The Lady and the Unicorn by Tracy Chevalier Page B

touch me again.
He was right. I had failed. I could see it in the faces of others — in Béatrice and my ladies, in my mother, in the people we entertained, even in Claude who is part of the failing. I remember that when she was seven years old, she came into my room after I had given birth to Petite Geneviève. She gazed down at the swaddled baby in my arms, and when she heard it wasn't a boy she sniffed and turned on her heel. Of course she loves Petite Geneviève now but she would prefer a brother and a satisfied father.
I feel like a bird who has been wounded with an arrow and now cannot fly.
It would be a mercy to let me enter a convent. But Jean is not a merciful man. And he still needs me. Even if he despises me, he wants me next to him when he dines at home, and when we entertain or go to Court to attend the King. It would not look right for the place next to him to be empty. Besides, they would laugh at him at Court — the man whose wife runs off to a nunnery. No, I knew Père Hugo was right — Jean might not want me, but he would have me at his side still. Most men would be like that — older women joining convents are usually widows, not wives. Only a few husbands will let them go, no matter their sins.
Sometimes when I walk over to the Seine to look across at the Louvre, I think about throwing myself in. That is why the ladies keep close to me. They know. I heard one of them just now, huffing behind me from boredom. For a moment I felt sorry for them, stuck with me.
On the other hand, they have fine dresses and food and a good fire in the evenings because they are with me. Their cakes have more sugar in them, and the cook is generous with the spices — the cinnamon and nutmeg and mace and ginger — because he is cooking for nobles.
I let my rosary drop to the floor. ‘Béatrice,’ I called, ‘pick up my beads.’
Two ladies helped me to my feet as Béatrice knelt to fetch the rosary. ‘I would have a word with you, Madame,’ she said in a low voice as she handed them back to me. ‘Alone.’
It was probably something about Claude. She no longer needed a nurse to look after her like Jeanne and Petite Geneviève, but a proper lady-in-waiting. I had been lending her Béatrice to see how they got on. And I could spare her — my needs were simpler now. A woman at the start of her life has far more need of a good lady like Béatrice than I do. Béatrice still told me everything about Claude, to help me prepare her for womanhood and keep her from mischief. But one day Béatrice would go over to her new mistress and not come back.
I waited until we had gone outside and around to the great door of the monastery. As we passed through the gate and out into the street I said, ‘I fancy a stroll down to the river. Béatrice, come with me — you others may go back. If you see my daughters tell them to come to my chamber after. I want to speak to them.’
Before the ladies could say more I pulled Béatrice by the arm and turned left down the road leading to the river. The ladies had to turn right to go home. Though they tutted a bit, they must have obeyed because I didn't hear them follow.
Passers-by on the rue de Seine stared to see a noblewoman without her entourage. For me it was a relief not to have my ladies flapping about me like a flock of magpies. They can be noisy and tiresome at times, especially when I'm looking for peace. They wouldn't last a day in a convent. I never take them when I visit Chelles — except Béatrice, of course.
A man passing along the other side with his scribe bowed so low when he saw me that I could not guess who he was by the crown of his hat. Only when he straightened did I recognize him as Michel d'Orléans, who knows Jean at Court and has dined with us. ‘Dame Geneviève, I am at your command,’ he said now. ‘Tell me where I may escort you. I would never forgive myself for allowing you to walk the streets of Paris on your own. What would Jean Le Viste think of me if I were