The Chevalier Read online

  Suddenly, the music stops. Everyone stands still. A clock strikes the hour – it could be ten, it might be eleven. It’s hard to be precise, I’m so transfixed. The chimes of other bells are echoing in the background, so that I imagine all the churches of Paris are gathering momentum and racing to midnight.

  As the bells fade like the last verse of some roundelay, there is every sign a bacchanalian orgy is about to spring into life. A wild cheer sweeps the ballroom. The music returns with redoubled pace and urgency: a different movement, a separate theme. It seems men are about to throw themselves upon the women, and vice versa. I’m not quite sure about the etiquette in such circumstances, and I’m not especially keen to find out. It is all most distasteful – a stranger to physical contact, I find such lusts of no account, and deadening.

  Most of the time.

  The beauty in red is a different matter. Her figure is full, promising warmth, inviting constant study. She possesses great poise, an aura of maturity, although her face still shows the flush of youth. I find it hard to say why she is my ideal of womankind. There is no doubt, however, that I am taken with her silks. I am in a lather to feel them. But I want to be away from here; the crowd is squeezing in most disagreeable proximity about us. I must conquer my reticence, and speak.

  “How do you do?” I open, my voice quavering.

  “Well, thank you.” Hers is seductive, modulated. “And how do you do, Mademoiselle?”

  “Prodigious well, indeed. My name is Lia de Beaumont.”

  “I’m Marie de Courcelles.”

  “Enchanted.”

  But she senses my unease and takes me by the hand – we glide away from the impending eruption. She leads me into a small room, populated only by a tight set of gamblers, oblivious to us in their greed. Soon we are sitting in shadow in a corner, chatting with all the animation of kindred spirits, while ostensibly we watch the card players.

  “We’ve not met before, have we?” Her voice is as full and rich as her perfume; a scent redolent of the fresh lemons from southern France I used to buy at the market in Tonnerre.

  “I’m sure I would remember if we had.”

  She indicates my black dress. “You’ve suffered a loss?”

  “Yes, my father. We were very close.”

  “I can sympathise. My husband also passed on. As it were. But my guardian forbids me from dwelling on my grief.”

  I stroke the scarlet folds. Sublime. “And is it he who recommends you to your dressmaker?”

  “No, I can still manage that for myself.” With a smile, and only a hint of asperity.

  “So tell me…” My hesitation springs from a fear that things are moving too fast. Life cannot be this good. It is as if we are two sisters remembering childhood days and games. Only this is more delicious and familiar than any youthful frolic I recall.

  “Whatever you wish.” She has no such compunction.

  “Why red? It defies the fashion. It is hardly a bucolic shade.”

  “Oh, that!” She smiles. “Have you seen how much I stand out? I should say, of course, how we stand out.”

  “Thank you. Mine is just functional, but yours – it is perfection.”

  “I’m very pleased with the effect, I must say.”

  I have another overpowering urge. Doubts must be cast aside. I touch her dress again, determine to exploit my compliment. “You don’t think that I could…”

  “What do you mean? Try it on?”

  “I know it’s a strange thing to ask.”

  “Not at all.” A sidelong glance. “Do you make a habit of this?”

  “I’ve never done so in my life. You must believe me.”

  She considers for a moment. “Very well. Of course you can. Now?”

  “If it’s possible.”

  Her smile is amiable, conspiratorial. “I think I know just the place.”

  “You’re very kind. I will remember this.”

  We bid a silent farewell to the card players. Marie whisks me through a maze of corridors into an even darker chamber, lit by just one candle burning low. It is empty bar a couch of honeyed yellow-gold. Rapidly, she divests herself of her scarlet dress and sets to work on stays and other underclothes. My holy grail lies on the floor. I pick the dress up and caress it; it is made, as I thought, of the very finest silk. The feeling sends a shiver down my spine. Urgently, she points out to me her bows and ribbons that still need to be undone. Laying down her red dress with reluctance, I comply.

  Finally, Marie flexes her hips in readiness and steps out of her underclothes, leaving her clad only in the lightest shift. She begins to unharness me, fingers flying at the black mourning dress. Candlelit images of our actions flicker in two mirrors, one on either side. I can only stand in mute, almost martyred, repose. There is a small problem: I have not expected her to be so brisk, nor that I might find her form and actions as arousing as her gown. The last of my outer undergarments falls to the floor. My thin shift cannot conceal my slight excitement.

  Marie gasps and crosses her arms to cover her breast. I am about to move to prevent her from doing so, but recognise this could be misinterpreted and step away.

  “Don’t be afraid. I will not touch you.”

  “You have deceived me. It’s… it’s unforgivable.” She sways, although her legs are planted as if they are stuck fast to the floor.

  “Surely there are many masquerades where gentlemen are required to dress as ladies?”

  “That’s not at all the same thing.”

  “But it must stand as some precedent.”

  She finds some movement in her legs at last, steps backward and sits down upon the couch. “I don’t know what to say.” She sighs.

  “Please, I beg you, do not alarm yourself. I’m happy to give you some recompense for your trouble.”

  “Such as?” Her voice is scornful.

  “Anything you want.”

  “What on earth can you offer?”

  I raise my hands as if in prayer. “I am a lawyer. Let me represent you.”

  “Me? You will be too busy defending yourself.”

  “I promise you, I mean no harm.”

  “That’s just as well.” She snorts. “How can you think I might need the law?”

  “My dear Marie, you may not now, but in the future, who can tell?”

  She moves her head from side to side, irresolute. “No, no, I cannot possibly.”

  “You’ve come so far with me. I’ll be forever in your debt.” I take her hands and bring her to her feet.

  “But when I am near naked…?”

  I motion to her dress. “This will be pleasure enough. You should try on mine.”

  “And that is all?”

  “I swear it.”

  “I don’t know. I must be quite out of my senses,” she mutters, shaking her head. “You are most unusual for your sex.”

  “That, I cannot deny.” I can see I am winning her round. Yet she may still believe I’m merely playing with her. “Madame, I am in earnest.” She smiles again, at last. I think I have her confidence. She picks up the black dress and sits back on the couch.

  * * *

  High up in the Opéra, leaning on a balustrade, the Prince de Conti is watching the ball below. As he follows the cavortings of a tiger’s head and a young, olive-skinned courtesan, his gaze is drawn by flashes of red and black. He observes Marie and Charles leaving the gaming room and follows their weaving progress.

  “Is the King here?” Charlotte stifles a little yawn.

  Conti’s concentration is fixed on his new finds. “Haven’t seen him.”

  “Or La Pompadour? Shepherdesses and their flocks so utterly smack of her.”

  “I’ve no idea. Come with me – I’ll show you something more interesting.”

  He takes her hand; they walk around the balcony and enter a small room, a private chamber set aside for the amusements of some benefactor.

  “Let me see now. Yes, this will do. A Richelieu favourite, I recall.” He turns and locks
the door.

  “Why, Prince, what have you in mind?”

  Conti kisses Charlotte on the white, exposed flesh at the junction of her neck and shoulder, and sidles away to look at a mirror on the wall. With great care he removes the glass and applies his eye to the small peephole behind it. He beckons Charlotte towards him.

  “They always end up down there if they wish to be alone.”

  “But how do you know, my love?”

  “Am I not a spymaster? The greatest in the land?”

  She sniffs, but follows the Prince’s line of vision and sees Charles below, standing beside the divan. Charlotte nudges Conti further aside and fixes her right eye to the peephole. As she studies the spectacle, Conti, showing elaborate solicitude, lifts her dress and petticoats from behind and eases himself close to her. Charlotte gasps but does not shift her position. Buttons are popped one by one as she watches the tableau unfolding far beneath them. She flaps at him with her free hand in ineffectual protest.

  “Not here.”

  “Why not? No one can see us. I’ve made sure we won’t be disturbed.”

  “But you’ve only just…”

  “My dear Charlotte, the Bourbon blood runs hot.”

  Their gentle undulations are echoed by deliberate, circling movements in the darkened room below. Charles and Marie’s stately pavane stimulates a sense of wonder, leading to further activity between the lovers on the balcony.

  “What do you think?” Conti’s mouth is hovering near Charlotte’s left ear.

  A little moan. “That tickles. I must confess it does feel rather good.”

  “No, no, no. I mean, is it a girl or a boy?”

  “I thought I saw something, but the light is bad down there.”

  “So did I…”

  She turns her head a moment. “Does it signify?”

  “It might mean a great deal to me,” he says.

  “Oh yes. Indeed.” She sighs. “Look now.”

  * * *

  No one can say I am not a creature of my word. Instead of lying down beside Marie, as she fears (or even, perhaps, wishes), I back away from the low couch. Keeping my gaze upon her, my hands feel for her discarded dress. Trembling a little, I pick it up, savour it with my fingers. Soon, she rises, starts to pull on the black gown, and my own nirvana is nigh. I sheathe myself in the scarlet dress. It is every bit as exhilarating as I dreamed. There is only one small flaw in my delight – the room contains no glass for me to look at my own image. Texture is a stimulant, but vision and texture combined are what I crave. I will have to satisfy this impulse later.

  Meanwhile, I stand back and watch Marie adjusting my sister’s mourning black. I walk around her to take in the sight from every angle, and swoop in to help her make the garment fit her form. I am near heaven, but one final step remains.

  “Can I take a turn around the ballroom?”

  She looks at me in horror. “Isn’t this enough? Are you quite mad?”

  “Yes, I think I am.” My little laugh does not appear to reassure her.

  “I’ve no doubt that is so – but what am I to do?”

  “You can do the same.”

  “If anybody finds us out…”

  “They won’t, they’re all far too preoccupied. You’ve seen it for yourself.”

  “But my guardian is a jealous man.”

  “Avoid him.”

  She takes a long, deep breath. “Very well. Ten minutes, and no more.”

  We replace our masks and leave the room to join the mass of revellers. As we merge with the flow of bodies, she lets go of my hand and melts away. In a moment she is gone.

  I find myself wandering alone, in a daze, along a crowded corridor. I must admit it is as though I have imbibed too many glasses of my Tonnerrois wine; I feel quite giddy with happiness and fulfilled desires. Scarlet invites more scrutiny than bible black. The looks of all the passers-by confirm me in my cool assurance that I am, at the moment, irresistible.

  The corridor leads to a doorway, and the noise of the music is swelling. I wish to watch the orchestra but a tall man carrying a bull’s head mask blocks my path into the main hall. Even in my state of euphoria I can tell from his swaying that he is, at the very least, tipsy, inattentive. Suddenly he sees me and makes a grab at my sleeve with his right hand. His other paw extends towards my cheek. Confusion overtakes him. A moment of bewilderment registers upon his features with comical precision; I’m obviously a different face from the one he’s expecting. Then he slides into drunken infatuation, drooling over me at dangerously close quarters. My senses tingle with a frisson of alarm. His finger extends towards me in an obscene gesture. Repelled by his overtures, I brush him off with my hand and glide away into the crowds.

  He tries to move after me, but I rush on through the doorway into the ballroom, soon hiding myself among the dancers. As I make my escape, I glance back – it seems he is now distracted by the imminent arrival of a slender, dark-haired lady.

  Chapter Two

  The Green Room

  The skittering approach of this short, thin-faced beauty places the Comte de Guerchy in a dilemma. There’s nothing he’d like more than to pursue the glorious creature in the red dress – and hadn’t Marie been wearing that earlier, or one most similar? – yet his wife looks to be hell-bent on conversation. These new conundrums will have to wait. He falls to tinkering with the horns on his bull’s head.

  “Where have you been?” Her breathless, high-pitched voice seizes command even as she looks up at him.

  “I might ask you the same question, Lydia.”

  “Canoodling with your ward, no doubt.”

  “I’ve done no such thing – in fact, I’ve hardly seen her. And you, my sweet, have clearly taken an overabundance of wine.”

  She puts small hands on narrow hips, the many-hued feathers on her mask quivering. “Who in France might blame me?”

  “Quiet, you’re making a scene.” He places the bull’s head back on, struggling to fit it over his ears.

  “Fawning over that young baggage. Reason enough, isn’t it?”

  His speech emerges muted, as from an underground chamber: “I might remind you it was your family who asked me to save her from that brute of a husband. Didn’t I do exactly as they asked?”

  “They didn’t have tyranny in mind.”

  “She’s perhaps no schoolgirl, but she still needs guidance. I’m protecting her for her own good.” His taurine head adds strength to his claim, yet his distorted voice is rising, causing some of the bystanders to stare.

  “For your own good, it seems.”

  He raises his hand but makes a great effort to control himself. “This is getting nowhere. I’m not going to argue with you anymore.”

  “Because you know you’ll lose. Not one point in your favour.”

  “And you’re aware how important it is to keep our differences quiet from others.”

  “So you can bully me in private?”

  “We’ll continue the discussion in a less public place. Let’s find something to eat.”

  She points a dismissive finger. “The buffet’s over there.”

  “No, no, I feel like sitting down. You’ll dine with me, Lydia.”

  Just before Guerchy can seize her, she raises her eyes to the ceiling, where dark satyrs are ravishing languorous nymphs, and surrenders to his caprice. They wander off towards the boxes where private suppers are being served.

  * * *

  “Hungry, my dear?” Conti attacks a chicken leg with gusto.

  “Not really,” Charlotte says. “But carry on.”

  “I’m ravenous.” He always is, afterwards.

  The Prince and Charlotte are regarding the merry-go-round with differing degrees of involvement. Between mouthfuls, he is alert, predatory, whereas she leans back, stretches out her arms on the chair and brings up a fine-boned hand to stifle a yawn. However, she retains her social instincts.

  “Guerchy’s back with his wife, I see,” she says.

  �
��For the time being, at least.”

  “I’m tired, Louis-François.”

  “A little while longer, my sweet,” murmurs the Prince. “I want to take in the scene in all its poetic splendour.”

  “You mean you wish to wait and introduce yourself to that couple.”

  “And what if I do?” His reply has a sharp edge.

  “Must you always work even when taking your pleasures?”

  “If a man is born a king, Charlotte, he may relax from time to time. If he wishes to become one, his labours must be ceaseless.” Conti wipes some strands of chicken from the corner of his mouth. “The wearers of those black and scarlet dresses may prove very useful.”

  * * *

  My celebratory route takes me around the ballroom, through all the passageways and upwards to the first floor. There I stop to appreciate the fine playing of the orchestra and the patterns of the minuets below. The dancers ebb and flow, shimmering in the light cast by the vast gilded chandeliers, until I’m mesmerised. But I cannot drink in this vista for too long, since I sense hunters ready to pounce on my scarlet-covered form. I slip away, descend the main staircase and am considering whether I can risk another glass of wine when Marie appears and grasps me by the hand. She hastens me into a long, narrow room somewhere behind the stage. Painted pale green with plentiful white stucco, and a profusion of mirrors on the walls, I gather it is set aside for the dancers, singers and actresses who play the Opéra.

  She leads me to a wide, high mirror. “Have you circulated enough?”

  “I could never tire of this.” I stare in wonder at my figure shaped in scarlet in the glass.

  “My dear sweet thing, anyone would think this is your first masquerade.”