The Chevalier Read online

  She glances over her shoulder in the coy way she knows he loves. Her eyelids are heavy, drooping over her brown irises in the manner best calculated to attract him. His own black eyes glint in the candlelight as he paces with elaborate care across the room.

  Now the young girl flinches as fingers begin to dance their wilful way from the heels of her small feet up her calves to the backs of her thighs.

  The King’s hands are cold from the short ride.

  Chapter Six

  The Temple Tower

  As night falls, we leave the formal confines of Versailles and return to Paris. I sleep on the journey, exhausted after my great trial, worn out with worry about my future. A growing uproar on the city streets awakens me. Near the river, roadside torches illuminate Marie’s sweet face; the gaps between them throw it into shadow. Revived by these flickering images, I now decide to speak my mind to her.

  Before I can do so, she hands me a note from the Prince. He summons me the following day to the Hôtel du Tour de Temple. I am invited, with most cordial salutations, to attend a ceremony where he entertains his friends, acquaintances, former lovers, ministers, nobles and fellow Princes of the Blood. It is an English affectation known as afternoon tea.

  Needless to say, this charming social occasion will also turn into an ordeal of the highest magnitude. He adds in parentheses that he is requesting me to come, still in the red dress, to receive detailed advice about my mission. He must have supreme confidence in me to have drafted this in advance. Yet, reeling with fatigue in mind and body, I am ready to refuse.

  Marie suggests refusal would be a dereliction of duty after my earlier triumph, and promises to extend the loan of her gown a few days more.

  “And will you be present?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I must return at once to the country.”

  Suddenly I am fixated by a flaw in the woven interior linings of the carriagework, a tear in the fabric that flaps loosely above her head.

  “Why must you go so soon?”

  “You don’t know my protector. Pray to God that it remains that way.”

  “Marie, you can’t desert me now.”

  She leans over, her musk swamping my senses, and presses my hands in hers. “My sweet young Charles, I cannot do otherwise. Besides, you are tired: you must rest. But I have faith in your great talents. Send the dress here afterwards.” She hands me a piece of paper. “We shall meet again soon.”

  The coach is slowing in the vicinity of the Palais-Royal. She calls to the driver and prepares to descend amid the mounting hubbub. A kiss, a wave and she is gone. I watch the back of her sweet white neck until it merges with the crowds of bobbing heads.

  With time to meditate upon the maelstrom into which the Prince is planning to hurl me, my thoughts are tending to confirm my earlier misgivings. The thrill of my presentation at Court is now evaporating. The reliable ecstasy of wearing Marie’s scarlet dress cannot shut out the coming dangers forever. It is too much for me to cope with on my own. In the darkness, I alight at the end of the street and slip as softly as I can through the silent courtyard. For once, I cannot wait to disrobe. As I go to sleep, I am resolved that I shall not be accepting his invitation.

  * * *

  My dreams are jagged, my sleep fitful. I awake uncertain of what to do; however, knowing that matters do not always appear in the same perspective after a morning’s work, I vow to organise myself so that I can make a decision at the latest possible hour. It comes after luncheon. My good master, de Savigny, cannot suppress his mirth when I ask permission to leave early once more.

  “By God, got a taste for it, have you? You must introduce me to her, my boy; if she’ll have you, she’ll have anyone. Ah well, run along with you.”

  The coarseness of the man depresses me. But then I find so many, in every layer of society, are burdened with a similar nature.

  An icy wind blows today. The great cathedral bells are tolling three as I cross the Seine by the Pont Notre-Dame, wary that the Prince will order his minions to waylay me if I am spotted on the Pont Neuf. Then I recall my invitation – it is a different address. I look up at the Hôtel de Conti. It is empty, forbidding, with intimations of a far and foreign land.

  Russia! The very sound of the word fills me with dread, its sibilance coursing snows straight through to my bones. Dark clouds sweep in from the East even as I am thinking, blotting out the sun; within a few minutes, cold winter has returned and hailstones are falling as I reach the rue de Tournon.

  This revives my doubts, in all their fevered speculation, and once alone in my room I sit upon the bed staring at the dress as it hangs in my armoire. If I put it on, I am lost. If I do not, I may survive. I do not put it on. There is a steadier drumming against the roofs and windows now – the hail has changed to freezing rain.

  The Hôtel du Temple may be only half an hour’s walk from here, but it feels as far away as St Petersburg. I will fade back into peaceful anonymity.

  Next moment, I hear footsteps on the stairs. The maid to the widow d’Ons-en-Bray calls out that a carriage belonging to the Prince de Conti is waiting at the gates to transport me to his new townhouse. There is a quiver of excitement in her tone.

  I send down word that a sharp headache has left me indisposed. Mere minutes later, my landlady’s maid conveys not unexpected news: the Prince’s coachman claims he has been instructed to wait. There is no way to escape this trap without a volley of questions. Anxious to be rid of her, I register my thanks and ask her to relay that I shall be recovered presently, assuring her I have no further need of help. Once more I don my scarlet dress, caress the perfect silk and prepare to go into social battle.

  * * *

  Charlotte pounces on me as soon as I enter the salon, a smaller Hall of Mirrors with the effect dissipated by tall screens placed at regular intervals. The higher walls and vaulted ceiling of the Tour du Temple are lit by chandeliers glowing against the unseasonal dark sky. She is wearing a flowing dress of silver, white and grey, her broad hat with its pink ribbon an echo of her short spell as a country maid only five nights ago.

  “So good of you to join us, Mademoiselle Lia.”

  “I fear I am a trifle late.”

  She smiles. “No more than is fashionable.”

  “Then I have you and the Prince to thank. Without the aid of your carriage, I should have gone far beyond fashion.”

  “Anyway, my dear, you look marvellous.”

  I brush some raindrops from my silken bosom. “As you do once again, Comtesse.”

  “Charlotte, please. Come, let me introduce you to some of my closest friends.”

  One glance around the party shows me the men decked out in primary colours, sporting the bright military reds and dark blues of their regiments, interspersed with rare dashes of priestly and philosophical black. By contrast, the women are mostly clothed in pastel shades of expensive simplicity and, until an outburst of discordant music jars my senses, I luxuriate in their modish charm. There is one exception, another striking, most graceful figure in a scarlet dress, but before my temperature can rise, she turns – I am compelled to forgive her on account of her advanced years.

  “Who is that lady, Charlotte?”

  “Madame la Princesse de Conti – she’s my Louis-François’s mother, once a great beauty, as you can see. In her youth she nearly married the wicked old Regent, Orléans. Enough said, I think.”

  Tables upon tables covered in fine white linen are stacked with pastries, sweetmeats, patisseries and other delicacies among pots containing that curious beverage popularised by the English. I can see by their intricate, gilded designs and motifs of chinoiserie that all the plates, dishes, saucers, cups and sugar bowls are from the royal porcelain factories at Vincennes.

  Charlotte leads me towards a group in the far corner of the room, whose inclined heads show they are attending to the musical intrusion. A harpsichord and string quartet are playing a piece – repetitive – for keyboard, violin and cello. Before I can make my
objections known, it comes to a merciful pause. Charlotte introduces me and rattles off a list of Vicomtes, Comtesses, Ducs and Marquises. My usually keen powers of memory are quite overwhelmed.

  One of them, a general, who restates his name as the Duc de Broglie, decides to engage me. “Do you know the music, Mademoiselle?”

  The harpsichord strikes up again and tinkles on. “I am sure it is by Rameau.”

  “A wonderful composer, do you not agree?”

  I exercise my fan. Of course, I should say I do. Yet I am on the Italian side in the current controversy and do not wish to dissemble. “It is impossible to avoid him these days. I must say I find him deficient in comparison to the foreign composers.”

  The Duc, tall with the slight stoop of a polite soldier, allows a tremor of alarm to cross his pleasant, cosseted features. “But he is a great favourite at Versailles.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of it.” I wish to leave it there but I am reckoning without Charlotte’s eagerness to champion me.

  “Mademoiselle d’Éon de Beaumont was presented at Court only the other day.” Charlotte wears the glow of one used to such delights.

  My presentation piques the interest of the Duc at any rate. He dips his head in respect. “Indeed. I don’t think we’ve come across you before, Mademoiselle.”

  “I am newly arrived in town.”

  “Which city had the pleasure of your company until now?”

  “I am from Tonnerre.” It is a gamble to be truthful, at least in part, but I am hoping he and his friends are ignorant of its existence.

  “Is that so? And where is Tonnerre?”

  “In Burgundy.”

  “Fine wine country. You know the Prince has his eye on an estate there?”

  “No, but he would be most welcome.” I am pleased this flirtatious chitchat has so far discouraged the women from questioning me, because I suspect that their interrogation may prove more searching. The Comtesse de Rochefort, an imperious beauty, pale blond with the whitest skin I have seen, her breasts emerging from a dress of gleaming emerald like those of Diana the Huntress, is studying me with a keen eye. Gooseflesh begins to rise on every part of my bare skin. I sense she is about to open her mouth in hot pursuit of my views, when Providence prevents her.

  “Most welcome to what?” Conti idles over to join our group.

  “To take possession of a Burgundian property, Monsieur le Prince,” explains the Duc. A thought jars me – surely Conti is not coveting my château?

  “Ssshhh, this matter is not settled.”

  “By which I understand,” the Duc’s voice drops to a stage whisper, “that the sale may be contested.”

  Conti matches him for breathy tones. “She gets her claws into every other property of note.”

  The talk dissolves into a political discussion between them and, although he does not say so, I ascertain the Prince is referring to La Pompadour. I stay hard by his side until the guests remember the next trifle that will consume their busy days – dinner, the theatre, the opera, some mistress or lover – and make their adieus.

  An invigorating scent from a large bosom engulfs me. “We hope to see more of you, Mademoiselle,” rasps my Lady Rochefort, with more passion than I believe our brief contact warrants. “And find out all about you,” she adds, causing my heart to miss a beat. Nevertheless, that low-cut bright green dress with white flounced sleeves and golden patterns mesmerises me.

  “I should like nothing so much, Comtesse,” I say, as Charlotte escorts her away and the vision fades.

  The old Madame la Princesse tugs at my dress with bony fingers. “Goodbye, my dear,” she says, “and may your red gown bring you more luck than mine. The colour can be unfortunate. I am forgotten now.” She shuffles away to climb the stairs.

  When all the guests are gone into the evening, the Prince takes me by the arm and guides me into his library, a long, broad chamber with shelves crammed even to the skylight windows on either side. His warlike ancestors peer down at me with sardonic sang-froid from the rare gaps, marshals in eminent positions commanding the serried ranks of books.

  “Well done, my boy. Or should I say girl?” He laughs. Alone. “You’ve passed the auditions. Both yesterday and today. That’s the easy part. The real thing will be infinitely harder.”

  “Indeed. I’m sure I don’t know if I’m ready for it.”

  “That’s the conundrum. We never know until we try.”

  “This project will be dangerous, Monsieur le Prince. I’d rather be in the army. I have my heart set on being a captain in the Dragoons.”

  “For which your qualifications are?” One corner of his princely mouth curves upward.

  “Apart from bravery, I’ve studied tactics and think I’d look good in the uniform.”

  He shrugs. “Another toy soldier. Marvellous.”

  “My form and bearing aren’t my only assets. I know how to take care of myself.”

  Those Bourbon eyes light up. “Do you now? How’s your swordplay?” He reaches for a pair of duelling small swords, crossed on the wall above the mirror over the fireplace. Underhand, he tosses me one of the tipped foils, doubtless expecting me to flinch. As I catch it by the hilt, to his evident surprise, I happen to glance in the mirror. The image of myself in scarlet silk with épée in my hand gives me another surge of rapture. My resolution returns: I must play the game to the finish. I follow his example and prepare for action, taking up my customary stance.

  Aligning himself, he brushes the tip of his épée against mine. We fence to and fro across the room. I have heard Conti’s an expert, but it is no unfair boast to say I am his match. His laboured gasps tell the story: I can tell he’s staggered by my technique, my versatility. Up and down we thrust and parry, parry and thrust. To try and throw me off my guard, I think, he fires a question at me as we fight.

  “Tell me – what do you know about Russia?”

  “It is a vast and brutish country, although, on its western fringes, Peter the Great and Elizabeth have dragged it almost up to date. Whatever they may be saying at the moment, France is their model. The rest is barbarism.”

  “Even in St Petersburg, their civilisation’s only skin deep. Peter killed his own son, and the last boy Tsar Ivan’s languishing in prison, if he’s not dead already. It’s the vilest, most dangerous place on earth.”

  The country’s worse than I thought. Apart from this warning, all proceeds well: I feel in total control, until I discover the flaw in my duelling composition. The heels of my shoes get caught in the flouncing hemlines of my dress. I totter for just a moment, and he seizes his opportunity. He sallies at me – he is very strong for such a thin man and forces me back towards the wall. I parry and riposte on the retreat, using all my skill to prevent him from overcoming me. Moreover, I have to take care no damage is caused to Marie’s robe. Faced with this twofold peril, it is now my turn to deflect him with some pertinent quizzing.

  “What about Tsarina Elizabeth?”

  “Well, you know she’s Petrovna, daughter of the Great Peter as well.”

  “Yes, and is she also enlightened?” The dress works itself free without a tear.

  He grunts. “She’d torture you for fun.”

  “But didn’t I hear she’s stopped the death penalty?” I’m starting to regain my equilibrium.

  “True, but you’d beg for death after a night with her guards.”

  “So is it wise for us to treat with her?”

  “Reasons of state don’t care about morality. Louis needs an ally against Frederick of Prussia. We cannot rely on Austria. Besides, it’s counter to official foreign policy.”

  I spot a gap in his defences and put in my attack. After a flurry of points, his foil falls quivering to the floor. Regardless of this advantage, I cannot help but stop in amazement. “That’s good for France?” I bend my knees, as far as the scarlet dress allows, in order to retrieve his weapon.

  “For the King it is. He’s set up a secret service to foil Pompadour’s schemes – and p
ut his own plans into effect. The Secret du Roi. And I am at its head.” Conti gestures, wheezing a little, for me to give him back his sword.

  I comply. “A bit confusing, isn’t it?”

  “For our enemies, definitely.”

  “I suppose I must congratulate you.”

  Conti nods his thanks, still short of wind, and holds his hand out for my foil. “I must do the same. Didn’t expect such a swordsman.”

  “I aim to surpass expectations.”

  “It may come in useful, sooner than you think.”

  This causes me concern: I rub my nose with a gentle motion, careful not to furrow the layers of powder. “Why should a woman need to be good with a sword?”

  “Because whoever you are, you may have to fight.”

  “Russia must be even more vicious than I imagine.”

  “The world is certainly more barbarous than you conceive, my dear little d’Éon.”

  Once more I pause. The attractions of a bookish existence are beginning to reassert themselves. “Perhaps it’s not for me.”

  Shrugging off my doubts, the Prince replaces our foils on the wall. “You’re perfect. Not many could do this, you realise. In fact, I can’t think of anyone else at all.”

  “I may have fooled all the men, but I haven’t yet deceived a woman for long.”

  “Still, you’ve passed every real test. The ball, Versailles, today…”

  “These will seem child’s play, compared to the Court of the Tsarina.”

  Too readily he nods in agreement. “Let me enlighten you. Women may be mercurial but they are all models of constancy compared to Elizabeth. Such a temperament fused with despotic power is explosive. Our former Ambassador, the Marquis de la Chetardie, was instrumental in putting her on the throne – within two years, he was banished, lucky to escape with his life.”