my mother said to me and responded to the rest at cross-purposes, to the point where she remarked: “The girl has never been too clever, but she is now turning into a complete simpleton. Mark my words, my son: she will disgrace the family and be the ruin of us.”
    My brother too seemed absentminded. He turned to our mother and said abruptly: “Gabrielle should have a new dress.”
    “Well,” my mother responded after a pause, “I hope she appreciates your generosity. I am ready to part with one of my gowns if you wish.”
    “No, Madam, it is not what I meant. I believe that Gabrielle should have a new dress of her own. She looks very pretty in black, with her fair skin, but I was thinking of a more lively colour, more in keeping with her age.”
    My mother, silenced for once, stared at my brother.
    “I am not so destitute, Madam,” he continued, “as to be unable to afford a new gown for my sister. You could go to Vic with her tomorrow to buy some fabric.”
    I had become fully attentive to the conversation. I was, of course, happy to have a new gown. What girl of fifteen would not have been? It was mortifying to be seen by Pierre-André, week after week, in the only two black things I had inherited from my mother. Yet the Marquis’s unexpected generosity was unsettling. He could not have heard from Pierre-André’s brothers yet. What had he in mind?
    My mother ordered the carriage to go to the draper in Vic. For the first