The Chevalier Read online

  As he stares at me and deliberates on my potential uses, the Prince glances at Charlotte, who’s quite captivated. If I can snare two high-born persons, I may not be lost. In fact, my weakness may – perversely – bring me the strength to reach my goal. This encounter could lead to the restitution of my lands.

  I am to see Versailles, I am to meet the King. This will be my hour.

  * * *

  It is the first hot afternoon of the year, a teasing foretaste of high summer. Intent on finding fault with the preparations of his gardeners, Guerchy is strolling through the grounds of his château at Nangis with Marie. The gardens waft the heady scents of flowers bursting into bloom: she concentrates on the budding plants in order to avoid his gaze. Paris is only three hours or so to the north-west but it seems a world away.

  “You were looking as though you enjoyed the other night, my dear?” He swishes his stick so fast at the deadheads, its vibrations sing in the air.

  Marie’s unsure how much he knows, uncertain whether she’s been seen. “Not at all, General. Some of the goings on…” She clicks her teeth with her tongue.

  “I must say I’m surprised. Perhaps it was the other woman in the same dress who made so free?”

  “What other woman?” Marie feels a tug of fear in her stomach.

  Guerchy clips a straggling stem as though it were an ill-kempt soldier and checks to see whether his wife’s out of earshot. His reconnaissance finds Lydia seated in an arbour in front of the château, fanning herself with a piece of paper and sipping from a goblet that contains what might be water but is more likely to be wine. Content with her inertia, he turns back to Marie. “Don’t act so innocent with me.”

  “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

  Grabbing her shoulder, he pulls her towards him until they’re face to face; he’s breathing hard, only just able to restrain himself. The stick keeps on vibrating in his other hand. “Just remember I’m your protector.”

  “I’m always grateful for what you’ve done.” She tries not to register her alarm.

  “Well, show it by finding out who shares your dress sense.”

  Marie nods at him, her face as blank as she can keep it. Guerchy stares at her for so long that she feels the perspiration from his closeness and the harsh sun begin to rise on her brow. But, drawing on reserves of inner coolness, she maintains her composure and holds his gaze.

  Rebuffed, he executes an about turn and marches away, leaving Marie rigid on her patch of grass. After ten paces, he slows and wanders over towards Lydia, hauling up a chair to sit beside her. His wife regards him with equanimity, fingers twirling about the stem of her glass. The piece of paper is no longer to be seen.

  “I want a word with that head gardener. Tell Madame Theneuille to bring him to me tomorrow morning.”

  “Reflect a moment, Claude. We’ve lost four in seven years. Thanks to your words.”

  Guerchy sighs. “Has to be done.” He leans back, causing the chair to tilt to a marked degree. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with your milliner friend.”

  “A woman must sparkle in society.”

  “No one denies it. But do you always have to spend so long locked in your rooms? I mean to say, what time did she come? And then there’s the bill…”

  Lydia closes her eyes, exasperated. “The little details make the difference. She’s good at those, Claude.”

  “There’s something between you, I’m sure, and I won’t stand for it. If it wasn’t for the scandal, I’d bar her and throw you out. I mean it, Lydia, so consider this a warning shot.”

  * * *

  Marie glances up to her window while her guardian and his wife are conversing in this pleasant manner. A pillow case is hanging outside to dry in the sun, a coded signal from Violette, her maid. Following a circuitous route to keep out of sight, Marie returns at once to the château. A letter has arrived. Could this be from her discovery, her new creature? She shivers at the possibility. Her ruddy cheeks aglow, Violette looks on in expectation, her nerves as taut as those of her mistress. Marie thanks her, tips her a little more than is her custom and goes back downstairs and out onto the terrace. Once again skirting the feuding couple, she takes an energetic walk into the woods at the fringe of the park. At length she judges herself secure from view, stops, opens the impressive seal and reads the single sheet against the trunk of a gargantuan oak.

  The note names a time for her to visit a place – hitherto unknown – with a certain article of clothing. It is signed with a solitary C.

  It could be from him, she speculates. Everything fits: the likely address, the signature, the request. However, the seal is a little too aristocratic, the prose somewhat too terse. She mulls over the problem beneath the sprouting green leaves. After a few minutes, she walks to the edge of the wood. Observing that Lydia and Guerchy have moved their chairs apart and relapsed into a hostile silence, she heads straight over to join them in the arbour.

  “Two days from now I need to be in Paris.”

  Guerchy considers a moment. “Very well, I’ll take you with me. Delegations from the Dijon and Paris Parlements are meeting that day to discuss our appeals procedures. Dull, I know, but I must attend. You’ll have to hold the fort, Lydia.”

  “Alas, the fort must be unguarded. I’m visiting my mother for her birthday.” Lydia smiles in triumphant malice at the frown that creases his features.

  “So we’ll all be in town. How delightful.” Guerchy turns to his ward. “Your reasons, if you please, Marie?”

  “My lawyer asks me to attend him. There’s news.”

  Chapter Four

  The Hall of Mirrors

  The days of the week pass slowly by. The few duties I must fulfil in my position as personal secretary to M. de Savigny at the Generalité have never been more wearisome. I am engaged in work concerning the city’s expansion, drafting letters regarding permission to erect or renovate monuments and buildings; at the moment, the construction of Place Louis XV between the Tuileries and the Champs Elysées, and, in particular, its long-awaited equestrian statue of the King, is weighing upon me like so many blocks of stone.

  It is not long before I fret at the strictures placed on me by these repetitive, unthinking actions and allow my thoughts to wander off into anticipation. A note from Conti says Marie will visit me at two. The prospect of wearing her scarlet dress once more fills me with an unrivalled frisson of pleasure. I burn to feel the silk that has sheathed her body caress my skin again. This dress will still be shaped to her, still fused with her scents and perfumes and her most intimate odour: the mere recollection of inhaling it intoxicates me. My sister’s mourning black, sensuous as it may be, has never fired such passion.

  At a little after midday on the Thursday, I seek permission from de Savigny to leave my labours early.

  “Got an assignation, have you?” His shrivelled, walnut-brown face cracks into a grin. “About time. When your father was around, he… well, perhaps it’s best not to talk about that. I must say I’d hardly think you’re up to the task, you’re such a frail thing, but go – you have my blessing.”

  I choose not to enlighten him, give hasty thanks and slip away.

  Despite the early summer sun, the walk home is far more arduous than I have ever known. At every step, I feel the eyes of women on the streets boring into my very soul, rejecting my halting attempts to become one of them, whereas each man I pass is cursing me in silence as a traitor. And when I cross the Pont Neuf, it is hard not to imagine the Prince, spyglass trained on me from windows high in the Hôtel de Conti, frowning, regretting his folly and countermanding his instructions. I am starting to see enemies everywhere. By some miracle I reach my rooms unscathed.

  Soon, she knocks. Marie, my saviour, is here, as wonderful in daytime as at night. Her beauty, however, cannot distract me: I can only scrabble at the clasps of her valise, heedless of anything but the imminent consummation of my desires. The near liquid texture of the silk is balm to my touch. Detached and
cool, she watches as I tread the paths of my obsession.

  It is not long before I am at peace, admiring myself in my full-length mirror. Once more in her scarlet dress with its delicious silver bows criss-crossing downward from my bosom, I must confess I appear every bit as ravishing as Marie; I am able to make an instant comparison while she’s beside me, adjusting one of her white and silver neckbands at my throat with long, thin fingers.

  “How do I look?”

  She steps back, appraising me as though I were a painting freshly unveiled in the Academy. “You don’t need me to tell you. You know you look wonderful.”

  I smile at our reflections. “You’re very kind, Marie. I feel at ease with you.” Though I recall there is to be a price to pay for my fulfilment. “But the King…”

  “Will be no trouble, I’m sure.” Her hands smooth down the bunched silk on my shoulders. “He’ll adore you. You’ll be fine.”

  “I wish you could be there with me.”

  Once more her eyes meet mine. “Didn’t I tell you? The Prince de Conti has invited me along to help you find your way.”

  Now I am hooked for certain.

  Marie applies some final dabs of powder to my face, brushes my cheeks lightly with faint rouge, peers at her handiwork and then spins round to see the full effect in the mirror. Side by side, we hold our poses, in almost exact symmetry. Yet her eyes are fixed on me – and so, most of the time I regret to say, are mine. As I see her watching me admiring myself, I turn towards her with a hurried smile.

  “Thank you – for everything.”

  “Don’t mention it, my little Charles. You are – how may I put this? – truly exceptional.”

  A flush of shared humanity, of would-be sisterhood runs through me. “Did I ever let you know Marie’s also my last name?”

  “Why, how many do you have?”

  “Seven. But Marie’s the one I’d choose.”

  “Then the dress is not all we have in common.”

  Her own dress today is pale gold. It drapes Marie’s noble form, her left breast camouflaged by white and yellow roses, and hugs her white, full, shapely body while flowing out to half-conceal her limbs; she is a goddess walking upon earth. I berate myself for my selfishness. My nerves are such that I have taken this long to remind myself of her beauty. And now the hour is advancing.

  “How long does it take to reach Versailles?”

  She reaches for a jewel-encrusted bag. “The fast carriage with those horses enragés is waiting. We should be there in excellent time.”

  * * *

  The clocks are striking six throughout Versailles. From the northern Hall of War, the Prince de Conti leads the small royal party into the Hall of Mirrors with scant ceremony. Drawn curtains ensure only sporadic shafts of early evening sunshine pierce the gloom: flickers of light are bouncing off the mirrors onto the ceiling and the walls. A few courtiers are scattered around the fringes, but they’re lost in the vast room. Only an echoing, low murmur breaks the hush.

  On the platform at the end of the long hall, Conti takes his place beside the King. Robed in blue and gold, shifting his bulk restlessly around the throne, Louis XV sits to listen to a supplicant. In his middle years, with an unlined, fleshy, still handsome face, he is the very picture of a monarch. For just a moment, his flashing eyes show hints of sensual vice before his sullen mouth begins to droop with lethargy. He shakes his head in answer to a lengthy question. Soon the English Ambassador is retreating from this temporary stage.

  From the next level down, Conti leans over and mutters to Louis. “So much for peace in India and the colonies in North America, Your Majesty. It’s a fight for world dominion. But I believe I’ve found a solution for the Russian problem. One that’ll amuse you.”

  “Possibly. Your last witty answer is still rotting in their jails.” The King nods to Lansmartre, his lively, loose-limbed huntsman and valet, who bounds over to him, carrying a salver full of glistening fruit.

  “Yes, poor Valcroissant – we’ve protested again. This one’ll be different, I assure you.”

  “Indeed?” Louis takes a bite from the apple now in his left hand. Munching vigorously, as one used to eating in public, he turns his head and ogles Charlotte who stands, in fetching pink, at a respectful distance. She feels his stare and blushes in pretty confusion.

  Conti affects to take no notice and continues: “We’ll send a governess for the Empress Elizabeth. Carrying secret documents, Sire.”

  “Why in the world would she want a governess?”

  “Perhaps not a governess as such. More of a reader, a lectrice. She’s a great admirer of the ideas of our philosophers.”

  Louis tosses his apple core to the adroit Lansmartre. “I have a taste for caviare, but I don’t hire a Russian chef.”

  “It’s the best way to circumvent our difficulties. Trust me, Your Majesty. Watch.”

  * * *

  The doors from the Hall of Peace at the southern end of the great Hall of Mirrors are thrown open in front of us. In the hazy half-light I find it difficult to make out the group of people at the far end but I know who is among them. Marie and I advance in stately fashion across the emptiness that separates us from the royal presence. Our footsteps echo on the polished parquet boards and, for the first time in my life, I am conscious of the aching in my soles from the raised heels.

  Am I trying to rise in society unnaturally? Does my desire to regain our lost lands and prestige justify my actions? Now, when it is far too late for me to change my mind, I am beginning to have more doubts about the Prince de Conti. Can I trust him? Or Marie? I glance at her fine profile. Are they all engaged in some conspiracy to bring me low?

  Above us, chandeliers of glass hang on golden threads from golden vaulted panels. Flamboyant paintings curve around the ceiling, celebrating the great deeds of the Sun King all those long years ago, mementos to his mighty yet thoughtless extravagance. We pass arch upon arch adorned with mirrors, pilasters crowned with cockerels and fleurs-de-lys, and shrouded window after window with the merest strips of dying sunbeams breaking through.

  We make our slow procession down the Hall, on either side our images flickering from glass to glass. Now, with every measured stride the welcoming Court looms nearer. The King, lounging in accustomed ease amongst so many standing subjects, has a face of great refinement and sensitivity. He seems to have a regal glow, an aura which might be yet another trick of the filtered evening light. I focus my gaze upon him and he returns the compliment with such whole-hearted vigour that it feels as if my garments melt away. Meanwhile, Charlotte surveys our approach, pouting radiant encouragement at me. Her lover Prince glances sideways from her to the King: Louis is still enjoying the spectacle so much his tongue sneaks out to moisten his upper lip. As Marie has instructed, we come to a halt ten paces before the throne. Reassured by our reception, Conti beams indulgence on both of us; he whispers a brief word in the King’s ear.

  Louis rises slightly on his throne, turns and hisses back at Conti. Blessed with keen hearing by my rural upbringing, I can just make out his words. “You’re sure it’s one of these?”

  Conti nods. “Just so.”

  Louis squints at the two of us again and whistles. “Fascinating. Please introduce them, cousin.”

  “Your Majesty, may I have the honour of presenting Madame Marie de Courcelles and Mademoiselle Lia D’Éon de Beaumont.”

  We both curtsey very low. Louis now stands, beckons us forward and takes our outstretched right hands in turn. He looks rapidly from Marie to me and back again. There is complete silence in the Hall. This is the moment. Can I pass? I hardly dare to exhale. I am delighted to see that the King, no mean judge of a woman, if even half the rumours are true, is at the very least bemused.

  “Enchanting,” Louis breaks the spell. “You wish to serve us?”

  “Your Majesty,” confirms Marie.

  “With all my heart,” I say.

  I hope my husky voice doesn’t give the game away. Louis chews his li
p in thought, and turns to Marie who inclines her head. There’s another long pause. I hear a clock chime the half hour in the Hall of War. The King glances at Conti to corroborate that she’s the one. Conti leaks his sardonic smile then slowly shakes his head. I am successful, now become a woman in the eyes of France.

  King Louis’s gaze alights on me once more. “On a secret mission?”

  “Whatever you desire, Your Majesty,” I say. I am, however, keen to hear the details.

  “Explain, cousin.” Louis settles back on the throne.

  Conti steps forward. “Someone must visit Russia – but our envoys aren’t welcome. However, we wish to form an alliance with the Empress Elizabeth. The French language is flourishing there, so we propose to send a secret treaty to her, through a person she’ll grow to trust – a governess.”

  At that moment an elegant yet startling beauty glides in from the Hall of War. Her skin is flawless white, her hair a softly gleaming light brown, her oval face one of doll-like perfection. She wears a shimmering silver dress, whose bows and ruffles enhance her trim, thin-waisted figure. Green eyes glowing, she bridles at Conti’s last word. “Governess? I offer His Majesty sufficient tuition.”

  This must be Jeanne, Marquise de Pompadour, ten years the mistress of the King and, so most gossips say, still the power behind the throne. Taller than most of the Court women, she looks us up and down with cool disdain.

  “Quite so, my dear. But we were discussing instruction for the far-flung Russian Court.” The King smiles at her, evidently enjoying the partial truth of his explanation.

  La Pompadour dismisses us with her fan. “Send these ladies as far as you want.”

  Although I’m put on edge straight away, I am nevertheless taken by her stellar glow and natural air of command. It takes true majesty to dim the rays of a king.