The Ghost of Monsieur Scarron

Thirty-One

351 Thirty-One it was two long years, almost three years, before louis and william reached an accord. in May of 1697 the plenipotentiaries of the allies and of France met in the château of ryswick, and began their discussions. there were endless details to be ruled upon before the talks for peace could begin. Charles the eleventh of Sweden was dead in april of that year, and all the world knew it, but it was the middle of June before the Swedish moderator, having put his retinue, his carriages, his horses and all into black trappings, felt able to announce formally to the assemblage the death of his sovereign. Upon that, the discussions were further postponed until the representatives of the allied Powers and of France could order suitable mourning for themselves and their retinues. By late June nothing had been accomplished beyond the expenditureofmuchtimeandmoneyinelaborateceremonials. But in the very last days of June, My lord of Portland and the Maréschal de Boufflers met as old friends in an orchard near the town of hal, not far from Brussels, and in the course of five conversations between the fruit trees and the parsley beds they worked out the essentials of an accord between France and england. in September the plenipotentiaries at ryswick incorporated the substance of these conversations in a treaty, and peace was at last declared. 352 Janet Lewis after the news of the treaty had been announced in Paris, Marianne larcher, for the first time since her flight, returned to the quarter where she had so long lived and worked. She came at dusk through a fine drizzle, to call upon Jacques têtu. She did not recognize the woman who opened the door, nor did the woman seem to recognize Marianne. She explained that there was a lady with the abbé; when the lady left, she would announce Marianne, and she had no doubt but that the abbé would find a moment for her. “he’s kind, the poor man, like no one in this world.” “i know,” said Marianne humbly. “Come in from the wet,” said the housekeeper. “you can sit there.” Marianne took the chair indicated, and the housekeeper went about her business. She was an old woman with a broad face. She must at one time have suffered a light stroke, for the left corner of her mouth sagged a little, and a thin trickle of saliva ran from it constantly, which she wiped away from time to time with the hem of her apron. Marianne wondered if she could be the same woman who had once before ushered her into the abbé’s presence, and who had told her on that disastrous november day almost three years ago that she could not see the abbé, that he had gone on a journey. She did not think she could have forgotten a face so completely, yet it was possible. She had each time come in such distress that she had no thought of anyone else. She did not ask, “have you been long with the abbé?” She was content not to be recognized. there were three small children in the kitchen, all girls, who divided their attention between the old woman and the stranger. the old woman took three eggs from a pan of hot 353 T H E G H O S T O F M O N S I E U R S C A R R O N water on the hearth, and broke them one by one into a bowl. then she tore a piece of bread in pieces and mixed it with the egg. She took a spoon in one hand, the bowl in the other, and sat down upon a stool near the hearth. the three children crowded about her knees, and the youngest, clad only in a smock which left bare to the firelight her little round buttocks and short fat legs, leaned her elbows on the old woman’s lap and tipped back her head. She smiled with half-closed eyes and closed lips, altogether innocent in a pose of pure seduction. the chestnut curls fell back from the round smooth brow, the light flickered on the point of the lifted chin and on the round neck with the circlets of venus creasing the infantine flesh. the old woman filled the spoon with bread and egg and thrust it into the mouth...