history books, and there has also been at least one novel written about her. The name is correct, Lucie Belmains. She did indeed die as a result of hanging herself. The date of her death is the morning of the eighth April, 1760.
"Fascinating, isn't it," said Semery. "What does it mean? Who is Lucie Belmains?"
Miou and the cat were already peering between our shoulders at the paper.
"Lucie Belmains," said Miou, "was a minor aristocrat, very beautiful and very wicked. She would drink and ride a horse and swear better—or worse—than a man. She was the mistress of several princes and dukes. She once dressed as a bandit and waylaid the king on some road, and was his mistress too perhaps, till she became bored with all the riches he lavished on her. Then she fell in love with a man five years her junior. He loved her too, to distraction, and when he was killed in a duel over her, Lucie gave a great party, like a Roman empress, and in the morning she hanged herself like Antigone from a crimson cord."
Semery and I stood amazed until Miou stopped, breathless and in triumph.
"It seems," said Semery then, "there is indeed one novel, and you have read it."
"Yes. When I was a little girl," said Miou, all of seventeen now. "I remember my sister and I read the book aloud to each other when we were supposed to be asleep. And how we giggled. And we dressed up in lace curtains and our mother's hats and raised glasses of water pretending they were champagne and said, 'I am Lucie and you are my slave!' And fought like cats because neither of us would be the slave. And then one day Adele hung her doll up by the neck from a red ribbon and we had a funeral party. Maman found us and we were both beaten."
"Quite right. These are most corrupting activities for a future wife of France's leading painter, and the mother of his heir." At which Miou smiled and laid her head on his shoulder. "But even so," said Semery, stroking her hair, "what has all this got to do with Honorine?"
I said, "She's making a study of this woman, or the period?"
"No. She has no interests anymore."
Later, toward evening, we strolled along the riverbank. The leveling rays of the sun flashed over the water. I had arranged to buy the picture of the escaping birds for Anette. I knew she would like it, as indeed she did—we have it still, and since Semery's name is now not unknown, it is worth rather a deal more than I paid for it. But there was some argument with Semery at the time, who thought I was patronizing him, or trying to pay for my luncheon. Thank God, all that had been settled, however, by the hour we emerged on the street, Miou in her light shawl and straw bonnet with cherries. When we reached the Pont Nouveau and I was about to cross over, Semery said to me, "You see, that business with the paper—belle Lucie Belmains. Something about it worries me. Perhaps I shouldn't let Honorine have it. Would that be dishonorable?"
"Yes."
"Or prudent?"
"Maybe that too. But as you don't know—"
"I think perhaps I do. The purpose of the witches' Ouija has often to do with reincarnation—the passage of the soul through many lives and many bodies."
We had all paused in mutual revelation.
"Do you mean your sister is being told she lived a previous life in which—"
"In which she was beautiful and notorious, kings slobbered at her feet, and duels were organized for her favors."
We looked at the river, the womb and fount of the city, glittering with sun, all sequins, which on the dark days of winter seems like lead.
"Well," Semery said at last, "why not? If it makes her happy for a moment. If it gives her something nice to think about. There's nothing now. What has she got? What can she hope to have? If she can say to herself, just one time in every day, once I was beautiful, once I was free, and crazy and lavish and adored, and loved."
I looked at him. His eyes were wet, and he was pale, as if at the onset of a headache. Impulsively, I clasped his hand.
"Why
"Fascinating, isn't it," said Semery. "What does it mean? Who is Lucie Belmains?"
Miou and the cat were already peering between our shoulders at the paper.
"Lucie Belmains," said Miou, "was a minor aristocrat, very beautiful and very wicked. She would drink and ride a horse and swear better—or worse—than a man. She was the mistress of several princes and dukes. She once dressed as a bandit and waylaid the king on some road, and was his mistress too perhaps, till she became bored with all the riches he lavished on her. Then she fell in love with a man five years her junior. He loved her too, to distraction, and when he was killed in a duel over her, Lucie gave a great party, like a Roman empress, and in the morning she hanged herself like Antigone from a crimson cord."
Semery and I stood amazed until Miou stopped, breathless and in triumph.
"It seems," said Semery then, "there is indeed one novel, and you have read it."
"Yes. When I was a little girl," said Miou, all of seventeen now. "I remember my sister and I read the book aloud to each other when we were supposed to be asleep. And how we giggled. And we dressed up in lace curtains and our mother's hats and raised glasses of water pretending they were champagne and said, 'I am Lucie and you are my slave!' And fought like cats because neither of us would be the slave. And then one day Adele hung her doll up by the neck from a red ribbon and we had a funeral party. Maman found us and we were both beaten."
"Quite right. These are most corrupting activities for a future wife of France's leading painter, and the mother of his heir." At which Miou smiled and laid her head on his shoulder. "But even so," said Semery, stroking her hair, "what has all this got to do with Honorine?"
I said, "She's making a study of this woman, or the period?"
"No. She has no interests anymore."
Later, toward evening, we strolled along the riverbank. The leveling rays of the sun flashed over the water. I had arranged to buy the picture of the escaping birds for Anette. I knew she would like it, as indeed she did—we have it still, and since Semery's name is now not unknown, it is worth rather a deal more than I paid for it. But there was some argument with Semery at the time, who thought I was patronizing him, or trying to pay for my luncheon. Thank God, all that had been settled, however, by the hour we emerged on the street, Miou in her light shawl and straw bonnet with cherries. When we reached the Pont Nouveau and I was about to cross over, Semery said to me, "You see, that business with the paper—belle Lucie Belmains. Something about it worries me. Perhaps I shouldn't let Honorine have it. Would that be dishonorable?"
"Yes."
"Or prudent?"
"Maybe that too. But as you don't know—"
"I think perhaps I do. The purpose of the witches' Ouija has often to do with reincarnation—the passage of the soul through many lives and many bodies."
We had all paused in mutual revelation.
"Do you mean your sister is being told she lived a previous life in which—"
"In which she was beautiful and notorious, kings slobbered at her feet, and duels were organized for her favors."
We looked at the river, the womb and fount of the city, glittering with sun, all sequins, which on the dark days of winter seems like lead.
"Well," Semery said at last, "why not? If it makes her happy for a moment. If it gives her something nice to think about. There's nothing now. What has she got? What can she hope to have? If she can say to herself, just one time in every day, once I was beautiful, once I was free, and crazy and lavish and adored, and loved."
I looked at him. His eyes were wet, and he was pale, as if at the onset of a headache. Impulsively, I clasped his hand.
"Why
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