The Porcelain Dove by Sherman Delia

Author:Sherman, Delia [Sherman, Delia]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Jill Grinberg Literary Management
Published: 2015-01-21T00:00:00+00:00

March, 1778. M. le duc de Malvoeux. Expedition impressed into the navy. Have seen many islands, none of them Fortunate. Besides my ship, only birds common gulls and terns. C'est la guerre.

Yr. obedient servant, Gouberville

Artide laughed. "So much for Hy Brasil and Avalon. If the Dove's in the Indies, some Englishman has undoubtedly shot it and stuffed it by now. The English are like that, they say."

"Think you monsieur will rave again?" Finette asked breathlessly. "I missed it last time."

"Idiote!" snapped M. Malesherbes. "Imbecile! I see it now. Monsieur in an uproar, madame unable to swallow more than a spoonful of soft custard. I know not why I remain here, cooking for a madman and a malade imaginaire, when a prince of the blood royal has offered me a place in his kitchens. Par Dieu, I must be as mad as our master, me."

The sous-chef suggested that we burn the letter on the grounds of monsieur's heart not grieving over what his eye did not see. Artide shrugged. "What do you care whether monsieur grieves or not, eh? He cares nothing for your feelings. Besides, 'twill do him good to know that there are matters in the world more pressing than his jean-foutre bird."

So we sealed the letter up again and Artide took it to monsieur, who read it and flung it upon the fire. He did not rave, did not so much as frown, and for all I know to the contrary, spoke of it to no one, neither then nor later. I can only conclude that he decided there was no letter, and therefore no war, and that a bird-hunter still searched the West for a Porcelain Dove.

In the summer of 1780, the baron du Fourchet succumbed to a meal of port and lobster and went to learn how taxes were farmed in Heaven.

Monsieur made no objection to madame's attending her father's funeral. Indeed, he said he'd accompany her, and Linotte as well. Although the weather was charming and the journey an easy one, to my dismay Peronel was quiet and sullen the whole while, hated the inns and the changing land, and pronounced the Seine valley flat and tedious. Paris was a pigsty, the Tuileries not so handsome as the gardens of Beauxprés, and the elegant ladies in their barouches and diligences wore their hair too high and their gowns too low. She pronounced Olympe and her friends a flock of hens tricked out like peacocks, and the handsome Mlle Raucourt an over-painted virago who squealed like a pig. I began to think Peronel an ungrateful chit.

The house on the rue Quincampoix was more crowded than usual. Mme de Poix had returned from England to pay her last respects to her father, and her husband seized the opportunity to demand the return of her marriage settlement. I couldn't take three steps outside my mistress' chamber without running into her or her new English maid, or M. de Poix, or M. de Poix's handsome secretary, or M. de Poix's lawyer, or the young vicomte de Montplaisir.

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