We ate the bread and cheese and fruit. When we were finished, we drank more of the wine, and Mathieu licked its remains off my lips.
Then, as we sat and looked out at the Seine, clouds rolled across the sky, and a storm blew in. When the rain came, we took shelter and huddled beneath a chestnut tree, the water releasing the leaves’ sweet smell.
We watched the swans swim past. They were as untroubled by the rain as we were.
Mathieu reached out, took me in his arms, and kissed me. A kiss that lasted until the rain stopped. Five minutes? A half hour? I didn’t know, but the swans had returned by the time we stopped. Mathieu studied them for a moment. Two of them faced each other, their curved necks forming a perfect heart.
“They aren’t that different from what you told me about the women in your family, you know?”
“What do you mean?”
“They find one partner and mate for life.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a midnight-blue velvet ring box.
“I probably should be quoting some magnificent poem now. I usually have verses at the ready, but you, darling Delphine, leave me speechless.”
He opened the box and held it out to me. Inside, nestled against a silk cushion, was a crescent-shaped moonstone surrounded by a curve of pale blue sapphires.
“Will you be my swan?” he asked.
I felt the tears sting my eyes and saw my own sudden joy reflected in Mathieu’s eyes. For a moment, every trace of sadness was gone, forgotten.
When the rain ceased, we collected our things. As we left, Mathieu took my hand, rubbing his fingers over the ring I now wore.
“Ah,” he said. “I just thought of the perfect line of poetry. I can’t believe I forgot about it till now. From a verse by Alfred de Musset.”
“Tell me.”
“?‘I don’t know where my road is going, but I know that I walk better when I hold your hand.’?”
Chapter 28
I dreamed every night of the ten days I was trapped in the chateau. Later I would discover that I was dreaming not only my dreams but also those of other people, some long dead and buried, but I didn’t realize that at first. The castle housed more than Madame’s eclectic collections of art, esoteric objects, and antiques. There was magick in the cracks of the stone walls, in the crevices in the foundation, in the very air that circulated through the drafty hallways and endless rooms.
That first night, I dreamed I was traveling in a foreign land, unrecognizable to me. A snake charmer sat, bare-chested and cross-legged, in front of a hand-woven basket. Playing a plaintive melody on his reed, he swayed slightly. I began to move to the rhythm of the song. Slithering and sliding, uncurling, pushing my way up through a murky and dank hole toward the light. Then, with utter disgust, I realized I was the snake the charmer was calling. I was that monstrous forked-tongued creature, and as I pushed off the top of the basket and emerged, screams greeted me. Women shrank back in the crowd. Men struggled to hold their ground. Children ran away. Even the snake charmer himself seemed disgusted by me, as if he had been anticipating a much more lithe and lovely creature and I’d disappointed him.
I awoke exhausted. Downstairs I found Sebastian and Madame Calvé at the piano. She was singing for him, and he was charming her. The maid brought me some coffee, and I sat and listened and tried to shake the nightmare.
When she stopped playing, Madame asked me how I had slept. There wasn’t any reason to beleaguer her with my dream.
“Very well, thank you.”
“I’m so glad. The castle can be drafty and sometimes damp, even with all the wall hangings and carpets.” She shook her head, disturbed. “Nothing ever seems to solve it completely. But I didn’t notice it last night. I had the best sleep I’ve had in a long time,” she said. “And the mirrors?”
I smiled. “They behaved.”
Sebastian looked over at me inquisitively. “Mirrors?”
“There are a dozen antique mirrors in my bedroom. But Madame covered the larger ones with scarves, and they’re not bothering me at all.”
“Now, are you sure?” Madame asked. “I can remove them. I want you to be completely comfortable.”
“I’m sure.”
“Will you join us for some breakfast? There’s always a buffet in the dining room in the morning.”
I declined her offer, saying the coffee was enough, and excused myself, telling them I wanted to take a walk so I could get my bearings and understand the placement of the house and its surroundings in preparation for the portrait.
A cloudy sky threatened more rain, but I took my chances. I walked out past the courtyard, through a wooden door, and into an extensive, exotic garden in full colorful bloom. Like in Monet’s gardens in Giverny, the flowers here were arranged so the colors either contrasted or flowed into each other. Nothing appeared accidental, and yet it looked natural. In one bed, royal purple and ultramarine delphiniums grew next to violet and deep fuchsia foxgloves, while orange daylilies brightened the bouquet. Bushes of fat, fragrant roses in shades of pink surrounded a fountain where several beautiful black-and-white jaybirds splashed. On either side of a stone path, red-orange and salmon-pink poppies grew in profusion, their paperlike petals blowing in the breeze.
To the right was a knotted garden bordered with privet and to the left an old-fashioned herb garden. All the various shades of green—from yellow to blue and purple—had been planned out with a painter’s eye.
My mother had created elaborate gardens in Cannes. She claimed not to sprinkle any spells on her flowers, but I never quite believed her. These gardens put hers to shame. The gardener here had to be not only an artist but some kind of magician.
Beyond the gardens, I followed a stone path through a field of wildflowers until I reached a rusted iron gate. The latch stuck at first, but after a few tries, it swung open. Beyond was a wooded glen without any discernible path. I stood for a few moments, wondering if I should continue or go back. Then I heard the invitation of trickling water just beyond.
After a few minutes, I found a little stream and followed it to a pool being fed by a small waterfall. I sat down on a wide, flat boulder, mesmerized by the sounds of the splashing water, the loamy scent of the earth, the deep, rich black and green colors of the ferns and other foliage that grew between the rocks.
I pulled out my sketchbook and spent a half hour drawing aspects of the scene. Trying but failing to capture any of the magic, until I began to put faces on the stones that circled me, as if a master sculptor had carved them. Each one an ancient, wise-looking man with a tale to tell.