The Matryoshka Doll
Victorine Bonnaire sat at her vanity, sipping a cup of chocolate, as one of her maids applied makeup to her face. Despite it being her wedding day, she was the only one who remained calm. Throughout her fiancé's Paris townhouse, servants were frantically scurrying about making last-minute preparations for the big event. As the maid was affixing a fake beauty mark on her mistress' cheek, the most sought-after couturier in Paris entered the room, bringing with her the wedding gown.
"It's lovely," the bride pronounced, showing no enthusiasm.
"I shall help you put it on," the dressmaker volunteered.
"One moment," Victorine said, and then finished her drink. "All right, I'm ready."
The dress was exquisite, so elaborate in design that it had taken three seamstresses four months to complete it. As the dressmaker fussed with her creation, Victorine's two maids put on the corset, panniers and petticoats. Once the undergarments were in place, the three women joined forces to put the gown over the bride's head.
"Mon Dieu!" the young woman exclaimed when the dress was in place. "It weighs a ton! How will I be expected to move in this outfit?"
"You will get used to it, Mademoiselle," the seamstress promised.
"You may go now," Victorine said, dismissing the dressmaker without even thanking her, and then turned to address her maids. "If I am able to sit down, you can put the wig on."
With effort, the bride lowered herself onto a bench. The servants put the towering wig on her head, and then powdered it. Finally, one of the maids placed fresh flowers, small strands of pearls and artificial birds among the stiff curls.
"You're all ready, Mademoiselle," the girl announced with a tiny curtsy.
Victorine looked critically at her reflection in the mirror. She was one of the most beautiful women in all of France, and she was dressed like a princess.
"It will do. Now let's see how the driver proposes to get this dress into the coach."
As the bride made her way through the crowded streets of Paris to the cathedral, she peeked out the window and noticed the angry looks on the peasants' faces at the sight of the marquis' carriage.
They are all envious, she thought smugly. I don't know why. After all, I'm only marrying the third son.
The fact that Jean-Pierre was the youngest of the marquis' children was the one blemish that spoiled an otherwise perfect marriage. True, the couple would have a grand home in Paris and more than enough money to meet their needs, but the groom's oldest brother, Gérard, would inherit Château Villette, the family estate, and the title when their father died.
Still, I would much rather marry Jean-Pierre, who is young and handsome, than old, fat and ugly Gérard.
When the coach stopped in front of Notre-Dame Cathedral, crowds gathered around it. The marquis' men held the people back so that the bride could make her way unmolested to the steps of the church. Little did Victorine know that the time was about to come when not even the king's army could hold back the discontented peasants.
At the conclusion of the ceremony, there was a great feast held in honor of the couple's nuptials. The finest foods and wines were served, and the best entertainers in Paris performed for the guests. King Louis and Queen Marie Antoinette even made an appearance to congratulate the couple on their marriage. There were so many wealthy aristocrats in attendance that it was rumored there were more jewels at the wedding reception than there were in the royal treasury.
In the midst of all the finery, one figure, dressed in a somber, unadorned black gown, stood out from the others.
"Who is that?" Victorine asked her husband. "The old crone looks like she is dressed for a funeral rather than a wedding."
"I don't know. I've never seen her before. She doesn't look French. My guess is that she's Russian."
"Don't be ridiculous! What would a Russian woman be doing at our wedding?"
"My mother was part Russian. Several generations ago, one of her ancestors was a half-sister of a Tsar. I can't remember which one. The name is somewhere in the family records, though."
"Half-sister of a Tsar or not, I don't see why this woman should be at our wedding."
A few moments later, the unknown guest herself explained her presence.
"I have come to wish you well in your marriage," she said in a heavy Russian accent, "And to give you a gift."
The woman handed a package to the bride, who after opening it showed clear signs of disappointment. Inside was a figure of a woman painted on a somewhat rounded, three-dimensional piece of thin wood.
"What is it?" she asked.
"It is a matryoshka doll."
"I've never heard of it."
"I'm not surprised. They are impossible to find. I had this made especially for you."
"You shouldn't have," Victorine said facetiously and handed the package to a servant.
"You must be very careful with it," the old woman warned. "You don't want to break it."
"Thank you," the bride said, indicating with a wave of her hand that her mysterious guest was dismissed.
With an enigmatic smile, the somberly dressed Russian disappeared into the crowd. The bride and groom continued celebrating and promptly forgot about both her and her present.
* * *
After the wedding, the newlywed couple spent months traveling through Europe. When they returned to Paris, Victorine hosted a number of lavish parties that became the talk of French society. Enjoying the rich lifestyle Jean-Pierre's family fortune afforded her, she gave little thought to the impoverished Parisian peasants who were clamoring for bread in the city streets.
When the morning sun chased away the darkness of night and her extravagant May Day masquerade party finally broke up, Victorine made her way to her boudoir where she called for her maid to undress her.
"What's that doing here?" she asked when she saw the matryoshka doll on her vanity.
"I don't know, Madame. I have never seen it before. What is it?"
"It is a gift that was given to me by some old Russian woman who showed up at my wedding. She claimed it was some kind of doll."
"It doesn't look like a doll," the maid said. "It looks more like a large wooden peanut."
Victorine picked it up with the intention of giving it to the maid to throw away, but when she got a good look at the features of the doll, she changed her mind.
"The face on the doll," she mumbled, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "It seems familiar, yet I don't know who it could be."
"What a shame, Madame. It appears the doll is broken. There is a crack in the middle."
"It must be very fragile. The Russian woman warned me to be careful with it."
As Victorine examined the doll, she noticed that the crack went completely around the waist, as though cutting the doll in two halves.
"How odd!" she exclaimed and pulled the two halves apart.
To her great surprise, there was another, slightly smaller doll inside. Victorine recognized the face at once: it was that of the Marquis de Villette, Jean-Pierre's father. The Russian woman claimed she had had the doll made especially for the bride and groom. Obviously, the likeness was not accidental.
"Look, Madame. That doll, too, is cracked."
As she had with the larger doll, Victorine pulled the two pieces apart. Inside was a third doll. This one had the unpleasant countenance of Gérard, Jean-Pierre's oldest brother.
"How clever," the maid said. "Three dolls, one inside the other."
Yawning, Victorine dismissed her maid and headed toward her bed. Not only was she exhausted from the festivities of the evening, but she had grown bored with the Russian woman's silly dolls.
* * *
"What is all that commotion?" Victorine angrily called to her maid when she was awakened later that afternoon.
Jean-Pierre suddenly burst through her bedroom door.
"Darling, something terrible has happened."
Having consumed too much wine at the party, Victorine was plagued by a dreadful hangover. Unless the house was on fire, she had no interest in his news.
"Tell me later. I'm trying to sleep now."
"It can't wait. My father has died."
"How?"
"The doctor thinks his heart gave out. He was fine one moment, and the next ...."
"When did it happen?"
"Early this morning."
Victorine had no way of knowing that her father-in-law died at the exact moment she opened the Russian woman's second doll.
"My condolences for you loss, darling," she said and, pulling the blankets up to her chin, closed her eyes again.
"You can't sleep now!" Jean-Pierre exclaimed. "You've got to get up and get dressed."
"In God's name, why?"
"We've got to go to my mother."
"I don't see the need to. Gérard will be there, as will François. Why can't we go tomorrow?"
"My duty to the family requires it," he declared firmly.
"Then you go. I'm not feeling well. I'll join you in a day or two."
Jean-Pierre's first impulse was to insist his wife accompany him, but then he reconsidered. He had only been married a short time. At some point in the future, he would have to learn to put his foot down, but until then he would choose his battles carefully.
* * *
Once his father was interred in the family burial ground, Gérard inherited the title and became master of the family château. After a respectable period of mourning passed, one of his first actions as the new Marquis de Villette was to throw a lavish birthday party for his wife, Marie. Naturally, both his brothers were invited to attend.
"We'll need to get her a present," Jean-Pierre told his wife as they were sharing a late-night supper after attending the opera. "I shall trust you to pick out something appropriate for her."
"Why me?" a pouting Victorine demanded to know. "I don't even like Marie. She's a cow: a female version of Gérard."
"She is my brother's wife," Jean-Pierre argued, feeling a sense of family loyalty. "Besides, what has she ever done to you that you should take such a dislike to her?"
"Despite the fact that she is fat, ugly, stupid and completely lacking in social graces, she is a marquise."
"Her lack of physical charms notwithstanding, Marie is a good wife to Gérard. She is obedient, faithful and, most important, she bore him two sons."
"Ah, yes. The future Marquis de Villette and a brother to take his place should tragedy befall him."
Victorine believed that that was the one saving grace of being the wife of a third son: there was no need for her to produce an heir.
"So you'll choose a suitable present?"
Victorine recognized her husband's tone. It was an order, not a request.
"I'm sure I can find some piece of jewelry that will please her, not that Marie has any taste."
After she finished her supper, Victorine went up to her boudoir where her maid was waiting to help her mistress undress and remove the powdered wig from her head. As the girl washed the makeup from her face, the beautiful but spoiled bride considered the type of jewelry she ought to select for Marie. It could not be a ring since she had no idea what size would fit her sister-in-law's plump, stubby fingers.
Perhaps a locket, she thought. Marie can keep her sons' portraits in it, or even Gérard's. Although why anyone would want to look at a likeness of his face, I'm sure I ....
"Of course!" Victorine suddenly exclaimed, taking her maid by surprise.
"What is it, Madame?"
"I've thought of the perfect gift to give Marie for her birthday. Where is that doll the old Russian woman gave me at my wedding? You know, the one that's painted to look like Gérard."
"I'm not sure. I haven't seen it since—wait! I know where it is, on the top shelf of Madame's closet, next to the blue silk slippers that are too big for you."
"Go get it down."
A few minutes later, the maid returned with the matryoshka in her hand.
"Here it is, Madame."
One look at the doll and the smile vanished from Victorine's face.
"Lousy Russian craftsmanship," she said when she saw the crack that encircled the doll's waist. "It's broken just like the other two."
As she had done on the previous occasion, she took the two ends of the doll in her hands and pulled them apart. A fourth doll, this one resembling François, the middle son, had been beneath the likeness of Gérard.
"I suppose I shall have to shop for a locket, after all," Victorine said with disappointment. "Marie's not going to want a doll of François."
Victorine was spared having to search for a gift, however. The following day a messenger arrived for Jean-Pierre. He brought urgent news from François: Gérard, Marie and their two sons had drowned in a boating accident in the river Seine.
* * *
"I can't believe it's been more than a year since we were here following my father's death," Jean-Pierre remarked when he got out of the carriage in front of the Château Villette. "Where has that time gone to?"
"We've been living our lives," Victorine answered her husband's question, even though it had been a rhetorical one only. "Attending parties, the theater, the opera."
François himself, rather than a servant, met them at the door.
"I still can't believe it," the middle brother cried as he, his brother and sister-in-law sat at the dining table, drinking wine from the family's own vineyards. "Gérard and his entire family gone—just like that!"
"That makes you the new marquis," Victorine needlessly pointed out.
François laughed bitterly.
"Don't I know it! When Marie had a boy, I hoped I would be spared. And then when she had another, I was certain of it."
"Don't you want the title?" his sister-in-law asked with disbelief.
"With the way things are in Paris now? Hell, no! I wouldn't be surprised if someday soon, there'll be a revolution in France just like there was in the American colonies."
"Surely you don't think the people would overthrow the king and queen?" Victorine asked.
"The people are starving, and hunger is a powerful motivator."
"I'm sure nothing will come of it," Jean-Pierre said optimistically. "Peasants always grumble; it's their lot in life. There's a natural order to things. There are those who are born to rule and those who are born to be ruled over. If that natural order is overturned, all would be anarchy."
"I suppose the British felt the same way, but the Americans seem to be doing well under George Washington's leadership."
"Democracy is an experiment bound to fail," Jean-Pierre insisted.
François shrugged. In the wake of his recent loss, he lacked the desire to argue politics with his foolish younger brother.
"I suppose I'll need an heir," the middle brother declared.
It was no secret to his brother and sister-in-law that François's marriage had been one in name only for the past few years. Marguerite, his wife, after falling in love with another man, had forsaken her husband's bed for that of her lover. Since the Villettes were devout Catholics, divorce was not an option.
"Of course, if I don't have a son, all is not lost. The title will pass to you, little brother. So you and your pretty wife might want to think about starting a family soon."
Victorine passed the afternoon as though under the influence of a narcotic. Jean-Pierre wrongly attributed her uncharacteristically reserved behavior to the shock of the recent deaths. He had no idea that her mind was on the bizarre wedding gift given to her by the old Russian woman.
The matryoshka doll broke in half and my father-in-law died, she thought, wondering if it was a mere coincidence. Then the doll in Gérard's likeness broke, and his entire family perished. If the doll with François's face should be destroyed ...?
She forced herself to put such thoughts from her mind, but they persistently crept back in.
* * *
"I've got good news, darling," Jean-Pierre informed his wife after giving her an affectionate kiss on her cheek.
"What is it?" Victorine asked excitedly.
"Marguerite has left her lover and gone back with François."
"Why should that surprise you?" Victorine snapped. "He's the Marquis de Villette now. He's got a lot more to offer her. But I fail to see why you consider this reunion good news."
"Because it lets us off the hook. I have no doubt Marguerite will soon become pregnant, and there will be no need for us to have children."
"Don't you want to be a marquis?"
"Not particularly. Much as I would like the title, I don't want all the responsibility that goes with it. I prefer our life just the way it is."
Victorine turned her head to hide the look of disgust on her pretty face. A fine lot of boys her mother-in-law had raised. Gérard had been an oaf, François was nothing but a coward and Jean-Pierre ... Victorine could not deny the truth. Her husband was a handsome but useless dandy. Not one of the brothers was fit to be the Marquis de Villette.
After saying goodnight to her husband, Victorine retired to her boudoir and went straight to her closet to retrieve the matryoshka doll. However, the space next to the blue satin slippers was now empty. She called for her maid.
"Are you going to bed so soon, Madame?" the girl inquired.
"No. I want you to get me the Russian doll. It's not in my closet."
"Yes, Madame."
After what seemed an interminably long time, the maid returned with the matryoshka.
"It seems to be in good shape," the maid observed. "There is not a mark on it."
Victorine took the doll and sent the girl away.
I don't know if that old woman was a witch who cast a spell on the doll, but I believe it is magical. I think if this doll is destroyed, François will die.
If her theory was correct, there was also the very real danger that inside François, there would be yet another doll, one that would be painted in Jean-Pierre's likeness. If so, how could she destroy the outer doll and make sure no harm came to the one that might be beneath it?
Careful to avoid running into any of the servants, Victorine stealthily made her way to the kitchen where she borrowed a sharp knife from the cook's best cutlery set. Hiding the utensil in the folds of her dress, she walked back to her room and carefully cut around the center of the François doll. When she separated the two halves, there was indeed another doll inside.
"I must find a safe place for this one," she said. "After all, I don't want anything to happen to my darling Jean-Pierre."
* * *
Even in the midst of the political turmoil that was sweeping through France, rumors still managed to circulate through Paris of a curse on the family of the late Marquis de Villette. First, the nobleman himself died suddenly, followed by his oldest son along with his wife and children. Soon thereafter François, the middle son, was killed in a hunting accident. To compound this tragedy, François died without issue.
"Jean-Pierre had better watch out now," was a sentiment often heard at Parisian salons, "or else he'll be next."
Victorine, who delighted in the title of Marquise de Villette, felt no guilt for her role in François's death. Besides, she had no real proof that the doll had caused any harm. The deaths of her husband's family might have been nothing more than tragic accidents.
Unfortunately for the ambitious young woman, François's fears of the starving peasants revolting against the government were well founded. In June 1791 King Louis XVI, Queen Marie Antoinette and their family tried to flee Paris. They were captured at Varennes and confined to the Tuileries Palace. This assault on the monarchy caused most noblemen to fear for their own safety. Many of them decided life in Paris was too dangerous and emigrated to England.
"I've no doubt wiser heads will prevail," Victorine maintained, "and Louis will soon be back on the throne."
"Just the same," her husband argued, "maybe we ought to go to London until things blow over here."
"Never! We are the Marquis and Marquise de Villette. We shall remain resolute through all that may come."
Had Victorine foreseen that Citizen Louis Capet, and later his wife and former queen, would be beheaded at the Place de la Révolution, she might not have been so staunch a supporter of the royal family. It was only when revolutionaries barged into Château Villette and arrested her husband on charges of treason that she regretted her blind loyalty to the king.
Stripped of her wealth and prestige, Victorine was not much better off than Jean-Pierre, who was imprisoned in the Conciergerie. There were no more parties, no operas, no late-night suppers. Even her servants had deserted her. With no one to dress her, and no reason for her to appear in her finery, the marquise—she refused to think of herself as a common citizeness—walked the halls of the once grand château, a living ghost in her own home.
With nothing to amuse or distract her, one day blended into another. Victorine lost weight and spent most of the day sleeping. Little mattered to her until she received word of the outcome of her husband's trial: the Marquis de Villette had been found guilty and was sentenced to die.
"No!" the panic-stricken wife screamed when she heard the dreadful news. "Jean-Pierre is no traitor."
When Victorine realized that her husband was to be executed because he was a marquis, she cursed the old Russian woman whose evil doll had killed the three previous men who held the title before him.
"It should be that fat Gérard's head that the revolutionaries want, not Jean-Pierre's!"
The question then came to Victorine: if the doll could cause death, could it also protect life? She ran up the marble staircase, praying that one of her servants had brought the doll to the château when she and Jean-Pierre moved there from the townhouse. She frantically searched her drawers and closets for the matryoshka doll. When she finally found it at the bottom of a chest of clothes, she noticed with alarm that there was a crack in the wood.
I must mend it, she thought. But how?
Having lived the pampered life of an aristocrat, she had no practical knowledge of adhesives.
Maybe the shoemaker will know how to fix it.
It was a logical conclusion. After all, he had repaired the heel on Jean-Pierre's boot when it broke off.
As she put on an old cloak and a pair of sturdy shoes, she was unaware that the crack in the matryoshka doll was widening. She did not notice the damage until she picked up the doll, and it broke into two in her hands.
"No, no, no!" she cried, trying to fit the halves back together.
When she noticed the final, smallest doll lying on the floor, her face went pale.
"It's me!"
She picked up the doll and cradled it in her hands like she would a baby bird. All thought of Jean-Pierre vanished from her mind. Her overriding fear was for her own safety, not her husband's.
"I must leave France!"
The time for emigration was long past, however. When Victorine tried to get out of Paris, she was promptly arrested.
* * *
The ragtag guards of the Conciergerie believed the former Marquise de Villette was mad. For one thing, she sat in the corner of her cell holding what appeared to them to be a wooden peanut, protecting it like a mother bear would protect her cub. Even when she slept, she kept it beside her on a makeshift pillow.
"Do you think she might have something of value inside there?" one guard asked another.
"No. I got a good look at it when she was brought in. It's some kind of toy. It has a painted face like a doll."
A second, stronger case that supported insanity was Victorine's behavior during her trial. Unlike the other aristocrats who pleaded for their lives, she remained defiant.
"You cannot harm me," she declared haughtily. "I am protected by a force stronger than your misguided revolutionary zeal."
Even when the sentence of death was passed, she remained calm. She believed that as long as there was no sign of damage to the doll, she would be safe.
The following morning, the guards watched expectantly as Victorine was led out of the jail and placed on a tumbril to be taken through the streets of Paris to the Place de la Révolution. The men placed bets on whether or not the condemned woman would finally break down.
"Mark my words," one guard said, wagering three assignats against the doomed noblewoman. "When she sees Madame Guillotine staring down at her, she'll cry for mercy."
Yet even as she mounted the steps of the scaffold, in the shadow of the blade that was to sever her head from her body, Victorine was certain her life would be spared.
I have faith in the old Russian woman's gift. I know now that is why she gave me the matryoshka doll on my wedding day: to safeguard my life. I will live, the monarchy will be restored, and although a widow, I will be the Marquise de Villette again.
Of the four condemned prisoners in the tumbril, Victorine was to be the third executed. The first one, a count who had remained loyal to the king to the very end, died after only a minor fuss. The second one, a mistress of a duke, became hysterical when the executioner lifted the dead man's head up for the crowd to see. She screamed and tried to run, but only succeeded in bumping into Victorine who was standing behind her.
During the unexpected collision, the former marquise dropped the matryoshka doll she had been clutching in her hand. It fell to the floor of the scaffolding and rolled off into the crowd.
"No! Give me my doll!" the prisoner screamed to the guard at her side. "I need my doll."
Meanwhile, the second prisoner lost her head to the delight of the spectators. The guards then roughly grabbed Victorine and pushed her toward the waiting guillotine.
"Give me my doll, first. Then I'll go quietly," she bargained, still believing she would live if the doll was safe. "Please! I beg you! Give me my doll."
The guard, who had lost a bet that she would go quietly to her death, had no sympathy for the crazy aristocrat. He used considerable force to position her head directly beneath the blood-soaked blade.
"My doll!" Victorine sobbed as her eyes scanned the faces in the crowd.
"Is this what you want?" a peasant woman asked, holding up the matryoshka doll.
"Be careful. Don't drop it," the condemned woman warned, finding the strength to lift her head up.
When she saw the peasant woman toss the doll on the ground, Victorine knew her fate was sealed. At the same moment an angry sans-culotte crushed the tiny wooden figure beneath his heavy boot, the blade of the guillotine fell and the crowd cheered.
* * *
More than a century after the Marquise de Villette was beheaded at the Place de la Révolution, an old woman, wearing a black mourning dress, walked into the Winter Palace of Tsar Nicholas II. He and his wife, Alexandra Feodorovna, were hosting a party to celebrate the birth of their only son and long-awaited heir, Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov. As the angel of death made her way through the crowd of Russian aristocrats, she stared at the tsar's children: the pretty Grand Duchesses Olga, Tatiana, Maria and Anastasia were standing next to their mother, who was proudly holding the tiny tsarevich on her lap.
"I have come to express my joy at the birth of your son," the old woman said, her words contradicted by the deep-rooted sorrow that appeared on her face. "And to give you a present."
The Grand Duchess Anastasia's eyes widened with delight when the dark angel produced a brightly painted matryoshka.
"It appears to be some type of doll," the tsaritsa said. "How delightful!"
"This is no ordinary doll. It was specially made for the Romanov family. You must be very careful with it. You don't want to break it."
Alexandra accepted the matryoshka doll with a regal nod of gratitude, blessedly unaware of the calamity it would bring to her family. The old woman bowed to the royal couple, and after wiping a tear from her eye, vanished into the crowd.
For some time now, I've wanted to write a story about matryoshka (nesting) dolls. I finally came up with a plot, only to learn after I'd begun writing that the first such doll was made in 1890: 100 years after the French Revolution. However, since we are dealing with the supernatural here, I don't suppose it makes much of a difference.
Salem originally had 9 nesting dolls, one for each of his lives. It looks like he's down to five.
