The Chevalier Read online

  “One of them, my sweet, one of them,” he says, lowering the royal black eyes in a bid to placate her. “Tell me what you think.”

  The Marquise, seething with jealousy at Louis’s presumed (and, in my short experience, all too real) lechery, pauses to scrutinise both of us again. She studies Marie’s swelling, rose-mounted breast and then turns to me, examining me most carefully before tapping the side of my shoulder with her now-closed fan. “This one. The other one’s a pretty thing, but this one – she could be dangerous.”

  I know I should stay quiet, but cannot prevent myself. “You flatter me, Marquise.”

  La Pompadour’s face freezes. Her eyes flash in an instant from green fire to cold, grey ice.

  “Why should I do that?”

  “To please the King,” I say.

  “Whatever pleases me is bound to please the King.”

  “And do I please you?”

  “Yes. But you’re too bold – for a governess.”

  “I hope you’ll always think so.”

  Her eyes hold mine and I can mark her very great allure; they now shift again in shade from grey to palest blue.

  “I wish you a pleasant journey, Mademoiselle.” Her lips trace a smile. She glances with magnificent hauteur at her royal lover, who remains impassive, before she turns away and moves with swift grace towards the doors back into the Hall of War.

  Louis waits until she’s gone, tense in expectation of a final sally, but at length he relaxes. Beaming around the Court, he gestures in relief to Conti. “Ask Monsieur de Rouillé to fill in all the details.”

  “I’ve prepared them already, Sire.”

  The King nods. “Good.” He smiles briefly at me: “Thank you for this service.”

  And that is that.

  Louis waves us both away – we curtsey, and prepare to withdraw. As we swivel to retreat, I notice for the first time an old woman with a placid if decaying face, seated quietly in the corner away from the doors. She reminds me a touch of my beloved Madame Benoist, watching her grandchildren play with all the calm indifference of one whose task is done.

  “Who’s she?” I whisper.

  “The Queen,” replies Marie.

  Sidelined at Court, the royal consort Marie Leszczinska seems not to register our passing. Yet a sense of unease takes hold of me. Halfway across the hall, I begin to feel faint. The pitch at which I’ve had to play exerts its toll. I stumble and sway. I am going to fall and ruin everything. Marie sees my distress and grips my shaking arm. We halt and I compose myself. My balance restored, I hear the raised voice of the King coming at me from a great distance.

  “Bon voyage, Mademoiselle de Beaumont.”

  I cannot rouse myself to a reply. His words are still resounding in my head, underscored by the long trickle of a courtier relieving himself against a wall far down the corridor, as the doors creak shut behind us.

  Chapter Five

  Mistresses

  The audience is at an end. Conti’s heartbeat returns to normal as his protégé recovers and the far doors close. Still breathing hard, the Prince walks down the corridors that lead from the Hall of Mirrors to the King’s apartments. In front of his eyes, Louis lollops with indolent ease, already seeking to undo the clasp that holds the heavy robes of state around him. At any moment, Conti expects a gesture, a question, a word that will indicate all his plans have come to naught. But Louis is oblivious, ignoring the lines of worry on the Prince’s face: he swings right, divesting himself of his regal garments into the arms of the ever waiting Lansmartre, and vanishes from sight.

  Now that they are free of their royal charge, Charlotte follows from the Hall, heels tapping briskly, and tugs at the Prince’s Mechelin lace sleeve.

  “Come with me,” she says.

  “If you must, dearest. I know a good place.”

  Satisfying himself that the King is preparing to engage in a strenuous bout of cards in the Salon of Hercules, Conti ushers Charlotte into a small dining room, one of many that offer brief refuge from the brutal scrutiny of the gossips of Versailles. Immediately the door closes behind them, she pulls him towards her, surprising him with the strength of her embrace.

  “You have succeeded. My congratulations.” She kisses him full on the lips.

  He yields to her onslaught, taken aback, but breaks free at last and smiles in quiet self-satisfaction. “A startling discovery, I must admit. Thank God I persuaded you to go to the Opéra.”

  “Come now, Monsieur le Prince. If I recollect, it was I who convinced you.”

  “Let’s not waste time arguing about such trivialities.” In his mind’s eye, she is quite right. “The crucial thing is that Louis is keen on the idea and my stock once more stands high.” He guides her towards a chair, sumptuous yet solid in the English style. The dinner table is laid for two, with cold meats, bread, fruits and cheeses in profusion. But Conti now feels the sudden sickness that accompanies the granting of exalted hopes. He shakes his head as she proffers him cuts of the finest ham. “Do help yourself, Charlotte.”

  She wrinkles her nose at his lack of appetite. “Will this discovery fulfil your dreams?”

  “Without question. I intend he shall not only execute his planned mission, but in doing so, frame the conditions to make me King of Poland. One secret task is relatively simple: anyone might accomplish it. However, if you want two carried out, it is best to use someone whose very life is a masquerade. So is he not perfection?”

  A last ray of sunlight ricochets around the mirrors that hang on three unwindowed walls, and fades.

  “I believe so, Your Majesty,” she bows her head in a mockery of subjection. “There is the making of a good brain inside those gorgeous bones.”

  The Prince is unsure whether she’s referring to the little Chevalier or himself. He decides once again not to press the point. “No doubt. We’ll find out soon enough.”

  She slices into some ripe cheese from Meaux, releasing a pungent aroma, and applies a slither from her knife to a dripping piece of pear. “I beg to hope I’m backing the right horse.”

  Conti, still confused, tries to find meaning in her eyes, but looks away unenlightened. He nods briefly and decides to change the subject. “What do you believe is the secret of the Chevalier’s appeal?”

  Charlotte takes a careful bite from her confection. “Everyone is enraptured: nearly everyone loves him. He has a luminosity about him, a frail androgynous beauty.”

  “Yes, he’s almost an hermaphrodite. And we’re the only ones who know his sex for sure.” Taking a crystal decanter, he pours some cold white wine into two goblets. “To the Chevalier, my dear.”

  She toasts him with the Chablis in return. “To Mademoiselle d’Éon de Beaumont.”

  “Salut.” He drinks deep. The influx of wine further loosens his tongue. “Did you note the King’s reaction? If His Majesty’s a barometer, our young heroine’s certainly attractive to men…”

  “And, I think, as favourable to women in the trappings of a man.” Charlotte cannot resist a smile, recalling his appearance at the ball.

  “Well, you know Marie de Courcelles finds him so. As for yourself…”

  “I cannot deny I’m fascinated.”

  “Then I am sure we have the right creature for the East. He can be all things to all mankind.”

  She pauses, reaches across the table for his hand. “Do you feel no pangs of guilt in sending him out there?”

  “Naturally. But my dear girl, I have no other choice.”

  “Alone?”

  “Do you think me completely heartless?” He takes another sip of wine. “I have suggested to the King an ideal escort, one whose absence would free up half the harlots in Paris. Even ignoring such debauchery, his stay in our country has been a constant embarrassment.”

  “I gather he’s no Frenchman.”

  “A Scotchman, in fact. The man is a survivor of their failed rebellion in the year ’45. He calls himself Lord Douglas: I found him in the Palais-Royal.”

&n
bsp; * * *

  There is still a trace of warmth in the Parisian evening sun. Shielding her face with her hood, Lydia, Comtesse de Guerchy, makes her way through the crowds around the Palais-Royal colonnades. She tiptoes past the braying groups of whores and tricksters, avoids the stealthy clusters of pickpockets and thieves. As she reaches the corner of the quadrangle, her momentum is arrested and she jerks back; a hand pulls her by the shoulder of her grey cape into the shadows behind a stone column.

  Lydia is about to cry out but another hand clasps her around the mouth. Struggling, she cannot escape the strong grip. Fear makes her eyes soon grow accustomed to the dim light. Those powerful arms exert increasing pressure until they twist her slim form right about. Now she can view her assailant. Tall, elegant, patrician, the stark cheekbones and dark brown eyes of César Gabriel de Choiseul are looking down on her, yet his air of amused disdain she knows so well is absent. Glistening rivulets of sweat on the side of his face betray his tension. At last he moves his hand to free her lips and she sighs with relief.

  “It’s you. I thought my husband had sent spies.”

  “I was expecting you hours ago, Lydia.” He takes out a pocket watch. “I’ve hired the room from five.”

  “Had to see my dressmaker. You knew I was at mother’s.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly done your duty there.”

  Nearby church bells begin to ring for vespers. He hurries her to a doorway and fiddles with the outsize key in the strange lock. Once inside, she tries to soothe him with quick kisses, reaching up on her toes to plant them on his cheek.

  “Didn’t begin to dine until three.” Her words come in staccato bursts. “Leaving early would have provoked questions. Besides, I’m fond of her.”

  He locks the door behind them. “Your filial feeling does you credit.”

  “Understand this: she’s a general’s widow. She is strategic, and tactical. Mustn’t provide her with imponderables.” Her muslin handkerchief dabs at the perspiration on his reddened face.

  “That reminds me. I’m considering leaving the Army.”

  “César Gabriel!” Her voice reaches a higher pitch. “Mother says war will start soon.”

  A brief nod of the head before he throws her cape aside, takes her in his arms and manoeuvres her towards a long divan. “Of course, a mere major-general will yield precedence to the Marquis de Harcourt’s widow. It’s only because I may have bigger game to catch. And it will reduce the chances of bumping into your husband.”

  She sniffs. “Don’t worry about that. No danger of him noticing.” Gabriel gives her a little push. She sinks back onto the pink velvet couch.

  “Why, what is occupying him?”

  “Ostensibly, some legal matters. In reality, chasing his ward. And some flibbertigibbet from the ball.”

  César Gabriel takes off his dark blue jacket, brushes away a scrap of paper lodged in its silver braid and hangs it with military exactitude on a pink-cushioned chair. “In that case, why am I indulging you in this passion for secrecy?”

  “We can’t flaunt it. Even he will act. And then he’ll erupt.” She shudders with theatrical distaste and looks away.

  “Why? What does he do to you?” His hands are untying the bows on her chemise.

  “I’d rather not say.” She pulls him to her. “Too terrible.”

  “You must tell me, Lydia.” Somehow as he plunges ever lower his stifled voice does not support the urgency of his demand.

  “Later.” She shimmies from her stays. “Quick, now. There’s only half an hour.”

  * * *

  Back in the environs of Versailles, the evening sun is setting beyond the trees in the park and a new moon is rising in the sky. The youthful, lean-faced Collin, La Pompadour’s chief agent, is ushering a man into her boudoir at Bellevue. This visitor is less blessed with good looks than he is with sheer vitality, flushed with the self-confidence of the accomplished lover. Plump cheeks aglow, Étienne, Comte de Stainville, younger cousin to Choiseul, noble by birth and wealthy by marriage, looks around him. The walls and ceiling are a luscious riot of blue and gold, the detailed panelling carved by Verberckt, commissioned by the royal mistress for this new château, now deemed the quintessence of modern taste. Bright candles blaze from the ornate and only slightly overbearing chandelier. A fire smoulders in the hearth.

  Jeanne, Marquise de Pompadour, reclines on her long sofa, one hand wielding a Chinese fan. She beckons Stainville to sit beside her and gazes on his puppyish, eager face. “You’ve heard the news?”

  “I came as quickly as I could, Marquise.”

  “This intrigue reeks of Conti.”

  “You shouldn’t trust the King.”

  “I know he’s obtuse. I can handle that. Ten years has left its mark.” Her eyelashes flutter in seductive resignation. “But what’s Conti up to?”

  Although he’s superficially detached, gazing towards the river as if for inspiration, Stainville is prepared for this line of questioning. He thinks for only a moment. “We can find out. Send someone with this governess.”

  “How?”

  “She’s going to need an escort travelling across Europe. Provide one.”

  La Pompadour nods her approval. “Excellent. I’ll insist on it with the King.”

  “I’m sure your advocacy would succeed. But you’re too late.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “My sources tell me such a man’s already been appointed.”

  “Conti’s moving quickly. Well, who?”

  “Lord Douglas. You won’t have heard of him. He’s an itinerant Scotchman, who has been whoring his way around the courts of Europe since the defeat of the Young Pretender. Without paying.”

  Her grey eyes narrow and flicker. “So what are you proposing?”

  “This Douglas is freshly arrived in Paris. A month or two ago, no more. He’s been here just long enough to cause trouble.” He glances over at her. “I’ll put my mind to it.”

  She echoes his glance with cool, appraising eyes now flashing a dangerous light green. “I believe you’ll go far in government, Étienne.”

  “Thank you.”

  Suddenly she stands, wraps her arms around him, kissing him upon the cheek and then upon the lips. After a vain attempt to turn his head away, he joins in with enthusiasm, until the sound of a clock striking jerks them apart.

  “Good gracious, eight already. The servants will be coming in.”

  “I thought you were not made for love, Marquise.”

  She fusses, adjusting her lime-green gown. “Whatever gives you that impression?”

  “The rumours about you and the King…”

  “…say that I might no more be made for love – with him.”

  “I see.”

  “Exactly.” Her eyes are now glinting aquamarine.

  “Yet the King is a handsome man…”

  “And you, my sweet, are considered ugly by society.”

  Stainville nods in unselfconscious appraisal. “So why do you dally with me?”

  “Who says society is right? Maybe you are to my taste?”

  He smiles at her with all the fervour of mounting hope. “Beauty commands its own laws.”

  “Who would suspect me of stooping so low?” She smiles back and returns to her kisses.

  “Maybe you like a man on the rise.”

  “You’re witty and your eyes are kind. And, most of all, you have proved your devotion to my interests.”

  “You honour me, Marquise.”

  “Jeanne. The King may have his secrets. I can have secrets, too.”

  “Of course.” He is nuzzling her ear.

  “But they must stay sacrosanct.” She embraces him once more. “The King’s mistress, you realise, must always remain chaste.”

  “And the King?”

  “I’m happy to say I’ve pupils schooled enough to take my place.”

  * * *

  A single bell is chiming midnight as two ri
ders approach an isolated building. The long, low house stands in an enclosure, a grey smudge amid the vast fields and woodlands of Versailles. It is early enough in the year to be turning cold around this hour. The inhabitants of the old nunnery in the Parc-aux-Cerfs are slumbering in warmth, until there comes a gentle yet insistent knock at the oak door. Lebel, chief groom to one of high rank, can see his breath escaping while he waits in the chilly air. At last he hears footsteps moving down the hall.

  “Yes?” Within the house, Madame Bertrand delays until she hears the password.

  “The Polish Count is here,” explains Lebel.

  “Which girl does he wish to see?” Wrapping her gown around her fleshy form with calloused hands, Madame allows no touch of irritation to seep into her voice. She is used to these nocturnal disturbances.

  “Mademoiselle O’Murphy.”

  Madame purses her lips as she slides back the bolt on the door. This is unusual. Once, O’Murphy was a regular delight for the discerning palate: now the young Irish girl has fallen from favour following the unwanted birth of a daughter. In particular, her persistent complaints about the child’s removal to a real convent have left her outcast. Yet the older woman knows the courtesan is unaware of her offence. In the fug of her lavishly decorated bedroom the girl is still dreaming of dances, of suppers, of sitting at his own right hand.

  “I shall wake her at once,” says Madame.

  The equerry gives a light cough. “Let her display herself as in the painting.” Behind him, another figure slips into the house.

  “His Excellency need have no fear on that score.” She hurries from the hall along the corridor. Knocking a brief tattoo on the furthest door, she bursts into the room and slaps with rude force at a hillock under the bed linen.

  “Up you get – no shilly-shallying. Remove your nightgown and arrange your hair. He’s coming.”

  She pulls back the sheets, lights three candles and hurries out again.

  Marie-Louise O’Murphy disports herself with sleepy haste on the chaise longue. Her light brown hair is rumpled, artfully. Her smooth flesh glints in the flickering light. Since giving birth, her hips and buttocks are a touch fuller than the artist might recall, but they are not so swollen as to lessen her patron’s enjoyment, visual or tactile. The door creaks open. He gazes, rapt.