Free French Passion by Jacqueline; Briskin

entered my home.
    I knew by now that the respectable ladies of Paris were no purer than the demimonde. Quite a few were kept by men other than their husbands. The respectable ladies, however, all did have husbands, and, being married, could be part of the Court life at Versailles. Women like myself, women who for whatever reason remained unwed yet not chaste, were considered courtesans. We were gossiped about, sniped at, pursued by men, and if a lover chanced to kill one of us, nothing would be done about it. We, as prostitutes on the highest level, were outside the law.
    Jean-Pierre lay feverish in his bed. Outside, in the gray December afternoon, snow fell. Jean-Pierre’s body arched as he coughed. I filled the spoon with soothing honey.
    â€œHere,” I said, holding it to his mouth.
    Aunt Thérèse rustled in. “Jean-Pierre, are you no better?” she asked in a concerned tone.
    â€œWorse,” I replied. “Auntie, he can’t go.”
    â€œBy evening I’ll be fit as a fiddle,” Jean-Pierre croaked. “Don’t worry, Aunt Thérèse, you’ll have your escort.”
    â€œYou’re staying right here in bed!” I cried. “It’s snowing.”
    This was the afternoon of December 2, and we were talking about his attending the Comte de Créqui’s wedding to Mahout de Valois. According to custom, the ceremony would be held at midnight in Notre Dame Cathedral.
    â€œI’ll be there,” Jean-Pierre said, and went into a coughing spasm. His face turned crimson, his chest under the warm coverlet rose violently. The choking coughs came and came.
    Hastily Aunt Thérèse puffed the pillows behind him. My hand shook as I poured medicine. The spell ended. He lay back, pale, his eyes closed. We tucked in his coverlet, pulled his bed curtains, and left his room so he could sleep.
    In the corridor Aunt Thérèse took my arm. “Manon, he can’t go. You must.”
    â€œI?” My face turned hot.
    â€œYou’re the Comte’s ward, too.”
    â€œAuntie, it’s impossible.”
    â€œThink of how generous he’s been. Your fur cape. Jean-Pierre’s commission.”
    The Comte had arranged for Jean-Pierre to be a captain in the Royal Guard. This honor gave my brother pride. I hoped, too, it would lessen his gambling. Not that I condemned the ardor with which Jean-Pierre threw himself into piquet, for I knew this was his way of forgetting. He played cards compulsively to forget my dishonor.
    â€œAuntie, tonight’s impossible. Monsieur Sancerre’s bringing the design for my new gown.”
    â€œThe Comte de Créqui’s been so good to you two, and you’re not even his kin. I’ll be shamed to death, going to Notre Dame alone.” And the old eyes with blur-rimmed irises filled with tears.
    She’s the one who’s been good to us, I thought, remembering the soft vanilla-scented bosom, a warm haven for a pair of frightened, confused little orphans.
    Later, it was easy enough to say I should have stayed home that night. But at the time Aunt Thérèse was crying.
    I put my arm around her plump, shaking waist. “It’s all right, Auntie. Old Lucien’ll take a note asking Monsieur Sancerre to come tomorrow morning.”

Chapter Eight
    Old Lucien helped Aunt Thérèse into the carriage. He was warmly wrapped in Jean-Pierre’s old cape. Aunt Thérèse wore her beloved fox-lined velvet, and I was snug in a full-length cloak of white lynx, the Comte’s most recent gift. The horses wore blankets, and their breath steamed.
    The night was bitterly cold.
    Around six the snow had stopped, turning to ice. Then, about an hour ago, as if to herald the noble wedding, flakes had started drifting down again.
    Old Lucien handed me into the coach, tucking the lap robe around my knees. The carriage floundered through snow and out the gate.
    I glimpsed a mound by the wall. A snow-covered