Madame de La Motte and her husband

Alright, I think this prety much stands by itself, but I should note that it's a little excerpt from what I'm working on at the moment, a historical fiction set right before the French Revolution. If you want to know anything more, google Comtesse de La Motte, or find it on Wikipedia, ther history is all there.

As for my own feelings about this bit: I think it needs work. I really feel like I'm spending entirely too much time on this part of the story. I might skip this entire part and just move from the section before to the Marquise's death. But anyway, enjoy!

Madame de La Motte settled in particularly well to the Marquise’s fine Paris home. It was furnished in pieces by Reisner, had an amazing Englsih flushing toilet, and ten ornate boiseries, yet it still bore the slightest stench of the disaster that the Marquise still chose not to speak about. If it was brought up in her presence, she pretended deafness or stupidity, and did a fair job at achieving both. Madame de La Motte had been rebuffed enough times to know not to say anything about the smell to her patroness. Instead she caught Rosalie’s eyes and made a face at the smell.

“The Marquis had a distillery in the basement,” Madame de La Motte explained the night of their arrival as she was being helped out of her gown. “It burst and the entire building stunk. It didn’t take long for the entire illegal operation to be discovered. The damned old Marquis was exiled, and his poor wife was forced to go with him to Montenegro! Poor woman.”

“Indeed,” Rosalie said.

Madame de La Motte was as pleased a cat curled in its favorite spot in the sun. It seemed effortless and natural for her to slip into the ways of the rich Marquise, no matter the Marquise’s actual financial state. Madame had had enough experience of penury to know that money was not actually required to buy whatever one wanted to buy. Half of her possessions had been bought on credit. She had borrowed money from people who liked her, were fond of her, trusted that she would someday pay the money back. And someday, when her claims were vindicated, she would certainly pay them back, with interest if she could.

Madame particularly liked having more servants around, though it gave poor Rosalie fits; Rosalie kept insisting that the Marquise’s servants were inept and that it would be better if she just did everything herself. But Madame insisted; it wouldn’t do for a lady’s maid to go around doing all the work when there were stunted little handmaids to do that sort of thing. More than once Madame de La Motte walked through the house to find Rosalie tugging a load of laundry up the stairs or beating out a carpet in the kitchen garden. She had to scold poor Rosalie, who came close to tears. She was very sensitive.

It was only a week after Madame de La Motte arrived that a carriage pulled into the drive, the horses old and weary, the carriage shabby and faded. The driver was muttering to himself as he drove; he had wild eyes.

When the carriage stopped, Madame de La Motte was in the gardens in the back of the house, walking in circles around the fancy English-style shrubbery with the Marquise. The Marquise was commenting on the color of the bushes. Although her memory was slipping in certain other areas—most particularly in the area of family scandals—she was remarkably keen when it came to the plants.

“That one really needs more fertilizer,” she said anxiously, pointing at a bush that was slightly transparent in the light of a clear September day.

Madame knew what her reply would have been in other company. She would have certainly suggested to anyone else that they squat down and fertilize the plant themselves. But this seemed a little bit crude in the old lady’s pristine garden. So Madame kept her mouth shut.

“I haven’t heard much from my daughter lately,” the Marquise said. “I wonder what she is doing there at court? It seems oddly out of character for her not to keep me informed.”

“I’m sure she’s simply enjoying herself so much that she doesn’t have the time to write,” Madame de La Motte assured her. It wasn’t true. Mademoiselle de Passy had managed to have a few more nasty rumors attached to her name. There were rumors floating around that she was a favorite of the famous, fashionable old Dr. Franklin. If she wasn’t careful, she might have as many rumors following her as Madame de La Motte did, pursuing her like bloodhounds wherever she went.

One of the Marquise’s trusted old servants came hurrying into the garden, her face a little red.

“Madame, the Comte de La Motte is here,” she said.

“So he’s taken to calling himself Comte?” the Marquise muttered.

Madame de La Motte pretended not to hear. She thanked the servant and walked with the Marquise into the house and through the hall to the foyer. In the foyer, with servants bustling around him, was her husband. He was a particularly fine specimen, especially in his army uniform, which he wore on account of having nothing else suitable to wear. Madame de La Motte forgot the old woman and rushed to him, throwing her arms around him.

“Monsieur, comment allez vois?” she cried.

“Je vais bien, madame,” he said cheerfully as he patted her gently on the back and then drew away. He turned to the Marquise and bowed. It was not a particularly elegant bow, but it was sufficient to bring a smile to the Marquise’s face.

“Well, boy, come closer and kiss my hand at least.”

He did as he was told, bowing over her proffered hand.

“I have to thank you, Madame, for your graciousness in allowing us to live under your roof.”

“Well,” she said, clearly flattered, “it was just so empty.”

“And the Marquis?” he asked. His tone managed to include Madame de La Motte in the inquiry. It was, after all, Madame de La Motte whom the Marquis had a grudge against.

“The Marquis is gone for the week, out to Versailles on court business.”

Monsieur de La Motte sighed in relief as he was tapped on the shoulder by the driver. The driver had stopped muttering to himself long enough to stand very close to Monsieur and hold out his grubby hand that smelled very strongly of horse’s slobber.

“Oh, yes,” said Monsieur. He turned to his wife. “Madame?”

Madame de La Motte did not miss a beat. She dug into her pocket, filled with a few coins that morning, and handed over the proper number of coins. The driver turned around and disappeared as the last few items of luggage were carried into the house and up the stairs to Monsieur’s rooms.

“Monsieur,” said Madame de La Motte, “we have a lot of catching up to do. You have to tell me how things are in Bar-sur-Aube.”

“And you,” he said, “will have to tell me how you manage to get by.”

His eyes were clever, but she knew he wasn’t as clever as he thought he was.

“Oh,” she said, “I can tell you that. I have been given little loans here and there from faithful friends. And of course Madame la Marquise has been far more gracious than reason should allow.”

Monsieur nodded knowingly.

“Reason is a slave to devotion when you’re in the room, Madame.”

They moved away from the Marquise, away from the bustling servants, his hand on her elbow. He could not link arms because of her wide blue satin gown, puffed out in the skirts with a layer of fine petticoats; the gown was a gift from the Marquise.

“How are your army compatriots? Are they enjoying the pleasures of Luneville?”

“They’re enjoying themselves, I’m sure,” he said. “Of course, I’m no longer one of them. I resigned, just like you recommended.”

Madame de La Motte opened her mouth to argue, but then she remembered her maid’s habit of interfering in things that were none of her business to interfere in. Rosalie must have sent him a letter telling him to resign now that the Marquise had offered her protection. Rosalie probably thought it was for the best, that somehow it might mend the relations between the couple.

“The Marquise is getting worse,” Madame de La Motte whispered as they began towards the stairs,

“That’s a pity,” he said. “The Marquis doesn’t like you; he won’t let you stay if the old woman dies.”

“I like that old woman,” she said.

“I know,” he answered. “She’s very kind, isn’t she? A little bit foolish. Like that old Beugnot man who you keep getting loans from.”

She shifted uncomfortably. Surely he knew that the old man’s generosity stemmed from his exuberant relief that Madame de La Motte had been married off to someone other than his son.

“We’ll make the best of it,” Madame de La Motte said.

“Yes,” her husband said. “You’re very good at that, at least, even if you’re a miserable failure at most other things.”

“Pardon me?” she said incredulously.

“You’ve been making useless little trips to court, to Paris, even to Strasbourg. They gain nothing but more debt.”

“I went to Strasbourg with the Marquise; she paid for the entire thing.”

“You should have been making inroads at court.”

“I wanted to go.”

“To Strasbourg?”

“The famous mystic, Count Cagliostro, was there. The Marquise consulted him about her health.”

Monsieur de La Motte grunted in exasperation.

Suddenly, from down the hall, Rosalie appeared, giving quiet instructions to one of the Marquise’s little maids. The girl stopped when Rosalie did, and they both curtsied to Monsieur and Madame de La Motte.

“Monsieur,” said Rosalie, “these are your rooms.”

Monsieur dropped Madame de La Motte’s arm and without another word disappeared into his own rooms.