The Chevalier Read online

  “Such ingratitude…”

  “Indeed, but he made a near fatal mistake. He became overambitious, and thought he was indispensable. He reached too far, grew too outspoken.”

  “I’ll remember your advice, Prince.”

  He pours me a small glass of cognac. “You know why the King’s chosen you?”

  “Because I’m a good actor?” I sip my brandy: it tastes of liquid fire.

  “That’s true, of course. But there’s an even better reason.” He pours one for himself, and drinks. “Because no one knows you. You’re totally expendable.”

  It is curious, but this most unreassuring statement only serves to harden my faltering resolve. “This will help the world to know who I am.”

  “If you succeed – you might even find out who you are yourself.”

  His eyes seek out mine. I respond, a touch awestruck at the prospect. Even I must admit that. But it will be impossible to turn back now.

  “A long journey alone may help me do so.”

  “You won’t be on your own. Did I not tell you? You’ll be escorted by Lord Douglas.”

  Chapter Seven

  The General

  In a rundown house on the Rue de la Boucherie, Lord Douglas staggers up the crooked stairs. He thumps into the door frame, rebounds into the door itself and reels against the bedpost. “Shift yourself, lassie, I’m home.” The bed creaks as his outsized head – strewn with matted long red hair – hits the bolster.

  Whatever the dictates of etiquette, a mistress does not have to be a permanent addition to the payroll. A prudent man without a steady supply of funds in a foreign land does well to remember that the more temporary form of female companion can have equivalent charms. Sometimes she may even carry heavier artillery. For a Scotchman on the run in Paris, an available courtesan of buxom build is a gift from heaven. The Lord Douglas has met just such a lady, Antoinette, who is restoring him to health three times a night after his irksome travels around the few other tolerant courts in Europe.

  This particular night is without question a good one. An emissary of the Prince de Conti, no less, informs him that he is requested to accompany an unnamed governess to St Petersburg, leaving soon, no questions asked, in return for a considerable sum. Such largesse, the Prince hints while he does not confirm, descends from the King, although his promissory note will remain unpaid until the mission is complete. Nevertheless, a generous advance on expenses enables him to tour the taverns and even to stand his more pressing creditors a bottle or two. After such extended revelry, Antoinette has to make do with a respectable couple of bouts – if the occasion on which milord Douglas slips into slumber is included.

  He wakes to a fusillade of violent knocks and, blinking into the light of the morning, emerges from her doorway. Immediately a note is thrust into his hand. Before he can enquire after its provenance, the messenger is scuttling around the corner to be soon lost in the mess of human traffic on the Rue Saint Honoré. Left with no option, Douglas scans the contents with brimming eyes, then, after wiping them with his stained sleeve, reads once again word by slow word to ensure he’s not mistaken. Soon he is reopening her front door and calling back up the stairs.

  “Antoinette! You’ll have your fine things soon. I am summoned now by the Queen Poisson herself. La Pompadour will see me.”

  With commendable speed, Antoinette pokes a leg and half her unadorned delights around the bedroom door. The remaining attractions follow presently. To a casual observer, it might appear as though déshabille is her natural state. It is.

  “This is really so, milord?”

  “Ay, my ship is sailing. Welcome aboard, pet.”

  Antoinette’s grin explodes, showing the odd gap in her teeth, and she tosses her long, black hair – she is well pleased with her judgment. Now he will buy her those jewels and new gowns, which he has been promising her for longer than she would as a rule allow. Her friends have been warning her, with more persistence than tact, about the uselessness of indigent Scotsmen when it comes to affairs, long-term, short-term, or any term. Yet it seems as though her policy – concocted in haste – of backing a hunch, one not unrelated to his impressive vigour, may be paying off.

  “I’ll see you later, sir. I’m not sure if I’ll know what to do with you.” She wriggles, all of a coquette, her hand caressing the worn banister.

  “Maybe you’ll think of something…” He smirks up at her as he drapes his coat around his shoulders and exits the small house once more.

  The self-appointed Lord Douglas is delighted with his change of fortune. Allowing his expenses to front the unaccustomed luxuries of visiting a barber and hiring a fiacre, he hurries to Bellevue at the invitation of the royal mistress. He understands enough of France to realise La Pompadour’s support will be every bit as useful to him as that of the King.

  “Ay, I may not know much of politics in this country, but I reckon when I’m onto a good thing,” he mutters into the back of his over-cloaked driver.

  “I’ve brought many enough out here…” says the coachman.

  However Douglas is far away, dreaming of spending his riches. He hums a rebel air in the fiacre; he is doing well in his new situation. A gorgeous château in miniature comes into view, high on top of a hill. The small coach winds its way up to the forecourt, where the horses scrabble to a halt. Just in time, Douglas remembers his position and his upbringing, and consents to the Marquise’s major-domo paying for the hire of the vehicle. Examining him with distaste, the fastidious Collin shows him into a morning room of such extravagant whiteness as to make the wearers of most colours dull.

  The exception to this rule, a trim confection in light pink, calls out from a chaise longue: “You have not met Étienne, Comte de Stainville, I believe.”

  Douglas acknowledges this fact. Stainville, dressed in a glittering gold and silver jacket, rises from his chair, and bows; La Pompadour extends a delicate hand.

  “So glad you could join us, my Lord.” Grey eyes focus on his worn breeches.

  “It is indeed an honour, Marquise.” He bows low. Her fan indicates a seat, one built more for display than comfort.

  Stainville sinks back into his own capacious chair. “We have been hearing about another great honour recently granted to you.”

  Douglas cannot help his instinctive start of alarm. “The Prince’s man told me this was to remain confidential between us… and the King, of course.”

  “Don’t concern yourself, milord: news of your appointment has been restricted to the élite.” Stainville’s gesture encompasses their charmed circle. “But did you ever imagine for one second that the King would not consult his closest confidante?”

  La Pompadour unleashes the cool seductive smile that has gripped the Court through a decade. “For many years, I have been the eyes, ears and hands of His Majesty.”

  “Marquise, I apologise most humbly… I did not mean to imply that any decision of substance was ever taken without your knowledge.” Douglas’s palms are sweating – this interview is not going as he intended.

  “Quite so. And now, to business.” The fan raps the arm of her chair. “Étienne?”

  Stainville picks up a sheaf of papers. “Do you have your instructions to hand?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” Douglas replies.

  “No matter,” Stainville says. “Perhaps you can encapsulate them, so we may ensure they accord with our own understanding?”

  His eyes and those grey pools of La Pompadour focus on Douglas, flickering encouragement.

  “Certainly.” He proceeds to outline the plan to escort a lady, a lectrice requested by the Russian Empress with philosophical leanings, all the way to St Petersburg.

  At the end of his tale, the smile of La Pompadour takes on a colder aspect. “I’m sorry to say, my Lord Douglas, that you will not be setting out for Russia just yet.” Her head is shaking in gentle denial. She rings a little bell, which echoes in the room’s silence; it stimulates the sudden trilling of two robins outside t
he window.

  “Has His Majesty ordered a delay?” Douglas’s antennae, long accustomed to the signs of impending dismissal around the courts of Europe, are twitching.

  Stainville leans back and the upholstery squeaks in protest. “You might say that.”

  “We invite you to enjoy our hospitality for a short while longer,” the slender Pompadour affirms, although the simultaneous entry of four hulking guardsmen into her drawing room shows Douglas it will hardly be an enjoyable interlude. “These gentlemen will accompany you to your quarters. Good day.”

  Stainville waits until the guards have escorted Douglas away, protesting violently. “You see. Neither the King nor the Prince de Conti, nor indeed anyone but rabble knows what he looks like. We merely have to make a substitution.”

  “What if our ruse is discovered?” Now the Marquise arches one of her thin, plucked eyebrows.

  “What can Conti or the King do? Their whole plan is one of subterfuge. This governess is a non-entity. So is Douglas, Lord or not. The beauty of their scheme is that everyone’s expendable, but this also suits us. We now create a new Lord Douglas.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  “We want someone on the make.”

  “But not too subtle. And he must be totally unknown in diplomatic circles.”

  Stainville glances at her with sly malice. “The Comte de Guerchy is brave, proud, short of funds – and has been long overlooked for promotion.”

  She considers a moment. “And his wife is a close friend of your cousin, I believe.”

  “Doubtless General Guerchy might be able to overlook her indiscretion.”

  “That is possible.” A little smile.

  “Such generosity of spirit is easier from a distance.”

  * * *

  A sleepless night, but I’m resolved the Prince de Conti is too rich to trouble himself with my small estate: I must support him. Now that I have made my decision, I have to act upon it accordingly. People need to know that I am gone from Paris, that I am not dead (God willing) yet they must receive no intimation of the nature of my business. Therefore, at an office hour when I should be dealing with some fatuous dispute about the payments and placing of yet more subordinate statues in the Place Louis XV, I take up my quill and ink to write to my coterie in Burgundy.

  First, my thoughts turn, with reluctance, to my sister. I suppose I am still weighed down by guilty memories of taking the black dress, but I contrive to put them to one side and address her with some detachment.

  Dear Victoire,

  If by some chance you were to wish to contact me in the coming months, please put it from your mind. I shall be travelling throughout Europe – I know not where. A generous benefactor has asked me to accompany him as his personal secretary and, bored with the dull routines of the Paris Ministry, I have accepted his offer. I will, of course, let you know when I am back.

  Did you hear anything in your parts about the progress of my suit to regain rightful ownership of the château at Tonnerre? I pressed the case again in Dijon, as I said I would, but my affairs caused me to move on to Paris before I could receive a satisfactory (or indeed any) reply from the Parlement. Leave a note to await me here on my return if you have news.

  My warmest regards to your family and yourself,

  Your respectful brother,

  Charles

  Next, I summon thoughts of happier times in my childhood.

  My dearest Madame Benoist,

  I am writing to let you know that I shall be absent from Paris, and France, for some time. Do not have any worries about me, and do not question why I am gone. You, especially, always put your trust in me and nurtured me when I was young. Your faith in me is not misplaced: I am engaged in matters which would make you proud. Someday I will tell you all.

  You cannot imagine how I will miss you. Please remember me to all who recall our friendship and those others who ask after me in my native town. If you can, please also walk along the waterside and through all the other fields and paths I used to go by as a boy. It means so much to me.

  I shall love you always

  Your affectionate little Charles

  I do not write to my mother. Exhausted by the outpouring of emotion my former wet nurse always inspires in me, I have no feeling left to spare.

  The severing of ties with my working colleagues also proves an unexpected difficulty. Perhaps I should recast this: I have no problem cutting myself loose from my peers, idiots to a man. But I feel a sense of impending loss when I try to muster the courage to talk to my superior, even though he is in some ways every bit as crude as my fellows.

  “May I have a word with you, please, Monsieur de Savigny?”

  “Is it about those statues? Tricky business, what? Too stony for me, hah!”

  “No, it’s not about them.”

  The tanned face of walnut-brown breaks into a grin. “You don’t have to tell me – I can see it in your eyes. You want the afternoon off again to chase that young filly of yours, don’t you, my lad? Your father and I used to have a word for people like you. You know what it was? Well, never mind… pardon the recollections of an old man, but I knew a few chaps who went under, so to speak, and I suppose I had one or two good days myself. And nights, if you catch my drift. Not that your father ever indulged in that way, of course. Certainly not! Although he was a handsome dog, and quite a few of the ladies were keen on him, as it were. Still, that’s all in the past. It’s your time now. You run along and enjoy yourself.”

  And so on: it is difficult to interrupt the full flow of his reminiscences, but I make an attempt. “I haven’t come to ask for time off, sir. I’m afraid I must offer you my resignation.”

  “You what? Resign? I’ve never heard such nonsense. Oh, I see now. It’s the work, isn’t it? Probably a bit boring for someone with your intellect, I suppose? Yes, you’re a bright boy. So was your father, you know. Always ahead of me in that regard. Who knows how far he might have gone in the King’s service if he’d lasted? But we don’t want to get into that, do we? Sad business, a very sad business. Still, I realise you might find some of the duties tedious. We’ll have to find a new project for you. Something exciting, something to get your teeth into.” He looks around the room in distraction as though a grand scheme is fixed somewhere upon the walls.

  “No, it’s not the work, really it isn’t, sir. I’ll always be grateful for all the opportunities you’ve given me. But I’m afraid I must leave. I have to travel abroad.” I shift from one foot to the other. However, such dissembling is good practice.

  “Do you now? Travel, is it indeed?”

  “I must.”

  “Well, we’ll miss you, my boy. Tell you what I’ll do, I’ll keep your place open for a year or so and, if your… travel plans come crashing down around your ears – and they usually do, you see if I’m right – you can come here again, and be most welcome. What d’you say?”

  “I appreciate the offer, sir.” I make a rapid mental calculation of the possible lengths of my covert service. “What if I return in two or three years from now?”

  “Maybe our projects will have moved on a little too much by then. Who knows whether I’ll still be here? Not as young as I was. Anyway, your father would be proud of you. Come, embrace me, my boy!”

  And I do. After I leave his office, I find I have tears in my eyes, and that I am shivering. It appears to me that I am casting myself adrift from every known part of my life.

  Heavy rain is falling again as I make my way home. The weather adds to my sense of loss and I am ready to give myself once more to my grief. But as I cross the Pont Neuf, water sluicing down runnels and bubbling over the toes of my boots, my senses come awake. There is danger at hand. I feel that I am being followed. I turn around – there are a number of candidates in the foreground, but a black shadowy figure in the mid-distance takes my eye. I think it must be him: the others are too close. I continue through the lanes of Saint Germain, but I cannot shake this presence. He is not always there i
n sight and yet I am sure this is not one of my fantasies. If anything, each time I spot him, my pursuer is moving closer. It is hard to tell for certain in the downpour.

  I walk on, faster and faster, drenched by the rain, unable to dispel the feeling that my nemesis is near.

  At last I reach the Hôtel d’Ons-en-Bray. I shun my usual path, turn to the right inside the entrance to the courtyard and ask to have audience with the mistress of the house. I have an urge for company, and even an unpleasant interview is preferable to the unknown. But her maid informs me she is dining out – a rarity – and advises me to call later in the evening. I turn to leave, trepidation gnawing at me, and glimpse a picture from Poussin, one of our artists from a hundred years ago. It shows shepherds in classical Arcadia around a tomb: death stalks us in the most secure of places.

  * * *

  Sensual paintings dominate the library at Bellevue, a series of rapacious mythological jaunts illustrated with a light rococo touch. The afternoon rainstorm has blown away eastward; now the welcome evening sun shows the spines of some books which are starting to lose their pigments. Motes of dust tickle the nervous sensibilities of Guerchy who, upright, formal, stiff with tension, sits on the far side of a lacquered desk. Its glowing surface isolates him from Stainville’s languor and the careful poise of La Pompadour.

  “Thank you for coming to see us today, so soon after our invitation.”

  “It is always a pleasure, Madame.” Guerchy cannot repress a violent sneeze.

  Stainville looks up from his stack of papers. “Was it a difficult journey from Nangis?”

  “Not really. A soldier must permanently be ready to move upon the instant.” The General wipes his nose.

  “Surely so.” Stainville nods slowly. “Did anyone follow your progress?”

  “I took good care as ever not to be noticed.”