It was an era when the rich were desperately rich, when all their excesses could not absorb their wealth. And so the Count and Madame des Marrons were racing their carriages from Versailles to Paris. The prize a thousand gold Louis. The roads were rough and dangerous. A foolish game.
It was the Count's horses that knocked the child to the earth. A limp bundle of rags.
The coachman may not have noticed. Certainly he made no attempt to stop until the Count ordered him.
The Count walked up to the rag pile, wondering if there was anyone who would demand recompense. Then he saw the child's face. It had all the beauty of a wild rose. The Count was transfixed.
``She is quite lovely,'' said Madame des Marrons, leaning from her carriage window. Quickly she recognized the fascination the child held for the Count.
``Let her come home with me,'' she said, ``I will see what can be done.''
It did not occur to either of them to seek permission from a parent, a guardian. They simply lifted the child into Madame's coach. Madame rode with the Count as the child was exceedingly infested.
Madame des Marrons was a beautiful woman. No one would deny it. She cultivated a natural and slightly deshabille appearance. Her skin had a pearly glow, her hair escaped in tendrils around her ears.
The pearly glow was certainly enhanced by perfumed bear grease to which real pearls, finely ground, had been added, but such subtle contributions would only be marked by the most exacting connoisseur.
Yes, Madame des Marrons was beautiful, but life is short, and youth, alas so short as to be over long before one learns to profit from it.
The child was healed and nurtured. Given some education and training in deportment, elocution and music. When she kept her mouth shut she was really quite charming. Madame oversaw all aspects of her care. Taught her how to dress. Arrange her hair. How and when to smile and where to place a patch on her cheek to emphasize her eyes. The proper handling of a fan took weeks and even then Madame was hardly satisfied.
Meanwhile the Count found himself financially embarrassed. Although titled he was of the second generation to depend on trade to support his way of life. His ships plied the Atlantic, bringing commodities to where they were needed. Slaves to the Americas. Cotton, rum and tobacco to Europe.
But plague had scourged two shiploads that arrived at New Orleans with just a handful of survivors. Three slaves and the first mate the only living creatures on one ship. Still, the slaves were sold at a premium for being obedient, resourceful and disease resistant. To double his misfortune the cotton he had purchased arrived at Liverpool in poor condition and fetched nothing at auction. The Count set sail for New Orleans to reorganize his contracts. He was gone two years.
When he returned his first thoughts were for the beautiful child.
Madame des Marrons held a special soiree to welcome him. The room was warm and bright and filled with people all avid to greet him. He did not see the child. She would have grown to very young womanhood by now, he anticipated - but where was she? So many painted faces. Madame des Marrons led him to one of them. A demoiselle with arch looks, a fluttering fan and simpering smile. Face brightly painted, a rim of fat around her bodice.
``Remember our little waif?'' said Madame. The Count kissed the girl's small nervous hand.
``Enchanting,'' he said.
Before the first light of dawn Madame succumbed with admirably staged ennui on her couch.
``My dear,'' she said, ``how long I've waited for this moment. Welcome home!''
``What happened to the child?''
``The child grew up. She is a young woman now, as you saw.''
``She has the looks of a demi-mondaine. She has lost all appeal to me.''
``Really?'' Madame des Marrons leaned delicately back so that the petal edge of a rose pink nipple peeped sweetly above her white gauze bodice.
``I am so sad. I had hoped to delight you.''
``You do, you do,'' he whispered, his lips in the palm of her hand.